...A Right Guy

I looked it at like this way. To get folks to like you, as a screen player I mean, I figured you had to sort of be their ideal. I don't mean a handsome knight riding a white horse, but a fella who answered the description of a right guy.—Gary Cooper

One of the sexiest men in the world—in my humble opinion—is Russell Crowe. I hear that gravelly voice and my belly contracts with delicious spasms. No matter what role he plays, he reaches from the screen and grabs me by the hair, drags me with him into this dreamy, sexy world and kisses me senseless, makes love to me until the proverbial cows come home. He’s earthy, virile, sensitive, romantic, dripping with sensuality. 

Is he handsome? I think so, many don’t. To tell you the truth, I’ve never paused in my hero worship long enough to really focus on his looks. His aura, his charisma, is so strong it snaps my lovesick brain and libido straight from his face to his soul. And there—in that soul—lives the man. There lives the sex. 

As Crowe has aged, though, the press has had a field day with his added weight, his sometimes scraggly appearance. They’ve crucified him for doing what we ALL do, what none of us can avoid…getting older. 

It’s this celebrity’s grace and detachment from the tide of ridicule that has also made this woman take a deeper look at him. He just is who he is, he’s happy with that and the rest of the world can kiss his Aussie ass. 

That’s a hero to me.

The reason I’ve mentioned Russell Crowe today is because I recently introduced the hero of my WIP into the story. I wrote him as a big man. An entire football team in one body. 

What’s wrong with that? Nothing. Many sexy heroes in stories are very big men. How sexy is that? Very sexy. But…but…I knew I could get away with him being big. I knew I could still have him fit the traditional mold of big, bulky hero—as long as I could conventionalize him and make him muscular, make him ripped. Even sexier, eh? 

I could construct him carefully as a big guy and still make him marketable.

But, knowing I was eventually going to come face-to-face with this hero in a scene in which he would disrobe, the ripped image wasn’t what my mind truly saw. It never had been. 

My heart and soul held a very clear image of a big man who wasn’t perfectly built—a massive fellow who had love handles, thick waist, a belly instead of a six-pack—the whole big guy nine yards. 

But the inner light from this man, combined with his confidence and unquestionable power are his sex appeal. 

Some might say, Oh, cool, a character SHOULD be flawed.

Joyce Maynard says, The painter who feels obligated to depict his subjects as uniformly beautiful or handsome and without flaws will fall short of making art.

 

Hold on there, though, chicas and chicos. THERE is the rub. I don’t find my character’s extra weight, his abstinence from the gym, to be flaws. 

And I become livid with constant attention to these ‘flaws’ in men (and women) suggesting they cannot have sex appeal, they cannot be fabulous lovers or are less than perfect in some way because they aren’t svelte or ripped. 

As I’ve watched some of my favorite stars mature from beautiful youth into even more beautiful middle age and beyond, I’m enraged at tabloids that slap pictures of them with their new ‘love handles’ and softer bellies as though they ought to be put out to pasture now. As though those very cosmetic features were what made them sexy in the first place. Hogwash. No, forgive my language, but I’m mad—bullshit.

Anyone who knows me knows that another of my favorite heartthrobs is the Italian actor, Alessandro Gassman. Sure, when I first laid eyes on him, he was young, he was tall and lean, he was gorgeous. As he’s advanced into mid-life, the newspapers and magazines have been merciless in their critical attention to his physique. 

But, to me, he is one hundred times—no, one thousand times—more beautiful BECAUSE he’s maturing. He’s evolving into one of the most unbearably handsome men I’ve ever seen. 

For this reason—this fury over the preoccupation with physical perfection—I knew I could not, would not, betray my beautiful, big, beefy character by denying him his very identity. No way will I do it. 

I realize my character may not be a money-maker. By stripping him of any physical perfection he may have had, I could very well be also stripping myself of royalties. Hell, a publisher might not even accept him. 

And, again, I want to remind you that I’m not considering his less-than-pristine physique as a flaw. It is not a flaw. It is just who he is. 

In my mind and heart, I see a very sexy, charismatic man. A man I’d love to melt into, to be snug against every extra inch of his warm body. His soul is excruciatingly beautiful. 

The challenge? To, by the power of my writing, make the READER see the same man I see. To endear the reader to the PERSON, not his body, to drag them straight—like Russell Crowe does me—to his soul. 

Bottom line. Age, maturity, the beauty of experience that only life can produce and the evolution of bodies are not flaws. Wrinkles around a pair of eyes are character attributes—awards for having lived—not flaws. 

And, sugar, if anybody ever told you that sex comes only in one size, that it’s only offered in size thirty-two waist or less? They told you wrong.

A Good Deed in a Naughty World...

How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
~William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice

My blog today is dedicated to one of the most beautiful men I know. Tom Webb. 

And this day, by coincidence—as I’d already planned the post—is his birthday. So I not only am able to celebrate the work of this man I’m simply mad about but I can also celebrate his birthday.

Tom, it IS okay to tell everyone that today is your big 5-0? Fifty years old today! 

Tom is a hero. Not one whose name you’ll see in People Magazine, but one of those priceless souls who works behind the scenes for a huge cause—serving individuals and families living with HIV/AIDS.

He is the Director of Finance for Living Room, a non-profit agency in the metro Atlanta area. This agency provides emergency housing related services (utility support, rent/mortgage payments), housing referrals and subsidized housing support. Their goal is to help low income and/or homeless people and families find housing, and assist them in moving to some kind of permanent housing.

Living Room was founded in 1995 by a nun who worked with Trinity Community Missions. She worked with Grady Infectious Disease Program (IDP) and saw a need for people who came in to get hooked up with housing. Eventually, it was incorporated as an independent nonprofit organization. They have served more than 21,000 households since formed.

Tom says of himself, I am really just an average guy. I decided to take the talent I have for accounting and finance and use it to help those who need it most. I am VERY good at stretching a dollar and using it to get the most bang for the clients.  I am told by other staff I am good at learning program, and translating it to finance and explaining how we arrive at financial decisions. Also at learning how to streamline operations and utilizing staff and resources to get the most work done for the least amount of money, so we can use as many dollars as we can to get to kids, HIV positive individuals, or whoever needs to.

Let me tell you something. I know Tom, and he is no average guy. He’s a beautiful soul. He makes me smile. Every day. Not only because I’m aware of his magnanimous heart and his quiet but huge work in his field, but because he’s simply a lovely heart. 

Tom—close your ears, my friend—is truly one of those wonderful men who fit the classic female complaint, All the good ones are either married or gay. He IS gay; but, if he were not, I’d be knocking at his door because he’s strong but tender, fiercely protective of his friends and—well, hell, he calls me McCarol. How could a girl not love that? 

Okay, now that Tom is thoroughly blushed out by my shameless gushing, let me tell you how he got into this vein of work.

In his own words: I lost several very good friends—one especially—to HIV and AIDS. My best friend from the age of 12 contracted HIV, and he decided rather than to ask for support and love, went to the west coast, where he went to college at Stanford, and die unannounced and unmourned. I didn't even know what happened for three years until I finally found a cousin of his who I went to school with. She told me, and I just can't tell you how it made me feel to know he died alone because he was afraid to ask for help. He was too proud. So, I try to do what I can to make sure another Jim doesn't have to happen.

Much of Tom’s story is best told in his own words, as he told to me. To give you an example of some of the things my friend has seen up close and personal is this account from another agency, The Bridge, where he worked prior to Living Room: It broke my heart to hear some of the stories of these kids. One young boy had been forced to have sex with his mother and sister, and it was videotaped for his mom and her boyfriend to sell for money. He was also prostituted for money so they could buy drugs. When he came to The Bridge, he was about 13 years old, a tiny beautiful little boy who had already been in 20 out of home placements. We helped him learn to deal with his issues of trusting adults and knowing how to interact with people who didn't want to use him sexually. He was eventually able to move to another placement, either a group home or foster family, I can't remember which, and was doing very well last time I heard. 

I got to interact with these kids, learn to love some of them as very special to me. They called me Mr. Tom, and I always kept this huge bucket of candy in my office so they could come up to see me and get a treat when they were on good behavior and wanted to come talk. I became almost a mentor to some, and some of them would come just to talk to someone who didn't judge them or want to provide therapy.  We all learned to talk the same strength based, family focused way of dealing with the kids (identify their strengths and support them in those traits, and not buy in to their behaviors that didn't work well for them).  

We had a pet therapy program, and the kids would love and handle pets and even talk to them where they couldn't do it with an adult.  I would bring my new dog in to work, and they would be able to work with our Animal Assisted Therapist, with a pet, to learn trust, impulse control and empathy.  

Tough stuff, isn’t it? Hearing Tom’s account of such horrific treatment to such innocents made me grateful that—although we weren’t wealthy and there were many things I could not provide for my child—I knew my daughter had love in our home. Sometimes we take this free but priceless commodity for granted. But I’m betting Tom, after his eyewitness experience with kids and families less fortunate, would tell us to cherish our love-filled homes. 

Tom said this to me: I am really nothing special, McCarol, just someone who does the best he can to help somebody else with what meager talents I have. No shit. What I want people to know is, anything they have to offer agencies like the ones I have worked with is appreciated, whether it is time, money, or sometimes just mentioning it to a friend who may know someone who knows someone with deeper pockets. 

I disagree with Tom on his not being special. He IS something special. He’s an urban angel. He’s a wonderful friend. He’s…Tom!

Tom, my friend—and, I swear sometimes I think my guardian angel—I adore you, I admire you, I love you, you unselfish man. You inspire me, you make my heart smile with hope. The hope of knowing there are caring hands for those who need them most. 

So can you all see why this is such a special day? This wonderful, quiet hero turns fifty today! 

Wishes for a happy, happy birthday to you, Tom! Wish I could be there to give you a huge hug in person and to share some birthday cake with you, and to sing—at the top of my warbling lungs—For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow! A DAMN good fellow!

The willingness to share does not make one charitable; it makes one free.  ~Robert Brault

Welcome, Erik Orrantia...

Hello, C. Zampa here. 

If you know me at all, you know I am enamored by all things Mexico. Of course, there is my infamous obsession with Hispanic men. But, beneath all the obvious—the dreamy perception Americans like myself have of the mysterious, wildly beautiful romance of the quintessential Latino male—there is a serious fascination with the country, its people, its culture, the very flavor of Mexico. 

But my blog today is not about me and my fascination for Mexico. I’m only reminding you about my love affair with Mexico so that you’ll understand why I’m ecstatic to have—as my VERY first blog guest ever—author Erik Orrantia.

I chose Erik because my radar immediately picked up his signal when I read about the release of his first book, Normal Miguel. I was intrigued by the 

premise of the story, the cover, everything. Orrantia had become a quiet, very interesting presence in the literary world. Then he announced his second book, The Equinox Convergence—which promises to be a compelling read—and I was excited. I knew this author was going to bloom into a powerhouse writing voice, and it thrills me to have front row tickets to witness his journey.

Erik lives in Tijuana, Baja California with his partner of seven years. He has traveled extensively throughout Mexico and hopes to share part of his experience through novels.

I’ve begun reading The Equinox Convergence, and I’m already hooked. Below Orrantia shares descriptions of this book and Normal Miguel. 

He has also included information and buy links below as well as a link to his blog. And I insist you visit his blog, as his latest post is about…sigh…Mexico. A beautiful essay about the contrast between the country’s infamous corruption and crime and its true, breathtaking and simple beauty. 

So, Erik, welcome to Casa de Zampa! The floor is yours….

****************************************************************************************

Mexico, the Unreported Side (by Erik Orrantia)

Just short of 500 years ago, the great Aztec emperor, Moctemuza II, respectfully received Hernán Cortés and his entourage whose shiny armor protected pale skin and whose forged helmets offset their strange beards. The visitor might have been the god-king Queztalcóatl returning to reclaim his throne—the Aztecs couldn’t be too careful. Instead, the invaders executed the emperor, brought disease and slavery to his people, and set off Mexico’s modern history rank with revolutionary and civil war, corruption and pillage, oppression and classism, and economic and natural disaster.

Though today Mexico has enjoyed nearly a century absent of major political strife, its continued reputation as a third-world, Central American country has been further tarnished by its ongoing War on Drugs as it attempts to eradicate drug cartels from its premises. Because their combined income reaches as much as $50 billion per annum, they represent a formidable adversary to a country whose entire defense budget is barely $6 billion per year. As Mexico applies pressure to the cartels centered around urban and border centers like Acapulco and Tijuana, the entire trade is spreading into the rural areas the way clay squeezes between the fingers of a clenching fist. Gory photos on the front pages of daily newspapers announce the on-going presence of the cartels between the streets of everyday life…and their growing desperation—rival members tortured and beheaded, police and military personnel kidnapped and slaughtered, and politicians assassinated in front of the public eye. The War on Drugs has claimed over 40,000 people since its inception less than a decade ago.

There is another side of the story. Take it from a person who has lived in Mexico for the past fourteen years. Life continues to flourish, culture develops, and a new consciousness of conservation and humanity is not whispered but boldly spoken among the people, the vast majority of whom are honest, hard-working, amicable folks with strong ethical values and respect for others. For every Mexican laborer seeking work in distant lands, even more foreigners follow the 20,000 gray whales, and millions of monarch butterflies and tree swallows who enter Mexico to partake in its abundance of natural resources, cultural offerings, and serene beauty.

Though only a quarter the area of its northern neighbor, the length Mexico’s coastline equals that of the contiguous United States. Its peaks reach to heights of nearly 10,000 feet, its canyons boast depths greater than their Arizona counterpart, and its enviable latitudinal position provide ecosystems the gamut of ecosystems from expansive deserts in the north and lush rainforests south of the Tropic of Cancer. Though the ancient times of the Aztecs and Maya are over, Mexico still recognizes over 60 indigenous languages in a population of 10 million indigenous people, many of whose tribal ways of life have endured. Like the awesome sea turtle once hunted to near-extinction, the value of the indigenous cultures has been formally recognized, and legal protections have been instilled to protect them.

Let’s put away the statistics and the big picture for a moment and stand on a small town street corner, or walk inside a typical home, attend a quinceañera or a wedding, or chat with a señora or a muchacha. They will instantly disarm us—not literally, of course; we will quickly forget what our friends back home told us about keeping our wallets in our front pockets or hiding our necklaces beneath our blouses. They’ll offer us their humble homes and meticulously prepared food. They’ll practice the Golden Rule. They will remind us about the importance of education in both its formal, academic sense, and its second meaning—good old-fashioned manners. They will show respect for elderly and for teachers. They will make us wonder about, and maybe even embarrass us inside for, all the preconceived and largely incorrect notions we had about the country we were (hesitantly) about to visit. Hopefully, we’ll apply that same doubt to all the other preconceived notions we had about everything else in the world. Well, one step into foreign territory at a time. 

The point is that, despite the lingering distrust many commonly feel toward Mexicans or about Mexico in general, and despite the real and bloody war against the powerful drug mafia, the greater truth is that most of the world misjudges and, consequently, misses out. True, one has to be as vigilant in Mexico as in any unknown place, or even in the streets of many familiar but potentially dangerous places. And true, there are people out there, including Mexico, who take advantage of others, especially rich tourists. Also true, one’s life expectancy is automatically and seriously reduced when he decides to directly participate in either side of the War on Drugs. But life is full of risks, isn’t it? And we take risks that Bilbo Baggins via J.R.R. Tolkien summed up better than I ever could: “It's a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no telling where you might be swept off to.” Take an adventure in Mexico. Its bad side is not nearly as bad as one might think, and its good side is probably far better than one might imagine.

Now, in case you haven’t read either of my books to date, and might prefer to take a virtual trip before you get your plane flight to Mexico, I have tried to capture many of the nuances, splendor, and reality of the culture that I have so far discovered. Normal Miguel, a Lambda Literary Award winner, tells the story of a gay student teacher as he completes his year of student teaching in the rural hills of Puebla. He discovers many tricks of his trade as he gets to know his students and those with whom he works, but he also confronts obstacles as he develops a relationship with the local candy store owner. The Equinox Convergence is another genre altogether.  This is the harrowing story of a young shaman girl in Guerrero who crosses paths with Bennie, a young drug runner. He aspires to quick wealth but finds himself stuck in the drug trade where his only choice is to follow directions, even when demanded to go beyond any moral limits. But like the equinox, light and darkness balance out. I hope you’ll consider them, or at least stop by my website, http://erikorrantia.com/, to check out my posts and carry on the conversation. Thank you, C. Zampa, for the chance to share. 

Excuse Me, But You Are So...

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely. ~Roald Dahl



It was the mid-1980’s. A young woman—no Marilyn Monroe, by any stretch of the imagination, but reasonably attractive—sat with her date in a club. Dressed in a pretty pink blouse and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans (I DID say this was the 80’s!), she looked and felt pretty sexy.


But her companion was a bit inattentive, his Rico Suave gaze roaming the place. His attitude shouted loud and clear that he was sure he could do much better than the pretty-ish woman beside him. And he probably could have.


Then something happened. Something so unexpected, so odd, so startling, it changed the woman’s life.


A stranger, a very good-looking man, stood at his table and said goodnight to the waitress as he laid his money on her tray.


Then he walked straight to the lady in the pink blouse and stopped at her table. He addressed the woman’s date first, Excuse me, he said. I’m sorry, man, if I’m out of line, but I’ve just got to say this. Then the handsome stranger turned to the woman and murmured, You are so goddamn beautiful. Before the lady could react, the man smiled at her date, saying, You’re a lucky man.


And, just like that, the mysterious man was gone.


One flash in time, a little basketful of verbal flowers, and the lady in the pink blouse’s inner beauty—which had surely been dormant, as she never knew she even HAD inner beauty—lit up inside her. She glowed that night, smiled, flirted, felt—beautiful.

Her date suddenly saw her through this total stranger’s eyes and, from that point on, became quite the attentive escort.


The lady in the pink blouse? That was me. And the odd thing? I was not, still am not, outstanding in the looks department. Who knows what that stranger saw? Who knows exactly what attracts one person to another? Chemistry? A soul connection? Maybe he just liked pink blouses on brunettes? I’ll never know.


But since that night, and through the years, I’ve been fascinated by human attraction and its uncanny mystery.


For myself, sure, there are the obvious draws that I find attractive in men. It’s no secret I love my dark-haired men. I have exquisite, exotic fantasies of my Italian lovers with their black eyes and full lips, their perfect bodies. Gods in men’s physiques. A charming accent is, without a doubt, irresistible.


But that’s just my fantasy. That is what I like to look at in pictures, to admire in public, to drool over. But it’s not real to me, it doesn’t appeal to me beyond the external, the obvious allure.


There’s a reason this has all hit me today. Earlier this week, I blogged my thoughts about finding soul mates. The thought had been so strong in my mind.


Then, this morning, I accidentally stumbled on a picture of someone who I found, much to my surprise, to be incredibly sexy. So sexy I couldn’t take my eyes from him. And, in truth, he’s sort of lingered in my mind all day.


He was a very young man—what?—no older than his twenties, probably. Skinny as a beanpole, he wore glasses and had bleached blond hair, wild and curly. Not ripped with six pack abs—actually, he didn’t even have a three-pack set of abs. At first glance, very ordinary.


In fact, he would fit perfectly in one of those vintage ads for body building. You know the ones. The buff guy mocking the 98-pound weakling, taunting, Hey, Skinny! Kicking sand in his face. He could be the poster boy for the old Charles Atlas ads…Do you want to look like THIS? He’d BE the 98-pound weakling.


Then his most outstanding feature—his smile—caught my attention. A huge, brilliant, need-sunglasses-to-look-at-it blinding smile. Very toothy. A skinny little scarecrow with huge teeth and glasses.


Somehow, inexplicably, I found myself so attracted to this young man, actually finding him incredibly sexy. No, not lothario sexy—let me bed you, my darling, and wrap you in roses and kisses sexy—just…sexy.


The beauty, the intense beauty, that radiated from this man drew me to him, then caused me to stop, to tarry. From the brilliant, effervescent smile, my gaze moved to see that he had very nice hands…expressive hands. Nice, strong, handsome feet. Light, smooth skin. Details which, when observed as a whole picture, blended to make a very handsome person.


But the personality. This shit-eating, lively, I-love-me-I-love-you-I love-life burst of sunshine from this skinny little person. Made him ten feet tall, transformed him into an Adonis, made him bright as the sun, made him so damn sexy and irresistible this girl can't stop thinking about him.


I knew, deep down, if that smile—that glorious, infectious smile—walked into my life, no matter how skinny, how heavy, how tall, how short, how much hair, how rich, how poor…I’d beg to dance in the light of him.


I noticed that my young, broad-smiled, bespectacled dream man is married, and I—like my own stranger/admirer long ago—thought of his wife, You’re a lucky lady.


To be lucky enough to bask in a smile I loved, to see that sunshine everyday, to be the one to cheer him up when his sun wasn’t shining, to be the one that exceptional smile shined on—what a romantic idea. What a sexy idea. Not the stuff romance novels are made of, but real-life, you-are-my-sunshine, you-are-so-goddamn-beautiful-inside-I-can-hardly-stand-it reality.


Elizabeth Kubler-Ross said, People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.






And I’m pretty sure this was the caliber of beauty I saw this morning in my skinny little dream man. Something so bright, so full of life, so obviously dredged in sweet love—not only surely for his wife but for the world around him—exudes when one has this kind of inner light.






I hope, hope, hope that while being surrounded in the romantic world of fiction by streams of well-built gods in Speedos with their tight abs and powerful chests, I keep my mind open to his alter ego—the man who might not hit the mark of movie-star looks and body-builder physique but who has THE SMILE.






And hold me back. Because, if I do see such blinding sun in person, I’m going to march right up to him and say, Excuse me. But you are so goddamn beautiful.

You Are My Sunshine...

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come. ~Lord Byron



It started with Ed. My quest to listen, to watch for signs, to find…my soul mate.


I stood at the coffee counter in the customer service area of my office. I heard a voice behind me. The beautiful husky tone, the charming Latino accent. I knew that voice intimately. And why not? I invented it. It was the voice I’d imagined my fictional Italian hero, Salvatore, to have.


Slowly I turned toward the voice and there he stood. Salvatore, in the flesh. Gorgeous. Well over six feet, dark-skinned, dark-haired, well built. He wore glasses, which shot my libido into orbit.


In a move completely out of nature for me, I forced myself to speak to…Salvatore, whose name turned out to be Ed. Not much. Just a casual how are you doing? Fine, thanks.


I was in love.


It was a sign. I mean, after all, Salvatore is my quintessential Latino man—not particularly handsome as handsome goes, but gorgeous in his virility. One hundred percent M.A.N. Glasses, accent, coloring, voice, build. Made to order. The man of my dreams. Ed was my soul mate, I was sure.


Ed and I, over the course of time, began to talk on the phone. Long, wonderful, sensual, conversations. Seems he was Puerto Rican, a perfect romantic, every woman’s dream of spicy teasing, the promise of tender lovemaking, the anticipation of being adored in those deep brown eyes. It had all been so magical, I was sure it was meant to be. I was madly in love.


Just like Mrs. Ed. Yes, alas, there was a wife Ed neglected to mention.


To hell with soul mates, then. What a bunch of crock.


No more listening to my inner self, no more tuning my senses, no more opening myself up to finding my ‘mate’—as they do in the shape shifter books.


If only it could BE so convenient. Why, hell, if I’d only been a shape shifter, I would have immediately known Ed was not my soul mate. I’d have realized, by his scent if nothing else, that he was indeed not my destined partner for life.


I’ve encountered a few more soul mates since Ed. And with every case of ‘mistaken soul mate identity’, I find myself less and less hopeful of finding ‘him’.


With every wrong choice—which always began as the perfect choice—I felt more convinced such a thing did not exist. Such perfect mating, perfect love was just fiction. Only happens in the romances. Those damn shape shifter, vampire folks who smell chocolate chip cookies in the air and home in on their life mates. Give me a break. As if.


You want to know something? It sort of hurts. It’s an ache. This unfulfilled quest. This curse of writing romance but not being able to live it.


But.


Yes, there’s a but. And it’s a beautiful pause in my reign as the self-proclaimed Queen of Pity.


The other day, I browsed Facebook and stumbled on the page of a fellow author, Rick Reed. It was Rick’s birthday. One post on his wall jumped out at me.



It was a birthday post from Rick’s partner, Bruce. It was so simple, so sweet—a photo of Rick and their dog, Lily. I don’t remember the exact wordage of the little birthday wish, but I DO remember, with sunshine bright clarity, that, along with the wish, it said, ‘To Rick and Lily. They are my sunshine.’


That little bitty sentiment made me cry when I saw it. For one thing, because I could very well see how Rick—who seems to be a genuinely sweet man—could be the sunshine of someone’s life.


But the main reason it touched me? Because, all the sudden, from that simple but hugely eloquent little statement, came the realization to me that maybe it’s not all about mating, of throwing out your vibes into the unknown of the Universe in hopes of crossing paths with a mate of my soul.


Maybe, just maybe, it’s about just plain ol’ walking right into the sunshine of another person, of being their sunshine, of making them smile, making their life a beautiful place in the sun—just by being there.


I knew, then, that my longing is not so much about marriage, the perfect man, me being the perfect woman for that perfect man. Not about romantic Latino men, gorgeous Italians, perfect bodies. Not even about soul mates.


But it’s about being the smile in another person’s life, whether it’s your spouse, your lover, whether it’s opposite sex or same sex. Being a warm, comfortable body to melt into when you wake from a bad dream. To hold you tight when thunder and lightning scare you. Having that hot cup of coffee ready when you come home from a long day at work. That person who will sit beside you while you take a bath and let you gripe about your day. The person who shares the remote. The man or woman who lets you have time to yourself to write, who tolerates your cat, who will vacuum the floor or fill the dishwasher. The person who is allowed to see you without your makeup. Who you’re not embarrassed to brush your teeth in front of.


Maybe I’ve overcomplicated this process of finding the love of my life.


Robert Frost said, Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.


That is very simple. No body scents to have to recognize, nothing fancy.


Tim Robbins said, We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.


And he’s right, I guess. If love is truly like Rick and Bruce and Lily, then all one has to do is be their own sunshine, make their own sun. Fresh-squeezed, beautiful, yellow and bright sunshine.


If it’s meant to be, the love of our lives will walk into that sun, and we will become each other’s sunshine. If it’s not meant to be? Shine on anyway. Sun is good.


You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’ take my sunshine away.

Dear Father...

 A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.  ~Edward de Bono

I’m listening to Neil Diamond’s “Dear Father” from Jonathan Livingston Seagull right now. Seems appropriate.  

I guess you know today is Father’s Day, Daddy. And, oh God, I still have to remind myself that you aren’t here to celebrate it.

Before you tell me you’re in a better place, I do know that. I find comfort in that. Comfort in the fact you’re whole, healthy. In fact, I still keep seeing visions of you at 18 years old, in the army. Before I knew you.  And I tell myself it’s really you, not just a wishful thought. It’s you, telling me you’re fine. That you don’t need your oxygen machine anymore. You can go anywhere you want now without having to lug your little portable oxygen device. And you assure me that is something I should be happy about. And I am. Believe me, Daddy, I am. 

But. Of course there is a ‘but’ to this. I went to Walmart on the way home from work the other evening, Daddy. I needed to go the card aisle to get you a Father’s Day card; and, damn it, I got hit with it—you are gone.  You are gone. No more cakes. No parties. No cards. Never again.  

I mean, really. Do you realize how hard it was to find the perfect card for you every year? You hated those schmaltzy cookie cutter cards just as much as I did. And they were not you. So my yearly mission was to find the card—the card that reflected you. And let me tell you. It was hard. Because you weren’t one of those Hallmark Daddies. You were good ol’ Daddy, plain ol’ Daddy. 

Hallmark insisted on taking the pure ol’ goodness, the ‘Daddy-ness’ away from you and turning you into an ad for Disneyland. They just didn’t get the reality of you.

I suppose I never realized it at the time, but you were so big and important—so crucial in my life—it went far beyond what any Hallmark poem could ever convey. Somehow, their sentiments seemed silly in light of your practicality, your down-to-earth existence, the humanness of you. And your brand of ‘ordinary-ness’ and steadfastness was so easily taken for granted, because it was SO constant I became to expect it—never realizing it was as essential as air which I also take in stride.

The cards were right about one thing, though, Daddy. Every single one of those pesky cards said, I don’t tell you I love you as often as I should.  How did those card writers know that most of us kids do not do that? Well, I suppose they were all kids, too? Well, they were right. I did not tell you as often as I should. Hell, looking back, I don’t suppose I told you much at all. I figured you knew, anyway. And I’m sure you did. But I bet you would have loved to have heard it more often. 

Well, we won’t have to be bothered by those irritating American Greetings anymore, will we?  

Oh, Daddy, I wish it really did make me feel better to tell myself that. That I’m glad to be relieved of that chore every year—that quest for the Ark of the Covenant of Father’s Day cards, the Holy Grail of greetings. 

But it does not. I’d gladly spend all night in stupid Walmart to find you a stupid card if you were just still here. All night, I’d look for a card. I wouldn’t care how sugary it was, how silly. If you could just be here for me to give it to you.  

Well, I’ve whined enough. Father’s Day is nearly over now. Good. So maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and not miss you so much? Fat chance.

Daddy, I sure do miss you. I miss you so much. Didn’t get you a card. But—wherever you may be—Happy, happy Father’s Day. I love you.

You Already Knew...

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder




A woman I know--her name is Wendy—had been deaf since she was five years old. A while back, she underwent surgery to retrieve some of hear hearing. She still cannot hear as well as you and I. But, even with the limited world of sound which had been opened up to her, her life became an adventure in discovery. Things that you and I take for granted are awe-inspiring for Wendy.


When I saw Wendy on Wednesday evenings (she served at our church dinners), she would have something new to share about her learning experience. I was touched and immensely humbled by the beauty of ordinary life that, to her, was a new universe, bursting with audio color.


I wanted to share how Wendy’s experience touched me, and the only way I could think to do so was with this humble tribute to…Wendy. These discoveries were just a few of the discoveries that she mentioned.



You Already Knew


You already knew that
A soft drink can hisses when the tab is pulled,
A potato chip bag crinkles really loud when it’s opened,
Forks, spoons and knives clang when you open the silverware drawer,
Food makes a sizzling sound in a frying pan,
Your shoes make noise with every step you take,
Water makes a splashing sound when you pour it in a glass,
A toilet makes a swooshing sound when you flush it,
A door makes a thud when you close it.
I didn’t know that.


You already knew that
A car makes a noise when you start the engine then
Purrs as it’s running,
An airplane hums as it passes in the sky above,
A lawnmower roars as it glides over the grass,
A hammer pounding echoes loudly as it strikes a nail,
A fan buzzes as its blades turn,
A light switch makes a clicking sound when you flip it,
Scissors make noise as they cut paper,
Windows make noise when you open or close them.
I didn’t know that.


You already knew that
No two people have the same voice,
Dogs do not sound the same as cats,
Babies don’t sound like grown ups when they talk,
Different species of birds sing different songs or that birds make sounds at all,
Wind makes a soft sound when it blows through trees,
Rain makes a gentle sound when it hits the ground,
Gravel makes a crunching noise under your shoes.
I didn’t.


But the moon, sun and stars don’t make any sound after all.
I didn’t know that. But now I do.