Longest Post Ever.....Indian Weddings Inspire Me!

Whew, guys, what a whirlwind! How was your weekend?! Did you hit up any German-Indian weddings, by any chance? If so, then you’re allowed to say your weekend was amazing in every way. If not, then I’m sure you had some sort of fun, but nothing can really compare.

Seriously, after this past weekend, the newest item on my life to-do list is:
- Find Indian husband.
- Earn future-husband's parents’ approval.
- Have monsoon wedding in the Northeast countryside.
(I mean, I’d have it in India, but you know I can’t handle too much heat—I’d sweat my hair out, y’all!)

This weekend’s wedding was gorgeous and amazing, and the road was paved with danger every step of the way. I rode up Thursday night after work with the Maid of Honor and another bridesmaid, making our way through an NYC thunderstorm. This voyage was gonna take us at least 6 hours, and we didn’t set out until 8pm—-no sleep til VT, baby!!

I played navigator, and it seems I may be a dash dyslexic, as left and right baffled me at various points throughout the journey. Add that to my general distrust of New Jersey, and I think our early confusion was brought about by my lack of faith in Google Maps (“are we sure we’re supposed to be in a place called 'Ho Ho Kus'??? This can’t even be a real name. What the hell is 'Mahwah?' Something’s awry.) as the MOH drove with focus and determination (as only a woman studying to become a midwife could), the sky grew darker and darker. I suddenly realized we were three attractive women—one white, one asian, and one blacktress—in a car on a backroad in an unknown town. We were clearly in the opening scene on a horror movie.
We had to get to our destination, stat.

I managed to maintain my calm as flashes of the trailer for “The Human Centipede” popped into my head, and the MOH read the map like the true Vermont native she is. As she guided us on the right path, I decided that if I ever accidentally get pregnant and carry my kids to term, I’m gonna have them spend their summers in Vermont, so they can learn to be scrappy and take care of themselves. On the 1st of July I’m going to drop them in the middle of the woods with a compass and some rations and tell them that if they want to see the fireworks on the 4th they better figure out how to make it back to the cabin using their wits—that’ll give them the skills they need to navigate the harsh roads of life—and I-87 north.

Once in the VT, there was little rest for the weary—and I wasn’t even in the wedding party. I got to spend much of Friday with the MOH’s fiancée, who was the coolest guy ever. For some reason, he knew that there had to be a “bridal kit” consisting of necessary items for the wedding day—hair pins, nail polish, double-sided tape, hair gel, band-aids, and other miscellaneous emergency odds and ends that one could need just in case. We got to race around to various VT stores, taking in the countryside on the sunny day while I asked him all about what love is. Even though he’s only, like, 2 years older than me, the fact that he’s been in a 5-year relationship and is about to marry one of my favorite humans makes him a love guru in my mind, and I have to know how it all happens.

Besides, any man who not only knows about a bridal kit, but has no qualms about rounding up extra tampons for said kit has got to be the male equivalent of a unicorn. His mind must be dissected and studied for science, and for the edification of women everywhere.

Friday night was a magical pre-wedding party, where the Indian and German families came together. As the bride-to-be got dressed in her gorgeous green-and-gold sari, fussed over by several women, as they applied imported matching jewels I realized that I was clearly meant to be an Indian woman. These women are all diva, and understand the importance of a photo op. Everyone’s hair was DONE, and even though the party started at 6:30, the bride-to-be didn’t come down until 7:30. HELLO, DIVA!!! I hear that, make it work! RuPaul would have been proud!!

Once she came down, the party began, and it got crunked! The DJ played the Bangra jams, and the German groom’s family was all about the Indian garb. While the liberal-arts-college-grad in me initially worried about the appropriation of culture, there’s nothing cuter than a 4-year-old German girl wearing a sari, and my heart melted at the sight. It was also cool to see how into it they were, as if the two families really were bonding, you know? Talk about a merging of two totally different cultures—you’ve got Hamburg on one end and India-via-Vermont on the other, and it’s all love. I think this is what they mean by “post-racial.”

The highlight of the evening had to be when young girls in the family performed dances for the couple. Prior to this, various couples, ranging from aunts and uncles to bfs and gfs had done choreographed bits to various songs, and the joy of Bollywood was felt by all.
And by “all,” I mean, “me”. It was amazing.

Just when I thought it could get no more wonderful, the bride’s young cousin did a dance to a mashup that included Beyonce’s “Halo,” “Fireflies” by some pop group or another, and two Indian jams. As she kicked and twirled in the air, and used a decorative cloth as a prop, I stood in awe. She was no more than 14 years old, and, in, a word, FIERCE.
I want to be her when I grow up.
“Kiloni, I want to be you!” I gushed later in the night, when we were dancing to “Telephone” (my request to the DJ). “Thank you” she muttered without a smile, like a true diva.
She is a Lady Gaga in the making.

Riding high on her awesomeness, I didn’t know what the actual wedding day would have in store. Saturday morning was drizzly, which did not bode well for the outdoor Indian ceremony. Just 15 minutes before it began, however, the clouds parted, and the sun shone through, shedding light on the mandap (the tent where the ceremony would take place—you didn’t know the blacktress was down with the Hindi like that, did you?).
It was as if nature knew their love was meant to be!

I don’t know if any of you have been to a Hindu wedding ceremony, but that jam has 11 steps—11, y’all!! It takes over an hour! But it was totally worth every second, and the officiant kept it funny and engaging the whole time. He explained each portion, went back and forth between English and Hindi, and even learned German, y’all!! Holla at some multi-culti bridging of the gaps!
What I loved so much about the ceremony was its specificity—When you get married Hindu style, you know what you’re getting into. You communicate your expectations for married life and shower rice on each other, you walk around in circles, you worship sacred fire, you break that shit down, y’all!! When the German groom said his vows, the officiant made him repeat it 3 times, and the third time said, “I want you to repeat after me in German, so you really know what you’re agreeing to.” I hear that—You better make sure you know what you’re about, cause this shizz is for real!!

My favorite part is when the couple took 7 steps together, and they physically walked across the mandap, saying each promise aloud with each step: to provide for and support each other; to develop mental, sprititual, and physical strength together; to share their worldly possession; to acquire knowledge, happiness, and peace; to raise strong virtuous children; to enjoy fruits of all seasons; and to always remain friends and cherish each other.

Know, that’s the kind of binding agreement I can get behind. You’d hear me, at 50, sitting on the couch, about to get into a fight and go, “boy, don’t play me, we took step 3—give me a bite of that cake. Share that worldly possession!” I’d have the proof at all times!!

Okay, this post is long and out of control. I won’t even get into the Christian ceremony (and yes, the bride looked just as gorgeous in a white dress as she did in a Sari), cause Christianity was put to shame after the Hindu jam. I will also refrain from going on a tangent about how awesome cousin Natasha was—-at only 16 years old, she wore 4 different saris on the day of the wedding. A blacktress can get down with a culture that understands the importance of a quick-change. Always keep it looking fresh, Indian divas!!!

Needless to say, I had a great time. I tried not to cry during the ceremonies, but whenever I saw the bride cry, I got misty—-even though she told me later that she was looking to me to stop herself from tearing up. I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m such a gargoyle; we all know I’m tender and delicate!

Okay, we’ve officially taken up an hour of the day with this massive post. What can I say? The henna tattoo on my palm may have faded, but the memories will last forever.....

Back to BCB--And More

So, I've received many emails and gchats regarding my new guiding light, BCB. Seeing as every day she teaches me something new (and I'm hoping we will soon watch the film "Something New"), I must elaborate on this woman.

So, last night, the friend I was supposed to meet up with was a Kellog's Frosted flake and never called. Luckily, BCB took me under her wing and invited me along to a local pub to meet some her mates. BCB is a fashion stylist, and needless to say is always looking fierce--even when she throws on, like, a $5 top and some Converse Chucks. She even manages to find EMPLOYED musicians, which is seriously like finding a needle in a haystack for the blacktress.

Anyway, I sit down to dinner and dranks with her 2 lesbian women from Perth (the most remote city on earth--Wiki that shit)--it was like United Colors of Benetton meets the L Word. One is a hilarious Asian lesbian (a hotter, cooler Margaret Cho) and and her homegirl is a mysterious South Asian woman(let's call her Parminder Nagra, just for reference), and we end up talking about going to Arrows-- a sex party for women somewhere in the nearby gayborhood.

These chicks are stone-cold sober, and yet somehow we end up discussing Vs, Ps, and that time Margaret Cho tried to kiss BCB--you know, cause everyone else was making out and she didn't want her to be left out.
I think we all know that scenario all too well.

On the way back to BCB's house, she pointed out a brothel nestled among the quiet homes on the street. I guess it wasn't exactly undercover, seeing as a random beefy dude was sitting outside, and just as we walked by, a man exited, as a tiny Asian woman in a bra said, "Thank you, good night!"
From my vantage point, I could see that the walls were red.
Note to self: if you need a red light special, roll Sydney-side, cause this place is Lefty Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all! Just brothels on residential streets, men rolling through like it ain't no thang.

Oh, speaking of Loosey Goosey, I saw THE AUSTRALIAN last Friday.
I know, I know, I'm keeping secrets from you, gentle readers.

I'd been on the fence about seeing the fool, but in a moment of weakness/loneliness, I texted him my Aussie number. I soon after fortified myself, but he kept texting, and I figured it was best to get it over with.
He met up with me Friday, as he walked up, I was pleased to see that he'd gotten a little chubs, for, as you know, nothign helps ease the pain of scorn like seeing the man you wanted to marry looking bloated and knowing he's single.
We drove around the city, seeing the sights under the cloak of night (so, of course, I have no clue where anything he showed me actually is). We talked for a while, and it was mostly silly. I realized he possesses one of my least favorite traits in a human being--over-confidence. He just thinks he's the jam and the jump-off, when really he's a self-righteous hot mess who's not all that bright.

I'm over him, I swear. The bitterness is just residual.

As our drive wound down, we reached a crossroads--literally. We were at an intersection that could take us to my hostel or to his apartment. He goes, "Okay, I'm just gonna put it out there--do you want to go back to my place?"
I thought for a second, which felt like forever. I mean, his bed would probably be comfortable. There'd be no Swedes to wake me up at 7am. I wouldn't be doing anything I hadn't already done.

But I wasn't even trying to go down that road. I did not come all the way to Sydney to get into some old drama! I came to get into some NEW drama! Besides, does this fool really think a couple of litres of petrol (god, how Ozzie am I now?) are gonna get me to drop my panties?! In the words of Whitney: Hell to the NO!

Unfortunately, it seems that the Ozzies aren't really as down with the brown as I'd hoped--unless you count the girl who was standing next to me in SES (a clothing store in the mall). I was waiting to go the fitting room and she was passing by me and stops, RUBS THE BACK OF MY HAND, and says, "Oh, look at your beautiful skin!"

For serious, y'all. This chick touched me. I was 'bout ready to cut her.

Or, what about the Ozzie guy in the pub that I went to with United Colors of Benetton? I was ordering my bev, and he leans over and goes, "Your hair is quite nice," leering like the OVER 50-year-old that he was. I just gave a light smile and tried to will the bartender over to me as fast as possible. I gave him my order and as I waited, the old guy goes, "The rest of you is quite nice, too."
EW.
EW.
EW.

I grabbed my drank and ran back upstairs.
Lefty-Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all!!!