Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Find Me a Match Online

Either the entire universe is trying to tell me something, or it's just gone crazy.

I received this in my inbox the other day:

Dear Friends,

I'm pleased to announce the launch of a matchmaking site for people of Indian origin in the U.S. as well as in India. The site is called NYdidi.com; the didi is me and, well, you know what NY is. NYdidi speaks to the Indian population by combining tradition with the modern, allowing the old India to meet the new reality.

If you know someone who is single, will you forward this email to them? The site is still in the BETA testing stage. We would like to extend a one year membership as a thank you to friends who join as founding members. We need their feedback.

So just head to www.NYdidi.com, take a personality test, sign-up, have fun and let me know what you think through our "Contact Us" page. I think you'll appreciate the warm, secure and fun site I've created.*

*Welcome to NYdidi! *
*I wish you a life filled with love and laughter*,

Register <http://nydidi.com/user/register> at NYdidi.com

I haven't even gotten to my online dating fiascos!!! Stop, NYDidi! You're moving way too fast for me. How can I address such an Indian-specific site with such a cooky name when my readers don't even know about my even more bizarre experiences yet?

Let me preface this by saying that I fully intend to "beta-test" NYDidi.com, although I've just about had it with beta-testing (doing some of my own and work-related and it was not easy). I think Didi has good intentions and some interesting ideas (like a small "party" held last week to get people started with the process), and obviously she wants to update the traditional Indian matchmaking process. But there are a few things I wondered about.

First, using your own name in an matchmaking service doesn't seem so wise. Especially when your name in Hindi means "sister." I'm not sure how appealing logging into "NYSister" to find a date/soulmate will be.

Second, I question the description of this site as a "matchmaking" service. Only bored and nosy relatives will create profiles for their respective, apparently dying-of-loneliness loved ones. Not to mention that those of us who were either born here or spent their childhoods/vast majority of their lives here are not so open to this kind of matchmaking. "Online dating" would attract a greater population.

Third, what does "allowing the old India to meet the new reality" mean? I'm not so sure how this speaks to someone like me. I'm neither old India, nor do I need it to meet a new reality, since my reality is the only one I know and I don't consider it to be new. Immature interpretation? Sure. But I'm sure it will make sense to some of you as well.

Will beta-test and return with more insight. In the meantime, I'll also detail some harrowing and not-so-harrowing experiences from Match.com. Stay tuned.

Gummy Bears & Growing Up

Time and distance are funny things. Last week I visied a good friend of mine in Texas, one I haven't seen since we graduated college a few years ago.

Shivers. Chills. A few years ago.

Ah, you say, that's the story of life. I say this, too. But then I sort of have to blink and shake myself and remember that for almost a few years, I used to see this person virtually every other hour. Weird.

Last Sunday, another friend of mine got engaged.

Shivers. Chills. Congrats! Engaged. I still can't shake the image of him eating coca-cola gummy bears (also a fond childhood favorite of mine) and pouring green apple vodka in just about everything he could find.

One of my chickies just bought a $28.00 mascara. Chills, but mostly congrats! This is the same girl who once "borrowed" my eyeliner and used it for three years straight because she didn't want to buy another one.

And another chickie actually, finally, gratefully, started drinking.

I don't know if I'm starting to feel old too early or what, but these odd waves of nostalgia have begun to hit me in a rather uncharacteristically emotional manner. Not fun.

In a way, it's a riot. Some things from the past really make me giggle and shake my head. But most of all, I'm actually quite thrilled that none of us are exactly the same anymore, although once in a while, I still enjoy my gummy bears.

Diagnosis: Who's The Happiest Of Them All?

According to the New York Times, unhappy people watch the most TV. No joke. Read about it here. It is the one activity that people engage in which has a negative relationship with happiness.

So I calculated the number of hours my father absorbs CNN via osmosis everyday and my grandmother is entranced by Zee TV. The dianosis - chronic unhappiness, just about the most you can imagine.

No surprise, some would say, but I find this very interesting. If I really think about it, I'm sure my dad wishes he had a son like Anderson Cooper or Sanjay Gupta, and my grandmother wants to be as victimized as Saloni Surname-less. TV feeds their fantasies and spurs a vicious cycle.

Mummsy, on the other hand, despite her saint-like qualities and bearing of all our burdens, comes out the real winner here. Her TV time amounts to maybe about 0.5 hours a week. This makes her the happiest (and fairest - truly) of them all. Go, mom. I guess waking up at the crack of dawn, squeezing in a week's worth of work in a day, being manically dedicated to family and work, and chronic exhaustion has done her some good. Who knew?

I was going to suggest my family get DVR, but now I'm afraid it could worsen their condition and throw them into deep depression. I might have to cut off my relationship, too.

Why are good things so, so very bad?

The Coffee Guy, I, & $1.00

So it happened. The Coffee Guy and I reached the climax of our relationship.

We fought.

Over $1.00.

I gave him the extra when he stuffed a huge eclair-like accompaniment to my decaf coffee. He said, "No, no sweetie, only $1.00." I said, "No, no, it can't always be $1.00, please take it." He said, "No, no..." and so forth.

I started to walk away when he actually stuck his arm out the window and insisted I take the dollar. Me kept walking. I felt kind of foolish, but satisfied.

I don't know how much longer we can last like this. At some point, he'll be the only Coffee Guy I can frequent and he'll be obligated to give me free goodies no matter what. Dangerous...

And yet, not so...he's too cute! I heart street coffee and the nice dudes who sell it.

12-Year-Old Food Genius & The Boy Who Could Have Been

12-Year-Old's a Food Critic, and the Chef Loves It

Where was this kid when I was 12? I was waiting for a proposal to be best friends with my future husband. He could've been it.

This kid is all that most people must hate about NYC - an Upper West Sider who gets his own $25 to get dinner while the parents are out, and ends up sampling prosciutto and cheese at the hippest new Italian restaurant in the neighborhood. What a life.

This falls into my Only In New York category. I'm jealous, and I want to be him when I grow up.

Insert Drama [Here]; Press Esc To Quit

I have performed both commands rather successfully of late.

Don't be fooled by stories of LOL'ing to Jon Stewart and listening to bad Hindi music. I mean, that's the case about 90% of the time. The other 10%, there is some gradually unfolding soap opera/freak show in my life. Often, they unfold too slowly or are too internalized to bother discussing, but other times they are explosions of food bombs in my face and I don't know what just happened.

This past week? 2 food bombs. Not fun. Sounds like I should start scripting for The Hills. I know I'm being vague but I'm fielding questions from my sister and cousin, both of whom actually read this and request follow-ups.

But to balance it out, I also quietly and gracefully exited from another potentially sticky situation, and received a positive response for doing so. I just pressed the button and it was done! It was so gratifying - finally, something grown-up! Some maturity! Some mutual understanding! If departures can be that amicable, I should orchestrate them more often to retain some faith in the world.

Not to say that a little drama (and then some) isn't kind of fun every now and then. Actually, it's a lot of fun. It simultaneously makes me want to cry, wring my hands in the air, and giggle.

Life is too short not to try all 3 at once.

The Coffee Guy & I

As I drag my feet towards class 3 evenings a week after work, two thoughts usually cross my mind - 1) Thank goodness I'm enjoying what I'm doing 2) Why isn't it Friday yet?

But of late, my Coffee Guy has sweetened up not only my coffee but my evenings. Coffee Guy is one of many trusty New York street vendors who can get you anything from a hot dog to a scone in less than 2 seconds. But mine is special.

For starters, he is mad cute. Yeah, you read right - mad cute. He has a charming Middle-Eastern accent that does not remind you of an old Indian man who does business in Dubai. If he were a doctor, your parents would want you to bring him home. If Mira Nair bought coffee from him, she would want to cast him in a movie. He is not devastatingly handsome in the least, just very cute and sweet. I'm sure some older Coffee Guy's daughter is in love with him. I want to know his name, but that may take the relationship to a whole other level it does not need to be at.

He also calls me sweetie. I don't mind this. Half of the male population in New York will call you sweetie just for being female and standing within 2 feet of them - the fact that you are swiping your Metrocard or buying coffee is not taken into consideration. It's the way he says it that is so endearing. It is very relaxed and nonchalant, not sleazy. He's not trying to make you feel special by calling you sweetie. It would be gross if he tried to make you feel special. So the fact that he's not even trying makes it all the more appealing.

I admit that I may have unintentionally thrown myself into some sub-special but unique category with a sprightly "Eid Mubarak!" a few months ago. I'm a dork. It was Eid, I have some friends who celebrate, and as Coffee Guy blared his Arabic pop music that day, I couldn't help but wish him. Risky, considering he may not have been a practising Muslim (I learned my lesson when I wished the same to a friend in class only to learn that she is in fact, not one). But his face lit up and it was worth it.

Now, every so often, he gives me back the extra quarter I paid for the medium coffee or gives me a free donut. Last night it was a raisin scone. I felt terrible. I smiled and said "No thank you", but he insisted and I thought it was sort of wrong not to take something from someone who so clearly could profit from keeping it but really wants you to have a bite before you hit class. Or wants to buy your love with food. Hey, no one has ever tried that one before...!

No, I'm not having an affair with Coffee Guy. But I really, really, really appreciate him. The only way I can think of thanking him is ordering more things and overpaying, but I know he'll try to give me the money back. It's worse than friends fighting over the dinner bill.

I'm sure Coffee Guy will make some woman very happy some day. Until then, I'll try to support his Arabic radio habit as much as possible and hope that he doesn't gift me 10 lbs worth of donuts and scones.

Status Update

That Facebook world I was talking about? Here it is, in living color and a dash of British humor:

I Almost Missed a Flight On Account of Chipotle Sauce

Yes, only me. After a whirlwind trip to Austin, Texas this past weekend, I almost ruined it on account of chipotle sauce. While I hadn't seen one of my closest friends from college since we graduated, and visiting a red state in this day and age seemed akin to visiting a museum in a galaxy far, far away, my real quest was hot sauce. Sorry, Diddy.

Of course, I didn't really have the chance to indulge in this new way of preoccuyping myself when I'm bored with life, until, of course, the 30 minutes before our return flight.

I was supposed to go to the bathroom. Then I stopped to buy a magazine. Since I already had Marie Claire and Lucky, it was a tough call between Elle and Bazaar. Then I spotted some bottles of hot sauce. Mission accomplished! But no. It wasn't the right kind. They were all of the tobasco variety and I wanted something more hearty. I moved on.

On my way back to my waiting friend, J, I found another magazine I wanted. This time it was between Newsweek and The New Yorker. Obama, or no Obama? Hmm....There was also a new addition to the Texan food souvenirs - chipotle sauce. Also present - a helluva long line. But I waited. And waited.

By this time, I had one missed call and 2 text messages from J. When I finally met up with him, he was waiting outside an airport cafe with all of our bags and looking slightly perplexed. We had about 15 minutes until our flight. We just made it. Whew.

Except now, I don't think J, or anyone else, will ever let me go to the bathroom by myself.

The Sweet Hereafter That Has Yet To Begin

Alpha Cousin reminds me that I have not shared the intimate details of my life in 7 days. Don't even ask what has been going on in this little brain of mine since then. It is almost too gory and palpable for a blog. All I have to say is that on the eve of 1-month-until-I'm-4-years-closer-to-30, I can't help but feel that I'm still 16 somewhere inside, and that she is trying to bust loose.

Life at 16 was sweet for a reason. Now, for better and for worse (but largely for the better), it can be categorized into ways it never could back then. Life at age-at-which-I'm-almost-4-years-closer-to-30 is sweeter for sure, but in a Sour Patch Kid kind of way. Here's why:

My Big Old UWS Studio

Bowled over by living in one. It's so big I get tired moving from bed to bathroom to closet to coffee table to dresser and finally out the door in the morning. There has been a temporary lapse in my Martha Stewart ways. I revel in watching 3 TV shows at once and keep hair tools on the coffee table. I drink almost everything in a wine glass. I play Hindi music VERY loudly and often put the most awesomely bad songs on repeat. Sometimes I even sing along. Okay, I usually sing along. I actually Laugh Out Loud (aka, LOL) when John Stewart tickles my funny bone and I know the doorman can hear me swoon. I dig into un-plated food with abandon knowing that I will be the only one returning to the container and re-ingesting my own germs. I stay up unreasonably late like a 5-yr old waiting for the big secret party she's never invited to and must be in bed by - except it never comes. I also vacuum, a chore I have not performed since I was...16.

My Path To Finding "Somebody Special :)"

Yeah, with the smiley face, according to another dear cousin who is far older than me (yes, that's right, you're far, far older...) and recently wished me luck in my "path to finding somebody special :)." Huh? Clearly my family is a gold mine of blog topics lately. Gag me with the dirty spoon still sitting in my sink.

If anyone I know has followed such a path, please enlighten me. Oh, right. None of you did. Oops.

But then, of course, awesomely bad Hindi song comes on and I'm singing along, LOL'ing to John Stewart, and swooning. Weird thoughts start swirling around in my head and before you know it, I've vented to about 4 different friends and 2 different relatives and 1 coworker and 1 somewhat of an absolute stranger about the state of dating and love for the average 25-yr old female in this day and age. It is an exhausting performance and preoccupation.

The Google/Facebook World

I claim to be a traditionalist about communication. I only use my cell phone when necessary and avoid Facebook, AIM, etc., like the plague.

Yeah, right. With Gmail and its amazing buddy/chat capabilities (video! Google talk! regular chat! AIM chat! endless possiblities...) available to me all day long, this is primarly how I communicate lately. It is inescapable and much more a part of my life than I would like to admit. The context has changed - I no longer see my friends 24/7, literally. Now, I can kind of need it to navigate distances and awkward situations.

People poke me on FB and it's kind of a fun reminder that we all do little during the day and are generally insomniacs. Some even give me public gifts. I admit to doing some stalking on it as well - we all know that is what it was meant for.

Late at night, I v-chat with my chickies who managed to make those previously red states go blue when they moved. I like seeing their cute faces and how they give me virtual tours of their new pads. In the mornings, I update peeps on how my night went if I had been out. We are our own news feeds.

But online communication and use of these snazzy social networks can get kind of fuzzy and you start smacking your head for all sorts of online social taboos, rejections, or misreads. You want to use it, and you don't. You want to rely on it for some things, not for others, but can't avoid either. I've spent many an hour biting my nails, twirling my hair, and throwing myself into anxious tizzies surmising what the latest action or non-action meant. It was so much simpler when it was just email and instant message back when I was...16.

Not to mention that I have this blog. Jeez. But at least this is just me spewing and avoiding the tortuous interaction I would surely put you through.

My Posse...

Or lack thereof. Going on 4 years out of college, there is only some semblance of a "scene" left. No more traveling with your posse - it dwindled to foursomes, trios, then pairs (but not always the pair you were looking for). Then random combinations of all of the above which changed frequently and unexpectedly. People moved, either physically or onto new phases in life. It happens.

And it's not all bad. I crave my freedom and space, reveling in my own phase, the feeling of being unattached, going to/leaving a party at your whim, staying in, going out, screening your calls and knowing no one will actually come find you. I also have to give myself props. I'm exponentially more comfortable going out on my own and meeting up with new people to meet new people. It's liberating and gratifying. It's my new thing.

And so in my post-16 trauma that should have occurred 9 years ago, I remind myself that most is not lost and how many great things are about to begin.

As they say, c u l8r.

History & Hope

Excuse my silence yesterday. I was overcome with emotion for about 24 hours but now I think I'm okay. I'm still sort of speechless. But the below says it all:

Gobama!

Grandmothers & Election Day

I know it's lame that the national obsession with Obama's upbringing and his grandmother made me write this. Well, it's not really the sole reason. I love my paternal granny very much and think about her often, although she refuses to acknowledge it. Unless you're with her 24/7, take her shopping, and get her a cell phone, she's not happy with you.

But Election Day made me realize something that I often forget about her - she's a U.S. citizen. And adamantly so. She keeps track of her social security money to the cent and can describe her citizenship interview in vivid detail. She even gets offended when people think she doesn't know English. There is little she can do, however, to actually exercise her rights as a citizen. She is 86 years old and splits her time between NY and India.

This morning, my coworker described taking her own grandmother at 6 am to vote. Her grandmother said only Obama could've gotten her do it, and that his grandmother left just 1 day before the election to be his angel today. I wanted to bawl.

I know it would mean a lot to my own grandmother if she could wobble her way to a poll site and cast a ballot. Hopefully, Zee TV won't trump civic duty. She's a steely lady who has come a long way from Arrah, India. Every vote does count, and she shouldn't let this opportunity go. Plus, it would give her something to talk about other than cell phones and fictional television characters.

So this is my Plan For the Day. Make sure Dadi votes. Make sure your grandparent(s) does too, if she/he can. It is clearly past the voter registration deadline, but apparently, she may be able to complete a paper ballot as long as she has proof of residence. Knowing her, she'll bring a suitcase of official documentation just in case and argue with the volunteers in perfect English.

Gotta love grandmothers. And the right to vote. And Obama. And his grandmother. And this country if it gets its act together.