YOUR COWBOY DAYS ARE OVER (MAMMAS, DON'T LET YOUR BABIES GROW UP TO BE COWBOYS): An Excerpt

Sometimes I read a story that touches something raw inside of me, and stays with me forever. I cried like a baby, laughed like a loon, gasped in horror, sighed with happiness, and sat in shocked stillness, absorbed. This story was about many things, but the core was about fatherhood, I think, and loving your child no matter how outwardly deficient they appear.

So without further ado, some of my favorite excerpts (so far) from

YOUR COWBOY DAYS ARE OVER

"I don't think that'd be the best option for Ben right now," John says, thinking, over my dead body. He ruffles Ben's hair without looking down, the boy holding onto his leg, panting softly like a wounded animal. "He's had some pretty unique experiences so far and I'd rather stick to home schooling. I'm sure you wouldn't want all that knowledge corrupted by cultural shock or psychological trauma."

...Prostrate, Ben hums out of the range of human ears, head bowed so low his forehead brushes the floor. His fingers are stained with ink and poke out of rolled up sleeves, slipping under the hem of John's pant leg and over his boot, tracing patterns of inequality on the skin of John's shin.

He's still the most beautiful thing his father's ever seen.

I giggle like no other everytime I read this:

His first golf round ever. Abdul is Afghanistan's only professional golfer and owes his fussy gait to the Taliban who flogged the soles of his feet with a steel cable. John doesn't even play golf, but there's something about Abdul's weathered face, his irrepressible joy, his determination to reopen Kabul's golf club for business, that appeals to John's sense of the absurd. The green is brown and sandy; the only technique one needs is a good whack--especially at the first tee, hidden behind the carcass of a Russian tank. The fairways are studded with shrapnel, and John's stash of cigars and Chivas goes to bribing Jonesy's demining unit. When they give the all clear, Abdul borrows a dozen sheep from a cousin and sends them in. When that doesn't result in an impromptu mechoui, they meet for the first game.

At oh-five hundred, John and Abdul step onto the course, wearing helmets and body armor and grinning like loons. The sky is a piercing, royal blue, and Afghanistan is unbelievably beautiful. Some of John's guys--Mitch, Repro, Kalman, Rodrig and Dex--provide the cheering section. Sitting on beer coolers, they belt out the Star-Spangled Banner and the first measures of the Sououd-e-Melli, in horrifically mangled Pashto that could get them quartered. They yell "Fore!" when Abdul lifts his club, and "Fire in the hole!" when it's John's turn to swing. Only when John's at twelve over par and the entertainment attracts the local drug lord and the mujahideen, does someone remember to invite a medic.

No matter how I'm feeling at the time, this passage never fails to draw full-out sobs from me. Especially that third paragraph.

John has more pressing worries, because now it's Ben who can't make it through the night. The boy sleeps fitfully and wakes up wailing and panic-stricken, as frightened by his own shapeless screams as he is by the horrors in his head. Crying and choking on his own incomprehension, howling at the ceiling and the universe that couldn't even grant words for his terror, for his supplications and his brutal beginnings. There's nothing John can do but hang onto the thin body and grit his teeth against the impotence that could so easily be the end of him. But he can't let go, he's all Ben's got, no matter that it kills John to see Ben in so much pain; nothing has ever brought him closer to breaking than this child's suffering.

So they rock together, huddled in the middle of the bed, too far from daybreak for a hope of release, and John makes what few promises he can keep.

"I know, buddy," he whispers over Ben's frustrated growls, "you've got so much to say. But I hear you, I hear you, Ben, and tomorrow we'll walk to the top of the hill. I'll carry you on my shoulders," he stops, jaw locked, throat tight and raw; and Ben pants, eyes wide, "and you can shout to the sky and to the whole world. You can tell them. You let go of that barbaric yawp," John tries to laugh, but his lungs are filled with broken glass, "and everyone will know. We'll all be listening."

Teyla stands in the doorframe, her eyes hard and shining, a hand over her mouth like a shroud pulled over a stillborn scream. John stares at her, and he knows his whole face is begging.

They are enraged and undone, and it doesn't seem right that the universe could hold all of it.

"I love you, Ben. You're not alone. I love you so much. Breathe, Ben, please, breathe with me."

Why the long face, sweetcheeks?

Hmm...mosquito bites, while unpleasant, and unavoidable, generally do not interfere with the psychological-well being of the bitee. The mysterious hives that now seem to accompany the bites ever since a fateful evening at Lake Eola, however, are beginning to.

I live in Florida. Mosquito central. It. JUST. RAINED. OMGWTH.

Well, what doesn't kill you...only makes you curl up into an itchy, sobbing ball on the floor? I forget the rest.

I Failed the Marriage Test!

You are 35% marriageable!

You're not going to be first choice for that cousin back home. If you like him, you need to improve your score. Perhaps you could boost your standing by learning to cook biryani, sewing your own wardrobe, and generating that essential air of subservience.

Girls, how marriagable are you? *desi style!*
Make Your Own Quiz

Auntie's House

So here I am at my aunt's house in Kissimmee. All is quiet on the western front. Ayshu is at my #2 cousin's (if we're going in order of birth) field trip in St. Augustine as a chaperone...and she had to wear the dorkiest purple tie-dye shirt ever. How very 70s. It looks like a solid purple shirt actually, with a little bit of tie-dye in the corner, because my cousin ran out of rubber bands or gremlins or whatever they use to make tie-dye. So my aunt and I went this morning at 5:30 to see them off. Ayshu is chaperoning four boys, and they seemed nice enough this morning. We'll find out how she fared with them when she returns from the trip. I went with Uncle to drop Cousin #1 at school, and she has a concert tonight at 6 PM. My aunt is going to go pick up Ayshu and Thing 2 tonight, and I'm going to go see Thing 1 play the violin. They will join us at the school if they're not too tired (which I am assuming they will be), so if that is the case my aunt might just come by herself, and my uncle will come after he finishes work.

Insha Allah I'm going to drop my aunt off at her work at 1 PM and then I might head to the Loop...never been there before but it's like any other shopping center: Kohl's, Ross, Old Navy, the cinema. Car needs gas, so we'll fill up at the 7-11 down the street.

Gotta go change.

Thank you for joining me, it's been a slice.

Here is my dilemma...

I claim I like to write, but I don't write. I haven't written anything substantial in a long time. I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes with beautiful images in my head of f-16s and a jaded American pilot who drinks dood-patti while watching the sun rise across the tarmac of an American base in the Kuwaiti desert with a Bengali mechanic. He answers to both John and Yahya and he knows how kismet is really pronounced. Years later in the fading light of an alien sun he hums a barely remembered folk tune and piques the interest of one Lieutenant Ford.

"M7G-677, sir?" Ford asks his CO, remembering a song Cassa and her brother had sung under a tree while he introduced them to the joy of Hershey chocolate for the first time.

Beneath his aviator sunglasses (which are still worth a lot despite being slightly battered; three Athosian sheep on the mainland, according to Halling, and a whole slew of chocolate and PowerBars in Atlantis) the corners of his eyes crinkle in remembrance. John Sheppard smiles.

"Different planet, Lietenant," he replies.

Here is my dilemma. I claim I like to write, but I don't write. I lay awake in the middle of the night sometimes, my fingers itching for a pen as I dream of perfect snatches of worlds and words and stories that could be beautiful if I could just. Get. Them. Down. But the moment fades and the itch dulls and it becomes easy to slip into sleep and remember the next day that a perfectly formed dewdrop which can never be replaced was on the tip of my pen and my consciousness.