Parenting 101

I am the mother of almost 16 year-old twin boys. They're good boys, and I love them beyond reason. I like to think that I've learned a thing or three over the years. I also like to think that I do a reasonably good job as a parent. What I didn't think was that I'd be offered parenting advice from one of my wonderful paranormal fantasy novels. But I would have been wrong about that. I've just finished Molly Harper's fourth installment of her Half Moon Hollow series, The Single Undead Mom's Club, which I wrote about here. Fun read. Halfway through, I was struck by a piece of wisdom voiced by Wade, the hot, single, human dad who has feelings for the newly undead widowed mom, Libby. Wade explained to Libby, "Bein' a parent is a constant cycle of gettin' yer ass handed to ya. Anytime you think you're ahead of the game, that you got it all figured out, that's when reality pops up and bites ya."

ard to believe that I'm listening to some fictional Kentuckian who dates a vampire tell me what parenting is all about. Well, maybe not that hard to believe because, damn, he's right. Parenting is exactly like getting your ass handed to you. Regularly. Tell me again who thought it was a good idea to have kids?  Oh, yeah, it was me. Worked hard to get them too.

Parenting is the most humbling experience I've ever had. I used to lie on the floor of my closet in a fetal position with my thumb in my mouth, reduced to a blubbering mess contemplating the enormity of the task. Who the hell were we, my husband and I, to think we could raise these children to be well-adjusted, contributing members of society? One could argue that we weren't. Well-adjusted, that is. We'd both had issues with our parents, and didn't want to model our behavior on theirs. So we had no road map for what to do. 

And children are so needy.  There are the physical demands of rearing infants and toddlers (sleep was more precious than gold, glory or sex--in those days, I would have traded my soul for a six-hour block of sleep-- with no interruptions). And later, as in right this minute for me, we have the emotional roller coaster that constitutes the teenage years. All I can say is, "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a hell of a ride."

As I contemplate the state of being the moral compass, teacher, disciplinarian, font of all wisdom (it's possible my boys would question that last one… unless they’re laughing uproariously), provider of unconditional love and number one cheerleader for these incipient adults, I am in complete agreement with Wade. Parenting is 100% about having my ass handed to me. Recently, I was that annoying smug mom who was so sure her kids were pure as the driven snow while everyone else's children looked more like the stuff found on the streets of New York. And then I came home unexpectedly one evening to find my boys essentially peeing in that previously white snow. I got my ass handed to me big time and was forced to open my eyes to the reality of my kids--not the fantasy I'd created in my mind where my super parenting skills had reared children who made excellent choices each and every time they were presented with situations that challenged their sense of right and wrong versus fun and pleasurable. Yeah, right. I'm sure there were other parents enjoying the schadenfreude of seeing me plummet from my high horse. 

Pride cometh before the fall. Parenting is the one institution guaranteed to make us aware of our human imperfections. Which of course sucks badly, as parenting is the one job that we absolutely, positively must get right. The stakes are so, so high, the penalties for failure so extreme that I can almost choke on the pressure. It can be paralyzing. But doing nothing as a parent is the same as doing something bad, at least most of the time, so we march on….

Getting our asses handed to us again and again. And Wade was also right in noting that there is no such thing as getting on top of the situation. The second--no the microsecond that happens, the sands shift, the world tilts, and the whole landscape is completely different … leaving me scrambling to understand where we are and learn the new rules of the road. It's exhausting.

And rewarding. And terrifying. And gratifying. Every day I question my judgment in choosing to walk this path. And every day I thank God that I was chosen to shepherd these amazing, exasperating, magnificent and gloriously aggravating beings into existence as citizens of the world. I'll take my ass in my hands again and again for that privilege. 

Who Am I?

I'm reading the fourth installment of Molly Harper's Half Moon Hollow series, The Single Undead Mom's Club. I love Molly Harper's books; they are lighthearted, fun stories that contain deeper truths for those who care to look (for those who don't, that's fine, too, but it's nice that they're there for those who like their fantasy with a side of truth, like me!). This book is about a mother who gets terminal cancer after her husband dies (I know, not particularly lighthearted, but Ms. Harper doesn't dwell on these sad facts—they just set up her story). The protagonist, Libby Stratton, decides to solve her problems with a sire-by-hire, a vampire paid to turn her into a blood-sucking creature of the night who also happens to be immortal—or at least cancer-free. Apparently, this is a no-no in the vampire world, so Libby is getting some supervision, up close and personal, from the local vampire council representatives until she can prove she’s not a danger to her human neighbors.

s Libby adjusts to her undead status, she contemplates her new identity.  She doesn’t know who her sire is (there may have been better dying through chemistry on her part to cope with the whole drain-you-till-you-die-and bury-you-in-the-ground aspect of being turned—so she doesn’t remember who turned her). She observes, objectively, that she wasn't really sure of her identity during her human existence, having been raised by a single mother who kept the identity of her father an uncomfortable truth that was best avoided. So poor Libby comes to her reborn life as a vampire who doesn't know her sire, after having been a daughter who didn't know her father. Libby feels untethered and diffuse, with limited knowledge of her origins that, in turn, make it difficult to contemplate a future.

In reading about Libby, it occurs to me that for many, if not most of us, the ability to know ourselves is contingent on knowing where we came from.  But it's harder to know from whence we came in certain circumstances, and the not knowing makes finding ourselves that much harder to do.

I have a close friend who is really into genealogy. She has traced the origins of her family back to Jamestown, William the Conqueror and Charlemagne. Pretty cool stuff. She has binders full of documentation proving her ancestry, and she, her mother and her daughter enjoy the connection to their greats and great-greats and beyond. I envy her. I'm the daughter of immigrants whose parents all died before I was born. I can't trace my family tree beyond the names of my grandparents, none of whom I ever knew. One grandfather died in the early 20th century in Russia, while the rest died a long time ago here in the States. I'm pretty sure I come from peasant stock all around; no conquerors or kings in my family history. 

But, then, I don't really know. What I do know is that if I were looking for places to belong, the Jamestown Society, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the British aristocracy are not places I would look. The children of my wonderful sister-in-law are in the same boat, having been adopted from China. They have no idea where they come from genealogically or genetically.  Like our protagonist, Libby, my niece and nephew must leave their genetic history blank in high school biology class because they don’t know anything about their DNA donors.

I know that my sister-in-law works hard to give her kids a sense of community in many ways, partially as an antidote to not knowing anything about their biological families. My sister-in-law is involved in her kids’ school communities, they are all active in their church, and they belong to a group that honors the Chinese heritage of the children. It is very sensitive and insightful of my sister-in-law to make sure her kids are well grounded, to offset the lack of 411 on their origins.

I've had many people ask me if I am interested in going to Russia to explore my heritage. But the truth is, I wouldn't know where to start. I'm not even sure exactly where my father's family was from; he never liked to talk about it, so I never pressed. He's long gone, together with every close relative he had besides me and my brother. So, no information there. My maiden, Uchitel, name means "teacher" in Russian. I've often fantasized that my ancestors we're teachers and philosophers, and maybe that's where I get my didactic tendencies. But my desire to belong to a greater community of which I'm a hereditary member will likely be unfulfilled. Because I don't know where I come from I don't know all there is to know about who I am. 

So I've had to make my own way forward without the benefit of clear vision in the rearview mirror. I think it would be cool to know my family crest, or even to have a family that has a crest. But even with my similar lack of knowledge about my origins, I try to make better decisions than Libby did—no hire-a-sire for me (I also avoided the dial-a-moyl when we circumcised our sons, unlike one of my friends). I’ve had to find myself without a roadmap, so to speak.  And I’ve done a pretty good job, I think, although it’s taken me longer than it might have if I’d known where to look in the first place. And, in the end, we all must determine for ourselves who we want to be, regardless of from whence we came. Identity is a tricky business, and it is the work of a lifetime to figure it out or to create an identity that fits like a second skin. If we want to be comfortable in those skins, we must choose who we are with care. It may be easier if we know our ancestry, our genealogical tables, the patterns of our DNA, etc.  But those same facts, if known, can sometimes constrain us, so who knows whether it’s better to know?  I don’t know that, but I do know—now—who I am.  I trust that Libby will also figure it out by the time I get to the end of the novel.

I Walk Alone

It's been a bad week. As I wrote about here, I lost one of my beloved dogs recently, and I’ve been in mourning since. I haven't been sleeping well, so I’m dragging myself through my days and blinking my eyes forcefully to keep the stinging tears at bay. I know this too shall pass, and a part of me is satisfied that this state is a fitting tribute to my precious puppy…  and then I just miss my beloved Beau and the blinking gets worse.

I am thankful that so many people have shared their stories of departed pets and the intense emotions associated with those deaths. Thank you for the reminder that I am not alone in my grief and the need to adjust to new circumstances. It's comforting to know I am in the company of those who have walked in my current set of shoes. 

s is often my practice when I am sad or depressed, I revisited an old favorite, the Southern Vampire series by Charlaine Harris. This is the series that hooked me in this genre, and I will be forever grateful. There is a passage in the first book, Dead Until Dark, which caught my attention this time around. Sookie is thinking about the many issues related to her telepathy - and to the fact she is dating a vampire. She would like to discuss her problems with a friend, but feels that no one is equipped to handle her difficulties because they are so far beyond the pale of everyone she knows. She's right. And I can relate; it’s equally alienating when I feel alone with my problems and concerns.  

There is a fine line between erroneously believing oneself to be terminally unique and an authentic expression of despair that others have never walked in our particular pair of Jimmy Choos. It's one thing for a friend to commiserate over a bad breakup, or, in my case, the death of a beloved pet. It is quite another when we are alone in a position of authority or responsibility and there is no one with whom to share the burden of our own specific pain – when not everyone has walked in our current set of footwear.

For me, it was excruciating to grow up as the child of a narcissist in the age before the Internet. No one would believe the depth of my mother's insanity. Except my brother, who had to squeeze into the same pair of awful shoes I was forced to wear.  It's why we were so close as children. My friends got glimpses of her craziness, but not the full extent of her particular brand of cray-cray. At first even my husband thought I was exaggerating. It took many years and many arguments where I felt he had taken her side against me before he finally, fully believed that to try to stay neutral in the war with my mother was to hand victory to her on a silver platter.

Sometimes, no matter how much we sympathize, we just can't really know what’s it’s like to walk in another’s shoes.  It’s why we are taught not to judge.  But it’s also why we sometimes feel so isolated with our issues.  We feel like we’re the only ones who know what we are going through.  And in truth, we are, as we are absolutely incomparable and special and this moment cannot be identical for any two people. So there is some truth to our existential sequestration.  But we all share the human condition, and the aphorism that there is nothing new under the sun.  So while no one has walked in our shoes with our feet, it’s true, we all have feet and most of us have shoes. And while I'm a fan of professional therapy, a paid therapist cannot take the place of being understood by someone who loves us for free—it’s somewhat like the difference between a lover and a hooker—physically similar but emotionally…so very far apart.

This is the beauty and the blessing of my various friends. Depending on my specific problem du jour, I can reach out to one or more of them to listen and understand.  Mostly, my friends truly get it, and in so doing it relieve me of the loneliness of feeling like a freak—abandoned in my weirdness, solitary in my singularity. This is also the role of spirituality—the idea that where humanity may fail us, that which is greater than ourselves (however we each define that) will not. Apparently, the Universe has more shoes than Imelda Marcos, and can always identify with whatever it is we’re going through. In any case, we should all make like Winston Churchill and remember that if we are going through Hell, we shouldn’t stop to admire the scenery.

But despite this great self-talk, and the outlet that is this blog, I still feel terminally unique on occasion, and therefore completely alone. This is likely the result of a touch of my own hereditary narcissism, because, after all, the apple rarely falls far from the tree. But then I remember that I'm half my father's daughter as well, and the co-creator of my own destiny, so I can't be all that bad, and maybe I’m a lot like everyone else in feeling that I’m all by myself sometimes. Just like our fingerprints and our DNA, there are things about all of us that are just ours, so it's possible that occasionally we walk will without any human companionship of the emotional and spiritual variety. And then we’re lonely. At those times we can remember the legions of others in various Jimmy Choo designs and know that we belong to the sisterhood of sore feet and the brotherhood of bad shoes wherever we all tread.

It's Good To Be A Guest

I'm a city girl, through and through, Manhattan born and bred. But last weekend, I had an opportunity to experience life in what I have previously (and inappropriately) termed "fly-over" country. I spent the weekend in Northern Mississippi. Which of course inspired me to reread the Southern Vampire series by Charlaine Harris, and to contemplate the concept of hospitality and what it means to be a guest. Coincidentally (or not, as this is my life we're talking about), the first entry in the Argeneau Vampire series also deals with the issues related to the correct way to treat guests. Apparently, there's a lot more to it beyond telling those who visit to "make themselves at home." Of course I knew that, but these books and my recent visit have really brought the point home, so to speak.

n Dead Until Dark, Sookie Stackhouse and her grandmother, Adele, are poor but proper.  When they plan to entertain, the house gets cleaned from top to bottom and the best dishes, linen and flatware are taken out for use.  In the south, only the best will do for guests. Moreover, there is an unwritten code of generosity that underscores the hospitality—no matter how much or how little one has, it is shared with guests.

I experienced this kind of hospitality when I lived in Israel. I was privileged to visit many homes, some prosperous, but the majority humble. And no matter where I went, I was offered tea and something to eat, and in ways large and small I was made to feel not only welcome, but that my presence in the abode was a distinct honor, regardless of whether they'd met me before or knew me from Eve. Didn't matter—I was treated to the best chair, the best place at the table, and the best morsels of food.  If my visit was expected, it was clear that an effort had been made to create a beautiful table for my pleasure, and that the everyday accouterments were replaced with the special fare saved for guests. Which, of course, made me feel special.

It was the same in Northern Mississippi. Our hosts were the parents of one of my close friends, and they had clearly gone all out for us. When we arrived the table was laid out with gorgeous dishes, fine silver, and a resplendent buffet, to sate our hunger after our journey. Fresh flowers graced the fireplace in our room, and an assortment of toiletries were provided lest we had forgotten something essential. What a far cry from my own (Northern) ‘etiquette’ of pointing my visitors to the linen closet and instructing them to find whatever they needed.

In so many different ways, our hosts’ actions let us know that great effort had been expended to ensure our every conceivable need was met even before we were conscious of it. Normally, this level of attention and generosity makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable—beholden – like I'd put people out, been a burden, owed a debt I didn't necessarily initiate borrowing. It's different in the South. Despite the obvious effort that had gone into preparing for our stay, and the energy required to host us at such a level of hospitality, my friend’s parents never made it appear as a burden. To the contrary, they made us feel like it was their privilege and pleasure to entertain us in their home. Neat trick. Wish I knew how they did it.

In truth, it seems like a skill specific to Southerners, like our hosts, Sookie and her grandmother. Or maybe the skill  belongs to a more gracious era, like Marguerite Argeneau in Lynsay Sands’ entertaining vampire series. I also think that authentic gentility stems from a genuine pleasure in being a host—being proud of one's home and heritage and the desire to share them both with others. I think for me, all of this falls into my severe domestic goddess deficit, about which I’ve written before, and my complete inability to cook, clean, decorate or garden. Makes it harder to be a gracious host.

But it is good to be the guest of someone who knows how to do it up right. I felt like the most important person in the world, and that I'd made these people's day by showing up to their home, sleeping in their beds and eating their food. I felt valued and wanted. And how lovely is that?  I was the gal who warranted breaking out the good china, the one who inspired fresh flowers to be cut from the garden, and for the best linen to be ironed and used on the table. I was offered the best wine in the house, and someone made a run to get me coffee when they discovered that there wasn't any because I love my morning Joe.

I’m home now, eating takeout on our everyday china with a paper napkin. But it's nice to know that I don't have to travel back in time to party with the Argeneau Vampires or to Bon Temps, Louisiana to experience true hospitality and gracious living. It’s reassuring to discover that such gallantry exists  outside of Martha Stewart's magazine.  Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be able to up my etiquette game to the level I found in Northern Mississippi right here in little old Annapolis.

Who Wants to Live Forever?

Back in March, I wrote about my beloved Beau, a slightly (or maybe more than slightly) overweight "miniature" dachshund who was sick. We were lucky enough to have many more months with him, months stolen from the Grim Reaper, where he was healthy and happy and eating lots of bacon. But this morning he turned his face away from the bacon I offered, and this afternoon we let him go to the big dog run in the sky. And as he passed from this world into the next, I contemplated the concept of immortality and I asked myself the same question posed by the late, great Freddie Mercury, "Who wants to live forever?" And the answer is, I'm not sure. I'm not sure I want to live forever if everyone and everything I love will die before I do. I may well have to throw my lot in with Sookie Stackhouse and opt out of immortality.

y husband and I were together as we talked to our wonderful, compassionate vet and played God, deciding that today was the day for Beau to meet his Maker. What a terrible decision to have to make. He might have lasted days longer or even weeks (my husband is reading over my shoulder and shaking his head--there were no weeks or even days to be had, he is saying). My mind is filled with what ifs related to things we could have or should have done. But most of me knows we did everything we could. And I'm thinking of spending decades or even centuries burying my pets and my friends and my family and wondering whether that would ever be worth it. And I'm asking myself whether we really want to live or is it just that we don't want to die?

I love my paranormal fantasy, as all of you know well. And I've often wished my husband were more like Dragos, or Jean Claude or Vampire Bill or Eric Northman (I was on team Bill for the first few readings through the Southern Vampire series, until I decided that Sookie was better off with Eric, who was the better vampire, but that is a debate for another post). And I've often wished I could escape the ravages of time and look and feel youthful forever. But that is not the reality in which we live, and, in truth, it's not clear how fabulous that would be. If I were the only immortal living among mortals, life would be very lonely, and my heartbreaking day today would be one of many similar days. I'm not sure even an immortal heart could take it without cracking wide open.

I'm beginning to think that the deep freeze that is characteristic of long-lived paranormal creatures is a necessary defense mechanism to inure themselves to the realities of loss. How much better to lock up my heart than to suffer the heartbreak of loss over and over again? As I advance in age, the parade of the dead swells in membership: my father and my mother; my mentor; and my secondary set of parents (the father and mother of my friends who parented me in the absence of my own). And now my second dog has gone the way of all flesh, which is ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

And why must the flesh fade from this world? I've speculated before that without the possibility of loss, the having would become meaningless. When Beau got sick last year, we knew that every day was borrowed from a library that doesn't accept late returns. When our book is due, there is no option not to bring it back. And so, when I scolded my husband for offering our dying dog special treats and people food, he responded by announcing that he would be damned if Beau's last meal was kibble. It was steak and bacon all the way. When we don't know when our last meal will be, every repast becomes significant.

Because the end came all too soon and then there were two where there were  previously three (we are dog lovers in our family--the more the merrier). And there is a gaping hole in our lives--in the bed where Beau slept with us, and on his usual spot in my husband's home office, by the fire, and at my feet during mealtime, when a certain someone would paw gently, but insistently, at my leg, asking silently, but clearly, for some of my food. I rarely had the heart to refuse him over the past year, knowing as I did that every day was a gift and wanting to make it good for him.

Which, of course, begs the question of why we don't always live like one of my favorite Nickelback songs, If Today Was Your Last Day?  I think I would eat way too much chocolate if I lived like that. On the other hand, I would likely suffer fools even less well than I currently do, and I would give up on exercise altogether. I might not do any housework, or send in the paperwork to get the insurance money for my wrecked car or worry about my unpaid bills. I would definitely give that extra hug, or make sure to get to that email or text to my good friend that I've been meaning to write.

It's our expiration date that makes life precious and poignant. It's knowing that days like today will happen that give our lives urgency and our love wings. Without the specter of death, life is cheap and procrastination is de rigeur. Why not wait?  Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in its petty pace, but without death to paint our palettes in shades of grey, who gives a shit?

Death makes life worth living. Shadows let us appreciate the light. And we can only know the fullness of an open heart when it is wrung dry and arid through the desiccation  of despair. Grief breeds value and appreciation. No wonder the long-lived go insane over time-- they either lose their connection to their emotions or they are overwhelmed by them. Terrible way to go in either case.

So I will cry and I will mourn. But I will also prostrate myself in gratitude that my heart can be so full, in tribute to my much loved pet.  And I will celebrate the time we had together and our willingness to do right by him and release him from his tether to the mundane so his soul can be free to fly back home. He leaves a bereaved family behind, as he departs for parts unknown but familiar to the spirit. Goodbye, Beau. Rest in peace.

Don't Fear the Reaper

I’m reading a book about a vampire with a blood phobia, which is amusing, as I recently wrote about commitment phobias here.  A Quick Bite, by Lynsay Sands, is a ton of fun and there are many additional books in the series—hallelujah! Other favorite authors, including Karen Marie Moning and Lilo J. Abernathy, have also written about fear. So, I've decided the Universe is asking me to look at fear in general and my fear in particular, which may or may not interest you, but which will give you a little insight into the way my brain works (I'm all about the burning bush). There was a time when I was afraid of everything. It was paralyzing. I was raised by a fearful mother, who passed her fear on to me. My mother taught me to be afraid of strangers, which I guess is understandable in New York City.  She also taught me to be afraid of nature, what little there is in NYC (I love nature; provided I’m safety protected from the realities of actual nature—like bugs and dirt and stuff). She taught me to be afraid of men, my body and other people's motives. She taught me to fear rejection. I was taught to fear people in authority, dark corners, what others really thought of me and what they said behind my back. I was taught to fear travel to distant places and trying new foods, styles and experiences. In the beginning, I learned well. As a child, I was so shy and fearful that I wouldn't come out from underneath the dining table when we had guests to dinner. Today, the child I was would have been shipped off for psychological testing and therapy, lots of therapy.  I was not normal (one could argue that this is still true, I know.)

hen, I hit puberty.  ‘Things’ shifted. A lot. I shed the skin of the nervous Nellie I had been and emerged as a more confident teenager. In fact, the transition was sufficiently profound that my academic aptitude scores (who remembers the ERBs?!) changed so radically, the school was convinced there was a mistake and I was retested. Twice. I think the reason behind my percentile jump was that I finally figured out that the only thing I really needed to fear was my mother.

I was definitely still scared of my mom back in those days. I was almost 18 years old before I finally asked the $64,000 question:  “What could she actually do to me?”  When I realized the answer was, "Not much, without risking shame and embarrassment for her," my world tilted on its axis— positively. But I became more confident in my cognitive capabilities, which translated into more general confidence. As I grew more accomplished academically and intellectually, I became less fearful; for me, knowledge and analytical skills translated into power and control, which helped me feel less afraid.

But I was still an insecure wreck when it came to men and romance. Insecurity is just another word for fear. I was afraid men wouldn't like me once they really knew me.  So I hid my authentic self.  I was afraid men wouldn't find me attractive if they saw me without makeup. So I never went without.  I was afraid that if I didn't flaunt my body, no one would want it. I remember one particularly awful episode when I spent an entire night calling around looking for my boyfriend at the time, only to discover he'd spent the night with another woman. When I finally got him on the phone, at 4:00 AM, after his other girlfriend picked up and handed him the phone —"Oh, sure. He's right next to me; let me give him the phone…"— I apologized for bothering him because I was so scared he'd leave me.

I'm happy to report that I'm not that bad anymore. Fear is still my companion - I used Find My Phone last night to locate my husband, who is traveling, because he hadn't texted after dinner and I was afraid he was dead. I know, I know, silly—he thought so too, but my sainted husband is quite used to my paranoia about his safety. But mostly— mostly—I can face my fears and put them to rest. I don't let fear run my life (how I wish I could go back in time and give that no-good, cheating rat bastard a piece of my mind—except I just found out that he died last month, so that won't work).

Today, I can act as if I’m not afraid. I fly. I endure boats. I tell people things they need to hear even if I'm terrified they will shun me as a result. I no longer fear discomfort. I don't love it, but I can tolerate it. Because it turns out that many of the things we fear are mostly just unpleasant, and we like to avoid discomfort. But life is full of unpleasant realities, and facing these unpleasantries (including dirt and bugs in the wilds of my own back yard) is what makes life worth living.

Facing our fears and doing it anyway, whatever ‘it’ is, is the secret sauce of life. It can be letting go of a bad relationship (like the rat bastard), or a bad job, or a friendship that no longer serves. Fear of letting go is a big one, I've found. Almost as big as fear of holding on. 

So I appreciate the opportunity to see how the other half—the paranormal one—lives and deals with fear. I'll continue to enjoy Lissianna Argeneau in A Quick Bite, and wait to see how she overcomes her fear of blood (‘cause I suspect she does). And I'll continue to think about how I can face fear and prevent it from running— or ruining— my life as it did for my poor, misguided, fearful ‘Mommie Dearest’. The good news is, she's not afraid anymore, and neither am I.  I get to enjoy life at the table rather than under it.

Timing Is Everything

I’m in between books right now and it’s agonizing. I finished the new Thea Harrison novella, Dragos Goes to Washington (sublime), and the next installment of Rose Montague’s Norma Jean's School of Witchery (fun). And then …  the purgatory of no books to read.  I've written about this malady before once or twice, and it just doesn't get any easier. If fact, if anything, the whole experience gets more frightening and depressing each time. Frightening because I've read that many more books and I’m afraid I'm about to run out, and depressing because if I ever do exhaust the universe of good, fun, compelling paranormal fantasy, what will become of me? I'll be forced to fall back on my previously preferred genres:  mysteries; police procedurals; and international intrigue. But because I spent so many years ploughing through those categories, I feel like those wells are dry too. I've got to stop going down this rabbit hole before I become utterly despondent. If you have any suggestions, for God's sake, please pass them along. 

There is a faint light at the end of the tunnel, however. In desperation, I revisited a book I'd read, or started to read, in the past. I remember buying and beginning it. I also remember that it just couldn't hold my attention at the time. But I visited the usual suspects in my reliable book-finder sites like Maryse’s Book Blog and I Love Vampire Novels, and didn't come up with much I hadn't read and re-read. But then an author and her series I had explored and rejected before floated to the top of my consciousness. I did my due diligence, reading reviews and summaries. And I decided to give the series a second shot. I'm glad I did. Because what I "discovered" was something I already knew:  timing is everything.  

The Argeneau Vampire series by Lynsay Sands is on almost all the top ten best vampire series lists. It's always mentioned as being fun and funny, lighthearted and exceptionally entertaining. So I bought the first book in the series, A Quick Bite, and dug in expectantly. Except that at that time, I was disappointed. I remember that I read the same early pages over and over and just couldn't get into it. I tried, I really did. But then I gave up and went on to greener pastures. And now I'm back, getting on the horse that threw me. And, what do you know, there's a reason that's a cliché. It's important to get back in the saddle—lest we miss out on a great experience because of negative, past associations.

Timing is everything. Have you ever had the experience of reading a book that changed your life because you read it at a critical juncture, only to revisit it later and say, "WTF? Was I on something at the time?" (Always a possibility for me during my misspent youth). I felt that way about Atlas Shrugged. I remember going into my Literature Humanities class in college waxing poetic about the brilliance of Ayn Rand and how I had totally drunk the Kool Aid about her philosophy and economic theories. And my professor let me rant a while and then calmly asked, "But why do you think she’s so brilliant?"  So I upped the decibel level of my voice and again engaged in rant mode. To which he replied, "Yes, Anne, I understand what you are saying. Saying it louder doesn't make it persuasive." I felt about as high as an ant with dwarfism.  But I'll never forget the lesson—and now when I make an argument or posit a theory, I back it up till it won't back up any more. I also learned that 19-year-olds can be very passionate and dramatic for no good reason. When I reread the book many years later, I couldn't understand why it affected me so. Yes, it was good and interesting and raised thought-provoking ideas. But it wasn't nearly as profound as I recalled. Timing.

I read Bright Lights, Big City when it came out in 1984, and wondered how Jay McInerney had crawled into my life and into my head and extracted my thoughts and experiences and put it in a book. "All messed up and no place to go."  That was me, all right. I loved it. I read it three times successively. I recommended it to my friends. But when I went back to re-read it many years later, it left me cold. I wasn't in that place any more and I wasn't that person anymore. So the book didn't speak to me in the same way, thankfully.

When my twin boys were born almost 16 years ago, I read to them compulsively. I was determined that they would love books and learning as much as I did. I read to those children every single day for almost 11 years. And now they don't like to read. Almost killed me. But they are amazing kids and I love them within an inch of their lives. Even though we don't share my obsession with books. But I digress.  My point (I swear there is one) is that having children means we get to rediscover delightful children’s books and enjoy them from an adult perspective.  My burning passion for Dr. Seuss was born from reading him as an adult—to my kids.  I’ve pretty much memorized Oh, the Places You’ll Go, and Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? is an all-time favorite (and don’t get me started on If I Ran the Circus!). Appreciating these books as a grown-up has opened a new world of thoughts and ideas and a beautiful philosophy of life that I wish to live up to—and that I hope my children will absorb through the osmosis of my reading to them— and which may become manifest when the angst of the teenage years are behind them. I’m still hopeful despite my boys current non-reading ways – maybe their ‘book-loving’ time hasn’t arrived yet?

Timing is everything. With books and with life.  As the Tarot teaches us, "As above, so below", I think is also true for the truth and fantasy found in reality and in my beloved fiction: as in books, so in life. I knew this.  But I had forgotten.  Many thanks, Ms. Sands for the reminder – and the series. So happy to remember that timing is everything.

I'm All In

I just finished my fist reading of Dragos Goes to Washington, the next (short) installment in the Elder Races series by Thea Harrison. At the risk of sounding like a total loser fan girl in serious need of a life, I adored this novella and I'm sure I'll read it several more times over the next couple of months. I could not, and did not put it down from page one till the bittersweet end (bitter because I have to wait another month for the next novella, sweet because, hey, it's PNR and everybody gets an HEA--except the bad guys, of course--they just get dead). With respect to Pia and Dragos and all the rest of the Elder Races, I'm all in.  Just like Thea Harrison describes Pia and her dragon mate, "When they were together, they were all in..." Being all in is the best place to be. And one of the hardest places to get to, at least for me. Which of course deserves an exploratory romp through the convoluted recesses of my grey matter. But hey, you're reading this, so hang on for the ride. 

I am fascinated by the concept of being all in. I've thought about it, I've read about it, and I've experienced this elusive state for brief, shining moments--that sometimes last days, weeks, or maybe even years, but which always seem to pass sooner or later. Which leaves me searching for the next peak experience where I can feel all in.

Like for Pia and Dragos, love, especially new love, can make us feel all in. There is absolutely nothing like the feeling that your new love is the key to the universe, the golden ticket to eternal happiness, the missing piece of the soul.  Tomes have been written about the sensation of merging our hearts, minds and spirits with someone we believe understands us and accepts us in ways that no one ever has or ever will, so I'll assume you know what I'm talking about. It's a blissful feeling, no doubt about it. No matter how it turns out in the end (or at least after the beginning) the all in aspects of new love are life altering. 

But romantic love is not the only thing that produces that all in feeling. Parents can feel that way for their newborns, getting lost in the wonder of new life and the power of creation. Heady stuff. We can be all in with respect to new friends, and even new geographic locations. The all in feeling is easier to access, certainly, during the honeymoon phase of any relationship, but that phase can last a very long time, if we're lucky.

And then there are those who are very fortunate, indeed. I'm taking about the lucky dogs who fall in love with their work or avocations to the point that they are all in for the better part of their lives. It is one area where I've yet to conquer my envy of those immensely blessed individuals who find their passion early and remain faithful to the end of their days. I have a favorite cousin like that; he was discovered by an engaged high school teacher and mentored toward a lasting love of inorganic chemistry. His face absolutely glows from within when he discusses crystal formation and why I should care (I'm sure I should, but I just don't. Sorry, Josh). Then there are those who find their sweet spots later in life, like my ex-fiancé who discovered horseback riding in his mid-thirties and has pursued his passion with a passion ever since.

Quite some time ago, I remember reading a book by the hopelessly unpronounceable  Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi called Flow. The book is about the psychology of optimal experience and I remember thinking very clearly, I gotta get me some of that. According to Mr. Alphabet Soup, we experience flow when we are so completely absorbed in an activity that time seems either to stand still or increase to light speed, we cease paying attention to bodily needs and functions, and we become one with all things as we lose the sense of our own boundaries in the cosmos. Who wouldn't be happy under such circumstances?  Flow is the state of being all in. 

But there's a catch--and isn't there always, dammit? In my world, optimal experiences, those where we are all in, or in the zone or the groove or the flow, are as rare as a tuxedo at a Grateful Dead concert. So what do we pitiful humans do? Well, we make like William Hurt and try to achieve altered states. We pursue better living through chemistry. We seek out extreme adventures to feel the rush that reminds us that we are alive. We take stupid risks to try to experience a poor man's version of flow, because those optimal experiences are flowing past us without stopping to let us feel the burn.

I have a friend I meet for dinner about once a month. After we catch up on the quotidian occurrences at work and at home, we always end up talking about ways to be all in. We both crave it, and because our temperaments are similar, we both feel flow from the same kinds of things. And it is equally inaccessible to both of us, so I know it's not just me.

I yearn to be all in. I desperately want to feel like Pia and Dragos. For a lot of reasons. It would be way cool to breathe fire. Or fly, or heal with my blood.  But what I can more or less reasonably aspire to is to be all in. Of course, when I’m reading my beloved books, I’m pretty much there, so maybe I’m the lucky one after all. 

The Things We Do for Love

I've just finished Book Two in the Black Knight Chronicles, Back in Black, and AC/DC would be a perfect soundtrack for this installment. I can already tell that this series will get better with age, just like our vampire heroes, Jimmy and Greg.  I'm happy to report that the Lost Boys I wrote about here are starting to grow up a bit. Plus, this second offering introduces the world of the Fae, always a winning combination with the Sanguine, as our favorite bloodsuckers are called by the Tinkerbelle types. As the series progresses, we're getting more of the backstory, enough to know that it started with a girl. Doesn't it always?

In this case,  Jimmy Black was a young man at a bar feeling inordinately lucky that he was going to go home with a girl who was clearly out of his league. Looking back, Jimmy figured that this was one time where looking a gift horse in the mouth would have been a good idea, never mind those Trojans. As he tells the story, just as he was about to see heaven with his hottie, she bites him. No, it wasn’t, “Love at first feel.” It was game over, new vamp rising, and, oh, by the way, Jimmy accidentally turns his best friend, Greg, in the process. The things we do for love. Or was that lust?  Can a 20- something male tell the difference?

ight now, I'm reliving the roller coaster that is first love with one of my sons, and the experience is bringing up unpleasant memories of all of the extreme, intense, ridiculous, pathetic, courageous, unbelievable things I've done for love over the years. It's been an emotional saunter down memory lane… making it particularly difficult to watch my boy go down the path, knowing as I do the potholes he will encounter along the way. All parents wish to spare our children pain, but I also know there is no protecting him from life in all its glory and despair. Tell me again who suggested we have children?  Oh, yeah, it was me. And my husband. And we had to work at it too, so I guess we must have been sincere in our desires. Makes me want to go back and knock some sense into my younger self.  Just kidding… most of the time.

Jimmy's wide-eyed incredulity at his good fortune in attracting a beautiful girl reminds me of my own sense of wonder at the dawn of my first relationship. That one wasn't so good, unfortunately, and I ended up doing some pretty terrible things in the name of not-being-able-to-live-without-his-love type of obsession (I won't besmirch the name of love by labeling what I felt for my first boyfriend as such). I accepted infidelity. I ran over whenever he crooked his finger.  I endured casual cruelty, of the emotional variety, because I "loved" him so much and he was really just toying with me for his own amusement. And at some level I knew that, but it didn't matter because he was all I could think about and all that I wanted.  Does anyone else remember the intensity of first love? I do. I felt kicked in the teeth (me and Ozzie).Thank God that shit is over.

The things we do for love suck.  Because when we talk about the things we do for love, we mean the self-sacrificing things, the self-effacing things, the difficult things and the things we never thought we could do, or that we wanted to do. Love makes us strong like bull, and tenacious, and creative, and shameless. Love and fear are the most motivating factors in the world, and while things never work out well when we are motivated by fear, they don't always work out well when we are motivated by love, either.

But is it actually love motivating us when we take self-destructive actions in the name of these strong emotions? As I wrote about earlier, we know a good choice from a bad choice by its fruits. I think the same thing holds true for determining whether our actions are inspired by love or some more base emotion—like lust, pride or greed. When we become obsessed with someone and do things we shouldn't (like taking home strange partners we’ve just met in a bar), our motivation probably isn't pure.

When I look back at my own experiences, and look now at what my son is doing, it's important to look at the fruits. A good relationship makes us better--we feel supported and loved, so we feel free to take chances we otherwise wouldn't, knowing we have a safe harbor from the storms of growth. A good relationship leads to self enhancing activities, not self destruction.

On the other hand, bad relationships just suck us dry—kind of like what that vampire hottie did to Jimmy on their first and only ‘date’. A bad relationship makes us feel desperate, not secure, anxious, not safe, and pessimistic, not hopeful. A bad relationship can lead us to give up our friends, ignore our obligations, and isolate us from our families and communities. Bad relationships erode our self-esteem because we find ourselves doing unhealthy things—middle of the night booty calls, or making frantic phone calls to find out where the ostensible significant other is spending his or her time. Sucks us dry, leaving us desiccated.

So, the things we do for love can be good, of course, but the things we do for feelings less than love can leave us feeling sucker punched.  So let's hear it for growing up and maturing, just like Jimmy and Greg.  Because experience does help us discern the difference between love and lust, as my son will also learn… soon I hope. And I'll feel good that my days of bad behavior in the name of love are well and far behind me. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Life is Change

Yesterday was my twentieth wedding anniversary. I tweeted about it. What? You missed my tweet? Shame on you! Anyway, the event got me to thinking about just how long twenty years is, and all that has happened and all the ways I've changed and haven't changed over the course of two decades. As I was contemplating this passage of time, I was also enjoying a new author (new to me, might not be new to you), John G. Hartness. His series is The Black Knight, and it's about vampires named Black and Knightwood who happen to be private investigators. Book one, A Hard Day's Knight, was fun. And while I could regale you with commentary on nerdy vampires and evil demons, both of which populate Mr. Hartness' book, what I want to discuss is the difference twenty years can make, or not.

In the book, our hero, James (call me Jimmy) Black and his trusty sidekick, Greg Knightwood, are two vampires who were turned two decades ago when they were in college. So they were about 20 when they became undead. Not a great age for boys, who tend not grow up at all until they are about 30. So, according to that logic, Jimmy and Greg should have grown up for about ten years before the events of the book occur. But not so much. In fact, they repeatedly refer to how much hasn't changed in the two decades since their first death, including, mostly, their luck with women, their tendency to make puerile jokes, and their love of all things video. My first thought at contemplating such stasis was, "How incredibly depressing." 

It's not that I didn't like myself twenty years ago. Well, I didn't love myself, that's for sure. But I liked myself better than I had when I was 15, or 20 or 25. The trend was favorable. And it's also not that I didn't appreciate having a body that had 20 fewer years of wear and tear on it. I did. Although in many respects I'm healthier and more fit than I was back then. But, realistically, I looked better back in the day, according to our youth-obsessed culture. I didn't need the kind of skin care regimen I do now, and losing weight was a lot easier. Ah, well.

But while I didn't have as many wrinkles and my skin hadn't had as long to bow to the law of gravity, nor did I have the perspective that I do now. There's something about being able to look back such a long distance in the rearview mirror that allows me to relax into the present with much more serenity and grace than I was capable of twenty years ago.

So many of my life questions have been answered in a positive way. I now know how so much of the story ends--I know that I chose wisely and well in my husband--after all, we still like each other 20 years later, and we also still love each other.  I look around and realize that is no small feat. I know that I finally did get pregnant--after four long and painful years filled with surgeries, injections and more time in stirrups than the U.S. equestrian team. I know that I'm not the best parent that ever lived, but also that I've  avoided many of the mistakes that my parents made. I know that the friends I had had twenty years ago are still my friends today--as are the ones I met over 45 years ago. I know that I finally beat bulimia--although it took much, much longer than I would have thought or hoped.

The upshot here is that a lot has happened in 20 years that has affected me profoundly. And unlike Jimmy and Greg, I'm not immortal, so those 20 years count--and they count a lot. Many believe that the years between 30 and 50 represent our prime--the zenith of our mental and physical existence (my mother used to say that a woman didn't grow into her face until she was 30, and we've already discussed the male brain --such as it is).

I think I'd be pretty bummed if I traversed my 30s and 40s and had not much to show for it (for Jimmy and Greg it's their 20s and 30s, but still).  God knows that I pray to make new mistakes, and to not repeat the past ad infinitum. That's just depressing--Groundhog Day again and again. So, for me, there was definitely a flash of sadness as I read about two perpetual boys, who happen to be dark creatures of the night (sort of), but prefer to play at being Peter Pan, living as Lost Boys in a basement apartment in a municipal cemetery (not that that is cliched or anything).

And as I contemplated the characters in my paranormal fantasy novel, I thought about all the people I've met and known who resemble our unaging and unchanging heroes more than is flattering. Unfortunately, I know a number of lost beings who refuse to learn the lessons of the Universe, and who get stuck in the past and in their limitations so that they never grow and evolve. These sad souls stay in bad marriages, show up for the same bad jobs day after day, and drink at the same bar stools night after night. They are vaguely--or not so vaguely--dissatisfied with their existence, filled with self loathing and disfiguring bitterness, yet unwilling to do anything to change their circumstances. These people break my heart.

Life is change. And in the world according to me, only fictional vampires should endure an unchanging existence. Certainly not people. We must all aspire to evolution in a positive the direction so that the problems we had 20 years ago differ in kind and not just degree from those that darken our doorsteps today. We have nothing to fear but stagnation--and that should scare the pants off us, no matter how old we are.

Reject equilibrium. Protest stasis. Eschew satisfaction with the status quo. Embrace growth. Pursue adaptation. Stretch. Reach.

Or not. Your call.

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

I am a decisive person. I do not dither, nor do I waste time second-guessing myself. I have very little patience for those who can't make up their minds about what to order for dinner, which movie to see and which outfit to wear for a date. I'm equally intolerant even when the dithering is about a weighty decision. I understand that (hopefully) we'll only buy one wedding dress in this lifetime, but that doesn't justify spending three months trying on 300 dresses to make the decision. There is just no need to try on 300 of anything. Or to look at 1100 paint samples for the kitchen walls, or to take days to determine whether acting or sculpture is our elective choice. As I've written about before, there is no such thing as a perfect choice. We do the best we can with the information at hand; it’s an imperfect system that results in imperfect choices. But it's the best we can do.

hy am I contemplating decisions today?  Well, I'm finishing up an installment in Karen Marie Moning's Highlander series. I must say that I find it almost inconceivable (I associate the slightly slobbery voice of Wallace Shawn in the Princess Bride with this word) that the mind that brought forth Jerricho Barrons and Mac Lane also wrote these tales of time travel. Not that the Highlander books aren't good—they are. But they are not nearly as complex and deep as the Fever series, which includes some of the best fantasy ever written, IMHO.

Anyhoo, in The Highlander's Touch, the heroine, Lisa, has to make a big decision—whether to stay in the 14th century with her Highlander love, or return to the 21st century to be with her dying mother. Tough choice. I'm pretty sure I know what I'd do, but then, I wasn't a huge fan of my maternal DNA donor, as you know. But Lisa is completely flummoxed by the choice, so much so that she risks incurring the wrath of the Faerie Queen as she vacillates between the 14th and 21st centuries. How to choose?  How do we know which is the right choice?

While I posit that few of us are faced with the kind of decision that Lisa had to make, most of us deal with difficult choices all the time. I'm always astounded when I stop to think about how many decisions I make in a day – let alone in a week, a month or a year. Decisions about what to eat and what to cook; what to wear and what to buy to wear; what to say to our kids when they transgress and what to say when they are heartbroken. We make decisions about which books to read, which people to date, which jobs to take, which hobbies to pursue, and with whom we spend our free time. We choose between political parties and among various causes and initiatives to support.  We choose whether to reproduce or to adopt or to forgo kids altogether. We choose where to live and whether to use paper or plastic, cash or credit, gas or diesel.

We make hundreds of choices without giving any of them too much thought, and then we agonize over other decisions.  Choice is a privilege, and it's often one we take for granted. Some of us have the luxury of time to weigh each decision carefully, but it's not clear that those who take longer make better choices. I’ve seen those wedding pictures—and trust that you have also wondered how the winner triumphed over the other 299 choices.

How do we know we've made a good decision?  Well, I can’t decide—just kidding. I'm a big believer in the Biblical concept that, ‘by their fruits you will know them’. A good choice will bear good fruits—serenity, peace, and a sense of well-being. A bad choice is a lot like a bad meal—it might feel all right going down, but then it repeats itself ad nauseam (pun intended) after the fact.  A good choice is one where we don't spend too much time looking in the rearview mirror at what might have been.  We make the choice and then move on, secure in the knowledge that it was a good – or even just a good enough— move.

Sometimes the fruits are not apparent for a long time after the decision is made. When it was time to choose a high school for our boys, my husband and I looked at it from every angle. Did we choose well?  Talk to me in about three years and I'll let you know. It feels mostly good now, but we'll see whether our sons grow up to be the kind of men with whom we want to associate – or even associate with us. I hope so with every fiber of my being, but I won't know for a while still. Thank heavens for the fruits of the grape vine while we “enjoy” the journey.

Choices and decisions are hard. But what would be harder would be not to have any say at all about our destiny. The biggest thing about the choices we make is that they are ours. We make them and we own them. And like Lisa, we live with the consequences of our decisions, big and small. Without the time travel, of course, but with the same surety of a path well chosen.

The Sound of Darkness

I'm feeling quite down. I don't know whether to be angry with myself, my spouse, my kids, colleagues or friends. I'm thinking "all of the above."  While I was busy being dark and depressed, I came across a Facebook post by Tony Robbins that talked about forgiveness and how important it is to happiness. Mr. Robbins claimed that expectations are the root of all unhappiness. So I guess I expect too much and forgive too little.  What to do?  Turn to my favorite form of Prozac, of course, my beloved books. My books can always take me out of myself, which is a good place to be right now.  And what better book to read than one that reflects my mood--The Dark Prince by Christine Feehan. This is a classic in the paranormal fantasy genre, and, in fact, it's such a classic that I'm reading the author's cut. Pretty cool. Makes me think about what other author's cut books would be like--I'm thinking Dragon Bound, Angel's Blood, One Foot in the Grave, but I digress).

he hero of the book, Mikhail, is an overbearing ass at times, and he's the eponymous Dark Prince. Basically, this means he acts like I feel right now, doing an excellent imitation of Eyeore. Except, supposedly, he can't feel anything. That part was kind of confusing. But the no-feeling thing sounds pretty good right now. Anyhoo, Mikhail is on his last emotional legs and is about to give into despair. He's lost the will to go on.

Until he meets Raven, his lifemate.  Which is great. Except she's human. Which isn't so great. But the salient point here is that I'm feeling a certain affinity to the darkness in the Dark Prince and I need a little light, only I don't know where to find it. Mikhail looks to Raven to light his darkness. She's willing, mostly, until her own darkness threatens to overwhelm both of them.

I'm guessing (I'm in the middle of the book) that both Raven and Mikhail will find their way to the light and that the sound of joy eventually drowns out the sound of darkness. But what about the rest of us? How can we dispel the gloom that surrounds us when we get into a dark place? I decided to take a poll and see what kinds of solutions I could find.

One friend told me to turn my face to the sun and let the light erase the shadows. Good advice as far as it goes, but beyond a splash of freckles across my nose from the UV exposure, I wasn't sure the physical nature of the suggestion did anything to counteract my metaphysical woes. I love the sun, and if I'm sitting beneath it in my favorite bikini on a Caribbean beach, it's possible my mood would improve (as long as I'm not looking too closely at my tummy). Barring that, however, I felt I needed more.

Enter friend number two, who recommended that I not paint my life with one brush. Huh?  Again with the analogical tips. "Whatever do you mean," I asked my friend (in truth, I might have said something more along the lines of "WTF, woman?!" but it wouldn't be polite to say so).  She calmly explained that while some aspects of my life may seem bleak at the moment, she knew for a fact that some parts were working well. She told me that there was no reason to paint the entire canvas black, the Rolling Stones to the contrary. She had a point. Often, when I'm unhappy about one thing, everything seems off kilter and not the way I want it to be.

A third friend suggested I look at the world through rose-tinted glasses. Not the rose-colored ones that Pollyanna wore, but ones that washed everything I looked at in a hue of appreciation and love. Sounded good, but I wasn't sure of the execution. It wasn't clear how to trade in my progressive lenses--the ones that get darker automatically when you go outside. My progressive glasses get darker when my outlook takes a header and my mood plummets with it. Guess I need a new prescription. Or I needed to turn the binoculars around so that I could focus my attention on the light and not the darkness.

Any way I sliced it, I needed to either embrace the shadows and wallow in my misery (with or without company, although I prefer my misery with a side of fellow travelers always, as I've written about before).  I was leaning toward the wallowing activity, and feeling a strong connection to the Dark Prince. He seemed so noble in his unhappiness. Why is that, anyway?  Why do women love to love men who brood?  Men definitely don't love women who brood. But I'm getting off track again.

I'm not sure there is a solution here except to grin and bear it and assume that the sun will eventually break free of the clouds. I'll be able to listen again to the pitter patter of the light instead of the bass notes of the darkness. And maybe I'll find someone like Raven to light the way for me. As Albert Schweitzer famously said, "At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us."  Indeed. 

Phobias-R-Us

I just finished a delightful romp through the pages of Robyn Peterman's Switching Hour, book one in her “Magic and Mayhem” series. My biggest complaint is that she provided a fairly sizable excerpt from book two, but it's not even available for pre-order on Amazon. That's what I call a tease. Not nice, Ms. Peterman! And despite the fact that I've berated other authors for writing shallow, frothy characters that long for the depth of Paris Hilton, Ms. Peterman makes it work. Anyone who can get me to laugh out loud is someone on my "must read" list. Belly laughs are to life what silly tiny coats are to toy poodles; an absurd yet perfect fit. Anyway, this isn't a review, although my expression of gratitude to Robyn Peterman for lightening my day and mind with such an enjoyable diversion is sincere. Today, I am going to focus on is our heroine's deep aversion to commitment and how relatable I found it. Zelda is not one to stick around, nor did she have any intention of becoming emotionally attached. In fact, she fought tooth and nail (a little shifter humor there) against feeling anything other than admiration for her smoking hot wardrobe. Phobias-R-Us. Zelda and I might as well be wearing signs.

My affinity to this particular psychological boogeyman was mostly negated when I waltzed down the aisle twenty years ago and let out a very audible sigh of relief upon walking up the steps to join hands with my soon-to-be husband. In many ways, I couldn't believe I'd actually made the trek and hadn't passed out from the anxiety of it all. I'd spent my life sliding bass ackwards into any sort of commitments, and my marriage was no exception. First we bought the dog, the car and the house together with me thinking Xanax thoughts at each step. Then, we merged our checking accounts and got a joint credit card. Finally, we tied the knot. We got home from our honeymoon and nothing had changed but my name (truthfully, I couldn't wait to unload my maiden name--UCHITEL--yes, I know, you have no idea how to pronounce it--hence my enthusiasm for ditching it, even though I adored my father).

It wasn't until I became convinced that life as I knew it wouldn't come to a screeching halt that I was able to entertain the prospect of forever. I always believed that marriage would be a ball and chain around my ankle, cramping my considerable style and damning me to hausfrau hell for all eternity. Turns out I was dead wrong. It was the kids who were the real balls and chains. Just kidding, my darling boys.

When we commit to one thing, we pay the opportunity costs of being able to choose something else. And what if we're wrong? What if we find something better elsewhere? After all, the grass is always greener on the other side (which turns out not to be true--I've spoken to a number of my divorced friends who assure me that life after marriage is not all that fun, and dating in mid-life is kind of like trying to find the way out of an Escher drawing, frustrating without much discernible progress.

Zelda has a different problem with commitment, which is based on her unfortunate upbringing by a narcissistic witch of a mother. Given that I was raised by a narcissistic bitch of a mother, Zelda and I are practically twins separated at birth. Narcissistic parents raise distrustful children who grow up to be adults with serious confidence issues-- both in terms of self confidence and confidence in others. Me and Zelda, we've got that going on. Zelda doesn't want to get attached to anyone or anything because she doesn't plan to stick around, so why bother to develop feelings that will inevitably get hurt?  No gain beyond a designer dud, no pain. Seems simple enough.

Have you ever gone to someone's house and there's nothing hanging on the walls? Usually they say something like, "Yeah, well, we never hung the paintings because we figured we'd only be here a year or two."  Meanwhile, they've been living in that bare-walled box for going on seven years. These are people with commitment issues-- not getting attached to physical spaces is usually just the tip of the phobic iceberg; my guess is that folks like this have trouble committing to an entree selection. They get their order, but want to trade with you halfway through. You know these types. Hell, you might even be one of them.

Like Zelda, however, I have learned over time that making a choice and sticking to it can be quite satisfying. I'm still deliriously happy that I decided to marry my sainted husband. And that we put down roots here in Annapolis and raised our family in one place (although the wanderlust in my soul has had to be placated with lots of travel to cool places to see awesome friends as a counterbalance to remaining in our home). There is power and beauty in commitment. There is growth in commitment, including expansion of the heart.  Commitment can even make a heart as small as the Grinch’s grow three sizes at a stretch. And I thought it was just my hips that were expanding.

At the end of Switching Hour, Zelda embraces her destiny. She also bags the hot guy and decides she can tolerate living in the middle of nowhere, as long as she can continue to rock the ultra chic wardrobe (which looks ridiculous in West Virginia, of course, but this is a fantasy book). I guess when you put it like that, happily ever after starts to look pretty good. I can commit to that.

I'm Stuck on a Feeling

I'm still powering through the Audible edition of The Black Dagger Brotherhood series by one of my favorite writer crushes, JR Ward. Currently, Lover Mine is serenading me. This is John Matthew's story, and it's a good one. I'm sure I'll have a lot more to say about John as I continue to listen blissfully to the next 23 hours of heaven. Today's rumination is about love—of the unrequited variety. John Matthew has a bad case. And it's making him a basket case. 

I've often wondered about the affliction known as unreturned feelings.  How is it possible to feel strongly for someone who doesn't return the emotion?  In most of my experience, I've been able to overcome my affection –although perhaps not lust—for men who didn't reciprocate my feelings for them. This does not count, of course, my visceral, excruciatingly painful crush on David Cassidy of Partridge Family fame during my tween years (you know, in the last century—not even that late in the last century). For him, my heart beat faster and my soul yearned. And while he had no idea I was alive (until I met him in person, backstage at a concert, when I was 35—a gift from my beloved husband), I pined for years. 

But that is the point, you see. I had no control over my feelings (or anything else for that matter, as I discussed in my last post). And my feelings did not actually affect the universe: my tears didn’t cause rain to pour down from the heavens – although at times I did feel like I was under a metaphorical rain cloud. My feelings didn't register on David's radar at all. He had no idea that when he sang, “I Think I Love You,” that I thought, “I Can Feel Your Heartbeat.” Feelings don't actually alter reality. As I'm often told by well-meaning friends, feelings aren't facts. And they’re not our fault. 

We can't help the way we feel. We have some input (depending on our level of impulse control) on how we behave in response to our emotions (see my post on this topic here), but many of us can't even master that. Particularly when it comes to love. In one of my all-time favorite movies, Anne of the Thousand Days, Richard Burton's King Henry VIII complains bitterly, "Even a king cannot choose where he will love."  If kings can't do it, then it's probably off the table for the rest of us. 

We can decide—intellectually—that we will feel one way or another. For me, when I've lost that loving feeling, the fat lady is done singing and it's over. Recently, one of my sons impressed the hell out of me in how he broke up with his (first serious) girlfriend. They'd been seeing each other all summer and it had been a very sweet and intense relationship, as summer lovin’ can be with teenagers. With the beginning of the school year and the advent of football season, my son quickly realized that it was too difficult to maintain his relationship at its summertime intensity. Further, he realized that he no longer felt the same way he had a mere three months before. When he spoke to her about parting, he told her, "I'm just not feeling the connection anymore."  What a wonderful (although sad) way to express himself. She was understandably devastated, but she was (emotionally) free to move on, knowing that he doesn't care for her romantically anymore. 

 But my son’s now old flame may not move on. She might pine. She might whine (to her friends). She might not get over my son quickly. Or, she may have another beau next week. Who knows? Whatever she's going to feel, she's going to feel it regardless of what anyone says to her. And whatever he's going to feel, he's going to feel. We are all entitled to our feelings, and we can't get mad at others for how they feel. Never mind that some of these feelings bear no resemblance to reality—we must honor them because feelings are exempt from the blame game — even if we think said feelings are dumb. Not that I'm ever frustrated by this occurrence, mind you. We can't come back with a rapier-like retort because that would just be wrong, right?

So if feelings aren't facts and how we feel is not our fault, what can we do about them?  Well, naturally, we can drink heavily, which is always a good option. It's five o'clock somewhere in the world, isn't it?  We can indulge in our favorite compulsion (chocolate, anyone?). We can make like ostriches and bury our heads in denial and self-delusion. We can act out inappropriately and we can get sick. 

I don't actually recommend any of the above options. None of those choices leads to a happy ending. Instead, we can practice processing our emotions in a healthy and constructive way. We can begin by accurately identifying our feelings, a skill that many lack. When my son was young (the one with the excellent break-up line), he used to get a lot of stomachaches. I was worried about his digestion until someone helped me figure out that what he was experiencing as stomach pain was actually unacknowledged anxiety that was manifesting as physical discomfort. When we were able to address the causes of his anxiety, the tummy troubles resolved themselves. 

For those of us who aren't five years old, you'd think that we could do a better job when we play "Name That Feeling."  Most of us know, generally, when we are happy and sad, irritated and mad. But not all the time. Sometimes, it's hard to know how we are feeling, except that it's bad. We may not have a clue as to what is causing the ill will within us. Emotion identification is a learned skill. I'm sure there are classes on it somewhere. 

Once we've identified our feelings, there are a number of ways to process them. Among my favorites are journaling, yoga, walking, meditating, body work (massage, acupuncture) and energy work (Reiki, chakra balancing). All of these modalities can help us work through strong emotions and prevent them from becoming trapped, only to erupt sometime and somewhere else that is inappropriate. 

Or we can just fake it ‘til we feel it. We can act our way into right feeling good while waiting for the unpleasant feelings to pass. Which they usually do. Eventually. If we allow ourselves to feel them as opposed to bury them. 

Feelings are a messy business. It's why Vulcans, those clever aliens, eschew them. So much cleaner without those pesky emotions. At the beginning of Lover Mine, it's clear that John Matthew thinks so. He'd love to be a Vulcan instead of a vampire. But he's stuck with his feelings, just like the rest of us. 
 

Out of Control

As I mentioned in my bio (I trust you've memorized it by now, naturally), I suffered from disordered eating for many years, starting when I was sixteen. My teenaged years were not kind to me, and I responded to the vagaries of fate and the cruelty of my mother by controlling the only thing I could, my body. My mother monitored every morsel that crossed my lips, so of course I wanted to eat the world. But I didn't want to get fat. My friend showed me how to stick my fingers down my throat. Voila! Problem solved; I could have my cake and eat it too – all while wearing skinny jeans. I could get away with something. I could have something that was mine, mine, all mine – secrets. I could maintain control. All of us do it. Whether it's a daily ritual – performing morning ablutions in a specific order, or engaging in superstitious activities prior to getting on an airplane; I require my husband tell me that, "everything is going to be all right," before I step on a plane – each and every flight, before each leg of a journey, whether we are flying together or not. We think if we are excruciatingly careful –cross all our t's and dot every last I — nothing bad will happen. If we take our umbrella, it won't rain. If we avoid broken mirrors, our luck will hold. If we always use our turn signals, we will drive safely and avoid accidents. We believe that if we're with our children, they won't get sick or hurt. We strive to do what's expected of us in the hope that we'll get our white picket fence or whatever else constitutes our ideal HEA.

But here's the thing:  none of it matters. Control is an illusion, a soap bubble of iridescent beauty that we long to follow to the ends of the earth, only to have it pop the moment we try to touch it. Why am I feeling so fatalistic?   It’s Maria Dahvana Headley’s fault. I’m enthralled by her extraordinary new novel, Queen of Kings, about Cleopatra, vampire and destroyer of worlds.  In Queen of Kings, Cleopatra tries to control her life’s outcome by summoning the goddess Sehkmet, and in so doing, she destroys everything.

There is a formula for happiness and contentment that exhorts us to take action and let go of the results: to act as if everything were up to us and pray as if all results were up to God. We can only do what we can do. And we can't do what we cannot do. Sounds simplistic, I know, but how many of us actually take these axioms to heart? Very few of us.

Too many of us force our wills all over our lives and the lives of those around us. You know what I mean; we want something to work so badly, or we believe that a certain outcome is critical to our happiness or success, so we move heaven and earth to achieve it (or we try, at least).  We sacrifice time, relationships, our health and our wealth to “make” something happen.  We try to force an issue through brute strength or dogged persistence or saccharine sweetness. When our efforts fail, we redouble our efforts, only to stand stymied when our children do something irrevocably stupid, or we don't get the job, or our spouse walks out on us, commenting that, "I'm not happy."  Even worse, we are baffled when the doctor pronounces a dread disease, or a promising treatment fails to deliver despite our best efforts and entreaties to God.  Cleopatra goes down this road with disastrous results—she wants to ensure eternity for herself and her love, Mark Antony, and she is willing to do anything or give anything up to achieve that—including her soul.  We all know what happens when we make Faustian bargains.  And yet we do it anyway—convinced we know what we need to make us happy or complete. We believe that what we need is control over outcomes.  If only… fill in the blank any way you want. If only we had control, all would be well.

But, we have no control. We just like to pretend we do. We listen to motivational speakers and Nike ads that tell us to ‘just do it.’ And we do. Which is great. But then what?  What happens when one of my wonderful indie author friends finally gets her book published, only to see her sales fall to single digits, despite the quality of the material? How can we believe there is any literary control to be had when 50 Shades of Grey is a blockbuster, and Rose Montague, Lilo J. Abernathy and Elle Boca aren't on all the bestseller lists?  No control.

The way I figure it, if Cleopatra, with all her power and influence, couldn't make things turn out to her liking, how will we lesser mortals fare?  If Princess Di can be cut down in the full flower of life, anyone can be, right?  If Paul Walker can die so senselessly, what master plan could be in play? No control. We have no control.

So what does that mean?  Does it mean we throw our hands in the air and the the towel down to the ground and say, "The hell with it?"  Of course not. It means that we continue to take action. Perhaps not the kind chosen by the vampiric version of the Queen of the Nile, but action nonetheless.

Because we can be certain of only one thing:  while we can't guarantee the outcomes of our actions, we can reliably predict the result of inaction: nothing.

So, we must summon strength from our God(s), rituals, or magical thinking, and keep on keeping on because while we can’t control most outcomes, wresting control of our fate via inaction won't give us the outcomes we're hoping to achieve.  No control. 

Still Waters Run Deep

I went to the saddest funeral I’ve ever attended yesterday. While the widow (a second wife, married 15 years) seemed sad (she was crying), she was alone in her grief; hers was the only damp eye in the house. The pastor’s eulogy was formulaic. When the dead man's eldest daughter spoke about her deceased father, the most personal detail she shared was how many blue jeans he owned, because it was all he wore. I didn't know this man well, but I found myself thinking I didn't miss much. Could that be true?  Could it be that there was no there there? Contemplating the superficiality of some lives got me to thinking about  Kimberly Raye’s Dead End Dating series. The protagonist, Lil, about whom I've written before, is certainly likable, but she's not particularly deep. I wonder what her eulogy would sound like--she was sweet and she loved Prada?  Because, honestly, there's not much there, there. On the other hand, as my friend claims, maybe depth is highly overrated. 

But is it?  I'm a big fan of depth. I persist in the belief that every human has some there, there even if it's not much. As a natural health practitioner, I spend quite a bit of time listening to people’s backstories. On the surface, some of these folks appear simple, mean, shallow or petty. But it's been my experience that when you scratch the surface, assuming someone has lowered their defenses enough to acknowledge the itch, there is usually a hidden current that others may know nothing about. But, do still waters always run deep?  Is everyone who plays their cards close to their chest hiding a royal flush?  I think the law of averages says that not all are – but there are some. How can we distinguish between those whose depths are worth mining and those whose veins have run dry, or worse, yield only fool's gold?

Sometimes, it's hard to discern the difference.  In some cases,  the vein is buried so deeply beneath denial, distractions and the deadening effect of abandoned dreams, that it becomes wholly inaccessible to anyone. And how sad is that?  If we assume that every child on this planet is born with the potential to lead an extraordinary life and to experience the full spectrum of emotions, why doesn’t every embodied spirit do it?  What happened to those who don't?  Or, is my assumption wrong, and there are some who enter the world superficial from the start? What about the guy whose funeral I attended? What happened to him along the way that the most the pastor could say was that he had five children, owned an HVAC business and dressed in denim? What happened to his there? And do Lil’s waters run deep – so deep that we’ll have to wait until another book to see what’s churning beneath her designer duds?

Many of us project our own inner screen onto others. If we are deep and interesting (as I know all of my readers are!), we assume the same about others and that we just haven't uncovered it all yet. This creates a delicious challenge to uncover the buried treasure of someone's hidden personality, one of my favorite activities. All of us want to know what's behind the mask of the Phantom of the Opera, don't we?  Of course, sometimes we are disappointed or horrified when we pull that mask off, but what’s life without a little risk? And that is the promise that keeps me digging like a dog after a bone–I want to plumb others’ hidden depths.  This insatiable and optimistic curiosity will incite me to buy another book in the Dead End Dating series in the hope that Lil’s creator will allow us to see further beneath her still waters.

I'm a wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve, don't-try-to-play-poker-because-your-face-will-give-you-away kind of gal. As a result, I tend to project sagacity and iron-fisted control (which I admire) onto those who keep their thoughts and emotions to themselves (I also tend to want to poke such people till they bleed, which I've discussed here, but I digress). I figure that all of that silence and intensity is masking profundity.  After all, if someone has the ability to look wise and contemplative in the face of titillating revelations and provocative rejoinders, there must be a plethora of activity occurring below that placid surface. If we could only get to it.

Unfortunately, I've had to (reluctantly) abandon this belief. Sometimes, it is ignorance and apathy that inspire silence and solemnity.  Maybe that was the case with the recently deceased denim-wearing HVAC dude?  Maybe, because sometimes those quiet types offer no supremacy of circumspection and authority of erudition to explain their measured, non-committal responses. Sometimes there really is no there there--no deep thoughts, no concern for the world at large There are people who just meander through their days wondering which questions they can answer on Jeopardy, or the size of  Kim Kardashian's butt , the next HVAC job or the latest Prada collection. Some folks create and inhabit worlds that are so small they have nothing to talk about and don’t leave people with anything to say about them at their funerals. 

I don't want to be like that poor dead man. And I don't want to be like Lil, frankly, even though she is funny and entertaining and has a better wardrobe than I. I want to make sure there's a lot of there there in me and in those with whom I hang . I don't think depth is overrated – I think it’s highly underrated. I believe in buried treasure. So, if your waters are still – I will come digging… and maybe find something worthy of inclusion in a eulogy. I plan to leave people with a lot to say – hopefully most of it good.

Why I Write What I Write

This post first appeared on the Write Bitches website back in May 2015. I appreciate their asking me to think about this topic.  I’m reprinting it here because I need a bit of a reminder about why I’m doing this.

I used to be a writer. When I was a child, and probably until around my early teenage years, I was “known” for my writing abilities (you know, by my elementary school). I won childhood awards for my fiction, and I went to sleep at night thinking of stories about imaginary people whose lives consumed me. I still have the novel I wrote when I was 12, an episodic adventure about three people stranded on a desert island, complete with a love triangle and contemplations of mortality and integrity (I was a precocious tween). I drafted over a hundred hand-written pages, and I remember the intense pride I felt at the accomplishment.

Fast-forward many years. While I still employed my interest and skills in pursuit of academic and professional excellence, I stopped writing for myself entirely. I’m not clear about what happened, but it probably involved severe family dysfunction, a descent into addiction, and the resulting loss of my essential self. I forgot who and what I was. I lost sight of my fundamental identity as a writer and it has taken me a long time to reclaim the faculties that make me who I am and largely define why I am here.

We’ve all read the adage that writers write because they have to. There is something inside us that needs to be released. I understand that metaphor, but as I consider my writing, I don’t quite experience it that way. For me, my mind and my hands feel like conduits for something outside of myself that is using me as an amanuensis. Sometimes the experience is more of a dialogue that I am transcribing, and I am able to engage with my Muse and produce the results of our “conversation.” At other times, I will sit down with pen and paper, or at my computer, or just with my thumbs tapping rhythmically at my phone’s touch screen (a favorite writing position for me, strangely), and have no idea what is going to come out. At those times, I’m often filled with a sense of wonder and excitement, as the words that fill the page or the screen disclose themselves to me.

There are times when I read what I’ve written and marvel at the nuance and complexity of my Muse. Occasionally I’ll look back and realize I written something that was revelatory to me. Sometimes, I’ll recognize the thoughts and the analytical process behind the concepts, but the precise expression will make me smile with gratitude that I was the vehicle of expression for those particular phrases.

I write what I write because it’s what I have to say. There is an imperative quality to my writing, now that the faculty has been restored to me. The writing is a gift and a demand of my Muse, who I have embraced once again, and I find I must honor it or ignore it at my peril. Occasionally, I indulge in fantasies of what I wish I could write, but cannot. In my dreams, I create epic stories in my beloved fantasy genre; I join my idols in the paranormal and urban fantasy world and produce books that readers like me fall into and lose themselves completely, only to emerge from the fictional world transformed by the experience. Would that I could write such novels. But I can’t. Because while these writers are my rock stars, I’m only with the band, not part of it. I write what I’m inspired to write while reading the inspiration of others. I’m a derivative writer, rather than an original producer. But that’s OK. I’m profoundly grateful for the gifts I’ve been given, even if they are not the ones I would have chosen. You know, me and Mick, we can’t always get what we want, but apparently we can get what we need.

When I first picked up my pen again after a decades-long hiatus, I had dreams of fame and fortune associated with my newfound passion. I would look out into the distance and think about all the people whose lives I would touch and change for the better. I fantasized about speaking engagements and book signings and television interviews. I was so sure my writing didn’t “count” unless it was externally validated. It seemed to me like the tree falling in the forest; if I wrote and no one read my words, did they make a sound?

I’ve since abandoned that line of thought as my Muse has gently reminded me that the gift is wholly independent of outside input. In fact, my Muse demands complete detachment from the fruits of my labor. As in many aspects of life, I must take the action and let go of the results, as I have absolutely no control over what anyone thinks of my writing, how others will interpret it, and whether it will go anywhere beyond my hands. I spill onto the page and release my words to the universe. Perhaps they will return to me in the form of recognition and praise. Maybe they will join the infinite number of their fellows in the ether, never to be seen or heard from again, except as additional bricks in the wall of creativity that separates our species from the others that inhabit our world.

Art will out. It must, or risk becoming a festering wound, a stone baby, poisoning its creators. Art is love, and love is generative. Whether we experience our writing as spores that grow within us needing to be liberated into the world, or as a whisper in our ear that insists on being given voice, our writing must be freed of the confines of our minds and our souls. In letting go of our words, writers are renewed, expanded, allowed to progress in our purpose and able to feel fulfilled.

That’s why I write what I write.
 

To Infinity and Beyond

I'm in the middle of reading Dead End Dating by Kimberly Raye. It's as light and airy as a good soufflé, and just about as filling. But one needs a good dessert every now and then, and I'm enjoying this sweet diversion. Ms. Raye has created an interesting world. One's outward appearance and social and economic status can be trumped by one's ability to procreate; male and female desirability is rated according to their fertility. This matrix would’ve put me at the edge of the dating pool. But because I wasn’t born a vampire, it doesn't matter. Of course, I'm not a made vampire either, or even a werevamp, so I don't fit into Ms. Raye's world at all, more's the pity. But here's the thing about the world of Dead End Dating (DED): it's just like ours, except that it includes creatures of the night. Which allows me to think about eternity in terms I can understand—and which make me shudder. In the novel, our protagonist, Lil, must deal with parental expectations, financial realities, adult responsibilities, family obligations and the stigma of being single. Lil tries to buck the system by remaining aggressively unattached and attempting to make her own way in the world through innovative entrepreneurship. But her choice of commerce belies the militancy of her stance concerning the need for a life partner—which in this world is called—frighteningly—an "eternity mate."  Lil runs a dating service for lonely heart vampires. Yup. She's a vampire Yenta (for those of you who don't speak Yiddish, that means "matchmaker"--like the one in Fiddler on the Roof). Just what the vampire world needed. 

And while this novel indulges my taste for escapist fiction— it's certainly doing the trick of distracting me from my errant children (who are grounded this week and banned from their electronic devices, including phones) and the confounding dashboard on my new car (which I had to get because I totaled my old car last week—don't ask), there is an unsettling undercurrent pulling me toward dangerous waters as I metaphorically turn the pages on my Kindle.

The problem is a mixed message on a number of different levels. In the born vampire world of DED, there is no such thing as love, and finding an eternity mate is all about propagating the species. Individuals with the best chance of making baby vampires are supposed to get together and take – or make as the case may be –one for the team. Very clinical. And yet, apparently, these practical pairings are expected to go the distance—which in this case can last hundreds of years, if not more.

Contrast that with Lil's perspective, which is a little paradoxical. She claims to be a modern vamp—who happens to be 500 years old. She is a ‘fish and bicycle’ kinda gal. But, simultaneously, she's holding out for true love—fertility ratings be damned. And, her clients are the antithesis of her claim that women need a man as much as fish need bicycles.

So which is it?  Do women need men or not?   Should we hold out for true love or settle for compatibility? This is not a facetious question—there is a lot to be said for compatibility especially over the long, long haul.  Everyone always says passion fades—but a similar approach to neatness, eating, sleeping, money and sex, among other things, makes a lifetime together pleasant as well as pleasurable.  In the DED world, compatibility is gauged in terms of fecundity and virility, but it presents a good thought exercise for our world nonetheless.

Seems to me that the answer is simple—which doesn't make acting on it easy. Women don't need men to be complete their lives. There is no shame or tragedy in being single—particularly when it is by choice and not circumstance. We women can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and never forget that we don't need a man (isn't that how it goes?  No, well maybe it should). And for those of us who choose men with whom we had passion but not lasting love, that's okay too. Passion is fun and life affirming. Which is awesome and not everyone gets to experience such passion.

In the same way, some of us choose a more steady, less exciting path. Also an excellent choice, and many of these pairings are able to run the marathon and not just the sprint because of the even keel of both boats (yes, I'm shamelessly mixing metaphors, I know). Again, not everyone gets to make this choice, and not all of us would choose it, given the chance.

Some of us, among those who desire to partner for life, are lucky enough to have it all—passion and compatibility. Lucky us. But from where I'm sitting, this is not an everyday occurrence, and should not be expected. Because while most of us grow up thinking we will eventually marry and perhaps reproduce, some of us come to believe that the idea of an eternity mate inspires thoughts of Meatloaf. Not the dinner entree, but the musician who sings "Paradise by the Dashboard Light."  Poor Meatloaf is praying for the end of time, so he can end his time with his mate. Eternity can feel like forever, especially with the wrong partner.

Let’s hope Lil does her job well, even if not for herself. Because in her world, the dashboard light is on for an awfully long time – as is the one in my new car… which I hope to have figured out how to turn off shortly.