So Are We, Like, On a Date?: A Scientific Study of the D Factor

I'm calling upon my friends everywhere to help me with this simple question. It's a short answer essay:

How do you define a date?

Some would say that the fact that I'm asking means I don't know/haven't been on one, whatever. Okay, stop stoning the single girl! I'm just WONDERING. It came up because another friend suggested that when I had hung out at the zoo last summer with a guy friend, that would be construed as a date. [I should add that this individual denied the aformentioned assertion upon further cross-examination this evening, claiming it was a joke.]

So how do you define a date? Like, what if one person thinks it's a date and the other person doesn't? I've definitely had this one. I've had to do the dive-roll out of the car for sure, to avoid any "unwanted tensions". Or, well, if there was going to be tension, you bet your sweet ass I wasn't going to stick around to enjoy it. When I've been interested in a guy and not felt that it was reciprocated (a certain field trip to watch a film for our French class comes to mind. O Unrequited Love. SIGH), I did NOT assert, verbally or mentally, to myself or publicly, that it had been a date. I feel like there's some mutuality involved.

So do you have to know at the time? Or can you look back and be like "Hmmmmm. I guess we WERE on a date!" On the flipside, can you go back after an okay date and be like "Nuh uh, I did NOT date him!" based on things besides the actual date interaction? [Case study: I had to backtrack after having a nice dinner with a guy a high school friend set me up with, who quickly revealed himself to be The Fastest Silent-But-Deadly Farter In the East. He trapped me in the Horror aisle at Blockbuster! Nice guy, decent conversation, good taste in music, detrimental genetics. I just could NOT say that I'd dated him, not even once. I Un-Dated him.]

Is there a time length? Is 45 minutes a date? If a group of 3 or more of your friends concur that it was a date but you don't, does that make it a date and just make you a super-denier? Is there a financial responsibility factor- like if someone invites and pays, have they taken you on a date? And then would your choices only be to have enjoyed the date or not so much, but either way it was a date? Because I can definitely be accused of exclaiming to a girlfriend that "Ohmygosh, dude, he PAID! That is SO a date!", which suggests that this may be subconsciously how I think. It also suggests that I'm not as eloquent as I'd like to be ;)

Do certain environments automatically mean that this event has become a date? Beaches, fancy restaurants? The Eiffel Tower? A blanket under the stars? Do other environments work against the date factor? Like if you guys go to, I dunno, CostCo or the old people's home together, would that then NOT be a date just by virtue of the lack of social precedents?

I'd like to take this moment offer an Amen to Jon's email today that "two single people hanging out does not constitute a date."

Then he posed a question back to me that I've been struggling with. His question was, Is prom really a date? Oh shit. He was basically saying it's an Auto-Date. Where DO auto-dates fit in? Is a blind date an auto date, and thus not REALLY a date, but more of a screening interview? If it's not a date... and if you strip me of my high school dances and my sorority events... the violent decrease in the number of 'dates' I've been on would be devastating if it weren't so damn funny.

So I'm putting it out there and I'd love to hear your thoughts, reflections, appropriately quoted song lyrics, etc. Formulas would be great (engineers, start your calculators).

If you're reading this and THINK we may have been on a date together, um, let me know ;)

Missed Connections

"u were on one of my favorite tv shows in the 8Es. u were hanging out with a guy named Buddy. email me if u get this!"

Tonight I was playing Galvez music by the band from last night (Robbers on High Street. Consider this a plug for their LP, "Tree City". We went to see Brendan Benson at the Casbah. Robbers opened, and quickly found two new fans -- Gene left with their t-shirt while I left with their cd. Anyways, a track came on that Eric thought would be a perfect intro show for a tv.

Before I knew it, I had blurted out "Yes! The theme song for a reality show starring Scott Baio!"

What the hell? I mean, who *thinks* like that? Much less VOCALIZES IT?

He's an interesting 80's star I've lost track of. I know where most of them are- who's in rehab and who is enjoying a D list movie career and who is on Broadway (hi Doogie!) or running religious camps (Kirk Cameron). Oh, and who just gave up holding on to the 80s and returned to life with the rest of us civilians. But Scott Baio? No idea. Not a clue.

And while we're at it (and since I used to get them confused all the time) - where's Ralph Macchio? You see, I'm gonna start taking karate (henceforth to be pronounced "kah-raah-tayyyyyyyyy!" with a hand chop to the air) and I thought I'd write him a fan letter...

RUN, LILLY, RUN

Real men wear red dresses.

This and many other truths were revealed this past Saturday, when I participated in my first ever Red Dress Run.

These truths are now available for the first time ever for the low, low, price of $9.95. (It was worth a try)

TRUTH #1: YE SHALL WEAR A RED DRESS

Ok, so we cheated. We spent the day shopping for red dresses, which were in short supply in San Diego county on that particular day. The dresses we found were appalling and we decided against them, although they're perfect if I ever interview for a secretarial position at a company that is 1000 years old and also requires nylons with my low heels. Yuck.

From the moment we turned the corner of City College, the starting line, we feasted our eyes upon red dresses of every size, shape and color. Bodies were equally arrayed (size, shape, color- not to mention gender and age). Usually the two were appallingly mismatched. But appalling quickly became funny, in fact delightful.

We fashioned cute little tee shirts out of our oversized "Stop Bush" tee shirts (some would claim that they're "SO six years ago!", but it ain't over til it's over and all of that. A tee shirt and skirt is very conservative gear for this particular athletic event. Men in thongs (but well-accessorized in capes and nipple rings) abounded. Girls in shredded long strips red barely-there material that harken to drying rags that hang and slap your car as you come out of the car wash. We were almost lame by comparison. Prom dresses, coctail dresses, sundresses, no dresses.

I suppose one place you *don't* need to make this particular statement is at a virtual parade of men (many of them of the military persuasion) running in teensy red dresses. On reflection, next year I'll be wearing a dress. Possibly gloves. Which brings me to my next point

TRUTH #2: RED DRESS RUN SHALL BE MORE FUN THAN HALLOWEEN

No kids. Free beer. Ditto jello shots. New friends. Hundreds upon hundreds of eligible men basking comfortably in their inherent masculinity (as demonstrated by wearing a red dress and parading through Petco Park in it). Funny people abound. A dancefloor. A guarantee that you will have a great time and be entertained by thousands of costumes without embarassing them or being subjected to alien space invaders or obscure Star Wars references. Oh, and none of those cat suits, my #1 Enemy Halloween Costume worn by girls on that special day. Naked girl mugs (I view this one benefit to be slightly gender-specific, but it might convince my guy friends to do this next year)

And the $ goes to charity, so despite all the fun you're having, you're this awesome philanthropist and can spend the rest of the weekend patting yourself on the back.

TRUTH #3: THY MUST SHELVE THY INNER JOAN RIVERS

So after the initial fascination with the sea of boys in red dresses wore off, I noticed a sudden shift in my mindframe. My surprise and staring was quickly replaced by my old friend Judgment. "Ugh. Why would he wear that and not wax his BACK?" I remedied my shock with a swig of beer (To take the edge off -- he was REALLY hairy!) and things were back to normal. I mean "normal".

TRUTH #4: YOU SHALL MAKE NEW FRIENDS

We did. Nothing like wearing a weird outfit, getting tipsy, and hobbling through the streets of your city to bring the townsfolk together.

I can say this ranked among the most fun nights I've ever had in San Diego.

TRUTH #5: THE PEOPLE SHALL RETURN

Next year. Be there or be square. Red is the new black, didn't you hear?

Caught In The Act

"What I need
is a good defense
'cause I'm feeling like
a criminal.

And I need to be redeemed..."

So sue me.

Once in awhile, when I feel lazy, I treat myself to chick lit. It makes the time on the (circle one: elliptical, exercise bike, recumbent bike) go faster. Today I did a bit of cardio, and noticing myself lagging, went to the weights. Lifted for a bit. Still lagging. So I went back to my gym locker and pulled it out. Yes, a Megan Cabot book. Like I said, sue me.

I folded the cover back and headed upstairs. Such a cute beginning! (Itemization of what the main characters bought at the airport, as told by their JFK airport store receipts, thus offering both insight into their personalities and a stage for their first encounter) Anyways, I sat on the bike. And Some Guy (capitalization intended) came and sat next to me.

Well, not six minutes into my grueling manual-level-one workout, I notice that Some Guy is reading over my shoulder! He doesn't think I can notice! He thinks because he's wearing headphones (and not the telltale white earbuds of an iPod! LOO-OO-ZE-ER!) I can't see. But I can. Because no one would strain their eyes that slanted and left to read the "quick start", "personal trainer" and "heart" buttons that hard. Over and over again. I'd read a paragraph and check back. Still there. Some Guy was truly shameless.

Do you even *realize* what a faux pas this is in Lillyland? Not that I expect social manners to be a premium at the gym, but I expected better, even from Some Guy. Yeah, file it under signing off "Cheers" (hi Ameer, hey there Neema) and incessant Seinfeld references...or...usage of the phrase "same difference" or "I couldn't give a care". Ugh. ANNOYING.

But what's more annoying is that I wanted to JUSTIFY myself. I wanted to lean over and say "heh heh, just some fun reading". I wanted to somehow tell him that Nobel winner Jose Saramago's recent novel is on my bedside (the same way I am right now slipping that into conversation). But why the need to justify myself? Particularly when it's better written than so much other stuff out there. Someone once pointedly observed to me that in The Da Vinci Code, all the "important" clues were IN ITALICS. Enough said.

I mean, what could reading chick lit really "say" about me? That I'm single? That I'm fun? That I might be of the sorting-my-life-out-mid-20s-female demographic? That I like a good laugh in well-written, by-definition-sarcastic prose? What happened to not judging a book by its cover? So what if the cover is pink? DON'T JUDGE!

Well, if all of this is a crime, then damnit, I'm a criminal.

Oh, and by the way...

I hate when people sign their emails "Cheers". No, wait -- I *loathe* it.

Thank you for your attention to this matter,
The Management

ALL THE NEWS THAT'S FIT TO PRINT

This weekend I went to a friend's wedding. Beautiful bride, beautiful setting, beautiful extensive buffet.

Observation #1: I think weddings are growing on me.

Much as the times may change, tradition doesn't. I was corralled with my single female compadres for the Bouquet Toss. You know, when the now-married girl throws her wilting bouquet at pandering single girls. Has there ever been a more demeaning tradition? Subtext: "Haha, I'm married and you're not."

Observation #2: Weddings are genocide of the single female species, who are terminated through public humiliation (see "bridesmaid dresses", "bouquet toss", and "dancing with Uncle Roy")

Well, I wasn't feeling it. So I took a few steps back. The girls had formed a U-shape. All I needed was Sylvie's wedding video to document my participation in this lineup for the zillionth time. So I kept inching back. I joked that I was "playing outfield", which of course received blank looks from the women all around me. But hey, I knew I was being funny. A few paces back, I bumped into the dj booth, so I was stuck. And there I stood.

So she launched it and...

flying in a perfect arc through the crisp valley air...

it went straight for the dj's head (bent thoughtfully over his turntable)....

and....

yup.

I consider it public service on my part. Lillys-Against-Flora-Battered-Musicians. I was just saving a life, really. I didn't even have to do anything. I just stuck my open hand up to spare him the contact.

If I'd known he was going to play the Macarena so soon thereafter, I might not have made the effort.

Oh well, hindsight is 20/20 (I just typed "hindsight is 50/50" -- it's that sometimes too). And if pigs should fly, hell should freeze over and/or Bush should get a conscience and I get married next, you heard it here first.

"I Betcha Wonder How I Knew..."

How shaky the foundations of our towers of musical wisdom can be. I was listening to a Marvin Gaye collection on the drive back from LA tonight and realized that my introduction to him-- and possibly (ugh, barf) my appetizer for a lifetime of devotion to soul music -- was via the California Raisins.

That is just so weird.

And it reminds me of a time my brother told me that he loved the new Puff Daddy song on the Godzilla soundtrack (once upon a time, there was a Puff Daddy who was then a P Diddy. He'll probably become a symbol next- don't say I didn't call it). Anyways, I got SO mad because the hook of the song was Led Zeppelin, and it disturbed me to think that because of the way we constantly recast/recapitulat/remix music, he wouldn't know where the true credit lies.

But he isn't alone on that. I think we've all fallen victim to covers and remixes. I thought "Make Me Wanna Holla" was a hook original to Brand New Heavies. My cousin nearly nailed me to the wall with a glare upon that comment. I thought "Fever" was Madonna's. I thought White Christmas was New Kids On The Block's. Just kidding on that one.

But really, THE CALIFORNIA RAISINS? (groan) That said, what an amazing marketing campaign.

If I Were A Rich Girl

Tonight, rather than work out or catch up on work or phonecalls, I felt the need to reorganize cds. Is there a way to feel richer? Hello Mozart, hello Bebel Gilberto, hiya Wham! Great to see you again. Danny Wilson, man who sang that incredible song "Mary" (as rediscovered in "Something About Mary") -- I don't have *that* album, but a subsequent failure. Hi Danny. You're safe with me. Hi, Complete Madonna Collection. And hi U2 collection (just in case people accuse me of being a sap with Madonna). Cds by my friends and my siblings. And even my own brief appearance at the mic of Dave's Son. Oh! And look, being undecided, I have both Duran Duran "greatest hits" and "decade". Subtle differences, but requirements for the 80s fan.

Right now I'm listening to the soundtrack from Grand Theft Auto. They put out like 5 cds of the music from the video games. I'm listening to the "emotion" channel, so I nod my cap to Mr.Mister (Mister Mister?). This blog began after Toto's "Africa" had finished, but that deserves mention as well. There are songs playing that I can't even name, nor recognize the artist, and yet sing along naturally -- songs that must have played while I was in a carseat in the back of my mom's car on the way to nearly drown myself at the YMCA.

Have your fancy schmancy cars, your bags of Louis V. in brown-on-brown. Any day I feel poor, all it takes is a little journey through my music and I'm a rich girl (yes, I have that too). Plus, the memories it triggers are priceless. Memory after memory. Happy, sad, distant, recent, funny, awkward, nostalgic -- pick your poison. Kinda like flipping through old pictures, except you don't comment on how fat you were.

Honesty is the best policy.

Stop me if I've told you this blog before:

A short while back, a series of events led me to make this proclamation: "I hope my husband has a good health plan." Anyone who knows me -- or hell, anyone who has talked to me for more than two minutes -- knows that I don't begin sentences with "When I'm married" or "When I have a husband" or "at my wedding" and so on. (It's just not a frame of reference for me ever since Kirk Cameron gave his heart to Chelsea Noble. My heart will go on, etc etc.) But the comment came tumbling out of my mouth and I couldn't even take it back, because I'm Honest Lil and, well, I meant it!

Unfortunately, things got taken to another level when tonight I admitted to a friend (unprovoked AND via email- paper trail. Double whammy.) that if there were a website listing guys' health plans instead of their stupid favorite movies and hobbies, I'd probably drop the cash and sign up. Cupid, here I come.

To my defense, given Eric "The Great Galvini"s recent escapades with his HMO, I just think I'm evolving within my lifetime to survive this cruel, cruel world. Some girls want diamonds, some want a vacation home in Spain and an unlimited shopping budget. I mean, I'm not *fighting* the villa dream or anything, but some days all I want is low co-pays and immediate appointments, maybe a discount on prescriptions. Could it be that the Persian social wisdom that nudges us girlies to date doctors has the right idea after all?

Whatever, I'm just being honest.

Never Say Never

When I was little, the worst day of any school year was the President's Stupid Fitness Test. Capitalization intended, because that's exactly how I felt about it -- and still do, actually. I'll probably write my kids a sick note and sit on the couch and eat chocolate and let them watch movies with lots of "fuck this, fuck that", just to prove a point that day. All it did was make me feel shitty, because not only was I the last one, but I got less than zero sympathy for the fact that I had really bad asthma. I probably ran like a 56 minute mile. But at least I'd do it. And then my gym teacher would fail me and shun me. Maybe spank me. I don't know, I just know I was always *repelled* by the concept of moving faster than a brisk walk.

Somewhere along the way, however, I started to kinda overcome the asthma. It was a mental thing, I'm convinced. But it's brought me far --I bring this up to say that I'm forcing myself into being a runner. It's just happening. I don't even recognize myself anymore. We've had alot of talks about this lately - how we know we're getting older because our interests and priorities have changed. We've gone from "Hey -- bring over the Aftershock and let's do some shots before we hit up that party" to "Hey- will you call me at 7 to be sure I woke up for our long (read: 7 miles or so) run?" We have shunned clubs and bars and smokiness and flirting with random strangers in honor of solitude while fishing on a lake in the middle of the outskirts of nowhere. And so on and so forth.

The coolest thing about running, besides the fact that I could never do it before and in so doing relive a part of everyone else's happy childhood, is the fact that it totally wears me out. I have this chronic problem of just thinking too much. Some of that has to do with launching the company. Now that I'm the captain of my own ship, blah blah blah, I'm more driven than ever. Like I needed more motivation or something. Anyways, I'll watch tv -- say Sex and the City (ahem, I meant The Golden Girls) -- but actually my mind will be making a list of what authors I need to call or who I need to connect with in NY before they break for lunch. But running has brought this amazing calm into my life. Because I'm so friggin worn out by the time I'm done that I'm just happy to be alive. I don't really stress out. I take my time, eat a little something, and just usually sleep. When you're that tired, you don't worry about bills or what to do tomorrow or what was left undone. During the run sometimes you'll think about what's been bothering you, but for the most part, you just need to remind yourself to breathe, and that's enough work to focus on.

Secondary benefits to running include a sense of community. Strangers are friendly to each other in San Diego, but there's this runner comeraderie -- the little nod as you pass -- that you're in on. People who are walking look at you like you're a godess because you're running and they're "just walking". I remember when "just walking" was still a big deal. They respect you as a member of the I Take My Fitness Seriously community. Today, I was jogging towards two walkers, and the woman grabbed her husband and pulled him out of the way. I'd like to tell you it was because I move at such a rate that she worried for his safety given my oncoming speed, but it was just a gesture of respect. But hell, who doesn't like a little respect now and then.

Plus I got new coolmax(tm) socks that miraculously avoid stinky feet syndrome. Yay! Christmas present for CJ (no, he's not a runner. That's not the point.)

So yeah, basically I recommend running as the antidote to everything that has ever irked you. It's my present to myself. You take a look around and enjoy views because you're not zipping by in your car. You sweat out everything in your day. And then you think about the President's Stupid Fitness Test and sweat that out too. No phone, so you don't answer to anyone except yourself (I am loathe to carry ANYTHING more than my own damn body weight).

And then you get home and... just *crash*. I'm not even hungry when I'm done, which we all know is a miracle. The end. Cut scene. Nighty-night. It's a drug. And you do it over and over and over again, pushing yourself farther and higher, well, until your knees give out. Or at least I will :)

Thank You For Being a Friend...

Tonight, my sister, her boyfriend and I happened to catch two different shows back to back.

Sex and the City has met its throwback match: The Golden Girls.

I mean, really, what were the chances that we'd catch both in the same night? Ok, high. But still.

I hazard a guess that maybe Sex and the City is just a Golden Girls RIPOFF! I mean, look at the formula:

WHO:
Four friends: the sexy one, the straightforward sarcastic one, the unexpectedly wise one, and the prude.
Golden Girls: Blanche, Dorothy, Sophia, Rose
Sex in the City: Samantha, Miranda, Carrie, Charlotte

WHAT:
Group of random girlfriends battling the issues particular to their age demographic.

WHERE:
Florida was the "it" place for the 80s. Miami Vice backs this concept up. Now? NYC. Maybe the Olympic Committee didn't agree, but the creators of Sex and the City did.

I'm sure somewhere in the internetosphere, a site must be dedicated already to this brilliant (if I may say so myself) observation. Let me know? If you do, I'll sing the St. Olaf Fight Song... (Go, St. Olaf, go go go! St. Olaf, Go! Go go go go go go go go go....)

But this all brings me to the Holy Grail of TV Knowledge. If you know, you are my hero: So like, really, what's the deal on this whole Bea Arthur gender thing?

Bonus if you know of anyone who has covered the theme song.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Can't Touch This

Remember when "can't touch this" simply indicated an average looking guy moving laterally in ridiculous glittery gold genie pants? Yeah, times were so simple back then.

I'm starting to learn how people operate in their relationships. Ownership, possession, restriction. The more you're willing to reset your boundaries, the more you love someone. The more someone likes you, the more they will reset their boundaries. These seem to be the theorems that hold our romantic universes together. And they're my bastardized paraphrasings of what we talked about at dinner.

I operate on weird laws. Like everyone else I know got gravity, but I got weirdo moon shoes and a helmet. I operate distinctly on a "no possession but also no forgiveness" rule. I trust and at least I don't lose sleep til something happens. I can't imagine trawling through someone else's belongings or scrutinizing just how they talked to their girl friend or asking for a roster of their female coworkers just to forbid them one by one from socializing. Then again, I can't imagine dating! ;) My ultimate declaration (as I stuffed one more piece of Hot Hot Spider Roll in my mouth.) was that we live in a culture of possession. And I think that's extending to our personal lives and it's weird. Some say that I'm just an idealist (a euphemism in polite circles for "wrong"). That it's normal to want to be possessive of the person you're dating. I don't get like that. This could be the guys I date just not inspiring that response. But maybe I missed a step -- like I missed that day of girlie conduct class or something. As Jon has pointed out, I tend to give the guys I date more than enough rope. And we know what happens when you do that...

At another point of our conversation, someone (hi James!) was offering an analogy. In this car analogy, I was... a station wagon.

So depressing.

Diary of a Domestic Godess

My friend just finished her 2 year job and is taking a few days off, staying with me. This morning I decided to treat us to a cooked breakfast -- pancakes, eggs, cafe au laits. etc. Anyways, she then made this remark:

"You make Persian moms proud. You cook too much food, you won't let anyone touch the dishes, and you do it all in a cute little black dress."

That said, the hangover was completely my own touch ;)

But then it got me thinking... I'm cooking *alot* more these days. I knit. I read Martha Stewart and Bon Appetit magazines with interest. I may have clipped recipes, but I'm not admitting anything. I just revamped my patio garden.

I think I'm nesting or something.

Unless that requires being pregnant. In which case I've just tapped into my domestic godess superpowers, and will now unleash them upon the world.

I'm Bad, I'm Bad, You Know It: A Meditation on the State of All Things Michael Jackson

Today I saw a breach in our justice system that I just can't get over.

I know that at approximately 2:15 Pacific time this afternoon, bloggers must have been going nuts. The Jackson child molestation verdict was in: NOT GUILTY. Slam goes the gavel. Well, not really, but we've all watched enough of The Practice to know how it goes. And the nation parted in two -- the believers (who might be seen outside the courtroom with white arm bands) and the disbelievers, who rolled their eyes and changed the channel.

And then there was me. Mouth agape. Criminal behavior had gone unpunished. He wasn't even CHARGED for his biggest offense? And what is that, you might ask?

I want to talk about his last album.

You see, part of me believes that maybe Michael started up this whole stink himself. I mean, no one could *voluntarily* want to spend time with the snide Martin Bashir, could they? Even weirdo Michael? I mean, he could hang out with Liz Taylor or his monkey or just chill and be one with himself in the oxygen tent. No one deserves Martin Bashir, and Michael knows this. Secondly, while he acts like a child, Michael is 46 years old. He knows better- or the people around him do -than to tell a schmoozy journalist that he climbs in bed with children. There is NO WAY that happened accidentally.

So I put my law degree to work. I sat down and I thought long and hard about it. And when the commercial break was over, I know what had happened.

The molestation trial was a stinkbomb. It had to be big. It had to be bad. It had to be newsworthy. Because it had to outstink the Invincible album.

Now I know you're sitting there wondering what I'm talking about. That's exactly the point. The man who put out zillions of Jackson 5 singles, not to mention Thriller, then Bad, then Dangerous made a boo-boo. It came in the form of the Invincible album, the most redeeming quality of said album being a Print Shop-meets-Andy Warhol cover -- collect all five colors. Did you really expect me to be distracted by that, Michael? Mikey had released "Blood on the Dancefloor", a remix album you blinked and missed -- but it was remixes so it doesn't "count" against him.

The "gem" on Invincible, aka. the semi-decent track, was "Rock My World". The fun of that one came more from the beat and the Chris Tucker appearance making fun of Michael ("shamon! SHAMON!") than anything else. In the video, Michael clearly plays second fiddle to Tucker, who I love, but let's be real - his career high point was Rush Hour. Tucker's partner in crime was Jackie Chan, now it's Michael. Not good, MJ, not good. Jackson videos used to feature Naomi Campbell and Michael Jordan. His songs used to co-star Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder. Now his own sister couldn't even touch the mic.

Rumor has it that MJ asked producer Rodney Jerkins to write him a ton of songs, then only picked a few for the album. Rumor also has it that the leftovers went to Justin Timberlake's debut album. And we all know how that fairy tale went, don't we? I believe I was quoted as saying that "Justin Timberlake has out-Michael Jacksoned Michael Jackson", a statement I stand by.

I've been listening to the album over and over, and I'm distressed. INVINCIBLE sounds like a Jackson impersonator's demo on a Casio keyboard. A decent impersonator, but one who's learned all the tricks - the Michael "ah" and the Michael falsetto, with none of the personal style that had us all glued to our tvs for every award show over the span of 10 years. If it wasn't Michael, I would have arm-wrestled the Tower Records cashier for my money back.

(Side note: I know a girl whose mom's friend sewed MJ's glove. Take a minute with that fun fact.)

"Rock My World", the only salvageable track, was soon remixed with the Justin Timberlake song "Rock Your Body", never to be heard au naturel again. The first three tracks are blameless, but there isn't much to distinguish them from one another. I like them because I wanted so badly to like them. "Butterflies" was covered by someone (Floetry?) and turned out better. 2000 Watts was covered by Tyrese. Not sure how much better he could make it, but hell, he looks good, so who cares? We're left with Michael trying to convince us that he's "Invincible" "Unbreakable" a "Heartbreaker" and "Threatened". He "needs his privacy -- yeah yeah". I liked that one better when it was called "Scream". He even makes a last-ditch effort to offer his perennial children's anthem ("The Lost Children"), which is a rehash of "Heal the World", complete with children's chorus. Who knew when the news said he has a studio at home that they just meant he mics his bed? :)

I'm the last person to hope Michael calls it quits. I've got nothing but love for what he used to be. And I think he should take his time to make the right steps in the right direction. Basically, I just hope he'll stop rushing into things -- including but not limited to the recording studio. Being a Michael Jackson fan is a pain in the arse these days. I don't want to have to defend the allegedly detachable nose. I don't want to have to defend the sleepovers. And I sure as hell shouldn't be defending a Grammy winner's musical abilities. Sheesh, Mike, where can I get *my* cut of your defense fund?!

So there, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is the real crime. Unpunished, but not forgotten.

Smooth criminal? I don't think so.

With this blog, I thee wed.

I just got done writing the most pathetic email of, well, let's go with -- the week. I emailed weddingchannel.com to beg them to please let me know if I'd already gotten a particular friend her wedding gift (the wedding was a month and half ago). In retrospect, I realize that my email was long-winded. I imagine there is a really nice guy sitting in India and reading weddingchannel.com's emails and wondering what the hell I'm on about.

I'm attending weddings at a rate that would make Elizabeth Taylor's head spin. Add in the subsets of engagement parties, showers, and bachelorette parties, and you'll see where the little free time work leaves me goes. But when I had to write this pleading email begging weddingchannel.com/Ravi to help me keep track and basically GET A GRIP, I realized something had to change.

I need to marry myself.

Yes, marry myself! It's what Kevin Nadal did. You may have seen him -- on The View, or the Today Show, or maybe sitting across from me in Koreatown in NYC last week, indulging in Korean barbeque and friendly banter. Prompted by a plotline in Sex in the City (which I don't watch, and always causes me to recheck my typing, because I don't know if it's Sex in the City or Sex AND the City - a fact which I did not, of course, tell Kevin), he made a decision. He was always going to other people's celebratory events and Kevin decided it was time to do his own celebrating. So -- he married himself. The fact that he is a performance artist and psychologist only makes this more delightful.

Fast forward: registry, tuxedo, tons of attention, tons of presents.

What I'd like to focus on is the "tons of presents" part. Kevin felt that, after all the gift-giving he had done, he deserved the same. He did it all - bridesmaids, vows, partying like it's 1999. He registered for tons of prezzies, even (as reported by Salon.com, although I'm sure he'd tell me if I asked, because we're like be-fri's now) a sno-cone machine.

But this isn't about Kevin. This is about me.

I think the time has come for me to do the same. Celebrate myself? Whatev. I think there are enough people in the world celebrating themselves and being celebrated (People magazine makes a living based on this simple fact). Dressing up? Let's see: The last time I wore a strapless long creme gown, I pulled the top layer over my head, formed what appeared to be a chador from it, and insisted that my friend draw me a moustache and unibrown so I could march around my house and explore what I would have looked like if my parents had never emigrated. I think I lost "dress up" privileges somewhere there. Vera Wang won't come near me.

But gifts? I need those! You see, regifting is really a lost art form...

*BEEP* A MESSAGE FROM THE EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM

I think this qualifies as an emergency. My sister thinks I like country music. Shit. That's like if someone accused me of liking Danielle Steele books or how Julia Stiles dances. As in, you could be ruining my rep. So let me take a moment to clarify. I don't HATE country music anymore. I'm embracing white people and cowboy hats. It's sociological research, really. I'm trying to get inside the mind of Red America -- but through their ears. Or something like that. It's totally, um, subversive.

I'm over country music. I don't even want to talk about it anymore. What I want to talk about is the phoenix rising from the flames that is Mariah Carey. I have been totally CAPTIVATED by her new single. The video is less impressive, highlights being her dancing around in only a long shirt and then running away with some guy (implied to be her stood-up groom's son) and driving away with him in a convertible with the train flowing and dragging behind them. Somewhere Vera Wang is crying.

Back to the song. Which is SPECTACULAR. I think it's been a little while since pop has had a songstress (this goes on the list of words I hate but use anyways like "schlep" -- subcategory: Yiddish words Muslim girls probably have no place using and ginormous, which I found out yesterday is the #1 most used non-dictionary word, thank you Ameer).

The song is "We Belong Together" and slides off the cheesily titled "The Emancipation of Mimi". And the remix featuring Styles P is only more infectious.

ON ALBUM TITLE: I feel her. I mean, I've watched Cribs. I would probably need to be emancipated -- or just escorted back to safety -- if I had walk-in closets larger than multiple-family homes (she loves her white tanks). To be fair, she did need to be emancipated from Tommy Motola. She had to be emancipated from short shorts (although her video suggests that she's mid-process). She had to be emancipated from black tank dresses and Whitney Houston duets.

ON THE SONG ITSELF: It's very sad. The last song that bothered me this much was "Hands" by Jewel, which, much to my dismay, gets me teary. But more than that, it's an infectious song and has the hallmark of what made her a star. The singer that pumped out "Vision of Love" and "Vanishing" is back. Her Rainbow album boasted hip hop friends and a voice that stunk of too many smoky rooms and late nights and too little chamomile tea. In my defense, I didn't buy it. The break point on that decision was a song dissing Derek Jeter. I don't like him, but I didn't like her flat singing even more. And so I moved on. I suspect this may be reason for her nervous breakdown, but sources haven't confirmed.

ON THE 'ARTISTE': I've been wondering all afternoon how someone who comes across as so super-ditzy (I'm being very polite about this -- see In re Cribs Visits Mariah Carey) can be such an incredible artist. I've heard that she insists on being heavily involved in the arrangement of her vocals. And it's pure genius. So how??? I console myself by thinking everyone gets different talents. She got the voice of an angel, but she can't dance for shit. (It's fun to notice how they try to work around this very obvious fact in her videos.)

ON ME: I don't care if the rest of the album sucks - this song is GOOD. She works in hooks from some r&b classics and it's so simple with just a beat and sparse piano chords. In an age of pop songs being hypersuperoverorchestrated, I love it. Enough to write about it. Or maybe I'm just taking attention away from my detractor and her "country-loving" allegations. Which, must I remind you?, are false. Slander! Libel! Someone call a lawyer!

So, for all you Mariah-haters out there, I regret to say that I'm giving up my post as club president. Unless I find out "We Belong Together" means she's trying to get Derek Jeter back. In which case I will resume my post, effective immediately.

Hire Me, Britney

The other night my friend and I were, wouldyabelieveit, rambling on about nothing. This nothing quickly came to conversation about Britney Spears. My friend's query to the universe (ok, or me) was "What if Britney did a country album? Can you imagine ---" and she *wanted* to continue her sentence with something like '--just imagine how horrific that would be?" But I cut her off.

Pure genius.

I'm not one to beat on someone when they're down. Ok, I am, but only if it's funny. I don't even think Britney's "sitch" is funny. Getting pregeroni by a guy you lifted off a pregnant woman -- a guy who calls to mind Vanilla Ice's better days? Hm. A step down from Justin, I'd have to say. I've started to suspect that she's on Glamour's "Don't" list payroll. One magazine tried to tell readers that she'd cut her own clothes as a fashion statement. But I could see the truth. Someone played her "Hit Me Baby" one time too many and she'd shredded her own clothing with her fake nails. Somewhere in between flying in a jet full of Coffee Bean (thanks US Magazine for that crucial info). Once so cute and sweet- on par with Mickey and Minnie and the rest of the Disney gang, she's taken a turn to the dark side. She kissed Madonna, which would be a step up, but Sandra Bernhard beat you to it. You danced with a snake, but -- oops!-- LaToya Jackson beat you to that. And you got half-nekked and sweaty in your videos- but Xtina beat you to that. Before taking your man away on tour. It's been a rough ride is all I'm saying.

But as my friend spoke those words, something made total sense. THIS COULD BE HER SALVATION. I think the country world will take her back. If I were here manager, my business plan for her would involve a return to Christianity ("let's just snip this little red string around your wrist, shall we?"), big big curlers, and perhaps a twangy cover of "Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong", with a b-side of the national anthem (of course).

Hell, she's got so much going for her -- the fashion sense. She's got the excruciating accent. The political "sensibilities" of a girl who's never left the farm. The main problem lies in the fact that country singers-- much as they make me cringe (or used to) -- have good voices. She'd have to work on that one. But she could pack a stadium in Louisiana any day.

And so much drama to sing about, no less.

VISION LIKE A HAWK (tm)

Oh, SH*T, so that's what you look like!!!

Welcome to my week.

Last week, at the gentle (repetitive) nudging of my dad, I went to see what this whole Lasik thing was about. I had exactly 2 friends I could name who had had it. One did it at the end of high school and has since had halo vision. The other raved about it. So, 50/50 in my cup, I went over to the office, eager dad in tow.

One might stop the story right here and ask why my dad doesn't do Lasik himself. To answer all one of you (hi mom!), he thinks men look distinguished with glasses. The implication was that women do not. After 4 days of wearing my old pair of glasses at the doctor's request, I was more than ready to cast them aside. Yuck. They look so cute on people, but not on me. Instead of my usual "You're 27? But you look 16!", I had started to look like a 16 year old prodigy (read: nerd), which is just weird. And to others, I must have appeared a 16 year old prodigy with an attitude problem. I was ready to get me some eyeballs.

The point is (and I'm leaving out a whole 1.5 hours of boring eye testing) that they told me I'm a great candidate. I felt like I had done something worthy. Like gotten good grades and been accepted somewhere. But really they were just telling me that I'm (WAS!) so damn blind that they'd take pity on me and beam lasers into my face until they could f*** me up enough to fix me. Ta da. I didn't even really understand how they would do it, but it sounded cool, and hey, it worked for half of my friends. So, never one to dawdle, I asked them when they could give me new eyeballs. They said "tomorrow".

Someone noted that I am really spontaneous when it comes to things like this. He said it as a compliment, but when I tell you that my "spontenaity" landed me a hot date for surgery on my eyes (the only two that God gave me, I should note) on Friday the 13th, perhaps you won't agree. But Friday the 13th has always been my lucky day. Now, I will proceed to give you snippets, ie. "Best of Lilly in Surgery":

Scene 1: (Lilly has just been given Xanax for the first time)
Nurse: Ok, Lilly. I just have one question for you.
Lilly: Sure.
Nurse: When is your birthday?
Lilly: ----
Lilly: ----
Lilly: um....
Nurse (smiling): Perfect. You can lie down now.

Scene 2:
Doctor: We're going to put drops in your eyes to numb you.
(2 seconds later, dragging what appears to be a green felt marker over my eyeball)

Doctor: Can you feel this?

Scene 3:
Doctor: Now, don't mind the burning smell.

It was just RAD. Seriously. It was my own science fiction movie. It was like Total Recall, except instead of sticking things up my nose, they were sticking them in my eye. And thanks to Xanax, I did NOT care. They could have taken out my eyeballs and sold them on eBay and I would have smiled in my bliss. Beautiful. At some point it did hit me that it was somewhat weird to entrust your visual safety to a complete stranger just because he charges you a lot of money and appears to have gone to Harvard. But I thought this as my vision was closing out and the laser got closer and...

All of 8 minutes later, he (no, he's a god at this point. Let's go with He) told me to sit up and read the clock across the room. So I did. Just like that. Snap. Vision like a hawk.

The prescription they sent me home with pretty much amounted to "rest your eyes. um. see you in a month and half". I had to finally blog about this, so I guess I'm a bad patient, staring at this screen, dear reader. But I needed to share the magic of science with you. First there was Dolly the Sheep. Then there were Lilly's New Eyeballs. Do miracles ever cease?

People keep asking me how the world is different. Well, I can see your ugly face, for one. Everything is just in FOCUS. I don't know how else to explain it. I mean, when you have messed up eyes, you just wear your contacts 25 hours a day and trudge along and assume you see what you need to get by. But then I got home and I was like "Oh, so THIS is what the view from my window is like." I used to stand on my balcony and point visitors in the general direction of Petco Park and just say "so there's the Park". Now I can tell you the colors of the cars parked on the lot in front of it. A parking lot I notably didn't even know existed until Saturday afternoon. I can see the pretty buildings in Mission Valley. I can see a few cars ahead of me when I'm driving down the highway -- with my newly improved LillyNightVision. Getting up and seeing what my room looks like first thing in the morning. This is living. I guess mostly I see views I couldn't see before. But it's just about knowing you can trust your eyes. That they're showing you everything. Forget 20/20. I got me some 20/15, biyatch.

This week I will be doing a study on the effect of Lasik on beer goggles. Naturally.

So, you see, this week, while my friends are nanu-nanu-ing each other and getting all hot and bothered about the new installment in the Star Wars series (before you ask, yes, grown adults apparently lose sleep over this. I can introduce you, but I think you need to know some sort of handshake.) But me? I'm over it. I've been lasered and tasered and I *am* the Battlestar Galactica.

Or something like that.

THE CONFESSIONAL

Tonight I went to hang out with my parents (okay, and to experience the delicacy otherwise known as "Mom's home cooking"). I didn't want to eat and run, so we settled in front of their tv. I should mention here that watching tv at my parents' house is like taking a trip back to 1986, when the G's didn't have cable. Wait, that was 1996. Anyways, when they moved to California, they became prisoners of the Cable Industrial Complex and were forced to have cable in order to have tv. So they have basic cable.

I SAY THIS ALL to say that our viewing choices were limited. After back-to-back episodes of Becker (where did I sin in my life to deserve a dual heaping of Ted Danson, I ask?), my mom flipped channels and something compelled me to ask her to stop when I saw Celine Dion. The devil made me do it. We proceeded to watch the Biography episode about Celine (pronounced with exaggerated French accent honed over 7 years of schooling in said subject).

Ok, sit down. Here's the confession:

I didn't wince. Not once.

Signs I May Be Morphing. This Could Be Ugly.

Right now a distinctly country song is on the radio (nothing like a little 96.5 to ease you into your slumber). I'm talking Tim McGraw, banner country music. And I didn't throw up. Correction: I didn't even gag.

I know this happens to people. One of my best friends, one of those friends I spent hours pouring over hip hop cds with, stunned me with a country song as her WEDDING SONG. She hadn't mentioned it to me, and for good reason, I think. And now I am one of them. Come on, you know it's a process. It starts with the Dixie Chicks. They come on, and you don't change the channel. Then you (read: I) suddenly know the words to "Wide Open Spaces", Cowboy Take Me Away, etcetera etcetera. Level three of this disease involves actually taking a moment to imagine what aformentioned "Cowboy" might look like. Then, before you know it, you are listening to "Live Like You Were Dying" and it's halfway through the song before you realize that you haven't been electrocuted by the need to change the station. The battle has been lost.

Once in awhile, I've wondered how different I would have turned out if I'd been born and raised in Iran. Today I brought it closer to what I could imagine- what if I'd been raised in LA? New York? Colorado?

It didn't take but a moment to know. Being born and raised in the 902xx zip code series would find me 20 pounds thinner and 20 IQ points shorter in any given conversation. I'd reward myself for philanthropic acts (like letting someone walk across the crosswalk before my shiny black Mercedes) with dainty gifts like Chanel glasses or an ugly white purse with random lettering that cost more than the money contained therein. I would NOT work. Let me reiterate that. I would NOT work. I'd donate all my time to AIDS Project Los Angeles, taking time for long lunches on Sunset (not matter where you raise me, I imagine I'd be a people watcher). In the grand tradition of LA, I'd have to find someone to use in a big bad way. Lemme think... I'd use Nicole Richie to get to her dad, and then I'd make him sing me "Easy" as my outgoing message, erupting in a fit of giggles at how inspired I am!!!! I'd also use exclamation points alot. I'd speak Persian with a Persian accent rather than the midwestern nightmare I currently garnish my sentences with. Hell, I'd probably pepper my *English* with a Persian accent I didn't have.

New York would have brought me in the other direction. My artistic aspirations would have been nurtured each and every time I inhaled the sweet urine-doused scent of the subway. I'd have a shaggy haircut (ok, I just threw that in there because I've always wanted one) and I'd wear ripped flourescent tights (I'd have my Desperately Seeking Susan renaissance whenever I damn well pleased, you see. Isn't that NY's motto? Do whatever the hell you want to do?). I would dance in the third row of a b-list dance company. I'd adopt a stage name like "Lillyphus" or something equally absurd. I would then take a permanent marker and write it on my shoes. And maybe my arm. I would have the nose piercing I always wanted, because I'd live somewhere where my parents couldn't argue the fact that "everyone else has one!". I'd probably look much older than I do, just by virtue of the fact that places stay open past 2am and I might take advantage of that. I wouldn't have a NY accent, though, because I'm running this scenario.

Colorado? I just got back. It's the most gorgeous place I've been in a long time. I really fell in love with it while I was there this past weekend, which struck up this whole train of thought. I had a hard time figuring out what the "Born in CO" scenario might have brought me. Right now, as Tim or Garth or whoever it was sang his heart out and I didn't cry out, curl into a ball and roll under my desk in a swift tornado-drill catlike reflex, I suddenly knew. No siree. If that had been the case, I would have been singing along (Love is in the Heir, anyone?). That, my friends, would not be pretty. I guess things happen the way they do for a reason. The birth certificate says "Evanston, IL". The mail I get says "San Diego, CA". And thankfully, *nothing* says "y'all".

Hoot or Be Hooted or Ode to Owen

Last night we went linedancing. A cultural experience, if you will. The theme of the evening was "hoot squared". The plan was that first we'd dine (if you can call it that) at Hooters (one of the six in San Diego, I learned). Then we would mosey down the street to a country western bar called In Cahoots, where we would learn the folk dances of white people. Who could resist? Not me.

Hooters was, well, anticlimactic. Women with cosmetically improved breasts greeted us with sorority-pitched voices (yes, I realize it takes one to know one) "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!! Welcome to Hooters!". Then we sat at a table and our waitress (whose silicone stretched skin had an uncanny resemblance to pork casing) proceeded to take the guys' orders. Then she left. No, I am not kidding. Her little bleached-blonde head turned, and her orange short shorts and tan tights and 1985 aerobic stacked athletic socks and white sneakers marched out of view. I wasn't going to be a hater. I had gone to Hooters with an open mind (Um. obviously). But this meant war. When I asked her if I could order my dinner as well, she looked extremely perplexed (confirming my belief that they don't let their waitresses eat. Ever.). "Um. Okay. Like. I'm gonna take these drink orders. And then? Um. I'll come back and take orders." This as wing sauce dripped down the faces of a gleeful Ryan, Eric, Jon and Hong.

Sigh.

I took a moment to memorialize the signs the girls had worked soo hard to make. (Author omits another dig at sorority girls). "Have you seen our new Sea Food menu?". Apparently this is two words. You learn something new every day. Thanks Hooter Girls!

I'll spare you the rest of the dining experience, which included but was not limited to some guy trying to hit on me on my way to the bathroom. Um, let me just make a public service announcement here and now.

Gentlemen: Times not to hit on a woman include when she is beelining for the bathroom. Secondly, do not assume she speaks Spanish, no matter how Latina she looks. Finally, when trying to woo the ladies, Hooters might not be your best bet. At least save it for the parking lot. Jeez.

So then we went to In Cahoots. Somewhere along the way, while living my little urban lifestyle, I failed to realize that people line up, 100 people deep, for hours outside this bar in Mission Valley. A fair number (read: more than one or two) were in their white cowboy hats and Wranglers. Everyone had their shirts tucked in, as per the dress code. Seeing men with shirts tucked in is worth your $7 admission alone. I thought it must have been a Spring Break rush, but apparently that's the norm over there. What people won't do for $1.75 you-call-its. As we approached the door, 2Pac's "California Love" came blaring from the rustic windows. Um. Yeah.

So we went in, and made for the bar, as any woman worth her salt would. Armed with my wine freshly poured from a generic jug under the bartender's counter, I made my way to the dancefloor. That's where I saw Owen. So nicknamed by Gemma for his resemblance to a famous actor of our generation, he was a sight to behold. The only way I can describe it is this: ballroom dance champion with cowboy fashion sensibilities. I mean, this guy was a GOOD dancer. While some others (one guy who I would end up dancing with, as luck would have it) danced their partners around the floor with all the grace -- and speed- of a drag race, Owen stood out. As did his unbuttoned shirt boasting, well, not a single chest hair. I think the stetson laying low on his face helped mask all of his 19 years or so.

You learn a lot by going new places. A good share of my evening was spent peoplewatching under the banner/excuse of "I'm middle eastern. We don't stomp."

I learned that there is a line dance to Sweet Home Alabama. I also learned that some company actually makes tee shirts that say "Save a horse. Ride a cowboy." I learned that there are people who actually wear them. I learned that the scrawniest guy will surprise you and be the best dancer. I learned that there are dances that people with no rhythm can perform successfully. I learned that, lest any of you out there be worried your time is running out, it is socially acceptable in some circles to make out on a dance floor when you're 35, 40, nay 50. I learned that country music can be bearable in mass quantities in the right situation.

I also learned that I have a poetic side. I'd like to conclude this entry with an Ode to Owen;

Like a ballerina
In a cowboy hat
You danced the floor
And that was that

With a twirl
You spun that girl
Punk.
You should have danced with me.

So that gross guy would have left me alone.
The one who smelled like barf
No thanks to $2 you-call-its.

With a hitchkick
Up in the air
You broke into my heart
And I won't share
You with Gemma.

'Tis the Season

This morning my roommate got an email from her dad:

"Don't forget to jump over fire tonight. Love, Dad"

Lest ye be under the mistaken impression that the only holidays that exist are those alloted careful space on Hallmark shelves, let me welcome you to Persian New Year. For all the negative press Middle Easterners get, you think we'd get a teensy bit of recognition for the creative spark to our holidays. Tonight is Char Shanbeh soori. What this involves is good food, jumping over fire (or carrying old people over fire, which rivals Chapelle's Show in hilarity), and friends. No presents, just good people and maybe some dancing if you're one of 5000 Iranians to crowd onto the grass of Mission Bay.

With age, I've broadened my appreciation of Persian holidays. Rewind. I grew up, indeed, I think all three of us G offspring did, with the mistaken impression that we were Christian Persians. We lived in a Jewish suburb of Chicago. For December arts and crafts you did red and green or you did blue and white. I went with red and green and called it a day. My sister went through a brief period of exploring her Jewish side, tacking a homemade Star of David on her door and issuing my mom a stern warning: "don't CHOUCH it!" Soon that was replaced with a "stay out" type of sign and she expanded her talents beyond construction paper, but that's another story for another day. (Hi susie!)

In any case, like I said, Santa was the man. I tried to ignore my dismay that so many of my friends had oh so many nights of gifts coming their way and did my best to loot at Christmas, in between jetting to exotic warm destinations. However we had one secret in our pockets. Right around March 21st, Mom would call us in sick for the day, citing family obligations. Hey, any family where staying home and dressing up in new clothes and eating til you're sick and then ceremonially accepting wads of freshly printed cash from family friends is a family I want to be part of.

My American friends leaned in closer. "You get *what*?" I'd beam back the free advertising smile of the daughter of a dentist. "Yup, money." "Like how much?" "It depends." But it didn't really. My parents were always extremely generous. Once in awhile there was a gift. Like the year my dad got into the spirit and bought me a 'ghettoblaster' and taught me how to dub tapes. Most often it was crisp cash tucked within the pages of the Quran. God help me escape the mental connectio between Quran pages and Benjamin Franklin's face on a sheet of green. Sometimes I think they amortized the compensation for Iranian-hostage-crisis-related-trauma over the course of the years, paying their children in installments. As we gathered around the haft-seen to take pictures, images of my forthcoming trip to loot Musicland danced in my head.

So tonight my friends and I will jump over a fire (Rule Number One of Persian Living: Always listen to your parents!), symbolically giving it our sickness and taking its vibrant heat. On Sunday morning, the actual New Year (the first day of spring), my family will awaken and dutifully dress in new clothing from the skin out and stand around our haft-seen at 4:30 in the morning. The haft-seen will be a notch more elaborate than last year, and the lilac plants will make me sneeze as much as I will have the night before courtesy of Persian men self-doused in cologne for the cultural society's party. We'll smile for the camera. My parents will vigorously snap shots of the Endangered Son In Suit and Tie, and we'll each critique the photos before deleting and retaking in an incessant cycle (because we expect somehow to look GOOD in these photos at 5am, don'tchaknow?).

In the dawn light, we'll each silently make wishes on the year to come. Some of us will wish for world peace. Others will wish for new and exciting people in our lives. Others yet will wish for the hoopla to be over so they can return to bed. Then, a moment late (and thus right on schedule), my mom will remind us that we should have held coins as the year changed for good luck and fortune, launching yet another year of cheerful poverty for their artist children :)

Ritual complete, family and guests will slink back to our rooms. Then I might make a quick return to slip a few more pieces of the baklava, but there will be no witnesses to my crime. As I wander back down the hallway to my own room, I don't know what will go through my mind. What I do know is that part of me will be very very glad that there is no construction paper that comes close to capturing the colors of this holiday.

Joan Rivers Ain't Got Nothin' On Me

I watched the Oscars too. Okay, at home. On my couch. In my sweats. With Jon, who played Melissa to my Joan. But we were there. I don't know that I've ever watched them before. I think I have seen repeat clips, including but not limited to some old guy who won dropping and doing push-ups. Name escapes me, as did the interest to ever watch them in full. You may wonder what the result of the evening was. Well, first and foremost, I lost the betting pool we had going. Apparently I suck at mindreading the academy. That makes some $20 I've lost in gambling endeavours to my friends this weekend. I turned off the tv with the sinking feeling that I *might* have just wasted 2 hours of my life, shock and awe at the fact that Jamie Foxx's speech made me cry (although his movie didn't), and a compulsion to apply as a seat-filler for next year, to help them save face. I mean, as long as they continue giving awards in the aisles, who could resist?

THE BASICS
The way I see it, the Oscars are a comedy of the absurd. It's beautiful, rich people celebrating themselves. They do so in song. And if you're beautiful and rich in 2005, this song might happen twice, both times by Beyonce, with significant costume change. Some stars who absolutely do not belong on the scene make appearances to be sure that they, too, are counted in the census of the beautiful and rich untouchables. Enter Prince. "This evening, Prince (twirl) is wearing a silky purple jacket ensemble with white palazzo pants". You know it's bad when they let Antonio Banderas sing but you don't. This is when you take them up on the "regrets" part of RSVP, bro!

THE CATFIGHT
The Academy, much like San Quentin Prison, recognizes the ethnic groupings of its inmates. Why else would Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek present together? I don't know if they don't like each other or if they were just pissed to appear onstage in matching hairdos. I would be. I get the feeling Salma's the smart one and Penelope is the barbie of the two, but in any case, it was very, very weird. They gave each other one fake smile. I think it was more that Penelope grinned at Salma and caught her unexpectedly, so Salma forced one back. If they'd been kept on camera 5 minutes longer, I think we might have been graced with a Million Pesos Baby reenactment. Then maybe Beyonce could sing for us again.

RETURN OF 90S POPSTERS
Oh, Counting Crows! THERE you are! I've been looking for you! Not. A few weeks ago, a friend told me that Adam Duritz's hair is a wig given to him by his father. Contemplating this factoid was the only fascinating thing about their performance. That and wondering if Jennifer Aniston would even consider him while on the rebound.

WHO ARE THE PRETTY PEOPLE?
Guaranteed next year's presenters will be uglier. This year they outshined the actresses. You saw them - the tall, georgeous women in gold dresses. That's like bridesmaids upstaging the brides. And when you have actresses with questionable fashion taste (hi Kristin Dunst), well, you have to take measures.

OH, SO THAT'S HOW SHE GOT IT
I have spent quite a while wondering how Sandra Oh got the role in Sideways. Then the screenwriters won and came up to thank their wives. Oh, looky here! Sandra Oh is one of them.

BACKHANDED COMPLIMENT
In an effort to reduce the physical strain of walking up to the stage, the Academy now awards winners in the aisles. They run a dizzying camera down the aisle where the nominees are seated, and the winner comes to the mic to accept, much like the question-and-answer sessions following a David Sedaris show. Only not funny. Just insulting.

THE NEXT KARATE KID
Won the Oscar. Enough said. See you next year when Son of Mask sweeps...

RELATIONSHIP RULE #1

Oh, come on. As if it's going to be that easy. That's the bad news. The good news is that you're not the first to think so.

Today I declared to a friend that I'd learned that, in relationships, "Actions speak louder than words". It felt monumental to write out in an email and push "send". I felt like the scientist who discovered, I dunno, that cells divide. I had discovered The Truth. But the truth is that I was just finding ways to make myself feel productive on a Monday. In a typical friends-of-Lilly(tm) rapidfire email exchange, he agreed that he would subscribe to my rule, which caught me off guard. I had to go back and correct my mistake before I became Her Befuddled Guru of Messy Relationships. I went back to the chalkboard with this tidbit:

"you can learn the rule as many times as you like. I learned the rule years ago, and never implemented. i like to *say* i will implement, because it makes me feel that i've learned something. if it were easy to apply rules to matters of the heart, there would be no heartbreak, everyone would be settled down, and books like "He's Just Not That Into You" wouldn't sell zillions of copies. It's not stuff women don't know ("if he doesn't call you, he isn't into you"; "if he tells you he loves you but you haven't met a single friend, he isn't into you", "if he sleeps with you and disappears for a month, he isn't into you"). we know it. we just forget in the face of romance or a cutie or a few martinis. everyone does. and so spins the wheel."


It's almost like, as a society, we have a wicked case of willful amnesia.

Suckybowl Sunday

When I heard that Paul McCartney was the talent lined up for this year's Superbowl Half-Time Show, I knew I wouldn't be watching. Not just halftime, the whole game. I'm out about this now. Closeted-no-more! I don't care about football! Woo hoo! I mean, sometimes I do. I care if my friend's fiance makes a team he wants to be on so they can live a blissful life. Why do I care about this? Well, clearly I want somewhere nice to go when I need a break from my apartment, the year 2024, peopled only by dusty books and underfed ants and maybe Pele if he takes pity on me...

I took a moment to wonder today if I could be deported for not liking football. I mean, is my commentary about not caring about the Great American Sport (which is only such when baseball is not in season, conveniently) dangerous to my citizenship status? Could I be kicked out of the good ole U.S. of A for being "UnAmerican"? I mean, where does the insanity end? One day it's incendiary political words inciting action that can get you your own "1br/1bath with view; on the Bay" (of Guantanamo...), but with the Patriots taking it for the third time, were I to (in a fictional word, I assure you, Mr. Gonzales, but thanks for dropping by...) speak *against* His Royal Bradyness, would INS show up at my door?

Then I remembered I was born here. Phew.

Yeah, so the Superbowl doesn't really affect you if you don't want it to. I thought I'd go to Borders and sit and read, figuring it would be empty, but as I maneuvered my car in that direction (northward, for ye who are interested), I realized that the nerds would come out! It would not be empty and read-able, but rather, Borders would be overrun by fellow bookworms, losers, American misfits. I turned the car around and came back home.

Which would have been fine, but for the fact that my garage door opener expired this afternoon. It fucking broke, that's what I mean. And not just in a "please replace the battery" way, but in a "busted open completely unprovoked" way. I sat for 20 minutes behind the garage door, visualizing how happy I would be when it jumped back to life, but no dice. No dice and, as it were, no cars either. I sat in my car for 20 minutes watching nothing happen. Not one person ventured out in the time I sat there. OF COURSE. And the meters in the neighborhood? - Full. OF COURSE. Eventually, I parked a few streets away and made my way back home in a caravan of self-pity. When I came home, I immediately began wrestling with a mini-screwdriver (the real kind, although, in retrospect, a little OJ and vodka would have done the trick). I heard a little something or other clatter out of the opener and on to the kitchen floor, but I couldn't find it, not knowing what I was looking for. I got on my hands and knees and fished around, and coming up with only a handful of questionable food crumbs, I gave up.

Someone remind me to move my car in the morning?

So that's Superbowl Sunday over here. I checked the score from time to time on my laptop, hearing my upstairs neighbor (yes, THAT ONE) and his friends erupt into cheers with a 4 second delay. Then I went to work out and read about rappers who have been shot. Because if that didn't put me in a better mood, nothing would. A few fairy tales from the faraway kingdom of Compton later, perspective has been restored. I'm still annoyed, but, lacking caps to bust in negligent asses, I'm going to make myself a sandwich.

I Bet You Think This Blog Is About You

Once upon a time, things were simple. You might remember it. Sit down for a second. No, wait, stand. We're gonna take a walk down memory lane.

Way back when, let's say, oh, 1989, you had very simple criteria in your life. You hung out with friends who entertained you. You found ways to amuse yourself that honed in on your talents. You made tape mixes and swapped them with other kids, having already screened said friends for their musical taste. It wasn't considered weird to filter people out of your life based on their (allegedly) shitty taste in music. Importantly, it wasn't uncalled for to screen people out for *lacking* their own taste in music. You did what you wanted to. Oh, and what your parents wanted, because they paid the bills.

Since I don't have access to your particular memory lane, let me take you down mine. I had a decent amount of friends (this would be the "the writer of this blog wasn't a total loser" clause). Within that group that filled my little address book, I had a few that I was genuinely close with. How did I know I was close with them? Because I'd share my sketches of the logo and bassist from Guns n Roses with them. That's how you knew you were in the inner circle. But how did I know who to share my prized artwork with? Did they have to be a GnfnR fan? Of course not. But, like a Venn Diagram, enough had to intersect to make them worth my time. If not, I was happy drawing and writing songs (including the sleeper hit "I Think I'll Become A Nun") in my room, on my island of pink striped walls and flaming flourescent carpeting, thank you very much.

Some of my friends just "got" it. And they mostly proved to me that they did via their understanding of music that I liked. Now, I'm not gonna push it. I have and always will listen to Madonna on my own clock. But my best friend throughout high school is the one who laughed at Doctor Demento tapes with me to no end, pausing only to film our own video for "Dead Puppies (Aren't Much Fun)". She was alongside me as we listened to hours upon hours of 103.5, hard rock. She would walk in to my room and pass my posters of Sebastian Bach or Bret Michaels without flinching. Only she could duet with me just right on Tesla songs.

Music brought people together back in the day despite the geographical distances between them and the absence of technology to fill those gaps. We didn't have file swapping. What we had was tape dubbing and the US Fucking Postal Service. Once you made a friend in Boston or in Wisconsin or in Canada, you could stay in touch via loooong letters of painstaking detail (and design) detailing all the millions of minute details of your life, accompanied by a painstakingly assembled 60 or -- if you were so devoted -- 90 minute tape mix.

I still have my crate of tapes. Someone asked me the other day why I don't dump them, given that I own much of that same music on cd. But perfect digital sound isn't what I'm after. What good is an Aerosmith song to me if not labeled in Julia-from-French-camp-this-was-the-tape-she-made-when-I-visited-her-family-jumped-on-their-trampoline-and-accidentally-ate-venison handwriting? And what about all the punk rock that I just couldn't get in to, but Jon "we-were-in-the-same-Holland-American-cruise-clique" Barabash of Edmonton assembled and sent in a steady stream of persuasion? And what about Stacy's mixes for my international family vacations, in which she plugged a mic and entertained me with her random thoughts between the Doors and Blue Oyster Cult?

Today we make our friends for different reasons. The office brings people together. Blech. Prestige brings people together. Class seating brings people together. Because-we-have-a-friend-in-common brings people together. Desperation (often) brings people together. Back in the day, my criteria was tightly enforced. I would rifle through people's tape cases in search of a reason to believe we should be friends. I was efficient as a forensic expert at a stinky scene. In, find what I need to make my decision, and leave.

I had a conversation with a male friend as I was starting college to the effect that "Real Men Listen To The Beastie Boys". Well, our theory was tested out not too much later. I went on a few dates with Jake, a Nice Guy. Exactly. There wasn't anything wrong with him -- he was cute, smart, and pretty fun. But there wasn't anything really *right* with him either. The first time I was over at his house, I sat myself right in front of his CD tower. My eyes scanned the impeccably organized collection. "AC/DC..... AC/DC....Beatles." There it was. All I needed to know. I scanned with my eyes, once, twice more, to be sure they hadn't failed me. I was on the scene of a stinky crime. I told him nicely that I needed to leave, and I went to find my friend and go home.

Somewhere on the journey to adulthood, I hushed my Muse-Ical Instincts. They were telling me all along, no, screaming, that the guys I found myself adoring weren't right for me. There was the guy who listened to too much nn-cha nn-cha techno. The guy who made me a mix with Len's "Stealing My Sunshine" (Author's Note: I would *never* dis on a mix someone had made me, but in retrospect, this digression was simply unforgivable). The guy who, surpassing Those With Stinky Musical Taste, proved to be a Blank Slater. No musical taste whatsoever. Audially malleable. And thus, for me, boring.

I don't think I need to go on. I think my point has been made. There's something to be said for listening to your heart. And when your heart beats with music every moment of every day, you have all the reason in the world to listen especially hard.

Cheating?

Nothing sexy, nothing scandalous. Here it is:

I am a compulsive to-do list writer. Any time I have a few minutes to myself or I'm bored, I will pick up pen and paper and begin to commit myself to a list of items that I must accomplish and that will make me feel like a productive member of society (my society, Lillyville, population: 1).

So here's my question: Do you ever finish something, only to refer back to your to-do list and find out that it's NOT ON THERE? Then do you write it in and subsequently cross it out?

Don't accuse me. I'm just asking.

"Home, Home on the seventh floor........"

My roommate moved in today.

This is a really big deal. Like moving into the dorms. Except, when I was that innocent child of 17, I had no idea what I was getting in to. College was a big fat mystery, not to mention the anonymous women I would be thrown into close quarters with. This time, it's like getting a redo.

In the original version of Lilly Gets A Roommate, Princess Caroline, as we not-so-affectionately called her, moved in. That deserved its own sentence so that now I can devote sentence #2 to a shortlist of her transgressions: hanging religious symbols on our door, squeezing the remaining two of us into a space that equaled only 1/3 of the room, setting up a loft and then carving into it the dates of her sexual conquests (this was verified by a quick climb-and-peep, but it's all true), hanging dirty underwear off a perfume bottle in full view of guests to our room, stacking a cd case with music that included but was not limited to "John Tesh - Sax By The Fireplace". Did I mention that she would get up first thing, shower, and then lounge around the room naked? Thank God for the fact that I was already quite dependent on contacts to make out shapes. But what I saw, blurry as it may have been, was more than enough for this kid.

In the remake, I should start by saying that the role of Roommate will not be played by a human incarnation of an ostrich. Rather, she's a beautiful girl, and Persian to boot. I've never had a roomie from the motherland. That will put a fun twist on things. Like the episode where the parents come to town. We can dub that one in both languages. Plus, my roomie (aka "Rumi" because I'm ohsoclever) and I, by virtue of our shared common mother tongue, can talk about people behind their backs. But in front of them. So should someone come over and we find the need to be excessively rude, we can do so. Fun for the whole family!

In this issue of Roommate, she has a life. Not to say that Princess C's devotion to the chemistry fraternity at the University of Michigan wasn't proof enough that she was a socialite... but Roomie/Rumi has a career. She has a boyfriend. She does not, from what I have seen, own anything that even rhymes with "Tesh". And I love her for this.

Some people have asked me if it will be hard to adjust to having a roommate after two and a half years of living alone. To them I say this: one- you're just regretting the fact that you didn't crash in my extra room more often. Two, you're just jealous that I get to go through dorm life, minus the food, and you don't. Neener neener. Or maybe you're slightly envious that our antics will likely be deserving of its own website: 712isthebomb.com. I say: stop yer crying and start planning what you're bringing when we throw a Brand New Roomies party.

It just feels like time to do something new, and moving stuff around the house and, perhaps more importantly, moving new life into it, seems like the right thing. I know that the days, weeks, months (years?) to come are going to teach me things. I mean, I already learned something. I learned about NEEDS. You see, her boyfriend moved her in, while she was *out of town* (yes, guys, go back and read that again. Then recognize that the bar has been raised significantly) this weekend. And this made me come to terms with some deep-seated needs *I* have. Every woman has needs, right? Needs that should be satisfied, like... the need to reach the top shelf of my kitchen cupboard. The need to have someone capable of putting my closet door back on its tracks. The need for someone who isn't as scared of the dark as I am to shut off the lights.

Girls who are out there whining (writing, singing, thinking) about how they need a guy to fulfill them emotionally and make them whole are a mystery to me. What I've requested? That's the real deal right there. The basics of survival.

Simplicity is a beautiful thing.

Of Late Night Rite Aid Runs and Checkout Lines

"Is Bill Clinton dying?" screams one cheaply printed trash mag from beneath a glaring flourescent light in Rite Aid. I notice it because I am in a line of 57274 people awaiting the mercy of the sloooooooow clerk. My first reaction was that it was just mean. And that Republicans need to be more creative with their propoganda. My second reaction was "We all are." Ha ha, smirk smirk, gotcha. True, though, right? It made me feel better, because no one wants to think of Bill as anything but the healthy and sexually robust guy we all know and love. But it also got me thinking...

The truth is we all only have x amount of time. Not to be neurotic about how I spend my time, but a recent poll presents some unpleasant facts about my Usage of Time Allotted To Live:

1) watching "Strange Love", a spinoff reality show featuring Brigette Nielsen and Flava Flav = 30 minutes
2) checking email. compulsively = total 2.5 hours
3) lying in bikini top on balcony in constant stream of thought re: how much it would suck to live on the east coast = 45 min
4) prerusing magazines like Fitness, convinced that if I reread the exercises, I will be compelled to do them = 20 minutes
5) staring into the cupboard, convinced that something new will appear = 2 minutes
6) listening to Madonna warble "Imagine" on the tsunami telethon = approx. 4 minutes
7) spent bitching on the phone to friend that I had to endure Madonna singing "Imagine" = 1.5 minutes
8) spent bitching in person to friends over coffee that I had to endure Madonna singing "Imagine" = 45 seconds
9) spent reminding myself that 'harakiri' is not the answer to listening to Madonna sing "Imagine" = 10 seconds
10) watching tv show about celebrities and colonics = 20 minutes
11) explaining the mechanics of colonics ("intestinal vacuuming") to a friend via phone = 3 minutes
12) calculating the odds of having Brad Pitt as my operator if I called the tsunami telethon line = 4 minutes

And that was just today.

I'm not proud of these statistics. Although they do make me laugh. Because if you were to tally up the ways I waste my time, I'm not convinced that my more intellectual endeavours would outweigh. But I'm not sure where this great cosmic intelligensia scale is, so I'm not sweating it til I get there. Good thing one of my resolutions was to not be hard on myself or we'd be in some trouble. I guess making the most of your day is in the eye of the beholder. Because while I'd swap out some of the other choices I've made in the last 24, Flava Flav is a keeper...

That Last Ten Pounds

Whatever. As if. You really thought I was going to resolve to whittle myself into perfect shape yet again, for the 15th year in a row? Come on now. I got realistic this year. I decided to broaden the New Years Resolutions.

New Years Resolutions are an iffy subject with me. On the one hand, I want to make them, to join the legions of Americans who are promising to become their best selves in the next year. Then again, I feel like I should hold off until the first day of spring, launching my resolutions at the new year I genuinely celebrate, the Persian one. Or maybe I should have American resolutions for my American persona and Persian resolutions for my other persona? Examples: American persona vows to lose 10 pounds, be nicer person. Iranian persona vows to stop wishing ridiculous amounts of facial hair on fellow Persian females I don't particularly care for. And so on.

This year I decided not to think so far ahead (March = so far), so I racked up my resolutions. I wanted to learn conversational Italian, practice yoga more regularly, run 100 miles over the course of the year, finish Anna Karenina for once and for all... but the list looked so blah. And it wasn't much different than what I promise myself on a regular basis anyways. So I decided to "think big". To go more for thematic, quality of life-oriented decisions. Here they are:

1) To drop guilt. Jessica used to say that "guilt is a worthless emotion". I didn't understand. I heard her, but I didn't *get* it. I couldn't imagine getting rid of guilt any more than I could imagine letting go of my long hair or my eyeballs. Or my typing fingers, come to think of it.

I loved when she'd say it, because it was a comment usually aimed at my ex, or another guy on my Shit List of the Week. They'd push the wrong buttons, get on my bad side, realize they had taken me for granted (is there a patent on this procedure?), and then feel guilty about what they'd done. And Jess and I, suited up for a long walk through the hills of Westwood, would just tsk and say "Guilt? Guilt is a worthless emotion." And that would be that.

Guilt pervades many aspects of my life, and I'd like to clear it out and make room for other emotions I haven't explored that much. Like love. Or rage. Haven't felt much rage. Confusion? Nope. Know-it-alls don't go through that one very often. Euphoria. I'd like a bit of that.

Ultimate reason for dropping guilt: guilt IS worthless. It means there's a situation you're just dwelling on, without doing anything about it. It had never occurred to me, Miss Woman of Action, that this was a sticking point. You're not making the situation better, you're just feeling like shit about whatever has happened. Worthless. Consider it done.

2) To stop being so hard on myself. At least one friend has countered that I'm genetically coded for guilt by virtue of being Iranian. Hm. Is that a challenge? So far, I've spent 2005 eating cookie dough with abandon, taking a few days off work, no matter how many calls I've gotten or emails fester in my inbox, and refusing to be hard on myself about it (not to mention not feeling guilt about it). I can't imagine what a year without being cruel to myself about every aspect of my life will be like. So far, it's great. Like a daily vacation. Next year, I'm asking the annual gods for my own cabana boy.

So this is how the year begins. I've already been cosmically tested on both prongs of my New Years Resolutions (what, you thought it would be easy?), and I almost caved. But not quite. It's not easy work, sticking to these things. Halting yourself from writing a smooth-over email for the second time, or calling someone just to be sure that you don't have a reason to feel guilty. Ignoring the stack of paper that looms over you, casting a shadow over your desk.

Sometimes I think that, by comparison, ten pounds would be a cinch.

Home for the Holidays

Ah, such a dramatic title for what amounts to an 8 mile drive for me. But the holidays are more than a journey down the highway- they are a personal journey -- always. Aren't they? It's part of my ritual to watch the fabulous film Home for the Holidays, starring Holly Hunter and Lilly Downey Jr. -ahem, sorry - Robert Downey Jr. It taps in, with an all-star cast boasting Geraldine Chaplain and Anne Bancroft, no less, into the compelling mix of adoration and suffocation that fill the air at family gatherings.

Every year, the holidays are a chance to gauge how things have changed in the last 365 days. I suppose we do it, even unconsciously, this measuring of sorts. My brother has sprouted facial hair and height in mass quantities, and ducks out at intervals to go see his girlfriend. I made a lot of the Christmas presents I gave my family, helped cook dinner, and baked throughout the weekend (gag gag, hello domesticity). And so on. I try to remember what the holidays were like when we were 2, 9, and 11, but I can barely recall thanks to this crap memory of mine, mostly used up on song lyrics. I used to celebrate Christmas unfailingly. String the popcorn, make the paper chain, whatever. Now I sit back and enjoy our use of a holiday celebrating a savior our religion (not that we really have one) doesn't recognize as God's son. But boy oh boy do we loot.

I was showered with gifts I probably don't deserve. I mean, was I good kid? Let's see. I quit my job. That was fun, if slightly naughty. And this brings me to another question- we have to have been good all year, right Santa? But do we need to be good from January 1 to Christmas? Is this like taxes, on the calendar year? Because if so, as I see it, we need to raise holy hell from today (Dec 26) til Dec 31st. Maybe these are freebie days? And maybe we should work quickly. I don't know what I'd do even if I was give the free reign to misbehave. Maybe I'd send George Bush a rude email. Maybe I'd blow off some red lights. Maybe I'd get a tattoo. I regret that the rebellion gene seems to have missed me.

Anyways, back to the holidays. I suppose I expect everything to be pristine and perfect. I expect the reflection of Christmas ornaments to twinkle in our eyes as we share a meal. But this isn't how holidays go. That's not what they're for, I'm realizing. I suppose I'd always expected our family to live up to this Hallmark Holiday Special standard of "perfection". And yet that doesn't apply. Question as to whether it even exists.

I suppose I don't have the right to quote Tolstoy, given that I"m only halfway thru Anna Karenina (and that was 2 years ago, when I took a break and never picked it up again. oops). "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." I'm not sure I agree in breaking it down into happy or unhappy, but I suppose that each family, during the holidays, pulls together in its own way. Holidays are a trial. And if you make it through, well then, you're a family. Can you live through a few days under the same roof, eating leftovers and putting presents together and watching horribly crap television together? Can you share one computer with internet access? Can you coordinate mealtimes for 5 stomachs on different time zones, much less taste buds?

Reality television, anyone?

I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU...

I never can guess how that sentence will end. My recurring dreams led me to believe I'd marry the annoying (and creepy) friend on Mad About You. I had nightmares that I was arranged to be married to him; I wanted out, and my family was pushing me to just do it. Ah, such is the dreamlife of the Persian girl, I suppose. Then, as I grew up, I would have the very rare wedding dream. In it, I am in full bridal gear, but there isn't a groom. And in the dream, I know there's no groom. I guess it's just a "celebration of me" party.

Possessed as I may be with charm, wit, my mama's good looks, and a bad case of optimism, fade out the dream sequence and let's deal with some reality. I'm 27. Remember learning to estimate in elementary school? Yeah, that brings us to the big 3-0. I may *look* like I'm 16, but those are the biological facts, etched on these here uterine walls. I know I'm treading on genetic landmines. Someday, I have been told, I will wake up to a clammering biological alarm, and I will wonder what I've done with my life, why I'm not married, why I'm not surrounded by kids, etcetera etcetera. Yawn.

Enter THE BACKUP PLAN.

"backup plan", noun: Arrangement of convenience between friends, ensuring that, in the case of mutual singledom at a future point in time, they will marry and eschew a life of loneliness, chaos and/or disaster. Origin: film- My Best Friend's Wedding.

Here's what I see as the benefit of the Backup Plan. You know what you're getting into. How? Because you make this agreement with a friend you've known forever. There is little/no risk that you'll throw open his/her cd case in your marital love nest and be caught by the glare of John Tesh's "Sax by the Fireplace" ("Egads! Where is my suitcase?"). You know what they're like when they're drunk (they were probably drunk when you talked them into this scheme). You know their family (genetic map so no ugly surprises. And you can take a guess whether your inlaws will be assholes). You know what they're like at their worst, which is why they were your friend until now. You know the little things-- the things it takes 25 years of marriage to get down -- that they don't like to share their popcorn, they hate the taste of mint, and they sniff their drink before sipping. People complain that they marry people who end up being someone completely different than what they expected. Realize it or not, you've lived with your friend for years. You know the big stuff. No troubling surprises.

I say 'troubling' for a reason. The upside to marrying someone you're not mad crazy about is that your expectations are low. You're marrying for companionship, and you'll get it, just like you have for the past (fill in the blank) 3, 5, 10, 20 years. This is the Money-Back Guarantee of The Backup Plan. Whatever else you get out of the deal is purely bonus. The physical chemistry is on? Bingo! You start from the bottom and build up. You expect neutral and hope for the best. No one gets anything other than what they bargained for, which is: not to be 45 and single and being nagged at by their parents. Because, frankly, I don't know how many of us can take another 15-20 years of this.

Now, some people don't understand how you can have a backup plan when you're in a relationship. "Is that morally right?" they may ask. The official User's Guide to Backup Plans clearly states that your Backup should be "someone other than he or she whom you are dating". Let me pose the question back at you: Is it right that you attend movies alone til the ripe old age of 85? Is it right that you have no one to split chili fries at Robertos with at 2am on any given night? Is it right that you have no one to roll your eyes at when you need to 'express yourself'? Take a closer look at the Constitution, folks. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Good Company. It's right in there. I'm not saying whether you should or you shouldn't, but let's just say -- when you're eating healthy and exercising, you still want medical insurance, right?

I have a backup plan. If nothing else, for now it signifies to me that someone else gets just how damn exhausting this whole thing is. If you don't have one yet, rest assured. My matchmaking database is filling up. Hell, I may quit my job and do this for a living. To be alone is one thing. But loneliness? I don't believe in that martyr virtue. Drop me a line and let's get this thing going.

EVERYTHING I NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN LAW SCHOOL

1. "DON'T ASK A WITNESS A QUESTION YOU DON'T ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER TO".

I recognize that using legal analogies in my romantic life is a wretched slope to even begin to graze, much less slip down, but hey, it works. When you play it safe and according to the #1 rule of trial advocacy, there is no surprise, no embarassment, and you walk away with that amazing feeling that you know it all. This isn't to say that you shouldn't employ the various strategies of Discovery (to be explored in a later blog?), but that when it comes down to trial, know your shit. Oh, and wear a cute suit.

2. THERE IS A FINE LINE BETWEEN FUNNY AND REALLY NOT FUNNY.

This line is most frequently violated by first-year law students eager to use their newfound knowledge-slash-vocabulary. Case in point: three students are walking down a hallway and there is a spilled drink on the floor before them. "Tort! Tort!" they cry in gleeful chorus = not funny

3. CRISIS BRINGS PEOPLE TOGETHER.

Ask any of the people I didn't like in elementary school, junior high, high school or college. Because they heard from me, in long-winded emails as I sat bored to tears in my Professional Responsibility class. Backed against a shitty corner (read: the corner of a lecture hall at UCLA), I found it in my heart to forgive those who annoyed, betrayed, or bored me. I connected with them. I know the intimate details of their careers, married lives, and psychoses. Now that I'm out of school, I have another problem on my hands, but hey, ends justify the means.

4. "THE ONLY THING WE KNOW IS THAT WE KNOW NOTHING AT ALL."

My grades attest to this. Heavily. Seriously, though, did I need to spend three years in a doctorate program only to find out that there *are* no clear answers and that every situation has its own application? Um, apparently. Thanks for the tuition, Dad! I have this one covered. My degree proves it.


5. DON'T EAT THE CHICKEN PIZZA.

Pretty self-explanatory, I think.