Green pick-up line

Would you be my antioxidant?

1972-2004

There is only one place that I drive to the moment I start losing it: Newport Beach, CA, where Babaee is buried. Sometimes I think out of all the reasons why it was good for me to move to OC, Babaee was the most important one. I mean, how could I drive to him in 15 minutes when insanity hits if I was still lived in LA? I would never make it, they'd find me going postal on the 405.

Today something different happened though. I got there around 6:30 p.m. and there were no other visitors. You could only hear birds and the sound of wind chimes. The place looked more peaceful than ever while the sun was setting, a nice breeze from the Pacific Ocean came through. Flowers from Sunday visits were all over. As I was driving towards Babaee's plot, I slowed down and suddenly a name caught my eye: P. Vakili. It was written in big Farsi letters on a bench and said: Our Beloved Daughter. I am not sure what it was that made me stop my car and get out, it may have been as insignificant as the last name "Vakili" or some unseen force. I got out and went over her tomb stone which said 1972-2004. Quickly I counted: she died at age 32. Then as if a volcano erupted inside me without any prior signs or warnings, my tears came nonstop. I sat on the bench and cried for a good half hour over the death of this young soul whom I never met.

I wept and wondered what killed her and whether she got to live her dreams? Was it cancer? did she die a painful death? or just a car accident and a quick death? Did she leave children behind? How do people remember her?

Too many questions went through my mind about her, yet I had a very strong connection to her. Maybe it was the closeness in age at the time of her death. Maybe I wondered what if this is me? What if I die without having forgiven many people in my life? What if I die before they forgive me?

Then I got up, wiped my face and drove to Babaee's where I stayed only for five minutes. I think this time it was this young soul who had called for a visitor, not Babaee.

It was surreal.

Esmeh Pedar?

"Salam khanoom, zang zadam rajeh beh passportam beporsam?"

"esmetoon?"

"folaani"

"Esmeh Pedar"

"folaani".

"Meeyad ta hafteh deeghe INSHALLAH".

*****

I hang up happy. I gotta get myself ready for this "esmeh pedar" kind-of-nation. What if I say I didn't have a pedar, don't know who he was, I was a child of love, or my mom got sperm from sperm bank? What if??????

This time will be like old days

i think i know why last time I went to Iran, it wasn't as good: they weren't there to keep me safe. Iran without my parents made no sense.

This time it will be different. It will be like old days.

Motivated by love and food

Reasons to go to Iran this summer:

To see family and eat really yummy food such as pizza and ice cream.

Reasons to come back to the US:

Brando and Trader Joe's

Today's Poem

I am so tired of the rising gas prices
and this housing crisis

There. I rhymed for the first time.

His name is Eternity

He is tall, strong and hovers over my backyard in a protective manner. He is graceful and has tremendous peace. He is wise.

Him and I have developed a wonderful relationship in the past year since I moved here. We have an agreement; an understanding: I talk to him about my problems and he listens without any interruption with a heart full of love. He doesn't judge me. In return, he sheds his leaves onto the backyard and I sweep them away where either they go back to mother earth or the winds takes them. I am amazed by his shedding ability. I wish I could shed like that and get rid of my old and destructive ideas, memories and thoughts. But instead I talk, he takes it in and sheds for me. It's a perfect relationship.

I have decided to name him Eternity because he was here before I got here and will remain here after I am gone. And that by itself is eternity for me.

My new friend is a tree.

On being a writer

A writer is a lonely person because she lives in her own head and is in a relationship with words.

The Anti-Costco Movement

I would like to start a new movement against Costco. And by that I mean starting my own chain of stores where everything and anything comes in miniature sizes. For example, you would be able to buy toothpaste in half the size of a normal one.

One must wonder, if you see a lot of really fat people, I mean a fat family of five with a fat mom and a fat dad and three fat kids, walking around Costco's aisles, then you must think twice about shopping there.

No?

Yet many people go for the marvelous free food samples and as Firoozeh Dumas points out in her books, some actually eat lunch there. Well, a Costco employee called Ms. Dumas after reading that part of the book and said the annual membership fee that you pay for, that is for the samples.

Nothing is free in this America, let me reiterate the good old cliche.

Happy 4th.

Relativity

My neighbors are odd. The lady wakes up at 6:30 and starts making noise in the kitchen, at 7 a.m., she is already frying her onions and making preparation for lunch. They have other weirdness too, like that one weekend when they had guests over and their guests (or all of them for that matter) sang really loudly non-stop...sang these sad traditional Persian songs...

Of course, they also must think I am very odd, especially when I talk to the little dog who visits me occasionally, particularly when I baby talk to him, when I ghorboon sadagheh him left and right. They must think I am crazy.

I guess we are now even.

This is for her

i have been hesitant to write about her, although one can write a book just on her character alone, forgetting her life story.

One reason for my hesitation is guilt. I feel as though I would intrude on her if I write about her, as if I would expose her to the world, although no one really reads what I write and with my lack of ability to finish projects, nothing will ever be published. (Although some computer geek was able to retrieve my Ebrahimi translations after I donated my law school laptop recently so there is hope).

Anyway...but I have decided to start jotting down some notes since I have realized she represents a whole section of society that went unnoticed due to social and political realities of their generation. Yes, indeed she is an archetype of the Iranian Grandmother who was held back as a wife and mother...while had she been here in America, well, at least she may have been driving.

This is why I am beginning my notes on her, slowly and a few words per day, and after each time I interact with her.

And this is for Mamani, whose shoes I used to hide behind our couch when I was a child so that she would not leave our house since she brought so much joy to my life when she came and stayed over, especially since she would back me up in front of my parents and I did get away from a lot when she was around...

This is for Mamani whose beautiful blue eyes have been diseased by old age, one with Macular Degeneration (which is now blind) and the other with Cataract. But they are still the bluest with her blue roosari.

Baa Ejaazeh, of course.