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When Mike and I were in Key West we had these hopes and fantasies about meeting all kinds of writers and establishing lasting friendships with them, which would ultimately lead to our success as published writers and our deserved place in the community of “new voices”, up-and-comers, brilliant writers. Although it didn’t work out quite like that (well, it didn’t work out like that AT ALL) we enjoyed ourselves nonetheless, and did manage to keep one connection and friendship.
Doug Mack is a travel writer based in Minneapolis, MN and tonight he and Mike and I three-way G chatted! Does anyone else have Gmail? Did you know you could chat with more than one person in the same chat? We didn’t, until tonight. Or maybe Mike did. Anyway, it was very entertaining. In fact, it was very productive and may very well lead to our success as published writers! That’s all I’ll say for now 
I am currently working on Nanowrimo stuff, among other things, which is why I haven’t written here in over a week. And since Nanowrimo lasts all month long, it might be another week or so until I post again. I will leave you with this endearing anecdote about our family who just visited from Portugal.
My father’s best friend for over 50 years, Mario, is more like a brother to him. They grew up together on the streets of Rio de Janeiro and, although they haven’t seen each other in nearly two decades, remain very close to this day.
Mario’s daughter, Samantha, and her husband Marcos, along with their two children Marcelo and Mariana, came to California from Portugal for the first time ever last week. Marcelo, 15, and Mariana, 7, attend an international school in Lisbon, and because of this speak perfect English, without an accent even. They are both fascinated with American culture, music, celebrity, movies, and, Mariana in particular, Halloween. Never having been trick-or-treating before in their lives, they dressed up (Mariana as a fairy and Marcelo as the grim reaper, complete with a Scream! mask) and took to the tradition like fish to water, racing from house to house yelling “trick or treat!” It was so fun to watch!
But the best part was when one person opened his door unprepared and had to retreat back into his house for the candy. Mariana, who can be very impatient and very demanding yelled, “Hurry up!” We were all laughing and, thank goodness, so was the poor guy who had the nerve to make Mariana wait for her candy! Maybe you had to be there to fully appreciate it… luckily, I caught it on video!
I can’t get the video to work 
It’s late here, time for bed, so I will try to post it tomorrow
Okay, you can’t see much, uh, because it’s dark and my Nikon camera is a piece of crap, but you can hear it all, and see the “hurry up” part
Pictures!
Marcos and Samantha bought Marcelo an off-road skateboard in Napa, as a belated birthday present. The streets in Portugal aren’t as smooth as they are here and many are cobblestone.
Samantha, my dad, Mariana, Marcos
Marcos rollerskates for the first time in twenty years! Marcelo rides his skateboard, my dad rides his bike and I ride my beach cruiser and take pictures
Saude!
(that is the portuguese word for making toasts, like “cheers!” only it means health, or wellness. You also say it when someone sneezes It is pronounced saw-OO-gee.)
As a little girl, I always knew I had the coolest dad. He drove a big truck and often times would drive it home to our little house on Kansas Avenue. Michelle and I would run outside when we heard it rumbling, and we’d watch as he maneuvered the monstrous vehicle into a parking space or the driveway. All the other kids on the block would run over to look at it and climb up the sides or just gawk at it. I knew they were jealous.
My dad was unlike other dads. I couldn’t really pinpoint why, when I was younger. I didn’t understand, I suppose. He just seemed grand, stately, bigger, taller. He didn’t wear glasses or sweater vests, and despite living in Napa Valley, didn’t sip, swirl and slurp. He wore bandanas and listened to rock-and-roll and drank Pepsi. He was a truck driver, but probably knew more about history and politics and religion and math than many of my teachers. He grew up in an exotic country and spoke several languages. Which, of course, we pretended to know how to speak as well. We’d run around the blacktop at recess, Michelle and me and our cousins, pretending to speak Portuguese like our dads, but really speaking gibberish. We were proud to have a dad who was so different.
My dad was not somebody anyone would want to mess with. He still isn’t. I’ve seen my dad get into a few skirmishes. That’s all they ever are really. Because no one would ever want a skirmish with my dad to escalate into a fight. They realize quickly that they’d lose.
As I got older, my dad became Super Dad. Rescuing me from the side of the highway when my little Beetle would break down. That happened quite frequently. He even rescued me from a strange high school when I was a freshman band geek and had been left behind by the bus after an away football game. And he still rescues me, whenever I need him to.
We didn’t always get along but what teenager has a pleasant relationship with their parents 100% of the time? Almost none, I’d imagine.
Despite the occasional argument, I knew I was lucky. To have a dad I could count on no matter what. Who was, usually, understanding and trusting and loving. Though I know there have been times when Michelle and I have completely pushed him to his limits, tested his resolve to the utmost breaking point, he has never failed to support us and love us, in his own way, even when he had to swallow his pride to do so. I know how stubborn he can be. Because I am exactly like him.
And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
“This one is for the sole purpose of turning the television on and off, and adjusting the volume. It sits on top of the table by the lamp. This remote, you NEVER touch the power button, nor do you touch the cable, DVD, or VCR buttons, otherwise, you will lose control over the cable and it takes forever to get it back, your mother does it all the time, and it drives me crazy. And to change the channel, you enter the number of the channel you want and press okay. Don’t use these buttons because they don’t work very well. This remote sits next to the stereo. If you put it on the table by the lamp Mimi will walk all over it and press the buttons. It’ll get all messed up. So never put it there.”
This was the short version of the lecture I had to endure the very night I arrived at my parents’. I sat in a chair in the living room, eating leftover chicken cacciatorre my Mom had heated up for me, after driving seven hours (door-to-door, not too bad) from OC.
I was barely there for twenty minutes before my Dad started in on his weird, almost ritualistic habits and policies. The remotes, the litter boxes, where I should park my car, the laundry, etcetera.
My mother confessed not just that she was so happy to have me home, but that I had a few new projects to complete for her. Apparently, it is my duty to rearrange and redecorate the house. Which, to be honest, I’m looking forward to. I like to rearrange and redecorate.
“Dad, why don’t you just get a new remote control? Wouldn’t that be easi-”
“No, Melissa.” He rolled his eyes and looked at me exasperated, like I couldn’t possibly know what I was talking about. When he said my name, he almost hissed. Melisssssssa. I hovered over my bowl of cacciatorre and tried not to laugh. He’s so cute and so annoying at the same time.
I blocked out his diatribe, and wondered if he was going to try and control my life right along with controlling the remotes. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
My Mom just smiles at me every time she notices my clenched jaw after walking away from one of his lectures or interrogations. “Just laugh it off, and let it go,” she says. “Patronize him! Yes, Daddy, No Daddy, I’ll do this or that Daddy, I promise.”
“You know, Dad. I have been here to visit before, I know how the remotes work.”
“No, you don’t, Melissa, it has changed since you’ve been here last,” He stated with a clenched jaw. Yes, I get that from him. So does Michelle.
“It’s changed in three and a half months?”
“YES!”
“Okay.”
I think I’ll watch TV in my room from now on.
“Where there is love, there is no question.”
It is a little piece of square white paper that I’ve kept in my wallet for a few years. I plucked it from the string of a tea bag and am not quite sure why I save it, why I continue to save it. Yet I do; I save it. Perhaps hoping that one day it will save me.
Questions are all I have, and I am not sure how love and a question have a direct correlation, other than to assume its message is, that when love is found you do not question it. But it is human nature, is it not, to question everything? Certainty is something I would cherish if it was in my possession.
“Where there is love, there is no question.”
How do you know? If it is really love. If it is really worthy of being trusted, unquestionable?
How do you know… if you don’t question it?
On that note, thanks to my good friend Molly’s MySpace comment on this matter, I know that I never have to question my parents’ love. That is a love for which questions are unnecessary.
I could never understand how anyone could just throw loose change, or drop and not pick up, even if it was only pennies, on the street or sidewalk.
Tonight their shiny heads and tails caught my attention as I walked past, leaving my class, heading towards my car in the vast parking lot. I turned around, glancing down. They littered the cement, each coin flashing for a moment, as I walked back the way I came, reflecting the dim light high above the campus walkway. I stood for a moment, squinting in the dark as I recognized a handful of pennies; a nickel, a dime. I bent down, resting comfortably on the two-inch heels of my espresso-brown pumps and picked each coin up off the cold concrete, cupping them in the palm of my hand. Not before, however, I had glanced around to make sure that no one was watching.
I quickly stood, pocketing my prize and followed the path towards the parking lot, pondering how anybody could drop a handful of change (six pennies, one nickel, and one dime to be exact) and not pick any of it up.
I paused momentarily at the edge of the parking lot, grateful that it was after ten p.m. and nearly empty. I never, ever remember to remember where I parked my car, as easily as it may seem to be to glance up and remember a sign that reads F12. If it had been three in the afternoon, I most certainly would be lost in a sea of colorful cars, the ocean floor, black asphalt spotted with gum, old and new alike. Thankfully, even in the poorly lit lot, spotting my car was easy. Maybe it also helped that I was lucky enough to find a close space.
When I got home I emptied the contents of my pocket onto my desk and examined my findings. I sat slowly in my desk chair, wondering exactly when it was that I had become my mother.
