A Cheerful Bird پرنده شادي

Estelle Getty, who played Sofia Petrillo on The Golden Girls, has died at the age of 84, according to Dlisted.

(sniff) Somebody get out a chocolate fudge cheesecake.

It is a beautiful day today. A cool wind has chased away the heat that’s plagued me the last few days, and I’ve been able to keep my window open all day to let the cool air filter in.

I have been staring out my windows a lot lately; they are always a draw because I can people watch, I can tree watch, I can pray in front of them as if they’re a window to God.

I hear loud music, so I go to my window to see two single, white college women filling up an inflatable pool, wearing bikinis and laying out towels. And playing loud music that white college kids listen to, like Dave Matthews and Third Eye Blind.

The music is turned down because these women have attracted a male–he wears a basketball jersey and baggy jersey shorts. He stands over them, chatting with them, and I think to myself, “Is this how people meet each other? I will surely never met anyone, then.”

I will never lay myself out to crisp my skin in the sun in a bathing suit for a zillion reasons. I’m not comfortable with bikinis, even maillots, and how much they display. Thighs are private, the small of my back is a secret. These are things for confidants and lovers to see, not just anyone.

Of all the maladies I imagine to be riddled with one day, sun damage is the most preventable, and it’s in my best interests to do so. Knowing that less sun damage results in fewer wrinkles, which I am admittedly terrified of. Knowing that keeping my skin moon white is desirable to the cultures I prefer to attract. But this is a trap: because my skin looks like the skin of desirable womanhood (fair as the moon, quiet as the night, modest as a nun, acquiescent like dough), sometimes they think I am this woman. But before they can touch my skin, I open my mouth, I flash my emotions in my eyebrows, and they are disappointed.

I look at the window again: their visitor has removed his hat and his jersey, and sits in the pool in his shorts.

It is a beautiful day, a day that makes you smile when you look out the window. A great day for strolling. I read, I did some emailing, but this is a day for company. For being with friends, for eating gelato or chatting along the riverfront while sipping iced tea. So I am lonely on a day like this, because my friends are at work, with family, in other geographic locations.

My loneliness manifested itself last night when my cable was temporarily out for some reason. Because I am taking advantage of the fact that this particular cable company isn’t with it enough to realize that I have cable, despite the fact that I have never signed up for it nor paid for it, I thought they had finally wised up to this fact. I thought my cable had been cut, and it was then, as I stared helplessly at Charlie Rose and his boring, mustachioed guest–because the only channel I could receive was PBS–that I felt like I had lost my friends: The Golden Girls, Will & Grace, The Colbert Report… I felt like I had lost parts of my life, schedules, a way to connect to others, a way to not be alone when I didn’t want to be.

Allahu akbar, the cable was back today. I’m ashamed at how much I rely on television to comfort me and divert my attention, but what else will I do as I eat lunch or dinner? What else will I do when I’m tired of looking at the computer screen or reading? Who else will make me laugh or wake me up with music? On most days, I watch 2-4 hours of television, and most of this is while I’m doing something else: waking up, cooking, eating, doing my hair.

Today is a beautiful day, the kind of day that makes me wish I had a veranda. I’d have a dinner party and serve iced lemonade and chilled oranges while we prepare a large dinner to eat under cool stars. My friends will wear cool linen dresses and linen dress shirts, and someone will put on samba after we eat and stare out over the trees in the yard. Maybe a friend will bring a handsome stranger whose eyes I can swim in. Maybe there will be no handsome strangers. But there will be a dark midnight sky, loud laughter, and friends.

Haaaaaaaahahahahaha!

Here’s another funny Cyanide & Happiness comic:

Bwaaaaaaahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa! That iffy reddish-looking “happy trail” especially kills me.

I love being a bitch.

But I don’t like hurting people.

This is a problem I don’t know how to fix.

The #1 reason I have a thing for that skinny white chap Adam Lavigne! Other than the sharp suits.

I really like this song. I just DO, okay? It’s happy.

But I liked it even MORE when I saw the video. Hilarious Iranis doing their version of rap bazi!!! Bwahaha! With the hair? HAHAHAHAHA! Bless their hearts.

Sometimes, chickadees trade in their wings for suction cups and lay on the lonely floor of an ocean as sad starfish that feel sorry for themselves because they cannot move.

Sometimes, chickadees aspire to be nightingales, to warble siren songs that drive powerful mountains to bitter tears.

Sometimes, chickadees prefer to stay guarded and silent in their nests, watching a world where everyone is bigger, faster, and hungrier than they. The glossy black eyes of a chickadee don’t scare anybody.

Sometimes, chickadees have to bide their time and wait for crumbs left for larger birds. Chickadees will always eat, but will not always be grateful.

Sometimes, chickadees look at lions enviously, and wish they had teeth instead of beaks. Chickadees cannot rip or mutilate, but can only peck and scratch, afraid of breaking hollow bones in an attempt to wound a predator.

Always, chickadees are afraid of becoming a twisted fluff on the shoulder of a road.

Woodyali on PersianSpeak.

I hope I will find a man soon to have a good and pure relationship. Bwaahahahahahaa!

You know who I love?

Forough Farrokhzad.

The Sin

I sinned, a sin all filled with pleasure
wrapped in an embraced, warm and fiery
I sinned in a pair of arms
that were vibrant, virile, violent.

In that dim and quiet place of seclusion
I looked into his eyes brimming with mystery
my heart throbbed in my chest all too excited
by the desire glowing in his eyes.

In that dim and quiet place of seclusion
as I sat next to him all scattered inside
his lips poured lust on my lips
and I left behind the sorrows of my heart.

I whispered in his ear these words of love:
“I want you, mate of my soul
I want you, life-giving embrace
I want you, lover gone mad”

Desire surged in his eyes
red wine swirled in the cup
my body surfed all over his
in the softness of the downy bed.

I sinned, a sin all filled with pleasure
next to a body now limp and languid
I know not what I did, God
in that dim and quiet place of seclusion.

Translated by Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak, Remembering The Flight,

O Stars ( Ay Setareh’ha )

Yes, this is I who in the heart
of night’s silence
rip up love letters..
he is gone, yet affection for him
will not leave my heart.
o stars, what happened
that he did not want me?

Friday ( Jomeh )

Friday
quiet
desperate
like old alleys, sad
with its sick, lazy daydreams
with its surreptitious, long yawns.
Friday
no expectations
surrender.

the house
empty
oppressive
with doors shut against the onslaught of youth
with darkness and visions of the sun
with loneliness and guesses
about the future and doubts
with its curtains, books,
cupboards, and pictures.

O how peacefully and pridefully passed by
my life like a strange stream
In the heart of those quiet, desolate Friday
In the heart of those empty, oppressive houses,
O how peacefully and pridefully it passed.

I don’t know how to fix fucking wordpress and its stupid fucking fonts. Jaysus!

All the poems have dried up in me for awhile. I think that for half-assed writers like myself, poetry is something that’s only possible with pain or incredibly strong emotions, it’s a way to work through them. I don’t like to hurt, and I work to eliminate the hurt I can control from my life at this particular time in history, so I think I’ll just read Farrokhzad for now. I love the imagery in her poems, because I’m a visual person. I like to see and feel what I’m reading, you know?

She was pretty f-awesome. I’d love a book of her poetry. It would make a lovely gift, for, say, my birfday. You know, the birthday that’s coming up. HINT. FRIENDS OF MINE. HINT.

What should we do for my birfday (the one or two of you who read this and see me on a regular basis)? Bowling? Sleazy Pasha dancing and Irani food? Hot dancing? Hawt dancing? Hott dancing? I need a nap. All of that? I only turn a quarter of a century once, so I better start the year out with a bang. Or at least a party. Heh.

Events of the last few days remind me of a comedy bit by Tom Papa. The stupid embed code doesn’t work, so you’ll have to click on it.

SNOWPANTS!

A comedian who isn’t funny but is cute: Shaun Majumder.

Now, to good comedy. I have been laughing my ass off to Eugene Mirman. He’s kind of cynical and nerdy, part of this new wave of comedians that are my age(?) and are either really funny or just plain stupid.

His opening is pretty good.

Bwaahahahahaha! AGRICULTURE!

Here’s something funny from him about MySpace. I don’t know why the hell the embedding isn’t working. GAWDDAMNIT!

Hahahahahaa Strunk & White’s Elements of Style. And I can’t help it, but I ALWAYS laugh with the “blah blah blah YOUR MOUTH.”

I’ve also been looking over Comedy Central’s stand-up lineup, which is where I get most of my laughs. Because it’s a network that’s geared more to males, most of the comedians are men. And I realized all my favorite comedians are men, and that got the feminist in me down. I’m thinking of female comedians, and the names I immediately come up with are Margaret Cho, Lisa Lampanelli, and Lynne Koplitz. Cho is funny but just doesn’t make me laugh out loud. Lampanelli’s racial jokes are just off-putting, but her sex jokes are often hilarious. Lynne Koplitz…meh. I usually like the comedians that are tacked on to Middle Eastern or Muslim specials, like Tissa Hami. But…they’re hard to find.

Suggestions are welcome.

Going on an Indian theme for today, here are some old school Indian videos that I dig hard. Both of them are sung by Mohammed Rafi, who is my favorite old school Indian singer. I heart his voice in a big way!

The videos are also good for a little chuckle. The first one shows everyone just dancing in that crazy ’60s go-go style. Can you dig it, cool cat?

This song, “Aaj Mausam” has been my favorite Bollywood song ever since I heard it on the Monsoon Wedding soundtrack:

This one is my personal favorite; they won’t let me embed it, so you’ll have to click on the link like a big girl (or boy). Rafi is chasing around this lovely lady, and he looks pretty drunk. And like he’s channeling Elvis or Johnny Cash. It’s got a pretty catchy, Western beat.

with Parvin Dabas in it.

He’s the superfox actor from Monsoon Wedding. He played Hemant Rai.

Normally, I’m not into dimples. But DAMN. That’s cute.

I’m also not into men with women’s names (I know Pakistani women named Parvin, so don’t tell me it’s a desi thing. Maybe an Indian thing?). But I will overlook it and give him a cute pet name.

And what a FINE nose.

And here’s another picture of him. The “sensitive” picture:

YUM. Heterosexual ladies, you’re welcome.

It wasn’t for me, however. I woke up for no reason at 6.30, 7.30, and 8.30. NO REASON.

But the day improved: my new glasses came in! They’re lovely: I have decided to become an actress so I can try out for every “sexy librarian” role ever written. Needless to say, I look muy caliente in my new glasses.

When I was the leaving the optometrist’s, I saw two boys and their mother holding up big signs for lemonade. They were really young, probably about 6 or 7, and they were both wearing glasses. Adorable.

Readers, you know I hate me some children. But those cute little four-eyes reminded me of my little, four-eyed self and the Kool-Aid stand I that I ran with my younger brother one summer. (giggle)

So I bought myself some too-sugarey pink lemonade. When I was leaving, a teenage surfer archetype walked up to them and said he’d give them a buck for some lemonade. One of the little boys was incredulous: “A BUCK?!” Like it was the most money he’d ever heard of in his adorable, four-eyed life!

Fucking adorable!

The blogosphere is full of people saying that good Muslim men are few and far between. So there’s external confirmation that I’ll be a bachelor(ette) for ever. It’s one of those things that I’m okay with for awhile, then I get down about for awhile, then I’m okay with again. It reminds me of one of my favorite fairy tales:

Once upon a time a guy asked a girl will you marry me?” The girl said, “No!”
And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, camping, drank whole bottles of wine, always had a clean house, never had to cook, did whatever the hell she wanted, never argued, didn’t get fat, travelled more, had many lovers, didn’t save money, and had all the hot water to herself. She went to the theatre, never watched sports, never wore fricken lacy lingerie that went up her bum, had high self-esteem, never cried or yelled and felt and looked fabulous all the time.

Even though some of the things in this fairy tale won’t apply, I like it anyway. Even though a man (or the lack thereof) won’t guarantee that I’ll never cry, yell, or look shitty, I like it. I need external reinforcements that I’m making the right decision by never getting into another romantic relationship. Sometimes I don’t need external reinforcement; sometimes it’s just a matter of drawing upon bitterness. But sometimes, feminist studies about the happiness and quality of life for unmarried women, chain emails containing silly “fairy tales” like this, and others who share my viewpoints are necessary. Most of the time, I like my solitary life, which is enriched by friends and family, and lets me be in charge, which I like. A man or a child would not let me be in charge, so I reject them.

But sometimes they reject me. New stories about the scarcity of a “good” Muslim man (whatever that is) make it very clear that since there are too many smart, educated, professional, superfine Muslim women like myself, some of us won’t be getting husbands or life partners. I am content to let my sisters take up some of the good ones, as long as they don’t rub it in my face later.

Every now and then, I’ll go onto a Muslim dating site to have a good laugh. I’m not kidding: the results that come up when I look for a man around my age are often hilarious. I know that’s mean, but I’m a mean one. Sometimes I need confirmation that I’m better off alone than with some chump who looks really angry in his picture (the more stiff and uninterested he looks, the bigger his beard, the more pious he is, I guess? CHA!) or some jackass who’s looking for a second wife. And, since most of these guys are clowns, I only get kind of sad when I see three or four cute guys. But closer looks at these cute chaps’ profiles reveals that I’m way more educated than they, and/or they’re looking for someone who is “traditional” (i.e., will obey them. i.e., not ME).

So, because of these under-educated men (this pertains to my level of education: I think I’ll have more in common with a man who at least has a bachelor’s. Someone who’s had time to grow up and experience other viewpoints. Someone who’s maybe lived away from his parents for awhile?) who expect pushover women (or, sadly, “decently” educated men expecting the same), there seem to be a surplus of Muslim women who know they deserve better.

From our side, it’s “Oh, there’s a dearth of decent (read: someone who knows the worth of a good woman) Muslim men!”

I’ll bet, from their side, it’s “Oh, there’s a dearth of decent (read: knows her gawddamn place) Muslim women!”

So what are we supposed to do? A lot of hyper-conservative imams will probably start preaching the merits of polygamy. Which won’t help most of us, because when we earned our educations, incomes, and independence, we realized not only that we deserved better, but also that arguments about polygamy and equality are full of shit. That means that the “traditional” Muslim women will continue to get married, and we’ll continue to be looked down upon, gossiped about, and given pity matches.

This isn’t to say that only traditional Muslim women are married, or that married is a bad thing. I don’t mean to hate on my more conservative sisters, or any of my brothers, but it’s hard to put the blame solely on myself. Because I’ve done what God and my parents have asked of me: I have an education, I love my family and my friends, and I love God. I am smart, pretty, independent, and capable: why should I be socially penalized for this? Why should I be pitied or looked down on because men don’t know what to do with me? Why should I compromise my intelligence, my agency, my freedom, and my self-esteem for a generation of men who aren’t equipped to handle an equal with a vagina?

No: a beautiful wardrobe, an expensive car, a career, and an ever-growing library can’t love me. But maybe I’ll get a dog.

Some things that improved the quality of my life this weekend:

• Mrs. Butterworth syrup. I’m not kidding. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that the cheaper stuff is just as good. They are either lying or just plain dumb.
• I could see the moon outside of my bathroom window last night. That made my shower all the more pleasant, with a sort of magical quality.
• I made “flirty eyes” with a cute security guard at the grocery store.
• I bought two new books! But they were under $21 dollars total, so it wasn’t too much of a splurge:
  • On Shifting Ground: Muslim Women in the Global Era, edited by Fereshteh Nouraie-Simone.
  • Strange Times, My Dear: The Pen Anthology of Contemporary Iranian Literature, edited by Nahid Mozaffari
• I finally got a print out of one of my favorite pictures of my four friends and put it in a frame–and the guy didn’t charge me for the prints!

Anyone else have weekend highlights?

Wear a safety jacket. Or else Karl Lagerfeld will personally hunt you down.

kiss my alabaster ankles

powder my palms with kisses

put on my silver slippers

with your teeth

won’t you, ashegham?

empty your eye sockets

and adorn my rings

with your inky spheres

but grow a new pair each day

to gaze at me

won’t you, mashoogham?

smash out your teeth

and string them

around my neck, like pearls

rip off your flesh

and embroider your capillaries

into delicate patterns

on this queenly mantle

that you wrap me in

to calm the frightened beating

in my chest

but allow your blood

to keep running its course

to a heart that beats

only for me

won’t you, ashegham?

kiss the arches of my feet

deeply, lover

to arch my back

to wear my fingers

in a wreath on your head

to receive from me

all that I have taken

from you

won’t you, eshgham?

US slams Israel for buying pistachios from Iran

Ahahahahahhahahahaa! No one can resist our salty nuts!!! Not even ISRAEL!