The Hippies Are Right

So I had a dream about Viggo Mortensen last night and no, unfortunately, he was not naked.

In it, I was at work and he showed up at the office. Star struck, I stared for a bit before I mustered the courage to greet him. Instead of asking about his considerable artistic talents, his activism, or how he manages to look so hot at age fifty, I desperately wanted to know the answer to one question: how, as a father, does he keep from going insane from worry in this decaying world?

I didn’t have to explain what I meant. He knew. And he answered as I suppose the real Viggo would. He said, “You have to teach them to love and be kind so they grow and teach others to love and be kind. That’s the best you can do.”

Actually, in real life, my mother said those words to me after I lamented the constant fear that engulfs me now that I’m a parent. There are the normal, simmering fears that come with parenthood one has to swallow and try to forget or else smother the poor child: choking, freak accidents, illness, and rabid bats.

Then there are the added modern worries of the present age and they are legion: kidnapping and molestation, cyber-bullying, youth violence, crystal meth, nuclear war, video games, the uselessness of world religions and politics where even the best-intentioned go awry, plastic surgery, plastic food, plastic lifestyles, boy bands, crystal meth, flesh eating bacteria, identity theft…the list goes on.

All around, there is a sense of impending doom. Food shortages, global warming, killer storms, dying bees, dying bats (even rabid bats is a better alternative than a world over-run by blood-sucking insects), and the end of the Mayan calendar.

The title of Barack Obama’s book, The Audacity of Hope, is a brilliant phrase because it truly does seem bold to entertain a glimmer of sunshine in a world where the conditions described in The Road don’t seem too far off.

The alternative, though, worrying until one’s stomach acids turn one into a sizzling puddle of madness on the kitchen floor, isn’t an option. One must continue and strive to be the best one can be and, to quote that hippy song whose title and singer I cannot recall, “teach your children well.”

Listen to my mother. But if it helps, picture Viggo saying it. Naked.

On My iPod: The Sisters of Mercy’s “Nine While Nine” and Jabe’s “Goddam Train.”

In My Belly: Johnny D’s Cajun mussels and Coleman burger and fries. It’s worth the airfare into Boston just for this one meal.

Quote of the Day: “Margaret the Churchwoman her father the Dissenter, Higgins the Infidel, knelt down together. It did them no harm.” Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South.

A Sirius Point

Now that my mother (the only person that reads this blog) has finally finished Order of the Phoenix, I can finally post the article I wrote for my local RWA chapter's newsletter.

SPOILER ALERT: I hereby give fair warning on the rare chance that someone else is reading this blog who 1) is not my mother and 2) hasn't yet finished the fifth installment of the Harry Potter series. Here it is:

Crushes are an integral ingredient to a happy marriage. Flirtations, fantasies, hopeless pining, in small doses, keep the neurons jumping, the senses hopping, the blood singing, the pelvis…well, you get my drift.

Of course, there’s a fine line between an invigorating crush and donning the scarlet A. Fortunately for me, I don’t find other men, aside from my True Love and Reformed Rake (code name: husband), all that enticing. Other real men, that is.

No. I have the tendency to pine for fictional characters, usually from books. The lust fires are fanned if a character comes to life in a movie version of the book. Jude Law portraying Inman from Cold Mountain is positively delicious. Jude Law the man? Eh. And Wolverine from comic book fame gets my heart pumping. Add Hugh Jackman to the mix and you may see drool dribble down my chin.

To the average person, this may seem a tad abnormal, but I’m a romance author. Falling in love is what we do.

A couple of months ago I revisited an old lover. Mr. Darcy. I re-read Pride and Prejudice, watched the Colin Firth movie version, pressing the slow motion button during the oh-so-not-Jane-Austen lake scene, conversed in the Queen’s English and pretended my four-room condo was Pemberley. A week later, the courtship ended.

Of course, my husband has crushes, too. In fact, we have a List. Some of you will know what I’m talking about. This wish list contains names of people with whom one hopes to spend time naked, ideally before one starts to sag. Should the opportunity for such a liaison arise, one’s spouse will turn a blind eye to the shenanigans. It’s a one-time deal with only one person on the List. In our marriage, I have to cheat first. This rule, I am sure, is a remnant of our early religious educations about Eve in the Garden, but that is another story.

Last month, the top three names on my list were: 1) Jemmy from Moll Flanders (it helps that Daniel Craig plays him in the movie), 2) Kisten Felps from the Dead Witch Walking series and 3) The Incredible Mr. Limpet.

My husband won’t tell me the names on his list. He says he doesn’t want me to worry.

My latest crush, however, has moved beyond the bounds of propriety and into that dangerous Scarlett O’Hara brand of adultery. I believe it’s called delusional obsession. I’m not sure why this shift in my brain has occurred. Perhaps it’s the Seven Year Itch. Or sleep deprivation. Then again, there’s always a chance I’m just plain crazy.

All I know is that this crush trumps all others on the List and were it possible, I’d be right up there with ole’ Hester herself. But it’s not possible. You see, I’ve fallen madly in love with Sirius Black, recently escaped from Azkaban Prison.

He’s the perfect romance hero – a man on the run, accused of a crime he did not commit, reckless, loyal, broken and in need of a woman to save him. The trouble is, there is no woman. No romance. Would it have killed J.K. Rowling to give Sirius a little nookie between his imprisonment and ultimate fate?

I’ve read Order of the Phoenix three times hoping that the story will change. It hasn’t. I brood, I moan, I sigh. Sadly, I haven’t given up ice cream yet so my waistline is not at all benefiting from this pining.

I re-write Sirius’s tale while I’m washing dishes, vacuuming, and in lieu of sleep. In my version, Sirius and an unnamed Muggle woman from Somerville fall madly in love and defeat the evil Voldemort before making wild wizard love and walking into the sunset together. “Dina,” my husband says with a bemused yet worried frown, “He’s dead. And hello? NOT REAL.”

I knew my infatuation had become a problem when my husband emerged from the bathroom on Saturday night wearing a black and white striped jumpsuit, Azkaban scrawled across his chest, and a hopeful expression on his face.

Clearly, something needs to change. So before I start psychotherapy, I’m making time on my schedule to write again in hopes that a creative outlet will solve the problem. After all, lust fades. Until then, Sirius stays at the top of the List and maybe I can convince my husband to don the Azkaban costume again until I move onto the next crush.