How I (Can’t) Feel

First off, in case anyone remembers or remotely cares, I did meet my Persian girlfriend’s mother. I feel like it went really well. (see my last post here!)

This may have to do with my mother always telling me, as a child, how charming I was, translating into a false sense of supremacy.

Regardless, my girlfriend told me her mother liked me enough. Either I am in the clear or my girlfriend has a great poker face.

Second, I would like to thank Saaghi and Farrah for posting my blurb and genuinely caring how my visit went. They have set up a wonderful blog giving voice to first generation Iranians abroad. Merci Farrah and Saaghi joon.

I can’t express my emotions properly.

I’m not a quiet individual nor am I my great-grandfather whom apparently only spoke to berate the loose morals of 50s youth: “‘Laash’ women and their harlequin print dresses.” My issue isn’t that I’m an introvert. My issue isn’t that I think speaking about feelings is a feminine trait. My issue is that I don’t know what to do when feeling: sad, upset, vulnerable, distressed, etc…

I would categorize myself as an emotional person. I don’t mean that I sob during long distance phone commercials. I mean that whether I am really excited or melancholic, the emotion overtakes me. I have moments where I’m animated from happiness and moments where I’m as un-enthused as Al Gore in a library.
My mom has accused me of taking drugs. My doctor has accused me of not taking enough drugs.
I’m not trying to make myself sound like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, nor am I painting a picture of a cross between Cary Grant and Behrouz Voussoughi, I’m only trying to be honest. People whom I build strong relationships with, friendly or romantic, understand this about me. My girlfriend, bless her heart, know this well and remains with me, although I must say she isn’t always a walk in the park either. We’re great (for the most part) together.

This little biography brings me back to the first sentence; I can’t express my emotions properly. I can sit and listen to my friend, partner or parent speak about their issues and give semi-decent advice. However, when the roles are reversed, Lassie does a better job at explaining his issues.

This ends up complicating my relationships. Building a relationship is difficult enough as it is. While we always think and speak of our partner’s best traits, it is really their worst you must accept. This is a given, of course. No person is baggage-less. Even if I think Alicia Keys and I would mingle quite well, I’m sure she has characteristics I would have to try to get over; such as not knowing how to make loobia polo. My baggage is the stress I can put on a relationship by not knowing how to say “I am sad.” I end up going quiet or getting upset. What is worse is at times I don’t even know why I’m upset. My girlfriend then gets frustrated because I’m in a bad mood and I won’t open up. I have managed to string together sentences blaming her and the 1979 Revolution simultaneously for my own issues. I’ve also been a big enough jerk to blame her for lack of caring when she asks “what’s wrong?” An oxymoronic jackass.

I’ve read in the odd female magazine, yes I’ve looked inside Cosmopolitan and the Oprah one,

….that most men do not know how to express their feelings or that we’re afraid of our emotions. I find it funny that those articles are always written by women who do not have a) any clue about being male & b) testicles. [Read more…]

Texts from Daddy Joon


SO while I’m usually this tree of grandmother-ly wisdom (ha) and hardcore feminism (out of bras to burn). Today, I’m going to be that awkward Persian Girl with an embarrassing Persian Father.

A lot of my friends love my dad. They think he’s hilarious, and it looks like, from some of the comments, some of you joonies think he’s kinda funny too.

Well, it’s all fun and games til it happens to you.

1. Texts From Daddy Joon: [Read more…]

Is it A Boy or an Abortion?

JOONS, I promise not to disappear like this again without advanced notice, but I can’t help playing hot/cold. I’m told that’s how I’ll get rid of my meth, and get all my men ;)

On another note: Memorial DAY WEEKEND Is approaching!! The first reality check on how far you are from BEACH BODY ready…


And also sorry for the title, I just watched THE DICTATOR yesterday and couldn’t help myself…only Sacha Baron Cohen could be offensive/crude/funny all at the same time. Not gonna lie though– you can get all the funny scenes in this 3 minute trailer:

And if you fast forward to 2:19, you’ll know what this post is going to be about!

Honestly, I’m sure nobody’s dad wanted to throw their daughters in the trash can because its not 500AD, however I know for a fact my dad treats me like the ‘son he didn’t have til a few years later’.

I’m the oldest. I’m a girl. And I’m Middle Eastern. Screwed isn’t even the word, I assure you.   [Read more…]

Let Me Put Some Kush Up In It

VASUP, joons.

I’m actually writing to you from the comfort of my futon, in a bathrobe (even though I showered 2 hours ago), munching on whatever I can get my hands on. Its a lazy Monday– we all know real responsibilities start on TUESDAY.

And if your weekend wasn’t as great as mine (I set the bar pretty low, I assure you) then here’s a jam you can rock out to in your bathrobe or your ball gown:

I love Dragonette, and they will be at Coachella– and for all you Persian Princes and Princesses going this year, EFF YOU. HAVE A GREAT TIME.

ANYWAY. this post is mostly for the boyz.  Because I wanna hear what they have to say about the issue:

Girls and Weed.

Trashy or Hot? Does it need a label?

I never really smoked that much in high school– probably a handful of times. I preferred de alcoholism. One reason was because weed seemed to be a guy thing. I didn’t know many girls that  bought their own MJ, or had their own bongs or pipes.

This actually led me to believe that girls who smoked pot were either classless trash, or hippie vegans.

[Read more…]



My new obsession: SWEDISH HOUSE MAFIA- GREYHOUND. Even if you’re not a clubhead, you have to admit the beat is sick,brah. I think I could eat fessenjoon or have sex to this song, (or run a marathon) and thats why its S&F worthy.

You can listen to it in the new ABSOLUT commercial, thats part TRON/part ALICE IN WONDERLAND.

Now we’re not gonna say its RACISM week, like they try to call out BLACK HISTORY MONTH & INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY…but I think Farrah brought about how us Iranians can be the victims of some very nasty profiling ….

but lets talk about how us Iranians can be some nasty racists, now I realize thats a loaded term, but lets be real– we can get pretty bad.

Sometimes I think we worship our “blood” as if we were tracing it back to GOLD. The ARYAN thing was dispelled a few months ago, and clearly, our oppressive theocracy should humble our superiority complex–no?

[Read more…]

Daddy Joon, Come Plant Flowers With Me.

Hi Joonies,

I’m rather ill but nothing makes me feel better than writing for you Joonjoons…maybe Vitamin C packets, but thats OK.

Who else is fcking STOKED for NO-ROOZ? New Year? NOWROUZ? however you spell it…ITS COMING, HOLLER! It’s PAY-DAY, bitches, and I’m going shopping (OBVI ADDICTED). Spring Cleaning, Son-bols (Hyacinths), and a dish of weed that I explain to my white friends as magical grass. I love this time of year.

But that’s not what this post is about. Sorry.

Remember all the posts I wrote about my parents, and how they kind-of tortured my existence? Well, there’s definitely more to explore there, but I want to tell you about the phase after the teenage rebel/IwanttoRUNAWAY chapter. I know some of you reading are living at home, and cant wait to MOVE OUT. Don’t worry, I know the routine (some may apply more to guys and/or girls)

You know you’re persian and live at home when… [Read more…]

She Got It From Her Momma


Its about to get real awkward.

You’ll see what I mean in a minute….

So like most girls, I really really like it rough. Now, no punching and hitting, but I enjoy a bit of shoving and smacking– not gonna lie. And I love biting.

If I don’t get bitten, I’m going to fall asleep on you.

The only downside to all of this is the marks and bruises on your body the next day. How do I explain looking like I just got into a fight with a vampire?

By now my friends know what to expect, and they’re more shocked when there is no bruises, than when there are.

For me, personally, its worth the public embarassment– I just really can’t get off without it. And I have to say there are instances when i’m drunk or he’s drunk, that its gone overboard.

Instance One: I woke up in the morning after a hookup to find my neck a necklace full of bruises. And this was one of those chunk necklaces if you know what I mean. I legitimately looked like someone had attempted to choke me.

You can imagine my terror when I had to walk into Mosque the following afternoon– THANK GOD FOR THE HIJAB.

All the foundation in the world couldn’t help my cause. When some people caught a glimpse and asked in horror, ‘what happened?’ I’d say, ‘oh a really bad allergic reaction to my perfume’– and their disgusted faces were priceless–imagine if I said:

“Oh, just some really good sex.”


Instance Two: Another time, this guy went Tyson on me– biting my ear. And while there was no mark, scar, or bruise, I had ear pain for weeks. I couldn’t touch my earlobe without it feeling like a train was running over that side of my face.

Instance Three: My thighs also bruise very easily, and fortunately, those are easier to hide and explain–oh I ran into a desk— but one time, it was particularly bad.

The bite marks were so awful I looked like those girls you see in the The Exorcist films– getting bit by Satan or some demon. It was as if an alien or dog had attacked me. I couldn’t wear a skirt without it showing.

I bet when my roommate would catch a glimpse, she was convinced that someone had mistaken me for their dinner instead of their hook-up.

Joons, do you know the feeling? NO? Am I the only who likes it this rough? (I HIGHLY DOUBT IT)

I know she gets me…

Now that you all know about my fetish, here’s a little awkward story. and if you’re not cringing by the end, you really deserve a round of applause!

Growing up, I remember my mom having a lot of bruises. To the point that, I was worried she was sick or something. (Ohhhh sweet innocence)

I’d always ask “Mommy, what happened to your arm?” or “What is that on your neck Mom, ARE YOU OK?”

She’d always respond, “Oh eets noting, dont vorry, just ran into de computer desk”

As I grew up, I insisted more and more that she go get it checked out by a doctor, I mean I thought —what are these bruises in these random places? Does my mom have LEUKEMIA?–I looked up on the internet the reason for random bruising, and really freaked myself out.

And sometimes she’d really insist it was nothing, and sometimes she’d go along with it–“yes mommy joon, i should go to de doctor”

Obviously, she knew where the bruises were from. I was the only one left out of the loop (thank god). However, the awkwardness of this is not that my mom likes getting bitten (I’M REALLY GOING TO VOMIT NOW) its that I was so late to realize that was the case.

Even after years of being a vampire victim myself, I still didn’t connect the dots to my mom’s bruising pattern– I mean thats justifiable because my parents you-know-what life is not on my mind.

Only recently did I put it all together- after years of feeding the same excuses to people and hearing the same ‘worried’ questions– thats when I GOT IT.


and I really wish I hadn’t. because now, its just not the same.

I’m glad I wrote this post after my meal. Any awkward stories you’d like to share?


Bruised and Disgusted,

saaghi  ساقی

I’m So Ghetto, So Hood.


We’re lightening up on this blog- its been too much sexguiltGODaddiction (love you FARRAH)

Anyway, I have this video on REPLAY as I write this post, anyone who has a problem with the quality of my writing can take it up with the year 2000:


Do you guys remember the days when boy bands were the shit? When Xtina Aguilera was hot? Britney wasn’t a mess? And Eminem was the best rapper around?

I dont know if its just me, but growing up in America, the music of the 90’s and early 00’s played a huge role in my life. Whether it was TRL or SPICE GIRLS bubble gum wrappers, I was sold. I didn’t know if I wanted to be Posh Spice or Ginger, (who the fuck wanted to be Scary Spice?) I knew I preferred Backstreet over NSYNC, and I rooted for Britney&Justin ALL THE FUCKING WAY.

VH1: THE TRL DECADE– must watch.

Unfortunately, I didn’t limit my music taste to my stereo system.

I decided at some point that my clothes should be a reflection of my music taste, and unfortunately, that was always changing.


When I was younger, my parents reallly restricted my ability to choose my own clothes…aka they cramped my style. Given I was 11 at the time, I really was frustrated at the fact that my parents wanted to dress me like an IMMIGRANT PREP SCHOOL CHILD (knock-off oxfords, suspenders, and plenty of plaid)

So I decided to take matters into my own hands, and just change on the school bus, on the way to school. I’d like you all to take a minute and imagine the confusion of the white person sitting next to me on this bus– unable to understand why I would be so adamant on changing outfits.

At this time, I really loved Britney Spears, Mariah Carey, and Ricky Martin.

I was so obsessed with pink sports bras, hot orange windbreaker pants, and platform shoes. I wanted my pants to always be shiny and balloon-y. I would make my hair crimped or straight, preferrably in pigtails with cute scrunchies.

Oh, and as for make up? That was also applied on the yellow school bus. But of course, I had no idea what I was doing.

I remember one time I stole my mom’s purply-pink lipstick and just slathered it on my lips like a clown. The kids at school would stare at me while I was walking by in the halls, and I really thought it was because I looked good so I’d keep applying. (How sad)


After awhile I decided trying to look like a white girl wasn’t doing me any good. So I decided I’d rather try to look like a black guy.

Yes, Joonies, I discovered Eminem, BIGGIE, Dre, and Nelly. And somehow, I thought I fit into the category.

For people who think the ‘rap game’ back then was like what it is now— HELL NO MOTHERF*cKER. There was no Skirt-wearing Kanyes and BOOJIEE ass DRAKES on the scene.

Rappers SAGGED their pants, wore XXXL Tees, and big bling CHAINS.

Guess who else did?

ME. Thats right, I didn’t let my gender get in the way of my hood-swag. I sagged my pants, wore FUBU tracksuits, and corn-rowed my hair.

Let me tell you how it worked– I’d wear jeans like a regular girl, then OVER MY jeans I’d wear sweatpants, and SAG them real low, with an accompanying XXXXL sweatshirt. At school, my teachers would literally stare at me as if I’d lost my mind.

My parents were horrified. But the best was yet to come.

I also had an obsession with sneakers, particular AIR FORCE ONES.

I needed more than 2 PURRS. I bought the high-top ALL BLACK two sizes too big because I just had to have it. My dream was a closet full of Air Forces, of all shades, special editions, and heights. The Brands of this phase included (but not limited to): South Pole, Baby Phat, Nike, Applebottom Jeans, and FUBU.

I guess no one was around to tell me that I didn’t look HARD, I just looked like a RE-TARD.

Really though this phase is probably the most embarrassing and fun one of my life. Who else can say they sacrificed their femininity to look like a heat-strapping thug? (other than MISSY ELLIOT)

OFF THE DEEP END FOR SURE, so shake ya tailfeather.


 By some point I realized I wasn’t black, and had to face the fact that maybe my personal style shouldn’t be an imitation of what I see — but something from the inside.

I will be the first to say that I HATE fashionistas that keep up with thisandthat blog, tote VOGUE as their Bible and eating disorders as their mission.

WHY? Just because their imitation isn’t as awful as my FUBU phase, doesn’t mean they’re not lost too. Style is not Expensive, and its not Brand-name. Its also not Trendy and of-the-moment.

Back to my Phase Three point:  We all struggle with trying to figure out what the fuck we’re going to do with our lives, why complicate it more by trying to look like anything other than whats natural–ourselves? Whether you look to a celebrity or your best friend for style tips, you’re most likely going to end up looking second-rate. 

Personal style is like personal hygiene. You wouldn’t use someone else’s toothbrush. And you wouldn’t watch them take showers.

You just gotta do you.

But of course, you have to look like a joke once in awhile and laugh at yourself afterwards– real LOUD.

Do you have any style faux pas you’d share with us? Pictures, perhaps?



saaghi  ساقی

Hi, I’m the Product of an Addict

Hey joon joons,

In the Iranian community, its all about image.  Who looks the happiest… the best-dressed… the most social.  Its not about what you ARE, instead its about how you present yourself.

You embody this persona that you think will make people jealous.

And sadly, you want to believe in it too.  You WANT people to be jealous of you or of your lavish lifestyle.  That’s how my family was.  We didn’t talk about my terrible grades in public, or the fact that I ditched class like it was nobody’s business.  We never admitted to my parent’s marital problems until the divorce papers were signed and my dad moved out. I was always told, “zeshte… nagoo” (it looks bad, don’t say anything).  

Deny deny deny – Persian solution to EVERYTHING

I really don’t know when it started, but for as long as I can remember, my mother loved her glass of wine at the end of the night.  It started out innocently enough.  But when she started having problems with my father, the one glass of wine at the end of the night turned into several from the time I got out of school until bedtime.

When my parents divorced (click here), things got a little worse.  My mother’s denial spiraled out of control and the occasional glasses of wine became a frequent “problem solver.”  I was in my senior year of high school when I came home and she was passed out drunk on the living room floor.  I tried to take her to her bed but she couldn’t walk.  Instead she kept getting sick and I had to clean up after her.

Lindsey status only older and Persian- oxymoron?

I moved into my best friend”s apartment the next morning.  

I thought that my “lecturing” her and taking drastic measures like moving out would serve as her much needed reality check and she would get her shit together.  But like most addicts, she transformed into an incredible liar. 

People lie to keep their addiction alive

When I moved out of my hometown for college, I thought I had left her capable enough to take care of my younger brother.  She hadn’t been drinking for some time and I thought that somehow she had miraculously solved her issues.  But I was wrong because you see, the problem with addicts is that they are in denial.  They think they can handle it, but their solution is to turn to something else to take the edge off.  And in my mother’s case, it was Vicodin.  So while she wasn’t drinking, she was popping pills — and unlike being belligerently drunk, Vicodin allowed her to pretend like everything was normal.

There were still incidents when I would come home to visit, and she would get a little too friendly with the alcohol- but for the most part, she was “herself.”  Or so it seemed.

It has now been eight years later.

And two weeks ago, my 15-year old brother called me worried because my mother was passed out on the floor- completely belligerent and heavily medicated— and he wasn’t strong enough to lift her up to take her to bed.

Supposed Role Models

That was the final straw.  

I lost my childhood innocence at a young age.  After the 100th time I had to walk my mom to bed because she couldn’t see the wall in front of her- you just stop believing in rainbows and magic.  I worked to keep her issues separate from my brother’s life because I believe that kids DESERVE to maintain their innocence for as long as they can– and my Iranian mother would just have to embody the perception that she lived up to the standards that our community set for her: perfect mother.

But I will be damned before I let her hurt my baby brother the way she continuously hurt me through her evident self-loathing.  Addiction can take form in many different ways- whether its your addiction of shopping or eating to pills and crack.  I may be strong enough to limit my drinking to once or twice a week, but my mother wasn’t and one of the biggest reasons for that is because she gave up.  

She gave up on her happiness.  She gave up on trying to find a job because the economy made it difficult and she took it out on herself.

She gave up trying to find acceptance within the Iranian community because she was blamed for the divorce.  And she turned to something that would numb the pain.

Ultimately, we are all in denial.  And for us (Iranians), a big reason for that is because we are terrified of the JUDGEMENT from our Iranian counterparts.   For the past ten years, my mother has been in denial– she truly believes that she has her addiction under control.  And me?   Until now, I’ve been in denial… convincing myself that I’m not the product of a family where the mother is the horrible drunk who could potentially kill herself from overdosing.  I never believed that her problem was that serious.  


The first step to overcoming your problems, your denial is to ADMIT that you or someone you love has a problem.  For us, its even harder because we are raised to SUPPRESS anything and everything that might cause the gossip to circulate among fellow Iranians.  But it took for me to admit that my mother’s problem requires professional help before I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel… and the Iranian community I grew up resenting stepped up in a way that I would have never expected.  They reached out to my mother and showed her that she was not alone.  

No judgement, no questions asked.  

DON’T feel bad for me.  I was able to overcome my denial and I’m working my ass off to help my mother overcome hers.  How many other Iranians can say they’ve achieved the same?



Promise to be funnier next time,


Lies My Mother Told Me

Hey joonie joons,

In honor of the holidays, we have dedicated this week to our crazy Irooni families.  We never realized just how unique Iranians are until we started to reminisce about the past… whether its from the silent “disappointment” car rides to causing us so much stress that we would resort to private striptease shows.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there…

If your Iranian family is anything like ours then you KNOW that “Persian mothers know best” when it comes to EVERYTHING, including (but not limited to) homemade remedies that cure any and all things:

Remedy #1: 

Unlike most Persian girls, Farrah isn’t hairy (thank God), but as a result, she has very “light” eyebrows.  As Perisans, we pride ourselves on our beautiful eyes, with long eyelashes and thick eyebrows (NOT unibrows,nevercute) so as you can imagine her mother wasn’t too happy about the thin, unpluckable because not enough hair, eyebrows that Farrah had.  Madar’s solution? Rose water.

Yeah, I can just see the hair growing… in bushels

Farrah: My maman used to chase me around the damn house just to get me to sprinkle rose water on my face twice a day in hopes of making me grow full, “luscious” eyebrows.  She never succeeded (muahaha).  FYI: I’ve never had any complaints about my BEAUTIFUL eyebrows, thanks.

Remedy #2:

Sex makes your boobs grow.  That’s right.  Tired of stuffing your bra with kleenex and cotton balls?  Too scared to get implants (don’t do it, looks trashy). Never fear, because according to OUR mothers, SEX ENHANCES YOUR BRA SIZE.  FINALLY– something enjoyable and fun with GREAT, fucking results.  

I grew one whole cup size after this

Saaghi: Yeah my mom used to tell me that if I ever had sex, my boobs will grow.  Well mom, I have had sex… BEEN having sex… and nothing is happening.  ALTHOUGH, I do notice her staring at my chest every once in awhile trying to figure out if they’ve gotten bigger (aka if I’m still a virgin).  I’m not… Sorry mom, but you’ll never be able to tell from my chest.

Remedy #3: 

The mysterious “at-home” remedy to help your penis grow.  This doesn’t apply to us (seriously, no penises tucked away anywhere here). BUT, according to SOME Persian mothers: there is a little something that can be done to help enhance their son’s … package, ESPECIALLY if they are lacking.

Screw viagra, mama knows best

Farrah: My mother was always concerned about whether my brother was doing okay in the below the shorts area.  “Farrah, if he is too small, tell him to JUST TELL ME, I can help.”  Ummm… no comment.

Remedy #4: 

Rub dead ants over your legs and you will never grow hair AGAIN.  We know every Persian girl reading this is actually considering whether or not they should try this.  Let us save you the headache: ANTS ARE DISGUSTING… please just stick with shaving… a little stubble never hurt anyone… too much.  

And you want to rub this shit on YOUR BODY?!

Saaghi: My mother would actually spend time trying to convince me that it would be worth it to rub ants on my body so that I would never have to shave again.  I’d rather be hairy as fuck then rub that shit on my legs, thanks.

We know the list of ridiculous remedies that our Persian mothers SWEAR by is long and most often, a bit ridiculous.  WHAT DOES YOUR PERSIAN MOTHER SWEAR BY? 



Enjoy the holiday weekend joonies!



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