Life goes on.

Despite my upset, life appears to be darned committed to moving on. I've had that phrase "Life goes on" in my head today. And allow me to set the tone for this post by saying that immediately after that philosophical thought my next thought keeps being "and what a great song by Poison it is."
Let's think about some other things today. Happier and weirder things. Weird is always good and distracting. I will provide my random thoughts in outline form, giving them a semblance of order.

I. Tonight I started watching Matchstick Men with my parents.
A. "Started" because I only watched the first 40 minutes or so. Then I left although I didn't get anything I was trying to get accomplished accomplished and the friends who were going to stop by didn't end up making it.
i. If you got credit for watching half of a movie then I've seen a lot more movies in my lifetime.
B. Nicolas Cage is a good actor.
i. When people ask me who is a good actor, I tend to say actors who are both excellent and hot. Example: Johnny Depp. I forget people like Nicolas Cage, who is more about the craft and the performance than the star value. Then he pops up in a movie like Lord of War (or tonight's flick) and I'm reminded that he should be on my list of favorites, because his movies are always solid.
a. Face/Off is an underrated flick.
C. There is a thin line between being clean and being OCD. Or so I'm told.
i. In one scene they pan out to show his cleaning supplies and they're all organized by color. As my parents exclaimed how weird it was, I had noticed myself admiring it. I get my nervous energy out by cleaning. Since when is this wrong? I'm bettering the world one stack of papers at a time!

II. Willow has come up in conversation a lot recently.
A. While selecting movies at the public library, my sister joked about renting it.
B. My brother brought up that Willow was on the show Extras.
C. I saw a man today with an uncanny resemblance to...

III. Susie and I are having a contest (per my suggestion) to come up with a daily insult.
A. It started when I told her that my annoying neighbor is "the human equivalent of The Song That Never Ends"
i. For those of you who didn't have a 45 minute ride to daycamp for years on end, it goes like this "This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend, somebody started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend, somebody started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend, somebody started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend, somebody started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because..." You get the point.
ii. I'm not sure I can do better than that. But I will try.

IV. Confessions.
A. Sometimes when I'm having a bad day I'll check the USWeekly blog. Misery loves company and I can usually find my friend Britney there having a worse day than me.
B. I have been eating raw cookie dough every night for the past few days.
i. Despite the health implications I find it to be totally worth it.
a. Yes, I realize tapeworms are a hazard.
b. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
1. My dad once had a patient who had a tapeworm. She was overweight
(woman, not tapeworm) and insisted that they leave it in there
until she lost more weight from it (it was eating her intestines).
Then when they removed it she kept it in a jar and named it Sam.
2. True story.
C. The word stinky makes me laugh. I think I confessed this earlier, so here it
is again. It's in a manuscript I'm representing (granted, a picturebook for
4-8 year olds). Every time I read it (it appears twice) I laugh out loud.
i. I hate the phrase "LOL"
a. Other hated phrases:
1. "Cheers!"

V. Conclusion.
A. In conclusion, I just want to say "don't be stinky. life goes on."

Imagine this.

I can't bring myself to put a picture of Pele here. At least not as I start this post. It'll actually be a miracle if I can type it without dissolving into tears or the hysterical crying that has become my own personal soundtrack these past three days.

I went up to SF for a week of work. When Valentine's Day went by without incident (I was in the best mood ever, notable for a single girl in these here United States of Hallmark), I should have known something was up.

On Friday morning my parents called me to tell me that Pele had had an accident - he broke his leash and dashed at a moving car. I dared to hope that he would recover. I promised myself and God (again, Persian superstition) that I would volunteer with him, that I'd spend more time with him, anything. But it quickly became apparent that I needed to buy a ticket home. I was too much of a mess to do it, so Helen got one for me. How I got myself back home is a blur, even now.

I have never cried so much in public. There is something refreshing about not filtering yourself for other people. We spend so much time censoring ourselves lest we do something unappealing to random strangers on the street. Fuck it. Let them see me be raw and miserable. Let them see someone sobbing so hard she can't breathe and she can't talk and she can't see out of her puffy eyes. Let them see that she is drunk with agony and can't even see them, even if they're standing in front of her. I sobbed the entire way home, in the cab, on BART, on the shuttle, sitting in the boarding area, and during my one hour flight. But tears don't change the course of fate I suppose.

They promise me he died peacefully (now I'm crying. Told you so). I walked into the hospital to see my dog-- our dog -- lying in what looked like a deep sleep. I blocked out the tubes and pet him for a moment, selfishly enjoying the sensation of his false breathing and his heartbeat. But he was asleep and he would never wake up. They told me then that they'd just kept him alive so I could come back and say goodbye.

I miss him so much. A part of me feels dead inside right now. Just numb. Having been through tragedy before, I have hope somewhere far away in myself that it will get better, that time will ease the sadness. That when I think of him it will be with a smile, not with a wave of nausea and tears. That I'll be able to remember him bouncing around, tongue wagging, smiling up at me or yowling a high-pitched yawn of excitement for a silly walk around the block. The way he deserves to be remembered.

Like shock therapy, I'm reminded of how precious life is. As much as I try not to take things for granted, I did. I must have. I will have to live with the fact that I could have shown him my love in more little ways. There will always be walks I should have taken him on or games I should have played with him. I'm really good at the guilt game, in case you hadn't guessed. I guess it's a control freak thing. Feeling guilty is a hell of a lot easier than feeling helpless and sad, isn't it?

The only thing keeping me sane is the way he bounded for the door every time I came over. Sliding to a stop (yes, just like the cartoons) and pressing his back into my leg to encourage me to pet him a hello. His running greetings were his way of showing that, faulty as I was, he loved me anyway. I can't say it enough- he was just a furry ball of love. All he did was love us. What could hurt more than losing someone who loved you unconditionally?

As my family huddled around each other this weekend breaking down on each other's shoulders I'm bewildered by how lucky I am to have each and every one of them. The hugs are extra tight and we're freer with our emotions - especially affection -- than we have ever been before. Pele brought this out in us.

But right now, make no mistake, there's a big fucking crater taken out of my heart. I have promised myself to remember him in good ways and to stop being sad. Soon. But maybe just not yet.

If you have a dog, give it an extra big hug tonight.

Pele (2002-2007), you were an absolute gift and I will always love you.

Up yours.

Dear readers, find solace in the fact that I"m watching something new today. You know when something is so good that you're already recommending it before you've even finished it? Yeah, that kind of good.

Susie recommended a British documentary series to me -- the "Up Series". The first film is 7Up and then it keeps going (7 plus 7). The filmmaker interviewed a random assortment of British kids back in '64, when they were 7 years old. My observations are as follows:

*It is possible for a 7 year old girl to sound like Queen Elizabeth when speaking. (this observation was enhanced by her placement amidst an offensively ugly -- even in black and white -- chintz armchair) Likewise the little boy in the sweater and tie will sound like Henry Higgins.
*It is also possible for a 7 year old British kid to be more eloquent on national welfare than the current sitting President. (I know, low standard. Just go with it.)
*I heard what might be the best reason against marriage, one boy stating "well, what if she cooks something i don't want to eat? I don't like greens. but what if she cooks greens and wants me to eat them?" so simple, so true. ah, recognizing the difficulties of compromise. don't eat greens for anyone, kid. i can't wait to see 49, where he's probably miserable and married. This is going to be a riot.
*Not all British kids liked the Beatles. For an engaging critique of how their haircuts suck and they could make better music, one need only watch the first 5 minutes. These kids get right to the point!

I wanted to see the movie because Susie told me it was good, but now it has me thinking. I know, God forbid. About how people will turn out to be like based on their childhood interests or comments. Or are the seeds of their personality in there already? How much can people change? How much do we grow up past the stupid things we did? Or the open-minded things we felt or said? Needless to say, I'm spending part of the evening very, very glad that there wasn't a camera around when I was 7!

Disclaimer: watching this documentary will make you speak with an affected British accent. no, not "make you want to". You will. Cheerio!

Help me, I'm Lost.

Dear Friends,

I'm concerned about my viewing of LOST. It has gotten to the point where I think about the show when it's not on. This is just not something that happens with me and tv. But it's happening. For starters, "How can I go to sleep now...What will happen next?" and "Hm, who can lend me Season 2?". And of course now I've got the "I wonder if my plane crashed what people would find useful in my luggage?" ( answer: an assortment of cute black shirts and comfy socks. a reject-able manuscript or two. yes, this answer troubles me. now when i travel, i know i'll find myself packing for the future of humanity. "what do you mean i don't need a transceiver to go to San Francisco?")

I wonder if I was on LOST if I'd be in the cool clique or if I'd be one of the other 35 people hanging out in the background. (Seriously, what are they doing the whole time?) I wonder if I'd have the guts to go into the jungle given my aforementioned fear of the dark. I wonder if I'd eat boar, because the thought kinda disgusts me. And I wonder what my troublesome back story would be.

and of course there's the all-important

"So if i was on the island would I like Jack or Sawyer?"

I know... not easy, right? Sawyer is the front-runner right now (bad boy renegade cowboy with the great dimples, verbal sparring technique and the ability to horde supplies while keeping an incredible calm in the chaos) when I know I should like Jack (the savior and Alpha male, not to mention the stable doctor, with notably questionable taste in tattoos).

So torn. Jack is establishing a commune and selflessly gives of himself all day every day (to the point of exhaustion, dear readers, does he not?). But then again Sawyer looks so cute in his new glasses. I mean, the man stole "Watership Down" from Boone's luggage to read in his recliner while everyone else is putzing around the island collecting firewood and water and that other useless shit, you know? A man after my own heart.

See what I mean? So. not. normal.

Thanks for your attention to this matter,
-the management

ps. Only on Season One. I plan to watch Season 2 within the next week. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Sheesh. I thought you knew me.

Five things you didn't know about me:

1) I am scared of the dark. This has come to be highlighted by my recent viewings of LOST, three to four episodes at a time. For the first time I'm really feeling like "Hey, maybe I need a man around the house!" I have to do this bizarre Tarzan-y like swinging through the house, going forward and turning on a light, then going back and shutting the last one off. And I've taken to sleeping in my office because it's less creepy than my bedroom. I know, being scared of the dark is something you're supposed to outgrow and I never did. And yes, singing to myself makes it better. And yes, I do. There must be therapy for this.

2) I have a little dent on the top of my left ear where it just kinda flattens out. I thought this was pretty cool, but that was back in my teen years, when being weird was a badge of honor. I got an ear piercing up there that kinda swings over it, so no one notices. Fun fact: my cousin who just visited from Paris has the same one. Apparently ear oddities run in the Khazai family. You figure I'd get the family green eyes or the amazing high cheekbones. Can you say "short end of the stick"?

3) I've never seen Braveheart. Or Gladiator. Or anything in the Star Wars series except the first one. Nor do I want to. I went through life thinking I'd seen Star Wars, but really all I'd seen was a promo filmstrip my dad had. I didn't figure this out until recently. I should point out that it doesn't have the same appeal when your first time watching the whole thing is when you're 28 (which I was when I finally realized this gaping hole in my pop culture education and sat to watch it). Stop booing me or I won't continue.

4) I am extremely superstitious. I knock on wood (even though I heard it's a Christian thing to do so). I bite my hand when someone says something you hope would never happen (Persian thing). There is a HUGE evil eye hanging by my front door and another little one in my bedroom (note to self: get bigger evil eye for bedroom). I burn Persian incense whenever someone says many good things about me or someone else, or I even think them. I don't vacuum at night (even though I can't remember who told me it was bad luck). Yes, I even adopt superstitions I can't trace. So screw you people who send me forwarded chain letters! I read my horoscope religiously. As in, I wait up late the last night of the month to see what says is coming up for me. I go to a sidewalk psychic and think about it for years to come (can you say "self-fulfilling prophecy"?). I water the money tree in my 'career center' of my house religiously. Even though it's in the bathroom. It seems like I'd be this big old atheist, but I'm both superstitious and, get this... very very spiritual. (And not just in the "dear God, please give me a blackjack!" way. But that too.)

5) I don't want to be taller. I know, it seems inconceivable that someone 5'1 (for the record, I was 5'2" before I went to law school and carried books that proceeded to dwarf me) wouldn't want to be taller. But after I got through my childhood and adolescence I never for a single day wished to be even an inch taller. It's like I had my time battling the mean tall kids (that Andy Sternberg! (shaking fist)) I still kinda have an aversion to shrimp due to it being my unwanted nickname for so long. But I'm over it. Haven't wanted to be taller for like 10 years. Not even for a second. Thinner? Hell yeah (mostly because I could wear really cute flats all the time). But taller? Nope. I like that I fit in small spaces. I like that a 5'9 guy feels like a big giant in my world. And I will especially like it tomorrow when I fly freakin' Southwest and have to sit in row 35, you know, the one that doesn't recline.

Speaking of which, off to Phoenix tomorrow. Tune in next week for : Tales from the Desert, a Middle Eastern Memoir...

ps. I just went to check my blog and realized I'd posted this... on my company blog! AWKWARD. So for like 2 seconds the gory details of my weirdo life were dangling in front of writers everywhere. A day of that and I'd be the neurotic character in a novel!!!