Neilogism

Information gleamed from the NSA’s surveillance of my telephonic communications

• A grocery list consisting solely of fruit snacks, hummus and HEB brand cola. 
• Ten and a half minutes of solid crying while the muffled theme song of Disney’s Tailspin plays elegiacally in the background 
• Zero missed calls from that girl who thought I was “so funny and adorable”, prior to me buying her a drink and then “had to go return some video cassettes”. 
• Multiple butt/pocket/crotch/knee-cap/elbow dials 
• One phone call to and 27 collective images of my crotch.
• Outline of plots to embezzle thousands of dollars (and post-it notes) from my employer
• Recorded memos consisting of popular motivational phrases remixed with dubstep—“Hang in there WUB-WUB-WUB kiddo!”
• Drunk dials to Papa John Pizzas, ex-girlfriends, my drug-dealer (same as Papa John Pizza) and my lawyer (who doesn’t exist).  
• Attempts to re-record my voicemail’s personal greeting while trying to nail that “sexy-and-almost-influenza-induced” deep voice. 
• A horrible rendition of bollywood hit “Sheela Ki Jawani” and Disney Mulan’s “I’ll make a man out of you”
• Long and drawn out Spanish responses to wrong number calls using phrases from the Taco Bell menu.  

I don’t see what this whole mess-controversy is about anyway—we finally have a president that listens to everyone. 

The glory days

Graduate students , of course, are stuck in the grey-creepy-limbo area until they graduate/die.  

Realistic Role-Playing Fantasies

The flirtatious co-ed and her professor 

It was the end of the semester and Ashley Brown had a D in Dr. Smith’s “Introduction to Science” course—and while the blonde social chair of DKP had no earthly idea about the gravity, she knew the gravity of the situation if she failed her class. Daddy wouldn’t let go to Cancun for Spring break and she TOTALLY could not leave her sisters alone to do all those jello shots by themselves.

Ashley tried “studying” but she didn’t have the time between the Spring Fling Dance, The Cookie-Car-Wash and her STD tests—I mean who really needs to learn about “atoms” and “chemicals”, she wasn’t trying to be a Rocket-Ma-thingie-scientist or anything! While Ashley was definitely not the sharpest tool, tool in the sense that caveman uses, in the shed, she had formulated a plan to curry favor with Dr. Smith—just like that time she figured out she that bed sheets could also be used at togas.

It was like one of those IKEA moments that Plato had, right?

Ashley knocked on Dr. Smith’s door and entered slowly—Dr. Smith was busy writing yet another grant document but looked up. 

“Dr. Smith, I wanted to talk about my final exam”.

Dr. Smith had no idea who the hell this student was, with tuition rising and an economic downturn running full sail, his class ballooned from 20 students to 200. 

“Well, I think the Syllabus is quite clear about my grading rubric”, Dr. Smith said cooly—taking a moment to relish the one bit of power he had in life.

Ashley paused, adjusting her yoga pants, and slowly approached the desk, her lips pouting

“I was wondering if there was an extra credit..that I could do”

“I don’t think that is an option” Dr. Smith repeated, now becoming a bit flushed—this was the first time any human took notice of him.

Ashley closed his office door and now perched herself directly on Dr. Smith’s desk, touching his tossled gray hair.

“Surely—there is something I can do..to get a “raise”

Dr. Smith’s eyes lit up.

“Anything?”

“Yes—anything you want, professor”

Three weeks later Ashley found herself scrubbing petri dishes clean and labeling culture samples with bright pink sharpies—she would later confuse dye with glitter, the herpes of the craft world, and contaminate five years worth samples, and ruining Dr. Smith’s chances for tenure.

Ashley eventually marries rich and continues to drink Vitamin Water, because it has “like organic cage free stuff”. 

The Nurse and her Patient

The patient lies comfortably on the bed and breathes heavily. He is wearing a blue dressing gown that seems to be manufactured by a toddler in rural China for pennies on the dollar, but his insurance will still charge him the equivalent to a Louis Vuitton made of Unicorn fur. His chart reads that he is suffering from  a “testicular hypertrophy blueness”, which even the writers of House couldn’t make up, but the hospital staff did not want to risk yet another lawsuit and gave him a bed.

He had private insurance of course.

There is a knock on the door—the patient suddenly becomes animated, “Is that you Nurse?”. In walks a petite woman wearing a white lab-coat and pink scrubs which are dotted with a previous patient’s vomit. “Oh well…hello there Nurse” he coos. She is actually a Nurse Practitioner and holds a doctorate in Nursing, which requires years of advanced training and education beyond a normal nursing degree, and in some cases grants the title “Doctor”. She has five minutes until the end of her shift, and just watched an elderly man die of pancreatic cancer.

“Did you ring the bell sir”, Doctor Nurse says exhaustively, pointing to the the red light by the patient. “Oh yes I did Nurse” he replies with a sly smile. “I was wondering if I could get a… sponge bath”. The Nurse sighs, and slowly walks towards the patient, trying not let her sleep-deprived eyes meet the patient’s now dilated pupils. The patient gesticulates to his nether regions; “I’m wondering if you can start here”—and the nurse sighs again.

Suddenly a code-blue alarm goes off and a thrice divorced surgeon barges into the room, chiding the nurse for being “mortal” and “having time to talk to a patient”. Of course since the hospital hired an expensive consulting company who billed $35 million dollars for a power point entitled “Save money by cutting waste and reducing staff”, the nurse is double-booked and leaves to cover yet another 12 hour shift.

The patient decides to eat his strawberry jello and is left unsatisfied. 

The Bollywood princess and her prince

They don’t have sex because they are too god damn tired from dancing for the last three hours and their elaborate outfits have left their bodies raw and chaffed. Seriously, why would you even wear a mesh-fish-net vest???? 

The neglected Husband and his Maid 

It is a quiet Saturday afternoon and Mrs Brown has decided to take a “spa-mani-pedi” day, leaving Mr. Brown alone in the house with the maid. Normally it’s unusual for the him to be in this situation but he actually found it refreshing—his marriage has been strained since Mrs. Brown discovered Downtown Abbey and fell in obsessively in love with Lord Grantham, exiling Mr. Brown to the couch where he started to develop a case of carpal tunnel. He sits relaxed on his messy bed/couch—his day dreams about his bachelorhood conquests cut short by the sound of a Hoover vacuum.

Marta, his Dominican Republic maid, has begun to clean the living room with the robotic efficiency of the Rafael Trujillo, who she ironically fled to America to escape. It was strangely arousing to the husband, watching his illegal-immigrant house keeper, maneuver around the shag carpet. Perhaps it was the repressed sexual needs festering within him or the deluded sexual tension imagined between Marta and him, Marta always folded his boxer briefs hot-dog style, but nevertheless Mr. Brown felt an erotic urge towards his housekeeper. She looked some-what attractive—he noticed her leathery hands seemed supple and could be quite deft, given circumstances, and she even smelt like Pine Sol. And there was that one time Mr. Brown watched Desperadosfor the sole display of Latina goddess Salma Hayak’s busty chest—yes he thought, he would seduce Marta. When the vacuuming came to a stop, Mr. Brown paused and pointed to the empty seat next to his couch—“Marta, I think you missed a spot”. 

“QUE??????”

Marta responded with a blank look. 

Mr. Brown repeated his same line but only louder, having learned a grand total of five spanish words from his children’s Dora the Explorer comments. He even tried to roll his R’s, remembering that one skit from SNL with Antonio Banderas.

“QUE?????” Marta responded, even more confused.

“No—damn it. Marta, ME TENGO YU, LIMPIAR ME!!” he frustratingly bellowed, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal some chest hair.

“I DO LAUNDRY, MEESTER???” Marta responded in broken English, grabbing a bottle of Tide and exiting the room.

Mustering the only only spanish words he knew, from the Taco Bell drive through, Mr. Brown yelled “CALIENNTEEEEE” to an empty room. 

“Damn it” he muttered to himself and slowly with resignation he unbuttoned the top of his trousers and slid his hand in, and then turned on the DVR.

“So we meet again Lady Mary Josephine Crawley”…

The blogger and his audience

Everyone falls in love with him and his writing—men compliment his wit and overall manliness while women comes in throngs and thongs, throwing themselves at hi—COME ON, IT CAN HAPPEN.

The Brick and Mortar model

I imagine when all I require from grocers are milk, I’ll just throw wadded pieces of cash at the cashier and stare at them in silence—and then run home because my Amazon Social Anxiety Pills have next day shipping. 

Of Massages and Men

For the past three weeks I have had a dull-aching pain that emanated from my upper back with an unknown origin. When it comes to pain I typically enroll in two schools of thought—either it was muscle soreness and thus a good pain due to positive physical activity  or I as usual injured myself doing something random mundane (or stupid) , and my body would soon be returned anew with rest and a lesson learned. Entrenched in my ways and of course being a smart Indian male  with highly specialized education I followed the natural protocol—completely ignored the issue like a billable hour audit in a consulting meeting. 

While it wasn’t a completely debilitating injury, much to the relief of the Indian National Football Team, but like that one guy who keeps on saying “that’s what she said” at increasingly inappropriate events (such as bar mitzvahs or dance recitals), it became rather annoying. I first turned to the wide regions of the internet to “self-diagnose” myself but eventually lost interest and started sending snapchats of puppies to my contact list. Hours later and with a twist of my torso, I was quickly reminded of the cantankerous monkey on my back and sought professional help from anyone willing to give a hand…over gchat. 

This presented mixed results 

me: my back hurts, think I pulled/pushed/action-verbed something there. I don’t feel good when I back that thing up.

me: and on another note, I can’t find my pants

t****: …..

me: Give me your medical advice, oh doctor as of 2 weeks ago.

t****: take advil

Others weren’t as productive

me: My back hurts—what can i do?

M***: I’m a lawyer man, what do you want me to do? Litigate your back?

me: Nah, then my liver or genitals might counter sue for abuse/neglect. 

I tried “lifestyle” changes such as sleeping in an array of different positions that would make Tetris jealous, or continuing to not work-out.

But nothing really worked—and now the slight annoyance turned into a significant “man my back really hurts”. 

Finally when visiting a married couple friend and squirming on the floor with their high density foam roller, as if trying to make love to a pool noodle, they suggested that I get a massage, since I most likely had a knot lodged somewhere in my back.

I was skeptical and apprehensive at first. 

Discounting highly-creative yet disturbing foreplay, I have only had one massage in my life and it took place in the Chicago airport after a weekend of drinking/drugs/debauchery at Lollpalooza.

I always imagined a beautiful brunette female masseuse who was also a yoga instructor and would ultimately fall in love with me after establishing a mind-body-soul-boob connection with my nubile flesh.

Instead I was greeted by Artyom, a bald and burly mass of muscle who spoke with a thick Russian accent. His leathery face was marked with the invetibale wrinkles of aging and I could tell by his cold-jaded eyes that he emigrated from some Eastern-Block county where potatoes were used as legal tender. Perhaps he was a retired Spetnatz agent who found massaging others as the only catharsis from years of war-torn horror—or maybe he just was a gentle giant, looking to make an honest living.

After squatting down in the massage chair, imported from the Spanish Inquisition  my Russian Lennie proceeded to massage the pigment off my back. At first I swallowed my pride and adopted the mantra “no pain-no gain” but five minutes later Lennie shifted to “ze real deep teeshue massage”, and fresh tears dewed my eyes—my massage experience and back were scarred for life. 

Needless to say I was a bit reluctant to sign myself up for another massage but ultimately relented when I struggled to tie my shoes. 

A quick Google search turned up a list of various establishments and I ultimately chose one called “Massage Envy” for combining equals parts practicality/function with an essential seven deadly sin, which could also be a cologne line by Calvin Klein. While I’m not the most socially smooth individual, I figured I would call ahead to make an appointment—I’m pretty sure showing up announced and demanding to be touched was a social faux pas.

Now keep in my past experience with massages up until this point was surviving a Soviet onslaught on my western lines, so needless to say I was quite overwhelmed with the sheer variety of different massages one can get. There are trigger point massages, deep tissue, something called reflexology (which I think might also be a smoothie)—literally from cradle (Prenatal massage) to grave (geriatric massage—too soon?) a myriad of ways in which you can pay someone to touch you. 

Not wanting to screw this up (can one get pregnant from a prenatal massage???), I elected for the run of the mill therapeutic massage. The day of my massage I showered extensively and used enough body wash to clean the make up off Joan Rivers. Hygiene and grooming was very important to me and I figure that if one’s job was to touch your alive-breathing flesh, it can’t help if you smell pretty.

I debated whether to use body butter to help lighten the mood for my would-be-hand-to-hand-escort, but ultimately decided not to. 

It was lunch time anyway.

Massage Envy has a four-step process for a first time patient/customer. The first step involves a “meet and greet” which is sort of an interview on why exactly you decided to show up in the first place. The bubbly new-age-health coordinator/girl-who-probably-has-Whole-Food-brand-yoga pants took ample time to go over my medical history and the origins for my visit.

Chica: So Mr. Shah

me: (assuming I was going to be half naked in a little bit)—you can call me Neil

Chica: Ok Neil why are you here for your massage

me: Well I have this strange pain in my back that I think a massage would alleviate 

Chica: Definitely, that’s why we are here! Anything else?

me: (in my head—I’m also stressed and yearn for human touch) 

me:  (under my breath)Well my prostate sort of hurts

Chica: What?

me: Nothing! Just a massage!

Next I was led by my masseuse Gene, to a small room with a cushioned table draped with towels—and was instructed to “get comfortable”. Now in the dating world this would translate to “get naked because we are about to get it on” but 1) this wasn’t that type of massage parlor and 2) even if it was #1, I paid for a full hour and it would feel strange asking Gene to cuddle with me for the remaining 58 minutes.  Massage Envy guidelines ensure that a top-sheet would be present to preserve modesty  and that only a single of my body would be uncovered at a time, as if playing BlackJack with my brown body. Inherently I wasn’t sure what my comfort level would be and what would be the implications if I stripped naked and became too comfortable? I mean granted my endowment rivals Harvard so there was nothing to be ashamed about but still, with the thought of any awkwardness that might occur with a misinterpreted sigh of relief , I elected to keep my boxer-briefs on.

Ladies—please, I’m a gentleman not a piece of meat!

On a side note-, I’d like to fully endorse Hanes’s boxer briefs—they are like freaking yoga pants for guys.

And your junk. 

After getting “comfortable”, Gene, got straight to work, transforming her small yet surprisingly a deft hands into rolling pins, knives, spatula and other cooking instruments as she tenderized my body. She started with my neck, rubbing my brown blanket of meat/flesh/bone, periodically pausing to name various muscle-groups and connections, as if she was going to kill me after and collect my parts. Soon her hands founds her way to my troubled back, alerted by a groan and sudden shiver.

“I think you got a knot here, Neil”

Bingo Gene, that’s why you are touching me and I’m not hitting on you.

For the rest of the session Gene zero-ed in on this so called knot, my brown Moby Dick, that had evaded me for so long. Others have described massages as straddling, like Gene with her elbows in my back, the thin line between pleasure and pain—and I firmly agree. At first the I shifted in pain and almost went into shell shock, remember by Russian Roulette from a year ago—yet towards the ends of the session there was a sudden ‘Eureka” and inflection point. The dull-ache slowly melted away  with Gene’s rhythmic kneading. 

“I think we it out, Neil”

Myself—trying to be calm and suave tried to say “That was great—you rub my back, I rub yours” but all that came out was the least sexiest groan and a half muttered “yeaaaaaaah”. 

At the end of session Gene left me on the table, half naked and a flabby yet relaxed mess of soothing groans and sighs. I quickly clothed myself and proceeded to the final step in the process—check out where we added my wallet to the mind-body-soul connection. I paid Gene her fair penny for rectifying my back and tipped my hat (she was me in my boxers at the very least) and bid her a good day.

And then banged my knee on a coffee table on the way out.

It’s been hurting for days…

On Snapchats

I’ll shamelessly admit that I’m no longer part of the technologically savvy cool kids who live in a matrix-like hyperspace populated by Apple logos and tweets. It took me years to transition from my Crackberry (do they even call them that anymore??) to an actual smart phone , and even with all the ample  power in my pants (please insert your own innuendo), I still manage to lose numbers and throw things horribly out of sync. 

I don’t know what happened!

Granted I wasn’t part of the AV crew in high school and my Indian-skin color grants me only a modicum of IT acumen, but back in the day I was the go-to-guy on things that had lights and made funny noises! I knew bits, bytes and wifi and HDMI—but now there is Hyper-social-crowd-surfing, meta-tweeting and something called CandyCrush?

So when someone asked me if I had downloaded “Snapchat”, I politely said “Hellz fuck no and get off my Farmville lawn”.

From the product description, “Snapchat is the fastest way to share moments with your friends” which could also be the slogan for Herpes crafted by a very slick PR firm. In actuality, Snapchat is a messaging program that allows the user to send captioned pictures of videos that are filmed from the safety app. At first, like the only fat survivor surrounded by other hungry survivors who offered a desperate vote on “cannibalism”, I was skeptical.

Couldn’t I just text or MMS someone, you know, like normal people?

Well of course you can but then you wouldn’t be cool!

What differentiates Snapchat from snail-mail-texting is that the user can set a time-limit for the recipient  to read your message, before it’s deleted and vanished from cyberspace forever! Thus Snapchat transforms the ordinary texts into a stylized messaging system catered to the most seasoned espionage agencies and those who want to send drunk pictures without recourse!

Couldn’t you just delete the text/video after you are finished?

Well of course you can but that requires like three extra key strokes Speed Racer and that still wouldn’t be cool!

And so I decided to download SnapChat—mostly out of peer pressure and FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), which I just learned has nothing to do with Starbucks coffee. The install was lackluster and lasted a few seconds (are we still saying that’s what she said???), and within seconds SnapChat populated a list of “friends” by perusing all of my contacts.

GREAT! I can now send my aunts and ex-girlfriends pictures of my genitals in one swoop!!!!

Snapchat is equipped with a lense button that uses your own native phone’s camera to take pictures or videos, and one can seamlessly switch from a normal rear facing shot to the front mounted camera for one of those ubiquitous “selfie” shot for those who lack friends. For some reason all the front facing shots I take took like they were digitally processed through a potato and without image stabilization they have the smoothness of a jet-plane being driven by a guido on bath salts. 

But it’s okay these images/videos are ephemeral and one can set the expiration time—my personal best is 10 seconds (shut up).

I took my first Snapchat, a picture of myself with a thumbs up captioned with “hihihi, and send it to a friend off my list. I waited patiently and a few minutes, with the fanfare of an unexpected fart in an elevator, my phone vibrated and announced my incoming snapchat.

A picture saying WTF Neil?

Great. 

Normally this would be where I, like my thoughts on career, food, women or daily plans, lose interest and get distracted by another shiny or sexy object but I decided to stay resolute. This what all the tech-savy-wifi-hacking-Google-bus riding denizens of Hip City were doing, and shit, what if I missed the next big app? I definitely don’t want to be that lone guy who is asking what “HoverEyes” or “Bitchbecray” does.

It’s been approximately a week since I installed “Snapchat” and I think I have 10 SnappedChat chats (I’m not really sure the terminology??) to five different people. Akin to chocolate colored truffles laced with, I don’t know, crack-cocaine, I find myself addicted to these expiration declarations and I feel a special bond with the best friends that now populate my Snapchat list. I’d even say it’s an existential analogy on the inner workings of life and the human condition—kindred spirits wandering in wide directions and taking precious time to share warming messages and experiences with each other, before we are snuffed out in eternity….

Now if you excuse me, I have a shot of my pec-cleavage that the world desperately needs to see.

 

 

Recalled to Life

Alright, alright—like a one armed juggler or a trembling urological surgeon, I totally dropped the ball on updating this blog/journal or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days. Usually I’d concoct some bizarre excuse, like an adulterous come-back political candidate or that ex you hate to love, to assuage my inner creative muse over my delinquency—but this time, I actually have an excuse! 

I have been busy.

OK—don’t roll your eyes at me. I have actually been busy! In the past two months, I ran a half marathon, continued my monthly pilgrimage to Kansas ,     saw San Fransico, tried to train for another half but realized Texas is HOT, froze in New York City, managed to get a knot in my back, supervised my very own intern, backpacked across Peru, pseudo planned a Mediterranean/Caribbean vacation AND tried Strawberry-Tres-Leches gelato!

Of course I’ll eventually find time to write on my antics but I need to address something serious. 

You see (or read, I guess) in my zeal to improve my credit score to buy me a McMansion and earn enough airline points to buy a RTW ticket, both endevaors  being dichotomous, I opened a series of credit lines with various agencies. Macys, United Mileage Plus Visa, Target, United Milaege Plus Mastercard, Starwood Alliance, another Macys, Capital One and hell anyone who was willing to lend me a dollar, dollar is what I need.  And like a Bollywood movie directed by M Night Shyamalan, one thing leads to another and I somehow end up 

Dead. 

At first when confronted with my own mortality, I laughed and dismissed my obituary/rejection to the realm of silliness. Even if the esteemed minds figured out the nuances of quantum mortality, I couldn’t be dead! I had a pulse and just cut myself shaving, revealing warm oxygenated blood! Clearly this was just a bureaucratic mix up. Yes, it had to be. Some other bloke with my name expired and somewhere in paper trail following the mortal chains, they thought I died. 

Yet as the days passed, my mortal credit crisis became existential and my subconscious teemed with new creatures of doubt. What it—just what if—this was a sign that I wasn’t physically dead per say but actually spiritually deceased? When I was a wee child my spiritual beliefs aligned with “the tooth fairy” or “batman-firefighter” but as time passed, I’d squarely put my spirituality as a hybrid of Hinduism/Buddhism—and while I gave up red meat and tried yoga, I haven’t really been the best practitioner. Oh man, what if I’m missing out on the chance for nirvana and will end up reincarnated as a goat?? 

Or Justin Bieber’s monkey?

A whole range of other what-if’s flooded my mind—what if this wasn’t a spiritual death but an all encompassing fatalistic harbinger?! Clinical Psychologist Meg Jay argued that 30 isn’t the new 20 and that the development, relationships and mannerisms one nurtures during their twenties are paramount in establishing your future self—was this a warning sign that I was letting myself get old/wrinkly internally? Suddenly in the swirling chaos of introspection, our usually calm, laid back and handsome, protagonist, finds himself wrestling with spiritual-moral-existential questions that rocked his very core and wrinkled his bed sheets. 

Jesus spent three days and three nights in a tomb. Harry Potter spend an afternoon in King Cross limbo. And I found myself in yet another grey area for the remainder of the week. Resolved that I would meditate more often, take control of my own destiny (yolo sorta) and would change my ways, I inspected my pulse and manhood and sought to be resurrected. 

Credit Agent: Hello this is Tammy, how can I help you/

Me: Hello, I’m calling about account #, social security number # and the recent credit inquiry

Tammy: One second sir, let me bring up our records—Ok I have it up, what seems to be the problem?

Me: Apparently I’m dead?

Tammy: Oh! You aren’t dead, are you?

Me:I-I-I don’t think so. No, I’m not dead. Definitely not.

Tammy: Sorry about that, we’ll update our records!

Me: *a bit teary eyed* thank you Tammy…thank you…

Five minutes later, I was recalled to life and reinvigorated with new found purpose, love and passion.

And so I spent 3.2 minutes making a new to-do-list, 5 minutes searching for vacations in Europe and then took a nap.

it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known

R-E-S-P-E-something

Perspective

Relationship data from Hell’s Kitchen were inclusive due to some “DONKEY BURNING THE SCALLOPS!!!!”

You are now watching the throne

The Re-desification of Neil Shah: Part 3 On the nature of the beholder’s eyes

While I have made decent headway on reawakening the Indian cultural aspect of Neil, which was rumored to be lost the moment I discovered steak and ABC’s TGIF television line up, one aspect that has been inadvertently ingrained in my subconscious is “prettiness”. 

I’m sandwiched between two sisters (both +/- 3 years in age of me) and combined with my mother as well as the steady stream of aunties/sister’s friends, at any point the Shah house had healthy levels of estrogen and Special-K bars. So it wasn’t completely foreign that I had a slight understanding to the nuances of nature of nail polish top coats or toner. Yet what catapults this occasional threading appointment to full fledge cosmetic home-make over was the fact that I am Indian.  

Of course all creeds gravitate towards a misplaced concept of cultural pleasantness—English Victorian women would crush their bodies (and souls) in corsets and we all are aware of Sir Mixalot’s veracity when it comes to posteriors. Yet with skin lightening products expanding at nearly 18% per year in India as well as a growing interest in—I’m not making this up—genital lightening products (for the record, I always tell my “cuddle” buddies that I’m black from the waist below), it’s safe to say that South Asian beauty is serious business,

Yes, I’m sort of proud of that pun and am making a half-smirk because I think I’m a clever idiot. Don’t judge me!

Yet it’s hard to underestimate beauty’s pivotal role in South Asian culture (and begrudgingly part of 99% of my friend’s Facebook statuses) as it help brings one closer to achieving  the highest nirvana, the culmination of the entirety of their life and the most auspicious blip across the gamut of their existence—marriage!

Ah yes—shadi (marriage) the one event that single handedly defines the life of any South Asian and supplants all achievements. What you earned a Doctorate in Saving Orphans while earning millions from your vegan food-truck empire, and yet you are still unmarried? Failure! Ah so you finally met a nice guy who understands you or have dated a girl for five years and your combined experiences have shaped your soul, but you aren’t going to marry them—POOF they are cast to oblivion and any of your interactions are considered null and void!  

Of course while I lightly jest about the significance of marriage (luckily as a 26 year old male I have a good one year before shit gets real) and how it has an over-inflated skewed aura due to Bollywood, there is still residual angst in any South Asian’s time horizon. Hell—just look at any of those “family friend” parties with unabashed inquisitive seniors (for the record, fuck thatAuntie) or that friend-of-a-friend wedding, and you will see a critical mass of South Asians who will suddenly question their marital status while their biological clocks tick in unity.

But long story short—being the sole male in a predominantly Indian women household meant that I was the constant and unwilling target of beautification.

It’s okay though—I’m still alpha male as fuck….at making tea.

 Me and my sisters—I don’t know why I chose to look extra flamboyant but I’m probably going to regret this picture if I ever run for public office

My mom—no, I’m not posting any pictures of her—who hails from the most auspicious Mt. Abu has light fair skin which earns hers both the praise from South Asian women and confused pleas for directions in Spanish from lost Hispanics. She married my dad, because he made her laugh and smile but had—*gasp*—slightly darker skin and gave birth to myself and my two sisters, who had complexions that ranged from Starbuck coffee flavors (Macadamian nut cream to chocolate-mocha madness) depending on our sun exposure. Naturally whenever we left the safety of our house for the outside world and had the slightest chance of sun-exposure, she would slather out face/bodies with enough SPF/sun screen to make Akon look like The Joker. Perhaps it was her way of getting back at my dad and his genetics (he wooed her by claiming he was a super rich secret spy/pastry chef) but the unofficial mantra was “once you go dark—well your marriage plans go stark”.

While most of my mom’s focus went towards my sisters, who after going through puberty were now fully commoditized and tradable marriage securities, there was always residual splash damage in my general area. It starts with a subtle “Neil, fix your face because Vatsala/Vandana/V-something auntie and her daughters might be there” but overtime (and as our Z-TV subscription) was renewed, it became full blown insanity. One time (well many times) after I took a tumble after a night out drinking and scarred my lips, my mom demanded that I go to a dermatologist to get this “injustice” fixed—she later recanted and decided that I should also go to Medical school and become a dermatologist.

She was Indian and two birds with one stone, right?

And then there was the natural or Ayurvedic remedies that she (and all the other Aunties) swore by—one would mix two parts turmeric powder, three parts milk, a drop of lemon juice, three pieces of the most holy clovers from Mt. Abu, twelve pounds of ghee (which is pretty much vegan lard) and VOILA, you had a miracle face mask/curry dinner! Or there were the imported Indian products, which actually aren’t that bad, with names like “Fair and Lovely”, “Why aren’t you married” or “Yeah I’m sure he likes you for your personality”, which stung your body (and feelings!).

It’s called Brahmol since it’s made from Brahmans and is the top of the caste system 

I’d like to say that my dad helped temper my mother/sisters influence and would offer to go “hunting” or throw the ole pig skin around, but let’s be honest—behind every Indian man is an Indian woman who could poison his chai, and he didn’t care. In fact when he started to get a strange discoloration on his established head, he turned to my sisters for “make up” help and eventually became quite deft with foundation.

He calls it his duvah (Gujrati (my people’s language) word for medicine).

Eventually when I left for college/grad school the constant “correction” ended due to me being physically away from my home/sisters, but it would reawaken during holidays/vacation with a reminder to “comb what’s left of your hair for so-and-so auntie’s daughter”. Now for full disclosure, I admit that at times it was rather annoying for my closest female loved ones to critique my overall appearance but as I got older, I realized it was all out of love. Like in nature how certain animals help groom/pick the bugs out of their siblings, I knew that their  deeds were from the kindness of their heart.

(Or t they didn’t want to be seen in public with me unless I’m pretty or they wanted me to get married so they could totally borrow my wife’s clothes/blackmail me into Rakhi day presents)

Told you I wasn’t kidding!

And so a few weeks ago when I was alone in my apartment, I reached into my grocery bag (this is just a bag that I use when I go home and raid the pantry) and found something affectionately packed by my mother/sisters/possibly-my-dad.

The next day I would forget to wash it out and inadvertently ruin my covers.

Polyglot

A woman friend attempts to give Neil woman advice

Man, I’m starting to see a pattern here

Meera: loll i’ve been working out every day this week! every morning

Neil: Insanity? Every morning? That’s..uh..well…ins..I guess that’s the point

Meera: i’m determined to lose my tummy fat

 

Neil: oh meera, you look good in my books. 

 

Meera: no i don’ttt i need to tone my arms and legs and tummy

 

Neil: you know, I got  a question for you. how is a guy supposed to respond to that query? 

 

Neil: When a girl is like “hey neil, I been working out to get in shape or lose fat or something along those lines, it’s a very delicate situation

 

Neil: It’s a lose-lose. On one side I can say—oh babe you look great! Way to go!

Meera: and??

 

Neil: But that acknowledgement can open a can of worms—I’ll get the OH SO YOU THOUGHT I WAS FAT BEFORE OR I WASN’T IN SHAPE??? YOU INCONSIDERATE EMOTIONLESS PIG

 

Neil: and then she’ll cry and/or hit my testicles 

 

Neil: or worst—not touch them at night. 

 

Meera: hahah hmmm it depends on the girl I think

 

Neil: on the other side, if I am like oh babycakes I didn’t notice—you always look great!

 

Neil: then comes the OH SO ALL MY WORKING OUT AND SWEAT HAVE BEEN FOR NOTHING? YOU DON’T EVEN NOTICE THAT I BEEN WORKING OUT?

 

Neil: OR MY NEW HAIR CUT OR THREADED EYE BROWS?

 

Neil: YOU NEVER PAY ATTENTION TO ME 

 

Neil: and then boom once again cold shoulder and my family jewels remain untouched.

 

Meera: well it depends on the girl i think ad if they genuinely think that they are not fit and they are determined to lose the weight

 

Meera: other girls are working out just for the sake, but they really do have nice bodies already

 

Meera: other girls SAY they are working otu but really are not working out that much

 

Neil: !? such deceit

 

Meera: but they want people to say OH WOW you have lost weight…so yeah… i don’t have an answer for ya, I think the best thing to say is to divert the convo

 

Neil: distract them with shiny things? Been there done that—almost ended up married.

 

Meera: divert and say, oh nice, what are you doing to work out? and say that you need a running partner and ask them to run with you!

 

Neil: I do need a running partner….

 

Neil: diverting a conversation and be a pickle! It’s like OH YOU ALWAYS DEFLECT? YOU DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY BODY ANYMORE?

 

Neil: WHAT, IM NOT SEXY ANYMORE? ARE YOU NOT ATTRACTED ANYMORE TO ME NEIL? 

 

Neil: IS IT BECAUSE I DON’T LOOK LIKE YOUR BOLLYWOOD PRIYANKA CHOPRAS???

Meera: hahaha wow you have really thought about this..

 

Neil: I have been on all ends of this conversation and it typically doesn’t bode well

 

Meera: i dunno what to tell you

Neil: On another note—I learned that most girl don’t like when you rub their bellies. I LOVE DOING IT, it’s just cute and fun. 

 

Neil: Somtimes if they are hungry i’d rub it and be like SEE ITS LIKE THERE IS FOOD INSIDE

 

Meera: …..

Another friend gives Neil dating advice

Context 

Ali: neil….you sweet thang….your Adams apple is so DAMN symmetrical

Neil: hihihih i’ll take it 

Ali: I’m going to get you a sweet indian girl, I got a great idea

Neil: ???

Ali: law school happy hours, andy goes to them its like shooting fish in the barrel we can sarge together

Neil: What the heck is sarging 

Ali: <link to Urban dictionary describing that sarging is the act of driving up to members of the opposite sex and chatting them up>

Neil: Sarge sounds a lot like surge. Which I don’t know how i feel about on the plus side It was a delicious soda in the 90s

Neil: On the minus side, I’m not sure if Obama supported it and I don’t want to be a traitor. Also I hear it lowers your sperm count

Ali: also on the minus side—my penis looks like a mini golf pencil.

Neil: What? How is that relevant as all? that’s germane as context in a porno.

Ali: surge makes your penis smaller

Neil: Ok…so back to “sarging”, we So we are going to go cruising down the mean streets of Houston I assume i’ll be riding in the back since your wife, Zohra, wants shotgun and we’ll go sarge girls?

Neil: how does that even work.

Neil: Do I just get out of the car and holla—DAMN GIRL, YOU SHIT WITH THAT ASS?

Neil: Or should I be proper like Mr. Darcy and say

Neil: Madame, your bosom and splendid form fills me with great desire and beauty, like morning’s dew on the roses of Yorkshire?

Ali: NO JUST BE U

Ali: I DON’T KNOW WHO NEIL IS THOUGH

Ali: sometimes i thinkis neil on or off is he being normal now or is he clinically insane

Neil:Very true Sometimes I don’t even know what I am each day I can be very HIHIHIHIHi AND PEPPY or I can be

MAN IM GOING TO PEE IN MY POTTED PLANTS CUZ FUCK NATURE

Neil: Man I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted, you are literally the 4th person this week who suggested that I start dating/and/or set up on a blind date. I’M HAPPY BEING SINGLE/PLAYING THE FIELD AND DOING MY THANG— I CAN PEE WITH MY APT DOOR OPEN, I DONT HAVE TO SHARE MY DESERTS AND I CAN DRUNK DIAL WITHOUT REPRECUSSIONS 

 

Ali: Dude maybe you are right, being tied down sucks

 

Neil: Don’t say that—one man’s hand cuffs is another man’s anchor in a stormy sea. 

 

Neil: BOOM—DROPPING THEM KNOWLEDGE LIKE WOAH. 

 

Neil: Fine lets be honest you just want to have a double date

with neil-freaking-shah. 

Ali neil youre too charming of a guy

u have a lot going for yourself when u meet a girl

act like she is going to be priviledged speaking with you because she will but dont drink too much

becuase you then all bets are off with you

Ali: why are you so non-committal on going on a date with me?

Neil: I find it hard to commit—I can fake commit if needed but for me to really commit, it takes special effort

Ali: its simple and its effortless, don’t over analyze 

 

Ali: Just come sarging with me and if not just don’t give a PUCK and hit on any girl you see. In fact, start with any of your ex’s best friends. SCORCHED EARTH. 

 

Neil: No! I have rules—Mr. Darcy remember?

 

Ali: No—you just stalk her during lunch and then bump into her as a random coincidence and are like OMG you eat hear too? It’s good to see you, want to grab a table?

 

Ali: Then you ask her about work and she gets a sense that you are actually paying attention to waht she is saying. Heck bring up a mutual friend or ex’s name and BOOM vested interset in the conversation.

 

Ali: Give her that Neil Shah smile and talk about her interest and end the converation with the fact that you really enjoyed bumping into her and she’ll say the same. Then make out with her 

Neil: that…was..impressive and thorough…

 

Neil: Ok Ali You met Zohra when you were 2 years old 

So lay down the Ali Mamujee secret of dating success

Ali: Just be nice, genuine, affectionate and the good hearted funny guy you always are

Neil: easy peasy 

Ali: and when that fails go with the three C’s: Chocolate, carats and

Neil: ?

Ali: Chloroform 

Neil: check please 

Alternative Rose Color Meanings

Yeah—I intended this for Valentine’s day but you shouldn’t need a special-heavily commercialize day to buy flowers for someone you care about, right? RIGHT?

Red: True love—well “true love” in the same sense that is so common and wide spread that it’s the defacto standard for all rose colors out there and always the “safe” choice when it comes to choosing plant ovaries to express your romance. Now maybe it speaks to some Bollywood paradigm that love itself is ubiquitous and paints color throughout humanity—but call me a little bit jaded about “safe bets” but I find the symbolism of something as “true love” to be disingenuous at best when you can find it stocked at any CVS in a 4 miles radius or peddled by quasi-homeless Sixth Street vendors. Just saying. Besides red sort of reminds me of blood and the fact that I’m not caught up on Dexter. 

Black: Kinky. Either your sex life makes an episode of American Horror Story  look like Brady Bunch episode or your significant other is planning to kill you.   

Blue: Holy-Mother-of-Chocolate-Covered-Jesus, they make things? I thought these were make-believe like Leprechauns, Santa Clause or a Beyonce sex tape? Stick around with this guy—he might have a unicorn!

White: Purity and no, I still won’t go third base with you so stop buying me things hoping to change my mind. 

Yellow: Some say friendship but let’s be honest, who buys a friend roses for the heck of it? A good friend might pick you up an extra burrito from Taco Bell, hold your hair when you puke or conveniently cold shoulders your ex at a bar—but flowers? No, yellow flowers means that “hey girl, I like you but I am not spending the extra 20$ to buy you red flowers”. It’s affection and romance but just practical—like sewing a pocket to stow candy/junk food in your snuggie. 

Purple: Oh—I really thought these were tulips, you said you liked tulips right? Or was it carnations? Or maybe lillies—I keep forgetting, oh well, we cool right? 

Designer Color like Movie Star Orange: Oddly specific which either means this guy knows the intricacies of your personality and really understands you on a physical-emotional level, OR he has spent the last 3 months combing through your trash in order to stalk you and has a collection of your hair in a scrapbook under his bed. 

Green: Well your friends/family always said that he wasn’t the “sharpest tool in the shed” but now you are thinking it’s time you took him to an eye doctor…