This is your life. A soundtrack.

This is the soundtrack of my life.

SIDE A:

Everything's Alright (Jesus Christ Superstar sdtk)-- When I am but a wee little baby, my mom sings this to me as a lullaby. Interesting choice for a recent immigrant, but my mom is always up on things.

Angel of the Morning (Juice Newton) -- I am being driven to the YMCA for swim lessons. The back seat of my mom's car is plush and velvety. To this day, this song brings to mind the feeling of chlorine snorted in my nose.

Karma Chameleon (Culture Club) -- my first love affair. Me and the library. I find out I can rent this record and play it incessantly. I will continue this habit (of playing music incessantly) to date, although my predilection for Boy George's work will wane with time.

Material Girl (Madonna) -- Abby and I attend the fun fair at school and they have Star Studio, a prehistoric karaoke machine. We record this. It will be one of my favorite life moments ever. I will reconnect with the fun of that day when Gene brings me into the studio more than 20 years later. However I will rabidly avoid karaoke bars for some unknown reason.

Beat It (Michael Jackson) -- I have an 8th birthday party. The theme is punk. The cake is Cabbage Patch. My tights are hot pink, my hair is in a side ponytail, and Dana is there, despite my dislike for her, because my mom said so. We climb on the jungle gym and sing acapella for my dad's camera. A star is born.

I Want Your Sex (George Michael) -- I experience my first run-in with censorship. I am on a road trip with my family and I am belting this out "sex is best when it's (lower voice) one-on-one..." in the back seat. My mom gives me the business. I will avoid this song until I move out of my parents' house then will reclaim it after the millenium as the fabulous tune it is, horn section and all.

Over and Over (Madonna) -- I am 9. My father buys me a ghettoblaster (I've blogged about that. It was momentous.) Armed with dubbing capabilities and a translucent orange tape, I acquire Madonna's "Like A Virgin" album. It's not the most popular song on the album, but I like it. And I'm a 9 year old Persian girl, so I'm not about to walk around my house singing Like a Virgin (I don't even know what a virgin is). I distinctly recall being at a dinner party hanging out with the other kids (the boys) in the basement and walking around with my headphones on singing this song at the top of my lungs (the 1986 version of playing it cool). For years Madonna will accompany and empower me as I deal with nonchalant men in my life.

Never Say Goodbye (Bon Jovi) -- My mom's brother visits the United States and somehow this translates into me being gifted a copy of the freshly-released Slippery When Wet. I am addicted to purchasing music and Sam Goody becomes my second home. Despite the many hits on this album, something about this ("you and me and my old friends/hoping this will never end") ballad interests me.

Bad (Michael Jackson) -- Susie takes over liking MJ at this point in time. My last memory of my adoration of Mike has to do with a poster of him lying on his side. I had a guitar sticker and I place it on his weiner. I am unable to remove the sticker and, with the Catholic guilt I have been saddled with in this unCatholic life of mine, confess to my father. He laughs.

Didn't I Blow Your Mind (New Kids On the Block) -- Fever takes hold. My friends and I finally have music interests in common. We will fight over which New Kid each of us gets. Freshly introduced to the cultural phenomenon of the rat tail (courtesy of my draft "pick", Jordan Knight) my mother will grow a rat tail curl on the back of my brother's hair. He will never forgive me.
My first concert ensues and I feel the desperation of having New Kids dangled from cranes above me, but being unable to reach them. I am a distraught teenage Sisyphus.

Funky Funky Christmas (New Kids On The Block) -- I adore this song and the album, even "Little Drummer Boy" the barumpabumbum of which has always irritated me otherwise. This demonstrates my ability to love my musical idols through thick and thin. This will be a theme in my life.

Nothing Compares 2U (Sinead O'Connor) -- 7th grade. I am 12 and this becomes my first slow dance with a boy. I regret to inform you that I was wearing tie-dye. I compromised cool (tie dye and skort) for my mom's controlling fashion sense (in deep red and forest green). Approximately 6 years later this same boy will come out. I will take it slightly personally.

I'm Going Bananas (Madonna/Dick Tracy sdtk) -- In what will probably prove to be the supreme demonstration of patriarchal patience in his life, my father sits through one half of my choreography to this album. Susie and I agree that I'm Going Bananas is a great song. We don't agree on much music for the next 10 years, but those hours of dancing in the basement are important to us.

I Remember You (Skid Row) -- I enter high school. I am a disgruntled teenager. I find the hard rock station and will spend every quarter I have playing songs like this on the juke box of our vacation hotels. I will make mixes that years later I will still listen to. I will be disturbed to cross paths again with Sebastian Bach in 2006 when he cameos on Gilmore Girls.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (U2) -- My mom is becoming more serious about her personal pledge to use music to stay close with her kids. She scams us awesome tickets to see U2 during the Zoo TV tour. I am appreciative but for the first time realize just how wonderful and resourceful my mom is! We love the show, we feel grown up going alone. Years later when we lose the friend that Susie and I went with I will still smile when I think of this night.

Three Little Birds (Bob Marley) -- I am introduced to Bob Marley by a local Michigan neighbor. I have never heard reggae before. I am amazed.

Deadbeat Club (B52s) -- I spend summers perfecting the art of being imperfect on rollerblades. This is the sound of South Haven to me.

Would (Alice in Chains) -- I attend my first Battle of the Bands. A cute guy is playing bass to this song, I am wearing my courderoy jacket and all is well in my life. Until my friend tells me later that night that the cute guy used to be her boyfriend. And that he raped her. I will always like Alice in Chains but will usually skip this track. On a lighter note, same ex-friend stole my Spin Doctors CD. It was a weird music year. In high school music begins to define you as it never did before. Laced up in combat boots (only 8 hole because I have short legs) I naturally gravitate to the darker stuff, listening to Madonna on my own clock.

Hard to Handle (Black Crowes) -- I will teach my brother to sing the chorus of this song. He is 4 years old. We work on choreography. He will never admit that between this and his Michael Jackson DANGEROUS album (a gift) I shaped his music career.

Coma (Guns n Roses) -- Guns n Roses emerges as my favorite hard rock group. Back in South Haven, two girls and two boys go into one boy's room and close the door. It is completely dark. I am sitting with the boy I have had a crush on all summer - if not longer. We listen to Coma over and over again. When we emerge into the blinding light girl #2 whispers to me me that she and boy #2 were making out the whole time. I missed that cue apparently.

Come Baby Come (K7) -- I make the hip hop dance group. I am thrilled and I work my ass off at it. I invite my parents to my first performance, and with pride they bring my visiting Grandma. I only realize this is a bad decision when I am humping the ground in front of their bleacher.

True Colors (Cyndi Lauper) -- I know, you think I slipped up on the chronology. But I didn't. Back around 1986 my mom decided that Cyndi Lauper sounded like a singer she used to love (Melanie). Mom buys this tape and I am stunned, never having seen her take such an interest to music before. A few years after that I sing over/with the track as a gift to my best friend Stacy. I decide it would be a nice gift for mom too, so I put it on a mix for her. This heartfelt gift is unfortunately revealed at my Sweet 16 where my mom has had a video montage of moi put together -- set to the sound of myself singing. I experience wanting death more than life, however briefly. I retain the reflex of cringing when the song is heard. Phil Collins' cover does nothing to lessen my symptoms.

These Are the Days (10,000 Maniacs) -- This tape will play as I take my first drive as a free (drivers licensed) woman. Halfway to school I realize I left my license at home.

Brass Monkey (Beastie Boys) -- I am in college. This tune hitting the stereo meant the party was going well.

Shock Dat Monkey (TLC) -- This is the cd on as I drive to Madison (U of WI) to visit one of my friends for a party Halloween weekend. I am in my little silver bullet Honda Prelude (aka "Pia") listening to this cd on full blast. I slam on the brakes and am rear-ended by a cadillac. My first (and hopefully last) major accident. Whoops. I proceed to Madison and party like it never happened.

Brown Sugar (D'Angelo) -- I am introduced to soul music. Enough said.

Wannabe (Spice Girls) -- Discovered while in Greece with one of my best friends. "What the hell is this?" We laugh. We buy a Euromix and bring it back to the United States. Little did we know. It becomes the sorority preparty anthem the year I'm living in the house.

Let Me Clear My Throat (DJ Kool) -- The bass of this song will launch me to any dancefloor anytime throughout college. "If you got hair from your head to your sleeve, even if you got a weave, can I get an uh uh"

Bittersweet (Lewis Taylor) -- My cousin gives me the first Lewis Taylor album. I am stunned and will proceed to gift myself his cds every year for my birthday.

No Scrubs (TLC) -- Prepartying with the Divas (Jessica and Pavna) for nights out dancing at Rick's. I played this cd all day every day. It's also the background music as I sit in my room doing work but really waiting for a certain guy to call on the 'batphone'. And later the music I will seethe to.

Something About You (Level 42) -- The first time a guy tells me that a song reminds him of me. Years later this same guy will choose the emotionally void method of emailing me the news of his engagement weeks after it happens.

Stealing My Sunshine (Len) -- My boyfriend makes me a mix. This song is on it. Holy red flag. Years later I will mark this as the first confirmation that you can judge a person (especially a partner) by their musical taste. I will never make that mistake again.

Ojos Asi (Shakira) -- Shakira is all the rage when I go to Argentina to study abroad. I have one of the most exciting summers of my life- I spend 6 weeks in a country I adore with friends I love, I speak Spanish, I do no homework, my mom beats cancer and my family moves the home base to San Diego. Her unplugged album is incredible and is the soundtrack of me sitting in a cafe taking it all in.

Ascension (Maxwell) -- Jessica and I obsess over Maxwell. We attend his concert at the Shrine Auditorium and I feel it is a religious experience as I'll ever have- perhaps the most I've ever been affected by a live performance. The fact that it was unexpected makes it even better.

Hands (Jewel) -- I hear this song before Christmas and listen to the words (not something I'm known for). I tear up behind the wheel. I am appalled and amazed all at once at the ability of a song to touch me so. I will later hear Bob Carlisle's Butterfly Kisses and have a similar reaction. I will forcibly stop listening to the pillow talk station for a period of time.

Dear Mr. Man (Prince) -- Prince makes a comeback and I complete my triumverate of pop reunion tours. (Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, and Prince). I can die a happy woman. I don't expect much from the show but it's electrifying and he commands the crowd despite the crappy acoustics. I grin, I blog, I enjoy how far we've both come as well as our shared taste in platform heels.

Delicate (Dave's Son) -- I move to San Diego. I have no friends. Amit from college comes to visit (hi amit!) and hooks me up with his friends. (The same people who got me a-blogging). Days, nights, and months go by having the time of my life doing everything and, really, nothing. Gene (aka Dave's Son) works on material at my house and comes up with a few songs I'm particularly fond of. Despite Treehouse being written at my house this one hits home and is on every mix I can squeeze it into for a very long time. Gene takes me with him to the studio. Heaven. Peanut peanut.

My Baby (Janet Jackson ft Kanye West) -- Dancing becomes a staple of San Diego life. Before I know it we're packing in a hip hop class before Sushi Wednesdays. This is the warmup song and also the album in Hong's SUV every time I climb in.

I Don't Feel Like Dancin' (Scissor Sisters) -- I up and move to San Francisco. I've always wanted to try it, so I do. Why the hell not? This becomes our theme song during my three month stay. Despite its distinctly country roots, I play it all hours for everyone around me until we're all dancing. It is also my lead-off track when I program my ipod to run a half-marathon completely untrained, just because I want to know what it's like to run across the Golden Gate Bridge.

**

I'm sure there's much more I'm forgetting but these are the songs that stick out. As for Side B, we're not even there yet!

By the time I'm done on this Earth, I want my own box set.



Thanks to Taiga for the idea! And to create your own cassette magic go to: http://www.says-it.com/cassette/index.php

Careerfinders.

There's a great song my sister put on a mix for me called Careerfinders. I'm in Colorado spending yet another weekend toiling away. I know, I complain about it all the time, but while I"m working I"m also fortunate to have my bills paid, myself put up in a comfy plush hotel room, my food prepared, and receive a fair amount of adoration and attention from (at least at this conference!) really kind and talented writers and colleagues.

So I'm not in one of those moods where I"m banging my head on my keyboard going "whywhywhy?" I'm feeling pretty good about my job. But I also am in procrastination mode, so I'm going to blog about something I'm fascinated by- awesome jobs and shitty jobs. Better known as "Jobs I Would Want" vs. "Sucks to Be You." My friend and I used to play this game when we were upset. Now I realize that we were setting ourselves up to be screwed by karma for even thinking like that, but we'd play a game where we'd just list off people whose situations are just shittier than ours. Not just jobs, but say I came home and I had a ton of reading to do and I wasn't feeling like it. M and I would remind me that at least I wasn't stuck in a broken elevator with a full bladder and a guy slipping a slurpee. And so on.

MY JOB LIST: Version 1.0

Job I would want: soundtrack advisor for a film
Why: free music, connections, money, free music. comparisons to Heart's Ann Wilson, who is now married to Cameron Crowe and rocks his soundtrack world.

Job I wouldn't want: bathroom cleaner.
Why: Because even grown women pee on seats and that is grody. Or seriously ladies, how hard is it to flush? I should mention that while i don't want this job I have more respect for bathroom cleaners than most lawyers :)

Job I would want: translator
Why: Ability to understand all types of people, world travel, talent that makes for great conversation, feeling that you're being useful in some way. Language classes as tax deductions. Increased ability to meet hot foreign men.

Job I wouldn't want: parking meter maid
Why: Do I really need to tell you? It's just another functional job in society, one that brings in revenue, punishes people who have done things they shouldn't have, etc., *but* they are perhaps among the most hated people on earth, or perhaps the entire universe. I think the only people who are probably hated more for their jobs are morticians, but at least morticians have some Six Feet Under momentum and their biggest detractors are, well, unable to speak up at the moment.

Job I would want: space consultant/organizer
Why: Because, as my friends and family know, I already do this- I might as well get paid. It makes me NUTS when I go into someone's messy, cramped house. I literally can't focus. Clutter is my kryptonite. Is that weird? That i'd want to be paid to come clean your shit up and get your life back on track?

Job I wouldn't want: bus driver for junior high kids
Why: Take a moment and think back to what a pain in the ass you were, riding in the back of the bus in junior high. You're why.

Job I would want: pop star.
Why: Minimal artistic pressure (they take you into the studio and it's pretty much Karaoke from there on in), maximum performance time and airbrushing.

Job I wouldn't want: anything engineeringy
Why: Do you really want someone who sits with a blank face when the bill arrives and she needs to calculate tip to be the one constructing your buildings? I think not.

Job I would want: Yoga instructor
Why: Right now I'm obsessed with yoga. So this is a "job of the week". The idea of helping people get their lives healthier would be fun, and there's both a physical and in many ways spiritual/psychological element to it. Work virtually in your pjs. Plus I could professionally address the farting epidemic occurring in yoga studios nationwide. That alone could make me a Nobel contender.

Job I wouldn't want: litigator
Why: Had it. Hated it. Paperwork paperwork paperwork. Boring colleagues, boring colorless courthouses. The sinking feeling that no one really 'wins'. Wearing a suit.

Job I would want: working in a bookstore
Why: I could push bookbuying on people and they'd be grateful for it. They'd even ask for it! They'd beg for my recommendations, bow before my enlightening literary suggestions, and come back for more. Plus it would take a lot of pressure off my friends!

Job I wouldn't want: chef
Why: Sheer difficulty. Pressure for presentation and taste. When I (rarely) serve food to people right now it's quickly followed by "I never cook so if you say something shitty about my food right now I hope you starve and I'm never cooking for you again." Something makes me feel that wouldn't go over well at Chez Panisse.

I've been trying to think back to what job assessments always said about me. I think I got "parole officer" more times than is probably normal. And I had lawyer on one that my parents took me to (a professional career assessment) but, in retrospect, I remember that, well, my parents PAID for it :) I don't think Johnson Co in Chicago had the nerve to tell them parole officer for the millionth time. Although they may have been thinking it...

But for now things on the job front are good. I have a few ideas about new types of books I want to take on and what directions I want to take my list in. And I'm on my seasonal hunt for America's Next Top Intern (stay tuned ye Craigslist readers!). Every single day, no matter how crappy my work day is lately (and lately there have been a few) I am grateful to feel so in control of my days and where they're going. I have finally (this had never happened before) experienced the joy of sleeping in til 8:30 a.m. "because I'm the boss of me!". That time spent on GoodReads.com or at Borders is technically "work-related". I'm grateful that my industry (books) gets my heart racing as much now as it did when I was 8 and the bane of the short-red-curly-haired meanie librarian's existence in Highland Park (Seriously, who gives the stink eye to a kid for signing out too many books?!)

And yet it's good to know that I have other ideas in my back pocket, you know, just in case.

Baby I Got Your Money, or Eloquent Slogans for Your Entertainment

"Should five per cent appear too small,
Be thankful I don't take it all.
'Cause I’m the taxman,
Yeah, I’m the taxman.

(if you drive a car, car;) - I’ll tax the street;
(if you try to sit, sit;) - I’ll tax your seat;
(if you get too cold, cold;) - I’ll tax the heat;
(if you take a walk, walk;) - I'll tax your feet."

You know another song I love? Whatever that one is that goes "money money money mooooonaaaaay MONEY!" That's a great song. It's a happy song. The one they play when you win bingo on a cruise ship. I sing it to myself when I win a scratch-off ticket. I sing it at the ATM. You know what I *don't* have right now? Money money money moooooooonaaaaaaaay. That's right. I just did my taxes. I heard you sigh. I actually heard your sympathy. Lemme tell you folks, paying your taxes after a year of toiling for your self-owned small artistic business is enough to make even the most liberal girl want to go straight to Uncle Halliburton for a job. Sheesh. In one quick signing of a check (or three, yes, I had to pay three checks) I could feel my morals just dangling in the wind like Britney Spears' offspring.

I went to the library to remind myself to stop spending so much money on books. "Stop spending money!" I said to myself in between parroting the Turkish 101 cd in my stereo (so it sounded more like "Stop spending money! Afedarsunuz! Stop spending money! Engeeleezjeh bilyarum. Stop spending monoey! Tashakorehdurum.)

"Drink tea at home!" I went to Starbucks. "Don't eat out!" I went straight to Jyoti for a slice of Neatloaf (thinking that a cleansed body counts for something). Basically I stopped short of buying a new outfit in which to practice my new thriftiness. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

The only good thing I see coming out of tax season is that everyone hates it in the same way. My dad, who, while hating taxes, is inwardly smiling at how savvy and valuable he is, hates it. My friends hate it. For some reason taxes never bothered me before, probably because I was so poor that I wasn't paying much. But this year we bond. It's like the new "Lost" for me- I have something to talk (bitch/analyze) with everyone I meet. We "get" each other. It suddenly feels like the only reason we make money is to be able to pay our taxes. Everyone loses. No one brings up that taxes fill potholes (which I don't even believe b/c that's how I got a flat tire this year. I want my taxes back!) or pay for education or safety. Because no one cares. Stuff your silver lining. We're in bitch mode. Hello April!

Maybe tax season should be like the lotto. Every year a handful of people nationwide would get picked NOT to pay taxes. "Congratulations Marvin Durfelhammer, you do NOT have to pay the government this year. Heeeere's your money back. Just because!" It brings me joy, and dare I say hope? just thinking of it. I bet more people (we're a competitive country) would pay taxes just to take the chance they'd be forgiven. I could be on to something here. Political bloggers, are you listening?!

But the tax system is what it is for April 15, 2007. It is a pile, a machine, a vat of suckage. I join my fellow Americans in saying words that may touch our hearts more than Oprah. Words that bring tears to our eyes -- even more than when some poor sap tries to hit the high notes on the American anthem. I think I speak for all of us when I say: "Fuck you Uncle Sam, fuck you and the three legged goat* you rode in on."




* imagery by Jessica

You are what you Read.

I WANT to write you about how I was going to meet a guy for drinks other night and, on a second check in the rearview, realized my lipstick was uneven. I pulled over and quickly did my lipstick over. Nope, not quite right. Did it, wiped it, redid it, until I realized (with horror, being that I was already 5 minutes late) that I had no boundaries to my lips. Smeared, reddish, and puffy, my appearance now suggested to my date that I had just exited a hot (and apparently sloppy) make out session with someone else. Awesome first impression, I'm sure. Ooops. I mean, that would technically be the interesting stuff to write about. But there are other things on the agenda today kids...

I don't think I've been this excited since my mom got me my first Cabbage Patch Kid (oh, Connie Lucille!).

You might *think* I've been off daydreaming about hot hot Sawyer, but in truth I've been being cerebral, okay?

Check it out: www.Goodreads.com

It's like MySpace, only not cool.

Sign up here to post reviews of your favorite books, steer your friends away from books you hated, get final revenge by posting a scathing review of that book you detested back in high school, tell people how you secretly loved The DaVinci Code (I'll find out, and yes, I will judge you), and basically just chip away at days you might have mistakenly spent actually being productive.

This public service announcement has been brought to you by THE PROCRASTINATION STATION.

Life goes on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imagine this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up yours.

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

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

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

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


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

Help me, I'm Lost.

Dear Friends,

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

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

and of course there's the all-important

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

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

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

See what I mean? So. not. normal.

Thanks for your attention to this matter,
-the management

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

Sheesh. I thought you knew me.

Five things you didn't know about me:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Portrait of Lilly Gray...

I am aging right before my very own eyes. How do I know? Well, because I keep saying I"ll be done working at 6 but then I sit here for hours more. Sometimes I will entertain myself by flipping through the tv on my desk (lack of storage space). For some reason having the television on makes me feel like I"m being social. You know, like when Susie called me to tell me the Real World was on (yes, this is what people working at home converse about. but the point is, we DO work!) But I'm not being social. I'm just working.

Tonight it got to the point that I started watching Scrubs, then Wicked Wicked Games, then Scrubs again, and finally (drumroll) -- Becker. Lacking my parents' enthusiasm for the show, I shut it off. And looked at the clock. And realized it was past 10.

Disgusting.

Youth is wasted on the ... not the young, just me. I was lecturing my friend about how we work too much. So tonight (let's assume causation rather than correlation) she's out grabbing drinks. What did I do? Oh, cleaned out my inbox and my desk. LOSER. Maybe I should just open a bar and kill two birds with one stone. The workaholic bartender. I could make a killing.

Anyway, I realized I"m working too much and blogging not enough, so here I am.

**Things I Did Recently That You Need To Know About**
(the following may prove to be slightly more interesting than my workday complaints. But only slightly.)

1) I read Blind Submission. It's a novel about another (cough cough) literary agent in San Diego. Yup, I read a novel about working in a literary agency. It was a thinly-veiled send-up of this particular person. But forget about her. The point is that I read a novel about my day job. So sad on so many levels.

2) Started watching LOST. A big thanks for nothing to whoever told me to do it, because...

3) Got hooked on LOST. I can't stop - I needed a fix so badly that I didn't wait for Netflix- I went and got the next discs from the library. Then I made plans with Eric and Chris with the clear understanding that they'd bring me the rest of Season One. When that dinner fell through I was more distressed than is normal for a cancelled dinner plan. Plus I think Jack is raising my already-high bar for guys.

4) Started knitting again. Yay for resolutions. Mine are written on a pink piece of construction paper on my fridge. I have a long list and taped it up after there was no room left. My resolutions range from the aforementioned knitting to "drink less diet coke, more water and wine" to "go to yoga, especially when you don't want to go" to "be nice to people". (hey, gotta cover all the bases.)

5) I've been sleeping too much. It's making me crabby. I have the best of intentions - I've been setting my alarm super early, but then I listen to an entire cd of dance songs play while I snooze. Who knew that Johnny Kemps' "We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off (To Have A Good Time)" is a lullaby?

Observation:I think there might be a correlation between oversleeping and crabbiness, which really would explain teenagers.

6) Going to Bikram Yoga. It's pretty much my social outlet these days. Who doesn't like going into 110 degrees of pure stink for a good 90 minute stretch? I hate wearing shorts so I'm the only (when I say only, I don't exaggerate) person in pants. Which allows the teacher to then call out "hey, girl in the pants, stretch, further, back, more, back, go, back, flower petal blooming..." Yup. Meanwhile I'm surrounded by vanity personified. My favorite is the early-morning lady who shows up at this 6:30 class but then keeps missing the poses because she's literally staring at herself so intensely. When I sleep through the early class and arrive for 9am, she's still there beautifying herself. Ridiculous. And don't even get me started on the people who stay after class to do sit-ups . They should be shot. I think even Bikram would agree with me on this.

Bonus features: the people who fart and think they don't have to apologize because they're in a yoga studio. Ew, what's that about?

On the upside, even though I've been working too much, it's helpful to know that not everyone else's life is booming. Misery loveth the company. Tonight a girlfriend mentioned to me that the only action she gets is when she runs into guys in her building, "that's pretty much a date for me!"

Um, that's my line. I didn't have the heart to tell her about my apartment elevator boyfriend (who was never seen again). We're estranged.

And so the portrait melts...

The Holiday. And The Holiday.

I'm back from vay-cay-shun. Woo hoo. Yay for the high seas. I love boats, so I was quite content just to ride around (or sway side-to-side, as we did for 7 days and I continue to do even now). Unfortunately my travel compadre found herself seasick from the get-go. By sheer power of suggestion, me, Miss NeverGetsSeasick was barfing up a storm on my last night.
I saw gorgeous spots in Mexico that made me never want to come back and I read good books and I ate way too much (how much buffet is too much buffet? I have the answer...) and I got better at blackjack, so I think I fulfilled the cruise checklist.

That's the short of it. The long of it is that, due to weather conditions, I played much more bingo than I'd like to admit. On one particularly cloudy day I ordered a Bloody Mary to fuel my "game". Which resulted in me heckling the bingo caller. I booed his jokes. But trust me, he deserved it. (Examples available upon request)

So due to my inherited seasickness I missed the last dinner and final photos with our Vietnamese dining partners (who the photographer was convinced were our husbands. We gave up explaining to her, and as a result there were a nice set of awkwardly posed photos taken.) Photos aside, I return as single as I left.

But you know who is *not* single? My ex. The one guy I called the b word (not to be confused with bastard. use that one all the time!) He's freakin' engaged.

My mom tried to break it to me all nonchalantly in the car. Picture it: we're driving to the movies, my best friend, my parents, and I. My dad is fumbling with the heat controls. My mom is -- ahem -- gently asking him to shut off the radio "Don't you get enough of these Christmas songs when you go shopping?! Enough! Shut it off!" La la la and out of nowhere, mom lobs it over the net:

her: blahblahblahohSusan'ssonjustgotengaged
me: what?
her: oh, you know, her son. he got engaged.
me: her son, as in XXX??? (names blacked out to protect men who drink diet pepsi)

It was too cute, her effort to play it off (did I mention it's her close friend's son?), so I couldn't even call her out on it. She put the information before me and waited to see how I'd react. I brought the subject up later just to find out if it was who I thought it might be (the girl, not him. Despite my mom's clever ruse, ye faithful readers will know that I had figured out that it was Mr. X) It wasn't. It was someone new. So now, not only do I have to deal with the fact that he is engaged but that not one, but at least TWO girls after me actually wanted to date him! Harrumph or whatever the Archie comic reaction to that would be.

And of course then we go to the movies and what is the plotline? Oh yes, ten movies at the cineplex and which do we see? But of course the one where the heroine's ex boyfriend gets engaged. I shit you not. Story of my life people! Fortunately the film was a romantic comedy so now I"m sure this is the comedy portion of my life film. This is when I have the endearing meltdown, right? The crazy crying fit that makes the audience laugh and smile, knowing that I will triumph. Or do we cut straight to the part when Jack Black waltzes into my life? (Please note that in the movie, at first Jack Black isn't really into her. Ouch!)

So much of me wants to do Hollywood justice and wants to care, just so I can have a good cry and feel like someone affected me that much. But I'm more surprised than anything. Somewhat surprised that he beat me to it. Compound this with the fact that one of my frenemies (my only one I think?) is also engaged. author's note: I have never used that word before, but now it strikes me as perfect, so let's go with it.

Don't you get like that when certain people have good things happen to them? I mean, I'm the first person to be happy for people, but I have my limits. Some people are universally recognized as annoying/sucky/assholey, and so when good things happen to these people, we all just look around at each other and shrug and go "huh!". It's that sort of thing.

Is it me or is there a theme here? People who suck are finding true love (which notably involves being loved), or at least love that makes them not prefer to be at home blogging at 1:30 am on a Saturday. Me? Not so much progress on that front, dear readers!

Hold on, I"m still trying to cough up the emotions I "should" be feeling.

It reminds me of a scene in The Holiday, our film tonight (which I recommend to you, despite the fact that Jude Law prominently stars in it. For my previous opinion of his work, please search "Alfie" and read my post on it. I never thought I'd sit through another of his films again. Glad I did.) Anyway, in the scene, Cameron Diaz tries to make herself cry. All sorts of face contortions, or making the sound and hoping the tears will come. But. Nothing. Tonight I want to do that. I'm sitting here waiting for the Big Breakdown. How to coax it out of myself? I must breakdown or they'll revoke my Girl Club membership card, no? Should I put on some sad music? Throw pillows? Longingly look at old pictures of him? (Oh wait, already drew him horns and boobs on those. No good.) I really don't have the slightest idea what to do, failing to play the role of Melodramatic Female yet again. Why am I wired like this?

I'm a list person and it feels like I should have some sort of list of what to do next. I'm all about the action plans. First will be to find another boyfriend and propertly title him and throw the word around just so I can dilute that silly word (boyfriend. there, i said it. boyfriendboyfriendboyfriend). I guess the main problem is that I don't want XXX back, so the standard plotlines as seen on film ("have fabulous and unexpected makeover! lose 100 pounds! win him back! make him sorry!") fail me.

Last blog I sang the praises of Grand National. Their other track I obsess over is called "Drink To Moving On". On that note, I think I will continue enjoying this glass of wine and drink to being single.

Here's to close calls and absolute freedom.
*clink*

Talk amongst yourselves.

Love love love that track. I found out about it (band: Grand National) on Pandora.com and am officially obsessed. I've been discovering new music, which will relieve those of you sick of hearing my Madonna tracks play til they can't play no mo.

So, brace yourselves: I'm going on VACATION! I know, you thought it would never happen. Shit, *I* never thought it would happen. I'm gone all the time, but that's not the same as vacationing. Every vacation I have is tied to something else -- a wedding, a conference, an obligation of some sort (ok, minus one trip to Vegas, which was the most fun I've had in the past three years, I should note). I decided enough was enough and Punny and I (Single Traveling Females, Inc.) were inspired and booked a spur-of-the-moment cruise. I'm going to get brown again. I will be reclaimed by my people! I will have a buffet 24-7. I will have gambling 24-7. I will have a bed and no internet access to obsessively check my work... 24-7. Woo hoo!

I used to love going on cruises. We went on two when we were younger, back when our parents could actually stand vacationing with the three of us. We had one particularly awesome one where I befriended a bunch of Canadians (that's why I always say "wicked", in case you were wondering. I picked it up and never quite shook it). I had like 2 sips of beer and felt crazy. I met penpals. I left after a week of hanging out with them nonstop and heard the Whitney Houston song "I Will Always Love You" and got sad and cried in my hotel room. It was awesome. I'm friendstered to one of the guys I met on that some 15 years ago. Gotta love friendster. Gotta love that I still care that we're in touch (hi Jon B!).

I have no idea what this year's cruise will hold. Probably hundreds of dollars lost at the blackjack table, a bit of holiday weight, and catching up on my z's. The friends I make, if I even make friends, will likely be on their honeymoons. But I don't even care. I'm going on VACATION! Did I mention I'm going on vacation?

In other news:
* for once, I decided to do early xmas shopping. but the amazon fairies messed up my order, so everything might not be on time. of course. of course.

* i just had dinner last night with my friends who had their second child. he is so cute. so soo cute. of course, none of my adoration of his lovely baby face kept me from noticing that i have been lapped!

* today my brother asked me if i wanted to buy Franzia. i flashed back to a box of it perched on my dresser sophomore year and us drinking that selfsame wine-in-a-box straight from the tap at the sorority house. i should be embarassed, but i'm too busy laughing.

* i got my subletters' cable bill. i am now quite possibly known to the employees of cox communications as the chick who rented herself "black angels", "wife-bangers 2" and "booty-luscious" during what must have been the very lonely month of October. sigh.

I need some fine wine and you, you need to be nicer.

I can't take credit for that title. It's the title of track 5 from the new Cardigans album. My sister turned me onto them a while back, so I rushed out and bought their new album. And let me say, isn't that song title is worth the $15 alone? (yes, I still pay for music. sometimes) Just when I'd started to lose faith in the music industry I find a song title like that. Or things like the Marie Antoinette soundtrack get published. Or I happen upon the Brazilian Girls' new song "Last Call", produced by Ric Ocasek. Someone somewhere still appreciates The Cars. All is not lost.

Life has been good and pretty mellow in this year of being 29. I spent my birthday doing nothing, which was lovely. I bought myself a book (Fargo Rock City) about this guy's journey through loving hard rock in the 80s and got a coffee and just read and read and read. I know more about glam rock than I ever thought I would. If a better understanding of the dynamics of KISS isn't a good birthday present, what is? As I read about Klosterman's journey through metal land, it reminded me of my relationship to music and how much stronger it used to be back when I had the gift of focus. That sense of discovering something new and obsessing over it. I mean, I still obsess, but I don't pour over the liner notes the way I would back in the day. I bought 4 cds today and I'm not going to tell you what they were because you might make fun of me. I'm reconstructing the life I had in high school, when I'd buy tapes and hide in my room and the only person who knew the crap I'd listen to was my sister. So that's been some fun birthday aftermath.

I also read a bunch of books last week while I was in the east coast for wedding #2049420209 and work meetings. And by "a bunch" I mean 5 (yes, that's the sound of me patting myself on the back). So it seems that my youth is back in full swing. Books and music and locking myself in my room for either has returned. All that's missing is my hot pink shag carpeting. And I swear, if someone could tell me where to find it again, it would be mine.

It's funny how the older you get, the more things stay the same (to mix metaphors). While visiting one of my editor friends in NYC, he handed me a copy of the new book he's publishing "Mortified". People - put DOWN the "tuesdays with morrie" already and go RUN, don't walk, to go buy this one.

The premise is this: various individuals have allowed the publication of their most private childhood/teenage writings for the purpose of their own Mortification and our subsequent entertainment. The general set-up is an intro giving you some context, the writing (edited to make sense, but no additives), and in many cases an adult p.o.v round-up. I have never laughed so often, or so loud, in public as when I was reading this book. There are essays, there are journal entries, there are letters, and there is (disturbingly) some Duran Duran fan fiction erotica for good measure. It's all there.

No matter whether someone was writing to Mr. Belvedere or ranting about how much they hated Black History Month ("for the privilege to be the only black girl in class? Thanks alot Martin Luther King."), there's something incredibly healing in reading about other people's agonizing childhoods. Everyone was tormented. I mean, people talk about how much their childhoods sucked, but hearing it in their voice at age 9, 12, 14 is a whole other story. The message is "you are not alone". You definitely get a good dose of laughing at people, but it's one of those rare cases that you are laughing with them as well.

But bringing it back to the birthday and me (because it's my world, you're just living in it) -- when you look back and laugh at someone's obsession about how they came off to a particular guy or how fat they were or how they were going to accomplish their goals, you realize how silly a concern it was... and is. How things seem so big at the time. Read it. And if nothing else, come Thanksgiving, you will be so damn happy they didn't get their hands on whatever it is you were writing back then.

My how the mighty have fallen.

(Sunday)
In case you were wondering, it apparently is possible to run a half marathon with zero training. And when I say zero, I mean that I have run maybe 13 miles (the length of the race) in the past year . No exaggeration. After spending all day yesterday hungover, I ended up accidentally drinking a fully leaded (read: caffeinated) coffee last night. So last night I can tell ya how beautiful the full moon was and what it looked like straight ahead out of my window at any time from 3 am to 6am. Sleepless but wired, I laced up in an obnoxious neon running getup and sweatband to match my friend's and we headed off to the starting line.

I pretty much didn't feel the first 7 miles of the race, despite that, in retrospect, I think this race was uphill both ways! So didn't feel a thing. But then, magically, I did. In the form of a huge blister on my foot (I'd demand a refund for my fancy schmancy running socks from the running store, but I can't move far enough to get there). And then it came to my attention that my ankles were aching. But I was stranded up on the Golden Gate Bridge and I'd said I was gonna finish the damn thing, and I'm nothing if not a woman of my word. So I went where no runner (I would venture to say) has gone before, calling upon a trusty mix of pick me up songs that may or may not have included Guns n Roses meets Mariah. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures...

And finish I did. I got my little medal, the one that makes it worth doing it all. And pathetically, my time was only slightly worse than my time when I ran it last year after 3 months of preparation. Let that be a lesson to you all. I think this is the way to do it- zero training and then feel like a hero for a week (a week during which you don't have to work out again, naturally, you're "recovering").

I made a beeline for the one stand serving fruit juice and next thing I knew, I had 'yes'd' again! THE BACHELOR was holding an open casting call. God help me, I filled out a form. It took 2 seconds, but I'm sure you'll understand why I had to do it when I tell you that you got to sit in a CHAIR while you interviewed! What's dignity when I could sit my ass down?

My application read that I was applying because "I like catfights. And I just ran a half marathon, so apparently I can do anything."

The interview was pretty basic at first. They asked me why I wanted to be on the show. Naturally I pulled a blank because I *didn't* want to be on the show. I wanted to sit in that comfy plastic chair. But you can't say that, these Hollywood types get all offended. So I told them I was there to support my friend. Seemed like a good, reasonable answer. But then I also laughed and said that trying out for "some show like this" was the last thing anyone I knew would expect me to do. That's when they started leaning in. Why, they asked. "Well, I don't compete. Much less for guys. Much less on national television." No, it didn't occur to me that insulting their show wasn't the way to win hearts. I had left judgment back at mile 5. Nor did it occur to me that the big golden plastic medallion I was wearing (and broadly grinning at) around my neck indicated that I was, in fact, slightly competitive. They asked me what type of girl I'd be if I were on the show. Would I be the catfighter? I told them I'd be the fun one. I'd be "the one who would go on the show and make a bunch of girlfriends and not give a shit about the guy."

They asked me about my dating life, and I clued them into the fact that I've never been a big dater but seem to have made up for that in the past couple of years, "putting myself out there," whatever the hell that means. And that I had a recent bad date story to prove it. Then, naturally, I told them The Date Story (as I have everyone else within earshot in the past month). I can't print it here because it's incriminating to my date and I like to think I have journalistic scruples BUT I will say that if they could have stood and applauded, they would have. But they couldn't because I think Helen was eyeing their chairs...

At lunch I was asking my friends- who actually watch tv, and apparently gather to watch this show - what the heck it's about. They explained.

me: So what's the prize?
them: For who?
me: The girl who wins!
them: The guy!
me: No, the PRIZE!
them: The guy!
me: No, I mean, and... the PRIZE!

Apparently there is no prize. I had the shows confused. I think it's some other show where the guy picks you and then you trade in his heart for a million dollars. Hmf. I mean, not that any of this will stop me from taking off 6 weeks to go live in some European villa on someone else's dime if I get picked, but I just wanted you to know it was because of Yes that I got into this mess at all.


Monday follow-up: ps. i did get a callback. they let me know this morning. and no, i'm not doing it :) the triumph of no!

Who says there's no such thing as a free meal?

In fact, I had one Wednesday night, when my parents and I hit up Barona (for those of you not in the know, it's a casino on an indian reservation, heartily endorsed by Kenny Rogers and myself). My parents took me as my birthday gift. My birthday is in another week -- November 8, so mark your calendars -- but to them, casinos are the gift that keeps giving. And tonight it kept giving to my mom. While my dad lured me over to the nickel slots, something I would never touch with a 10 ft pole in Vegas, my mom headed over to 3 card poker to give them the business. She did and along with it charmed the pit boss into comping our dinner.

So there is apparently such a thing as a free meal. It involves an ice cream bar, so take that!

I'm rounding the corner to 29. 29?! Can you believe that? It seems like a joke. Sometimes I throw around the phrase "well, I'm nearly THIRTY" just to hear how it sounds. But last week it became official. Out of NOWHERE I got three little gray hairs. At first I convinced myself that it was just the glare of the bathroom lights on my dark hair, but there they were, Larry, Moe and I'dPluckYouButIHearYouOnlyMultiplyIfIDo. Arg. So now I'm trying to figure out all the things I want to do in the next year of my life.

First thing I did is sign up for a half marathon that I am completely unprepared to run. It's Sunday. I've run one already, but I recently read YES MAN by Daniel Wallace, where this guy, having been in a bit of a rut in his life, convinces himself to unequivocally say yes to every opportunity he's given (leading to some funny scenarios. Worth a read if you've ever wondered what would happen if you told Sultan Habibi that you would in fact be more than willing to assist him in his overseas multimillion dollar transaction...).

So, back to MOI, Helen asked me if I wanted to run it, and I said yes. This is how I got into running one last year (saying yes without thinking about the realities of such a feat), but I should note that I actually bothered to train for that one. I'm basically hoping for divine inspiration to get me across the finish line. Hold hands and pray for me, would ya?

While I'm brainstorming my list of specifics, I know that in my Year of 29 (love them prime numbers!) that I want to say Yes more. I think life gets more interesting when you do. So far today I've gone with it. Witness:

me: hm. 6am. should i sleep in a bit more?
me: yes.
me: hm, it's almost 7. should i sleep in just a bit more?
me: yes!
me: wow. look at that. 8am. maybe i should sleep in more?
me: uh huh.
me: hm, it's almost 9. should i get up?
me: yes.
me: and should i work in my pjs for the morning?
me: hell yes.

The triump of Yes. I've found myself highly agreeable today. I recommend the Yes plan... so far. I think if we girls unequivocally said "yes" then we'd end up making out with construction workers mid-day and end up in other unsavory situations. So I will have to say yes within reason. But a good dose of Yes should be more than enough to make life interesting. Will keep you posted.

Old whatshername.

A few of my friends are expecting (babies, for those of you living the life i dream of) and have been recently revealing their chosen names.

What's in a name? I wrote a whole college essay about mine.

I was named Lilly because my mom liked the flower and my parents didn't want to burden me with some ridiculously traditional Persian name. Or a Persian name that just sucks for an American kid, like Poopak. Yes, that's a name. And yes, I snicker when I say it. I always like to ask people what they were *almost* named. It's like a window into who they could have been. I could have been Roxana (traditional Persian name with very hip 80s twist) or Diana. Blech. I can't imagine being a Diana. She sounds like someone who would tell on you. When I was younger I hated my name. It was a name for other people's dogs and dead grandmas (I have examples for you if necessary). So I decided that my name was going to be, well, Carol. DUH. I found it convenient to name my father Peter (this was during an era when I liked to ignore the existence of my mom). Carol and Peter, together forever.

Later in life I wanted to be named (but note: did not insist on being called, just thought how it would have been nice) Renee, Stacy (you may remember her from Kids Incorporated. I pretty much wanted to be her actually. Little did I know she'd become Fergie.), Maxine, Monique, and Pierre. I managed to be the last two in French class. Take these small victories, I say.

Tonight I was im'ing with Jon, who is reading the Virgin Suicides. And it randomly reminded me that I had wanted to name my kid Lux (one of the characters), but I couldn't for the life of me remember why! Who is this Lux character? And if she was played by Kirsten Dunst in the movie adaptation then shoot me now, my kid must hate me already. I wonder if this happens to other people. Like they name their kid after something and then just can't freakin' remember why. It seems like naming your kids is a cool way to pay tribute to something you like. What a waste to give them a boring name!

Weird things I have wanted to name my kids at various points in my life:

(side note: i don't usually think about this stuff. just like i don't wedding plan, not even in my head and my daydreams. i used to find this a source of pride; i wasn't one of "those" girls. but i read that it's actually a sign of commitmentphobia. oops.)

ahem. The Name List.

1. Lux. reason unknown.
2. Evangeline. a good character in Uncle Tom's Cabin. but in retrospect i think she was a little girl who was dying. but for some reason i remember her being angelic. and the title of a great matthew sweet song.
3. Aiden. I really liked that name after reading Circle of Friends by Maeve Binchy. I hereby swear that I will never name my kid after a character in a Chris O'Donnell film. Remember him? Yeah, didn't think so. Exactly.
4. Madonna. reason known but not reiterated here because i can already feel susie starting to type a comment.
5. Mateo. because, like every other persian, i like to pretend i'm really italian.
6. Maradona. because it sounded like Madonna but had an ass-kicking soccer vibe to it too.
7. Milan. after Milan Kundera, my favoritest writer in the whole wide world. but then i realized it's also a polluted industrial city the churns out Prada bags and is probably more explaining than it's worth.
8. Lilly. just kidding. kinda.

Before I could name things my mom named them for me. Like my first doll, Lilac. Why was it named Lilac? What if that's what my mom wanted to name me and my dad changed the name? (much like Susie who was supposed to be Shireen until my dad won the debate. Sorry if this is news to ya Suz.) Am I living a lie? What if my name is really Lilac G? That would super suck.

And my first teddy bear. Its name was Garp. I never knew why, but then my mom told me it was because she'd just finished reading The World According To Garp. Fine. but why implicate me with a fabulous but disturbing John Irving novel? At the age of, oh, one? To clarify she let me know that it was because she had read it to me WHILE I WAS IN THE WOMB. (Some things explain so much.)

But me, there was apparently not much to my name. No good notations in the baby names book on my parents' shelf (yes, I looked). And to tell you the truth, I'm not even sure how much she likes lilies because she has this ridiculously plush garden and not a lily to speak of! As I write this, I have no idea how I turned my no-story name into a college essay. I wish I could find that admissions essay -- I'm sure it was a magnificent piece of bullshittery. I've saved some old hard disks in the hope that I'll find it someday so I can revel in my own brilliance. Will keep ya posted.

In the meantime, continuing on the theme of moi and my name, I have decided to go narcissist for Halloween. I will be a Tiger Lilly. Roar.

***
ps. Jon (ahem, Jon Yang, author of the Rough Guide to Blogging) just taught me how to bold. I will no longer have to use * to emphasize words I want you to pay extraspecialattention to. This is a whole new world . I figured that one out myself! Oh, this could get ugly.

Just because I felt like blogging.

Well hey, if I wait til I have some stroke of genius or a showstopping topic, then you'd pretty much never hear from me again. I'm trying to learn to blog more regularly. Hold me to it.

I have to find better ways to use my time. This is today's proclamation. When examined closely, all I see is a pileup of wasted time. Consider:

*TIME I WASTED TODAY*

1) I decided to save the environment and use public transportation instead of calling my trusty airport shuttle (sad fact of my traveling schedule lately that I live in SF but the SuperShuttle driver in my neighborhood sees me more than my roommate does)

TIMESUCK: I took the BART to the Oakland Airport. This involved taking the BART across the water, then jumping on a shuttle. Fair enough, but then I had to pay for the shuttle! Perfect change, $2! What, like my $3.35 wasn't enough, oh San Francisco Transit Authority? BART was going to advertise "Oakland Airport" as the stop and then freakin' leave me there? I think not. I saved something like $20 in the end, but if time is money then I'm getting paid minimum wage.

2) I am devouring Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman. I bought it at the Vancouver airport this weekend to get rid of those pesky Canadian dollars and mostly because the options were slim and I just couldn't bear to pay for, much less be seen with a Nora Roberts book in hand. Not in this lifetime!

TIMESUCK: Confession -- I was just holding the book up most of the flight while surreptitiously reading some trash magazine over the shoulder of the passenger to my left. (It was about the Madonna adoption. It couldn't be helped. It offered a timeline of comparison between her adoption and Brangelina's, using Guy Ritchie and Brad Pitt's friendship as the nexus. Yes, I just said Brangelina. Get over it. Anyway, it was a must-read.)

3) I hadn't seen my family in nearly a month.

TIMESUCK: After dinner I retreated to the tv (we don't have one in SF, so I figured I'd indulge) and watched the following --
Gilmore Girls (but I was also too lazy to walk across the room and get a phone to call someone more in the know for an update, thus rendering half the episode just confusing as I tried to pick up the pieces of my life in Stars Hollow) Recap of the senate races on some news show (yawn!) that my dad promised would be funny. Not only was it not funny, but there was a human interest segment about a double-amputee soldier. Laughs all around! My dad and I couldn't even look at each other when it was done. I think we would have cried. The only funny thing was (and this was honestly funny) that the wife made some smartass comment and the husband/amputee turns to her and says "you're lucky I don't have feet or I'd kick you."

I topped my television binge with a Janet Jackson interview in which she revealed zero items that I didn't already know. Zero! How am I supposed to increase my bank of useless pop knowledge if they've started recycling facts? I KNEW she was married to the guy from DeBarge (think "to the beat of the rhy-thm of the night, dance until til the morning liiiiiight." now try to get it out of your head.) I mean tell me something I don't know, like a diet secret, Janet! Double yawn.

4) I owed some people an email.

TIMESUCK: I recapped a particularly hilarious (read: disturbing, but if you don't laugh you'll cry kinda thing) date for my single girlfriends round the way. I spent more time on that email than I did on my law school admissions essay. Granted, it was a classic date and deserved such attention-slash-painstaking detail. But it now occurs to me that, in exerting so much effort to perfectly chronicle the evening as it occurred, I pretty much relived the experience = extra time suckage (date time suckage times two. Or is it squared?)

So there you have it. In conclusion, I need to make better choices... or I just need better time management skills.

Backhanded.

Today an author came up to me at the end of my talk this afternoon, face beaming (as only those of aspiring writers can). She asked me where my office was based, and when I said San Diego, she nodded.

"I knew it! You seem so L.A."

She meant this as a compliment. I think.

Blah.

You're So Vain. I Bet You Think This Blog is About You.

Today! My first nomination! I didn't wait for anyone to vote him in; I knew they'd agree as soon as I cast my vote. He's in, and it's official.

Once upon a time, a friend told me about yet another guy who had recently broken her heart. I listened and supported and nodded and rolled my eyes at all the right places, but then it came to me just what the problem was. She was attracted to a very particular type of guy, and it's the type of guy that was the problem

She is drawn to Guys Who Are Victims of Their Own Good Looks.

We all know the type. That guy who has been told just one more time that they are cute. Whose mommies adore them just a little too much. Who don't even fake that they don't know how cute they are. Who don't even notice that I used a double negative right there because they were so busy reflecting on their own beauty. She would constantly date them -- she'd date guys who were former models, or current models, or actors. And it's not that every model/actor/performer is beautiful, but she'd find them. Or she could find the guy who worked at a restaurant in a very low-key job but had that aura. And what was the aura? Say it with me now...

I myself have never been attracted to the pretty boys. A guy who takes longer to get ready than me will be rightfully ridiculed. I like modesty in a guy. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like a cute guy as much as the next girl, but vanity is a no-no with me, especially when that vanity has a darker side. These are guys who use their beauty to seduce women, usually multiples at a time, but after a brief period of success with this, women are onto them. We usually proceed to mock and ridicule them. We know they're hot and we will speak of it, but they have also tainted themselves through their greedy sluttery.

Today I finally came to terms with the fact that I may have dated a candidate. There, I said it. I too have dated a Guy Who's A Victim of His Own Good Looks. A guy who thought his good looks would make up for some shady behavior, but oh no, I'm onto you! Remember: I'm not just a member, I'm the club president.

I'm pretty excited about this. I feel like now when I accuse my friends of dating guys in this sub-species I will have more authority, more street cred if you will. This appears to be reason to rejoice (or feels like it at 1:40 a.m.) Now that I have a PERSONAL investment in the Hall of Fame, I'm taking my role seriously, monitoring for membership and trying to raise public awareness of this social disease. Feel free to help me compile additional qualifications for nomination. I think my favorite clue is that they believe their prettiness makes them have game. "But all they have is pretty." (rubber bracelets with this key phrase are on the way and will retail for $3 each, to be applied to consolatory drinks for Women Who Are Victims Of Guys Who Are Victims Of Their Own Good Looks...)

On another note, one of my friends recently suggested something that might border on brilliant (and were this the academic battlefield I wish discussions of dating etiquette would be b/c I think we could use some scholars, she would be invited to lecture on her revolutionary theory). She suggests that girls should date guys "just above the threshhold of acceptable attractiveness" for us. Like figure out what's a notch above "nope, couldn't kiss him" and stick with that. Not hot. Not really cute. But just there. Just enough to be happy you're with him, but not enough to cause anyone trouble. I mean, think about it!

I haven't quite figured out what the voting procedure will be for The Guys Who Are Victims of Their Own Good Looks, but I'm thinking it involves a complimentary chest or eyebrow wax. Gentlemen, get your mirrors.

Royal Flush

sometimes life happens and you start to notice the little things- to appreciate them. for the past week (reporting live from san francisco, dear readers!), my friend helen and I have been awed by the power of water pressure. why, you ask? because our toilet broke at the apartment. today marks day four of the bathroom hostage crisis. we were victims of a recalled toilet. i know, baby cribs get recalled, battery parts get recalled, but not toilets!

for half a week, she and i have been surreptitiously dining at restaurants, not for the fine food and drink, but for the amenities they provide. i was actually caught eyeing the port-o-potties at the end of our high-end residential street. i mentioned it to her when she got home.

me: "i saw some port-o-potties at the end of the street when i was out running today."
her: "oh yeah, i know. i saw them already. but they're locked."
me: "nuh uh! they were unlocked!"
her: "oh good! but i'm embarassed to have my neighbors see me going on -- or coming out! -- of one."
me: "hm. good point."

this exchange was followed by such delightful emails as "the Four Seasons bathroom is ridiculous!" (me to her, monday morning). we brainstormed what to do, and thought about people she vaguely knew who lived in the area. she mentioned a guy she'd been on a date with and thought that we could stop by to say hello "hey! long time no see. oh, is that a bathroom back there?..." and of course, ever the plan-ahead lawyers, we established contingency plans should nature call in the middle of the night.

you start to notice the conveniences we take for granted. you don't notice those sorts of things until your toilet becomes a chamber pot. that same monday morning my friend i was breaking-fast (?) with mentioned that the only complaint she has about living downtown san francisco is that people poop on her doorstep.

her: "i mean! enough poop already!"
me: --silence ---
her: "you know! enough poop already!"
me: "mm hm"

i don't even mean it in a smartass way - but where are people SUPPOSED to go to the bathroom? i haven't frequented any doorsteps (at least, not of anyone i know...), but i have sympathy in a way i never did before. i know my brother went through something similar when we vacationed in Paris and he realized there were NO water fountains. what's up, public amenities? where have you gone? sf mayor gavin newsom is trying to bring free internet to the city. how about some potties, gav?

san francisco is pretty damn awesome. it's fun being in a city that reads and that cares. a city that knows the name of its mayor (even if its mayor has looks that better suit him to a southern california metropolis). i've been catching up with old friends and enjoying our swanky neighborhood and doing the work that's piled up over the past few weeks. i'm trying to make a list of things i want to do while up here. i already went to a bikram yoga class, which makes me a better person than you, dear reader. just kidding. i'm actually not a better person though because, despite the mind-centering it supposedly brings, i caught myself giving a pregnant lady the stink-eye after she raised her leg straight to the ceiling. i thought "haha, watch it now, that's how you GOT that way!"

things are just now slowing down enough that i can catch my breath. summer flew by. most of my friends agree that it feels like summer didn't even happen. i mean, my tan came from a bottle. i went to the ocean once. last week. at 1am. where's the summer in that?

Summer Realizations, by lilly:

1. work doesn't go anywhere. in fact, when you're not looking paperwork breeds. why are people studying mice when they can be studying the submissions on my desk?! papers will be there when you get back from whatever you'd rather do. 75 and sunny won't. okay, if you live in san diego it will, but you shouldn't be excluded from the fun just because you were smart enough to move there!

2. fake tanner works. what everyone says about the healthy glow lotion is true. however, if you're overgreedy with it, it will look like your feet are rusting.

3. crushes are often more fun than the actual thing. crushes in your late 20s are just as much fun, just as heart-stopping, as they were in high school. it's a surefire way to feel young again.

4. nip/tuck is a porny soap for guys. that said, it's very good and i'm definitely a fan.

5. toilets are your friend. embrace them. literally if need be.

My Triumphant Return to Blogging OR Five Things That Made Me Smile Today

I have been hovering over my keyboard for two weeks and two days now, trying to figure out how I was going to blog about my next big life change. I decided to take a few months up in San Francisco, a city I love and will probably love even more since I'm a single girl and then I can blame my singleness on something other than the fact that I'd rather spend an evening with two other couples (Lorelai and Luke and Rory and Logan for anyone keeping track) on any given night. So off I go to the big city up north, the city where other people read more than I do. The emerald city.

The sad thing is that I know more people there than I do here. If I had to take a poll, quantity-wise I'd say more people are excited to see me move up there than are sorry to see me go. There has been a slow exodus from San Diego and I'm attributing part of the lack of mourning-my-forthcoming-absence here to that (for the sake of my own ego!). Or maybe urban sprawl just makes it feel like that. And I suppose the fact that it's just a test run at this point (two months, for those of you counting) helps make it not quite dramatic.

But it IS dramatic for those of us who have resided at the same address for the past four years. I have never moved somewhere for the hell of it. There was always a reason (namely: school, school, school, family). I'm just going to go. To see if whatever it was that told me when I was 16 that I would someday live up there actually exists. (Back when I was 16 it struck me as "Chicago with less shitty weather", for one thing). Back then that same 'something' told me I'd go to Stanford. Hardy har har.

So that's the general backdrop for whatever I'll be yammering about in the coming months. Maybe I'll write blogs about all the time I spend in the public library (my hopes! my dreams!) or at obscure author readings. Or about walking up hills and down hills and back up them again (i'm not taking my car. this seems like a good idea at this point in time, i'm sure I'll be eating my words soon enough). No idea what I'll blog about, but there are aspirations to blog a bit more.

And now, without further ado:

FIVE THINGS THAT MADE ME SMILE TODAY:

1) Remembering how much I used to love reading "Alexander Who Used To Be Rich Last Sunday"

2) Working out (step class, LA fitness) and listening to the music and coming to terms with the fact that I'd jump at the chance to be one of the Countdown Singers

3) seeing someone's very very faded suction-cuppy Garfield on his car window

4) related, but NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH GARFIELD: hearing susie make an offhanded reference to Heathcliff at dinner.

5) making jokes about finding a man with a good health insurance plan. and watching other people laugh. and then laughing inside because i wasn't joking.

Only When I'm Dancing Can I Feel This Free

You are what you listen to. Or something like that. I grew up apparently with a lack of hobbies, because every time I bought a tape, I’d rush home, lock my door and pull out some paper. I would then sit and read the liner notes over and over (who did they thank? Who produced it?) This sometimes took a weekend (rewind. stop. what was that line again? fast forward. stop.)

Stop snickering - this is one small part of how I amassed my Stash of Useless Trivia. Like the fact that Patrick Leonard who helped Madonna’s early stuff was the same guy who helped Jody Watley (listen to "most of all" right after you hear Madonna's get up there, and you can hear his keyboards and how he used some of the same stuff. It’s how you know that the Bangles sang the chorus on Cyndi lauper’s “change of heart” or how you know Prince wrote “Manic Monday”. And how you know that he also wrote sinead’s “nothing compares 2 u” and he will only sing it with one person, Rosie Gaines. (And that he does, it’s a live track on his best of discs.)

But I digress. I always digress. Is butidigress.blogspot.com taken yet?

For a long time I've wanted to compile a list of my favorite song lines. I know a woman who keeps a list of first lines from books. Maybe I'll try that next. For now, here are some lines that, for all different reasons, I have love or been affected by in the past 28 years. I'll get the Madonna ones out of the way first, so skip down if you're a hater.

“all I know from experience is that if you have to ask for something more than once or twice, it wasn’t yours in the first place…” -Madonna/Waiting

“I’m not religious- but I feel so moved. Makes me want to pray.” – Madonna/Nothing Fails

“without your love, I’m nothing but a beggar” - Aerosmith/Angel

“try me on… I’m very you” - deee-lite/Try Me On...I'm Very You

“you turned to me as you were threading daisies on a chain. You said ‘it’s decision time again’..." –Everything But the Girl/Wrong

“Kiss me. Please kiss me. But kiss me out of desire, baby, not consolation. Oh you know it makes me so angry cause I know that in time I’ll only make you cry. This is our last goodbye” - Jeff Buckley/Last Goodbye

“I want to end this letter with three words- we tired y’all” Prince/Dear Mr. Man

“Everytime I comb my hair, thoughts of you get in my eyes.” Prince/ Erotic City

“Today is where your book begins. The rest is still unwritten.” – Natasha Bedingfield/Unwritten (yes, I had a very hard time admitting I wanted to include this)

“There’s a time for every star.” – Nikka Costa/Everybody Got Their Something

“brick for brick I know this city like my handprint” – G love n special sauce f. jasper/This Ain't Living

“The rich declare themselves poor and most of us are not sure if we have too much but we’ll take our chances cause God stopped keeping score…you hold on to what you can and charity is a coat you wear twice a year…” –George Michael/ Praying for Time

“She got the beamiest face. Car turns left. I’m into you” Howie Day/Secret

“You make me love you… with a little L” -- Jamiroquoi/Little L

“Yeah yeah have you heard the news today? Money’s on the menu in my favorite restaurant.” - Jamiroquoi/When You Gonna Learn?

"Snap her up in a butterfly net... Pin her down in a photograph album" - Counting Crows/Anna Begins

And that's just for starters.

Playing Grown Up

Ok, I have come to the final realization that playing "grown up" sucks. When I was little, all I wanted was to work. I was dying to take the place of my mom's secretary Paula, answering phones, booking appointments and offering financial organization to the world and its dental files.

Fast forward to today. When you play house, you do the fun stuff, you cook for the kids, but you never have to clean the dishes. And you don't deal with a broken garbage disposal. Mind you, being an adult with a juvenile mentality, I should note that I've functioned sans disposal for about 2 months now. No joke. It stopped whirring one day and I mourned it for about 24 hours and forgot about it.

As a kid, you play house with whoever's around. If need be, you convert an elementary school classmate into Mike Brady. Hell, I did. As an adult, the quest to find someone to put into Mike Brady's shoes becomes more difficult. And you find out Mike Brady was a homosexual, which just confuses you that little bit more.

Today I'm faced with finding a partner (if not for love then for the tax deduction, because I was nearly brought to tears when I filed my taxes this year), making enough money to keep a roof over my head, perhaps even fixing the appliances therein. And yesterday a friend mentioned that perhaps I should create a savings account for "fun" or travel. What happened to mom and dad just springing a Hawaii trip on us? Nowadays I consider it a getaway if I drive as far as La Jolla. And as a kid you prized your possessions and knew where they were at all times. This weekend, concerned with worldly things like paying a month's worth of bills (ok, and maybe watching the Hulk Hogan reality show at the gym) I lost my iPod. Again. And I'm too tired to care. I'm not sure which is sadder.

What happened when the biggest task in your day was a sheet of foreign verb conjugation or finding a ride to the mall to get that new cassette you were dying for? Youth is so wasted on the young. I'm just gonna pray that my youthful looks help me stretch it out a bit more. Let the regression begin.

You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine

I went out of town to New York and returned. Apparently the sunshine and 70 degree weather I took with me to the Big Apple didn't return with me. It's day 2424635 of cloudy greyness and I've had enough of it.

Alot of people say that if you didn't grow up in California you don't have a right to complain about the weather here. To them I say, well, whatever word goes with wiggly moose-head signs and sticking my tongue out. Screw that. I pay a premium for sunshine and so I want some fucking sunshine.

See how mad I am? I just f-bombed. And my mom reads my blog!

When I left the midwest, I left a land where crappy weather was a certainty. There is something to be said for the reassuring nature of knowing that when you get up, it's going to be crappy out. Here, I get up expecting California Dreamin' and I look out the window and don't know where I am for a moment. In Chicago, you knew it was going to be freezing-slip-on-your-ass-icy in winter, spring and part of fall. In summer it was unGodly hot where your lungs would need a moment to adjust from the cool air conditioned house when you stepped outside, beads of sweat forming almost immediately. It was never perfect, so you didn't bother worrying. But here, my own (very reasonable) expectations aside, I have a reputation to keep up! When people -- clients, friends, telemarketers -- call and want to know what the weather is like, I am under a certain amount of pressure to perform. I want to say "you don't want me to tell you - heh heh", but instead I say "Sorry, tell me again. What is the survey about?"

In Chicago my parents realized that the lack of sunshine was affecting their children. It was first noted shortly after my growth spurt halted right around 4 feet (yes, short, even for my family) for a while there. Immediately my mom sought out what became nicknamed "happy lights" -- indoor lighting meant to mimic the sun's rays and give you some of whatever that drug is that the sun shoots down on my solar panel. Our moods lightened, or in any case the placebo effect was in full force.

But these days, I don't know where to buy a happy light. I'm in freaking San Diego. They don't sell them here. I keep turning around (I've turned my desk because facing out the window was getting to me after a week) to see if maybe the sun has burned the clouds away while I"m hammering away at my keyboard. Nope. At this rate, I will continue to be the Whitest Iranian Girl That Ever Did Live. It's not a title I'm looking to champion for much longer. I keep eyeing a reserve bottle of self-tanner in my medicine cabinet. Middle eastern people shouldn't even HAVE to buy that stuff. See what I mean?

If there was a sun dance, I'd do it. But that would require energy I don't have. Send help.

guilty pleasures in no particular order.

1. Jordan Knight covering New Kids on the Block. Double disc album. Owned by me. For those of you who thought it couldn't get worse than my ownership of the London Symphony Orchestra covering Madonna's greatest hits. (Apparently one of you out there didn't think it was so bad b/c you borrowed it and didn't return it.)

2. Seeing famous people look fat in pictures. Thank you US Weekly.

3. Astrologyzone.com. I stay up late the last night of the month so I can sneak a peek at what Susan is predicting for the next month. True. Not that I should feel guilty about being emotionally attached to my horoscope. I am a Scorpio and we're just obsessed like that...

4. Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Sodium plus starch, period. I could live on this stuff.

5. Singing in the car. I know, not a guilty pleasure until I tell you that sometimes I rewind so I can sing a different part of the harmony. Gotta cover it all. Albums like Brandy offer maximum harmonizing potential, fyi.

I have no idea why I just cyberdumped these private facts. I'm a stone's throw from a reality show audition. Actually, I think I'd like my own show. It could be called So Lillious. Don't worry, Tori could have a supporting role. I don't want to totally steal the limelight. It would be about my life, my times, and importantly, my rise as a pre-eminent literary agent to the stars (see www.hyperwest.net/anachronic for more details on cast member Jon Yang).

So basically it would show me reading for the first 5 minutes. Then for the next 25 minutes the camera would watch me watching my screen, emailing everyone I know - clients, friends, randoms and laughing at my own wit. Insert more featuring my various friends. I'd definitely give special attention to my lawyer friends, contrasting their days with mine (them in suits, me in cute sweats. them clocking in and out, me reading manuscripts in the sun). Maybe I'll take a note from Hasselhoff and do a slo-mo montage of that bit. I'd let my parents be on the show, but my dad couldn't make jokes about me being an old maid. Come to think of it, I'd probably have to make him sign something about that.

I still feel like I'm jetlagged from my awesome trip to NYC. This week's lesson on "So Lillious" is that you can take a wicked nap if you bunch up an airplane blanket for a pillow to rest your head on on your traytable. Plus you look so weird that the air waitresses (as I like to call them) leave you alone.

Like a Von Trapp, I bid you adieu (always wanted to do that. To you, and you, and you and you and you). Nitey nite.

Does My Hair Look Okay?

This evening a few pressing questions came to mind.

1) Do people who have mullets *call* them mullets?

Or let's backtrack.
2) Do people who have mullets even know they have mullets?

Pondering these questions has entertained me for more of the evening than I'd like to admit.

Notes from Room 611

So last night I had a near brush with death. Don't worry, dear readers. I'm alive and well, if undercaffeinated. There is much room for aggressive Strabucks franchising in Colorado, if anyone is looking for a business opportunity. I threw a fit in the Denver Int'l Airport. I had been late to SAN to take my flight, so I figured I'd nap and get a coffee at my layover. This was not meant to be, however. I walked the length of the terminal at Denver only to find myself in front of the terminal map, hands on my waist, just short of stomping my feet.

I called a friend. At work. In the middle of her busiest day.

me: "Um. So there's apparently no Starbucks at this airport. Is this even possible?"
her: "No Starbucks? Is it a third world country?"

This is why we have our friends. Rather than ridicule me, she was quick to point out that even Iran has Starbucks, if a completely illegal ripoff called "Starbox". I love my people.

Anyway, she told me Seattle's Best is owned by Starbucks, but that didn't comfort me. I got a frozen yogurt and continued planning the bar crawl for 100 folks that I've got going on Tuesday night in honor of the Roomienator's graduation. Is there anything better one can do on a Tuesday than drink copious amounts of well drinks? I think not. And I don't know that there's anything more professional you can do on a business trip than spend your time planning such an event. "$2 kamikazes. Think you can do that?"

Back to the future, here we are, room 611 at the Wyndham in Colorado Springs. Which brings us back to my near-death experience. It's really dry out here. They outfitted us with bottles of water and chapstick upon arrival. Well last night I was talking on my phone (yes, this is what I do on Friday nights. Get over it.) and my phone was sparking at my ear! Static like CRAZY. So I decided to put it away, shut off the lights and go to bed. And then, when I got in bed there was even MORE static- sparks left and right. BLUE SPARKS! Big ones! Ouchy ones. I told myself not to worry because I'm not flammable. But then I realized...

I AM!

I am flammable. For some reason this fascinates me. I nearly escaped death. Ok, maybe that's dramatic, but I'm at a writers conference. What do you expect?

Here's to hoping I find the next Great American Novelist downstairs. And a cup of coffee. I'd like one of those too.

My Last Meal

Tonight my roommate and I had some friends over and cooked dinner (yes smartass, you read that right). A ridiculous top-secret yummalicious recipe from her boyfriend's mom for mac and cheese. And dessert? Cupcakes.

Unfortunately, the amount of joy I found in consuming this menu led me to the realization that while I am 28, I am really just 5.