Happy Father's Day

When I was very small my father would hold out one finger for me to grip when we walked together. His hands were huge, and somewhat legendary in my little town. To this day kids who were coached by Papa will bump into myself or my brothers and recall how "Mister O" would catch bumblebees or hornets and hold them by their wings. His fingers, big as sausages, were so calloused and tough the bee would struggle, trying to get its stinger through the outer husk of his thumb and forefinger to absolutely no avail. After freaking all the kids out he'd laugh and release it.

They loved him.

I loved him too, of course, and always will. I was a little bit jealous of the other children he coached. Even as a girl I knew that they got the cream off the top of him-- never having to face his anger or disappointment, always getting the praise and encouragement. By the time I was old enough to realize how those "bad" parts were most likely doing me some good I was also old enough to realize the jealousy was silly at best; petty at worst. And no matter how much of him those other children stole, that finger-- the same finger he'd point at me when I'd strayed-- was all mine.

There would be new children in his life, even more dear. When my brothers began to have kids I saw a glimmer of that magic-- an incredible swell of protective fierceness, a wonder of absolute and unconditional love. With these tiny hands I was willing to share that finger... and offer my own. Now as the two youngest grandchildren have gone off to school there are crosswalks and sidewalks to navigate, clammy digits curled around larger ones.

My father is retired now. He still has traces of his southern accent, Virginia smoke curling around the edges of his speech. When my nephew announced, just the other day, that Papa didn't work in "that place anymore cuz he's retarded," I knew he was just pronouncing the word the way his grandfather does.

My retar-- err-- retired father spends more time with these last two little ones-- the sons of his youngest son-- than anyone else.

This past week Papa tried to show off for one of the kids. He grabbed a bumblebee round and plump as a grape by the wings and showed it proudly to his grandson. It stung him almost immediately.

Not as tough as he used to be. The callouses have worn thin. But his finger is still just right for holding on. And these days, as I watch him struggle up a flight of stairs, or puff a good bit more than he used to lifting some vaguely domestic weight, I marvel at how anyone can change so much without losing the core of stone that has always defined him. When all is said and done he's really the same solid, honest, good man he was. A little softer, these days... but so are the smaller fingers reaching for his larger one.

Happy Father's Day, Papa.

Shall We Dance?

I've always envied people who can dance. I'm not a complete klutz. When I was younger we used to do line-dancing (not the country western kind... it didn't exist around here then) on the beach. Sunset would come, we'd play oldies, and do stuff like the hully gully (ask your grandparents) or the stroll in tide-pools. Barefoot, ankle deep in water, we had a blast with a boombox blaring out old stuff from the fifties. Later it was The Electric Slide and The Montego. Yep. I'm old.

But when I said dance... I don't mean the generic shaking of booty that pretty much everybody can do, if not particularly well. I mean D A N C E.

I can dance-- held in the arms of a man, swirling to music on a hardwood floor-- with a total of two people on earth. Ahmed is one, and the second is one of our oldest friends. He's an amazing dancer and I've known him so long he's like my brother. So I trust him. And dancing, for real, is all about trust.

I don't like being pushed around, and that includes on the dance floor. Ahmed can take me in his arms, hold my gaze, and steer me. I trust him. I know he won't drop me, stomp on me, or steer me wrong.

I guess that's why I love to read a historical romance with two lovers dancing in one another's arms. Or why I love ballroom dancing on PBS. It's about two people trusting one another without any hesitation. Hesitation kills the dance.

I admire anyone who does it beautifully. Like these two. ENJOY:




ADDED: Need a reason to dance? Our own Gwen Hayes won first place in Paranormal Category of the Marlene Contest!!

A Mangled Love Story

He warned me. I've been thinking a lot about Valentine's Day, like all of us, and one in particular. And the bottom line is, he warned me. But I went ahead and fell for him anyway. It worked out.

I had been dating Ahmed for less than a year, both of us insisting we had no interest in a long term or serious relationship. We were both full of it, of course, but it feels somehow empowering at the beginning to tell that lie, doesn't it? After four months he finally broke down and admitted he was too jealous to date me unless we both agreed to be exclusive. No long term strings. No promises of forever. No declarations. Just exclusive. And after I agreed, in a long and very serious conversation, he looked at me very steadily and warned me not to put too many eggs in his basket. I, of course, lied just as quickly as he had done and promised I was in want and lust but had no plans to stick around longer than things stayed fun and exciting.

What a couple of idiots we were.

Then he said "I know I am going to end up breaking your heart. I can promise you I will."

All serious. Like a bad movie on Lifetime. What melodrama. What nonsense.

Fast forward to Valentine's day, another five months later. Ahmed rarely gets sick, but like all male doctors, when he does he's a bit of a big baby about it. On Valentine's day that first year together he was sick, sick, sick as a dog. His oldest friend called me to tell me not to come for our date. "He's really very sick," Tobin explained.

I was healthier then so I ignored his warning, drove in to his townhome, and found something vaguely Ahmed shaped groaning in his bed. All the lights were out, all the covers bundled under his chin, and his wonderfully sexy voice sounded like it was being passed through a garbage disposal. His eyes (those pretty cognac eyes!) were rimmed in flame and he was swampy with perspiration. He growled at me to leave, an arm flung across his face.

"I'm going to make tea, soup, and change the bedclothes while you sit in your chair for a bit. Don't argue."

He argued. Complained. Moaned. Barked at me to get out. I made soup, delivered his pot of Earl Grey with honey and lemon, and changed the sheets. He wheezed, coughed, and growled.

I was putting him back to bed when, for the third time in that not-a-relationship, everything changed. Four words. That was the day it stopped being an experiment, an obsession, something without a name. That was the instant I knew I was already in love with him, and he was with me, and we were both lying, lying, lying like the cowards we were.

I bundled him back into bed. I'd probably been there four hours, and had heard nothing but complaining the entire time. He was trying to convince me he wanted me gone. Years later I guess it was just instinct that made me stubborn about it. As I left him a mug of soup and a box of tissues he kept staring directly at me. I turned to go and he asked me to stay "just until I fall asleep."

Really, it was so little-boy-sad what could I do? While he drifted off I sat beside him and pushed the damp hair off his brow. Neither of us said anything til he was just a few breaths from sleep. I said I was going to go, and would call the next day. He finally (twerp!) thanked me for everything and, as I paused in the doorway, said "what would I do without you?"

"I thought you were planning to break my heart?"

If I'd kept walking I'd never have heard it. Gravelly, rough, muffled with sleep, he answered me. I'm not sure if he really meant for me to hear him mutter it.

"I've changed my mind."

It's not "you are my world." It's not "I worship you and can't live without you." But it was the beginning for me, and the end, and all of the bliss and bother to come. Four words muttered in a fevered stupor changed everything.

He's said prettier things. But those were the words that set my path to forever. Until that moment I was in love without knowing it. Until that moment I could have changed the course of my destiny. He was THE ONE, but I could have blown it, or decided having a someone forever was not "my thing." I could have walked out before it was too late, which had been my plan all along.

But I changed my mind. :)

Happy Valentine's Day.

Love's Many Facets

Yesterday I got a "save the date" card in the mail. An old friend from college is remarrying and planning a wedding in the spring, right around my birthday. I'm thrilled, because she is having a traditional Hindu wedding and I love participating in cultural events unfamiliar to me... though this will actually be my second Hindu wedding. Padma, the friend, was a Women's Studies student with me long ago in our undergraduate days. I very clearly remember the big, fat, hairy debate we had with some fellow students. It sparked the beginning of our deep friendship, one that had begun with casual friendliness in class. Then one day Padma mentioned that her marriage was arranged.

KA freakin BOOM.

The horror, the shock, the moans of distress! Only Padma was happily married. She was born and raised here in America by parents who had emigrated during the 70s. Padma was asked, when she turned 15, if she would like an arranged marriage. Since her sisters and brother had been successful in this undertaking she agreed, knowing that she could "cry off" and change her mind later if the courtship proved disastrous. This is a big decision to make at 15.

But as it turned out she began writing and speaking on the phone with the prospective bridegroom, who was 18 at the time. They became pen-and-phone-pals and he visited the US from India a few times. When she turned 21 he came to stay with an uncle for six months and they were married after that. And lived happily until, very sadly, he passed away a few years ago after battling cancer. They had two beautiful children together.

And Padma's family, loving her very much, wanted to see if they could find her another match. They did, a widow who had a story much like her own. This time around the two families met, arranged, and a quicker path to direct courtship took place. After a few months they discovered that both their families were compatible and that they were quite fond of one another. Padma told me on the phone this morning that she fell in love with him and both of their children are very happy with the match.

We recalled, giggling as old friends do, that day in our Women's Studies group meeting, the shock and dismay that met her pronouncement. And certainly there are arranged marriages that go terribly wrong. And certainly both she and all her classmates were aware of the plight of many women in Pakistan, India, throughout Asia who are victims of horrible civil rights policies. Honor killings, non-existent protections against rape, and worse.

But there are good families everywhere, too. And the true intent behind arranged marriages can be beautiful. Padma often expressed relief that she was not burdened with the "dating scene." She felt a tremendous lifting of pressure, allowing the people who knew and loved her best to make a choice for her. Of course Padma's wonderful family had only the best intentions and left the choice with her.

Still, so many of our feminist friends expressed disgust. But how many of us read and adore historical romances? Tales of true love found in arranged marriages, weddings of convenience, weddings of a shotgun variety. We read, gleefully and voraciously, these stories of society ladies who fall for men they marry in circumstances involving everything but love. And young adult literature certainly celebrates fairy-tale style love, more traditional love, unrequited love, even vampire love these days.

Love, I suppose, is not such a simple thing to define. And tolerance, openness, a willingness to explore can't hurt. So this May I'm off to celebrate a love affair different from my own, a wedding with sights and sounds, colors and ceremonies unlike those I have celebrated. But love is precious, and no matter how we get there, worth celebrating. So congrats Padma and Hithri! I can't wait to share your special day.

the perfect mate

When I was a kid, I used to daydream about my perfect mate. I had a checklist of criteria he had to meet before I would even consider accepting him as a lifelong partner.

1. He had to be at least 6 ft tall. I'm not dainty and I wanted my man to make feel feminine. In my mind that meant he had to be tall.
2. He didn't have to come from money, but he had to be headed toward money. I had a certain lifestyle I wanted to achieve and money would be required.
3. He had to adore me because frankly, everyone should adore me. I'm awesome.
4. He had to make me laugh.
5. He had to be willing to name a son Ian.
6. He had to love his momma but not be a momma's boy.
   

That was it. My checklist for my perfect guy.

Now, when I started seriously dating, I can tell you very quickly started to see the error in my list. My first serious boyfriend was only 5'9. Great guy. We dated for a long time, but he was not the man I would marry. Aside from his height, he met most of my original requirements. Apparently, he eventually had a kid and even named him Ian.

Before I met Fishdog, I dated a few others. I really did want a tall guy. I mean, *rowr* I love me some tall men. I even met one guy who met all of my requirements...but he still wasn't the man for me.

I decided maybe it was time toss the checklist. Obviously I had not figured out the list to love.

Then I met Fishdog. I was on a date (yes, a date) with another guy (who I never would've gone out with if I still used my list of love). When Fishdog walked in, I told my girlfriend "That's the man I'm going to marry." (even though he was only 5'10)

One and a half years later, I became Mrs. Fishdog. And I've made a new list of love:

1. He had to adore me because frankly, everyone should adore me. I'm awesome.
2. He had to make me laugh. Alot.
   
3. He had to be willing to name a son Ian.
4. He had to love his momma but not be a momma's boy
5. He had to respect my need for independence.
6. He had to love me for me and not expect me to change.
7. He had to make me laugh. Alot.

I like my new list a lot better.

Heroes Falling and Flapjacks Flying

I'm a sports chick. I used to play with the guys, though I never did see they mythical "all guy plus one" teams alleged to pepper the neighborhoods of America. When I was a kid there were both girls and boys on every corner lot with baselines carved into the grass by wear and tear. The notion that girls liking sports made them "tomboys" always confused me. I never knew "girly girls" really existed. All the girls in my neighborhood loved kickball, dodge-ball, and dirt. We wore makeup in high school, liked boys, and would slug anybody who said a word against our home team. And everybody-- regardless of gender-- loved the Sox. Which wasn't always easy... we waited 86 years for that series win, you know. I mean, they let school out early back in the day when Pudge waved a dinger to glory, and when Buckner made a small ummm... error with a ball... we've moved on from that one recently. Not going to talk about that.

So my fan loyalty is serious. I know my Red Sox obsession can, on occasion, be unhealthy. I'm owning it, k? Cut me some slack. Yet, regardless of my adoration, when a relationship is in trouble, pretending everything is fine doesn't work. If we ignore the problems they grow. So I'm putting it out there. I'm facing it. There's an elephant in the dugout.



What was up with the in-house spat? I'm not saying that Red Sox Papa figure Curt Schilling is wrong in his dismissive assessment. Guys who are like brothers, guys who work together closely, guys who are passionate about what they do... they're going to have occasional releases of steam. And maybe it means nothing. Honestly? The other night, when Coco Crisp started a bench-clearing brawl the other night... I wasn't shocked. I'll admit I wasn't even all that disappointed, though that's probably the wrong attitude.

But when Manny Ramirez and Kevin Youkilis-- two very significant Red Sox icons, for the sports-impaired-- had a dust-up right there in their own dugout I felt cold dread. Ice in my veins. Pain. Hurt. Confusion.

It reminded me of the tangled knot of feelings I would feel, as a little girl, when my brothers fought. I mean, they'd roll around in the dirt and pound the daylights out of one another. You'd swear on your life they hated eachother and were out for blood. It looked that way.

In that moment, in the dirt, with the insults and fists flying, they probably thought they hated eachother. And it used to freak me out. And I would get upset, and scared, and sometimes when I was really small I would cry.

In retrospect, those fights-- and even the recent scrap between my Fenway boys-- actually represented a level of intimacy that has to be pretty deep. We are most willing to hurt those closest to us for a reason. We trust them, unconsciously, to forgive us. We are passionate in our pride and love for them, so our disappointment goes just as deep.

And heroes do, now and then, stumble.

So Curt Schilling, that grampy old guy who knows a thing or two about heroism, is right. They're not just team mates; they're not just two guys in uniforms; they're brothers. Even the generally vitriolic Boston press could find absolutely no hostility between the two guys a day after the incident. A couple of lockers apart, they puttered around the locker room as usual.

So it's probably just like it is with all of us. Families, even really good ones, fight. It looks bad if it takes place in public, sure. I mean, if you chuck a flapjack at your brother down at the IHop people will probably think you were raised by terrible parents and hate one another. They don't know your history. They don't know you tell that story every Christmas and laugh. It's over, and now it's funny. But you know the back-story. There were comments about a certain boy, a syrup situation, something involving sneakers borrowed without permission...



Like Jonathan Papelon (pitcher, for the sports-impaired) said, he has had pretty bad fights with his own brothers, but it's normal. "Josh broke my nose," he said, but "when it's all said and done, you still have love for eachother."

Way to out your baby brother there, Pap. Watch out for flying flapjacks. I'm just sayin'...

So ok. I once cut nasty strips into my oldest brothers' sideburns right before he got called to National Guard duty because he didn't give me notice before demanding the haircut. And I used to mess up the back of his head pretty bad and wait to see how long he'd go without noticing it. My baby brother got me in trouble for nothing once and I convinced him he had neglected his teddy bear and it was dead. He tearfully agreed not to confess to anyone and let me bury it in the back yard to "cover for him," while he watched and cried. (Dad unearthed the corpse while rototilling the garden years later. The look on my brother's face as the memory flooded back was pretty scary. It was like CSI Green Harbor... the body in the garden came back to haunt me.) One of my brothers had a bulls-eye burn scar on the end of his nose for months after a car cigarette lighter incident in the back of an Oldsmobile.

So... what magnificent torments have you inflicted on the siblings you love? Spill it!