Every once in awhile, introducing a writer demands that you not pen something funny, embarrassing or insightful, that you get out of the way and simply quote the fabulosity. This is one of those times: rollin’ down D.C., sippin’ on Love and Haterade.
On the relationship between eyefucking and classical dance:
… fifteen years of Indian dance classes have made me ridiculously good at eyefuckingFifteen years of Indian dance classes have made me ridiculously good at eyefucking. Like, I think I’m better at eyefucking than some people are in bed. [Link]
On Indian parents and parallel parking:
Lester and Sally [parents] never taught either of us how to parallel park with actual cars… We often wonder what that might have looked like to unsuspecting suburban passerby… Two orange cones in an empty parking lot, a middle-aged balding Indian man explaining the art of parallel parking with charts and math and interpretive dance, and a disgruntled hyphenated-American teenager standing by the sidelines watching the scene unfold with amusement and shame, longing for the day she would have a license to drive away from it all. [Link]
The building had unbelievable restrictions about overnight guests… they were truly outrageous: forms needed to be filled out at least 24 hours in advanced, signed by all your suite-mates, then approved by the building… I almost felt bad for the kids because it made an outside random hookup absolutely impossible… the building itself was perhaps the greatest cock block of all time…Katrina (whose hair, if I haven’t mentioned it, was totally JBF): Well, it’s just that…
[The author]: Katrina? Unless he’s dying and sleeping with you was the antidote to that death, I assure you — he’s ok… I promise you, Katrina, in my 26 years on this earth, I’ve never seen anyone die as a result of unfulfilled desire.
And with that, Katrina fled the building and followed her Michael Fink into the dark night. [Link]
On cranial chastity belts (hmm, sensing a theme — it’s less The Handmaid’s Tale than The Canterbury Tales):
He was trying to mindfuck me. And it was not possible. With a newfound… resolution of leaving (and returning) home with my dignity intact, I wore my cranial chastity belt out into the world and left the mindfucking to the masses. [Link]
On giving out your phone number:
In the life of a single woman, your phone number is like your virginity — once you spread your legs and give it up, you can’t get it back. And then it’s just out there. You’re a little vulnerable at first, but ultimately wiser for the wear. You thank god for protection in the form of Caller ID. And you hope against hope that you gave it to someone who’s going to know what to do with it, but you live knowing there’s always the offchance you might have been nothing more than number in an otherwise checkered call history. [Link]
What happens when a boyfriend meets the parents:
You can fake a lot of things in this lifetime — the way you look, where you live, who you are, what you’re worth, what you can afford — but two things I’ve learned you absolutely can’t:
- being a good writer and,
- what you know about the world we live in, to a man who already hates you for not being smart enough to date his daughter [Link]
