Ok, so here's a moral dilemma I've struggled with -- let me know what you guys think. Consider this a formal poll of your social practices.
When is it appropriate to comment on a woman's apparent pregnancy?
A. When and ONLY when it's verified, ie. you're in the room watching the baby come out of her.
B. Never.
C. When you've heard from someone else.
D. When she looks like she has a beer belly that you don't *think* was there before.
E. When you're her boyfriend and you haven't been getting any from her.
Ok, the reason I bring this up is that I ran into a casual acquaintance tonight. I asked her how she'd been and she said "Good, good. I, um, had a baby."
So NATURALLY I did the whole 'Ohmygosh!Congratulations!ThatisSOGREAT.Noway!' thing. To which she responded "Well, when I saw you back in June, I was seven months pregnant. And you didn't say anything! I left with my friend feeling sorry for myself because I thought you just thought I was fat." So then I had to explain to her my personal theory, ie. choice "A", listed above. Friends, if you are apparently with child, let me be the first to say you will NOT hear it out of me. Never will the words "Are you expeeeeeeeeecting?" fall from these lips.
I realize the margin of error on guessing wrong is probably very very small after a certain point. When the belly is past the boobs, you're pretty much good to go. My thing is to not comment until they (aformentioned Possibly Pregnant One) insist on making it conversation -- that, or if the labor pains strike on my watch. That's just me. I'm playing it safe. Hey, at least someone is.
I'mGonnaWashThatManRightOuttaMyHair
There has only been one time in my life that I had short hair. It was (appropriately) in the 80's. Lice was going around my classroom and, next thing I knew, my mom had given me a really short haircut. I would describe it to you as a bowl if it had that shape. Unfortunately, my unruly hair had no shape whatsoever. The shape was kinda like cotton candy, only not soft. Just gross. To compensate, I wore my favorite puffy pastel reversable sweater (I'm not a fashion girl, so the fact that I remember the outfit is meant to signify how traumatic it all was) to school. Matt Evans was quick to tell me that, well, he liked my hair better long. I went home and stared in the mirror and cried. For two days. I never spoke to him again (and when I say never, I mean it. I'm a woman of my word). I also never really cut it again. I had one near-cut trim when a Persian hairstylist in Vestvood took liberties with the 'trim' she was commissioned to give me, but never has my hair risen above shoulder level.
Until last week.
I called my mom and told her I wanted to cut my hair off. Only fitting that she of the 1980's Lice Epidemic Hairstyling Fiasco be the one to once again take scissors to my locks. Was there a moment of regret? Not really, more fascination. Something that had been part of me so long was being amputated, but I couldn't feel a thing except surprise that I'd made the decision. I don't know what I was cutting off, but it felt awesome.
The first shower after you get your hair cut (I'm talking over a foot of tresses here, folks) is scary. You have phantom hair. I have since shared Phantom Hair stories with people, okay, just my sister, who grew her hair equally long and cut it. She recalled throwing her hair back in the shower and nearly knocking herself out when, lacking hair weight, she made cranial contact with a shower wall. But enough about her, let's get back to me ;)
Somehow you think that if you change your hair, you change your life. I'm not making this up. I watched the Lenny Kravitz Behind the Music special, and when he needed to rejuvenate, what did HE do? That's right- he cut his hair! And what are half of celeb magazines focused on? How women took their lives into their hands and cut their hair. Even Persian tribes believe that shaving the hair encourages growth. Granted, that's in children, but I'm short. I'm ready for change. As the wise philosopher Lauryn Hill once said "If you're not changing/growing, then you're dead."
So the report one week in is... well, I just feel like I'm wearing a wig. And I feel like I look older. But I'm also proud of myself for doing something really scary and having no idea how it would turn out. But on the other side, I'm learning not to be attached to it. It's just friggin hair. I know, I can hear you calling in the COSMO cops right now.
And yes, there will be the Matt Evans-es of the world who will remind me that - tsk tsk - men like long hair. But to them I say: Why don't you go worry about the pluralization of your last name and get me an answer on that instead of worrying about my hair?
It's possible to look one way so long that it *becomes* your identity instead of just decorating it. When you take that away, who are you? That's what I'm trying to figure out. And it seems I have about two years to do just that.
Spellbound
This afternoon a friend sent me this link that sends you to Merriam-Webster to find out what the most popular words looked up in the last year were. Click on this link and you too will read that:
"Merriam-Webster's Words of the Year 2005
Based on your online lookups, the #1 Word of the Year for 2005 was:
1. integrity
Pronunciation: in-'te-gr&-tE
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English integrite, from Middle French & Latin; Middle French integrité, from Latin integritat-, integritas, from integr-, integer entire
1 : firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values : INCORRUPTIBILITY
2 : an unimpaired condition : SOUNDNESS
3 : the quality or state of being complete or undivided : COMPLETENESS
synonym see HONESTY"
The NUMBER ONE word that Americans didn't understand the meaning of was... ***integrity***?
I couldn't even bring myself to read the rest of the list. Oh brother.
"Merriam-Webster's Words of the Year 2005
Based on your online lookups, the #1 Word of the Year for 2005 was:
1. integrity
Pronunciation: in-'te-gr&-tE
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English integrite, from Middle French & Latin; Middle French integrité, from Latin integritat-, integritas, from integr-, integer entire
1 : firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values : INCORRUPTIBILITY
2 : an unimpaired condition : SOUNDNESS
3 : the quality or state of being complete or undivided : COMPLETENESS
synonym see HONESTY"
The NUMBER ONE word that Americans didn't understand the meaning of was... ***integrity***?
I couldn't even bring myself to read the rest of the list. Oh brother.
Intentions Count for Something?
I believe the current state of my life can be summed up by the fact that I had every intention of reading Kafka's "The Trial" this afternoon and ended up watching "13 Going on 30".
The Good, The Bad and the Discounted
THE GOOD: Today I got my first galley. What is a galley, you ask? It's a bound copy of a book- an advanced ready copy. It's for THE GRILLED CHEESE MADONNA by Chris Cihlar. I opened the envelope and couldn't believe my eyes as I finally got to see a project I had watched grow from start to finish (I picked up the project starting with a random query email).
I imagine this is what a proud father feels like as he holds his newborn (the joy, the pride, no real sense of the blood, sweat and tears that bore the actual thing). Keep an eye out for it. As we were reading, we were busting up. If I didn't have free copies, I'd totally buy it, it's so damn funny. May 2006, baby!
THE BAD: I realized yesterday that there is something incredibly unfair about the holiday season as an Iranian American. You see, I don't subscribe to any particular religion, but something about the holidays in the US really get me down. I mean, deeeeee-pressed. This year I've been so depressed that I haven't even been able to partake in my usual ritual of popping in Home for the Holidays and delighting in the dysfunction of another person's family.
I feel the same pressure as everyone else to buy the 'perfect' gift for the people I love, to spend time with my family (even though we all live in the same city), and to make resolutions for a new year. Problem is, I'm not Christian or Jewish, the token holidays of the aformentioned "holiday season." Technically Persians do have a holiday, and it was tonight. Shabeh-Yalda, the longest night of the year. According to my mom, my job was to "eat lots of fruit and make a wish!" That's the type of holiday I want. And yet I feel all the solemnity of the Judeo-Christian Shopping season and all it entails. This depression is slated to last another two weeks. Right up until Dec 31st, when I have to make the aformentioned Resolutions and then sink under the weight of figuring out how I will possibly accomplish in 365 days what I haven't in the previous 28 years. The pressure, the pressure! And all this in the face of the fact that the new year that actually means something to me, Noruz, doesn't even roll around til the first day of spring in March.
I recently heard a statistic that approximately 70% of the United States is Christian. I don't know if this is true, but I wonder how much the numbers fluctuate around the holidays. The rest of us, aka. "Other", get greedy, we wanna play too, so we put up a tree, and then all hell (or depression) breaks loose. Last night my family even got around to bickering just a tad about the placement of lights and ornamentation on our Christmas tree. I am a victim of the American Marketing Complex, and it's my own damn fault.
THE DISCOUNTED: Random stroke of brilliance tonight. I think third wheels should get discounted movie tickets.
I imagine this is what a proud father feels like as he holds his newborn (the joy, the pride, no real sense of the blood, sweat and tears that bore the actual thing). Keep an eye out for it. As we were reading, we were busting up. If I didn't have free copies, I'd totally buy it, it's so damn funny. May 2006, baby!
THE BAD: I realized yesterday that there is something incredibly unfair about the holiday season as an Iranian American. You see, I don't subscribe to any particular religion, but something about the holidays in the US really get me down. I mean, deeeeee-pressed. This year I've been so depressed that I haven't even been able to partake in my usual ritual of popping in Home for the Holidays and delighting in the dysfunction of another person's family.
I feel the same pressure as everyone else to buy the 'perfect' gift for the people I love, to spend time with my family (even though we all live in the same city), and to make resolutions for a new year. Problem is, I'm not Christian or Jewish, the token holidays of the aformentioned "holiday season." Technically Persians do have a holiday, and it was tonight. Shabeh-Yalda, the longest night of the year. According to my mom, my job was to "eat lots of fruit and make a wish!" That's the type of holiday I want. And yet I feel all the solemnity of the Judeo-Christian Shopping season and all it entails. This depression is slated to last another two weeks. Right up until Dec 31st, when I have to make the aformentioned Resolutions and then sink under the weight of figuring out how I will possibly accomplish in 365 days what I haven't in the previous 28 years. The pressure, the pressure! And all this in the face of the fact that the new year that actually means something to me, Noruz, doesn't even roll around til the first day of spring in March.
I recently heard a statistic that approximately 70% of the United States is Christian. I don't know if this is true, but I wonder how much the numbers fluctuate around the holidays. The rest of us, aka. "Other", get greedy, we wanna play too, so we put up a tree, and then all hell (or depression) breaks loose. Last night my family even got around to bickering just a tad about the placement of lights and ornamentation on our Christmas tree. I am a victim of the American Marketing Complex, and it's my own damn fault.
THE DISCOUNTED: Random stroke of brilliance tonight. I think third wheels should get discounted movie tickets.
Resolving
The other night I was having dinner with one of my best friends and I asked her what her New Year's resolution would be. Never in my 28 years of life on this here earth have I seen a face go so blank. She may have asked me "What do you mean?," I really don't recall at this point.
You see, it has never been an option in my mind. Just like how you did your homework growing up and you look before you cross the street and you flush the toilet after you've left a souvenir (hopefully. If not, feel free to add that to your list)... you make a resolution. It's part of the natural order of things, really. Or so I thought.
The entire month of January is built around the fact that we are each supposed to be new people at the start of the new year. A Friends episode is devoted to this 'fact' -- that we all *try*, in any case. Entire marketing campaigns (big nod to 24 Hour Fitness, for example) have even been formulated around the usual suspects (weight loss and...oh yeah, weight loss). Everyone does it. No one doesn't do it. There are nudist colonies for people who don't wear clothes. There aren't "no resolution" colonies because it, to my knowledge, just doesn't exist. EVERYONE MAKES THEM... right?
Let's get back to the table. So I'm sitting in this fabulous little Asian fusion joint in L.A. chowing down food at 10pm. While I'm sitting there counting my sins (eating out while I'm supposed to be saving money, eating food that tastes too good to be good for you and the new dress you want to fit in to, etc.), my friend shrugged with the explanation that she had actually NEVER IN HER LIFE made a New Year's resolution.
I tried baiting her with a few suggestions -- "You never thought to ... or ....?" Nothing. She didn't bite. In fact, I can't recall making eye contact after the Kung Pao arrived. (But, again, that could have been my fault. See Resolution #2, above.)
Must be nice, most of me thought. A little tiny part of me sniffed at her "Hm. Well, the rest of us are trying to become better and better people with each passing year." But the majority of me recognized that she was the fortunate one. She is who she is. She accepts that. She doesn't make promises she doesn't intend to keep; if those things -if that handy list of 'self improvements' meant something to her, she would have made those changes long long ago. It wouldn't require an expensive evening out, annoying noisemakers and a cheap glass of champagne to seal the promise to herself.
I should clarify here that, while fascinated by her behavior, I didn't convert. I mean, anthropogists go observe tribal rituals but it doesn't mean they come home with a neck coil or a communal husband. I'm still rapidly creating a list and trying to google "how many resolutions is too may resolutions?" But it's enlightening to see how the other half lives. And hey, it's one less person fighting for the treadmill.
You see, it has never been an option in my mind. Just like how you did your homework growing up and you look before you cross the street and you flush the toilet after you've left a souvenir (hopefully. If not, feel free to add that to your list)... you make a resolution. It's part of the natural order of things, really. Or so I thought.
The entire month of January is built around the fact that we are each supposed to be new people at the start of the new year. A Friends episode is devoted to this 'fact' -- that we all *try*, in any case. Entire marketing campaigns (big nod to 24 Hour Fitness, for example) have even been formulated around the usual suspects (weight loss and...oh yeah, weight loss). Everyone does it. No one doesn't do it. There are nudist colonies for people who don't wear clothes. There aren't "no resolution" colonies because it, to my knowledge, just doesn't exist. EVERYONE MAKES THEM... right?
Let's get back to the table. So I'm sitting in this fabulous little Asian fusion joint in L.A. chowing down food at 10pm. While I'm sitting there counting my sins (eating out while I'm supposed to be saving money, eating food that tastes too good to be good for you and the new dress you want to fit in to, etc.), my friend shrugged with the explanation that she had actually NEVER IN HER LIFE made a New Year's resolution.
I tried baiting her with a few suggestions -- "You never thought to ... or ....?" Nothing. She didn't bite. In fact, I can't recall making eye contact after the Kung Pao arrived. (But, again, that could have been my fault. See Resolution #2, above.)
Must be nice, most of me thought. A little tiny part of me sniffed at her "Hm. Well, the rest of us are trying to become better and better people with each passing year." But the majority of me recognized that she was the fortunate one. She is who she is. She accepts that. She doesn't make promises she doesn't intend to keep; if those things -if that handy list of 'self improvements' meant something to her, she would have made those changes long long ago. It wouldn't require an expensive evening out, annoying noisemakers and a cheap glass of champagne to seal the promise to herself.
I should clarify here that, while fascinated by her behavior, I didn't convert. I mean, anthropogists go observe tribal rituals but it doesn't mean they come home with a neck coil or a communal husband. I'm still rapidly creating a list and trying to google "how many resolutions is too may resolutions?" But it's enlightening to see how the other half lives. And hey, it's one less person fighting for the treadmill.
In No Particular Order
1. I'm not okay yet, are you? A mere 24 hours later, Yahoo's headlines about Stanley "Tookie" Williams are but a cache'd link in a faraway place. Everyone is over it. I'm not. Watching the news and the minute-by-minute account of what was going on was a wake-up call to the part of me that used to be very active about prison social issues. Somewhere along the way, I tucked that interest and concern aside. Sometimes problems seem so big and I don't even know where to dig in and start helping. I have started to act as if voting from time to time for a Democrat would do the trick. But we have a legal system where it's okay to execute someone. To extinguish an existence. And that bothers me in a way I can't even put into words. In the matter of one day, I watched a simple shrug of a conclusion rise like a puff of air from that execution chamber. The conclusion: there is no redemption.
Have we lost our faith in the possibility of redemption -- or, simply put -- that people can learn and change and become better or shed an old skin? Is that what we were really putting to sleep last night? That hope? If so, that's so sad that I don't even know how to address it.
2. Tonight I went to a party with Cyrus and someone looked at me and asked "Who's older?" -- with a STRAIGHT FACE. Cyrus later explained that she is the dumbest girl at his workplace. This was consoling to me. Until someone else asked me as I was *telling her this story*. Arg. I still don't know whether to be upset or complimented by this. At 23, it was an insult to get carded and such. At 28, shouldn't I be rejoicing in the fact that I'm easily passing for 10 years younger than my own age? I'm still not sure where I stand on it.
Am I going to be one of those people who's in her 40s and then people finds out her real age, having thought she was cool like them, in her 20s, and then they freak and feel weirded out?
Which brings me to another thought -- you know the whole thing about 'you're only as old as you feel'? I have no idea how old I feel. I think it might be 18. Which is just weird. I can't seem to fit in at another number. Ack. I know most of my guy friends are happily hovering at an average of "ten... and a half." But girls?
3. Humbling Moment of the Week. Today I made what could possibly be construed as a mistake at work -- let's say I had an oversight on something that was caught by someone else. I realized through this horrific experience (a little melodrama for ya) that making a mistake is a really big thing I can't deal with. It unhinges me for all practical purposes. Does anyone know if perfectionism is genetically inherited? If so, I'd like to point fingers. Thanks!
3.5 I'm auditioning New Year's Resolutions. Anyone got good suggestions? I want to do one serious one and one silly one at least. Being all serious never works. Why do we make serious resolutions?
Wouldn't it be fun if you could make resolutions for *other* people? Hell, I'd give up some of my Xmas presents for that. I'd like to start with my neighbors across the hall, who cornered me when they were drunk after the building holiday party and yelled at me (unfortunately, this is quite literal; as we all know - cheap wine makes people hard of hearing) about how "the 30 year old and under crowd in this building needs to stop acting like it's a hotel." The volume continued to go up as they harangued me for not having attended the holiday party.
I imagine what I experienced is like the reaming teenagers get when they break curfew (never had that; see 3.0 for more details). They CORNERED me. As I was recycling, no less. So much for karma. As she's whining about how I should get involved and insists that I read the book club book and be present and accounted for at the building book club meeting, he's glaring at me. And she didn't let up. "It's so short you can read it on the TOILET, Lilly!!!!" Ah, class act. At this point, he steps forward. Military man. Hovering over my 5'1 frame (yes, I've come to terms with my height. Shut it.) and goes "Lilly. We'd really like to see you show up at some of these functions." Subtext: you have disappointed us. We love you, but we don't like you right now.
Um, I pay a hefty association fee so I don't have to interact with my neighbors - hello! Thus, I would begin my resolution superpowers with one for the aformentioned neighbors. It would simply be that in 2006, they will stop popping out of their door just as I walk by, which I find both creepy and fortuitous (for the spreading of their neighborly evangelism).
4. If you haven't gone to Pandora.com, you must go now. Because it's incredible. It's like a musical psychic. It knows what you'll like even more than you do. I predict that this will be one of the biggest sites of the next year. Who needs MySpace -- who needs friends at all -- when you have good music? I'm obsessed with the insight I'm gaining from this website and I think everyone worth their salt should go check it out. I am fully judging my friends based upon their reactions to it once they've examined, by the way.
5. I have initiated a hot-chocolate-before-bed ritual. Ok, that makes it sound much more scandalous than it is. I make hot chocolate in the spirit of Christmas. Given that it's been gorgeous and sunny, it may not make complete sense, but it works for me. Highly recommended. Me belly full, so off to bed I go.
Have we lost our faith in the possibility of redemption -- or, simply put -- that people can learn and change and become better or shed an old skin? Is that what we were really putting to sleep last night? That hope? If so, that's so sad that I don't even know how to address it.
2. Tonight I went to a party with Cyrus and someone looked at me and asked "Who's older?" -- with a STRAIGHT FACE. Cyrus later explained that she is the dumbest girl at his workplace. This was consoling to me. Until someone else asked me as I was *telling her this story*. Arg. I still don't know whether to be upset or complimented by this. At 23, it was an insult to get carded and such. At 28, shouldn't I be rejoicing in the fact that I'm easily passing for 10 years younger than my own age? I'm still not sure where I stand on it.
Am I going to be one of those people who's in her 40s and then people finds out her real age, having thought she was cool like them, in her 20s, and then they freak and feel weirded out?
Which brings me to another thought -- you know the whole thing about 'you're only as old as you feel'? I have no idea how old I feel. I think it might be 18. Which is just weird. I can't seem to fit in at another number. Ack. I know most of my guy friends are happily hovering at an average of "ten... and a half." But girls?
3. Humbling Moment of the Week. Today I made what could possibly be construed as a mistake at work -- let's say I had an oversight on something that was caught by someone else. I realized through this horrific experience (a little melodrama for ya) that making a mistake is a really big thing I can't deal with. It unhinges me for all practical purposes. Does anyone know if perfectionism is genetically inherited? If so, I'd like to point fingers. Thanks!
3.5 I'm auditioning New Year's Resolutions. Anyone got good suggestions? I want to do one serious one and one silly one at least. Being all serious never works. Why do we make serious resolutions?
Wouldn't it be fun if you could make resolutions for *other* people? Hell, I'd give up some of my Xmas presents for that. I'd like to start with my neighbors across the hall, who cornered me when they were drunk after the building holiday party and yelled at me (unfortunately, this is quite literal; as we all know - cheap wine makes people hard of hearing) about how "the 30 year old and under crowd in this building needs to stop acting like it's a hotel." The volume continued to go up as they harangued me for not having attended the holiday party.
I imagine what I experienced is like the reaming teenagers get when they break curfew (never had that; see 3.0 for more details). They CORNERED me. As I was recycling, no less. So much for karma. As she's whining about how I should get involved and insists that I read the book club book and be present and accounted for at the building book club meeting, he's glaring at me. And she didn't let up. "It's so short you can read it on the TOILET, Lilly!!!!" Ah, class act. At this point, he steps forward. Military man. Hovering over my 5'1 frame (yes, I've come to terms with my height. Shut it.) and goes "Lilly. We'd really like to see you show up at some of these functions." Subtext: you have disappointed us. We love you, but we don't like you right now.
Um, I pay a hefty association fee so I don't have to interact with my neighbors - hello! Thus, I would begin my resolution superpowers with one for the aformentioned neighbors. It would simply be that in 2006, they will stop popping out of their door just as I walk by, which I find both creepy and fortuitous (for the spreading of their neighborly evangelism).
4. If you haven't gone to Pandora.com, you must go now. Because it's incredible. It's like a musical psychic. It knows what you'll like even more than you do. I predict that this will be one of the biggest sites of the next year. Who needs MySpace -- who needs friends at all -- when you have good music? I'm obsessed with the insight I'm gaining from this website and I think everyone worth their salt should go check it out. I am fully judging my friends based upon their reactions to it once they've examined, by the way.
5. I have initiated a hot-chocolate-before-bed ritual. Ok, that makes it sound much more scandalous than it is. I make hot chocolate in the spirit of Christmas. Given that it's been gorgeous and sunny, it may not make complete sense, but it works for me. Highly recommended. Me belly full, so off to bed I go.
Hi, My Name Is
Everyone should go to their high school reunion.
I'm back, and as you can see from my steady typing (or can assume), I'm emotionally stable. It was total sensory overload while I was in this room with 100 of my not-closest friends, but in retrospect, it's a must. Yes, that means you.
The night began great- I went and grabbed drinks with one of my best friends and we caught up and prepared for whatever lay ahead. Mostly this amounted to drilling each other on names and filling one another in on information we already had, so as not to waste Precious Reunion Time.
When we arrived, Ronit saw a guy she'd kept in touch with and gestured to me: "You remember Lilly?". He looked at me with the blankest of all blank faces and stuck his hand out "Hi, I'm Scott". "Um, yeah, I know." I figured it was a sign. I mean, I didn't even get an "Oh, LILLY, I didn't recognize you!" Pride stepped in and it was summarily decided that I wasn't going to go chasing after people who might not have a friggin clue who I was. I would stand my ground with a drink in hand and let myself be approached. This worked well for me. Some people had mental lists of who they wanted to see. I didn't really have that (ok, just a little bit). I just stood and sipped and watched and waited. In retrospect, that behavior alone out of me - lilly g - would be enough to confuse them as to my identity.
Thoughts:
While I had expected to spend the time checking out an aged but still hot version of Tony (my high school crush) and catching up with my old best friends, my time was not spent this way. Partly because he didn't show and partly because my time largely devoted to people from earlier in my life -- elementary or junior high. Some of us hadn't spoken for the duration of high school, truth be told, but we'd been in Brownies together or jumped and sang to Cyndi Lauper in a basement regularly and we were thus (apparently) cemented for life.
Reunion Revelation #1: You will spend the time with old old old acquaintances because they're the faces/names that have been beaten into you for years and years. We couldn't forget each other if we WANTED to. One of these people (hi Kathy!) let me know that she had found my blog mentioning her. I really hope her mom never finds out about the Justify My Love video she owned, or we're dead meat ;)
Reunion Revelation #2: Marriage has afflicted nearly everyone. Apparently the side affects are roundness and baldness.
Reunion Revelation #3: You will revert to at least one distinct high school behavior. Some people walked into the room normal and suddenly became loud and obnoxious as they'd been in Geometry or French class. I regret that my reversion was much, much more dire. As I've mentioned, my main high school crush didn't show. But I was busy flirting with another crush/friend who I hadn't seen since we graduated. He is more gorgeous than ever and is making his way as a hotelier in Costa Rica. Did I mention he's more gorgeous than ever? We had flirty banter that went like this:
Kordan Jlow (names have been changed to project the innocent, namely, me): You look good.
Me: YOU look good (smile smile. Slight drooling)
Me: So, is this it? Like 'have a nice life'? Will I ever see you again?
Kordan: I only come to the states a couple times a year.
Me: Do you ever come to San Diego (smile smile, more drooling)?
Kordan: No, but I go to LA.
Me: (dramatic pause) WHY LA?
Kordan: Because I have family there.
Me: So. Ugh. Don't go to LA. Come to San Diego!
Kordan: Come to Costa Rica.
Apparently here, dear readers, I stepped out of my skin and someone with minimal articulateness and ZERO game stepped in. She said:
Me: Nawwwwwwwwwww... if I do, you'll just be WORKING!
Does it get worse? I mean, literally ZERO game. I'd be devastated if it weren't so fucking funny. I have emailed him to say I'd like to keep in touch (trying to do damage control), but I fear I have already made a final imprint as someone extremely socially retarded. But at least he said I looked good ;)
Reunion Revelation #4: You will hug everyone. It's weird, but you will hug the jock you never really ever spoke to. You will hug people you don't like. You will hug people you actually hate. You will hug people whose names you don't recall offhand. You may debate, but 99% of the time you will hug.
Reunion Revelation #5: You will reconnect with at least one person who really means something to you. I think we all go through this - people you lost touch with for no good reason. There aren't bad feelings (although the crowd may be peppered with folks you do have bad feelings about, that's not who we're talking about), just maybe general laziness. I found two of them. Tracy and Nicole. People I had been so so close to and we'd just dropped the ball on staying involved in each other's lives. I went for a hilarious breakfast dining experience with Tracy later in the weekend and Nicole and I watched abnormal amounts of "Breaking Bonaduce" (query as to whether there are 'normal amounts' for that). This time I will not let them go.
Reunion Revelation #6: There is never enough time. I didn't have time to tell Gershman that I haven't forgotten that he's an ass of the highest order and that every time he suffers in life, he should think of me. I didn't have time to really talk to Joey and see how he was doing after all these years. I didn't have time to tell this person or that person how great they looked. Or ask him or her what they were doing with their lives. I have all of two pictures. I guess it's all supposed to tempt you to show up for the 20th? Will we never escape high school?
And, for just a moment, DEEP THOUGHTS:
I left wondering what it all would have been like if we'd all been this nice to each other 10 years ago. But I suppose that's what it's about. Realizing how much you've grown up and smiling and just moving on forward. It's okay to peek over your shoulder, but keep it moving folks.
I'm back, and as you can see from my steady typing (or can assume), I'm emotionally stable. It was total sensory overload while I was in this room with 100 of my not-closest friends, but in retrospect, it's a must. Yes, that means you.
The night began great- I went and grabbed drinks with one of my best friends and we caught up and prepared for whatever lay ahead. Mostly this amounted to drilling each other on names and filling one another in on information we already had, so as not to waste Precious Reunion Time.
When we arrived, Ronit saw a guy she'd kept in touch with and gestured to me: "You remember Lilly?". He looked at me with the blankest of all blank faces and stuck his hand out "Hi, I'm Scott". "Um, yeah, I know." I figured it was a sign. I mean, I didn't even get an "Oh, LILLY, I didn't recognize you!" Pride stepped in and it was summarily decided that I wasn't going to go chasing after people who might not have a friggin clue who I was. I would stand my ground with a drink in hand and let myself be approached. This worked well for me. Some people had mental lists of who they wanted to see. I didn't really have that (ok, just a little bit). I just stood and sipped and watched and waited. In retrospect, that behavior alone out of me - lilly g - would be enough to confuse them as to my identity.
Thoughts:
While I had expected to spend the time checking out an aged but still hot version of Tony (my high school crush) and catching up with my old best friends, my time was not spent this way. Partly because he didn't show and partly because my time largely devoted to people from earlier in my life -- elementary or junior high. Some of us hadn't spoken for the duration of high school, truth be told, but we'd been in Brownies together or jumped and sang to Cyndi Lauper in a basement regularly and we were thus (apparently) cemented for life.
Reunion Revelation #1: You will spend the time with old old old acquaintances because they're the faces/names that have been beaten into you for years and years. We couldn't forget each other if we WANTED to. One of these people (hi Kathy!) let me know that she had found my blog mentioning her. I really hope her mom never finds out about the Justify My Love video she owned, or we're dead meat ;)
Reunion Revelation #2: Marriage has afflicted nearly everyone. Apparently the side affects are roundness and baldness.
Reunion Revelation #3: You will revert to at least one distinct high school behavior. Some people walked into the room normal and suddenly became loud and obnoxious as they'd been in Geometry or French class. I regret that my reversion was much, much more dire. As I've mentioned, my main high school crush didn't show. But I was busy flirting with another crush/friend who I hadn't seen since we graduated. He is more gorgeous than ever and is making his way as a hotelier in Costa Rica. Did I mention he's more gorgeous than ever? We had flirty banter that went like this:
Kordan Jlow (names have been changed to project the innocent, namely, me): You look good.
Me: YOU look good (smile smile. Slight drooling)
Me: So, is this it? Like 'have a nice life'? Will I ever see you again?
Kordan: I only come to the states a couple times a year.
Me: Do you ever come to San Diego (smile smile, more drooling)?
Kordan: No, but I go to LA.
Me: (dramatic pause) WHY LA?
Kordan: Because I have family there.
Me: So. Ugh. Don't go to LA. Come to San Diego!
Kordan: Come to Costa Rica.
Apparently here, dear readers, I stepped out of my skin and someone with minimal articulateness and ZERO game stepped in. She said:
Me: Nawwwwwwwwwww... if I do, you'll just be WORKING!
Does it get worse? I mean, literally ZERO game. I'd be devastated if it weren't so fucking funny. I have emailed him to say I'd like to keep in touch (trying to do damage control), but I fear I have already made a final imprint as someone extremely socially retarded. But at least he said I looked good ;)
Reunion Revelation #4: You will hug everyone. It's weird, but you will hug the jock you never really ever spoke to. You will hug people you don't like. You will hug people you actually hate. You will hug people whose names you don't recall offhand. You may debate, but 99% of the time you will hug.
Reunion Revelation #5: You will reconnect with at least one person who really means something to you. I think we all go through this - people you lost touch with for no good reason. There aren't bad feelings (although the crowd may be peppered with folks you do have bad feelings about, that's not who we're talking about), just maybe general laziness. I found two of them. Tracy and Nicole. People I had been so so close to and we'd just dropped the ball on staying involved in each other's lives. I went for a hilarious breakfast dining experience with Tracy later in the weekend and Nicole and I watched abnormal amounts of "Breaking Bonaduce" (query as to whether there are 'normal amounts' for that). This time I will not let them go.
Reunion Revelation #6: There is never enough time. I didn't have time to tell Gershman that I haven't forgotten that he's an ass of the highest order and that every time he suffers in life, he should think of me. I didn't have time to really talk to Joey and see how he was doing after all these years. I didn't have time to tell this person or that person how great they looked. Or ask him or her what they were doing with their lives. I have all of two pictures. I guess it's all supposed to tempt you to show up for the 20th? Will we never escape high school?
And, for just a moment, DEEP THOUGHTS:
I left wondering what it all would have been like if we'd all been this nice to each other 10 years ago. But I suppose that's what it's about. Realizing how much you've grown up and smiling and just moving on forward. It's okay to peek over your shoulder, but keep it moving folks.
Walking the Plank
You can run, but you can't hide.
Whassup Highland Park High School Class of 2005 reunion? Yep, for ye who think I look barely old enough to be out of high school, the truth is that I left the land of the HPHS Giants 10 years ago. Yes, I'm that old.
What would a blog be, if not a forum to vent my innermost thoughts, fears and apprehensions about facing people who knew me at my most fluid and confused? Last night I reminisced with a friend that my first official "date" involved a maroon J crew rollneck sweater, jeans, and burgundy army boots. My, how far we've come. Too bad the aformentioned date (Aaron) didn't go to my high school, or he might note my asthetic progress.
In the end, I think reunions are somewhat of the fender-bender that we can't avoid looking at alongside the highway. You don't want to, you know it's wrong, but your curiosity simply will not let you pass with blinders on. It's the definition of a 'see and be seen' event. The folks who aren't going (as a moral choice rather than a logistical one) are probably not happy where they are. They're not ready for this adult Show n Tell session. But I ask you, does it get worse than flannels and pegged jeans and crunchy hair and braces and posters in your locker (I don't care of what) and spending inordinate amounts of time and energy on a French class video? No. So as I see it, I really have nothing to lose.
I set foot on my high school grounds earlier this year when I went as a professional speaker. That was weird, but it definitely helped me ease into the process of responding affirmatively to the reunion evite. An invite that might as well have read "Come. Drink with people who you never would have split a bottle of Zima with in 1993, and sink cocktails until one of you is sober enough to admit a crush... with the other's spouse standing by! Fun for everyone!". Because you know that's what's going to happen.
(Ps- if you guessed that I'd put on hair metal tunes to inspire this entry as I write, you are so right. You are also probably my sister. What's up WARRANT?)
I'm not quite sure why I'm going. I'm definitely not going to show off arm candy (or finger adornments) of any sort. (A few drinks and I might flash a bellyring, though...) Truth is, I'm as single as I was when I sweat through Trigonometry class trying to figure out who I'd con into going to Winter Formal with me. Except the guys I got to go to date parties with me are probably all married now. But I used to wear singleness (singularity? Can we please find a good word for this?) as a scarlet letter. Now it's more of a passing phase. It's a "Yeah, I'm a free "agent" -- ha ha, wink wink.
The nerd in me found an outlet. I got the same law degree 50% of my class probably has, but I found a job I love. I wake up every morning and love where I live. I am way more athletic than I was when the gym teachers of HPHS scared me around the field or whatever. I actually run by choice, and I have a body that need not be hidden under oversized tee shirts. I may not even look much different than I did in high school, but I feel alot better than I did then. And I guess that's part of it, right? Because all these people are going to come back fat and balding and over-made-up, and they're all going to feel better. A lot of people will have traded in better looks for a healthy dose of self confidence. Me, I took care of the Eyebrow Situation. And yes, I'm ready to fly 2000 miles to show that shit off.
I guess I'm going to my reunion because I don't hate myself anymore. Teenagedom has passed. Awkwardness is gone. And I'm looking forward to meeting people through the eyes of the real me. Ok, and I am SO ready to totally judge them through those eyes too.
I wonder what happened to the assholes from my science classes. I wonder what happened to the guy who farted on my head when I was taking books out of my locker. I wonder who has stayed friends; if the friendships that rolled four girls deep (hello Mean Girls) as they strolled the hallways have dissolved. I mean, surely they have, but I wanna SEE!
Ok, before anyone else calls me out on it, there's also a matter of a boy (there is probably more than one, but I've long since shelved my yearbooks, so who knows who will pop up?). I'd be lying if I said (and God knows I don't even try to say) that I'm not curious about him. He's definitely the (gorgeous) face I'll scan for in the crowd. Unfortunately, everyone who has known me since high school will be watching me do that scan, but whatever- you live once.
I have certain associations with people and I can't wait to see where they ended up. Did the ridiculously smart math guy end up at NASA? Probably not. But for the mere price of a $270 flight, I can find out what happened to him. The nosepicker (collected in jars, as I recall) -- is he an ENT now? The pretty pom pon girls; did they stay pretty? Do they still wear nude tights with their sneakers per Pom Pon instruction? So many answers in one small evening. And an open bar. Man, they knew how to lure me.
It's one of those things where I have no idea what I'm looking for, but I'll know when I find it.
At the very least, I'm hoping to get back on the plane to CA with total closure. Closure is selling your house. Closure is going back to Chicago to visit and not stopping through Highland Park. But I want TOTAL closure. 60035 is just a number to me now; a distant memory of a starting point far in the distance. For a night I'm going to hover over that starting line and see what lessons I can glean from the experience. Then I'm going to walk away. For real this time.
And if I end up at Cloverdale Park at 1 a.m. with a six pack of Icehouse, yes, you can say you told me so.
Whassup Highland Park High School Class of 2005 reunion? Yep, for ye who think I look barely old enough to be out of high school, the truth is that I left the land of the HPHS Giants 10 years ago. Yes, I'm that old.
What would a blog be, if not a forum to vent my innermost thoughts, fears and apprehensions about facing people who knew me at my most fluid and confused? Last night I reminisced with a friend that my first official "date" involved a maroon J crew rollneck sweater, jeans, and burgundy army boots. My, how far we've come. Too bad the aformentioned date (Aaron) didn't go to my high school, or he might note my asthetic progress.
In the end, I think reunions are somewhat of the fender-bender that we can't avoid looking at alongside the highway. You don't want to, you know it's wrong, but your curiosity simply will not let you pass with blinders on. It's the definition of a 'see and be seen' event. The folks who aren't going (as a moral choice rather than a logistical one) are probably not happy where they are. They're not ready for this adult Show n Tell session. But I ask you, does it get worse than flannels and pegged jeans and crunchy hair and braces and posters in your locker (I don't care of what) and spending inordinate amounts of time and energy on a French class video? No. So as I see it, I really have nothing to lose.
I set foot on my high school grounds earlier this year when I went as a professional speaker. That was weird, but it definitely helped me ease into the process of responding affirmatively to the reunion evite. An invite that might as well have read "Come. Drink with people who you never would have split a bottle of Zima with in 1993, and sink cocktails until one of you is sober enough to admit a crush... with the other's spouse standing by! Fun for everyone!". Because you know that's what's going to happen.
(Ps- if you guessed that I'd put on hair metal tunes to inspire this entry as I write, you are so right. You are also probably my sister. What's up WARRANT?)
I'm not quite sure why I'm going. I'm definitely not going to show off arm candy (or finger adornments) of any sort. (A few drinks and I might flash a bellyring, though...) Truth is, I'm as single as I was when I sweat through Trigonometry class trying to figure out who I'd con into going to Winter Formal with me. Except the guys I got to go to date parties with me are probably all married now. But I used to wear singleness (singularity? Can we please find a good word for this?) as a scarlet letter. Now it's more of a passing phase. It's a "Yeah, I'm a free "agent" -- ha ha, wink wink.
The nerd in me found an outlet. I got the same law degree 50% of my class probably has, but I found a job I love. I wake up every morning and love where I live. I am way more athletic than I was when the gym teachers of HPHS scared me around the field or whatever. I actually run by choice, and I have a body that need not be hidden under oversized tee shirts. I may not even look much different than I did in high school, but I feel alot better than I did then. And I guess that's part of it, right? Because all these people are going to come back fat and balding and over-made-up, and they're all going to feel better. A lot of people will have traded in better looks for a healthy dose of self confidence. Me, I took care of the Eyebrow Situation. And yes, I'm ready to fly 2000 miles to show that shit off.
I guess I'm going to my reunion because I don't hate myself anymore. Teenagedom has passed. Awkwardness is gone. And I'm looking forward to meeting people through the eyes of the real me. Ok, and I am SO ready to totally judge them through those eyes too.
I wonder what happened to the assholes from my science classes. I wonder what happened to the guy who farted on my head when I was taking books out of my locker. I wonder who has stayed friends; if the friendships that rolled four girls deep (hello Mean Girls) as they strolled the hallways have dissolved. I mean, surely they have, but I wanna SEE!
Ok, before anyone else calls me out on it, there's also a matter of a boy (there is probably more than one, but I've long since shelved my yearbooks, so who knows who will pop up?). I'd be lying if I said (and God knows I don't even try to say) that I'm not curious about him. He's definitely the (gorgeous) face I'll scan for in the crowd. Unfortunately, everyone who has known me since high school will be watching me do that scan, but whatever- you live once.
I have certain associations with people and I can't wait to see where they ended up. Did the ridiculously smart math guy end up at NASA? Probably not. But for the mere price of a $270 flight, I can find out what happened to him. The nosepicker (collected in jars, as I recall) -- is he an ENT now? The pretty pom pon girls; did they stay pretty? Do they still wear nude tights with their sneakers per Pom Pon instruction? So many answers in one small evening. And an open bar. Man, they knew how to lure me.
It's one of those things where I have no idea what I'm looking for, but I'll know when I find it.
At the very least, I'm hoping to get back on the plane to CA with total closure. Closure is selling your house. Closure is going back to Chicago to visit and not stopping through Highland Park. But I want TOTAL closure. 60035 is just a number to me now; a distant memory of a starting point far in the distance. For a night I'm going to hover over that starting line and see what lessons I can glean from the experience. Then I'm going to walk away. For real this time.
And if I end up at Cloverdale Park at 1 a.m. with a six pack of Icehouse, yes, you can say you told me so.
You Are Here
Part I:
I haven't been around in awhile. I left for a bit to go on a stately tour of the Library of Congress, where one of our authors had received an esteemed literary award. It is one of the most beautiful buildings I've seen. Libraries have always been special to me. But as I walked the ornate halls, it suddenly all came together - my literary life flashed before me. All the years that everyone else (read: normal teenagers) had been playing Mallrats and/or tonsil hockey, I had been holed up at the library. The familiar reddish fro of the librarian and her denim frock, her disdain for my constant presence and my overconsumption of book check-outs came flooding into my mind.
When I was little, my parents did that whole reverse-psychology thing with me. If I was good, I "got" to go to the library squished in the back of the housekeeper's car -- lucky me! I would beg (I wish I was kidding about this part) to go. Given the choice between the movies and library, I'd pick library in a heartbeat. "Please? Pretty please?"
But back to the Library of Congress. My eyes flew back to the ornate walls and columns, avoiding confrontation with the fact that my entire life/career/business might be built upon my childhood, which I once viewed as "unusual" or "enriched", and now clearly saw in bold hues of "NERD". We got a private tour and hob-nobbed with the staff. (Despite the chicanery, I'm apparently still a sucker for a well-stocked library.)
I hadn't accustomed myself to the high life for long before reality caught up with me. As if suddenly shaken from a beautiful dream, I found myself but two days later mid-transit on... could it be???... I was riding one of those golf cart things at the airport. Previously thought to be reserved for the handicapped or extremely mature of age, my fine twentysomething self sat up straight right behind the driver, who had insisted I ride to my gate if I wanted to make my flight. Already shamed by what would clearly appear to be my blatant laziness, I avoided eye contact as we whizzed through the hallways of Dallas International.
My eyes averted, my ears didn't deceive me. I slid down in my seat, sheepishly looking at my feet. Although my cart was being driven by a man clearly of South Indian origin (in physique and accent), he wove in and out of terrified travelers, frozen like deer in headlights by his calls as we approached. Heavy Indian accent notwithstanding, he shouted "ANDALE.... AND-A-LAYYYYYYYY! VAMOS!!!!!!! ANDALLLLEEEEEEEEEEEE!", eyes bugging out, waving furiously (but happily), leaning precariously out of his driver's seat. Santa Claus after a drinking binge. "ANDALEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!". This to the amusement of the many (genuine) Latinos who populated the airport that night.
I can't begin to capture this scene for you.
I sat fidgeting with my phone and hoping the earth might choose that moment to wreak havoc upon Texas and perhaps swallow me whole. I know that given the recent Hurricanes that might have been a selfish thought, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Terminal after terminal (have you ever BEEN to this airport? It's humongous), I remained captive to his motor frenzy. Lean left-lean right-lean left-jerk to a stop.
"ANDALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!".
I was the Queen of the Freaky Parade. Can't say I never won nothin'.
Part II:
Somewhere between that death-defying experience and my recent battle with illness (ok, a cold), I had a chance to reflect upon some events in my life. As I was recounting the story of the night my best friend and I went out to the bar where she then met the man who would be her fiance, I reflected that the night had turned out quite differently for me. Ah, what different souvenirs we gather as we walk along the road of life. Mine that night were -- oh yes -- a soggy cheese sandwich and a monumental hangover.
Part III:
I've started to refer to the cute blonde guy in the building, who I've seen all of three times (over the last year, exclusively in the elevator), as "my boyfriend". Take that how you will.
Part IV:
I tried yet again (in my Sudafed intoxication, I was persuaded) to watch Seinfeld. Strike One: Kathy Griffin guest appearance. Yuck. I still can't believe she gets paid to do ANYTHING. I'd pay her to be a human cannonball into the La Brea tar pits, but that's about it. Seinfeld, upon this millionth reviewing, revealed itself to be... what's the word? Oh yeah, IRRITATING. This is my final opinion on the matter. I have put in good faith viewings because people I love and respect enjoy this show. But I can't put up the charade anymore. Tonight I have issued forth a severe judgment. It's me or him. Mention his name before me at your own peril.
I'm not kidding. If I want to watch irritating neurotic people badger on another, I'll go back to Highland Park, thank you very much. Ugh. Every time there's a scene change, I hope against hope that a new cast will come on. I don't know why I ever agree to watch it. I cave! It's like when you're already buzzed and you do shots because everyone tells you to and you just get into the swing of things- but you know from experience time and again that it's gonna suck and you're gonna be sorry you did.
I have Seinfeld hangover right now.
BARF.
I haven't been around in awhile. I left for a bit to go on a stately tour of the Library of Congress, where one of our authors had received an esteemed literary award. It is one of the most beautiful buildings I've seen. Libraries have always been special to me. But as I walked the ornate halls, it suddenly all came together - my literary life flashed before me. All the years that everyone else (read: normal teenagers) had been playing Mallrats and/or tonsil hockey, I had been holed up at the library. The familiar reddish fro of the librarian and her denim frock, her disdain for my constant presence and my overconsumption of book check-outs came flooding into my mind.
When I was little, my parents did that whole reverse-psychology thing with me. If I was good, I "got" to go to the library squished in the back of the housekeeper's car -- lucky me! I would beg (I wish I was kidding about this part) to go. Given the choice between the movies and library, I'd pick library in a heartbeat. "Please? Pretty please?"
But back to the Library of Congress. My eyes flew back to the ornate walls and columns, avoiding confrontation with the fact that my entire life/career/business might be built upon my childhood, which I once viewed as "unusual" or "enriched", and now clearly saw in bold hues of "NERD". We got a private tour and hob-nobbed with the staff. (Despite the chicanery, I'm apparently still a sucker for a well-stocked library.)
I hadn't accustomed myself to the high life for long before reality caught up with me. As if suddenly shaken from a beautiful dream, I found myself but two days later mid-transit on... could it be???... I was riding one of those golf cart things at the airport. Previously thought to be reserved for the handicapped or extremely mature of age, my fine twentysomething self sat up straight right behind the driver, who had insisted I ride to my gate if I wanted to make my flight. Already shamed by what would clearly appear to be my blatant laziness, I avoided eye contact as we whizzed through the hallways of Dallas International.
My eyes averted, my ears didn't deceive me. I slid down in my seat, sheepishly looking at my feet. Although my cart was being driven by a man clearly of South Indian origin (in physique and accent), he wove in and out of terrified travelers, frozen like deer in headlights by his calls as we approached. Heavy Indian accent notwithstanding, he shouted "ANDALE.... AND-A-LAYYYYYYYY! VAMOS!!!!!!! ANDALLLLEEEEEEEEEEEE!", eyes bugging out, waving furiously (but happily), leaning precariously out of his driver's seat. Santa Claus after a drinking binge. "ANDALEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!". This to the amusement of the many (genuine) Latinos who populated the airport that night.
I can't begin to capture this scene for you.
I sat fidgeting with my phone and hoping the earth might choose that moment to wreak havoc upon Texas and perhaps swallow me whole. I know that given the recent Hurricanes that might have been a selfish thought, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Terminal after terminal (have you ever BEEN to this airport? It's humongous), I remained captive to his motor frenzy. Lean left-lean right-lean left-jerk to a stop.
"ANDALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!".
I was the Queen of the Freaky Parade. Can't say I never won nothin'.
Part II:
Somewhere between that death-defying experience and my recent battle with illness (ok, a cold), I had a chance to reflect upon some events in my life. As I was recounting the story of the night my best friend and I went out to the bar where she then met the man who would be her fiance, I reflected that the night had turned out quite differently for me. Ah, what different souvenirs we gather as we walk along the road of life. Mine that night were -- oh yes -- a soggy cheese sandwich and a monumental hangover.
Part III:
I've started to refer to the cute blonde guy in the building, who I've seen all of three times (over the last year, exclusively in the elevator), as "my boyfriend". Take that how you will.
Part IV:
I tried yet again (in my Sudafed intoxication, I was persuaded) to watch Seinfeld. Strike One: Kathy Griffin guest appearance. Yuck. I still can't believe she gets paid to do ANYTHING. I'd pay her to be a human cannonball into the La Brea tar pits, but that's about it. Seinfeld, upon this millionth reviewing, revealed itself to be... what's the word? Oh yeah, IRRITATING. This is my final opinion on the matter. I have put in good faith viewings because people I love and respect enjoy this show. But I can't put up the charade anymore. Tonight I have issued forth a severe judgment. It's me or him. Mention his name before me at your own peril.
I'm not kidding. If I want to watch irritating neurotic people badger on another, I'll go back to Highland Park, thank you very much. Ugh. Every time there's a scene change, I hope against hope that a new cast will come on. I don't know why I ever agree to watch it. I cave! It's like when you're already buzzed and you do shots because everyone tells you to and you just get into the swing of things- but you know from experience time and again that it's gonna suck and you're gonna be sorry you did.
I have Seinfeld hangover right now.
BARF.
Frequently Asked Questions, or, When Tape Was King
It's inevitable. People come over, walk into my Persian room and enjoy the decor for a minute, then their eyes become riveted upon an antique artifact resting innocently in the corner. Housed in its protective grey create, it peers out at the world quietly, the sounds of my friends amusedly ruffling through it a cry against its victimziation. It is MY TAPE COLLECTION.
I was recently saddened to hear that one of my best friends was selling off her tapes in a garage sale. She was one of my musical holdout pals -- until 4 years ago we were still covertly making each other tape mixes for the gym and for long roadtrips. But with that casual declaration, years of fandom went out the window. People, at the very least, please eBay that shit! Garage sale = disrespect. And tapes deserve it. They've gotten such a bad rap so suddenly. I am here, Avenger of the Analog.
I don't know when cds became the thing, but it felt like it happened overnight. Suddenly people forgot the years of joy that tapes had brought them. Let's harken back to the good old days for a moment: You hurry to the music store. What will it be? The packaging options alone were nearly mindboggling. Will it be a standard clear-cover-but-black-trapezoid-back-flap tape case a la Bon Jovi "Slippery When Wet" and many of my 80s favorites (see Heart's "Bad Animals"), as shipped by BMG? Red trapezoid, a la Air Supply (my roommate had this one). Or would it be a completely clear, rectangle-flap case a la Prince "Diamonds and Pearls"? And the tape itself- would it be standard issue creme-colored bland opaqueness, or would they have taken a chance will the translucent w/brownish coloring tape? Would they go wild and do blue-on-translucent, a la Madonna's "True Blue" and the B52's "Cosmic Thing"? How would the songs be divided. Would there be a cute name for "side a" or "side b"?
Friends always ask me how I learned so much about music. While you were searching for that song- rewind, play (hopefully pressing stop first, but sometimes you were in a rush), fast forward, play, rewind -- you had time to read -- I mean REALLY read -- the liner notes. Therein you could find the actual words to Michael Jackson "Wanna Be Startin Something" and ascertain that yes, indeed, it was simply "mama se mama sa mama ku sa". You could find out whether your artiste of choice had participated in the music writing, so when people told you they sucked you could say "hey, at least she writes her own shit and plays the bongos!". You could learn who producers were for no good reason, and then years later, as you watched Behind the Music, you could raise an eyebrow at the fact that someone DIDN'T know that Nile Rogers who produced "Like a Virgin" was once in ("Le freak, c'est") Chic. Who did they thank? Did they thank God first? Did they thank their fans? What other artists got shout-outs? Who were they influenced by? Within the millions of minutely-printed words on the tape liner notes lie a complete musical education. Here the aspiring pop musician first learns that songs go AABA. What a bridge is. What an intro is, what an outro is. You could find out who that familiar voice was in the background of a beloved tune (see the Bangles chorus on Cyndi Lauper's "Change of Heart" or Michael Jackson in Rockell's "Somebody's Watchin' Me").
Cds were supposed to bring convenience to music, and they did. Music became selectively consumed. Now, I buy a cd, never bother to learn the song names, and skip through in mere moments to find the two songs I like before popping it out and putting the next one in. When Tape Was King, I sat through the tape one full time at least once. I NEVER bought a tape and forwarded to my chosen song, because, well, you didn't know where the hell to find it. So you began, you sat down in your room and shut the door and turned the volume on, and you LET IT PLAY. You listened to lyrics and read along with the liner notes, rewinding if you missed something. And you listened to the songs in the order the artist wanted you to hear them in. And you ejected it and flipped it over and listened to the other side. And after doing this for a few days or weeks, you had a good sense of the entire album. More likely than not, a song that will never be on the artist's "best of" album became your favorite. Whether it was Guns n Roses' "So Fine" (yes, I was still buying tapes) or Sinead O'Connor's "I Am Stretched On Your Grave" or Paula Abdul's "Blowin Kisses In the Wind", there were treats to be found, and through the time consuming process of being a tape listener, you would find them. When there was a particular song you wanted to find on the tape, the agonizing process of searching to find it would multiply the joy of listening to it when you finally got there.
You felt more control when a tape got messed up, too. Last week (yes, you read that right, for those of you who haven't had Lasik) my "Chicago Flight Entertainment" tape was eaten by my stereo. Bastard! I quickly began the routine that is embedded so deeply in my physical memory, using my finger to turn, turn, turn it back to safety. (The procedure went well and it's a great tape, by the way). When a CD gets scratched, it's game over, because we all know that cd scratch fixers are bullshit.
And that brings me to my next thought- tape mixes. Some people have suggested (mostly to me, these people being friends who didn't know what to do with a tape I made them) that cd mixes have the same importance as a tape mix. While I think they're sweet and thoughtful as ever, and a great opportunity to collect songs that deserve to be together (like "pointless slow jams-- slow jams from before we knew what they're for"), there's another labor of love element in making a mix tape. For one thing, you don't know when you're going to run out of time. So you just add and add and hope the time all fits. And if a song cut off, you'd go back and fix it with a good outro (a guitar solo, perhaps?). There's an element of urgency to a tape mix that I really love. And yet at the same time there is this counter-energy of patience. The patience to dub. Hi Speed dub sometimes, but not always. The time it took to make the tape was often illustrated -- literally- in a pretty cover, perhaps a collage, or at the very least a decorated songlist or note rife with inside jokes. When I got my hands on a little mic, I used to plug that in and offer commentary between songs. Oh yes, quite a bonus for my listeners out there. Basically the fun useless trivia that I bore my friends with at dinners nowadays was infused seamlessly into my mixtape artwork. And appreciated! Today, you collect some songs, let iTunes calculate if they'll fit, and press "burn". If you're nice, you draw something cute on the cd, but most people can't be troubled with that.
Tapes to me speak of a time when we could be troubled to take the time out for our music. As someone who loves loves loves her music, I'm reclaiming my tapes. One by one, I'm moving them out of the crate where they are eyed so suspiciously and welcoming them back into my room. Roxette, hey, howya been? Belinda! There you are. Tape single for "We Didn't Start the Fire"? Don't worry, you're safe with me. I'm keeping them all. The good, the bad, the ugly.
Out with the old, in with the new? Hm. I don't think so. Not this kid.
The lengths I will go to to prove a point
Another set of twins. And I'm not talking Danny deVito and Schwartzenegger. Can I truly be the only person who noticed this?
Yes, I Moved My Furniture Again
Every so often I suddenly move my furniture around. Because I share an apartment and realize that innocent standersby (read: my roommate) need not be subjected to my insanity, I keep it to my room. For two weeks now I had my furniture in the same place, but tonight I moved it all over again.
I read somewhere that when you move your furniture around, you let energy circulate. So tonight, to the sweet sounds of Galvez' "Monsters of Rock" mix, I let the energy do its thing. But really what I did was found a way to put incredible strain on my body (I'd probably be a few inches taller if I stopped this ritual) and procrastinated. But it was fun. Somehow, I seem to believe that if I just move my bed-here-dresser-there-couch-to-the-wall, this stack of manuscripts will read itself.
But it won't. Or so I'm told. So I'm going to have to look for an intern.
LIST OF THINGS LILLY WOULD LIKE IN AN INTERN:
1. cabana-boy good looks
2. portable cappucino machine and accompanying skills
3. good sense of humor. seinfeld bad. jon stewart good.
4. an innate understanding of the difference between "their" and "they're", particularly if English is his first language (hi Nicole!)
5. quality taste in music, as judged by me. iPods will be confiscated and searched. No one knows where I will draw the lines. This week I already offered amnesty to a guy friend with the best of Lisa Lisa & the Cult Jam and Linda Ronstadt. The fact that I can spell her name might have just implicated me. I swear, her duet on "I Don't Know Much" is the ONLY one I find bearable. Promise.
6. overarching desire to do my laundry while he's here.
People who list "Tuesdays With Morrie" and "The Alchemist" as favorite reads need not apply. And trust me, they will.
Ok, I realize that as I go on, this is starting to read more like a "dream boyfriend" list than a "dream intern" list. But it's late and hell, I deserve both.
And of course I can't forget #7: Strength to move furniture.
I read somewhere that when you move your furniture around, you let energy circulate. So tonight, to the sweet sounds of Galvez' "Monsters of Rock" mix, I let the energy do its thing. But really what I did was found a way to put incredible strain on my body (I'd probably be a few inches taller if I stopped this ritual) and procrastinated. But it was fun. Somehow, I seem to believe that if I just move my bed-here-dresser-there-couch-to-the-wall, this stack of manuscripts will read itself.
But it won't. Or so I'm told. So I'm going to have to look for an intern.
LIST OF THINGS LILLY WOULD LIKE IN AN INTERN:
1. cabana-boy good looks
2. portable cappucino machine and accompanying skills
3. good sense of humor. seinfeld bad. jon stewart good.
4. an innate understanding of the difference between "their" and "they're", particularly if English is his first language (hi Nicole!)
5. quality taste in music, as judged by me. iPods will be confiscated and searched. No one knows where I will draw the lines. This week I already offered amnesty to a guy friend with the best of Lisa Lisa & the Cult Jam and Linda Ronstadt. The fact that I can spell her name might have just implicated me. I swear, her duet on "I Don't Know Much" is the ONLY one I find bearable. Promise.
6. overarching desire to do my laundry while he's here.
People who list "Tuesdays With Morrie" and "The Alchemist" as favorite reads need not apply. And trust me, they will.
Ok, I realize that as I go on, this is starting to read more like a "dream boyfriend" list than a "dream intern" list. But it's late and hell, I deserve both.
And of course I can't forget #7: Strength to move furniture.
Forward my mail to the office...
Does anyone know for sure what the definition of a workaholic is? I'm afraid I've become one. I was worried it would happen if I went to the big firm life; you know, that the only man in my life would be the kindly office janitor, that I'd fall asleep drooling on important discovery paperwork, and wake up with a Bates stamp date on my forehead.
But here I am, self-employed and living that same crazy life. Minus the hives I got when I was pre-trial at my old firm. That was just gross.
I mean, as far as this potential workaholism, I'm kinda afraid and... kinda... proud (?!?) of it. I mean, I got a LOT done this summer. But where did my summer go? I didn't TOUCH the ocean water. I complain about saline nasal drip, but really, I wouldn't have minded a bronzed back from surfing and just a *bit* of authentic drip. I live in friggin California, and I haven't been to the beach. I'm hoping to pencil it in for later this weekend, but I could always cancel on me.
Here I am, 12:50 -- A.M. -- blogging. It's what I'm doing to "unwind". I'm a loser of proportions Doogie Howser couldn't even begin to imagine (he was the root of blogging as far as I'm concerned, and Jon, I want that in your book!). Why blog when I can barely keep my eyes open? Well, truth be told, I've been sitting in front of this computer for so long that I can't be troubled with getting up and out of this chair. I've actually thought I might be able to roll myself over to the bed and then just lean over to sleep.
So where is the line? Workaholic? Devotee? Passionate entrepreneur?
I think I'm just driven right now. I want to sign off the computer at 10pm, but I decide to do "just one more thing" and end up typing away for a few more hours. I blow the whistle at 1am these days. My eyes pop open in the morning and it doesn't even feel like I slept. (Side note: they pop open and I can see across the room. Let this be my 3-months-later endorsement. I HEART LASIK!!!)
Actually, the only reason I'm posting is because I'm sick of Gerard Depardieu being the first thing people see when they open my blog.
Goodnite.
But here I am, self-employed and living that same crazy life. Minus the hives I got when I was pre-trial at my old firm. That was just gross.
I mean, as far as this potential workaholism, I'm kinda afraid and... kinda... proud (?!?) of it. I mean, I got a LOT done this summer. But where did my summer go? I didn't TOUCH the ocean water. I complain about saline nasal drip, but really, I wouldn't have minded a bronzed back from surfing and just a *bit* of authentic drip. I live in friggin California, and I haven't been to the beach. I'm hoping to pencil it in for later this weekend, but I could always cancel on me.
Here I am, 12:50 -- A.M. -- blogging. It's what I'm doing to "unwind". I'm a loser of proportions Doogie Howser couldn't even begin to imagine (he was the root of blogging as far as I'm concerned, and Jon, I want that in your book!). Why blog when I can barely keep my eyes open? Well, truth be told, I've been sitting in front of this computer for so long that I can't be troubled with getting up and out of this chair. I've actually thought I might be able to roll myself over to the bed and then just lean over to sleep.
So where is the line? Workaholic? Devotee? Passionate entrepreneur?
I think I'm just driven right now. I want to sign off the computer at 10pm, but I decide to do "just one more thing" and end up typing away for a few more hours. I blow the whistle at 1am these days. My eyes pop open in the morning and it doesn't even feel like I slept. (Side note: they pop open and I can see across the room. Let this be my 3-months-later endorsement. I HEART LASIK!!!)
Actually, the only reason I'm posting is because I'm sick of Gerard Depardieu being the first thing people see when they open my blog.
Goodnite.
Everyone Has a Twin
My unscientific findings this evening are highly disturbing.
Simon LeBon, meet Gerard Depardieu.
I think reading The Double is getting to me.
Stop me if you've heard this one: So a girl walks on to a plane...
“ Teach me then because, as I understand it, teaching someone who doesn’t know something is an act of charity.”
-Jose Saramago, THE DOUBLE
There’s nothing like a flight delay to bring people together, I say. Picture it: Portland International Airport, Alaska Airlines, 8pm last night. I had just put down my book with the above quote when a guy loomed over me in the aisle and gestured to his seat, apparently the window seat I’d coveted. He slid into it with minimal ceremony—I don’t recall now if an “excuse me” was heard, the majority of my attention having gone directly to his jeans, which were white, and purposefully shredded right above the knee. I shuddered and looked back down on my book. He spent some time trying to get comfortable, returning calls on his phone as I rolled my eyes and tried to read, wondering what I’d done to piss of the Airline Gods this time. After a few minutes ignoring his tossing and turning, he asked me if I knew when we’d leave. I answered and somehow we began talking about where we’d come from and where we were going. I had a bag full of work to do, and it was clearly NOT in my plans to conversationally engage with Mr. Fellow Flyer. But as my mom says “How do you make God laugh? Make a plan.”
He asked me what I do, and after a curt answer, I politely returned the curiosity. He told me he was a Marine. Now, let me say right here that I have yet to fully understand the differentiation between the various wings of the American military. I hoped my ignorance wasn’t written across my face, and that my secret fear-slash-avoidance of all things military didn’t linger on my face. While I enjoy the daily perks of freedom in the ole Red, White and Blue, I can’t generally be troubled to wonder about its costs, and who is paying them.
Our conversation rambled forth, taking on a life of its own. I knew about his father’s business, his dreams of becoming a history teacher, and his desire to speak German but travel Italy. Smile smile, nod nod, this and that. Then he said he was on his way for his third tour of duty in Iraq. THIRD tour.
Stand down, fellow Iranian readers, I’m not done yet! This boy was all of 22. I swing between describing him as a boy and then a man, because while only a man would climb into a plane and fly to Iraq to lug 60 pounds of gear and fight for his country, the reddish hair, pink face, and excited personality was that of a boy who turned out to be only slightly older than my brother.
Three tours of duty. He was dismayed. But he had made a commitment, one (I didn’t hesitate to tell him) that I can’t begin to understand – that of being willing to take death for the cause of an ideal, a concept. Say it with me now: Freedom. He had eleven months left to serve, and appeared ready to do it (despite a sprained hand and stretched foot ligaments). It was just how the cards had been dealt, and he was playing the hand.
I began learning about his various missions and what he had seen, and I was surprised at every turn. He had been to many of Saddam’s palaces, but he had also gone for a tour of Babylon, and visited many of the mosques, which he found to be incredibly beautiful. He told me about the cultural training he had received, and wanted to know how similar Iraqi traditions were (the social faux pas of showing the bottom of one’s foot, for example). Or if I thought it was weird that they were told to ask for the man of the household when they knock on an Iraqi door. I was in flight from Portland to San Diego, but vividly the mental footage from his tours of duty unfolded and spilled forth onto my tray table, at a speed so fast I could barely process. It’s unusual to have such an open dialogue with an absolute stranger, and I took the opportunity to ask him what I could be doing – what any of us should be doing – to comfort soldiers. But when they’re sitting in a tent absolutely still hoping to survive what became 140 degree heat, he assured me that there isn’t much we can do. Oh, except send magazines and news plus underwear and socks—apparently our tax dollars don’t go that far! How do they keep themselves busy, I asked. They start rumors. "Like the one my friend started about JLo having died." Sick but funny. And clearly a sign that we can send these guys some entertainment while they're camped out.
I asked him how he feels when he comes back from Iraq and watches the news; what inconsistencies he observes. He told me that it’s difficult for soldiers to watch the news and see how American media covers death after death—on both sides- without any reports of progress or the more uplifting stories. My freshly-waxed Persian eyebrow went up in a hurry, and I asked for elaboration. Brace yourselves, because this story kept me up last night: at one point, his group (Regimen? Troop?) surrounded a house and prepared to search it. Around the back, they found a shed. And within the shed… the door was opened upon a young boy, clearly a victim of Down’s Syndrome, chained to a stake in the floor. They untied him and had him Medivac’ed away for treatment.
I didn’t see that on the news, did you?
Our journey had rapidly become a two-way presentation. He innocently asked me if I’d ever traveled anywhere unusual. I thought about it—South America would have been the safe bet, but what’s the fun in that? I smirked and mentioned that I, too, had been on a jaunt to the Middle East. “Oh Lordy,” I thought, “here comes another guy whose understanding of Persian is limited to the feline and the textile.” But I dove right in, realizing that he wasn't even born yet when the Revolution-Hostage Crisis double feature took place. Soon the story of pre-Revolutionary Iran, the fine points of its culture and history, and my cultural pride became part of our exchange. I told him how Once Upon A Time, Iran was a resort oasis in the Middle East. I explained how we are often confused with Arabs, but that in actuality, he knew more Arabic than I did. The hours passed, and soon San Diego came into view.
I can comfortably put my money on the fact that I was first Iranian he’d ever met, but I was one who cared about his old camping trips with his dad, his mother’s cancer diagnosis, and whether his ride would have waited for him at the airport. I suppose it’s in these daily interactions that we make our name as people, good or bad, and in which we have the opportunity to put our best foot forward. By the time we landed, he wasn’t just some soldier with questionable fashion sense, but a three-dimensional human being who I understood in a completely different light and who will make me look at Marine uniforms (whatever they are- still haven’t figured that out yet) completely differently.
In our everyday lives, we, each and every one of us, are cultural ambassadors. I don’t claim to be—nor do I want to be – omniscient or omni-representative of All Things Iranian. Heck, I can barely speak without making someone giggle. I’m just me, and part of that is Persian, and I like sharing what I know. We often live under the presumption that the only important pro-Persian/Iranian/Iranian-American work is done large-scale, in the formal organizations, functions, fundraisers, and protests. Much of it is… but not all. There are millions of ways to make ourselves known to the world we live in, and these can trickle down to the basic – and powerful -- human currency of casual chit-chat. How we interact with others daily forces change, by encouraging new people to understand us under a broader umbrella of “Understanding Humans” or “Cool People”, moving beyond ethnic and political perimeters. And -- lest we take the focus off ourselves for a moment – in the process we might just learn a thing or two about some others.
Tray tables up, folks, it’s time for liftoff.
***********************************************************************************************
(Based on an article submitted to Iranian.com)
-Jose Saramago, THE DOUBLE
There’s nothing like a flight delay to bring people together, I say. Picture it: Portland International Airport, Alaska Airlines, 8pm last night. I had just put down my book with the above quote when a guy loomed over me in the aisle and gestured to his seat, apparently the window seat I’d coveted. He slid into it with minimal ceremony—I don’t recall now if an “excuse me” was heard, the majority of my attention having gone directly to his jeans, which were white, and purposefully shredded right above the knee. I shuddered and looked back down on my book. He spent some time trying to get comfortable, returning calls on his phone as I rolled my eyes and tried to read, wondering what I’d done to piss of the Airline Gods this time. After a few minutes ignoring his tossing and turning, he asked me if I knew when we’d leave. I answered and somehow we began talking about where we’d come from and where we were going. I had a bag full of work to do, and it was clearly NOT in my plans to conversationally engage with Mr. Fellow Flyer. But as my mom says “How do you make God laugh? Make a plan.”
He asked me what I do, and after a curt answer, I politely returned the curiosity. He told me he was a Marine. Now, let me say right here that I have yet to fully understand the differentiation between the various wings of the American military. I hoped my ignorance wasn’t written across my face, and that my secret fear-slash-avoidance of all things military didn’t linger on my face. While I enjoy the daily perks of freedom in the ole Red, White and Blue, I can’t generally be troubled to wonder about its costs, and who is paying them.
Our conversation rambled forth, taking on a life of its own. I knew about his father’s business, his dreams of becoming a history teacher, and his desire to speak German but travel Italy. Smile smile, nod nod, this and that. Then he said he was on his way for his third tour of duty in Iraq. THIRD tour.
Stand down, fellow Iranian readers, I’m not done yet! This boy was all of 22. I swing between describing him as a boy and then a man, because while only a man would climb into a plane and fly to Iraq to lug 60 pounds of gear and fight for his country, the reddish hair, pink face, and excited personality was that of a boy who turned out to be only slightly older than my brother.
Three tours of duty. He was dismayed. But he had made a commitment, one (I didn’t hesitate to tell him) that I can’t begin to understand – that of being willing to take death for the cause of an ideal, a concept. Say it with me now: Freedom. He had eleven months left to serve, and appeared ready to do it (despite a sprained hand and stretched foot ligaments). It was just how the cards had been dealt, and he was playing the hand.
I began learning about his various missions and what he had seen, and I was surprised at every turn. He had been to many of Saddam’s palaces, but he had also gone for a tour of Babylon, and visited many of the mosques, which he found to be incredibly beautiful. He told me about the cultural training he had received, and wanted to know how similar Iraqi traditions were (the social faux pas of showing the bottom of one’s foot, for example). Or if I thought it was weird that they were told to ask for the man of the household when they knock on an Iraqi door. I was in flight from Portland to San Diego, but vividly the mental footage from his tours of duty unfolded and spilled forth onto my tray table, at a speed so fast I could barely process. It’s unusual to have such an open dialogue with an absolute stranger, and I took the opportunity to ask him what I could be doing – what any of us should be doing – to comfort soldiers. But when they’re sitting in a tent absolutely still hoping to survive what became 140 degree heat, he assured me that there isn’t much we can do. Oh, except send magazines and news plus underwear and socks—apparently our tax dollars don’t go that far! How do they keep themselves busy, I asked. They start rumors. "Like the one my friend started about JLo having died." Sick but funny. And clearly a sign that we can send these guys some entertainment while they're camped out.
I asked him how he feels when he comes back from Iraq and watches the news; what inconsistencies he observes. He told me that it’s difficult for soldiers to watch the news and see how American media covers death after death—on both sides- without any reports of progress or the more uplifting stories. My freshly-waxed Persian eyebrow went up in a hurry, and I asked for elaboration. Brace yourselves, because this story kept me up last night: at one point, his group (Regimen? Troop?) surrounded a house and prepared to search it. Around the back, they found a shed. And within the shed… the door was opened upon a young boy, clearly a victim of Down’s Syndrome, chained to a stake in the floor. They untied him and had him Medivac’ed away for treatment.
I didn’t see that on the news, did you?
Our journey had rapidly become a two-way presentation. He innocently asked me if I’d ever traveled anywhere unusual. I thought about it—South America would have been the safe bet, but what’s the fun in that? I smirked and mentioned that I, too, had been on a jaunt to the Middle East. “Oh Lordy,” I thought, “here comes another guy whose understanding of Persian is limited to the feline and the textile.” But I dove right in, realizing that he wasn't even born yet when the Revolution-Hostage Crisis double feature took place. Soon the story of pre-Revolutionary Iran, the fine points of its culture and history, and my cultural pride became part of our exchange. I told him how Once Upon A Time, Iran was a resort oasis in the Middle East. I explained how we are often confused with Arabs, but that in actuality, he knew more Arabic than I did. The hours passed, and soon San Diego came into view.
I can comfortably put my money on the fact that I was first Iranian he’d ever met, but I was one who cared about his old camping trips with his dad, his mother’s cancer diagnosis, and whether his ride would have waited for him at the airport. I suppose it’s in these daily interactions that we make our name as people, good or bad, and in which we have the opportunity to put our best foot forward. By the time we landed, he wasn’t just some soldier with questionable fashion sense, but a three-dimensional human being who I understood in a completely different light and who will make me look at Marine uniforms (whatever they are- still haven’t figured that out yet) completely differently.
In our everyday lives, we, each and every one of us, are cultural ambassadors. I don’t claim to be—nor do I want to be – omniscient or omni-representative of All Things Iranian. Heck, I can barely speak without making someone giggle. I’m just me, and part of that is Persian, and I like sharing what I know. We often live under the presumption that the only important pro-Persian/Iranian/Iranian-American work is done large-scale, in the formal organizations, functions, fundraisers, and protests. Much of it is… but not all. There are millions of ways to make ourselves known to the world we live in, and these can trickle down to the basic – and powerful -- human currency of casual chit-chat. How we interact with others daily forces change, by encouraging new people to understand us under a broader umbrella of “Understanding Humans” or “Cool People”, moving beyond ethnic and political perimeters. And -- lest we take the focus off ourselves for a moment – in the process we might just learn a thing or two about some others.
Tray tables up, folks, it’s time for liftoff.
***********************************************************************************************
(Based on an article submitted to Iranian.com)
So Are We, Like, On a Date?: A Scientific Study of the D Factor
I'm calling upon my friends everywhere to help me with this simple question. It's a short answer essay:How do you define a date?
Some would say that the fact that I'm asking means I don't know/haven't been on one, whatever. Okay, stop stoning the single girl! I'm just WONDERING. It came up because another friend suggested that when I had hung out at the zoo last summer with a guy friend, that would be construed as a date. [I should add that this individual denied the aformentioned assertion upon further cross-examination this evening, claiming it was a joke.]
So how do you define a date? Like, what if one person thinks it's a date and the other person doesn't? I've definitely had this one. I've had to do the dive-roll out of the car for sure, to avoid any "unwanted tensions". Or, well, if there was going to be tension, you bet your sweet ass I wasn't going to stick around to enjoy it. When I've been interested in a guy and not felt that it was reciprocated (a certain field trip to watch a film for our French class comes to mind. O Unrequited Love. SIGH), I did NOT assert, verbally or mentally, to myself or publicly, that it had been a date. I feel like there's some mutuality involved.
So do you have to know at the time? Or can you look back and be like "Hmmmmm. I guess we WERE on a date!" On the flipside, can you go back after an okay date and be like "Nuh uh, I did NOT date him!" based on things besides the actual date interaction? [Case study: I had to backtrack after having a nice dinner with a guy a high school friend set me up with, who quickly revealed himself to be The Fastest Silent-But-Deadly Farter In the East. He trapped me in the Horror aisle at Blockbuster! Nice guy, decent conversation, good taste in music, detrimental genetics. I just could NOT say that I'd dated him, not even once. I Un-Dated him.]
Is there a time length? Is 45 minutes a date? If a group of 3 or more of your friends concur that it was a date but you don't, does that make it a date and just make you a super-denier? Is there a financial responsibility factor- like if someone invites and pays, have they taken you on a date? And then would your choices only be to have enjoyed the date or not so much, but either way it was a date? Because I can definitely be accused of exclaiming to a girlfriend that "Ohmygosh, dude, he PAID! That is SO a date!", which suggests that this may be subconsciously how I think. It also suggests that I'm not as eloquent as I'd like to be ;)
Do certain environments automatically mean that this event has become a date? Beaches, fancy restaurants? The Eiffel Tower? A blanket under the stars? Do other environments work against the date factor? Like if you guys go to, I dunno, CostCo or the old people's home together, would that then NOT be a date just by virtue of the lack of social precedents?
I'd like to take this moment offer an Amen to Jon's email today that "two single people hanging out does not constitute a date."
Then he posed a question back to me that I've been struggling with. His question was, Is prom really a date? Oh shit. He was basically saying it's an Auto-Date. Where DO auto-dates fit in? Is a blind date an auto date, and thus not REALLY a date, but more of a screening interview? If it's not a date... and if you strip me of my high school dances and my sorority events... the violent decrease in the number of 'dates' I've been on would be devastating if it weren't so damn funny.
So I'm putting it out there and I'd love to hear your thoughts, reflections, appropriately quoted song lyrics, etc. Formulas would be great (engineers, start your calculators).
If you're reading this and THINK we may have been on a date together, um, let me know ;)
Missed Connections
"u were on one of my favorite tv shows in the 8Es. u were hanging out with a guy named Buddy. email me if u get this!"
Tonight I was playing Galvez music by the band from last night (Robbers on High Street. Consider this a plug for their LP, "Tree City". We went to see Brendan Benson at the Casbah. Robbers opened, and quickly found two new fans -- Gene left with their t-shirt while I left with their cd. Anyways, a track came on that Eric thought would be a perfect intro show for a tv.
Before I knew it, I had blurted out "Yes! The theme song for a reality show starring Scott Baio!"
What the hell? I mean, who *thinks* like that? Much less VOCALIZES IT?
He's an interesting 80's star I've lost track of. I know where most of them are- who's in rehab and who is enjoying a D list movie career and who is on Broadway (hi Doogie!) or running religious camps (Kirk Cameron). Oh, and who just gave up holding on to the 80s and returned to life with the rest of us civilians. But Scott Baio? No idea. Not a clue.
And while we're at it (and since I used to get them confused all the time) - where's Ralph Macchio? You see, I'm gonna start taking karate (henceforth to be pronounced "kah-raah-tayyyyyyyyy!" with a hand chop to the air) and I thought I'd write him a fan letter...
Tonight I was playing Galvez music by the band from last night (Robbers on High Street. Consider this a plug for their LP, "Tree City". We went to see Brendan Benson at the Casbah. Robbers opened, and quickly found two new fans -- Gene left with their t-shirt while I left with their cd. Anyways, a track came on that Eric thought would be a perfect intro show for a tv.
Before I knew it, I had blurted out "Yes! The theme song for a reality show starring Scott Baio!"
What the hell? I mean, who *thinks* like that? Much less VOCALIZES IT?
He's an interesting 80's star I've lost track of. I know where most of them are- who's in rehab and who is enjoying a D list movie career and who is on Broadway (hi Doogie!) or running religious camps (Kirk Cameron). Oh, and who just gave up holding on to the 80s and returned to life with the rest of us civilians. But Scott Baio? No idea. Not a clue.
And while we're at it (and since I used to get them confused all the time) - where's Ralph Macchio? You see, I'm gonna start taking karate (henceforth to be pronounced "kah-raah-tayyyyyyyyy!" with a hand chop to the air) and I thought I'd write him a fan letter...
RUN, LILLY, RUN
Real men wear red dresses.
This and many other truths were revealed this past Saturday, when I participated in my first ever Red Dress Run.
These truths are now available for the first time ever for the low, low, price of $9.95. (It was worth a try)
TRUTH #1: YE SHALL WEAR A RED DRESS
Ok, so we cheated. We spent the day shopping for red dresses, which were in short supply in San Diego county on that particular day. The dresses we found were appalling and we decided against them, although they're perfect if I ever interview for a secretarial position at a company that is 1000 years old and also requires nylons with my low heels. Yuck.
From the moment we turned the corner of City College, the starting line, we feasted our eyes upon red dresses of every size, shape and color. Bodies were equally arrayed (size, shape, color- not to mention gender and age). Usually the two were appallingly mismatched. But appalling quickly became funny, in fact delightful.
We fashioned cute little tee shirts out of our oversized "Stop Bush" tee shirts (some would claim that they're "SO six years ago!", but it ain't over til it's over and all of that. A tee shirt and skirt is very conservative gear for this particular athletic event. Men in thongs (but well-accessorized in capes and nipple rings) abounded. Girls in shredded long strips red barely-there material that harken to drying rags that hang and slap your car as you come out of the car wash. We were almost lame by comparison. Prom dresses, coctail dresses, sundresses, no dresses.
I suppose one place you *don't* need to make this particular statement is at a virtual parade of men (many of them of the military persuasion) running in teensy red dresses. On reflection, next year I'll be wearing a dress. Possibly gloves. Which brings me to my next point
TRUTH #2: RED DRESS RUN SHALL BE MORE FUN THAN HALLOWEEN
No kids. Free beer. Ditto jello shots. New friends. Hundreds upon hundreds of eligible men basking comfortably in their inherent masculinity (as demonstrated by wearing a red dress and parading through Petco Park in it). Funny people abound. A dancefloor. A guarantee that you will have a great time and be entertained by thousands of costumes without embarassing them or being subjected to alien space invaders or obscure Star Wars references. Oh, and none of those cat suits, my #1 Enemy Halloween Costume worn by girls on that special day. Naked girl mugs (I view this one benefit to be slightly gender-specific, but it might convince my guy friends to do this next year)
And the $ goes to charity, so despite all the fun you're having, you're this awesome philanthropist and can spend the rest of the weekend patting yourself on the back.
TRUTH #3: THY MUST SHELVE THY INNER JOAN RIVERS
So after the initial fascination with the sea of boys in red dresses wore off, I noticed a sudden shift in my mindframe. My surprise and staring was quickly replaced by my old friend Judgment. "Ugh. Why would he wear that and not wax his BACK?" I remedied my shock with a swig of beer (To take the edge off -- he was REALLY hairy!) and things were back to normal. I mean "normal".
TRUTH #4: YOU SHALL MAKE NEW FRIENDS
We did. Nothing like wearing a weird outfit, getting tipsy, and hobbling through the streets of your city to bring the townsfolk together.
I can say this ranked among the most fun nights I've ever had in San Diego.
TRUTH #5: THE PEOPLE SHALL RETURN
Next year. Be there or be square. Red is the new black, didn't you hear?
Caught In The Act
"What I need
is a good defense
'cause I'm feeling like
a criminal.
And I need to be redeemed..."
So sue me.
Once in awhile, when I feel lazy, I treat myself to chick lit. It makes the time on the (circle one: elliptical, exercise bike, recumbent bike) go faster. Today I did a bit of cardio, and noticing myself lagging, went to the weights. Lifted for a bit. Still lagging. So I went back to my gym locker and pulled it out. Yes, a Megan Cabot book. Like I said, sue me.
I folded the cover back and headed upstairs. Such a cute beginning! (Itemization of what the main characters bought at the airport, as told by their JFK airport store receipts, thus offering both insight into their personalities and a stage for their first encounter) Anyways, I sat on the bike. And Some Guy (capitalization intended) came and sat next to me.
Well, not six minutes into my grueling manual-level-one workout, I notice that Some Guy is reading over my shoulder! He doesn't think I can notice! He thinks because he's wearing headphones (and not the telltale white earbuds of an iPod! LOO-OO-ZE-ER!) I can't see. But I can. Because no one would strain their eyes that slanted and left to read the "quick start", "personal trainer" and "heart" buttons that hard. Over and over again. I'd read a paragraph and check back. Still there. Some Guy was truly shameless.
Do you even *realize* what a faux pas this is in Lillyland? Not that I expect social manners to be a premium at the gym, but I expected better, even from Some Guy. Yeah, file it under signing off "Cheers" (hi Ameer, hey there Neema) and incessant Seinfeld references...or...usage of the phrase "same difference" or "I couldn't give a care". Ugh. ANNOYING.
But what's more annoying is that I wanted to JUSTIFY myself. I wanted to lean over and say "heh heh, just some fun reading". I wanted to somehow tell him that Nobel winner Jose Saramago's recent novel is on my bedside (the same way I am right now slipping that into conversation). But why the need to justify myself? Particularly when it's better written than so much other stuff out there. Someone once pointedly observed to me that in The Da Vinci Code, all the "important" clues were IN ITALICS. Enough said.
I mean, what could reading chick lit really "say" about me? That I'm single? That I'm fun? That I might be of the sorting-my-life-out-mid-20s-female demographic? That I like a good laugh in well-written, by-definition-sarcastic prose? What happened to not judging a book by its cover? So what if the cover is pink? DON'T JUDGE!
Well, if all of this is a crime, then damnit, I'm a criminal.
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.
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