11.29.07
Vanity sizing and sizing up one’s self.
Ah, the holidays… when most men and women’s thoughts turn to love and family, and mine turn to baked goods, increasing the tire around my middle, and studiously wasting my membership to the NYSC (I’ve only been twice since I signed up in June!). Why, yes, Virginia, I am a size 12, though the Gap and Old Navy insisting on bullshitting me about being an 8. Please. I haven’t been an 8 since I was 8. And in Ohio or Kentucky or wherever else, a 12 isn’t so bad. In Manhattan, where the gym culture is probably only outweighed by the bar culture (actually, that’s a toss-up), a 12 is practically obese!
So, yes, this means that as we approach the Danger Zone of the holiday season, I am a single woman with a fat ass. I am a single, Hindu woman with a fat ass… so I don’t even really have Hanukkah or Christmas to look forward to. (My family fakes the latter, but not the former. Hmm. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we tried?) And, really, I’m never going to that gym. I think we all know that. I have no idea why I’m donating money every month to their oh-so-depressing establishment in the hopes that I may one day go. Lord knows, it’s not going to solve my singlehood issues either, since NYSC is apparently (per Missed Connections on Craigslist) where guys go to hook up in the showers. I suppose I could pop in and encourage them in their endeavors. LOL. Hey, at least somebody’s getting some lovin’, right? More power to ‘em.
For me, it’s just all too exhausting. Waking up in the morning to get to work and pull a 9 hour day is plenty for me. Balancing attempts to find love in the maelstrom that is the New York City dating scene and trying to trim down to a REAL single digit jeans size along with just getting through a normal work week…? Too much work. Too much effort. I’ve pretty much accepted that, at this point, finding a guy in this city just ain’t in the cards. I’d rather sleep. I’d rather eat. I’d rather catch a movie or two. I have so much rather that Dan Rather would boggle. If you asked me, “Mala, would you rather have a fantastically hot guy or a bowl of sticky toffee pudding?” I’d pick the pudding. Especially if there’s custard involved.
Hmm. Maybe this explains the whole single woman-fat ass thing. Alas, it’s a vicious cycle!
11.26.07
In lieu of tying one on, how about Thai-ing one on?
I have grown to hate Thanksgiving in the city, because there’s no greater time to feel like a pathetic, friendless, potential jumper. I can deal with a three day weekend, but once you get me to four, I’m at a loss for what to do and I basically turn into a hermit. I didn’t even go out drinking. Yesterday, I was lying around in my pajamas, eating Hot Mix out of a coffee can and watching a scratched Bollywood DVD from Netflix. It was like the desi version of Bridget Jones getting eating by wild dogs.
Fortunately, last night, I was able to leave my imminent death-by-sloth for a while and meet some friends from Ohio (hi, Soma, Anju Mashi and Sankar Uncle!) for dinner at Jaiya, a Thai restaurant at 396 Third Ave (at 28th Street). I now want to eat there again tonight, despite what eating Thai food two days in a row might do to my body (mind you, I don’t think people who are actually Thai have to worry about that). Jaiya is a small space (is there any other kind in this city?), darkly lit for what I presume is ambiance… though that’s ruined by the glare of the giant flat screen TV fixed to one wall. Poring over their haphazardly pasted together menu in that mood lighting and drinking Lipton green tea out of a mug, I wasn’t expecting much. As it always goes with a group of more than two Bengalis, it took us a while to nail down an order, but once we got that important process out of the way, we were in for a culinary delight. We helped ourselves to a ginormous deep fried red snapper, coated in a red curry paste and something else divine, vegetable pad thai (which was not the most spectacular I’ve ever had, but not bad either), a gorgeously spicy chicken with ground pepper and garlic, and a green curry which I did not try as it contained mushrooms and imminent death-by-allergy. (Not as fun as dying of sloth and gluttony.)
At a lot of Asian and South Asian restaurants, you find that everything is cooked in basically the same sauce, with no variety, so I’m always glad to find places that give each dish a distinct personality. The red snapper was slightly sweet while also very hot, while the chicken was a perfect pairing of peppery-ness and garlic… but not garlicky enough to fend off vampires. Just thinking about that combination of spices is making my mouth water.
So, hey, maybe I’m a pathetic, friendless, potential jumper, but at least I know I can plunge to my death on a full stomach!
11.23.07
A touch of August in November.
I just came back from seeing August Rush and I’m torn between loving it and hating it. Once you accept that it’s a modern day fairy tale set in New York, it’s easier to just let go and enjoy. Unfortunately, that doesn’t keep the nitpick fairy from making me discontent with it despite all the magic. I just had too many “how?”s and “why?”s. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown cynical about fairy tales and, honestly, Robin Williams starring in a fantastic tale in New York…well, that’s The Fisher King, which was brilliant on so many levels. And when you try and compare the treacle-laden fluff that is August Rush, it doesn’t measure up.
But then again, I’d watch Freddie Highmore and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers read the milk carton. They’re both so appealing and so watchable. I guess that’s the bottom line for me. You had a beautiful, musical, love letter to a city I adore and two talented male actors who could sit around reciting a grocery list and make it entertaining… that alone should make it worth the $11.25 I shelled out at the Kips Bay Loews, right? It was a feel-good film, and as long as you don’t look at it too closely, analyze too deeply, it works on a lovely level. It was sweet and heartfelt and had great music. I loved hearing the city through August’s ears. We take for granted all the honks and the screeches and the bumps and the thunks. To him, it’s all music.
I think what I really wanted out of the film was more. Another ten minutes, another fifteen. Just a little more meat and a little more resolution. That extra inch past “and they all lived happily ever after.”
11.22.07
We’re our way to where the air is (bitter)sweet.
The warning on the DVD box set of the first two seasons of Sesame Street: These early ‘Sesame Street’ episodes are intended for grown-ups, and may not suit the needs of today’s preschool child.
What?
What exactly are the “needs of today’s preschool child”? How are they so horrifyingly different than those of the preschool children we were in the ’70s and early ’80s? I ask myself that a lot, when I wander the city and see so many mothers (okay, more likely nannies) with their precious little snowflakes, their wunderkinds, giving them options and asking them how they “feel” and carting them around in the Hummer equivalent of strollers. (Like you seriously need to cart a ginormous black plastic thing into the grocery store? It’s D’Agostinos, not a war zone!) This generation of children has been growing up in a plastic bubble, with Baby Einstein and LeapFrog telling them how to read and how to think and how to be a go-getter, while their parents give them time outs instead of a slap to the butt. They’re taught political correctness from the safety of their homogenized neighborhood, from behind the rolled up windows of an SUV that never slows down in a “bad” area. They play on the Internet and on a PS2 instead of in a park or the woods. Yeah, okay, maybe old school Sesame Street isn’t the right thing for them.
11.20.07
The Tuesday pet peeve edition.
Sort of along the lines of yesterday’s oh-so-deep pondering about the Virgin MegaStore not stocking the untouched, I have to wonder: Why is Filene’s Basement NOT IN THE BASEMENT? I believe the original outpost in Massachusetts started out in one. (That would make sense, wouldn’t it?) The one in Union Square, however, is on the third floor. What? Couldn’t they kick the TJ Maxx or whatever is actually in the basement, out? “Hey, it’s in our name. Dibs!” I know with the real estate market being what it is across the country, it’s virtually impossible for the FB organization to score a basement coup whenever they want to open up a new store, but that doesn’t make it any less weird. Whenever I walk past that building, I experience the most bizarre disconnect and I want to shake my fist. In fact, I am shaking my fist right now. (Yes, I’m talented enough to do it while I type.) And here’s another question: Who exactly is Filene? How does SHE feel about this basement situation?
Pet peeve #2 is not about retail. Nay, it is in fact about the two plastic trash bins located in our office’s kitchen. One is blue, signalling recycling, and the other is gray with a sign pasted to it that says “non-recyclables only.” You’d think that’s simple, right? Fairly straightforward? Especially since I work for a publication, which implies our employees all have a basic grasp of reading and writing. Yeah, not so much. For whatever reason, the majority of people who use the kitchen have NO grasp of what goes in each trash can. And the worst part is that it’s contagious. I try my best to put the trash in the trash and the reusable plastic and paper in the blue bin, but when you start noticing that it’s all mixed up, there’s definitely that urge to join the hoi polloi and toss things in haphazardly. ZOMG, I am keeling the environmentz.
11.19.07
Less than meets the eye.
I’m slowly transferring a few posts from various places over to WordPress, which is why there are now posts before Nov. 18 showing here. Talk about a pain in the rear.
Also a pain in the rear? The Virgin MegaStore when they’re having one of their $10 sales. I tend to avoid the one in Times Square, because it’s like a zoo. Crowded to the rafters with tourists and those obnoxious comedy ticket hawkers trolling the sidewalk in front of it, it’s just not a place that’s fun to go. I basically spend all of ten minutes total in there at any given time and, therefore, never do much damage to my wallet. The one in Union Square was surprisingly easy to navigate on Sunday — save for the fact that it proved impossible to leave without buying anything. I came out with the 20th anniversary edition of The Princess Bride (I already have the basic edition and two copies of the book), Superman Returns, and the one thing I shouldn’t have bought: Transformers for $24. (Or, as TnT keep pronouncing it, “TranceFOURmuhz.”) I had been looking forward to the movie this summer but ended up just missing it. I should’ve Netflixed it instead of shelling out the bucks to own a movie that couldn’t keep decent pace. What started out as a cheesy, funny nod to my favorite childhood cartoon turned into a tedious movie where the action scenes just melted into each other. By the last twenty minutes, I was so bored, I didn’t care about Megatron or Optimus Prime or anybody. I just wanted it over. What a bummer! 
.
That’ll teach me to impulse buy.
One thing I still don’t understand? Why they don’t sell virgins at the Virgin MegaStore.
11.18.07
tea and infamy
We slack off in the summer time, but as it turns to the colder months here in the city, my friends and I always end up patronizing Tea and Sympathy at 108 Greenwich Ave in the West Village. Or perhaps I should say they end up patronizing us? Since we’re a trio of loud, ethnic women, you have to have a pretty strong threshold for annoyance if we’re in the vicinity. I still remember the time Tiff and I each tucked a bud from my iPod shuffle into one ear, singing (somewhat quietly) and chair dancing to “Snape vs. Snape,” by Ministry of Magic. It’s a miracle they didn’t boot us out. Actually, I could say that about a LOT of the places we go.
Owner Nicky Perry runs a tight –and small– ship; it’s always bustling with people and pleasant servers and the occasional adorable moppet helping bring tea cups to the table. Inevitably, there’s a clump of people by the door, waiting to get into the tiny shop, and you’ll often see people wander away, daunted by the prospect of standing out there in the cold. Not Tiff, Ty, and I… despite some whinging on my part since I decided to venture out today without a hat or scarf. The smell of English cheese and meat is just too good to resist. It’s like the Coldstone Creamery, where you suspect they spray the scent of waffle cone outside to lure you in. Cheese and bacon will do it to me every time.
In fact, that’s what I ordered: a side order of their gorgeously creamy mac and cheese and a side order of English back bacon. It doesn’t seem like a whole lot of food, but paired with a bottomless pot of Earl Grey and ginger cake with custard for dessert, it made for the perfect meal. I always want to try something new… the bangers and mash, the shepherd’s pie (is it made of real shepherds?) but always wind up sticking to my favorite dish. Mac and cheese is the ultimate comfort food and Tea and Sympathy makes it well. They bring out the individual dishes bubbling, barely crusted over with cheese, quick to burn your mouth. A dash of salt and pepper and you have cheesetastic heaven. The ginger cake was good, though I think I’ll have to revert back to my default, the sticky toffee pudding, the next time. Their Earl Grey proved stellar, much better than their English Breakfast and Assam. The flavor of bergamot was perfect.
As long as there’s no huge crowd waiting, the gang at Tea and Sympathy lets you linger as long as you’d like. Depending on the day, they’re a little brusque or a little harried, but overall, it’s become a place that’s familiar and always feels great to come back to. Especially on a chilly Sunday afternoon where you’re exhausted from your weekend shenanigans. Nothing says recovery like a pot of tea and some good English cooking (and, no, that’s not an oxymoron).
Welcome to the jewelry box.
Welcome to bad necklace: not quite pearls of wisdom, a blog for rambling natterings on writing, the Big Apple, growing up desi in the American Midwest, and whatever the heck else occurs to me.
The name “bad necklace,” comes from one of many crazy nights with my friends Ty and Tiffany. I made the mistake of kvetching about how Spanish-speaking people always think my parents had a twisted sense of humor. “Yes, yes, I know what my name means and no, no they did NOT name me ‘bad’ on purpose.” They named me the Bengali word for “necklace.” Ty, who keeps insisting I’m from Idaho or Nebraska despite my Ohioan pride, dubbed me “bad necklace,” that night and has called me that ever since.
Now I’ve finally bitten the bullet and joined the individual blog revolution. Mind you, this does not mean I am some neophyte, wandering around the Internet and encountering cries of “LOL! N00b!” I’ve done the LiveJournal thing, done the MySpace thing, and feel that, now, as I teeter on the edge of turning 30 and also celebrate my third year living in the wilds of New York City, it’s time to try something new. If this fails miserably, expect this thing to disappear with little to no fanfare. “Nothing to see here, move it along.”
As I said above, I’m almost 30. The big 2-9…. the age many women choose to stay forever. Personally, I’m ready to get the Hell into the next decade. Besides, I’ve been told I have great genes (as if people can tell by looking at you?), and I look at least five years younger than I am. Good thing, since I ACT about ten years younger than I am.
I’m a writer and editor with a tragically limited vocabulary. I guess it’s my equivalent of not bringing my work home with me. Except that, if you ask my co-workers, I don’t really bringing it to work with me either. I write and speak in slang and punctuate with four letter words. Despite an English lit. degree under my belt, I almost never read classic literature or postmodern literature or literature of any kind. Every time I try to read a “smart” book, it hurts my head. I get bored. I need something shiny to entertain me. So, it’s all about romance novels and young adult books and the sporadic comic book. (I wasn’t so sporadic in high school and college and the two boxes in my parents’ basement can bear witness.) I love shoot ‘em up movies and sci-fi, and yet won’t say no to a Lifetime movie if it’s really, really, spectacularly cheesy. (Tiffani Amber Thiessen in Buried Secrets, I’m just sayin’.)
I have no real method to the madness of this blog. I have no idea what’s in store for me or for you, the potential reader.
I have severe doubts as to anyone reading this without me rounding up all my friends (all five of you) and saying, “Hey, lookie here!” but, hey, you never know until you try.
Though, given how I stumbled upon the name for this place, maybe it’s “you never know until you’re Ty.”
