Even Strippers Get Days Off

Tomorrow I Love Ya

Milli Vakilli — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 16:14:33 +0000

I have some very, very bad news dear readers.

Tomorrow is my 26th birthday. I’ve tipped the scale of the 20s and am now sitting on the latter half, the “late 20s” half.

Pretty gross. I’m not taking it well. Not at all.

Now, people over 27 say things like, “Oh c’mon! Twenty-six isn’t bad! You’re still young!”

They are absolutely full of shit.

Since I was eight, I’ve never made it through a birthday without crying. I don’t know what it is, I just hate them. I could be hand delivered 14 ponys and an orgasm (in that order) and waterworks would still ensue.

I don’t expect this year to be any different.

When I was a kid, a teenager even, I remember my mom being fully engrossed in a show called ‘Thirty Something”.

The cast from the show included actors like Ken Olin, Mel Harris, Patricia Wettig and Polly Draper. None of them are famous anymore, no one even really knows where they went. Apparently, after you’re thirtysomething you are forgotten and forced off the television waves — destined to die alone.

I like to think that the entire cast is now living on a secluded island near Barbados where they spend their days naked trying to open coconuts. They’re there still committing scandalous sex acts, dealing with marital boredom, still anguishing over the peace movement.

There is no “Forty Something” because, lets be honest, no one cares.

Watching the show as a kid (yeah, I shouldn’t have been allowed but screw it, I shouldn’t have been allowed to smoke crack either) made me clinically depressed. At nine, I began dreading joining their thirtysomething ranks. By 10, I had vowed to die on or before my 29th birthday to dodge the unavoidable.

I didn’t want to have affairs with men 13 years my junior, paint dramatic scenes depicting my inner pain while wearing dirty overalls or work at dead end jobs.

Being a yuppy sounded awful when I was a kid. Becoming a depressed yuppy seemed a fate worse than death.

Sunday, my birthday, is going to royally piss me off. I’m already begging friends and family to leave me alone until sun up Monday.

Top 10 Reasons I Know I’m Old:

1.] Twice in the past year I have projectile vomited from consuming too much alcohol.

*This is a large problem. In my whole over 18 years old life I’ve never known the phrases “alcohol poisoning” or “too much”. I am famous for being THE CAR BOMB GIRL. I laugh in the face of St. Patrick’s Day and carry my own reloadable keg. Not even kidding!

2.] My pajamas are my favorite outfit and they’re not even kind of cute.

3.] Talking to V at a restaurant the other day I referred to a group of 20 year olds as “kids”.

4.] I decorate my house for holidays (okay, but I’ve always done this…) and have season-appropriate table runners.

5.] Without hesitation, I can shout what exact mixture of household ingredients will work best to remove a stain from whatever fabric is damaged.

6.] I have a medicine cabinet stocked with more than a bottle of Aspirin and fingernail polish remover.

7.] Seeing babies make me feel gushy in a very un-Jess maternal sort of way.

8.] I no longer know the cool word for “marijuana”. Unlike many older people I know, I am still somewhat up on terminology but this one has evaded me. Marijuana cigarette was NEVER cool, my dad calls it “grass” so I know that’s not cool, saying “weed” is kind of…well…Cheech and Chongish…

Where does that leave me? Is it even okay to say “cool” anymore?

9.] The guy that bags my groceries at the SuperMarket has referred to me as Ma’m more than once in the past month.

10.] My refrigerator has nothing fun in it and all of the contents of my pantry (JESUS CHRIST! I’m so old I have a pantry!) could be added up to a very healthy, very sugarless 1,900 calories.

Bonus:

11.] My car insurance is under $100.

12.] I can rent a car without an extra deposit. Everyone knows that the extra deposit is to cover party vomit accidents. After 25, the rental places don’t anticipate party vomit

A sucker for a sailor

Milli Vakilli — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 21:09:50 +0000

I thought that my blog readers should be the first to know — V is on her way out.

Isn’t it sweet that I’m reporting it here even before telling her? I trust that none of you (okay, okay…neither of you) will tell her anything before I’ve had a chance to sit her down for a good old fashioned you-get-the-kids-I-get-the-50-inch-LCD conversation.

I never thought that my heart could be stolen from V. We’re newly engaged, crazy over each other and have a sex life that frequently has Mormons circling the neighborhood on bicycles and nuns shouting the rosary in effigy.

It happened though. My eyes have wandered.

For the past two weeks at work, I have been working on a batch of articles for Veteran’s Day. Quite literally I have been stalking a group of WWII vets, fluttering my lashes and begging them for interviews.

More often than not, the innocent flirting has worked.

Every Thursday a group of eight of these vets meet for coffee and breakfast. They tell war stories, discuss what they’d do to Jessica Simpson if they were 60 years younger and reminisce over memories that only their veteran peers can relate to.

I was honored when they extended an invitation to attend a couple of the early morning meetings.

“Well, if you want to talk to us, come talk to us,” said the vet in charge of extending the special invitation. “You’ll have to talk to all of us at once and I can’t promise that we’ll be politically correct or honest.”

I agreed to be offended and lied to and on I went to the unofficial casual club’s meeting.

While I fiddled with my camera and attempted to absorb every word that was said in the small room that reeked of Folgers Original Blend and mini blueberry muffins, I found myself amazed over and over again.

Each of the eight men, my new friends, had a different, equally moving story to tell. They took to me quickly (I think that I’m the youngest girl, member even, ever inducted into their meeting. They told me that I’m the youngest person to ever have wanted to listen) and answered every question that I had with honesty.

Instead of just spooning brutal stories about seeing bodies pile up in Hiroshima and Japanese prisoner camps in the Philippines to me, they evened out their tales with occasional jabs at my age, generation and stories of the pretty ladies they kissed while in uniform.

“My family loves me and that includes my grandkids that are around your age,” said a veteran of the U.S. Marines. “They don’t want to hear about it too much though. They like to have me there with them. Quiet. Not saying too much. That‘s why it‘s so nice to have the rest of these guys.”

When they asked me if I am a rotten Democrat my grimace, nod of affirmation and request to be excused relieved the tension. To give me a break, and, probably to remain friendly to the sweet freckled girl who had dropped in on them, they discarded the NO-bama talk quickly.

One vet in particular caught my eye. He was 87 year old Smitty. He was eager to talk to me but not particularly about the war. He lost his wife a little over a year ago, lives in a trailer on the west side of town alone and was obviously hungry for company.

After flashing a smile and a ink blurred tattoo of his military issued serial number, Smitty offered to run home to get a flag that he had received while in Nagasaki a week after the city was hit by the second atomic bomb dropped during WWII.

I refused his offer. Instead, I said, I would stop by to talk to him around noon and snap a few photos.

Not to be topped, Smitty one-upped me in front of the guys by asking me on a date.

“You know what girl? You come buy and I’ll take you to lunch at the senior center,” he joked to me.

The rest of the men leaned forward in anticipation. Giggling, they were ready to hear how I was going to reject a man three times my age.

“Sounds great,” I said. “How about I buy you lunch though.”

The smile that spread across his face was worth a million interrupted lunch breaks to me. He was so excited. He stood up from his chair, handed me a paper napkin with his phone number and address and asked me to arrive no later than 11:45.

“It’s a date then kid,” he said, chuckling in the general direction of his vet friends who were poking each other in the ribs and warning me about his intentions.

“Navy boys can’t be trusted,” said a former army battalion leader. “Don’t trust that guy and you’ll get far.”

As I stood up to leave, I fully realized what I had signed up for. I had a date with a man seven decades older than I.

When I arrived at Smitty’s home later that day, he quickly opened my car door (hmm…have not had that done in a long, long time…) and we drove across the street to the Senior Activity Center.

Apparently, when he had rushed out of the coffee meeting that morning he had driven straight to the center and rolled silverware into napkins and set our place setting in advance.

Over Salisbury steak (I pretended to eat it), beets (I ate the whole runny stack out of politeness), pineapple and marshmallow fruit mix, Mexican corn, sliced bread and cartons of milk, Smitty and I talked about our lives, gambling at the nearby casino and the other diners.

He introduced me to everyone who walked by as his new best friend. I nodded with food still in my mouth, shook hands and was squeezed into hugs more than once.

“You look just like family,” said an old woman, cupping my cheeks in her hand after releasing me from such a hug. “I just love you. Please come back to see me.”

She wasn’t crazy, she was a woman who desperately needed companionship of the younger sort. As her 90 year old husband helped her into her red pea coat I got up from my seat, embraced her and pressed my face against hers. She left waving at Smitty and I, asking her husband if he was sure I wasn’t their granddaughter that they hadn’t seen in many years.

At some point during lunch on that speckled formica table, Smitty stopped being an assignment and became a friend.

My heartstrings pulled south when he told me that he didn’t know what he’d do without the place. He claims to be a terrible cook and survives solely on cereal and peanut butter sandwiches on the nights and weekends.

After our bellies were full of mushy things that neither of us particularly enjoyed, we waved good bye to the cafeteria line workers and left in his red Jeep.

When we arrived back at his trailer home he took me on a tour. He showed me photos of his two pilot sons, gaggle of grandchildren and war medals and photos. Once he had settled into a realm of comfort, and I began taking notes for my story, he began to show me radiation burns that he received in Nagasaki just one week after the bomb had dropped.

“Radiation? Bah! We had never ever heard of it,” he said. “They didn’t know why we were blistered up or why are backs had deep sores on them.”

It wasn’t until six years ago that Smitty finally went to a VA to have his burns looked at. They told him that they didn’t believe that they were from Nagasaki – the military has no record of him having been there.

He was there though. Judging from the hair that never grew back on parts of his bald pate and burns that can be seen on his face, back and arms, he was most definitely there. The government forgot about him for several months following the end of the war. He was left in Japan amongst those that he had been taught to consider the enemy.

I left Smitty’s house with a renewed appreciation of my own family and my own grandfather in particular. The next day, around lunchtime, I arrived back at the front door of Trailer #29 with a hug and Tupperware filled with my special recipe chicken and dumplings and a couple of rolls.

Smitty was waiting at the front door with a peanut butter sandwich made especially for me.

Isn’t it weird where you find friends? No one can understand he and I’s connection, and V has spent the past week making fun of me for it, but it’s there. He’s a good guy equipped with good stories. I’m a good cook who never minds being told that I’m pretty.

I might not be leaving V anytime soon (she still does that naked dance I can’t resist) but that didn’t stop me from falling head over heels for a WWII vet.

Mrs. Jess and the Disgusting Dress

Milli Vakilli — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 02:16:36 +0000

I am a bride to be.

Those are words that I am still repeating to myself on a daily basis. I can’t believe how excited and ready I am for this. Looking into her eyes, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am standing exactly where I am supposed to be at this point in my life.

Everyone promises that I will soon enough launch into Bridezilla mode. Most people are secretly predicting (c’mon guys, I’m not a total moron) that my version of Monster Bride will be horrifically heightened by my everyday irrationality and psychotic nature.

I’m a beast in every ugly form of the word. Well, not every form. The scales finally fell off of my back and I switched from eating small children to eating adolescent children. I’ve begun wearing deodorant so noxious fumes have ceased from rolling out from my underarms and I rarely growl at the elderly anymore.

I hope to prove everyone wrong by being somewhat docile, patient and kind in my nuptial shopping and planning. Maybe for once, I can set an example for all of humankind to mimmick.

No, probably not.

It’s doubtful that this will be my moment to shine.

As urged by my mother and a few friends who have recently tied the knot, I have started shopping for a wedding dress. Everyone, including attendants (Is that what they’re called? Makes me feel like a thorny crowned queen which is TOTALLY AWESOME) at local boutiques have informed me that I MUST FIND MY DRESS IMMEDIATELY.

Why do you ask? Are all of the dressmakers going on strike in protest for dolphin safe tuna? Are drag queens countrywide plotting to snatch up all of the available lace, tulle and fabric covered buttons for night club campy show dresses?

I’ve researched and neither of the above scenarios seem to be in the works.

Though I have a little over a year until November 6, 2009, apparently the hunt for the dress must begin and end fairly quickly. Many store managers are telling me that it could take up to seven months to order a dress and three dditional months for alterations. I’ve explained that I’m not Princess Diana and a few minor flaws would go unnoticed but my protests have fallen on deaf ears.

Jesusgodintaffeta. How am I going to love the same dress for 13 months? I change my mind about a new pair of heels 20 minutes after the final purchase.

Saturday, I embarked on a spontaneous dress shopping adventure in the early morning. Equipped with a face full of make-up, straightened hair and a cup of cider (hot liquid in a coffee looking cup tends to make me feel sophisticated and old enough to do things like shop confidently for wedding attire) I walked into a local bridal store that I had scouted out the night before online.

The store Web site touted that it carried pieces of the collection from the designer that I have fallen head over heels in love with.

There aren’t nearly as many stores in my decently sized town as you would think. In fact, there are only two.

I had already had a frightening experience trying on everything white from the big chain in town so I ventured to the smaller, privately owned bridal coutoure shop.

We’ll call it…the Friar Thatch…

God, could I be any more hilarious? Truly. I should really have my own reality show.

Anyway, I exit my car and walk to the entrance. My march to the front door was closely monitored by a Marlboro sucking shrew who sized me up as I approached.

Sans four inches or so of black roots, her hair was bleached a lovely shade of banana yellow and her red bra was showing through a white Hanest-shirt. She had four breasts as a result of her bra being a bit too tight and each boob being squirted over the upper lip of her ineffective wireless undergarment.

She blew a snake of purple smoke in my direction and said something along the lines of, “Hon, I’ll be right in. Lemme finish this cig.”

Oh monkeyballs, of course she was employed there. How silly of me to think otherwise.

I was SO glad I hadn’t offered her $11 and a jar of Planter’s mixed nuts to serve as the stripper at V’s bachelorette party like I had been considering. Now that would have been embarrassing!

Twenty minutes and two packs of Reds later, I was able to ask to try on a few dresses that I had plucked (by myself) from the store’s racks.

She huffed and puffed for a good four minutes in response to my request to try on (apparently only cigarettes motivate her to move her body) and then began piling the dresses into a low-lit dressing room.

I followed her, feeling quite guilty for putting her out, and, in general, being alive and not hooked on the crack cocaine.

Looking around while I waited for her not-so-silent-protest to conclude, I soaked up the ambiance of Friar Thatch. It smelled not unlike an old woman’s anus and I’m pretty sure that there was a pee stain on the faded shag carpet. As she carried one of the dresses into the fitting room I glimpsed what could only be vomit chunks on the side of one of my selections.

You know that moment when you panic and decide that you HAVE to get yourself out of a situation but have no idea how to do so politely, without a maniacal freaked out face?

This was one of those moments. I wanted to leave but couldn’t think of a proper exit considering the fact that I had asked her to fix me up with a dressing room.

“Girl, just scoot in thur and git ‘er done,” she rasped to me. “She then curled a nicotine yellowed fist around my arm and shoved me into the room with no less than 10 bridal gowns.

She sent me in there, alone, by myself, with no one else.

There is no fucking way that any human being can get theirself into a wedding dress without some serious help. At the other store that I had visited I was assigned a waif of a salesclerk who dangled the flouncy gowns above my head while I performed a side twist cannonball move to get inside. The underfed helper than helped me fasten the back zipper, attach a gaudy veil to my head and then repeated over and over how gorgeous I looked.

It was fucking fabulous.

At Friar Thatch I received no such treatment. I had already decided that I would not be getting the fabric near my skin so I entered the room with the idea that I would go in, wait 15 minutes, rustle the dresses around and pretend to be trying the dresses on.

When I realized that the thrift store ogre was standing right outside of my fitting room I realized that I would have to alter my plan a bit. As loudly as possible, I shimmied out of my jeans and threw them to the other side of the dressing room (in case she was looking under to see if my legs were naked).

Yes, I’m that delusional. I truly thought that she cared enough to monitor how quickly my clothes were flying off of my body.

Anyway, I threw the beaded dress trains up in the air a few times to emphasize how much trying on was happening in dressing room number three. I grunted, mussed my hair, took a few of the veils off of the hanger and finally pushed my way out of the room.

The saleshag looked up from her emery board long enough to see me exit, smack some gum and offer me 50 percent off any of the in-store sample dresses that I had tried on.

The goddamned dresses actually said “SAMPLE DRESS” in big green letters across the back.

In fear that I would be shanked if I declined the fantastic offer, I handed her the least ugly gown, requested that she hold it for me (under the name Madonna Jackson) and told her that I would bring my mother by to put her stamp of approval on the dress.

I drove home with my eyes stuck to the rearview mirror in fear that she figured out that I was a BIG FAT LIAR BRIDE and had sent some of her henchmen to make me pay for my transgressions.

This wedding stuff isn’t going to be easy. Not at all.

Yeah, I’m that boring

Milli Vakilli — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 18:46:30 +0000

Nothing in my life these days indicates that I’m particularly cool so I guess I’ll just embrace my dorkiness. Staving off my inevitable nerd-dom was one of my goals for high school. I actually achieved it for my junior and senior years -I got to sit at the “popular” table and was invited to parties in Little Rock to sip from bottles of BoonesFarm and revel in my youth.

Revel in my vomit is more like it.

Different story for a different day…

Anyway, since I have at long last decided that as I am not trendy or impressive to other people in any way, it’s okay to go ahead and begin blogging about things like my lawn, my minimum nap requirement, The Bangles and my favorite types of cheese.

Oh, and my dog – Bunker.

At the present time, Bunker weighs no more than 12 pounds (and that’s sopping wet with three rolls of quarters strapped to his collar). He isn’t exactly the kind of dog that most people (any people) would find intimidating.

The most terrible part of this whole thing though is that Bunker is fully aware of how non-menacing (?) he truly is. The four pound Yorkie (a male dog called “Izzy” —I don’t know…) across the street also knows what a chickenshit Bunker is. The only thing in the neighborhood that my eight month puppy is larger than happens to be Izzy. I have explained this over and over again to him but still he cowers when he hears the four painted toe nail feet of the dominatrix neighbor dog approach.

Fucking humiliating. I mean, I get that we’re gay but are we turning our dog into a goddamned thumbsucking momma’s boy? Am I going to find him smearing my lipstick on his face and slipping his fur covered ankles into my favorite Nine West pumps? Will he start wearing rose colored scarves and belting out angst ridden Celine Dion songs in the public area of the mall?

FuckFuckFuck.

I’m telling you guys, here and now -I won’t have this shih tzu induced humiliation scar my family tree. Our blood runs too blue, too clean. I have built this purebred empire from my own sweat and tears and won’t see it ripped apart by a sashaying sissypants.

Sorry, tangent…you understand.

In my off time, I have been working to toughen Bunker up a bit. We scratch our balls together, yell at attractive maltese from across the street and lift our legs with the best of ‘em.

For the past week, each night when I’ve taken Bunker out for a final pee before bedtime, a large toad has been in the same spot on our driveway. Thrilled by the wildlife in the place that I live, I shout at Bunker to “LOOK BUDDY!” and point excitedly at the toad (the toad’s name is Sarah Jessica Parker -you would understand why if you saw him).

The first evening, before Bunker knew that SJP could do things like hop and ribbett, he seemed nonplussed by the entire experience. After being dragged by his leash to the green-brown spectacle, Bunker nudged SJP with his nose and ran his pink tongue over the little guy’s head.

And that’s when it happened, that’s when shit officially hit the fan.

In response to the manhandling, SJP jumped and bumped into Bunker’s face which caused Bunker to go completely, psychotically insane. Not in a “Oh Look At Me I’m A Big Tough Dog and Now I’m Gonna Rip Your Froggy Face Off” kind of way. More like a, “Holy Crap Balls, This Thing Can Move and I Am Now Going To Humiliate Myself and My Mother By Calling The Fire Department and Having It Removed While I Stand On My Kitchen Counter Screaming” kind of way.

Defeated by seeing my dog bested by a nine ounce amphibian, I ushered Bunker back into the house with a tug on the leash and a snort of disgust.

The next evening, during our nightly outdoor bladder release, SJP was on the driveway once again -he had claimed it after his indisputable victory over King Pussy Dog.

Bunker wouldn’t even pee. He wouldn’t approach SJP. He attempted to crawl up my leg in sheer terror. He shamed me again.

For the next three nights, the routine was the same. SJP lorded over our driveway with a smug look smeared on his warty face. He had won. He had free reign over fly eating and frontyard urination. The shih tzu was scared into a urinary tract infection. He was no longer peeing at night.

Last night, I was done seeing Bunker receiving royal ass kicking each night at 9:30. It was too much. I marched him outside with a mission -we were going to confront our repeat visitor and not bat an eye.

As I fastened the leash, I explained the situation to my pup.

“Bunk, are we really going to let this bully take over our house?” I said firmly. “I want you to go out there and deliver a Gutierrez style ass beating -free of charge.”

I opened the front door and led a still hesitant Bunker over to SJP’s spot.

She wasn’t there.

Bunk and I both blinked, looked around and at the same time spied SJP hopping across the sidewalk to claim her throne on the grease stain in the driveway.

Bunker balked, and I have to admit that I too was a little creeped out, but we stood our ground.

SJP finally landed on her destination and wriggled her body to claim comfort.

Bunker looked at me, looked back at SJP and sighed a thoughtful but irritated sigh.

Then, the best thing in the whole world happened -Bunker lifted his left leg and peed on SJP.

Both the toad and I were completely shocked by his stroke of boldness. We both flinched and began hopping up and down -she to get away from the dog with the wayward penis and me in a celebration dance.

Today, more than 12 hours after the blessed event, I am still joyful and smiling. It was a big step for my puppy. Tonight I think we’ll try sleeping with half of his night light covered and no Disney movie before bed.

Yeah, I think that would be good.

Is canine urine toxic to toads? I hope SJP had a nice loofah and some Caress Body Soap to hop home to.

You’re likely dreaming of David Bowie

Milli Vakilli — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 01:34:22 +0000

V, my favorite fiance that I’ve ever had, is on some serious muscle relaxers.

Two hours ago she said that they weren’t working. I think that she might have been premature in her calculations however because just now, eyes lolling in her head merrily (at least the one that was open), she gave me a lopsided smile and said, “Jess, you are so you-tiful. In actually you are the most you-tiful girl I know and hopefully I’ll dream about our wedding.”

Before diving back into an ocean of sleep, she sluggishly shifted her weight to one propped up arm and asked me to make sure that my wedding dress is yellow and said that our wedding in Ireland is going to be SO MUCH FUN!

We then pinky promised each other that she would only sleep for another 22 minutes and she fell into a heap on her favorite snoring and recommenced a symphony of snoring.

I love this girl. She is my favorite thing in the whole world. Even with a telltale trail of medicine manufactured drool marching down her face, she is still amazing to me.

Now the TV and I are left to battle this dark Tuesday night. Thus far, we have experienced a confusing parade of overweight people competing to lose pounds and are now horrified to be faced with 13 dark hair men stomp dancing in boleros with gold piping.

I keep threatening aforementioned TV with being terminated for the evening but he keeps promising that things will get better. He is doing his best to skim through the infomercials of food dehydrators and old Married With Children reruns to deliver something remarkable, or, in the very least, watchable.

Bunker (the shih tzu who seems to be just as bored as the TV and I) has given up on action for the night. After receiving the report that V (his favored playmate -I’m the cuddler) has retired for the evening he began showing sure signs of defeat. In response to my news, he sprawled on the tile floor of our master bathroom and has been glaring at me with a look of sheer menace for the last 39 minutes.

Cute little asshole. How do I still find him adorable after he chewed a hole straight through the middle of the only book in the entire house that I haven’t yet read? Instead of throwing him into the clothes dryer for a round of punishment I scooped him up and spent 10 minutes trying to reason with him in a VERY SERIOUS VOICE.

The mollycoddling isn’t helping my authoritative stance. He pretty much knows that he could eat one of the neighbor kids or give the old lady down the street rabies and I would still think he hung the moon.

Shit, I hate being such a sucker. Will our kids do this to me? Will I say things like, “No Jess Junior! I told you to put the crack cocaine down and I meant it!”

Then, because I’m a total wuss, I’ll hand little Jessica a little pipe and pound his (yes, HIS —I don’t believe in gender specific names…) little polo adorned back as he hacks up a once healthy lung.

jesus. V needs to wake up. My imagination is taking over. Nothing good is happening in my brain tonight.

I would wake her up, but everytime I poke her she flings a creepy little cross eyed glance in my general direction.

Homage to my Mom-age

Milli Vakilli — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 01:06:10 +0000

I think that there is a time in adulthood when people cross a path of maturity. No matter how frightening the implications of such an empass, I think that I am there.

Nowadays, instead of blaming my mother for all of the things that I thought were mishandled and wishing certain memories away like I once did, I am thinking much differently.

My dad floated in and out of our lives like this abstract idea. When he was there, and my mom was happy to have him there, life was golden. We weren’t exactly the Brady family (we weren’t creepy blond haired dopplegangers that insisted on wearing sequined jumpsuits selected from colors of the rainbow) but we were pretty fucking happy.

My brothers refused to play Barbies with me as much as I would have liked (thankfully for their sexuality…kidding, kidding) and my mom was busier than many of my playmates’ mothers but we did okay.

How long can you go through adulthood being pissed off? I know a lot of people in their 50s that haven’t seemed to let things go. Of course, many of them harbor horrendous memories that I cannot even fathom.

At some point though, everyone, has to make an internal agreement to heal.

When I ask myself the question “What do I have to repair from my childhood?” I can no longer recall. I’m so happy to know that only good memories are skimmed from my memory now. I’m no longer digging for the shit that bogged me down for such a long time.

Why is it that as adults we desire to paint our childhoods worse than they really were? What is the fun in being tortured? Fuck, being in pain is a lot of work.

If I wanted to wallow for the rest of my life, I very well could. That’s not what I’m choosing though. I’m going to choose to continue on, to love fully, to never forget the things that nourished my current tate of healthy mental health and self worth.

I’m engaged to my best friend (which is impressive -I was raised partially in Arkansas and I am not even slightly attracted to either of my brothers), I have a job that pisses me off only half of the time and I live in a really nice place.

At this point, I would really have to search to find something truly shitty about the life that I’m living.

Before, just making it was what I was about. Now, I’m making it happily.

I guess this blog comes in part from some stuff that my mom is going through right now. She’s been knocked down a bit and she’s having to deal with some serious changes.

What’s so amazing about that? What makes her different from the rest of us?

Well, goddammit, she’s MY mother for one. She’s the bravest, strongest woman that I have ever known. She is the absolute root of everything that is strong within me. She’s my voice when my voice booms filled with confidence and truth across a full room. She’s the glint in my eye when I make direct eye contact with something that terrifies me.

I never really stumble because she’s there, waiting in the background with that firmly set jawline, ready to tell me to stand up and continue kicking ass.

Morrissey women? There’s no fucking around involved. My mom is the surest proof of what that statement implies.

She had a shit day yesterday. She acknowledged her anger and pain, allowed herself due tears, slept eight hours and woke up ready to take on the universe.

I dare you to show me someone as strong or a better role model than the one that I grew up watching.

Two bedroom doors down from my own purpel walls slept an everyday Wonder Woman -I shit you not.

Isn’t it weird when you get to an age when you can be proud of your parents?

I saw my mom over the weekend, she got up to give a speech at a wedding rehearsal dinner, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

I’ve always loved her unconditionally but this weekend I realized her true power. I was in awe of my own mother. She spoke and people listened, she set guests at ease, when she wanted a laugh from her listeners she drew it like a harpist with her familiar instrument.

Mothaeffinimpressive if you ask me…

In a flash, I saw the grassroots source of my own push for women’s advocacy, strength and inability to fail.

I hope that I am a replica of this woman. What an honor that would be.

Take me out to the clouds

Milli Vakilli — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 02:12:46 +0000

My favorite photo from my childhood is a picture of my four year old self struggling to tug on a pair of red socks. It isn’t so much the image that makes my face flood with a nostalgic grin — it’s the memory that accompanies it.

In the Morrissey household there were two rocking chairs in the family room spaced approximately three feet apart.

The chair on the right of the room was grandma’s. It was a seating locality of peace. Unsuspecting toddlers temperamentally rubbing their eyes would be swept into the chair by my grandmother’s softly lined arms, and, despite initial protest, would be lulled to sleep within minutes.

The chair to the left of Grandma’s chair was a much different story. No naps were taken there, no rocking of babies ensued. Any child with guts enough to scurry by Papa’s recliner expected nothing less than to be swooped off of their feet and mercilessly tickled.

You either peed your pants with excitement, cried for a grandmother’s salvation or survived the experience only slightly scathed.

The smartest move was to shriek that you were nearing the peeing point and hope for a quick release.

One day, when I was the victim of a self-induced Papa Attack (I knew what I was getting myself into. I mean, a girl can only “NA-NA-a-boo-boo” a guy so many times before she can be accused of asking for it) I found myself reaching the peeing point.

“No! No! Stop! Mom! Grandma! Casey! Josh! Please, please!” I wailed into the living room.

Instead of releasing me like he usually did, he picked me up by the feet, tied my socks in a knot (they were still on my flailing feet), marched to the hallway door and hung me over the doorway.

Giggling upside down and hiccuping with excitement, I wriggled and swayed in a vain attempt to unhook myself from the brass doorknob.

Hence the photo of a four year old Jess trying to redress herself in stretched out socks.

After I finally unlatched myself and calmed my breathing I decided to squirm back into my trusty reds. Then, of course, I once again began my taunting sashay in front of my grandfather who had resettled into his chair behind a copy of the day’s newspaper.

To this very day, I associate the rubbery smell of tires, crisp sound of a soda can top being popped, and Wrigley’s mint gum with the airport and my grandfather.

Leather bomber jackets that reeked of gasoline and the musk of autumn wind and dark sunglasses served as Papa’s uniform. He was commanding (still is), debonair, self assured and more in control than anyone else I have ever encountered.

When my grandmother was still alive, he laughed often and his voice boomed throughout the four bedroom house in which they had raised eight children.

My younger brothers and I spent much of our childhood capering around Forbes Field Airport in Topeka, Kansas like we owned the place.

In fact, I’m still convinced that we did have partial ownership in the place that we frequented so often.

Papa, a pilot, owned a sleek blue and white Cessna that he kept parked in the hanger of the airport.

Each weekend, my young mother, sporting a messy ponytail and a tired smile, would cart Casey, Josh and I to Forbes Field for a visit. Our father was an infrequent visitor in our lives and she wanted us to have as much male influence as a single mother could provide.

My three uncles, all airplane mechanics, would emerge from the vaulted ceiling garage, wiping grease monkey hands on their zippered jumpsuits.

With very little pleading required, my brothers and I would be escorted to the breakroom vending machines where we were allowed to choose from rows of candy bars and fruit flavored sodas.

As I was the eldest in our family, more often than not, I was invited to fly with Papa. He made a huge ordeal of offering me a stick of gum for ear popping and helping me into my seatbelt.

I was allowed to ride in the passenger seat. In front of my little girl legs sat co-pilot controls and a dashboard filled with odometers, altitude meters, compasses and seemingly hundreds of other gauges.

I remember running my chubby fingers over the aqua colored fur interior of the plane. The color was so bright and unexpected that it would be offensive now to my adult eyes, but then, when I was so little, it was the most wonderful color that I had ever seen.

My seat was well-ridden and worn and it fit my backside as if I was meant to be riding shotgun.

Take off was the most anticipated part of the day trip. After taxiing to the end of the runway, my grandfather would close the windows and tell me that we were ready to go.

I remember jumping each time he would shout “Clear!” into the headset, requesting the radio controller in the tower allow us to take flight.

During take-off, there is always a point when my stomach met my heart in for what felt like a high-five of glee. In the air, I looked down at the world, ogling lakes that had turned into teardrop shapes and wondering about trees that had come to resemble spears of broccoli.

Just before my eyes grew heavy lidded and sleep blanketed me, Papa would allow me to grap the throttle and help with my favorite right wing tilt. He would point his finger as we spiraled, showing me the farm on which my family lived.

“See that Jessie? Do you think they’re waving to us?” he’d say with a grin.

When I think of my grandfather, these are still the things that I remember the most and hold closest to my heart. I didn’t know then how special my experiences with him were or that Papa was handing me the world and spoiling me each weekend with pieces of the sky.

concerned in northwest arkansas

Milli Vakilli — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 20:24:44 +0000

Upon looking at my blog statistics i have grown seriously disturbed, confused and a little bemused at my viewers.

My blog from nearly a year ago being Steve Perry’s daughter still gets about 10 hits per day. This translates into at least 10 people in the world (per fucking day -these aren’t even the same poor people!) that care enough about the goings on of Steve to perform Google searches including the words “Steve Perry’s daughter” -that both impresses me and makes me dreadfully sad.

More than anything else though? It worries me. Evolution has stopped. The advancing wheel has begun spinning backward. My mother just picked a bug out of my hair and ate it and then threw poo (yeah, poo…) at my second cousin.

We as a species are so fucked.

You guys do know that Steve is no longer the lead singer for Journey right? His music still rocks the universe in sold out (half sold out? shit, I don’t know…I still go every chance I get) shows everyday but now is done by a tiny Vietnamese man in threateningly tight leather pants lead. I have been told that the replacement doesn’t speak any English other than to shout out the lyrics of the band’s hits.

Awesome.

\You can tell that you’ve really made it in the writing world when the vast majority (oh, say 119% ) of your readers stumble upon your work by mistake and are then disappointed with what they have found.

Shitfire.

Don’t Hump Your Mother

Milli Vakilli — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 01:41:45 +0000

I haven’t written here for quite some time (I feel like I’ve written this line before…hmm…). I haven’t had a lot to say and have been relatively busy at work covering hardcore, news worthy stories.

Keep in mind that in rural America a group of more than four cows is news worthy. I stay busy writing about cheerleader moms, the dads that love them, struggling artists, school board meetings and scandalous hospital happenings. Jesus on a popsicle stick – I never thought that this stuff would interest me but I’ll admit that I’ve been sucked in. The issues that the people from the small town that I commute to five days a week have somehow become my issues.

Yes guys, I too am now wearing stonewashed denim, wishing my mullet would finish growing, searching for my brother for a quick piece of ass.

That was so frighteningly graphic that I didn’t let myself picture anything other than the scraggly mullet.

I don’t plan on being the kind of person that blogs about her pet. This is mostly because I’m not unnecessarily creepy and I posess something that closely resembles a life.

HOWEVER. I have a story to share. This is one of those have-to-get-it-out-don’t-want-to-own-it-alone kind of stories.

About 20 minutes ago, as I sat on the edge of my bathtub drying my hair, I looked up to find my seven month old puppy staring into my eyes. He had propped himself up on his padded bed, one arm on each side and he was pumping his little furry hips for all they were worth.

WHAT THE FUCK!!???!

Now I understand the need for release okay? When you feel you gotta get yours you just gotta get it. But at no point do you begin humping Paris Hilton style while staring into the face of the woman who cleans your eye boogers, gives you suppositories (not for fun, for necessity) and takes care of your general health.

i shrieked in horror, kicked the door shut and prayed to the holyvirginmother to grant me the strength to ever be able to look at my dog again.

After I pulled myself together I opened the door slowly. Carefully. Reluctantly.

My dog, my sweet little puppy Bunker, was rolled over on his back, snoring, cigarette still smoking in his mouth.

Goddammit, he’s too cute to wake up. When he finally lumbers out of dreamland we’re going to have a serious talk about appropriate humping subjects.

My List for Him:

Neighborhood dogs (male or female -I’m openminded. I will not allow that bisexual bullshit in my house though. He’ll absolutely have to make a gender selection)

Lady from Lady and the Tramp (she is very attractive and obviously very family oriented)

Any of the puppies from the “Ain’t No Bugs On Me” commercial (they’re all very cute and hygiene is extremely important to them)

The mail lady (because it’s funny to see mail people get humped. Be it hyena, house cat, uncle that lives in the basement -all hilarious)

My List for Me:

My hot fiance who does the naked dance any time I pout for more than 26 seconds (at least 13 times a day)

The Pope (Lightning? Through the roof of my house into my skull? …Nope, didn’t happen…)

Any adult from the Jolie-Pitt clan (Humping either of them could get me arrested but there’s a good chance it would be worth it)

Prince Eric from the Little Mermaid (he was a real hottie in my pre-hump era so back off, there’s nothing illegal I’m going to do to Disney’s cast of characters)

Done for the day

Milli Vakilli — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 22:26:00 +0000

Dear Redneck Asshole Father that I saw at the local car wash today,

Hi there. I can’t be sure that you read my blog (because I’m certain
that you stay quite busy at home cleaning your gun, having sex with
goats, beating your wife, guzzling Pabst Blue Ribbon and creating
skid marks in your tighty -whities) but I thought that I would create
a post in your honor. You know, just in case you are indeed an avid
reader.

Like my mom would say — You never fucking know.

We happened upon each other at a Spot-Not here in town this afternoon
just after I left work. Let me start by telling you -what a knee-
slapping pleasure it was to be graced by the presence of you -on a
Monday no less. Just when you think your life is out of luck
something truly special happens to bring you back to reality.

Today, you were my truly special!

I was cleaning dog hair and vomit particles from the creases of my
Jeep seats (don’t ask) and you were scraping gunk from the
undercarriage of your Git-R-Done-Confederate-Flag-Peeing-on-an-Iraqi-
Child Ford F-150. Last night, before my head hit the pillow, I had no
way of knowing that within 12 hours I would be taking in such a sight
with my weekend-rested eyes.

I knew right away, from your overalls and tastefully decorated
vehicle (complete with one of those dress plus pants equals marriage
hate sticker), that we would be fast friends. You knew right away,
with a quick flick of your beady-eyed stare, my breast cup size, the
exact depth of the dip of my cleavage and whether or not I was
wearing a thong.

Really sir, thank you for that. You validated me to no end when you
made me wish for a hot shower and a piece of gritty sandpaper (which
I would take and use dressed in scuba gear topped with a winter
jacket and ski mask). I know that I’m not special, and that you do
this to all women, but I must say that you certainly made the end of
my work day memorable.

Let me speak for my gender, be it seventh graders or 68 year old
women, when I thank you for your perverted consistency. In a world
where so many things are changing, women AND black people are able to
vote, gay people are beginning to legally marry and children can no
longer be beaten at home, it is comforting to know that some things
will never change.

I appreciate your efficiency if nothing else. That kind of a ten
second size up that you administered from 25 yards away is remarkable
even for a dirty racist southerner like yourself. Have you considered
a job with the Federal Bureau of Investigation or applied to the Navy
Seal program? For an applicant with such candor, they would likely
look right past your criminal history including domestic abuse,
terroristic threatening and laundering money from your job as head
cashier at the Quickie Mart.

I know potential when I see it and would not hesitate to write a
glowing letter of recommendation.

Anyway, I was vacuuming when above the hum of the machine I heard
your voice pierce the summer air. I had mistakenly thought that you
were cleaning your muddin’ tires alone! Instead, a portion of your
Buick-sized ass was perched on the truck’s tailgate while your young
son labored over the task at hand.

The eight year old was stooped over a bristled brush, sweating into
the folds of his oversized, torn t-shirt (a hand-me-down from you
perhaps?). As I listened to you jeer him, push him to work harder and
humiliate him I found myself wishing for children of my own that I
could sublet to you for training purposes or an occasional baby
sitting job.

I (like you) know that the best thing for a pre-teen’s self esteem is
gold old fashioned degradation, humiliation, malnutrition and a twice-
weekly ass kicking. I, too, would show utter disregard to silly
things like ringworm, head lice, dental appointments, homework and
other such silly “fundamentals”.

One day, when I have a freckled son of my own, I will take out my
frustration on being a beer-bellied, unemployed, football hero has-
been ex con, on him as well. Everything that I have ever failed at in
life will be blamed on him and I will make him know that he will
never be good enough and make him wish that he had never been born. I
will cajole him into adulthood until one day when I push it too far.
He, who will hopefully have risen from the shit that I made his life
into actually becoming a functioning member of society, will be
pushed too far one day. One day, it will come down to me and him,
fist to fist, my knees arthritic and my COPD causing me to hack – and
I will lose.

Thank you for showing me what it is like to lead in such a way.

Love,
Jess
Your Number One Fan