Boys, motorcycles, tattoos

Last night I met up with a friend of a friend of mine who I had never met. The situation arose from an email our mutual friend had sent to us saying, “NP this is my friend, S. S, this is NP. You guys live in the same city; you should meet!” I ignored the email since: a) I am moving out of Chitown soon anyway; and b) I am lazy and have my clique of friends here already. Anyway, S actually emailed me and wanted to meet! I was impressed that he took the initiative and intrigued. The problem is he is as busy as I am, and more of a social butterfly, so we could never coordinate schedules. Finally we did meet up briefly and it was quite nice.

Actually, it almost felt like a date. We had hot chocolate, we talked and laughed easily until the chocolate shop kicked us out at closing, and later he dropped me off on his motorcycle (all I can say is woah). And he kept giving me the “look,” i.e. giving me a sly look at me when I wasn’t looking. Girls, you know what I’m talking about. So of course I had to slip in Bwoy into the conversation and his face changed slightly but he recovered. It’s always awkward to bring up Bwoy, but it’s fair—I guess I’ve had so many instances where guys automatically lose interest once I mention Bwoy, it kinda makes me feel like, doesn’t anyone want to be my friend? But overall, S was really cool, and riding on his motorcycle on the highway was both terrifying and exhilarating. He kept assuring me he was going slower than usual (which meant he was doing 70-80 mph), and I had to close my eyes and hold on to him very tight to the point where I was probably cutting off his windpipe.

I must admit, it’s very very hot to see a guy riding a motorcycle and even hotter when the girl gets to ride on it with them. What’s even hotter though is seeing a girl riding a motorcycle herself. So now I want to get a motorcycle. Even though Bwoy assures me they are more like “death” cycles. But it’s sooo hot. There are lots of things I want to do- get a motorcycle, get a tattoo (I already have a couple of piercings), and some other things I won’t mention on this blog. Bwoy claims tattoos are unattractive but I disagree; I think they’re an expression of yourself—just like me liking clothes. Of course, he could care two hoots about what he throws on himself, so it makes sense he think that. Still, I think I might get a very small tattoo of something meaningful to me…

Boys who dance

Last weekend I went out to two vastly different parties in Chicago. The first was at Japonais, a swank club patronized by celebrities (okay, once I saw Hugh Hefner and his Playboy bunnies at it on an episode of "Girls Next Door"). I had a $13 cocktail that was quite good and strong, looked around at the dressy, 30-yr olds around me. We sat, sipped, chatted, looked. We sat outside, at the very pretty veranda they have, attended by attractive watiresses, generic hiphop playing in the background suggestively, although nobody danced-- just sipped and chatted. I wore a tight peasant white shirt, a beige miniskirt, heels, earrings, the works.

The second party was at The Hideout-- pure hipster bliss. I wore sandals, a dingy gray shirt, and a cute gray miniskirt that ballooned out and had pockets, as is the fashion. No earrings, no makeup. But after three hours there, I came out a sweaty mess and it was HELLA fun. Damn, hipsters get down when dancing. I was there with three of my girlfriends, and dudes actually approached us and ASKED us if we wanted to dance! No grabbing of asses or sneakily coming up from behind to grind! In fact, there was no grinding! This was the first party in Chicago where the majority of guys were actually dancing by themselves and ENJOYING IT. I've been to plenty of places in Wicker Park, Bucktown, and other hoods with a good percentage of hipsters, but didn't see such unalderated dancing like here. No need or urge to hump a girl, just pure simple fun of dancing. Being a lover of dance, this made me happy. I eventually dragged my friend to the stage at the end of the night and within five minutes we had almost the entire club join us. I was sober the entire night.

Truth be told, although I am not in a profession typical of a hipster, I like hanging out with them and dancing. So much fun! Everybody was sweaty and just plain rockin gout to the music (most of which I did not recognize. yes, I am an unashamed fan of booty music). Anyways,just my thoughts and a belated update on my come home at 4am every night wknds in the summer. Chicago in the summer- sigh. EVERYONE goes out and parties. Nuts.

I love my fucking hair

UPDATE:

It's hot.

Enough said.

Hair

Since my blog usually reads like an angst ridden 16-yr old's blog (trust me, I'm not 16; neither am i some 45-yr old creepy dude pretending to be a 25-yr old female), I've decided to blog about something more normal-- the search for the perfect barber.

Today I woke up, got to work around 9, and shamefully spent the next two hours shamelessly looking for a place to get a haircut. I consider myself thrifty by a girl's standards-- although I love fashion (reading it, looking at it, dreaming it, and hopefully making it soon enough), I am not the type to go buy a designer bag or even shoes. I tried to, to make myself feel more girly. When I finished my masters I told myself I'd get myself a gift, since I never got one from family or friends (hell, I didn't even attend graduation). Anyways, my gift was going to be a nice, vuluptuous, slouchy hobo bags so trendy among the rich and famous. I spent HOURS on websites like shopbop.com, bluefly.com, girlshop.com, and numerous other locations. I found several that I liked and even LOVED, but I bit my lip everytime I saw a price above $200 (needless to say, they were are at least 3X that). So it didn't work out. My brownness, and the fact that my parents raised me on Salvation army clothes, hand-me-downs, and terribly un-brand name Kangaroo sneakers bit me in the buttocks.

So my point is, I'm a girl who will shop at thrift stores and shuns expensive brand-name clothing, but I will pay upto $200 on a haircut. Okay, I only did that once-- but it included the coloring! Nowadays, my price range has been ~$70 in Chicago. It hurts. In NY, I used to go to this Columbian lady who spoke very little english. We communicated through sign language and my attempts to make scissor motions with my hands at different areas of my head. She was great, although she tended to cut my hair so that I looked like a boy. But hey, I still looked cute and who could complain at $20? When I came to Chicago, I both saw the light and faded into darkness. I started going to a oh-so=fancy "stylist" at a "salon" who charged me outrageous amounts but at least she didn't make my hair quite so short. And she spoke English (always a plus). I think the extra $50 at these salons is for the coffee they serve you... and um, yeah, I dunno what else.

Anyways, the said Chicago stylist moved away (sniff), but she recommended that I go to her colleague (Mr. New Stylist). I hated him. Here's why:

Ms. Old Stylist always told me her vision for me, which was good, since I am: a) clueless as to how to tame my frizzy mane; and b) down for anything (I thankfully have a face that can pull off a lot of things). The Mr. New Stylist, however, actually asked me MY vision-- er, I don't know? That's why I pay you an extra $50, Mr. new STYLIST? Anyways, out of pure desperation, I told the new stylist I wanted the Rihanna cut. Let's just say that although I can pull a lot of things off, I don't quite think I can pull off her rock-glam-hip-hop queen look. But that's just me.



So I went back to Mr. New Stylist bitter and upset two days later and he fixed it to look more feminine, less hard. The problem is, whenever I see him, he looks scared to cut my hair, and still asks me what I want. How the hell do I know? I was the one who asked for the disastrous Rihanna haircut, remember??

So I found another place near me that got fab reviews on Yelp. Plus, it offers a 30% discount for first-time customers so it's only $55! It's amazing to think I spend $600 on haircuts annully- sigh. But like I said, I splurge on my hair. I'm truly excited for my hair appointment tomorrow. Let's cross our fingers!

Blech day.

Today was a blue day. I got chewed out by my landlord who thought I was subletting my place. No, I am getting someone to take over my lease, I explained patiently. This all happened while I was showing my apt too! How embarassing. I wanted to scream at the stupid landlord but I was like, whatever. Let me just get out of this hellhole apt. Actually, the apt is very nice. It's just for some reason Verizon has no reception so I end up curled up in the corner of my studio trying to make calls. That corner seems to change in direction all the time, too.

I haven't spoken to Bwoy in so long. He's busy, I know. I guess I just miss him. It doesn't help I haven't seem in in over 2 mos and he's a resident. To make things worse, I'm hanging out with a good friend of mine and her boyfriend. I hate being hte third wheel when I'm in this kind of mood. Seeing them give each other secret looks and laugh at inside jokes is sweet but makes me incredibly sad sometimes. Oh well.

Finally, I've been so unproductive at work. I think that is what kills me. I have basically been taking a vacation this past month. Being lazy is like a spiral-- it just sucks you in. I think part of me is mad at my advisor-- after all that I did for him (busting my butt), he had the audacity to have the most awkward convo with me ever (in a post later). I like the guy. He's brilliant. But it's not comforting to have your former role model telling you you are throwing your life away by going into industry and that it is not that challenging or fulfilling. Hello, most of the world is in industry. Only a small percent are in academia. Do you consider yourself esp blessed to be in academia-- so elitist and annoying. yeah, I know I'm elitist myself.

So today was a blech day and I spent it sleeping, watching The Hills and wishing my life were as pretentious and full of stupid jobs like theirs. Seriously. Their jobs are kinda dumb-- organizing a photo shoot? That seems to include only secretarial work. But I guess I'm jealous because they do get to be near nice clothes and I love fashion secretly. I could never afford it, but I love it. I also spent the day buying unnecessary junk at Starbuchs- soymilk latte and a banana chocolate chip cake. God. I'm so fucking pretentious. And yuppie. All I really want is my mom's rice and daal and to curl up and cry.

But must go out now and be a third wheel. sigh.

p.s. i will write a happy post one day, i promise! i think i never write them because why waste happy days writing? But seriously, NP is not so depressing haha.

happy about moving to NY

As evidence I have the emotional range of a child, now I am happy about moving to NY. I vented tearfully and angrily (hiccups and all) to Bwoy about all my stupid insecurities and he just said, "Forget them. I'd love you even if you were a bum." I doubt that's true, but that's very sweet. I then called my Mom to ask her how she felt, and she said she just wants me to successful in whatever I do, no matter what it is. That meant a LOT to me.

So I will. Life really doesn't turn out all rosy and superbreezy and glamorous as my top-10 college would have let me know. Instead, it's about consistency and hard work and not getting pissed off at colleagues who are retarded. Deep thoughts. The End.

Still not happy about moving

It's frustrating being with Bwoy because I know how people judge us. Also, I know people (esp Indian people) will judge us as a couple and consider me lucky I'm with a doctor. Even my parents. That kind of shit drives me crazy. Sometimes I wonder if his parents hate me because of that among their other reasons (generally, I'm not considered good enough). Sometimes I wonder whether Bwoy will do that too. I don't bring that much into the "power couple" equation. I'm not that smart, which is a reason why I decided not to pursue a PhD. People in academia succeed due to drive and brains-- I have neither that passion or smarts. It's really nice that he likes being a resident-- it's nice to hear him excited. I wish I were that excited about something. I'm not generally, and I'm not even making money doing what I'm semi-excited about. People give me sympathetic looks when I say I'm an engineer and say, "I know so many people who don't want to be engineers forever." Really? Oh well. Even my own parents are sad that I didn't make much else out of my life. I guess they had big dreams. Well, Mom and Dad, so did I. But I don't know how to get the part of me having status and power. I guess I should have gone to b-school but I'm scared that's not really the right choice either. Isn't that what I thought about grad school and academia? I crossed that off my list, but it was an extra two yrs of my life it took to decide that. That screwed me over since I'm turning 26 already, and still have no clue.

What do I want to do? I just want a career that makes me content and where I can do well. It would be nice to make a lot too, but that won't happen in engineering (let's be honest). I don't want to wait around for someone to have free time with me. That's what I do with Bwoy in NY, so I want to make sure I don't spend my extra time just waiting, but doing something somewhat productive. It was nice here not to do that. I like doing my own thing, being my own person, not feeling like I'm some weak link in a couple. I guess it's because I know so many people who did not remain engineers-- they went on to do bigger and better things with their lives. I'm too chicken or just not interested enough to change. Maybe I should.

The nice thing about Chicago is that people here date normal people. All my friends in NY are big lawyers, doctors, or ibankers who marry the like. Who gets with dorky, middling engineers? Does this mean I have to be a housemom and raise children? Does this mean MY career gets taken less seriously than Bwoy's? These are questions that bug me a lot. Plus I never thought I would take a lesser job because of a man and I did. It really pained me to do so-- turn down dream jobs for a normal engineering job.

So the question is "what makes NP happy?" I'm sure people will say status and money doesn't matter, but I'm Indian so that's ingrained in my cells. Who knows. I'm just tired of people looking at me approvingly when I tell them Bwoy is a doctor. It makes me want to wring their necks. What do they know about Bwoy? Most of all, I worry Bwoy will think the same way. I guess if he does, he'll learn. I may not be a doctor, I may not be a lawyer, but I'm a funny, warm, and good person. Maybe there's a lot of those people too and those are not rare qualities, but even if there were a million such people, every one of them would be worth their weight in gold.

Angry Bwoys

I picked a job. I chose a job of the type I used to do before, which in my mind means I am essentially returning the same old crap. I picked it over two very nice offers in DC—one that is internationally renowned, the other whose work I found very interesting. Why would I do that? For Bwoy.

So that’s legitimate. Lots of people pick jobs factoring in relationships. The job I picked was in NY so it meant I could be near him instead of away for another couple of years. During the decision making process, though, me and Bwoy have not been getting along. His impatient side has come out, exemplified in conversations where he is yelling at me to make a decision, while I sit silently on the other side, reduced to tears. It’s not nice. I understand that he’s stressed himself, and probably silently fuming that I would even consider a job that is not near him, but to treat me this way when I am making a big career decision in my life? He also started to say things like he felt like his needs were not being asserted in this relationship. What does that even mean? And why would you “discover” that after 5 years in this relationship?

After I made the decision last week and felt significant buyer’s remorse, he started yelling at me again. “Make a decision, and move forward,” he said. I understood his point. But again, he could have been kinder about it. I am not a robot, I am not even just his friend. I am his girlfriend, someone he supposedly wants to build a life with. Yes I have buyer’s remorse, but that is completely natural—I suppose I made the mistake of telling him about it. When he was making a similar decision, sure, I got impatient. But I never yelled at him for 15 minutes straight (at least I don’t think I did). I tried to talk to him more, made a trip to NY so that we could talk in person and figure out his plans. I helped him make plus minus charts, I tried not only to be there for him but to be kind, empathetic, and gentle. It’s important to be there for someone- and he has for me- but it is also important to be kind. This is just mean. I really don’t get it. Maybe he is just super duper uber stressed.

Or maybe I’ve turned him into an angry person. I don’t know. All I know is that fighting sucks. Bwoy is my first priority-- he should know that!

Sex and the City Review

So I laughed to the bank all through the movie. As a disclaimer, Sex and the City for me was like that self-centered friend who you would never trust with any secret, could never take seriously because half the time she would lie and exaggerate her beauty and charms to cover up her own insecurities, but was supremely fun to go out with and get trashed. At the end of the night, you might not spill any secrets to her, you might not even count on her to hold your hair while you were puking, but you could count on you and her bumping and grinding on table in clubs, while jumping off periodically to down shots. Yeah, that kind of friend. Don’t pretend you don’t have one.

So here is my breakdown:

1) FASHION: yes, the most important element to me. As usual, Carrie’s outfits were… peculiar at best. Aside from wearing black and red thigh high socks to accentuate her bony legs, she committed other travesties, such as wearing a ridiculous gazillion dollar coat while shopping at Duane Reade, and wearing a dead bird in her hair as part of her wedding outfit. Yes, a dead bird. It topped off an otherwise ridiculous looking bridal ground that looked like a cross between Cinderella’s gown and one of those big cotton candy tubs you get at the carnival. I don’t get poofy wedding gowns, and I guess I never will. Of course, people everywhere are like, wow did you see that Vivienne Westwood bridal gown, isn’t it amazing? I think sometimes people confuse labels with taste. The other outfits were blah at best. Nothing memorable, except for Samantha and Charlotte’s dresses, and only because they were so in tune with the characters, sexy, and sweet, respectively. I especially am partial to Charlotte, because I think she is the prettiest cast member of them all. Poor Miranda’s hair looked like someone ran over Bozo the Clown’s red wig, and then proceeded to plop it onto her head. Terrible terrible haircut. And what was up with her earrings? Any larger and her head would topple off.

2) LOVE: This was stupid. So Miranda’s man and Carrie’s man commit sins which cause the women to act all cuckoo, hitting them, screaming shrilly, and refusing to even hear their explanations. What makes it all funny is that Big didn’t even commit a really big sin, but Carrie immediately cuts him, his explanations, and his apologies off, thus wasting almost a year of her like thinking and bemoaning, “Why?? Why? Why did he do this to me?” If she hadn’t thrown her silly bejeweled cell phone into the Gulf of Mexico in a fit of 5 yr-old rage, maybe she could have listened to his 1,001 messages and found out six months earlier. Meanwhile, Miranda decides to take her man back after he cheats on her, which is so unlike her character on the series, I couldn’t even get my head around it. Huh? Is that love? Tempestuous, illogical, and in the end, all wrapped up awkwardly with a bow? It didn’t help that the movie gave very little explanation of how Carrie went from “I hate you, Big,” to “I love you, Big” and how Miranda went from cuckolded spouse to guilty spouse. What did she do wrong to feel guilty about?

The rest of the movie was filled with banalities about love, like people moving to NY for love. Who moves to NY for love? It’s called Paris, you idiots.

3) APPETIZERS: Really only one stood out, Jennifer Hudson, who was an attempt of the show to be “diverse.” Really she turned out to be somewhat of a black girlfriend who says, “you go, girl!” and saves and services the hapless Carrie. That is SO NOT stereotypical.

4) CITY: As usual, lily white. All people of color were poor—as in Chinatown, where Miranda is so lost she starts following white people, screaming “White guy with a baby! Let’s follow him.” Omg, Who does that? My friend and I both cringed. It’s not like the street signs are in Chinese! Geez. All people of service were usually a shade darker than tan, doormen, taxicab drivers, servants. Seriously, I grew up in NY and lived in NY for quite a while. That’s NOT what I know.

Startup

I had my first interview two weeks ago. I was nervous, dressed carefully, looked as professional as possible. When I arrived at the cafe where the interview was being held, I looked around for a man with a pink shirt (the fact that he told me previously he would be wearing a pink shirt should have been a clue). Nobody had a pink shirt on. Nervously, I wandered among the tables of the cafe, looking like some overdressed Wall Street bitch among the hipsters lounging in the plush chairs. The only people I spotted in a pink shirt was a dreadlocked lady muttering to herself in the corner, and a dishevled teenager working feverishly on his iBook. Hmmm, I thought. I suppose he's late. I stood idly at the counter (as there was no room to sit in this hipster, crowded cafe), and angled my body to both face the door and simultaneously look comfortable in my high heeled pumps, and sweaty suit. Needless to say, the comfortable part didn't quite work.

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around, to see the teenager speaking to me. What? He spoke again. I started. "Are you NP?" he asked a third time. Oh my god, I am, I thought. And you are my potential boss, a full couple of years younger than me.

The funny thing was this dude was titled a "senior specialist" in the company, having been there a tediously long two years. Oh, startups. Anyway, I didn't get the job, although I did like the company's work-- and who doesn't like working for a startup, especially when you are young and hungry? I think my reactions didn't help. I heard once people judge you within the first 30 seconds of meeting you. Considering my stammering, strangely angled self, I can only imagine what happened. Of course, one can never pre-judge the interviewer themselves.