in answer to maxx's question about whether the vixen girl was chubby...

her name was sanam dabeer-alaei... one of those characters u never forget... she had a round face a tall, lean body... her cheeks were always rosy and her lips always red and shiny... she was taller than everyone in class... she wore the tightest pants too... and on top of it all she had the coolest eraser collection i'd ever seen... erasers in different shapes and colors and smells... (i was obsessed with erasers for a while... so much that i tasted them too every now and then)... she always traveled to europe in summer time, bring back souvenirs and then brag about them in class the following year... she would speak english all the time too... she even had a look alike michael jackson jacket... now how cool is that?

one day she came to school sporting a bright red school bag... they wouldn't let her in... sent her back home to get a more appropriate bag... she came back with a "boghcheh" attached to a stick over her shoulder! she got suspended for a week!

she did have a boyfriend, but at parties she would slow dance with the lesbian girl, mozhdeh, who was shorter than her...

mozhdeh was a character too... she was beautiful... she had the longest lashes i'd ever seen... we ended up at her house once because my friend knew her... she found me alone in the stairway when i was leaving and cornered me demanding a kiss... i was terrified and at the same time excited... she was very confident and in charge and i was honored to get attention from her! i kissed her on the cheek but that wasn't enough... she was harassing me... luckily my parents arrived to pick me up and she let go...

to tell u the truth, years later i heard a rumor that sanam passed away from a brain tumor in france and that mozhdeh is now married with a few kids...


Living with Yourself--Episode II

Afsaneh Mashreghi called me out of the blue. She found me on the Internet. It was so good to be found by an old high school friend.

We were close. Although not at first.

* * * * *

I think I tried to be cool since inception. But somehow my coolest stuff weren't even close to other's cool stuff. It was all in my head though, cause I always had enough of everything. Just enough though. So this concept of coolness never ceased to accompany me in all different aspects and stages of my life. Some things are just inherent I suppose.

I struggled with coolness all through elementary and junior high, and eventually in my high school years I sort of got accepted by a group of my peers as "cool." We were a cool group, but not cooler than the coolest bunch in our class, which consisted of an outcast lesbian volleyball champ and her vixen rebel bi-lover, two tom boys with short jet black hair and "Maggie Black" who'd already had one abortion in junior high and was looking for more trouble all over the place.

We held our own though. A simple bunch. There was me, miss "cool" herself; Atiyeh, a petite dental-brace-wearing Duran Duran fanatic; Massie, a tight-pant-wearing-Camel fanatic (but only because her older brother listened to Camel) with a wide gap between her two upper front teeth; Anita, a spaghetti sandwich eater whose father was a gynecologist; and Pegah, who only shaved the area on her legs between her socks and where her pants would pull up when she sat. Afsaneh was sort of the core and center of our group. She was alive and loud and free with big eyes, an even bigger smile and two older sisters that accompanied her everywhere.

In the height of my coolness stage you only imagine how I felt when one day, after a couple of years of friendship, Afsaneh told me one of the group's first impressions of me. Apparently I had gone to school one day smelling horribly, like I had slept on a bed of onions the night before. Shocked and humiliated, I imagined myself in the kitchen frying onions for one of my mom's famous dishes. Frying onions was my thing at home. And you know how that is. It's like a trip to a Japanese barbecue restaurant. The smell permeates your clothing and you hair and it just sits there. And I must mention that I would not get an "A" in hygiene back in those days. I was known to hate showers and a change of clothes—being it my tomboy nature. So I casually explained to Afsaneh my onion-frying ritual at home like it was no big deal. Very cool and calm like: "oh well, that's me, onion-frying-bad-hygiene-girl-take-it-or-leave-it." And perhaps, that was my initial practice at how to be truly cool by just being yourself and not denying your flaws. Of course, I obsessed about smelling good from that day on.

And to this day, even when I'm crushed, I try and act cool and downplay the scenario, whatever it may be. And then later on, when I'm alone, I analyze it to death in my head.


into the two digits... 92 days...


this is the kinda song that i want to listen to live in a dark smoky club that preferably u have to go down some stairs to get to... below street level... small round tables surrounding the stage... dim orange glow... dark beer in hand... camel lights on the table... heart pounding... that fleeting moment of feeling alive and 100% present... wow...

(listen to track 10 of the new santana CD, "shamen")
meegam... it should really be "moobideh" na "choobideh"



customer walks in: khAnoom man soltani...
me: yes, how many?
customer: no, my last name is soltani!
me: *double blush*

ironically he did NOT order any soltanis that day...
did i tell u i spilled, bebakhsheed, literally POURED diet coke on a customer's pants?!
customer: do u have choobideh?
me, thinking he has a turkish accent: yes, we have koobideh...
customer: no, no, choobideh, meaning chicken-koobideh!
me: *blush*
i admire my parents for having the courage and tenacity to get up every morning and go thru the routine day after day after day after day...


webgard's story reminded me of something i wrote a long time ago:

He was devouring the thick sandwich; mayonnaise dripping from the corners of his mouth; hands quenched with the juice of the red raw tomatoes; every bite into the sandwich sounded like the crunchy kosher pickles off the supermarket shelf. And he ate and ate and burped afterwards and spat. And then he lit a cigarette inhaling the smoke like it was oxygen essential to the lungs; sipped his coke and enjoyed each drop of caffeine going down; all the while his book open in front of him. Never took his eyes off it. He was absorbing the words saving each one in a brain cell. Not once did he look away to see that she was crying, screaming, pounding her feet, pulling her hair. She was silent to him, a statue, solid.

And that was his mistake. Avoiding reality, he was confined to the four walls of his entity. Selfish to the point where he could not love. No, he was not capable of loving. He would run at the sight of responsibility. A few times it lurked upon him and scared him to death but he managed to lie his way around it. Comfort was all he sought.

She knew it too. But it was too late for her to sweep up her feelings and go. She stayed and stayed and stayed until one day he realized that his sandwich was far more delicious than the warmth of her arms around him. And that was when it all ended. All the love and passion that was once there sank into the ground and never returned. She moved away and he left too. But the memories were too strong for them to erase, haunting them day and night. They would sit in empty coffee shops full of noise and smoke pitying their hollow hearts. They would jump at the slightest sound from the past and grin at familiar smells that permeated rooms. Staring at doors wishing to see each other walk in. Passing every corner in hope that they would run into each other. They occasionally found love here and there. But there was always that particular corner of their heart, which they could not give to anyone. "No trespassing" it said. They would seek the same look, the same voice, the same smell and since they couldn't find it angrily they would continue on down the road leaving bits and pieces behind. Frustrated they would go back to the same place where they first met to see if they could continue on where they left off but they would never find each other. Their timing was always off. One would always get there five minutes late.

Their sleepless nights accompanied them through decades of sorrow and pain. They grew old but never forgot. And one day when by accident they found themselves at the same place, their hearts nearly stopped. Not knowing what to do or say, they ignored each other. Sitting at opposite corners of the room, glancing up curiously every now and then, searching for the same familiar gestures, they sat there for hours and hours...


"u have good hands," said the finger printing dude staring at my fingertips anxiously, like he couldn't wait to get them printed...
what persian guy brings their anorexic looking khAreji girlfriend to a persian restaurant and orders her soltani?!!!

she looked like she was about to puke on her koobideh!


105 days left...

any advice?
an old coworker of mine once read my palm... he said that i'll never be rich but i'll always have enough to get by... that was probably the most truest reading i ever got!

and i'm thankful... thankful to have enough... thankful to be independent and not need to beg anyone for money... thankful that i can pay my bills on time... thankful to be able to occasionally shop... thankful to be able to eat and live a decent life...

but u know...

it hurts when u run into an old college friend driving a porsche and living in a mansion... the only difference being that the company she worked at got acquired and the one i worked at didn't!
planning to visit: "pearl building" corner of gandi and eight... walk in the yard... walk in the backyard... peak into the parking lot... use the elevator... check out the surrounding buildings... smell the smells... touch the walls... feel the feelings... hear the sounds... etc...

planning to visit: old high school friends.... talk about old times... find out how we have changed... play with their kids... meet their husbands... etc...

planning to spend time: with cousins... aunts... uncles... all the loved ones... connect again after 17 years... etc...

planning to visit: my weblog buddies, online buddies... etc...

planning to have: cafe gelace, orange gelace, yum yum, oily chips in see-thru plastic bags, rooster gum, aidin pastili, pashmak on a stick, barley soup, illegal wine/beer/alcohol... etc...

planning to go to: luna park, fanfar, minicity (if they still exist)... etc...

planning to walk down: gisha, pahlavi, gandi, vozara... etc...

planning to go to: movies... etc...

planning to record: an album... etc...

planning to breathe in: the polluted air... etc...

planning planning planning

planning to just hang out
planning to just have fun
planning to just be there
planning to just be
conversation with an old iranian lady dining at the restaurant:

me: can i take ur order?
her: can i ask u a few personal questions?
me: ?!!!???!!!!!????


i bet even if i was that rock star that i always wanted to be i would still complain!

*absolutely not recommended to individuals with no tolerance for bitching or self-pitying*
don't worry... i'm not gonna kill myself... i'm too afraid of being buried!
in my early twenties, twice i tried to kill myself

first time, i swallowed a whole bunch of over-the-counter sleeping pills

second time, i tried to freeze myself to death on a cold night

neither worked... don't try them
i have no beauty to offer from the inside... it's all dark and empty in there right now...
at times like these even the idea of visiting home is not appealing
occasions sadden me
it used to be that i looked forward to every single weekend, every holiday, every little excuse to celebrate
days roll on to one another
and become one
with short intervals of happiness in between
why is it my friend?

writing is therapy
i write to find the answers or to ease the pain
sometimes it helps
often it doesn't

why is it?
why is it that i feel empty?
i always thought these feelings belong to teenagers
or people who haven't found themselves
i think i have a pretty good understanding of who i am

is it because the more i know myself the more i'm disappointed in myself?
is it because i've chosen the wrong path in life?
is it because i don't believe in the common - school, work, marriage, kids, grand kids, death - lifestyle?
is it because my first boyfriend cheated on me with many insignificant women when i innocently trusted him?
is it because my parents never had a decent relationship?
is it because i left homeland at a crucial age and my values got screwed up?

what is it?
a combination?
lack of meaning in everyday things?
a terrible world?
what is it?
i constantly search...


i could feel it coming on
nothing seemed to be right

i didn't go anywhere
didn't do anything
it was a cold night
i had a bad feeling

i felt crushed like a piece of paper in a fist
i felt stepped on with ridged shoes

all for no apparent reason
all arising from a feeling that nothing's been the same
i haven't been the same

don't know where the breaking point was
but it must had been somewhere

somewhere between the layoffs
and the consecutive wrong job titles
somewhere between the disco days
and the friendships gone astray
somewhere in there something happened
something broke

perhaps my pride
perhaps my hopes
perhaps my trust
perhaps my faith
perhaps this and that
or all of the above

and at 12:05 AM on january 1, 2003
i sat there shedding tears pitying myself
while the people on the screen celebrated

i sat there numb
numb to the bone
staring at the screen

"first day of the new year"
it absolutely means nothing