New here? I’ve compiled some of my most popular blog posts and short stories for you to give you somewhere to start. Please give me feedback or share if something sits well with you. Or if you’re drunk.
New here? I’ve compiled some of my most popular blog posts and short stories for you to give you somewhere to start. Please give me feedback or share if something sits well with you. Or if you’re drunk.
My dad immigrated to the US in 1979 to STEAL AMERICAN JOBS. Just kidding, he actually came here to repopulate the United States with his seed. This dude makes babies like it’s his job (that he stole from an American). Because my dad is foreign, and also crazy, growing up with him is interesting. And often, just super weird.
Take for example this 20 year running joke where he claims to be some random man named John Anderson. He thinks it’s THE FUNNIEST joke in all the world. And it’s literally been a thing since I was a teenager. That, and, “I’m in Chicago.” Which doesn’t even really make sense.
The other day:
Dad: hello? [very thick Persian accent]
Me: Hi dad!
Dad: I’m not eh your dad. I’m John Anderson FBI.
Me: Ok dad.
Dad: I just eh said I’m not your dad. I don’t have deh children. I have many girlfriends and no children.
Dad: excuse me? What’s so gross about dat?
Me: The picturing my dad with his many girlfriends part.
Dad: hahahahaha! Can’t I git a break?
Me: Not when your goal in life is to recreate the Persian empire on American soil.
Dad: Bahahaha. Well, I need a break.
Me: Then you should get better at using contraceptives.
Dad: hahahahaha. I’m dropping off your stepmom at the airport and then I’m coming to see you. I love you baby.
Me: love you, too. Dad.
Me: [hangs up and searches for wine].
I really like my dog, Oliver, a lot. In a sort of stalkerish, I watch him while he sleeps, sort of way. The love is not mutual, though. In fact, I’m preeeetty sure he hates me.
I used to tell myself that he’s just bored with me. I’ve worked at home for most of his life so he thinks of me as a sort of lamp or chair that occasionally takes him for a walk. Francesco, my husband, on the other hand, is about the coolest thing in the entire world because he’s never home. However, I’ve recently started working at the office and it’s become pretty damn clear that Oliver just thinks I’m an idiot. For example, in this instagram video. Notice how I’m trying to be his bestie, and he’s just giving me some nasty side-eye like I’m his racist cousin at a family reunion that he didn’t even want to go to in the first place.
We don’t have kids yet, but I’m pretty sure that this is basically what it’s like to have a teenager. And now I need to call my mom and tell her I love her. Also, I probably need to adopt a baby goat or a capybara because they’d probably be all about me and we could climb on shit and swim and ALL WOULD BE GLORIOUS.
Francesco said, “no.” Probably because he’d be jealous.
What about you guys? Do you have pets? Do they like you? What’s that like?
I use Siri about 90% of the time that I use my phone. 1) I’m lazy and 2) I like to seem like an illiterate drunk woman who doesn’t even know the name of the person she married.
My husband isn’t really a psycho but I thought it would be a pretty interesting title as far as search engines are concerned. Unfortunately, people are going to come here looking for answers on how to deal with said psycho husband and they’ll probably be disappointed. And now I feel bad. So, here’s some advice just in case you did come here to solve your psycho husband problems:
Alright, now back to my husband. My husband is not a psycho but sometimes he sounds like one because he’s foreign. And he has a crazy accent and doesn’t understand pop culture.
For example. This morning I was walking around the house getting ready for work and for some reason that one song is stuck in my head, that Britney Spears song, “You better work bitch.” But I was tired, and I hate mornings, so instead of singing it I was just kind of padding around talking the lyrics. Like, “Oh, hey you in the mirror. You want a Maserati? Better work, bitch.” Then, I decided that my only form of communication with my husband all morning should be the same.
ME: Hey babe
ME: You want a Maserati?
Him: Huh? What the fuck are you talking about?
ME: You better work, bitch.
And he just shrugged and ignored me like he pretty much does every day and went back to making his fancy espresso that coughs and sprays black coffee shit all over my stove every. fucking. morning. I went back to the bathroom to apply a shitload of concealer and to continue talking to myself in Britney lyrics.
Then, Francesco was dropping me off at work and before I got out of the car he was all,
I turned, “Yes?”
“Uhm, if you want deh Maserati you gotta get a job and shit!” He laughed out loud and pounded on the steering wheel.
“Those aren’t the lyrics, dude.” I shook my head disapprovingly and got out of the car and pretended like I didn’t know him. Because it’s one thing to speak in Britney lyrics and it’s another thing to TRY and fail miserably.
Get your shit together, husband.
Ever since I was a kid, a toddler, really, I’ve been way into saving bugs. Bugs, animals, any and all disadvantaged children in third-world countries. My empathy, according to my husband, runs out about there, especially when he has the man-flu. But bugs? I go to great lengths to save them from certain death. Even though their life spans are like ten minutes. Or ESPECIALLY because of their short lifespan. I mean, if you only have ten minutes to live your entire life. YOU’VE GOT TO LIVE, DAMMIT!
The other day I woke up to an ant invasion. An entire fucking ant colony had moved into my dog, Oliver’s food bowl. This is because he’s an asshole and won’t eat any of his kibble that isn’t coated in canned food. “Well, it’s because you spoil him,” you’ll say. Of course, it is, but also because he has a will like nobody I’ve ever met. My husband put his foot down once and was like, “either he eats his kibble or he doesn’t eat.” And I told him to pick on someone his own size and stop being such an asshole. Oliver went nearly 2 days without eating in a standoff of willpower (note: He had a full bowl of food, he just refused to eat it), Oliver won. By the third day my husband broke, went and bought the three dollar per canned food and mixed it up apologetically with his kibble while Oliver glared at him like, “yeah, mix it good, fuckface.” But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, my dog is a shithead and didn’t finish 7-10 pieces of kibble because they weren’t delicious enough. And seventy generations of ants had moved into the bowl. Because ants are much less picky than poodles, apparently.
Thousands of ants were marching in a giant swirl around the bowl. The remaining 43,576 ants that wouldn’t fit in the bowl were marching in incredibly orchestrated lines in a 3×3 space around the bowl. “Oh, SHIT!” I yelled when I first saw them. Then, i wandered aimlessly from the kitchen to the living room waiting for an adult to come and fix it for me. Then I realized that I was the adult and I had to fix it. There were a few dozen ants a few feet from the others so I got a little broom and tried to sweep them up, gently. I put them outside. They all shriveled up into tiny hard balls of black. Like coarse ground pepper. “Oh no! I’m sorry! Get up!” I prodded them with sticks for a minute and then realized that I killed them. Then I felt super bad and hoped that their family members hadn’t seen them brutally massacred. The broom wouldn’t work. Everything that I could think of would kill them. And, as noted above, I can’t kill insects. It’s not that I LOVE all insects, spiders, honestly, scare the shit out of me. I can’t kill them, though. I have to work up the courage to trap them in a glass while I sweat profusely and shake uncontrollably. Sometimes I talk to them, “I’m just putting you outside goddamnit. Stop jumping around in there!”
Part of the reason I have a hard time killing insects is because I’m clearly nuts, but also because I respect them. Which I know sounds crazy and you’re all rolling your eyes like, “get a grip, psycho.” But ever since I can remember I’ve been really attached to nature. And, since toddlerhood, I’ve felt that everything fits together and that no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, everything is important. I used to talk to trees, I had pet rocks (which would be sad if it wasn’t so creepy), I should possibly be locked in the crazy house. Also, I’m slightly paranoid about bug karma. What if during the apocalypse insects become insanely giant or really good at math and gang up to attack any human who has ever squished an ancestor? There’s also a part of me that just thinks that humans are super, unbelievably, stupid. If you’ve ever observed drunk teenagers, you know what I mean. We’re dumb. All of us. And so who know what the rest of the creatures on the earth are all about. I have no goddamn idea. And science is too political when it comes to this sort of thing, I mean, at one point, it was scientifically proven that non-white people and female people were not real people. So, I struggle with science’s time-encased notions of importance, relevance, or I don’t want to be squished-ness. Basically, I like to play it safe. And I like to make my life as difficult as possible. Clearly.
After thirty minutes of watching the ants dominate a small corner of my kitchen, I remembered Google. Google knows all things. I grabbed my phone and quickly Googled “How to get rid of ants without killing them.” I read the two-hundred suggestions but all of the suggestions were stupid. Use vinegar. Essential oils. Lalala. Great, thanks, that’s a great idea from preventing this from happening again. But what do I do once they’ve already broke in and seized a part of my home? Nothing. I started to wonder how in the hell they’d managed to get in my house in the first place. I went out my back door and looked outside approximately where they were inside. Sure enough, there was a line of ants charging in, and another line of slower ants wobbling out, struggling to balance small crumbs of Oliver’s food in their little pincher faces. They wanted the food. So if I moved the food outside, maybe they’d all give up and go outside.
I dumped the remaining crumbs of Oliver’s food outside near the ant line. And I went to write in my office.
Every hour I came back into the kitchen to check on the insect situation and every time there were fewer ants. By the end of the day, there were no more than a few dozen. That night, I proudly (and smugly) explained what happened to my husband who stared at me vacantly. “You’re fucking insane, dude. Why didn’t you just kill them?” For which I glared and told him that I hoped he got chlamydia. But then I thought about it for a second and remembered that we were married. “NEVERMIND! I hope you stub your wiener,” I yelled after him, which also didn’t make any sense.
That night, I proudly (and smugly) explained what happened to my husband who stared at me vacantly. “You’re fucking insane, dude. Why didn’t you just kill them?” For which I glared and told him that I hoped he got chlamydia. But then I thought about it for a second and remembered that we were married. “NEVERMIND! I hope you stub your wiener,” I yelled after him, which also didn’t make any sense.
When I snuggled next to my husband and Oliver in bed that night, I made sure to pull the sheets off of the floor to keep spiders out of our bed.
“But I thought spiders were your friends,” my husband hyena laughed.
“You’re hilarious, asshat. I don’t spiders to bite Oliver. Seriously ,though, If they come up here, I hope they bite your ass.”
And I lay in bed, unable to sleep, terrified of spiders.
My friend K just moved back from France. So, it made sense for us to catch up over a FOUR HOUR phone call (it actually flew by). During this conversation, we talked about work. K is a former journalist turned evil copywriter, like me. Only, replace “journalist” with “literature major,” and “pimp.”
We talked about the ideal company to work for and fun parts of our job (like strategizing ways to take down competitors because marketing is an asshole industry), and I mentioned, about 400 times, that I would love to work with Thinx. They make period underwear. And as much as you’re probably thinking, “ew gross,” what you would be thinking after you used them is, “fuck yeah.” Anyway, I have five pairs, they’re amazing, and I’m obsessed with them. I was explaining the absolute badassery that is period panties, when K said, “I really want to try cups.”
“AH! Yeah! I’m trying!” I squealed like a teenager.
And I went into a long rant about how tampons are stupid because they dry out your lady garden, mess up your ph balance, and are also full of chemicals (unless you get organic ones).
“So, I’ve wanted to try cups forever,” I continued. “My sister gave me one to try from a pack of disposables she bought at Target. I tried it in Munich. And it got stuck. In. My. Vagina. And I spent one hour squatting on my bathroom floor like Gollum, trying to hook the fucking thing so I could get it out of my vagina. It was the WORST. I just kept wondering how I would explain to Francesco that I got some silicon doo-hicky permanently lodged up there.”
“That sounds terrible,” K laughed, “when I tried it, the same thing happened. My boyfriend had to help me get it out.”
“AH! Jesus! REALLY? Awful. So, after that shitty experience, I still wanted to try a cup. I bought a Lena on Amazon. And it took three cycles to figure it out and I felt like a fourteen-year-old again, trying to figure out tampons. And to not freak out about how it might be sucking out my guts (note: It can’t suck out your guts, apparently). But on the fourth cycle, I finally figured it out. And, it’s awesome. Except, I think it might be too small because it leaks a little.”
Then it occurred to me that she might be all like, “she has a giant vagina.” So I quickly added that my lady cave is perfectly compact. And I don’t even know why because vaginas come in all sorts of sizes and it’s TOTALLY FINE. Still. I tried to overly explain.
“I mean, it’s not like my vagina is huge. My last gynecologist had to use the small speculum. She even waved it around and said, ‘I only use this small one for my special ladies,’ which was weird and kind of scary. And F was in the corner like, WTF is happening?”
K burst out laughing. “You have the WEIRDEST gynecologist stories. Seriously, who are these people you go to?”
“Right? I noted that I DO have weird gyno experiences, “anyway, my vagina isn’t like enormous or anything.”
K paused, “I was just remembering one time when I was over at your house and you told Francesco to buy you Super tampons and he asked, ‘like extra large?’ and you were like, ‘Yes, extra large, for my EXTRA LARGE VAGINA.”
” And it’s not extra large. It’s just extra bleedy. But yeah, that conversation sounds like me and F.”
“It does.” She agreed.
I pulled up Amazon on my phone while we were talking, “So, I’m going to order the same cup but in a bigger size. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Thanks, yeah, definitely let me know how the HUGE one fits.”
And then I just glared at my phone while K laughed.
“This should be a blog post,” K said.
“Hmm. Yeah.” I agreed.
When I was four years old I had pet rocks. My mom and I lived together in a small low-income apartment in Ogden, Utah, and we weren’t allowed to have normal pets like a dog or a guinea pig. There was no particular reason why I chose rocks instead of some other free or cheap inanimate objects like twigs or grass. It just kind of happened. One day my mom and I were returning home from the grocery store and I spotted some stones around a tree. They weren’t really beautiful or interesting, just your typical gray, flattened golf-ball-sized stones, and it occurred to me that they’d make pretty good pets. I ran over and picked them up, careful to brush off the ants, and returned quickly to my mom’s side.
“My pet rocks,” I showed her.
“Well that’s nice,” my mom said in a way that told me how interested she actually wasn’t. She heaved the grocery bag over her shoulder and we continued to head inside our humble dwelling.
While my mom put the food away, I marched directly into the bathroom to give my rocks, “a bath.” I filled up the bathroom sink with soapy water, testing the water on my wrist to make sure it wasn’t too hot.
“Hold your breath,” I told my rocks, before plunging them into the water.
I scrubbed. I sang. I rambled on with a manic level of excitement. I told them everything about me, as quickly as possible:
My favorite color was: Not pink
My favorite toy: Castle Gray Skull
My best friend: Rocks!
I didn’t have any friends.
I went to daycare but those kids didn’t talk to me anymore. I’d been shunned, eighteenth-century style, for a teeny-tiny incident that had happened a few weeks prior.
During an of afternoon recess, a group of us had gathered on the playground. Some of the other children were talking about their siblings. I didn’t have one yet, but everyone else was Mormon and had 7,000. One little blonde girl proudly bragged, “The stork is going to bring my family a baby sister soon.” I rolled my eyes because doctors deliver babies, not giant birds. I waited for someone else to call her on her bullshit but nobody did. The others just smiled stupidly and nodded. Clearly, I was the only one who knew anything about life or babies.
So, I told everyone. And I drew a diagram in the sand. “Babies,” I explained, “come from chicken eggs that grow inside of your vagina.”
“What’s a vagina?” One of the girls asked. I dropped my pants and pointed to it.
“This is a vagina. You have one, too. There’s probably chicken eggs somewhere around there already,” I shrugged and pulled my pants back up.
It took less than an hour for my impromptu sex-ed lesson to spread like a wild fire throughout the school. Parent’s called. The daycare teachers were so horrified that they glared at me and whispered to each other when I walked into the room. I received the same treatment as a forty-year-old truck driver who’d walked onto the playground and whacked all of the children over the head with his dong. I felt ashamed and embarrassed mainly because I knew that’s how the adults wanted me to feel. Their eyes were very clear about it. Although, I was super confused why. By the end of the day, the other children had stopped speaking to me.
I’d been a little lonely ever since. But, no longer. Because rocks. And rocks, unlike the assholes at school, just listened, non-judgementally, to all of the super cool shit I had to say.
I named my rocks Moon, Star, and Crystal, which also happened to be the most popular stripper pseudonyms of all time. After their bath I patted them dry, one by one, wrapped them in a blanket and set them on the chair next to me during dinner. Later, I took them to bed and laid them gently on the far left side of my pillow. My mom tucked me in, shut off my light, and I whispered stories to Crystal, Moon, and Star, about the badass adventures I would have one day when I finally owned a Pegasus, until I passed out.
For the first few weeks, Star, Moon, and Crystal were faceless. They were just gray, on gray, and hard to tell apart. But one day I found a marker and drew them a set of black circles for eyes and a turned-up line for a mouth.”Now,” I told them, “you can see and stuff.” And there was a part of me that was pretty sure that they could. Or at least hoped that they could. I imagined that without eyes, it was probably pretty horrifying to be launched down a slide or taped to a swing. I wanted them to have a good time, too. Even though they were rocks, I liked to think that they were participating in our friendship in their own, stoic way.
“Now,” I told them in my magician voice, “you can see and stuff.”
And there was a part of me that was pretty sure that they could. Or at least hoped that they could. I imagined that without eyes, it was probably pretty horrifying to be launched down a slide or taped to a swing. I wanted them to have a good time, too. Even though they were rocks, I liked to think that they were participating in our friendship in their own, stoic way.
I’d been having a great time, painting with them, storytelling, and jamming cottage cheese into their little line mouths. I tied a string around them and dragged them behind me, up and down the sidewalk, so they could get their exercise. I tried to teach them to read, and sometimes took baths with them. Life was totally sweet for me. And, even though they were rocks, I liked to think that they were enjoying our time together, in their own, stoic way.
If my mom was concerned about my exhibitionism, bizarre interpretation of the anatomy/baby lesson she’d given me, or my new best friends, or lack of actual human interaction, she never let on. She went about our daily life as if I were perfectly normal. And she asked me about my rocks the same way a parent would ask their child about their pet hamster, “Oh, did Crystal enjoy her nap?” Years later, she told me that the whole pet rock thing was fucking hilarious. I can imagine her, cigarette in hand, on the phone with my grandma while I lectured Star about being a bully, “No, seriously, this kid has lost her goddamn mind, and it’s a fucking hoot.”
Then one day, after weeks of playing rock jump rope, rock, rock, goose, and rock tag, I met a boy outside of my apartment building. He called me a rude name and I kicked him in the willy with my red cowgirl boots. He got back up and pushed me into a thorn bush. We became fast friends.
Shortly after, my mom returned Star, Crystal, and Moon to the wild.