RESURRECTION

So, cats and kittens...after a long hiatus and complete upheaval of my life many times over, I am happy to report that I am back...at least for a while! Will not try to explain absence...will merely answers questions with the following:

1-yes. travel was involved.

2-yes. men were involved.

3-and yes. i am still single and fabulous.

so, basically, it is status quo with a new venue and a slightly new view on life. as you may or may not know, I try to shield men that I date from the sharp teeth of the blog reading jackals...and with good reason. I may amend that in the near future, as I find myself to be in a bit of a romantic quagmire *as usual*. However, all is well at the moment and I am relatively unattached, so let the games begin! Good to be back...

FELLOW MINXES! PLEASE CONTRIBUTE

http://imaginingourselves.imow.org/pb/CallForSubmissions.aspx?lang=1

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-

BLAME THE NAME

(A slight deviation from the Nomadic Adventures and Cross Country Travels of the Outrageousminx Series-aka Minx Does America. But, as any woman knows, we always reserve the right to change our minds.)

Had a thought-provoking discussion with the Fairy Godmother last night, predicting the likelihood (HIGH) of her getting preggers before years end. Along with that discussion came the inevitable bitching about the pain and suffering of childbirth, and the virtues of the German spa-hospital. (Apparently, due to the falling birth rates, hospitals in Germany are competing to have the little brats born in their wards. They are luring women in by promising spa-like facilities and services. A far-cry from the back room butcheries that we in America (and India) call the maternity ward).

ANYWAY, once the imaginary child was born-this prompted the question: what to name it? This sparked a discussion on names, and my own musings on how some unfortunate names have come into being. For example, who on earth decided on the name Randy? I mean, how can a parent name a baby that? Do they KNOW that the child will grow up to be a horn-dog? (and, for the record, most Randys do end up being total pervs-is it because they must live up to their name? chicken? egg? who knows.) And what to name the other children, the Randy siblings? "This is my son Randy. And our adopted Korean daughter Fris-kee". And names which guarantee a profession: Chastity (stripper), Jose (bodega owner/customer), Sri Ram (software engineer)...you get the idea.

And then, of course, the disastrous Indian names. Now, if you name someone something because it sounds nice (like the Germans-whose Heike, Silke, Rike mean nothing, but sound nice (to them anyway)), then you might be okay. But names like Seema (which sounds nice) also have completely horrible meanings. Seema, as you may know, means border. I once asked my Mom why on earth someone would so stupid as to name their kid 'border'. She explained that it meant, a border-as in NO MORE FEMALE KIDS. Hmph. Bet Seema is a well adjusted and loved kid.

And then, there is MY personal fav., the name I love to hate: Khushbu. Vomit. Hurl. Puke. I mean, naming your child 'Aroma'. Barf. AND, the one Khushbu that I had the misfortune of knowing, was a total sabzi kid-reeking of Undhiya and sweat. And, just so you don't think that I judge people by their smell (or lack of it)-the reason she was odious was not because of her malodorous stench-but rather because she thought she was the hot shit that hit the fan and was one of those toxic women who feels the incessant need to gossip. She really thought no end of herself and was baseless in her strutting. Totally deluded, that one was. Talk about a misnomer.

Oh, I can rattle off a litany of names that make me cringe and pity their owners: Champa, Sona (gold), Daulat(wealth), Ginny (as in Guineau coins...see a theme here?), Hans Raj (the Swan King) and Madhu ( ALWAYS belonging to a bitter old woman). Generic, dime-a-dozen names like Sanjay, Preeti and Rajiv. Grown women with cutesy names like Suhani, Dulari, and Dolly.
And any asphyxia-inducing 22 letter hyphenated name that includes your father's name, village name and the names of every one in your neighborhood. Oh...I can go on and on.

And, as if our formal names weren't bad enough-we bear the additional burdens of nicknames which inevitably follow through to adulthood (in fact, is proportional...the more embarrassing the nickname-the more likely it is to stick and be spread far and wide. Imagine a young professional answering to Bubble. So sad.) Shall we visit the more popular of them? Gogi, Dimple, Bittoo and Jolly, and Gotu. Monty, Guddi, Tinu, and Chhotu. Happy, Tony, Pappoo, and Motu. I will see them in my car. I will see them near and far. I see them here and there. I see them everywhere.

And some of these names are ubiquitous. Don't we all have someone in our family who has the misfortune of being known as Babloo, Pinky, Bunty, Tippoo, or (my personal fav.) BABY? And then, there are the RHYMING names.

Parents, inhaling a little too many smog fumes, (and not bothering to consider the financial repercussions of the necessary future therapy sessions to undo the damage) decide it would be oh-so cute to give their three girls the names Pinky, Twinky, and Rinki...whose real names are actually Nina, Tina and Reena. When will we learn? Rhyming and names do not mix. Repeat. Rinse.

Luckily, I escaped the proper nickname, though I have about a million nicknames based on attributes and character traits (as opposed to a parental need to rhyme). In fact, when I was younger-I tried to implement my own nickname to escape the shortened version of my real name. I started by introducing myself to the new kids in the neighborhood by my new chosen name, saying, "My name is ..., but you can call me..." So-walking down the street one day with my Mom, the new kids called to me, using my new name. My Mom looked around to see who she was waving to-only to be informed by 9 year old me that it was my new name. Not bothering to stifle her laughter, the cruel woman proceeded to revel in my ridiculousness and promptly tell the rest of the family. Needless to say, my chosen name didn't catch on and my parents mock me to this day by calling me by my would-be nickname. At least I made life interesting...

But lots can be gained by analyzing someone's name...especially within the South Asian community. You can almost instantly find out where they are from, what religion they are, and how damaged their psyche may be. Anyname ending in li (Rupali, Sonali, Deepali)--a good chance they are Gujus. Any name with a Sri or Bala-I'd be willing to double down and say they are Southies. Any last name ending in "kar"-you better put your money on Marathi.

And it can be useful for dating, too. I recently met a very hot young man who I am going to be staying FAR away from...why, how very un-minx like you may think. why on earth, you may ask. Well...his name (combined with other words) means death. I could have maybe dealth with it if it meant, 'minor injury' or 'broken arm'--but death is a bit much...Yeah...methinks I need to run into the hills. Plus, after analyzing the names of ex-loves, it became apparent how stupid I have been by not paying more attention. DMX's name had no actual meaning (though there was a quest to find out the creation of the name). I should have known better than to get involved with a man who had no identity...and another whose name loosely meant "victory"...someone obsessed with 'making it'--pretty fuckin' balls-on right.

So, cats and kittens, be circumspect before giving a Trixie or Butch a chance...and see if you can really be screaming "Oh, SriRamBalaKrishnamohenKumar...take me now..."Methinks not.

DAMN THE JAM

This morning, after rising at an ungodly hour, I staggered, bleary-eyed, to the remote recesses of the airport to catch my piss-early flight to our nation's capital. I hardly was awake enough to register the nightmare scenario that awaited me. Desperate for caffeine, I lurched into the Starbuck's (I know...I hate myself, too. Have confessed sins and done three Hail Marys as penance) to get an IV of drip coffee. (SIDE NOTE: Why hasn't anyone launched a law suit against Starbuck's, claiming that they are the neighborhood pusher. I mean, the early morning business traveler is a variety of junkie; deny a suit their caffeine fix and it can get ugly. I've seen it happen)

ANYWAY. Jumpstarted by the caffeine hit, I recovered from my comatose state and my flat-lining mind functions began to show some peaks (or, hills, in my case). I soon noticed that I was surounded by a sea of khaki occupying the seats which my weary ass belonged in. In horror, I stared at the ungainly beasts, realizing that I would be sharing my flight with not the normal assortment of freaks that I embrace, but rather the institutionalized cult of sanctified hypocrisy in America THE BOY SCOUTS (or more commonly known as, Future Pedophiles of America).

As they lined up in Starbuck's to purchase their cups of caffeinated liquid sugar (oh yeah, THAT'S smart. Let's give the pre-pubescent, ritalin-dependent hatchlings caffeine and sugar before 7 am), the smug creatures had me surrounded.

As a general rule, I love kids. I really do. But, put them together and the become The Children of The Corn or the Salem witch-hunt girls. Put them in matching uniforms, and it is nothing short of a Nazi kindergruppe.

And, as if dressing the little monsters identically into a sick cloning gone wrong isn't frighteneing enough-we have their den leaders to ENSURE that we should sleep with one eye open during our flight. Its unnatural and wrong for grown men to to be dressed in khaki knicker shorts, straw boater hats, knee socks and blue kershief tied around their necks. (I know-I could've stopped at khaki knickers. Indian policemen...need I say more?) I mean, seriously, boy scout leader?? Code for pedophile.

Only the pressing need to be in DC for a job interviuew would have prompted me to board this flight. (Not to mention the fact that legions of boy socuts were clogging the hallways waiting for later flights). A Scout-free flight was not in the cards.

I, brave soul that I am, boarded the flight, with bravado comparable to any young jawaan. Upon being seated, the flight attendant announced how honored she was to be flying with the wonderful boy scouts and how these young men would be role models and gentleman.

Now, having known a boy scout or two in my time, I can tell you (from their own mouths) that it severely stunts their dating growth. One friend, a true hottie in every way-president of high school, football player, straight A-student kind of guy--and BRUTALLY HOT-never dated in high school, nor in the early days of college. Poor chap just didn't know how. Also-having known his first girlfriend, I can attest to the fact that he was pure to a fault. The monastery is a comin' knockin'...

And then, there are the few desi boy scouts, who, by virtue of being desi males already didn't have enough obstacles in that area, decide to impair themselves more. Poor saps.

But, let me tell you, not all suffer their fate. Having briefly dated an Eagle Scout, I can certianly attest to him certainly being NO gentleman. He must have picked up some moves at band camp.


I think the boy socuts would better serve their country by teaching these young tadppoles real life skills and give them merit bages for stuff they might actually USE. Examples? Scheduling dates properly. Telling the truth. Doing laundry. Using the telephone. Finding a G-spot.Foreplay.

Hell-I'd sign up as a scout leader if they did (and I'd look a hell of a lot better in that damn uniform).

*THIS WAS WRITTEN BEFORE TRAGEDY STRUCK THE SCOUT LEADERS, SO KNOW THAT BEFORE Y'ALL JUMP UP MY ASS FOR BEING INSENSITIVE. AS FOR THE FAINTING BOY SCOUTS BAKING IN THE SUN WAITING FOR IL DUCE TO ARRIVE AND SPEAK TO THEM (HOW MANY TIMES?), METHINKS IT IS DIVINE INTERVENTION. GOD WAS UNWILLING TO SEE THE YOUTH OF AMERICA BEING CORRUPTED ANY MORE THAN NECESSARY. THOSE UNIFORMS ARE PUNISHMENT ENOUGH*

SILENCE BROKEN

Dear Cats and Kittens,

Yet again, I have no excuses or explanations for my extended absence. In the most succinct way I know how-I will say the following:

1. Yes. I had been holed up in romantic bliss for a while...but, knowing me as well as you do, you know how THAT ended. I don't want to talk about it. Yet.

2. My life has continued to be the non-stop drama that you readers have come to rely on...with travels, hook-ups, and bizzarro adventures.

3. I am going to try to be more consistent in my postings-come orgy, travels and flooding-postings will (hopefully) be more regular. No promises here...but I will certainly try.

WHEW! So, the next few postings will not be organized chronologically, but rather in the weird filing system that my mind employs (a perverse dewey decimal system).

Over the last few months, I have zig-zagged this once-great land of ours (pre-Bush era, naturally) in the mind-numbing pursuit of the perfect job (more about THAT later too...)

In my travels, I have encountered a gaggle of freaks and scary people worthy of a sideshow spot on Coney Island (though perhaps, not enough to score a coveted spot on Springer or a float during Pride Week). The following blogs have been scribbled on cocktail napkins, corners of magazines and ticket stubs.

Enjoy the feasting, you savages!

LOVE IS BLIND

A friend of mine who works at the Veterans hospital recently had an old, dirty man hit on her with what I think is one of the best come-ons ever, “I’ve got cataracts in both my eyes...but, baby, you have opened my eyes!” As much as these words of brilliance made me chuckle, it also made my heart bleed in sorrow. It got me thinking:

If love can make a be-cataracted man see—why does it make the rest of us go blind?

Why does it make the most observant and discerning of us become farsighted, ignoring the glaring signs staring us in the face (problems that, mind you, would usually that send us to go running into the night), and instead focus on the rosy futures we predict for ourselves?

Why does all rationale and logic go flying out of the window, so we create fictional realities for ourselves, doing away with the requisite and necessary “waiting periods”? (Like all dangerous weapons and substances, there should be a MANDATORY waiting period before falling in love.)

What is it about love, or even the mere IDEA of love, that makes people go against their better judgment, to delude themselves and, like Oedipus, gouge out their own eyes to make them blind to the inevitable fates that await them?

I wish I knew. A few months ago, I had (again) become the sacrificial lamb, throwing myself onto the altar of love, having my heart ripped out and tossed into the greedy flames of loneliness, despair, and desolation. I remind myself of the lemmings who, every year, hurl themselves to a watery death. Will I never learn?

It got me thinking of the phrase “love is blind”. What does it really mean? Is it the schmaltzy tribute to the sweet, unconditional acceptance of someone-faults and all? A contention that true love is something beyond looks and impediments? Whatever it may be, the phrase petrifies me to the core. I mean, isn’t love hard enough without the additional handicap of blindness?

I actually don't think of it as a sweet phrase. Love is hardly blind. As evidenced by the flurry of postings re: looks of the desi man/woman, love is fucking 20/20 vision. All one has to do is peruse the myriad of matrimonial ads clogging any desi paper. I know, I know-these ads are not true LOVE, but rather the human trade equivalent of some greasy moustached man outside Lal Qila trying to hawk stolen auto parts poorly disguised with a coat of fresh paint. But it can be argued that these ads are representative of what we, as a warped and dysfunctional society, would choose with eyes open.

Fair, slim, beautiful...these seem to be the pervasive qualities that will fetch a high price on the desi marriage market. WHERE are the qualities that actually a good relationship make? My father fears for my stock on the marriage market...given my smart ass ways and outspoken nature, he feels that I will end up the proverbial Worldcom, with people running to sell and fearful to buy. For some reason, good wives and mothers aren't supposed to have opinions...but, hey, that's another blog for another time.

Not that the Western counterparts of the desi meat market ads are any better: Funny, confident, handsome, romantic seem to be on top of the pedestrian dreamlist. Women who write things like, "I want a man to sweep me off my feet..." seriously make me cringe and make me want to shake them out of their Bollywood dreams into reality. Ladies: a hint: If you are swept off your feet--you know where you end up? ON YOUR ASS, THAT'S WHERE!!

Let's face the facts though. These ads ARE nothing short of a Big Tobacco type fraud on the public. In fact, I have known many an internet dater to be deep in smit with a virtual heartthrob...and pay the requisite lip service to 'oh-looks don't matter'...only to be let down upon meeting them in the flesh. The 'love is blind' phrase is just pure unadulterated bullshit. Whether in the virtual or real world, looks matter and we, imperfect flawed creatures that we are, still maintain that kernel of egoism in thinking that we deserve nothing but a perfect looking mate.

Yes-I sound like a bitter hag. But I am anything but. In fact, this posting has sat in my posting box, collecting dust and mold for the past few months, lest my blog smack of envy and cynicism. This weekend though, something set me off and I decided to analyze my own thoughts, as well as those of the world. And it got me wondering: Given the perils of blind ignorance of a no-go type scenario or pretending that we are above and beyond the pettiness of our looks obsessed society (not to mention the less-than-savory aftermath of such situations)...then why, oh WHY do we then rush to be in LOVE?

We delude ourselves much of the time...even when it is not the real thing. We know better--but love we must. We are addicted...love junkies if you will. We need twelve step programs to detox and regain a firmer grip on reality. Like any drug, it is a form of escapism. But maybe that is exactly what we need.

In my own life, I know that I have an overload of real; and I find myself, when inundated with the daily onslaught of life's complications, longing for that something that makes me smile and can make my reality seem like a paradise rather than a bleak series of disappointments with no conceivable end in sight. Love does just that. It is the ultimate high and renders all else meaningless and unimportant. I crave that feeling and would compromise all other facets of my life in order to have it in my life again.

It is precisely the force of love that makes us withstand intolerable situations and draw endless amounts of strength from the reservoirs within. I read an article once about a group of young women in a refugee camp. In this camp, where the devastated population had lost their lives and identities and had a whole litany of things to worry about, many of the young women still spent most of their time gossiping about love. Though they had lost everything, they had everything to gain in love. Even in the face of utter and complete devastation, getting a smile from a crush made anything possible. And thoughts of them trumped all else. It is human to love; it is inherent and intertwined with the very fabric of our being. We MUST love.

I know that many of you will now write and ask, minx, what is your stance? Are you the cynical hag or the starry eyed dreamer? I would like to think I am both. In true minx style, I have contradicted myself and with good reason. Yes-I don't agree with the commonplace meaning of 'love is blind'. That would be too delusional even for even good ol' Don Quixote. The realist in me, the one who has lived in this world long enough, knows better than to think that love will always overcome the obstacles of life...and that people are not brainwashed by the superficiality that infects our society like a noxious disease.

But at the same time, I can't help but remember that I felt that way once-that I could and would do anything for the sake of love. And how I would love to feel that way again...

Love does make you blind--but in the best of ways. It makes you blind to the sham and drudgery of the world. It makes you blind to the cruelty and intolerance. And it manages to bring out the best in all of us. It makes us all eternal optimists and can make the most heartless of us see beauty all around. It makes the banalities of the world seem extraordinary, and the commonplace magical. If love can make all this happen, why would someone not open their arms and welcome it in for some tea? Good question.

I urge you all: leave practicality and reality for others-for the world was never changed by realists. It has always been the dreamers who have made this world a wondrous place and have overturned our realities time and time again. Be a Galileo or a Van Gogh. Madness is also genius, and idealism is worship of the divine. Logic and rationale have their place, but should not be your guide in life. So, my friends, dare to dream and let your hearts be your seeing eye dogs guiding you through this perilous world. And let love make your worlds rosy again.

HATE MAIL/HATE MALE

Greeting cats and kittens!

Sorry for missing last week's posting; there is a lot happening in my life and I might be MIA for extended periods of time. Instead of a rant properly written by me, I am publishing an email exhange that I had with a disgruntled and unhinged reader who plagiarized my stellar work. Please feel free to rant and rave with abandon and spam him into oblivion!

FASCIST READER WRITES:
your writing is a bit of a pain in the ass to read. i don't mean to be harsh, but i think you're smart and/or tough enough to take it. the themes are interesting, but eyes get tired. it's simply over-written, and while i'm sure it appeals to the average reader who doesn't expect much, you have too many words in each sentence for someone whose name isn't william faulkner. i'm attaching an example of over-written writing that works on any number of levels.

and for what it's worth, perhaps not much, indian guys may be dorks, but 97% of indian girls aren't much to sneeze at, either. (ATTACHES A LONG RAMBLING WRITING SAMPLE)

FASCIST READER immediately emails again, stating:
definitely good enough for me to plagiarize, though. thanks.

OutrageousMinx reply:

ummm...not really sure how to reply. first, thanks for reading, i guess. i hope you continue to do so. second, i hope you do realize that i write like this for a reason. in my profession, i have on a straightjacket in terms of what i can write. i am tough enough to take it; and your comments are duly noted and appreciated. however, there is a reason for the incorrect grammar, verbosity, and free license with punctuation.

i write the way i talk, and i am usually on auto-rant. i suppose you would have to know me and all to fully grasp how ME this blog is. besides, the first posting is verbatim an email i wrote to a friend. this blog has evolved and gained readers...but i still need to be me...i hope you understand. that said, i will try to make it more reader friendly. and my final point, i have never said i am against indian guys. hang tight...i am going to go after the abcd girls and also explain my preference for fobs vs.abcd guys soon enough.

i don't actually have a preference, but everyone seems to be up in arms...fobs and abcd alike. besides, there is no reason to go after indian girls because i have poked fun at some desi guys. if it is a personal preference, so be it. all i can say is keep reading...you'll get the much anticipated desi girl rant soon enough.

-minx-


FASCIST READER wrote:

yeah, i just meant that like...indian guys are often the way they are because you, being an indian girl, have no idea what it's like to be completely marginalized in a culture. i find it shocking how asian girls, in particular, are full of so much self-hate and such, when they'd probably commit suicide along with indian girls if they had to deal with 1/10th of the racial stuff the males have to deal with.

now, i certainly realize that this doesn't change the fact that indian guys are dorks, but i just don't find indian girls all that attractive. they're incredibly hairy from eyebrows to arm hair to who knows what lurks down below, as I've never so much as kissed an indian girl. in recent years, i've started feeling guilty that american girls probably only like me because i have white skin and such, but then i realized that indian girls like me for the *exact* same reason.

at least american girls like me because i'm cool and sweet at the same time. i'm attaching pictures of the three girlfriends i've had. the first is current, the second is indian (please don't call her trashy; this is the most risque she's ever dressed, and she goes to harvard law and i'm stupid so i don't complain, and the third is my h.s. sweetheart.)

thing is, indian girls, be it family friends or whoever, get pissed because all the seriously hot indian guys (not that i can call myself even marginally hot with a straight face) end up with american girls. thing is, when i hear indian girls knock indian guys for being dorks, given the fact that i view indian girls as being boring, not too bright, and talent-less, it makes me not want to even give them a chance. I don't know.

the valentine's day thing was good. that's what i stole. thank you for it.
(FASCIST READER ACTUALLY ATTACHES PICS OF THREE VERY PRETTY GIRLS...NONE OF WHICH, I AM SURE, WOULD APPRECIATE THEIR PICS BEING IMMORTALIZED IN CYBERSPACE. FRIENDS HAVE DOUBTED WHETHER THESE ARE ACTUALLY GIRLFRIENDS OF FASCIST...I'D LIKE TO GIVE HIM THE BENEFIT OF A DOUBT)

OutrageousMinx wrote in response:

hi-okay- a few things:
*please do not plagiarize my stuff...i am not sure what you are talking about when you said that you 'stole' my valentine's article...but please do not. it is (in whatever lame-ass form you believe it to be) still MY blog and they are my musings on the world. I don't mind if you allude to it or even encourage others to read...but please give me credit. it is my craft and (sometimes) my bread and butter, so please do not pass it off as your own.

*WHAT IS GOING ON??? why on earth are you sending me pics of your exes? what point is that supposed to prove? they are extremely attractive and all...but why are you sending this to me? i have never attacked you personally, so i cannot assume it is to prove that you are 'hot'.

plus, i would NEVER call anyone trashy. especially not a fellow minx. she is a gorgeous girl and should own it. some other bitchy indian girl (and they are in abundance) may call her that...but not me. i am not a judgmental person and this blog is done in pure fun.

like i said before, i have nothing against indian men--and certainly have nothing against YOU (though that is steadily changing as you continue to attack me). i certainly am NOT a self-loathing desi chick and i don't focus on the negativity in my own or others pasts.

also, i think it is very naive to say that an indian girl may not know what it is like to be marginalized in a culture. i think that sort of experience is not limited to desi men or even desis. the cruelty of being the odd man out and being picked on is universal. my personal choice is NOT to focus on the negative experiences of my life. i deal with some of it in the earlier articles, just for myself...but at the same time, i am extremely positive and don't tend to be serious in my blog.

*i have never said all indian guys are dorks. i have dated a number of them...some dorks, some not. i do have a penchant for tall, lanky and geeky...so there you go. nor do i limit my dating repertoire to desis. i am an equal opportunity dater. in fact, the love of my life was NOT desi. i know for a fact that people who go for me do so because of how i am and not because of fair skin and the like.

i also know that i have never ever made skin color/having an MD/having a certain type of car a prerequisite for a date. just like you, my indignant friend, i choose my mates based on some other criteria. there ARE many others who are not the narrow minded twits who give desi daters a bad name. there are those who actually base their opinions on something more substantial than what a man earns.

*not all indian girls are hairy. and many are obsessive compulsive about hair removal. if you don't like it. don't date it. no need to diss on them. seriously, why be so deliberately unkind and cruel? why inflict whatever angst you may have against others? i am not understanding your incessant need to diss on others. you may feel hate vibes from some desis who may see you with a non-desi girl, but it won't come from me.

hot indian guys end up with white women? really? last i checked, there were still plenty of hot indian guys still lsuting after their desi girls. i agree that there are many whiny-ass bitchy indian girls who complain about that sort of thing. i am not one of them. more power to those who find love. it is hard enough to find someone to make you blissfully happy--and if you limit yourself to your own incestuous dating pool, then you will (more likely than not) be shit out of luck.

*"given the fact that i view indian girls as being boring, not too bright, and talent-less, it makes me not want to even give them a chance"

ahem...i consider myself (and the few indian girlfriends i do have) to be neither boring nor talentless. i can hold my own in any debate and am extremely bright (both in the book smart sense, as well as wit).

i don't know who you are meeting and who you know, but clearly these people are sub par. i have met a fair number of annoying desis, fob and abcd alike, but i also know vivacious, interesting and creative desis who i choose to befriend.

some unwanted advice to you: STOP MEETING THESE PEOPLE. seriously, surround your self with people who bring something to your life...and stop complaining to me and comparing me with those people...i am not your whipping boy. take it out on someone who ACTUALLY attacks you, okay?

why am i responding to this? i really don't know, except to let you know that it is not fair to truly believe all desis to be alike. i do it on the blogsite...but i also do it in jest (which i think comes through). no one believes that i am a desi man hater or the like. i really hope you fall in with some cool desis to add toyour eclectic mix...if not, then i hope you find cool people of any nationality. i don't believe in hanging with only desis anyway.

-minx-

FACSIST READER WROTE:

that's fine; you defended yourself quite well, not that i should have placed you in a position to do so. i just think that by attacking any of us, you attacked all of us. again, not to say that you weren't well with in your right, given the fact that it's your opinion, and it's true, I just didn't think it was necessarily fair.

i just think it's sad that most indian boys get painted as dorks --sure, they are, but they haven't really had an opportunity, due to having blinders on or whatever, to figure out what works in this society, and I just think it's sad that any guy, meaning myself, who doesn't fit that stereotype, is automatically labeled by American and Indian girls as being "not Indian." I realize I'm being finnicky about it, but...well, for example, by labeling a woman as being a "strong woman", it automatically implies that women are, by definition, weak.

regarding the plagiarism, i had to hand in some writing for a friend's class, so i made some minor adjustments and sent it in. I got it back today with a B, so mission accomplished. yeah, it's a dick move, but shit happens. it's not like it was submitted to the baltimore sun or sacramento bee or whatever.

(A MINX ASIDE: HOW I WANTED TO BITCH SLAP THIS ASSWIPE!!! AM ALSO SURE THAT IF HE DIDN'T MAKE HIS MINOR CHANGES--IT WOULD HAVE BEEN AN 'A'.)

OutrageousMinx<outrageousminx@yahoo.com> wrote:

okay-for the last time...i did not attack ANYONE. it is not my opinion that indian guys are dorks...and if you actually were to read my posts properly, you would realize that. it is not fair for you to make such sweeping remarks without having done your research. if you feel attacked, it is b/c you are projecting someone else's wrath onto me.

i have not said indian guys are dorks ANYWHERE on my site. i have written about a sub-unit of the population, but have not EVER (like you have) made gross generalizations about anyone. in fact, i say time and time again how much i love desi men...especially the dorks.

please do not take any of my articles again for your own use. as you have accused desi girls of being talentless and devoid of any intellectual or witty thoughts, why do you take someone else's thoughts and pass them off as your own? and that too, those of a desi woman???

seriously, if that was an apology...you need to watch sesame street again. shit happens? is not like you used it in a paper? i really don't care where you used it...is not yours to use. i dunno...just please don't do it again. of course, this probably will cause you to run out and use all my material...but i am asking you nicely to cease and desist.

-minx-


FASCIST READER:
hm...obviously, i didn't read it properly. it seemed like you did make a gratuitous generalization. for that, i apologize.

and i'm sorry i stole you your writing; if it makes you feel any better, it's only because i just had to jot down a few thoughts on "cultural politics", and it fit perfectly, with a few minor adjustments. and relax, i was plagiarized in this book "middlesex", which is a pretty high-falootin'
book, to say the least. consider it a sign of respect, even it was taken used for remedial english at a community college. for that reason alone, however, it should have been an A+.

*************************************************************************************

At this point, your beloved Minx just got bored with the whole affair. I have bigger things to be worried about, and cannot be bothered with the likes of fascist reader. It doesn't mean that I am not seething with rage towards this clone...but I'd rather let you guys take care of it! So, darling readers, a request from me to you to not steal my work. Be forewarned.

CUPID MUST DIE!!!

I am truly saddened today to see what a base level we have sunk to in India. As if rampant poverty, Tsunami devastation and a raging AIDS epidemic was not enough to occupy our narrow little minds, we now have a new enemy: VALENTINE'S DAY.

REUTERS reports:

Hindu Hardliners Burn Valentine Cards
Mon Feb 14, 5:50 AM ET
NEW DELHI, India - Nearly 50 Hindu hardliners burned Valentine's Daycards and posters in the Indian capital on Monday, protesting the international day of love that they say imposes Western values on India's youth.

There was no violence as policemen cordoned off the area and prevented the Shiv Sena activists from marching through the sprawling Delhi University campus.

In the past, Hindu nationalists have ransacked shops selling cards and harassed young lovers seen holding hands in public. On Monday, the protesters dispersed after chanting slogans.
Jai Bhagwan Goyal, New Delhi chief of the Bombay-based Shiv Sena, said multinational companies were promoting Valentine's Day to earn money through the sale of cards and posters.

"This is against Hindu culture and corrupts India's youth," he said.
The protest didn't have any impact on the university campus, as young students continued to move around exchanging flowers and cards.

The Shiv Sena organizes protests every year on Feb. 14 to demand a ban on Valentine's Day celebrations, but gets little response from the government. Shiv Sena wants India to be a Hindu nation, rather than a secular, multi-religious one.

Valentine's Day has gained popularity in India despite being a cultural flashpoint. Conservative traditions have been buffeted by growing permissiveness among high school and colleges students and young adults.
************************************************************************************

Now, I am not saying that I have not ever wanted to stage my own coup against valentine's day mania, but this is taking it to the Twilight Zone. This Modus Operandi to overthrow Valentine's Day smacks of jealousy and bitterness, and has the fingerprints of a jilted guy all over it.

I seriously want to sit down with these Shiv Sena guys and interrogate them. I'm willing to bet that they are an undersexed and miserable lot of young men getting off on the idea of going Columbine on poor Cupid. If you can't beat 'em, then ruin it for the rest...'tis, after all, the desi way. I really want to know though...do you feel like a man when you burn that Hallmark card and see that teddy bear going up in flames???

Now, by no means am I defending Valentine's Day. I am totally not on board with the pointless celebration of commercialism and schmaltzy ideas of romance. VOMIT. And before any of you all accuse moi of being a bitter old hag, I will have you know that I *do* participate in the rituals, just not in the traditional sense. If you have a way to be original...you have my blessing. And I prefer to celebrate on a random day...not the day mandated by the greeting card industry.

Anyway, I now see it as the 'alarm clock' date for guys. After years of observation, I have seen that many a guy tend to bolt just a few days shy of Valentine's Day, leaving a wake of distraught females nursing broken hearts and crying into their coffees. So, what gives, guys? Too cheap to shell out the whopping $3.50 on a card? Too immature and think that spending a Valentine's Day with someone is tantamount to marriage?

No. Methinks the pressure is too intense. I mean, Hollywood (and, even worse, BOLLYWOOD) has completely brainwashed us into having a warped and completely unrealistic idea of what love is and is supposed to be. We see movies depicting guys buying out flower shops, flying across the world, and holding boomboxes over their heads outside windows to snag their loved one. Meanwhile, in the real world...all this behaviour would induce restraining orders and harried calls to 911.

So, I don't blame the poor buggers for pulling a pre-Valentines Houdini...who can compare to the fictional Hollywood hero?

No matter what a guy does...it will never be enough for Valentine's Day. Not to say that this excuses them for fuckwit behavior. It merely gives an explanation for why Valentine's Day should not be THE barometer for romance. It just isn't fair to throw out 364 days of thoughtfulness and put the guy in the doghouse for not cutting it on one day. Besides, the hackneyed vision of what romance is (according to ads on tv) would have St. Valentine rolling in his grave.

Having received my fair share of flowers and chocolates and other cliched valentines kitsch over the years, I can definitely say that an $8 rose bouquet from the corner deli does not romance make. It is also not the frantic running around trees, singing to your beloved, while she gyrates in a oh-so convenient passing rain storm. It just is not the materialist and celluloid fantasies we buy into (literally!!).

Now, of course, I would not say no to any of these things (or an Apple I-pod! Nothing says 'I love you' like an I-pod!!)...I am, after all, a progammed Stepford child of the commercial world. But as much as these things could make my material girl heart go pitter pat, I can say that NONE of these things has ever been equated with romance or love in my mind. Seriously ladies. Does a $15 acrylic dust trap of a teddy bear really make you feel loved?

One of the best Valentine's presents I ever gave my friends/love interest was a list of 51 reasons why I loved them. Some were serious...others just funny, but every one of my friends has treasured that list, some even citing it as the one thing they would rescue from a fire. The point? Everyone wants to feel appreciated and loved...everyday, not just Valentine's Day. I am sure if we were consistent in our adoration, then Valentine's would not end up being the SAT of love...the determing factor in your future (or so my Dad thinks the SAT is).

So, my feline friends, love one another for what is real. And, throw a little love the Shiv Sena's way...those boys could really use some.

MORE THAN A GRAIN OF TRUTH

okay...so here is a favorite joke of mine, which is completely un-PC and draws upon every stereotype. Alas, if only the desi stereotype was a fallacy!

read...enjoy!

A ship sank in high seas and the following people got stranded on a beautiful deserted island in the middle of nowhere:

A. 2 Italian men and 1 Italian woman
B. 2 French men and 1 French woman
C. 2 German men and 1 German woman
D. 2 Greek men and 1 Greek woman
E. 2 Polish men and 1 Polish woman
F. 2 Mexican men and 1 Mexican woman
G. 2 Irish men and 1 Irish woman
H. 2 American men and 1 American woman
I. 2 Indian men and 1 Indian woman

One month later, on various parts of the island, the following was observed:

A. One Italian man killed the other Italian man for the Italian woman.

B. The two French men and the French woman are living happily together in a menage a trois.

C. The two German men have a strict weekly schedule of when they alternate with the German woman.

D. The two Greek men are sleeping together, and the Greek woman is cooking & cleaning for them.

E. The two Polish men took a long look at the endless ocean and a long look at the Polish woman, and they started swimming.

F. The two Mexican men are talking to all the other men on the island trying to sell them the Mexican woman.

G. The two Irish men began by dividing up their part of the island into Northern & Southern parts, and by setting up a distillery. They do not remember the Irish woman because it gets sort of foggy after the first few litres of coconut whiskey but at least the English are not getting any.

H. The two American men are contemplating suicide. The American woman is bitching about her body being her own, the true nature of feminism, how she can do everything that they can do, about the necessity of fulfilment, the equal division of the household chores, how her last boyfriend respected her opinion and treated her much better, and how her relationship with her mother is improving.

What happened to the Indians??????

The 2 Indian men are still waiting for someone to introduce them to the Indian woman!!

Sadly, this is an all too common occurrence. This is one variety of FOB (the previously mentioned dancefloor humpers are another!), though these are (THANK GAWD!) are relatively harmless.

Observe our specimen:

The shy, bespectacled sort lounges on the peripheries of the dancefloor, hungrily feasting its eyes on its prey, but pathetically not being able to pounce. (Here, I am reminded of a toothless tiger, smacking his gums together or perhaps the quadrapalegic lion drooling on the sidelines!).

Our subject is poorly attired to strike: clad in heavy woolen sweater, button down oxford shirt, nylon slacks, and (of course) the requisite white sneakers blindingly shining from below. The manmade fibers do wonders for our friend's perspiration glands. He, not believing in the miracles of modern odor-fighting science, has opted to NOT be SURE!, though it does not prevent him from raising his hand as if he was...and lucky for us, he does! For if our young lad did not, we would not be able to smell that Indian buffet lunch seeping through his pores.

The rare occurrence that a young foolish gazelle crosses his path and aggressively bats him with a long, delicate leg, our impotent amigo does one of several things:

1-drops his drink on her (believe me-this has, to the utter joy of my local dry cleaner, happened all too frequently)

2-stammers, blushes and sidles away.

3-introduces her to his sleazy friend (who, let's face it-has already been following her around the club all night ANYWAY!)

Now, I love these poor clueless lambs, and I have done my best to incorporate them into the dating jungle more than a number of times. However, a girl can only do so much. I remember one *SUPPOSED* success story. He was wearing breathable fabric, using that Rightguard down to a nub, and trying to wax poetic about the merits of George Clooney's new haircut. I thought we had success...the moon landing of the dating world. But, pride before a fall and whatnot. Like Icarus, I had tried to fly too close to the sun. My little chum-chum got pretty far in the dating game-dinner, drinks, ride on the subway. All hell broke loose when the love interest invited him up. PANIC!!!

This was nothing short of a dating 911! Upon entering the minx pad, the poor boy immediately bolted for the bathroom and frantically pounded my number into his cellie, hissing into it as quietly as he could. Paralyzed with fear, he realized that his ultimate dream was potentially coming close to fruition, and that he had no clue what to do. Though I tried to calm our neurotic basket case and give him some sure-thing pointers, he was too far-gone to rescue. We are talking phobia run amok!

So severe was his panic, that he neglected to even say 'bye' to our young lass and make the bullshit "oh-i have to work early tomorrow" excuse that fuckwits are so fond of. He just pulled a houdini, leaving the poor femme fatale to stare blankly at the open door left in his wake.

The worst part is that he ran into this girl a few weeks later. She let him have it, berating him in front of a group of people (including his employer!!!) before showering him in her Long Island Iced Tea. Needless to say, he has become a hermit and pledged celibacy forever.

**ADDITION IN RESPONSE TO CONCERN OVER OUR FOB FRIEND**
Okay, so I lied. The person in question is not rocking back and forth in a a corner of a monastery somewhere, but is now happily married (arranged) and no longer has to subject himself to the tortuous ritual we call 'dating'. He appreciates the concern, though I am sure he NEVER wants his darling wifey to be privy to the knowledge of his "less-than-hip" days. We will keep this lil' secret to ourselves, shall we?

THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN OF THE OUTRAGEOUS MINX!!!

Hello to all my favorite cats and kittens!

I never intended to leave you all high and dry for such a long time. It started out as a general malaise, which quickly, through a series of rather unfortunate events, disintegrated into a downward spiral of misguided despair, eventually sucking me into the deep abyss of self-loathing, a place I visit all-too-often. It is like a bad summer home for me. In that state, I was too depressing and pitiful even for myself, so you should be thanking me for not subjecting you to the raw anguish and war waging in the inner recesses of my pathetic mental battleground. What can I say? I am no Van Gogh or Hemingway--pain does not necessarily lead to creativity, it just shuts me down. (But, hey! At least my bodily appendages and sanity have survived intact!)

I am back, as Arnold would say, with a vengeance! And I will regale you with stories of the past few weeks/months (yikes!). Always trying to achieve some sense of control in my world of chaos, I am approaching the next few blogs as a play-by-play of major events of the past few months, not necessarily random rants. I will try to control myself and let random rants take the backseat for time being. That said, I also know I will break this rule almost immediately. So, sit back, relax, and enjoy!

Nancy Drew and the Case of the Missing Blog

Hello kittens!

Many apologies for the extended blogging hiatus...but I am back now, with a slew of rants and raves to delight you with. First and foremost, this posting is ONLY to let you know that I am on holiday at the moment, (soon to return) and that all rants will continue soon enough. Secondly, I WILL update all of you on the comings and goings of three weeks (!) or so. And I sincerely hope not to disappoint. As usual, my life has mirrored a jam-packed, freakish Bollywood talkie, complete with singing, dancing and cute outfits (and closeted Indian man, a la Salman Khan! Though, alas, not quite so flamingly obvious!)

A few teasers of what is in store:

1- A drive by disaster
2- Cradle Snatching
3-Auntie/Uncle hell
4-Being an Orphan
5-Airport Driving
6-Indian Men parts two/three and four!

Ah, what wonderous tales await thee! All I can say is...sit tight and don't all of you go and get your panties in a twist! I will be blogging away soon enough, you slave drivers!

THE MINX THINKS

Hello my lovelies-

I had posted something yesterday-but I have pulled it due to my own (and others!) dissatisfaction at its content/quality. Am not feeling my fab best at the moment-and was not inspired to write. I decided, regardless of hangover and vile mood, to post. Big mistake. HUGE!

Unless i ENJOY writing-nothing i post will be entertaining/thought provoking...therefore, posting rubbish is not fair to anyone. the site was/is a verbal vent session--and the last posting was anything but. it was pure unadulterated crap...a post out of obligation. and i'll be damned if i do it again.

So-apologies to those of you expecting a posting. and apologies to those of you who READ the last posting. and many thanx to my fellow minx for telling me how the last posting sucked ass...i agree and i promise not to post again just for the sake of posting. Let's hope I'm back on top of my game soon enough! Will share more later.

kissies,

the outrageousminx

INVASION OF THE CRADLE SNATCHERS

**NOTE TO READERS: THIS IS AN OLDER BLOG THAT WAS PULLED SINCE 'TWAS WRITTEN IN VILE HANGOVER MOOD. PLEASE SPARE ME!**

Have come to the conclusion that I am an irresistible sex kitten. Truly. Have always managed to turn heads of select individuals—(most of whose heads I would prefer NOT TO TURN-but never mind), but a new, and rather surprising group has come forth into the cult of cat worship: the 22 year old.

Have suspected it for quite some time, but this new phenomenon has been confirmed by MONTHS of suspicious behavior, and by most recent weekend outing.

It all started a while ago, when I went to visit a friend in Chicago. We had all gone clubbing, and this minx was on the prowl. What can I say—even outrageousminxes have needs. Anyway-I was on the point of desperation and frustration abounded. I needed to get me some, and I had decided to stock up for the lean days ahead, seeing that my parental home was hardly the ideal venue for the shagadelic orgy desired. Even in my most desperate state, however, I have my own standards. (please refer to posting on carwash kisses for further explanation of what would be sub-par). Given that I needed to get down and dirty with a skilled person, I was shit out of luck.

There was your usual assortment of people: computer geeks hanging by the bar, hungrily staring at us and unnerving us to the point of wanting to resort to purdah; drunken business-y types who don’t dance; and the packs of bitchy girls dressed in their skimpiest and whorish best, eyeing us up and down and sneering all the while. My friend had bailed earlier (having partaken a little too liberally of the libations a little too early in the evening), so I was there with unknown friends and cousin of friend. I, like my galpal, had also been hitting the bottle a little bit…but like any girl who like her drink, it was like I had downed miracle potion, Chawanprash or the like—and I was ready to jump buildings (and men!) in a single bound.

My prey of choice ended up being the hottest, young, nubile thing there—he was a ripe, young Paki hottie finishing up college…complete with requisite dreams of med school and horny desires. I hooked him, (where else?), on the dancefloor. My moves have yet to fail me! So, much to the teeth gnashing displeasure of the stick figured desi bitches, he glided up to me and started to dance. This young, nubile thing (YNT) had moves that would make a porn star blush. Man, he could work it on the dance floor (which is always promising) and we danced, grinded and basically worked ourselves into a sweaty mess before even saying a word. Eventually, I decided that I (ahem) needed a “breath of fresh air”—and he so obligingly found us a nice secluded spot outside.

Long story short, he had no idea how old I was. Or WHO he was dealing with, for that matter. We chatted a while, and young, eager puppy that he was, felt like he needed to feed me a line to get me to make out with him. Only when he started up with the, “I’ve never said this to anyone…”(and after I had stopped laughing at him), did he understand that I WASN’T like all the other girls his age.

I told him so, and also told him that I was 27, fabulous, and not wanting him to say that shit to me. He seemed most impressed with himself when I divulged this information and unsure all at the same time. He had no idea how to proceed. Like most guys his age, he was used to having to resort to fuckwit tactics to get some, and he was thrown when the tables had been turned on him. This young 22 year-old kid (and yes- I had picked his pocket and checked ID to make sure he was not going to get me arrested!) had no idea what hit him.

While trying to make small talk with me, I just grabbed him, told him to shut up, and proceeded to make out furiously with him, in between telling him that he should study hard and try his best if he really wanted to be a doctor. Was acting the part of Mrs. robinson type seductress and guidance counselor at same time.

And I retract part of an earlier posting. SOME desis have definite snogging skills…this kid was no amateur. And the body on this kid…yummmmmm. Anyway, I got what I needed, and I threw the tadpole back into the pond. It was a bizarre experience, and it was a satisfactory moment when, at the end of the night, he said to me, “You know, I really LIKE YOU. Could I get your number?” I smiled at him, kissed him, and sent him on his merry way, much to his disappointment. Some trix just AREN'T for kids...

This was incident number one, which set off a steady stream of YNTs trying to hit on me. At every one of the weddings I have been to lately, I have developed a mini fan club of YNTs, all gagging for it. I resisted the urge (and believe me-with one or two of them-I exhibited true monk-like control), and have been good pure girl for months now. Needless to say, I have been in bad shape.

One weekend, I went out with some girls (none I know too well) for a night on the town. I broke out the low-cut top and push-up bra, and set off looking my pornographic best. Now, God has blessed me with quite the pair of breasts, but put them into this bra, with a low cut top and I am totally NC-17. Guys cannot look away…it is like a Jedi mind trick-they are mesmerized and caught. Anyway, I had pulled out the heavy artillery-only to find out it was all a waste. We ended up at some seedy bar, complete with 80’s cover band. No martinis. No dancefloor. No beautiful babies to score with. I felt my boobs deflate with disappointment.

Not one to dwell, I soon started to have my own fun. Me and one other girl started to play pool. The bartender soon became friends with me, and proceeded to feed me complimentary drinks throughout the night. Soon lost track of what the hell was happening, as alcohol induced euphoria had taken over.

A pack of college boys who honed in on us came by to amuse us and chat. Nothing happened with any of them, sorry to report. Well-not so sorry, as I did not want it to…but I did end up getting a whole slew of numbers. Woke up next morning to find a whole pocketful of napkins with numbers scrawled on them. With no idea who the hell any of them were. From what I was told, I was quite the hit…now only if I could be this charming with someone my OWN age.

Don’t know what it is…how come I have, all of a sudden, become such a hot commodity on the college senior meat market? Is it because I don’t want anything from them? Is it because I can’t be fucked with? Is it because they know I eat men like them for brekky? Who knows?

I asked a friend of mine this same question, to which he sagely replied, “I dunno…it is hot to be with an older woman. Besides, you are fun…and all 22-year olds want fun.”. Does this mean that guys my own age are prematurely aging? Do I have to resort to being the gharelu (homebody) type and coo over how many kids I want? Do I have to be Sahara desert dry and act all prim and proper? If so-bring on the 22 year olds!

There is one positive result of all this. Apparently, I had exchanged numbers with my bartender pal, who called me yesterday. He is around my age (slightly younger!) and totally kool and the gang. I am not all that interested…as I am not looking for a bf or anything resembling one, but he has already invited me and the girls to come back soon and hang out. So much being a good girl, huh? Would much rather have fun...

FROM SNOG TO BLOG

Many a pending blog posting must take the backseat for the time being, because a blogging 911 has emerged. Give me a rant, STAT!!! This blogging emergency was caused by an email response to my last posting about all the wedding nonsense. Our friend, the Mollusk, felt the need to come to the defense of the poor desi man. He has responded to my posting with, “desi guys are studs too…ask the white women”.

Now, he may or may not have acquired stud status in his single bachelor days—I don’t know. He certainly is charming enough, and perhaps he is a uniquely gifted desi man, but to make such a sweeping remark about desi men being studs was just foolhardy. He should have KNOWN that I was going to rip his theory to shreds. The gauntlet has been thrown down, and I, OutrageousMinx, accept the challenge. I, on behalf of the many, many women who have suffered at the hands of inept desi men everywhere, must vehemently object to the Mollusk’s blind faith in his desi brethren’s capabilities. I stand by my original statement—I am sticking to my guns, and I will prove my point (am, after all, a trained attorney!). Now this posting is not about your cool, urban Indian who feels that the West is an extension of his own frontier, but rather about your garden variety Indian dork. An overwhelming percentage of the Microsofties and other nameless, faceless, programming sorts plogging away at software sweatshops are a good example.

Ask the white women, he says…well, I have known many a white women who have had the misfortune of dating a desi brother or two…and I am sad to say that we as a people did not come off too well. They are hardly the talented studs that the Mollusk claims them to be. Sure-if you need your computer debugged or taxes done, no one can beat a desi man-but humping and pumping sure is not the typical desi import’s forte. Not to say that a desi guy can even get to that hump and pump stage—they pretty much blow it from the get-go with abysmal snogging skills. Carwash-like kisses (if they can even be called that) that leave your face sopping…tongue depresser/jackhammer tongue gagging you…”JAWS’ like open mouth coming at you-while you, fearful that kiss will not leave nose intact, try to open mouth as wide so will not get swallowed whole. And the worst, ugh, the “toothbrush” kiss, where he runs his tongue along your teeth, as if trying to extricate errant particles of food stuck in between your teeth. YUCK-EE!!! Not even remotely a turn-on, in fact, thoroughly UN-SEXY!!! All of these are, sadly, too familiar scenarios for the veteran dater of desi men.

I think if desi brothers were to receive some basic training, a sexual boot camp, if you will, before being sent on their merry ways to the corrupting West, they would fare better. I mean, these business programs now train them to use deodorant and drink wine and stuff, why not TEACH the lost little puppies how to GET IT ON? I, for one, would be sure to donate heavily to any program that would educate our folk in this regard. And many a woman would be eternally grateful. Is a poor showing, for the land of Kama Sutra to have sunk so low...is a matter of national pride and tradition, goddamit! Preserve our culture and our good name…

And, while on the topic, why ask only WHITE women? Are they the connoisseurs of snogs? Are they the eastern European judge of the sexual Olympics (aka-the toughest judge to please)? I know many a hot desi babe-and it is unfortunate for our lot that the desi man is a crying shame. I, for one, know I have skills. I can tie the stem of a cherry into a knot with my tongue…a stupid human trick, but still, makes for interesting nights in. And many a desi minx are hot enough to melt the polar ice caps. Even the world knows it—we have our own cottage industry of producing beauty queens now. So DON’T be giving me that “ask white women” shit—ask ANY woman, and they will all uniformly tell you how bad desi guys are. End of story. If anything, it is a desi woman who will put up with that shit-and take the time to train and housebreak her little puppy. So there.

I can’t blame those poor desi lads though…when they first arrive, they are like kids in a candy store. The poor lambs have been so undersexed for so long, that having unfettered access to the opposite sex just becomes too much for them. A sexual overload of sorts. They lose their minds. Maybe they think someone is going to snatch away all the women or that the only shot they have will be lost if they don’t try something then and there—I just don’t know. What I do know is that the whole process of meeting someone goes out the window. They come up to you, ask you your name, and then immediately press up against you trying to hump you on the dancefloor. They sort of gloss over the 8 steps in between—I’m not sure why, but maybe the arranged marriage clock is ticking or they just don’t know any better. It has happened, does happen, and probably is happening as we speak (or read).

However, what our menfolk may lack in kissing skills, perhaps they make up for in the bedroom. After all, land of a billion and counting (much like McDonalds—we are proud of how many have been served)…we have to be doing something right. But then…how to explain the Chinese… hmmmm….


(ps-Sorry to my swinging tomcats for the posting…but the truth must be told. Am a daring, brave, whistleblower for exposing problem. And have suffered much-and I cannot let my fellow minxes and I suffer anymore!)

HOW TO GET MARRIED

A warm hello to my all my fellow outrageous minxes!

Many apologies for the backlog in postings—but this weekend, I went to my sixth wedding this season. I kid you not, my friends.

Since March, I have been to, count ‘em, SIX weddings; and sad to report, it won’t be the last one. The next one is the wedding of a close family friend, so I can pretty much count my weekends bye-bye for the next few weeks, as I have been informed that my services will be required for pulling the fiasco together.

Why is it that weddings of others are used as torture devices for others? I am not a hater-don’t get me wrong-I love weddings. Love going to them, drinking at them, dancing at them. But when did a wedding require a consultant and intricate planning by teams of people, complete with Uncles equipped with walkie-talkies? And when did it become de rigeur to have undeveloped teenage pop-tart wannabes gyrate sluttily (and, sadly, usually badly!) to some cheesy Bollywood song as “entertainment” for the guests? Why is it that in every other facet of their lives-they are supposed to be modest-but in front of roughly 500 people they call Uncle and Auntie, they are allowed to basically simulate sex scenes as entertainment? All of this allowed under the guise of “culture” since it is, after all, a DESI song. We are a sick people, lemme tell you. But, I digress. Though the little sluts DO bother me, the rant must be reserved for what it was intended. And that is the madness that weddings have become.

I think it is a sheer waste of money, time, effort to try to keep up with the Joneses, (or in our case, the Patels, the Kumars, or the Joshis) and try to outdo each other. Each one has a more elaborate mandap or flower arrangement than the next, and you hear about how poor Uncle Babboo had to sell his kidney to pay for it all, because darling Pinky just had to have 80 bridesmaids…(and when did Indian weddings start to have bridesmaids???)

At the end of the day, people don’t give a SHIT about any of that. We are all still the ladoo-grabbing Indians at heart. I spied many an Uncle and Auntie dozing off while people droned on and on about how good a friend Vicky was, and what a good doctor he is, blah, blah, blah…I can’t report much else, because I bolted after the second speech, and right before cousin Payal/Sejal/Monica started to hump the dancefloor. I, veteran wedding attendee that I am, showed incredible presence of mind in spending the next hour in the hotel’s bar with fun, like-minded individuals. We had a lovely time, gliding back into the reception hall just in time for dinner. No one noticed our absence either, as many had prematurely aged because of the excessive programming, and thus, were blind and deaf…or dead.

Which brings me to the next problem. The basics are being overlooked. One wedding in question had gorgeous, rainforest-like flower arrangements lining the walkway to the mandap. Fine and dandy-except that no one could see a damn thing through those! One poor guy was stupid enough to try to move it—he hasn’t been seen since. And the overprogramming. I thought the wedding WAS the program. And the dinner, booze, and dancing were our reward for sitting through that. Therefore, as a courtesy, I have decided to enlighten those of you with my list of what every wedding guest wants and needs from your wedding.

My advice:

Number one-make sure the food is GOOD. Spend the money to get someone to make it on the spot if you can. Lose a few bouquets or bridesmaids if you must. This is a deal breaker. Have consumed too many cold samosas and broken teeth on rock-hard pieces of chicken to even negotiate further.

Number two- If you must have speeches, limit it to two people at five minutes each tops. And don’t give us all that sentimental bullshit either—we don’t want to hear it. If no one believes that you would cry on any other day-no one is going to buy that shit on THAT day either. And please do not regale us with whoring adventures of the groom. If he is desi, we all know it is a lie. He is not a stud. We know. Move on.

Number three: Do not get Monica/Sweety/Priya to dance. We do not need to see Uncles getting hot and bothered over these stick figures. Keep them clothed and wait till they blossom. Then pimp them out as much as you want to.

Number four: NO—cash bar is NOT GOOD ENOUGH. End of story. Either we will make do with our flasks, or give us what we need in abundance.

Number five: Have a good DJ. People like to dance, especially if well supplied by the open bar. And leave enough time to dance. One wedding, I remember there being a Sikh DJ and he played three songs—all bad songs from the seventies. Ugh. You know it was killing him to play that shit. Take pity—let the serdy play his bhangra and get everyone pumped up.

What are weddings for, after all, but an excuse to eat, drink, be merry and celebrate? And to pimp/scope out eligible sorts for your own progeny? All of which are greatly enhanced through provisions of basics. You must feed and water your guests properly for them to come through for you.

My dream wedding you ask? It would be ghetto-fabulous beyond belief. Don’t know much about the wedding and stuff—probably would elope. But, I would probably just concentrate on ladies’ sangeet type functions more, and keep the liquor and buckets of kulfi coming. People would eat, drink, and dance the night away under a tent in my backyard, while the lady making hot, fresh, jalebis looks on. It just brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it…

FLIRT OR NOT A FLIRT...THAT IS THE QUESTION

I am a homewrecker. Or so some friends, rather unflatteringly, have taken to calling me. Recently, and let me add, UNBEKNOWNST to me, I hit on a married man. Or so he claims.

In my defense, though, I had no idea (A): that he was married, or (B): that I was even flirting to begin with. Am not as much of a floozy as I would have you all believe. Have not sunk so low as to resort to picking up married men. Though AM, I am sorry to say, sad enough to be preying on youngsters—as will be described in a later posting. Wait for the raunchy details, though will be mostly g-rated for my youngest fans. Anyway, shall I back up and explain my side of the story?

The scene was this: I was meeting up with some friends who (inexplicably) had decided to attend a dance recital. As this was completely inconsistent with the types of activities that I would normally associate with these dynamic and fun-loving sorts, I should’ve known that I was entering the Twilight Zone on that particular evening. The lovely friends arrived, with their friend, the Mollusk, in tow. Having met the Mollusk only once before, about five years prior, I hardly knew what to expect. A small part of me was resentful for having to share the lovely friends with a stranger, but the Mollusk was surprisingly as fabulous as self, and was quickly welcomed with open arms into my dysfunctional family. Encounter was an unexpected, but pleasant surprise, and I was delighted when 411 was exchanged and promises to send articles were made (by me).

Not surprisingly, Mollusk’s card was immediately sucked into the black hole that exists in all of my handbags, probably going to the parallel universe where missing socks and keys go to die. Eventually, though, it resurfaced and I sent along the promised articles. We renewed our mutual admiration society over email and I continued to delight in my newly-found friend. Wit and clever banter flowed like honey wine, and I very quickly decided that he must become my new confidante re: male fuckwit behavior. As he was as adept at flirting as I was, he struck me as a fellow life form, part of the same species, if you will, and therefore, be able to wax poetic on a variety of topics in a clever and lighthearted manner. And given that he had heard a full on gush session about JS, not to mention whoring adventures in Chi-town, I would never have thought that my feline friendliness would be mistaken for flirtation.

Now, I will say this only once to set the record straight: I WAS NOT FLIRTING WITH THE MAN. At least not deliberately. I was only being my natural irresistible, minx-like self, and he, I thought, was playing along. Alas, when he wrote to me stating, “I hope you are not flirting with me. Cause I am married and happy”, I was completely flummoxed and thrown for a loop. Yet again, someone had misread the signals.

Given that I am a naturally effusive person by nature, I don’t realize the clear line between flirtation and friendliness. But, in this case, I can honestly say that I WAS NOT FLIRTING. Perhaps someone, namely an undersexed, and Bollywood-infused teenage boy in India, would probably misinterpret my playfulness as being an unequivocal sex invite. But I thought that the cosmopolitan, swinging Mollusk GOT me, and thus, would realize that it was just ME to be this way. Unfortunately, he is not the first to make the mistake.

I wonder though, when did flirting become tantamount to adultery? I always thought that flirting was a pastime, or, as in my case, a sort of developed talent, like pottery or playing tennis. I always thought it was the sort of game everyone could play: married, single, celibate…a little harmless flirting between consenting adults never hurt anyone. Especially where BOTH parties knew it was just a game. I will say this, as well. Mollusk is a worthy adversary in the game of flirtation; he was as much responsible for my ease and comfort in conversing with him. Talented though he is, he is clearly no match for me. Minxes like me eat shellfish like him for brekky…

Also, I am usually not coy about letting people know that I like them (except in one case-where my idiotic behavior is a dead giveaway), and I will flirt mercilessly to get whomever I want. Trust me, I have an exceptional batting average, and it is one of the few things that I am truly proud of. It IS rare that I pull out all the stops, because it just isn’t fair. Poor things wouldn’t stand a prayer. Yes, I AM that good. I am the fuckin’ YODA of flirtation. A true Jedi master.

So why pursue the gentleman in question, you ask, if not for purely carnal purposes? Now, for those of you who know me, there is one thing that will always get me, be it man, woman, child, or dog: and that is good conversation. In the past, as painful as it was, I have passed up on several delish prospects (and they were truly fine specimens!) for the simple fact that I could have had better conversations with a bowl of rice krispies. If you can’t talk the talk—then you have to walk.

For me, the cherry-on-top in any friendship is to be able to talk, laugh, even cry with someone endlessly, and for the friends in question to constantly surprise you with their brilliance. All of the lovely friends are exceptionally gifted conversationalists, and are tremendously fabulous, brilliant, and kind people to boot. So, when I find worthy individuals to pull into the fold, I snatch them up like a Punjabi grabbing drumsticks at an all-you-can-eat chicken buffet. So-it is not surprising that I was thoroughly enchanted by the mollusk. In the above-mentioned capacity, he was fan-bloody-tastic. Not to mention, he thought I was DY-NO-MTE! And a girl can always use an ego boost, can’t she?

I will say this for him, though, if I were to go and hit on a married man, I probably couldn’t have done better. Mollusk is a clever, witty, adorable, geek-to-chic dynamo who does his desi best at being a scientist/artist. He was worth the Hester Prynne comparisons, the big red letter “H” I am now forced to wear, identifying me as a homewrecker, and the embarrassment that my silly ways have (yet again) caused confusion. Sigh. No harm meant, Mrs. Mollusk, I swear. And you’ve got a good piece of shellfish there, and don’t worry—I’m allergic.

RESPONSE TO MY MINXES!!

WHOA!!! My, my, and MY!! Quite the flurry of activity re: the JS saga posting. Minxes of the world unite!! Am pleased by the outrage pouring forth at my misplaced choice of amorous admiration! Am truly touched that you all care. Well-to answer some questions/address concerns.

1-yes-have told JS that am not interested in him as a love interest. Replied to intial email with "so-I guess I should hold off on ordering the wedding dress then", followed by saying that I just was asking to hang out as friends and not otherwise (which is true). Have been a straight shooter and matched him (as much as is possible for someone with my wit) in boring formality of emails.

Though I find him extremely attractive and fascinating, I am very easy going about that type of thing. And am in NO rush to be in another relationship. Am happy to get to know him as a friend, as am wanting to see what makes him tick. Truth told, he reminds me an awful lot of someone I knew and loved in college, pre-DMX. Besides, have not posted info. that indicates that he is as fascinated by me as I am by him. There are other incidents that show his more caring side and his desire to get to know me better. I am not defending him--am still very wary of his duplicity and know that he is a fuckwit and playa extraordinaire. I am not being deliberately stupid...even I can see when a guy is giving the blow-off...is my natural tendency to assume it. Given this, I do think that we can become friends...and good ones at that.

2-He is not as bad as DMX. Yes-I can and will do better than him...and you will be happy to know that he is not the ONLY one on my radar screen. That said, I do have an occasional crush on him...it comes and goes. Also, much of what is written is not so much what I am feeling now-but more to let you know what I was feeling THEN.

I do get sucked in now because I just want to see what the fuss is about... Like most things, am afraid it will be a severe letdown (a la Star Wars prequels)-but it is still something that I need to experience myself. Besides, I need fodder for my column-right?

I also DO want to be friends with him. I have a "once bitten twice shy" experience with a man of exact background and similar flirtatious nature...and he was one of my closest friends. The friend and I also had some awkward moments of should we/shouldn't we--but in order to preserve friendship-we never did. I have been through this before, and have no desire to go through it again. I am encouraged by the feelings that JS has resurrected in me, though, and grateful for his presence during a difficult time. It is comforting to know that I have the ability to love again--and that one can be a teenager at any age. Was a late bloomer apparently.

3-Don't worry about harshness of remarks--this is our space to say whatever the hell we want. I understand your concern about me being into him/infatuated when he is not...but rest assured that I am not going to pull a Juliet over him. I do like him, but am also not going to be devastated at this point if he doesn't write back. I DO get extremely annoyed though when I am expecting a response and I don't get one. This is nothing unique to JS--it is just a pet peeve. I hope I have convinced you-but if not-I promise to be careful. Besides, can one get their heart broken if it is not the heart, but the mind that is more involved?

4-We will wait and see. Fear not my fellow minxes (can only assume you are minxes--due to outrage), I am not as badly off as I may seem. Much is being done for effect, though there are days when I act my obsessive teenage best. I would not, under any circumstances, put myself in a position of being hurt or damaged by a fuckwit like JS. JS is in FL and who knows if/when we will hear from him. Rest assured, though, that if there are any new developments, you all will hear about it.

Kissies,

Outrageous Minx

ps-Thanx for the compliments on my writing. I speak EXACTLY the same way as I write--so if any of you minxes work for sitcoms/newpapers/etc. and need a fresh voice-throw some work my way! Otherwise, please continue to enjoy! I have some new ones coming soon--my mind works much quicker than I can type!

pps-If any of you know fabulous single men who can match me in wit, charm and fun...please send them my way! I promise to be nice...and yes, I will most definitely kiss and tell.

THE JS SAGA CONTINUES...

Okay, so you are wondering what happened, right? Well, I did write back to the quasi-religious email and we continued to email back in forth for a few weeks (we live in the same city, mind you, so it is a bit odd). Nothing even remotely flirtatious; his email manner is formal and professional, at best. So I didn’t mind too much when he disappeared.

One fine week in May, ghosts of the past came back to haunt...people who I hadn’t spoken to in years had somehow all conspired to get in touch with me. JS was no exception. He reappeared into my life almost two months later with a brilliant one liner: “How’s it going?”

Now that the spell had been broken, I was able to be a little more like myself. I replied back saying how his prolonged absence made me think he didn’t love me anymore. The games began. In one of his emails, he gave me the exact address of his office. He has set up a private practice, (a daring move for someone fresh out of school, if you ask me) and I asked him about it. Rather than saying, oh-it is in this part of town; he gave me directions and exact street address. Is he hoping that I send delinquent Indian kids to him so he can defend them? Batwoman thinks it is a not-so-subtle hint to visit…but I am not falling for that one! Many a stupid mistake have been made by girls due to misinterpretation…and I don’t want to be that girl (again!).

After a flurry of yet more emails, JS fell out of my life. Do you see the pattern? That is, until we passed the bar exam. He wrote a congratulatory email, complete with an invitation to celebrate over Indian food, as well as a line promising to reply to my last email in person over Indian food. Since that time, I have been out of town for weeks at a time, and he has been busy or not getting my emails. He had told me about his brother's film (to which I went), but he wasn't there. Turns out, he didn't know that I was going-he didn't get the email. I believe him too, because more trustworthy sorts have complained that they didn't get emails.

Anyway, the last email was sent by me-inviting him to see Fahrenheit 911 (the quintessential non-date date movie for Bush haters!) He replied that he was going out of town to visit family, but added a line saying “another movie or another time?” Methinks this is a blow-off, but others disagree. Would appreciate any opinions. It is now a waiting game again. He will write if he wants to hang out. Ball is in his court now.

In fact, this whole thing is like a tennis match-with both us lobbing emails at each other, hoping that the other will just hit it and take an affirmative step. No one has scored or done anything. And isn't it slightly discouraging to note that when both are at zero--only then is there love on both sides?

I don't know what to think. I wonder why he bothers. He is clearly NOT interested in me in a romantic sense...because he SAID so. But even his prolonged absences over email indicate no interest at all, even in being friends. But then why doesn't he just disappear completely? He has opportunity to do so...and then why keep suggesting that we meet up for Indian food. Am confused. Have lost once mind-blowing ability to uderstand men and how they think. Feel like a superhero stripped of superpowers. I must say that I am completely clueless. Help me!!