RUN, LILLY, RUN

Real men wear red dresses.

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

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

TRUTH #1: YE SHALL WEAR A RED DRESS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRUTH #3: THY MUST SHELVE THY INNER JOAN RIVERS

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

TRUTH #4: YOU SHALL MAKE NEW FRIENDS

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

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

TRUTH #5: THE PEOPLE SHALL RETURN

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

Caught In The Act

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

And I need to be redeemed..."

So sue me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and by the way...

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

Thank you for your attention to this matter,
The Management

ALL THE NEWS THAT'S FIT TO PRINT

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

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

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

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

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

So she launched it and...

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

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

and....

yup.

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

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

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

"I Betcha Wonder How I Knew..."

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

That is just so weird.

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

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

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

If I Were A Rich Girl

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

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

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

Honesty is the best policy.

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

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

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

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

Whatever, I'm just being honest.

Never Say Never

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank You For Being a Friend...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Can't Touch This

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

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

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

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

So depressing.

Diary of a Domestic Godess

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

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

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

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

I think I'm nesting or something.

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

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

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

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

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

I want to talk about his last album.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smooth criminal? I don't think so.

With this blog, I thee wed.

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

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

I need to marry myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*BEEP* A MESSAGE FROM THE EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hire Me, Britney

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

Pure genius.

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

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

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

And so much drama to sing about, no less.

VISION LIKE A HAWK (tm)

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

Welcome to my week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doctor: Can you feel this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or something like that.

THE CONFESSIONAL

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

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

Ok, sit down. Here's the confession:

I didn't wince. Not once.

Signs I May Be Morphing. This Could Be Ugly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoot or Be Hooted or Ode to Owen

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Tis the Season

This morning my roommate got an email from her dad:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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