FENG SHUI AND ME

Of late, I have become increasingly obsessed with my fortune and lack thereof. While perusing the bookstore wares the other day, I happened upon a mini Feng Shui guide. Not being the fatalistic, patchouli smelling/yoga practicing/astrology worshipping sort, it therefore seemed unnatural that I sould have snatched it up and started to consult the guide. I have always enjoyed the occasional horoscope and always dabbled here and there in Ouija boards and matching my sign to those of would-be lovers over a bottle of wine (or two, or maybe even three...), but never have I indulged my fancy to such a, quite frankly, EMBARRASING, extent. (Small pause to shout out to my cruel friends for mocking me relentlessly.)

As a result of my studies, I have not only discovered that my trash can was smack dab in the middle of my relationship section (hmph...no bloody surprises there!) and that all of my furniture was in all the wrong places, but I have also discovered that things were much better when they were arranged differently (pre-house painting era). Coincidence? Perhaps. But who the hell am I to question ancient knowledge? Aghast at the Chi faux pas, I got to work.

I have nearly had a hernia and broken my neck trying to rearrange my furniture to suit the Yin and Yang of the universe (demanding sorts that they are). The lovely friends think that I have finally gone over the deep end, but I don't give a shit. If it helps me delude myself into a sense of complacency, then so be it. Some people pop Prozac. I redecorate and purge.

Besides, a positive by-product of my New Age mania is the fact that, perhaps the first time in my life, I am reversing my pack rat tendencies and I, at least for some time, have *finally* achieved that clean, nice-Indian-girl room that my Mom has always exhorted me to have. (Dirty Indian girl, clean room...love the juxtaposition). My closet? Organized. My drawers? Neatly pristine. My bed...well, unmade...but don't you agree that a bed looks oh-so-much-more inviting when it already mussed up? Methinks would be bad karma to make the bed TOO clean, thus I will be a bad girl holdout on that one front. A model Feng Shui project, you say. Yes! But all this good Chi comes at a price: Letting go.

My collection of gifted tchotchkes, menagerie of dust catcher stuffed toys, and free sample make-up/hotel shampoo/warehouse club deodorant that I *may* one day use are all now homeless. They are the Palestinians or Kurds lost in the barren desert territory that is now my room. What to do? Relocate them somewhere? Shove them into some forgotten corner and employ and out-of-sight-out-of-mind disappearing act? It may work for the Americans in their foreign policy, but it won't cut it for achieving true CHI in my life. I had to make some choices. Especially since much of what I found lurking in the hiden dark recesses of my drawers were mementos of a past life with DMX and the signs of coupledom of yesteryear. Shampoo and makeup I could part with, but what about memories?

As it so happens, my project comes at a most opportune time. Valentine's Day and beyond. As we all know, an all-too-common occurrence, come every Valentine's Day, is the Boyfriend Bonfire. This popular ceremony is the ritualistic purging of one's bad juju and the ablution and purification of one's soul through the sacrifice of ex-lovers letters/gifts/photographs and crap. I think most see it as a liberating act, and a sort of renaissance for themselves, a la phoenix rising from the flames and what not.

Needless to say, this sacrement extends beyond February 14th (as many more relationships are fated to end shortly thereafter, there is a grace, or rather, a falling-from- grace period). It seemed a convenient time, indeed, as this would probably the only time when I would have mementos of DMX assembled in one place.

Unlike a lot of women, I did not feel the need to box up the remnants of my former relationship. It would, in essence, become a Pandora's box of sorts. By boxing that shit up, I was only going to delay the inevitable unleashing of intense emotions and pandemonium. A sort of force of nature that I would be unable to contend with. Boy, was I wrong.

Even without the "boyfriend box", I still suffered the whole litany of emotions favored by manic depressives, schizos and mariah careys the world over. As I cleaned up my room and life, I also had to clean up the clutter in my own mind and heart as I pored over old memories, feelings, and disappointments. And like the battle against the mess of my room, it seemed that the fight against the past was going to be a losing one.

Would it have been easier to box the past away and ignore it? Or, as my volatile and highly reactive friend the Firecracker prefers, torch all reminders to a nice carbon ash? Would it have made it easier to deal with the aftermath and the on again/off again sadness that has always been there in the shadows of my life? Methinks that the answer is NO.

Even by boxing away that stuff, I cannot shut myself away from the world. It MAY help not to have blatant and conspicuous things staring me in the face, flagrantly mocking me and my pain...but there is no escaping the past. No matter what.

Our past lovers linger in our systems long after they have buggered off and left. And our memories never let us forget, regardless of what amount of boxing, burning or erasing we may engage in. Even if pack my boyfriend box away, the world is one huge Pandora's box, hurling reminders my way. Everywhere I look, DMX and reminders of him are everpresent: the all night desi delis serving hot sweet tea, the feel of my cashmere scarf rubbing against my neck, and the smell of fresh lime.

In my mind, certain songs, smells, flavors and the like will always be inextricably linked to people, places, and memories of my life. These make up the soundtrack and palette of my colorful life. I always think of the Preacher when I hear 'Heart of Glass', and pick up the phone to call the Pup when I see bad subtitles and lewd signs like "Ready Maids Upstairs". Then again, I also suffer pangs of loneliness and sadness when I see someone rub noses or give butterfly kisses to their lover.

Would I want to disassociate these senses from my memories? Would I want to reclaim the city of San Francisco and divorce it from a miserable time there spent there with DMX? Probably. Would I want 'Sexy Motherfucker' for myself and prevent a knee jerk thought of DMX? Definitely. Would I want to give up all memories of our former life? Maybe not. Because doing so would mean an end of being human.

To feel is human. To ache is necessary to feel ecstacy; to hurt is to know that you are alive. So, along with all the heartache and pain associated with DMX and other former loves, there is always the flip side: of how the first sweet sip of sangria will transport me back to blissful days in Barcelona with DMX; and how the smell of good, strong French pressed coffee will remind me of my first and only true love. And as much as this makes me lament the 'What-could-have-been", I cherish the thought of having had love and been loved. Or even of just having had a life that I lived. Whatever it may be, it was mine.

And just as I thought that life was better when things were arranged differently...maybe it was just that my life was arranged differently and that was what made it better. Will detoxing my room of DMX prevent me from thinking about him everytime I hear the word 'bhalu'? Not a chance. So then why bother? Because I don't need those things now. But there may come a time when I will. Or a time when I will appreciate the physical evidence of love. Thus, the outcome of my Feng Shui session? Undecided. Boxed, Taped and stacked in an unused corner of an unused room, patiently waiting till the day that Pandora wants to deal with her box. And I am okay with that. And okay with the fact that I will never get DMX, HS, or SDK out of my system. I don't want them out of my system.

I suppose one reason is that I know that I will never be out of their systems. I gain solace from the fact that we cannot help but associate our former loves with our lives. And that they are part of the fabric of our souls and personas. And that DMX is also powerless against this force of nature. DMX will think of me everytime he smells a stargazer lily, feels a nose in the cradle of his eye, or hears the Arabic word for 'bread'. He won't be able to control it. These are patented memories and there is nothing we can do to change that. No matter if someone supplants me in his sensory association with black patent leather, jasmine tea, or superior dance skills; there will always be something that will forever be imprinted with my name in his mind. No matter what. And that is a comforting thought; That even when we are replaced, the mind won't let the heart forget. No matter what.

"When the bitterness is gone, I just hope that the sweetness will still linger..." -MINX-

IN THE FLESH

While I was spending time on the alien spaceship (a rather convenient and vague explanation to my extended blogging vacation), some of you have taken the time to write. I really appreciate it and love getting your emails/posts/etc. It was precisely a fan email that duly shamed me into resurrecting the defunct blog, so please follow suit and comment away! As you may know, I usually respond back, and even have developed an email rapport with some of you. Some brave souls even send mails using their ACTUAL names-thereby subjecting themselves to possible mocking on the site (though given my generosity in not exposing the fascist reader--most feel safe in knowing they won't be outed).

Anyway, a few weeks ago, a potentially promising/damaging prospect crossed my path: I had the opportunity to *possibly* meet one of my readers. And before all of you jump to your fantastic conclusions-NO-it was not a Barbi dream date...It happened as such:

I was RSVPing for a friend's party (yes-am EVER the party girl), and while doing so, decided to peruse the evite list. I happened to notice a name staring back at me from the invitee list--a name I recognized as belonging to one of my beloved readers. Now, I know that you will say, it could be anyone with the same name...but trust me, I know that this was my mystery reader. I just have a hunch...plus, the name was hardly the John Smith/Mary Johnson/Ami Shah/Neil Patel of the phone book world-Mystery Reader (MR) had a distinctive enough a name to set off a mental alarm in my head (or maybe it was those damn voices again...anyway...)

I have never met MR, nor does our common link, the evite sender, read my site or know MR's guilty pleasure of reading about my pathetic (albeit exciting) life. It leaves me to wonder how you all find me. *SIDENOTE: I love it that you DO find me, my little darlings. Like salmon (or Salman, for that matter) coming home to spawn, you are drawn to my turbulent waters. Okay, enough of the cheese.)*

I played out the scenarios in my head...what would MR be like? Obviously is of discerning tastes and playful wit, as has opted for my blog instead of the Huffingtons of the world. Clearly would be of superior intelligence and a liberal demeanor, as has commented on how fabulous my blog is. But how would MR react to moi?

Would MR be as enamored with me in the flesh? Would MR recognize me as none other than the Minx? Would I be my fabulous self-or would I, with the name of MR flashing incessently in my mind, resort to Rain Man type sputtering and go into social meltdown. Perhaps the most important question of all, would I WANT TO expose myself and reveal my true identity? Um, no? Maybe? Not sure? All of the above?

There is an extraordinary comfort in being an unknown smartass about town; and I have become accustomed to my cloak of anonymity and cherish the fact that I can post with relative impunity. I can air my insecurities and vent to my heart's content, without burdening those in my life. Without this arena, my friends would have to quit their jobs and be on window ledge watch 24/7. And, as much as I would love to meet my readers, I wouldn't have it any other way. Call it insecurity, or self-loathing, or maybe just common sense, but I just don't know if I can live up to the expectations that you all may have or may not have. (SHAMING GUILT TRIP: I am sure that some of you NOW know my identity, due to the fabulous friend outing me in drunken moment (ahem...you KNOW I am talking to YOU!), though I hope that you will keep my identity to yourselves.)

In the normal world (whatever that is), people put their proverbial best feet forward. They get to know each other better before letting it all hang out. I am the opposite. And certainly in this case-it just wouldn't work. Let me explain: Am I fabulous? Absolutely. Am I willing to make you privy to the inner workings of my mind before getting to trust you? Hells no. Therein lies the problem, you see.

An additional burden of being clever, fun and well, an OUTRAGEOUS minx, is the pressure to always be ON. As the lovely friends can tell you, I too suffer from my wallflower moments (though few and far between). Like the proverbial clown crying on the inside, I am the party animal wanting to curl up on the couch and watch bad TV. Now, would YOU want to be stuck with me on one of those nights?

For the most part, I am an unapologetic party girl (or was, at any rate). I remember having to schedule nights in and relishing those weekends spent with hair masks, movies and moments of catatonic lounging in my den of slack. I have increasingly become tired of the scene over the years, and now crave wine tastings and house parties over spending mind numbing time with e-dropping adolescents in the deafening club scene giving me a headache. Yes. I am getting old.

I don't see this as a bad thing...but rather a new version of my fabulous self. It is wittier and calmer side of myself--I have become the party girl of the MENSA scene. And, given that the venue of the party was a friend's home, I could shine like the superstar that I am. However, it didn't change my mind and (lest I get tempted to out myself) I RSVP'ed in the negative. Like the bitter old hag that I am, I spent that evening in pajamas watching some cheesy movie on tv. Pathetic, I know. In due time, The Minx will be surrounded by the requisite menagerie of kitties that are de rigeur for spinsters the world over. Meow, indeed.

I SUCK

Am hereby no longer going to issue lame apologies to my readers (if any still exist) and am just going to hang my head in shame and resign myself to the fact that I am a flake.

Having deviated from the initial purpose of the blog (i.e. saving money on therapy by using web confessional instead), I have decided to be militant in my efforts to post...it is my belated New Year's resolution, sort of.

That said, please do not expect the traditional auto-rant/War and Peace length types of posts. I don't know if I can take the pressure of posting come rain or shine (God help me if I ever do indulge in a professional journalistic career...I will end up as the modern day desi Fletch). I will, however, try to be as charming, insightful and caustic as ever. Instead of regaling my friends with stories over the telephone, I will instead try to offend the masses with my rather brilliant musings.

Anyway, I hope to post more soon. Just wanted to give y'all a heads up. Till then, my pretties.

-Minx-