Courage

more photo's of todays chaos #iranelection
Originally uploaded by .faramarz

Women of Iran, you are my sisters. We hold the power of NO.

No to violence. No to killing. No to suppression. No to lies.

Of Soylent Green And Love Blankets

I was pumping gas into my car yesterday when I heard a woman's voice very close to me. I looked around and there was nobody but the dusty wind. Then I looked up and saw the TV screen atop the gas pump, playing an infinite loop of advertising. I felt like I was in the movie Soylent Green, and Big Sister was repeating the litany of what I should believe and what I should buy. Her voice, a little out of sync, echoed simultaneously from the tops of every gas pump.

Many men in Arizona shave their heads. Is this a new trend?

Men have a distinctive uniform here. Casual: Long baggy shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. Dressy: Large Tommy Bahama or Hawaiian shirts worn untucked over slacks... and flip flops.

Women dress in corporate mall wear. While I sneer at that, I'm wearing the jeans I bought at Monoprix in Paris, and the top I bought at Target in Carefree. Oh... and the flip flops I bought at Target as well. Arizona women - feel free to flip me a bird right now.

Rubio's is still my favorite Mexican food chain (or possibly the only food chain I would ever set foot in), with the freshest made-to-order mahi-mahi tacos and chipotle salsa. I went there after the car wash yesterday and the woman behind the counter was so incredibly, genuinely, direct-eye-contact-big-smile friendly, that I became shy and looked down at my wallet as she beamed at me. I lingered after eating, thinking I might ask her where exactly in her heart and mind all of that love comes from. But she was very busy pouring it, like fresh salsa verde, all over the next customer in line.

I had my second experience meeting a virtual blog friend a few days ago, Rich from The Daily Husband and Mister Richard's Bloggerhood. I enjoyed it very, very much. The first time I did this was with The Wishful Writer, who I don't have to talk to or read about, in order to know she's still my friend. Rich and his lovely wife met me at a Starbucks, where he said he had 501 questions for me. We only covered about 42, but that just means I get to see them again so we can cover some more. They graciously invited me back to their home and fed me scrumptious Chinese food and we sat outside in the unseasonably cool air and talked about politics and blogging, and why we both kind of feel like it's been a useful release of pent-up rage for us, but perhaps not something to do long-term. He quit his political blog; I haven't yet. I must have some lingering rage to express...

I love my family, even though we are all so different.

One of my friends from waaaay back in the early '70's drove all the way over to my brother's house to see me. She said, "This was a huge stretch for me. I rarely leave my house." I was honored she would overcome her fears just to see me. Then I told her that I am just as afraid to leave my home as she is. We're all afraid at a certain level. We just express it in different ways. The world would be so much better if we believed more in the power of grace in our lives, than in the false power of darkness and doom.

I would like to invent a magic cloth that I could drape over people's heads and shoulders, snuggle them into it. And the cloth would soften their brittleness, calm their fears and most of all, allow them to forgive themselves. I would buy one for myself, after I watched the people I love begin to love themselves as much as I love them.

I miss Paris like a new lover. It's that bittersweet feeling - a painful tug in my heart followed by an excited thrill when I imagine the next time we meet. With my eyes closed, I conjure up memories so I can believe that she's still in my life.

Sun-Kissed Mouse Pad

I love my friend T. She has the strength and energy of 40 he-men packed into an eentsy beentsy little body. She mows the lawn, slays bees, climbs ladders, reattaches window screens, empties the trash, cleans the house, chases down car thieves (and attends all their trial hearings) and lets me sleep in her smiley-face guest room.

She also washes her mouse pad. Have you ever washed your mouse pad? And set it out in the Arizona sun so that it dries properly? I certainly haven't. This is why I love my friend T.

Smokin' In The Parking Lot

I've been in Arizona since Memorial Day, hanging out with my family and taking care of bidness, both Uhmerkin and Françaises. It's been interesting, so I wanted to write a few observations before they slip out of my brain.....

I have never been a chain restaurant kinda gal. Can't do corporate America. Can't do prefabricated corporate food. But when hangin' with the relations,  I go (mostly) happily wherever I'm taken. These restaurants remind me of a few things...

America is like Disneyland. We fabricate fantasy environments so we can pretend we're in a 50's diner or a Mexican cantina or a thatch-roofed beach-side Bahamas burger joint or a British pub. None of these incarnations come vaguely close to the real thing, either in decor or food. But we get to "escape" the reality of our lives and pretend we're on vacation for a moment or two. The problem is, this escape is a temporary fix, and not a very satisfying one to boot.

We also create fake little "villages" and gated "communities" to create an illusion of neighborhoodiness where none can possibly exist. There's nobody sitting on their front stoop, sipping an ice tea and playing their accordion, waving and saying, "Hi Mabel! How's your granny doing? And Hank? How's his lumbago?" Even though you've been going to the same Walgreens for years, you have no idea who the checkout girl is. (She's your next-door neighbor by the way. You pass each other in your cars every day, but never notice.) There's nobody walking along the fabricated village pathways. There's nobody outside at all. Everyone is hiding in their houses and cars.  Watching really bad TV. All 395 channels of it. I will bet you a million dollars (chump change these days) that they are also saying, "395 channels and not a fucking thing to watch." But they continue to pay an exhorbitant amount for the privelege of that "entertainment."

OK...back to the restaurants...

There's no possibility of a lingering lunch or dinner spent with friends and family talking about life. Everything in American restaurants is built around turning the table as fast as possible. The chairs are purposely uncomfortable, the music makes it impossible to talk, the bussers are constantly asking if you're finished yet so they can take your plate. I keep saying, "No." I half expect them to say, "Well, when will you be done then? You've got to get moving, you know."

The freaking waiter never leaves you alone. I know from experience that this intrusion is restaurant policy ("touching the table"), but it's the single most annoying thing I've experienced. Not only do they ask if "everything is ok" within two minutes of delivering the food, but they ask you that question after the appetizer is delivered, after the wine is delivered, after the main course is delivered and after the dessert is delivered. It's as if I have an overprotective mother who is also a complete stranger, pretending to be my friend for a few moments and then discarding me, and his/her "concern" for me, as soon as I disengage my ass from that rock-hard seat and pay the bill.

The amount of food on a plate is horrifying to me. (America is obese because why?) I went out to breakfast in my tiny little town of Carefree and I ordered eggs and bacon. I got two eggs that were the size of soccar balls. I feel sorry for that damn chicken. I got 5 pieces of bacon that were about 9 inches long. They were thrown on top of a 3-inch-high mound of potatoes that was the thick dividing line between the huge eggs and four 1-inch-thick pieces of raison bread slathered in butter. I ate the eggs and some of the bacon. I never tasted the potatoes and had one bite of toast. The rest? Thrown out. Terrible waste. You can take it home in a container (a big no-no in France, or most of Europe), but those containers sit in everybody's refrigerator for weeks until somebody opens them out of curiosity, gags, and throws them out.

During this same breakfast outing, I just wanted an espresso. That's all. But here's how the conversation went: "I'd like an espresso." "OK, sure! You probably want a Latte." "No... an espresso. You know... an espresso?" The waitress looks at my friend for assistance with me, the weird woman, and says, "You mean a double shot?" My friend just smiled at me, knowing what I was thinking. I said, "If you only serve espresso as double shots, then double shot it is." Incredibly, the conversation continued. "You don't want cream or sugar with that?" She was actually kind of puzzled. I said, "No. Just black." Incredibly (did I say that before?), the conversation continued. "You don't want any flavoring like vanilla or amaretto or..." My smile was now glued to my face. One cannot punish the child for the errors of the parent, I reminded myself. "Nope. No flavors. Just black. Thanks!" I bet she's still telling her side of the story, too.

When she walked away scratching her head, I finally looked down at the menu. I saw that one entire page was dedicated to coffee. One entire page.

All alcoholic drinks come in giant glasses. Giant. Humongous. Herculean. When my flight arrived in Phoenix around 6pm, my brother whisked me off to a really fabulous (non-chain) restaurant owned by his friend, Eddy Matney. Most of my family and a few close friends were there to greet me. It was wonderful. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. My wine glass was almost too big for me to pick up, and it contained a half bottle of wine. I'm not kidding. And I had two! Holy Moly. The next morning, I was hung over beyond redemption.

You'd think I would have learned from the wine experience. But... I went to the office with my bro to go through my mail and do some copying and stuff, and he asked me if I wanted to go have Mexican for lunch. When he ordered a Margarita, I said, "I'll have the same." It was the size of a urinal. With salt. I needed two hands to pick it up. I also needed to go directly home to bed after lunch. Jet lag my ass.

And of course, I'm still smoking. But I have to say, and you'll be surprised at this one, the French smoking laws are much nicer than American smoking laws. In France, you can slip out the front door of the restaurant and light up. You can even stand in the doorway and continue chatting with your friends at their table or the owner behind the bar, as long as you blow the smoke out the door. Or, you can sit at an outside table and light up. That night at Eddy Matney's, the night I arrived, I stepped out on their patio and lit up. This is what I heard: "CAN'T DO THAT HERE!" I looked up from my bic lighter. All the people at the tables were staring at me. This cute little waitress said, "You can't smoke here." "Can I smoke out there on the sidewalk?" "Yes, but you have to be twenty feet from the front door." That would put me in the parking lot. Which is where I went.