Discussing virginity with my father

So, I was on Facebook earlier and was inspired to write this by my stepson's grandmother's post. (Is that way too confusing?) It was a tampon commercial for little girls which sort of blew me away and I'm not sure if it is even real but whatever, it still made me remember this insanely awkward moment of my life.

Flash back to when I was about 15. I'm in high school, I've had my period now for about 4 years. I have had to always use these giant, huge, I mean gargantuan, pads because they are what my mother bought and put in my bathroom. At that age, in that time, a young girl did not go into Longs or Payless and buy her own stuff. First of all, there wasn't any way I was spending my allowance on that but second of all, please. The embarrassment is something I can empathize with even now. That isn't to say I can't buy my own now because I'm embarrassed, I just mean that I can so feel the embarrassment that would have come had I done so back then. Oh, nevermind. Back to the topic at hand. In our P.E. class (for those of you who are young and going to modern day school, that is Physical Education class) we had to wear these really short, tight, polyester shorts that hugged every curve. Maybe that isn't true but that is how it felt in my mind. On the days when I had my period, I used to dread with every bit of my being, I mean this was a source of true angst, having to put on those damned shorts and do cherry pickers in P.E. Any sort of bending at the waist really. It was all enough to send me into a state of such anxiety I would need at least the rest of the month to recover. I just knew that anyone with a last name that was alphabetically behind mine was looking right at the outline of this 1960's hospital sized pad wedged between my legs. My current car, a Mini, is smaller than this thing. I swear it.

I finally mustered the courage to ask my mom to buy me tampons. I had heard about them but never seen one. I tried my best to act all knowledgeable and confident about them when I asked but I'm guessing I came off really nervous. Sadly, the woman was living in the Paleolithic era. Also, much to my dismay, she felt the need to consult my dad with her limited knowledge and leave the final decision up to him. Um. W.T.F???

Then comes the day when we had all gone up to Berkeley to visit my brother in his college environment. The freeway speed limit was still 55 MPH at the time. Just a moment to reflect on that please. The stretch of the 880 between Berkeley and the 280 North is the time frame we are talking about here. Then the area between the 280 N and Saratoga Av. The time, in my memory, is still endless. As a matter of fact, it is still happening somewhere in some universe. I swear it. We had just gotten on the road, I'm a typical 15 year old impatiently waiting until we are home and I can go to my room and listen to music that illustrates the wretched life I believe I live, when my father pounced. Those of you who have been at the receiving end of Merdad's wrath are probably cringing right now. I know I am. He waits, he takes his time, then he comes at you all calm and disappointed as though his life is so much worse for having had to be your father. Catholics could learn a lot about guilt from Iranians. Back to the moment.

Here I was with at least an hour left in the car with them up front and me in the back seat hoping a good song would come on the radio. I didn't have a Walkman. My dad actually opened his visor so he could see my reaction when he said the following 'Your mother tells me you want to start using tampons'. Yes. He did say that. I promise I could never forget that moment. I've tried. If I could have thrown up, died, and disappeared at the same time it wouldn't not have gotten me far enough from that car. (I just realized that some of you might have had the type of  relationship with your father  that would have made sense of this, but no, I did not. Absolutely.) I'm not sure of the exact words I managed to squeak out but I think they were most likely something like 'Yes' and then in my head 'oh god why am I not dead yet? Please let a giant truck hit us now. Now. NOW!! God, you are an asshole.' Next thing out of his mouth was 'I thought you couldn't use those if you were still a virgin.'
Oh Jesus, really? There have been a few moments in my life where I have thought to myself 'What kind of horrible jerk was I in my past life?'. This was one of them. 'Baba, I am a virgin. You can use them anyway. They taught us that in health class.' Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Why isn't this over yet?? His reply (at this point things get kind of fuzzy because I probably did die for a few minutes) 'I'll ask Packtoman (his doctor, Iranian, also male) and I'll let you know.'

I am honestly amazed that I ever made it out of those stupid 1960's pads. There is a part of me that worries that my mom still uses them except for her being old enough not to need them and the fact that if she did, it would serve her right. Her punishment for deferring her lack of knowledge onto my father, his doctor, and my poor unsuspecting self, should be to have to use those things until the end of time!!

P.S. To all the young ladies out there, yes you can use a tampon when still a virgin. There is no way to make having your period less awkward when you are in high school so just tough it out. The bonus of tampons is that you can swim with them, they don't show through your shorts, they fit in your purse, they are made in many sizes, and if for some reason your mom wants your dad to talk to you about it... call me!

Interviews with Marty (part 1 of ?)

I recently was able to interview the newest member of the Warwick pack. It was an enlightening experience. Being able to see the life of a dog in Campbell is a rare treat as they are so often reluctant to divulge their life experiences. He was worried that he might have said too much so I did accommodate him in that I allowed him to review the article prior to publication and redact what he thought might incriminate him or alter his lifestyle.

Interviewer: So, let's start at the beginning, right?

Marty: The beginning as you see it or the true beginning?

I: You tell me..

M: Well, since this is about my current life.. Is that a ball?!

I: No, it is my phone.

M: Oh, looks like my.. Oh did you smell that?! I think I farted!

I: Can we talk about your life?

M: Oh, yeah. Sorry. So I came to my true home on April 1, 2013. My leg hurt and they wouldn't let me play with the other kids much. I really didn't understand what was going on but then they gave me this lovely spoonful of peanut butter and everything was nice and fuzzy. I slept for the next 6 weeks.

I: Did they drug you? Why did your leg hurt?

M: Drug? I promise I did not drag anything anywhere and I'm not to blame! It must have been the little white one. He seems to be in charge around here. Leg? What is a leg? Wait a minute.. who are you and why are you interrupting my dinner time?

I: You are welcome to eat and talk at the same time. We were discussing your leg hurting..

M: Oh yeah, there was this giant thing that made a lot of noise and it hit me. It was really quite rude as I was just trying to ascertain if I should pee on it or merely sniff it. It broke me. I didn't really like that and I though it was awful. Then these people put it all back together, I guess. My brain hadn't really decided to work yet. Still hasn't honestly. I'm busy growing. Hey..I heard a squeaky toy!!

I: No, you didn't. A duck flew by.

M: I think it might have been a squeaky. I best go check that out.

I: Marty, come!

M: I'm here! I'm right here! What do you want? A sit? I can do down too! How about a paw?

I: Your life. This house. You were saying?

M: Huh? Can we talk about bacon instead? I like bacon. I like steak too. I'm also pretty partial to those little tiny cheesy bites that my mummy sometimes gives me when no one else is looking only the little white devil can smell them on my breath and he comes running at me and ...have I peed recently?

I: Yes, I just saw you do so in the yard. On the tomato plant? Do you remember?

M: Hmmm? Who are you and why are you here? MOMMM!!! I want dinner!! Or breakfast.. or a treat, or..um... hey... WHERE ARE MY BALLS??????

To be continued...

At this point, our interview for the day was over. I was ushered out by the 'leader' of the pack and am hoping to go back after dinner time for another go. Dear readers, cross your fingers. Trying to get the truth out of an adolescent German Shepard Dog is quite possibly the most difficult but possibly rewarding experience of my life.

The last Persian New Year

     Happy New Year everyone! It is the Iranian New Year so don't worry about feeling confused. I'm not. We celebrated this afternoon at my Aunt and Uncle's house. My Ameh Sharzad and Amou Cyrus not my Aunt and Uncle. For this occasion it is only right to call them by the correct moniker. This was most likely the last big event at their house. It marks a time for so many of us. Or maybe just those of us who are sentimental but so many Iranians are so I'll include everyone in the collective 'us'. They have lived in this house for 24 years. My other Ameh and Amou, Shohreh and Ali, lived in the house next door at one time. It is this time frame that so many of us felt in our hearts today. We were all kids. Our parents at the ages we find ourselves at today. Early 30's to early 40's. They had young children but still wanted to feel youthful, know that they could still have fun. Here are two classic Eichler's side by side in Cupertino. Identical homes with mirror image layouts. The American dream as seen by so many, lived out in the 80's by immigrants. As our afternoon started, I mentioned to my husband as we parked the car that my other Ameh and Amou had once owned the house next door and that they would have this very same type of party with all the adults in one house and all the kids in the other. It was in those innocent safe days when leaving kids alone wasn't an issue, especially when there were larger numbers and the parents were just next door. There was no way some random drifter could waltz in and steal one of us, we were a team. We all felt it and we all felt safe. We laughed to day as we remember climbing on the roof to spy on the house next door, our parents. We made up storied about them that couldn't have been true. We watched Annie a million times until they canceled cable. Then the house was sold and they moved. It was ok, we still had the permanence of the house next door. But apparently times change. Without consent, without desire and without consult. Weirdly, it never occurred to me that they would want to move. They can't retire because they just can't possibly be that old. They are still the same Ameh and Amou. They all are. But after today, no more parties there, no more New Year, no more spying, no more memories outside of my head. Someone else will be allowed to smell the roses my Amou Cyrus planted, eat the tomatoes, sample the fruits. Or worse yet, they will tear the whole place down as so many have done in the neighborhood and build some awful new home that looks just like all the rest.
     I'll try to always smile as I drive by that house in the future as I have always done in the past whether or not my Ameh and Amou were home at the time. I know though that that smile will be tinted with sadness, discolored by a general dislike for whomever buys it. They might be nice, they might be making fun and silly memories there too but they will never compare to the ones we made. Never will their jokes be as funny, their hugs as warm, their kids as cute, their joy as vast. They can never compare.
     Thank you Ameh and Amou for the giving us a place to love each other and be such an amazing family for the past 24 years.

This weekend VS. Next weekend

So, there is a debate going on here at the old homestead. What exactly is considered this weekend and what is next weekend? The old ball and chain claims that 'This weekend' is any weekend that is closest while 'Next weekend' is the weekend after that. Obviously this just doesn't make any sense. This weekend is the closest weekend to the day you are actually living while next weekend is the one after that. In Matt's world, if it is Monday (which it is at the moment) then next weekend doesn't arrive until an entire weekend and then Monday goes by and then the rest of the week. In my logical, and clearly correct version, if it is Monday today then next weekend is the next one to show up. This weekend doesn't occur until at least Thursday but preferably Friday. This weekend is the one that is either about to happen or is currently under way. This weekend ends by Saturday night and at this point in time Next weekend can begin to exist. If you call me on Saturday afternoon and say to me 'What are you doing next weekend?' I'm not going to immediately jump 2 weeks away..I'm going to tell you what I'm doing the next weekend that appears on my calendar.  Right? No, I don't need validation on this one, I am right. It isn't my fault if Matt is one week off on everything. Try using dates dude! Preferably with month/day/year involved. I can't process the European version with the whole date/month/year. I can't figure out when I was born.

Why aren't there any songs?

  I'm trying to get away from all the sadness I had last year but here is one I started and then left alone thinking it was too much, not light enough for you my dear readers. However, I did write it and did feel it and since then have lost 2 more of my amazing furbabies so it is time for this to see the light of day. This was written shortly after Monkey died and I was so broken. So desperate to find something to soothe me.

   You let me down. You weren't supposed to die first. You weren't supposed to make me feel so sad or hurt so much. I was so wrapped up in how to let you go in the easiest way possible that I forgot to worry about how I was going to feel after you were gone. In the past, breaking up with someone made me turn to music and I made mixes or fixated on the same song over and over until I had cried myself out but with you, that doesn't exist. There are no songs for breaking up with your baby. Dog, cat, human, or otherwise. I've searched all my cds, my itunes, my brain, listened intently to every song on the radio but nothing speaks of you. I don't even have the words. I've never been at such a loss.
     To say I miss you is ridiculous. I can't convey to anyone what I'm missing. You aren't here, you aren't present in any way. You don't take up space in my life anymore. You don't annoy me, you don't warm me, you don't follow me, you don't worry me, you don't protect me, you don't need me. I'm more alone than I ever concieved. I thought that somehow you would find me, still follow me or show me you were ok. There is no you anymore. Instead I have to struggle with what to do with your remains.

To bathe or not to bathe

Just how much is a bath worth to me? I feel like the universe is telling me to find a way to take a good long soak. And I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean metaphorically. I only believe it means literally because I just spend the afternoon with a cousin and aunt I haven't more than 3-4 times in the past two decades (hard to believe since I seem to have cousins coming out of the woodwork at my house) and in the course of catching up we covered so many topics. Wine, the need for larger and much more clumsy friendly glasses, why one can't crate train a child, the need for cocktail lounges at the hospital, ketchup, firemen casseroles, and freakishly shallow tubs that don't cover even the smallest of boobs no matter how you position your legs. 2012 treated me like shit and left me feeling used, angry, and sort of like someone who just doesn't bathe. Crusty, covered in a fine layer of caked on dust, frustrated at the things coming out of my belly button. Is it weird to say I enjoyed an afternoon at the hospital waiting to see if my uncle made it through his triple bypass? Well, I'm not known for normal so don't pretend to be shocked. Once the good news came down the pipe I found myself on the way home actively searching for a conversation with my mom as I knew it would get me through the traffic of The City and at least halfway home without my needing to even grunt occasionally. The conversation ended? with me inviting myself along to spend the weekend with my mom and Aunt PJ (one of the most fun and accepting humans on earth) in Solvang. There is a casino involved. Penny slots baby! Oops, sidetrack. So I decide to go and check the hotel site for a room and find myself staring at the second nicest room, the one with a tub, and say to myself 'self, you need a bath'. Now, for those of you who have been paying attention, you know that the thought of taking a bath is, for me, sort of along the lines of going to the dentist or flogging myself and then showering in lemon juice. Unholy at best. But as I sit here staring at the other window on my computer showing the room options, I think that maybe this is the way to say 'goodbye 2012 you wretched evil bitch, and please take a moment to let the door hit you in the ass on the way out'. Nevermind the fact that we did go out for New Year's Eve for the first time in 3 years as my farewell to 2012. That doesn't count because it already happened and this is in the future. There is a shower with two shower heads and a deep soaking tub. Otherwise, there is nothing extra about the room I need. A patio (I don't smoke anymore), a sitting area (I'm not sharing the room or inviting anyone for tea), a view (I'll take a hike when I get home). So the cost difference boils down to how much I want to spend for the privilege of taking a bath. Or two as then I can split the cost difference between two baths and thus feel less guilty. I'd bring bath salts and bubble bath, really make the most of having access to a bathtub. A book, glass of wine, snacks. The real question I have to ask myself is 'self, will you spend more than 10 uneasy minutes in the tub? Be honest self, you will most likely draw the bath, drop in the bubbles, climb in, then spend the entire 10 minutes trying to ignore the fact that there is a drain in the tub with you'. So what do I do? Stay tuned...