Waikiki Overnighter

     For the first time ever, Deanne and I left the kids alone at home overnight—this to celebrate our wedding anniversary alone in a room in Waikiki. Since Braden is age sixteen and quite responsible with the younger ones, we felt it would work out fine. And it did, praise God!

     As an adventure (and reenactment of prior family stays), we parked near our old apartment by Kapahulu, caught a bus, and checked into our hotel. It was an older walk-up along a quiet side street off Kuhio Avenue. The rustic room was nothing fancy, but the king size bed was comfortable with lots of pillows and cushions, everything was neat and clean, and we appreciated the fully stocked kitchenette that came with the free upgrade that the front desk clerk didn't even mention to us. We feel more comfortable anyway in humble and affordable accommodations, so it matched our needs and desires perfectly.

     After we unwinded a bit, we held hands and headed on foot to scope out a possible place for dinner. After that (it looked good), because it was early, we headed for the Moana Surf Rider Hotel for some music beneath the banyan tree. A talented guy sang and played guitar—a welcome relief from the traffic noise and incessant crowds. We took an unassuming perch upon a low wall like other locals 'cause we didn't want to order anything. The nearby beach was packed, so we passed hanging out there for the sunset. Instead, we headed back to the Aqua Hotel eatery we had earlier investigated and had yummy pizza and a shared beer pool-side in a very peaceful nook. Our table was sheltered beneath a large canvass umbrella which was a good thing 'cause toward the end of dinner it started to pour. It was kind-of fun, like an additional adventure, to lean forward to avoid the heavy streams of water cascading off the umbrella. Sans our own umbrella, we hung out in the hotel lobby and watched DVD previews on the kiosk dispenser. The movie “Boyhood” looked promising, so upon our return to our own hotel, we borrowed it from an identical kiosk.

     While Deanne busied herself in the restroom, I tried to set up the movie on the Play Station, but it wouldn't work. So I notified the front desk, who sent an ancient maintenance guy up, who finally got it going after fifteen minutes of fiddling. But he was very courteous and professional, so no problem.

     Next morning while Deanne slept, I went for a stroll and got some fresh made udon to go at a very popular cafeteria-style Japanese eatery. I didn't know what to order (due to unfamiliar Japanese terms), so I imitated a Japanese tourist who said, “Number seven” to the Caucasian guy in charge. It turned out to be very tasty and sensational for a very reasonable price, which we ate with cut fruits brought from home.

     We later went for a walk to check out the food trucks on Beach Walk Avenue (one has a #3 Yelp-rated ramen in the U.S.) just to see 'cause they opened much later and we weren't staying for lunch. Then we went back to our room, watched the remainder of the video (which took awhile for me to start up again—it was a good movie), checked out, caught the bus back to our car, and drove home.

     True, it was a simple outing, but sooo relaxing and downright strange to be away from the kids in town overnight, trying not to wonder too much how they were doing, but nice to be free from the figurative shackles and on a “real” (extended) date alone again. And share quiet, easy talk of whatever, no pressure, no need for extravagance or show 'cause that's not our taste, style, or preference anyway.

     That's what's nice about being in a loving, real relationship: we're free to be who we are. No need to impress. Just enjoy each other, which comes quite natural as long as we try to be considerate, concerned, attentive, and all that good-lovin' stuff.

     It's a pretty nice way to live and a pretty nice marriage—still fresh after eighteen years.

My Wife is Hot! (or Conjugal Relations, Part II)

     Deanne is sexy, gorgeous, beautiful, fun, alive, and loving. At least I think so.

     Not that I always think that way. Other times I think she acts lazy, sloppy, argumentative, irritating, and demanding. I try not to dwell on such thoughts.

     We've been married eighteen years and the passion I feel for her is still there alive and intense, so for a fifty-four year old, I'm better than okay, I think.

     (Through the years, I've talked to so many people who've confessed, complained about, or let be known their ongoing celibacies, so that I get the impression huge swaths of marriages go without or with very little or with much less than at least one of the pair would prefer. Although such celibacy may not be the main cause of the steep fifty percent divorce rate, it is certainly symptomatic of widespread marital discontent, for doubtless happy couples will tend to seek to express their loves through occasional to frequent acts of sexual intimacy up to and including “all the way”, age-, health-, and emotional-related and other such limitations notwithstanding.)

     Deanne, ever since she got a full-time office job late last year, has been more attentive to her appearances—the clothes she wears, make up (always tastefully minimalist; she's a natural beauty), meal portion control, and occasional exercise. She's blessed because when she makes even minor efforts, the positive results show huge: her curves become oh-so-righter in all the right places, her complexion improves, and she looks ten years younger than her already youthful-looking forty-five.

     Speaking of which, forty-five used to be (and still may be?) the cut-off age of a woman for me at which I will refuse to gaze at her with eager, searching eyes no matter how much she flirts, bends over, or whatever (Deanne excepted). This mental block (or whatever it is) dates back over a decade, though the cut-off age has risen over time. (When I was an early teen, anyone in their twenties was ancient—bleah! How times change...)

     We've mellowed some with age, so some of our fiery tempest drag-out fights have cooled and shortened some, which has helped with our marital felicity. Even more positive, due to our years together:

     We now trust each other better.

     Know each other better.

     Are less prone to beat up on each other.

     Do more kind-hearted things for each other because we want to.

     Not that we're perfect. We do petty, selfish, and hurtful things far too often. But these are largely offset by the small things that count most. We know what we are really like and the things that make us go “click” when we share them in good will. These include:

     Watching a sunset on a beach.

     Sharing a simple meal of home made comfort food.

     Going for a walk with pleasant conversation.

     Asking nicely by saying, “Please.”

     Being appreciative and saying, “Thank you.”

     Lavishing compliments freely.

     Holding hands, hugging, kissing, or whatever it is the other likes with a giving, generous heart.

     Saying, “I love you.”

     Praying aloud for each other for hurts that need mending; joy restored at work or church; family ties that need healing; God's peace, joy, and rest.

     Helping out around the house.

     Disciplining the kids.

     Playing with the kids.

     Discussing how the day went.

     Valuing the other more than anyone else.

     Are these things really so difficult? If yes, no wonder so many struggle with undesired celibacy, which really is a cry for greater intimacy. I suppose our marriage would be that way, too, if we didn't enjoy doing these few “minimums.”

     Really, we're not trying to build a Great Wall of China, discover Einstein's grand unification theory, or establish world peace—those would be difficult. All we're trying to do is live decent, respectful lives. And it's not like we're even that successful. When things are hitting one hundred percent—that's rare! It's more like we try. Sometimes we do better than others. Meanwhile, tiny victories add up to big rewards. Wash dishes? Bing! Hang laundry? Bing! Say, “Good Morning”? Bing! Before we know it, we're both starting to feel pretty good (and maybe even a little frisky. Not that this even happens that often. But ample enough at our ages. After all, it's the quality, not the quantity, that counts.)

Good Fights

     I read a column awhile ago about a marriage based on mutual respect and love, wonderful in every way, where the advice columnist's only advice was: “Once in awhile, have a really good fight so you don't get bored with each other.”

      I wondered about that. Is it really necessary for a happy couple to have occasional fights to keep things alive?

      Not that that ever applied to our marriage. Such peaceful nonaggressiveness between Deanne and me has never been enduring (perhaps occasional stretches of a couple months or so at most), so we have had fights aplenty. Most have been quite minor over day-to-day matters and preferences: helping out with the kids and chores, and scoldings/arguments over errors, misunderstandings, relationships with relatives, moodiness, attitudes, tones, and so forth. So there's little threat that we'll ever get bored of each other due to lack of fights.

      But I do see the benefit and necessity (at least for us) of fighting the good fight—the fight to improve things, not to tear down; the fight for what's good and right; the fight for hope and a future, not despair and surrender to the world's selfish, messed up ways; in short, the fight to preserve peace and wholesomeness in our lives and encourage growth in God as individuals, a couple, and a family. It's not automatic to do such things, as people have moods and frailties, so Godly success comes and goes. We must thus catch ourselves. Sometimes she or I needs to remind the other where we both belong and truly want to be. But pride or laziness or worldliness sometimes puts up a bad fight that makes the true good fight necessary, for if these things aren't worth fighting for, what are?

      Though I feel our marriage has been heavenly blessed, I also have had the dread feeling—too often to recall—of being on the edge, when things could have gone either way, depending. There's no blame involved, but we all have our limits and sometimes when it feels like she or I is at that limit and no motion for the better is forthcoming, that there's little option left. That's when I've prayed like crazy. And talked. And fought the good fight as necessary. (It has gone as often or more the other way, too, where Deanne was the one that led by example, mostly by submitting to Godly authority—mine—when she'd felt certain I'd been following God's lead.) Such times were soooo scary because I could foresee the bleak, dark future on the other side, a place I never wanted to go, especially since our marriage, when working well, is wonderful (I hope as much for Deanne as it is for me). And God has always come through, not once failing to provide for our needs in such dire circumstances. Praise God almighty for his faithfulness!

      As for fights with the kids, I don't tolerate it. If they wish to disagree with civility, I'm happy to listen, but no shouting back. Braden, now age fifteen, on occasion (usually before or after big trips away from home) sometimes loses control and challenges with angry cynical shouts. But it's not a true fight because by then he just defies to make a show of independence, which is unacceptable since it's at our expense, so as long as he keeps it up, he suffers consequences: chores, groundings, time-outs in the carport, and walks up and down the street. It's his choice: say “Yes, Dad (or Mom)” and go in peace, or shout back and get consequences leveled upon him for as long as he continues.

     When I was Braden's age, my mom tolerated my angry, vehement shouting at her and for awhile encouraged it by shouting back at me without leveling consequences. Partly as a result, I never learned to fully control my temper, which has hurt me numerous ways throughout my life. I don't want that to happen to Braden or any of our kids, so that's why I insist that they not vent their tempers on us, the authority figures. (By the way, my temper is mine to control and it's not my mom's fault that I still haven't mastered it, but it reminds me of a story I heard of Swede Bjorn Borg, the tennis great from the 1970s who was the picture of cool, calm composure for anyone of any sport or profession. As a youth, he once lost his temper during a tennis match. His dad took away his racket for awhile and Bjorn never lost his temper on court again. Fine dad. Fine results. Is it naive for me to hope for comparable?) 

Exercise

     Widespread recreational exercise is obviously a modern phenomenon, born of wealthy, idle societies.

     In the not-too-distant past (and in some parts of the underdeveloped world today), everyday living required tons of exercise working the fields, caring for livestock, hunting, fishing, transporting goods, carrying produce and water, and everything else needed just to survive.

     With the exception of professional athletes; farm, construction, mining laborers and the like; and others out in the field or walking the streets, few Americans today get anywhere near enough exercise from their jobs alone. Most, for good health (and perhaps happiness) require supplemental recreational exercise. Yet few Americans choose to get it.

     Not I. I love to exercise, walking to and from the bus stop, during lunch breaks, and after dinner on non-workout days. Workouts consist of three or so mile runs every third day. I feel so much more relaxed after exercise that I've even started walking on weekend mornings to give my mind and body an early release from excess energy (stress) I've been lately feeling.

     Conversely, none others in my family engage in voluntary exercise as a rule—they have to be told to go outside and get some exercise. Otherwise they stay all day indoors reading (all four), crocheting (Pene and Deanne), getting in trouble (Braden and Jaren), playing with toys (Jaren), or cooking or doing the laundry (Deanne).

     Upon being sent out, Jaren enjoys himself well enough by riding the scooter or bike, running around the house ten to fifteen times, kicking a soccer ball, or wandering about while engaging in imaginary play.

     Penelope tolerates it by riding scooter in the carport and driveway, jumping rope, or running around the house.

     Braden loathes it, usually doing only the minimum we demand of him (running around the house ten times or jumping rope a hundred times). If left to his own, he'll dribble a ball around or bounce a tennis ball on a racket until he tires in ten to fifteen minutes, then read, talk, or get in trouble with Jaren.

     Not that he's the only exercise cheat: they all sit around and read or talk after they tire of being active and thus fall way below the daily recommended minimal exercise levels—not even close most days for moderate exercise.

     But even so I know they get far more exercise than their peers who aren't enrolled in competitive sports or martial arts, swimming, or other such lessons. I know this because Pene's P.E. teacher once complimented her on her fitness level and asked her, “How do you stay fit?”

     “My dad makes us go outside and exercise,” she said.

     “And you do?” he asked incredulous.

     “Yeah,” she said.

     Just the fact that he asked “And you do?” tells me that parents rarely force their kids to get any real at-home exercise.

     This, to me, is sad. I taught all our kids to swim and ride bike because these, plus running, can be pursued with lifelong passion—the best individual athletic exercises there are: joyful, healthy, inexpensive, convenient, and fun. Doing them always improves my outlook. And I see how much calmer and yet more alert they, too, are after vigorous exercise. It's a joy to be alive after such effort, cool down, and recovery.

     Deanne's not into it. There's a one in seven chance she'll agree to an after-dinner walk and only after sighs and slammed books, chairs, or other objects acted out upon. And the walks themselves sometimes feel more like trips to a dentist than pleasure strolls.

     My mom was inactive like that when I was still living at home (and we didn't eat very healthy diets, either). Praise God her health held up and she took up golf in her sixties and her diet's improved substantially. At age eighty-three, she's still walking all eighteen holes at least twice a week at a hilly golf course (I've done it before; its tiring) so she's terrific healthy for her age.

     I pray that my immediate family maintains its token level of fitness and that God will protect us all, like Mom, until the day when all of us come to enjoy exercising voluntarily. And may that day come sooner rather than later for all our sakes.

Hugs

     I'm a five-hugs-a-day guy. I feel better, do better, and am better when I get this daily minimum allowance.

     When the kids were young, this was no problem, either because they wanted more (especially Braden) or they had no choice—we could hold them at will.

     But things changed fast, especially for Pene, and by the time she was a toddler, she made very clear when she wasn't in the hugging or cuddling mood by stiff-arming my chest with both her hands, leaning back, and turning her head away.

     I tease her now about her evading my hugs and say, “You hurt my feelings when you did that! It's as if you were saying, 'Stay away from me, I don't want any of that!'”

     She smiles to such remarks, of course not remembering a thing. Which brings me to today's standings:

• Deanne will share a hug with me in mornings before I leave for work and usually in bed at night before I fall asleep at around eight-fifteen.

• Jaren shares a close hug with me at bedtime and will happily share more when asked. At seven years old he's getting big for climbing aboard my lap at bedtime, but neither of us mind, so I'm not telling.

• Pene, a grown reproductive-capable woman at age twelve now gives me air hugs (sans chest-to-chest contact) at bed time. I'm currently reading the Lord of the Rings to her, which we both enjoy so much, and we feel so close, that though I miss closer hugs, I'm not pressing it. When I was about her age, my parents (especially Mom 'cause Dad was never much of a hugger) stopped hugging me on a daily basis because I preferred it that way (with some later regreta). And it worked okay with us and I believe that that's where Pene's at with me now, needing her space. (On more than a couple occasions, I've asked Deanne to remind Pene to keep behind closed doors when changing and not bend over when wearing revealing tops. It's all lady-stuff she needs to be aware of, so now's as good a time as any to learn. I suspect this lady awareness also includes not pressing so close to Dad...)

• Braden receives almost no hugs from us. This has been going on for years. I don't feel the desire to hug him, perhaps because we've had so many ugly fights, or perhaps because he's adopted sloppy dress and appearance as his default style, or perhaps because he often smells odoriferous, or perhaps because he doesn't want to be hugged because he values independence and autonomy above hugs, which he may consider mainly “for little kids.”

     Funny how at age fifty-three I'm far from being a little kid yet feel the need for hugs at least as often as Jaren. My closest and longest and most intimate hugs are now shared with Deanne. In the mornings, when we hug and Deanne prays for me while I stroke her hair, back, and arms—my way of saying bye to her—I allow myself to draw strength from her.

     Some may say it's not right to draw strength from her and that I should instead draw all my strength from God. But then the Bible makes clear it's good to be with another. For in the event one falls, the other may assist. And I so often these days feel as if I were falling-mostly due to assorted health maladies.

     It's too bad hugging isn't more widely accepted. Even elementary school teachers here in the Aloha State (or “Love” State), where hugging and adorning visitors with lei has so long been a cultural norm, and where hugs from “Aunties” and “Uncles” (adult friends, or acquaintances) are generally accepted, seem to restrict hugs to only the youngest keiki (kids), seemingly in fear of accusations of fondling or inappropriate touch.

     In church, too, it's all air hugs if any at all.

     And even in our extended ohana (family), only Mom still gives me close hugs. (My brother-in-law's sister touches her ear and/or cheek to mine while we air hug, which is nice, but interesting—first time I've experienced it, maybe a new way of doing it that I just didn't know about.)

     And at my workplace, hugging is virtually taboo due to sexual harassment fears and concerns. (In Japan, coworkers on company outings may relax at onsen (hot springs resorts), soaking together nude—same sex only, of course. Wonder how that would play in America? Although once, while working at a CPA firm we males all showered together after playing in a tennis tournament in preparation for our company banquet, but that was in Seattle where locker room etiquette is different from here...)

     On the flip side, while it's true that we don't want to open things up (especially for our kids) to potential abuse, I nonetheless believe that something is lost when people of any age don't receive ample hugs and that the world would be a far better place would everyone receive more than enough. It's simple. Easy. Free. And so healthy and beneficial. Why not indulge more?

Date Nights—Part III

     For Valentine's Day, Deanne and I watched The Flying Dutchman at the Neal Blaisdel Concert Hall performed with musicians from the Honolulu Symphony Orchestra and dozens of opera singers. I bought tickets by phone through Hawaii Opera Theater for pickup before the show at the will-call booth, thereby optimizing affordability, seat location, and purchasing convenience, for when I called the Blaisdel Ticket Office, $30 bargain seats were sold out (plus tickets had to be purchased in advance in person) and Ticket Master's processing fees were exorbitant.
     It was our first classic opera and here are my impressions: Fantastic music—can't beat Wagner for conjuring images of stormy seas through sound; lighting and staging added to the foreboding mood; the soprano and the humorous night watchman sang with penetrating gusto—very impressive; acting was OK, nothing spectacular (I saw Pavoratti on TV once in a classic opera and his acting stank—I guess for him it's all about the voice); and the engaging story kept me guessing to the end (my guesses were way off).
     Afterward we went for a quick bite at Ward Warehouse where the only kiosk open that Sunday evening was Mr. Eggroll. Its Chinese food was excellent for the price and super convenience (it was getting late), and the proprietress was friendly and generous, giving sample dishes to try and even an extra sample with our meals. 
     On another evening following an exhausting weekend in which we wanted to escape house and kids, we went for a low stress, low hassle dinner at Lee Ho Fook Restaurant, a favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese Cultural Plaza restaurant facing the canal. The six table Hong Kong style mom-n-pop shop serves yummy noodles and soup, has not changed its prices in years, gives generous portions, doesn't add MSG (that makes my hands feel weak and gets me thirsty), and allows the flavors of natural ingredients to come through without overpowering seasonings. Its offerings beat those of numerous fancier restaurants that charge twice or thrice the price, and its casual, relaxed, come-as-you-are atmosphere reminds me of my youth with its Formica top tables, vinyl padded steel leg chairs, and linoleum floors. We slurped up seafood won tons with chilli oil and dug into our egg foo young (a Hawaii classic) and three meat cake noodle with hearty relish, then walked along Chinatown's main thoroughfare past Mauna Kea Marketplace to window shop and burn off calories.  
     Then on Thursday's Kuhio Day state holiday we went to one of Art and Flea's monthly events at an industrial warehouse behind Marukai across Ward Warehouse partly converted into unfinished shabby/chic display areas where sixty tiny start-up vendors peddled their art, jewelry, hand made instruments and toys, used albums, baked goods, snacks, thrift clothes, and other offerings while a DJ spun vinyl disks pumping out young dance music (house, techno, trance—I don't know what). The vendors answered all my questions such as, “Where did you get this from?” “Are you the artist?” “Did you use a long or short lens on this photo?” with enthusiasm and friendly engagement. There was a demonstration outside featuring a very lively and synchronized dance team bedecked in uniform tights, t-shirts, and sneakers, with moves like robot from the '70s and hiphop from the '90s. 
     The crowd was predominantly twenty-something petite female beauties, some hand in hand with a complaint significant other. Entrance fee was $3 each, which was okay for a once-in-awhile thing, and I ended up purchasing a framed original hand drawn acrylic doodles on original photo for $35 that now adorns our dining room wall. When I first saw it, I wasn't sure how it'd been done, the doodles were so whimsically convincing that it made the wave photo beneath seem painted, and I'd never seen a piece quite like it before. The artist with purple dyed hair and large arm tattoo had a lot of different styled work with no set one-trick-pony pattern or theme, so understanding her individual works was a bit more challenging, which I think is great as I love variety partly because it gives me a better sense of who the artist is and how she thinks, which factors into purchase decisions.
     One of the most gratifying parts of the event was its welcoming air—I didn't feel at all intimidated, awkward, or unwanted, or that a pickpocket might target me, or that a seamy underbelly lay hidden, so that later at home I told Deanne that my sense of the youth there was one of innocence, which was hopeful. 
     I pray my sense was accurate and representative and that it bodes well for my kids' futures. I remember my youth when drug abuse (mostly alcohol and marijuana), posturing, and judgmental attitudes and behaviors were rampant among my classmates (and I, except for the drugs, which I didn't do) and how far from innocent we all were. Of course, I knew them and myself tons better than I do today's twenty-something youths, and who knows what I'd think if I knew them better? Probably depends on which “thems” I knew as everyone is different. Yet, in general, I think certain things may have changed for the better.

Conjugal Relations

     Some time ago, I learned from memory and trial and error the chords to the song The Joker on guitar. I asked my brother-in-law to help me recall the lyrics, in particular what Steve Miller was saying when he sang, “Some people call me Maurice, cause I speak 'bout the ____­__ of love,” He said I'll go look it up on the Internet. I said that's no fun, what do you think he said? He said I assume he's saying, “promises.” I said I think it sounds more like “pompousness” though I like “pompatus” better because it sounds like something nasty. (I later checked the dictionary and found no such word. The Internet—I got desperate—concluded that what he said was indecipherable but probably “pompatus” just 'cause it sounded so good).
     “Conjugal Relations” is like that. It conjures images of prisoners (always males) given reprieves in a spare room to enjoy conjugal relations with their wives. I betcha those were some pretty intense, memorable, and pleasurable moments. And I like how the word “enjoy” is naturally associated with “conjugal relations.” It's never, “...and they were given an hour of privacy to endure conjugal relations.” Not that conjugal (loosely defined as “related to marriage”) requires physical acts of intimacy, but the subtext is there. (What else would they do? Waste an hour discussing the kids, a leaky roof, or bills to pay?)
     By contrast, when pop culture portrays sexual relations between longtime spouses it's predictably boring, stodgy, and persnickety. A check list chore that just has to get done, akin to washing dishes or taking out the garbage, icky-poo and disgusting. Often enough a slovenly, beer-bellied, unshaven couch potato husband belittles his bags-under-the-eyes, bathrobe-, house slippers-, and hairnet-clad, obnoxious and loud cigarette-smoking wife before seducing her. Such noncredible portrayals mock today's long-time spouses as if their sharing erotic relations is laughable ludicrous, passe' and embarrassing, especially compared to pop culture's graphic and salacious portrayals of successful hunks humping hot, new, rich, desirable, current year nymphs, replacement lovers to last year's tired, old, outdated spouses. No wonder Siskel and Ebert once said, “We get asked, why do you always like French foreign films better than Hollywood blockbusters? We say, French cinema is about adults acting like adults. Hollywood blockbusters are about adults acting like kids.”
     Yet even French cinema and books in general rarely present graphic sexual relations between long-term marrieds in positive, appealing lights, as if to do so would assure a film's or book's demise. Sad, because this plethora of sexless marriages in art is such a distortion of reality as statistics show that sex within marriage is far more prevalent than sex without. And this suggests to me that sex within marriage is far more pleasurable than sex without, for obviously people will engage more and more in whatever it is they enjoy most, finding ways regardless of marital status, convenience, or cost. As an extreme example of how unappealing sex outside marriage can be, it's said that celebrity sex is usually lousy, quick, and all you get out of it is bragging rights and STDs. Further, sexually promiscuous singles tend to have far less gratifying relationships than monogamous marrieds—no surprise as commitment and trust are fundamental to happy relations. And purveyors of prostitutes enjoy sex least of all—stripped of affection and dignity, small wonder.
     No, sexual relations between long-term marrieds can be deep, meaningful, moving, intense, erotic, and fulfilling, the best there is if taken in context, meaning good and outstanding sexual relations depends upon good and healthy interpersonal relations (and not the other way around). Or as a pastor once put it, the sexual act is like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence and everything that is said and done throughout each day leading up to that point becomes part of it.
     While I was yet in college, my buddy Norm said something surprising. He and his roommate had been discussing illegal drugs (a hot topic back then) and I asked him to describe how various drugs affected him. He said, “Marijuana is like TV. Cocaine is like masturbation...” He and his roommate went on and on about various drugs including LSD and magic mushrooms and I don't remember why, but I posed a question that began, “If cocaine is like sex—.”
     “I didn't say that,” he interrupted.
     “Yes you did, you said...”
     “No. What I said was, 'Cocaine is like masturbation...”
     “I stand corrected,” I said, nodding.
     He went on, “Sex is the best drug there is, no drug even comes close to the high sex produces. The best a drug can do is mimic or approximate its effects. But its never the same and there are always dreadful side-effects that go along with drugs.”
     Which leads to the point that besides being pleasurable, safe sex is healthy (good cardio and resistance strengthening), legal, free, and devoid of dreadful side effects. And in a long-term happy relationship, its also nurturing, loving, giving, releasing, and reviving.
     Perhaps because Deanne and I married later in life and took things slow, we're still coming up with new stuff sixteen years into our marriage. And we still send each other to scary, new, wonderful places we never knew existed, praise God. And it's all good, blissful, guilt-free and blessed. Or as another pastor said, “God invented sex, not the devil. So the act itself is good and holy, not filthy and disgusting. It's people and Hollywood that have twisted and distorted sex into something it was never meant to be.”
     So, indulge and enjoy and always remember that as a wise person once said, “The greatest sex organ is between the ears, not the legs,” meaning what we think, feel, and say are just as important as the physical act itself and it's not what we've got or how we use it, but who we are and how we live that matters most.

Date Nights—Part II

     The Downtown Arts District, a couple blocks east of central Chinatown, has a good thing going evenings. Deanne and I have been a couple times—both times smashing successes with hand holding, listening to live music, walking, and ducking in and out of shops and cafes/bars.
     When I was in college, the Chinatown area had a bad nighttime reputation. A dorm mate told his girlfriend who was going there with a bunch of girls, “Now if some guy grabs you, I want to kick him in the n___!” She said nothing's going to happen but you could tell he was serious.
     We parked at Chinatown Gateway Plaza for three dollars after five p.m. then both times went for early dinners at Murphy's Bar and Grill. It has a family-friendly restaurant section with attentive waitresses and a bricks/brass/window planters atmosphere that seems years and miles away from the hectic financial district just a few blocks away. (The first time we went I had a wine glass of Narwhal beer on tap—the only drink either of us had on either night—and it was fantastic!) Then after eating and talking and relaxing and easing into our togetherness mode, we headed up Bethel Street toward Hawaii Theater.
     Now here's where the vibe got funky-fun: young, beautiful people out and about, smatterings of middle-agers walking by or waiting for a bus, and a few senior young-at-hearts ducking into a bar seemed to invite and enfold us into the scene. On our first night there in front of the theater young costumed college types, Caucasian and oriental geeky-chic, put on a sidewalk Celtic-sounding modern pop show featuring singing accompanied by guitar, violin, and cello. Further along and around a corner in a side alley, a few young, slim ladies dressed in Charleston era sexy half-lingeries (they may have been among the Cherry Blossom Cabaret) were filing into the adjacent store's make-shift show room theater with hung sheets for walls (they'd done their thing before in a hairstyling salon). At the Arts at Mark's Garage (it really is a grungy old garage I used to park in decades ago; its street level commercial space is now an art gallery/performing arts center), I was allowed to enter free and see the tail end of a one-man show: he sat on a barstool, recited his final lines, bowed, and was very well received by the small but enthusiastic audience (the place held perhaps twenty. The Rocky Horror Picture show was to be screened later with attendees encouraged to bring rice, squirt guns, plastic tarp, and other audience participation props.) We then ducked in and out of boutiques, vendors warm and inviting, and ended up at Hank's Cafe where a middle aged guy sang and played guitar. The barkeeper/owner was cool and let us hangout in the near empty place that seated perhaps fifteen and I sang along to Beatles & Paul McCartney classics, tipping the musician who played my requested In My Life (Beatles' version).
     The second night, after our light meal, we ducked into the dark old-world-looking Brasserie du Vin wine bar/restaurant and had a couple of dainty pastries selected from the refrigerated display case out front. Fantastic, light, and not too sweet—they were the perfect shared desserts for Deane's birthday. Continuing along we looped back around block's end and stopped into Fresh Cafe, which was soft-opening with a new concept with three separate spaces, all clean and well lit with open loft-style atmospheres: restaurant, outdoors lanai seating along a covered walk with high brick walls and industrial refrigerator steel doors to match, and a separate well-lit bar where we snacked on chips with salsa while listening to a twenty-something musician sing and play acoustic guitar upbeat and tight. Another patron and I had fun harmonizing along to songs I never before heard. (The gathering crowd in shorts, t-shirts, and sneakers made me feel like we were grandparents, though, but only in a self-reflective, humorous way.) And we finished the night at the Dragon Upstairs jazz bar where a quintet of oldsters (college professor types) stuffed into a tiny area riffed out fun, humorous numbers I again didn't recognize but appreciated just the same. The sax and trumpet traded conversational riffs like arguing spouses, cutting in on each other, reasoning, insisting, and pleading. Then, as if they both had had enough, they riffed off simultaneous which resulted in ticklish cacophonous dissonant notes and verses that had me laughing half-way through, so taken was I by their show of generosity and humility, neither upstaging the other. (I'd heard the sax player years before at Ward's Rafters in Kaimuki which was in an attic of a house turned jazz venue when he'd played with a pianist parent of a scout in Braden's den. At the time he'd played limpid and unexpressive. At the Dragon, he cooked. I concluded he'd underperformed at the Ward's Rafters as professional courtesy to Dan, the show's headliner that afternoon...)
     We'd been to the Arts District before for shows at Hawaii Theater and dinner and never felt threatened so times have, as advertised, changed for the better. Of course our evenings ended well before ten, so that may have had something to do with it. Most locals know of the area's chronic homeless presence (especially at the park beside Hawaii Theater) and problems with drugs, public inebriation, the mentally ill, and crime, so its not something we do often. But once in awhile, when its early, we feel its safe enough. And there is a police substation and Walmart nearby that makes the area feel a lot less shady than before. 

Compliments

     Compliments go a long way, they really do. I've been married sixteen years, but they feel more like five. It amazes me when I look through the kids' photo albums how much they've grown in just a few short years, and how much Deanne and I have aged blossomed.
     Obviously what made the years go by so fast were happy, healthy relationships. The ol' saying about time going by fast when you're have fun is true. Conversely, when life is miserable, time slows to a crawl.
     At the risk of sounding self-complimentary, a large reason for our marital felicity can be attributed to my liberal bestowing of compliments upon Deanne. She, in turn, has praised me now and then, conservative lest I get too prideful.
     Deanne grew up in an environment where compliments were seldom shared. When she first met my parents, and I asked her what she thought, she said she thought she had gone to Heaven, seeing them so loving with each other.
     This took me aback: that was the way they always acted. They hadn't been any more loving than usual. It was then that I realized that their usual way of interrelating was Deanne's family's rare exception or fairy-tale fantasy.
     My mom taught me to compliment by forcing me to praise my sister Joan's cooking. She'd make something awful and I'd mumble, “Tastes great, Joan,” and she'd say with bright cheer, “Thanks, Tim!” as if she couldn't tell I hadn't meant it.
     It reminded me of the Mary Tyler Moore episode in which Mary asks Mr. Grant his opinion about her true story essay that described her uncle that dressed up as Santa all year round. Mr. Grant opined, “It's all boring,” but explained that he respects her too much to give her false praise, and to demonstrate his point, he called in nincompoop incompetent Ted Baxter and told him he's doing a great job, to which the newscaster left beside himself with glee. When asked if that's what she wants, Mary said, “God, yes,” to which Mr. Grant patronized her with sarcastic, overblown puffery. Mary thought a moment then choosing to believe the happy lie, she said, “Why, thank you Mr. Grant.”
     Joan's cooking improved over time to the point that I grudgingly had to admit to myself that her cooking really was good (especially the canned cherries with ham).
     Mom always insisted that we compliment the cook no matter what-because it's such a downer to hear negativity after all the hard work and worry. It's a lesson that's stuck. Every meal Deanne has ever served me—thousands by now—I've thanked and praised her for, usually referring to the “wonderful meal”—even before I've tasted it. And after tasting it, I tell her something specific about why it's so delicious. And it's never been hypocritical or patronizing (as Mr. Grant implies), but sincere and true expressions of gratitude and appreciation.
     Compliments should be used sparingly with children, however. The new thinking (which makes sense to me for small things at least) is that we should praise the effort, not the outcome or the person, because kids know when they do well and that should be reward enough, too much praise can be like candy (can't get enough), and for kids who feel unworthy, it can even create discomfort so that they'll feel compelled to act or mess up to retest the boundaries and gain reassurance that everything's fine as usual with Mom and Dad critical as ever. (Kids have so much to learn by the time they reach adulthood that it's inevitable that they be corrected and corrected often, which often enough is in the form of criticism or discipline. On the surface it can sound harsh and cruel, but it really isn't. To the contrary, to correct and direct is to love, care, and nurture. The unloved child, by contrast, may be ignored and/or fatuously praised. And kids know this difference intuitively.)
     The other night Braden showed us his craft project—a hand-carved koa pendant cross. I told him I loved it for its beauty and design, and being a sometimes hobby craftsman, I asked him how he'd done it. I could tell he was pleased with Deanne's and my compliments, however, the next morning when I looked for a clean breakfast plate, I discovered that all the large dishes were filthy. He had been doing a good job of washing the dinner dishes recently and I soon made the connection, since it wasn't the first time it happened, that the inverse power of praise had been at work whereby praise becomes counterproductive.
     My mom—at the same time the most loving yet critical parent imaginable—once sat me down and for the first time ever, praised me profusely, telling me I should give myself more credit and be proud, and that she saw how hard I tried to do the right thing all the time—a real Joy Luck Club moment that taught me how to receive praise without feeling compelled to act up to regain equilibrium.
     The night following the messy dishes I said as we sat to say grace before dinner that we all needed practice giving and receiving praise. Everyone, each in turn, will compliment everyone else, I said, and each complimented person must say thank you. I demonstrated first, followed by Deanne and the others. It went well—lots of smiles, laughs, and joy in just a few moments.
     I never stop praising Deanne's beauty, too. It's easy—she really is beautiful. And I compliment her on things I find attractive about her. Almost as much as saying, “I love you,” telling her, “You're so sexy,” or “You're the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world,” or “You're the best!”—corny though they may sound—really do go a long way. And I'm often the prime recipient of her gratitude and good will.
     More recently, Branden shared his second craft project—a heart-shaped koa pendant. I again praised his work and this time told him of his tendency to act up after being praised due to his feeling unworthy and that he needed to receive such praise from family into his heart. I also said, “When classmates or others praise you, you he may need to guard your heart—they may just want something from you, but when we praise you, it's okay to feel good about it. Last time we complimented you on your cross pendant, the next morning, all the dishes were filthy. This time, I expect the dishes to be clean, alright?” He smiled and said, “Yes, Dad.”
     The next morning, the dishes were sparkling clean, praise God.

Adoption Option

     My family has a long history with adoption, so when the time came for my wife and I to explore various options due to medical circumstances, I felt comfortable with this possibility.
     Both my paternal grandparents had had younger siblings adopted due to parental deaths.  Grandma shared how her dad, a sugar plantation worker in Kihei, gave up the family's youngest for adoption to a family in Kula—where she eventually disappeared and was later found dead, drowned in a cistern.  When Grandpa was a child and both his parents died in close succession—his father by drowning when thrown by a huge wave off a commercial fishing sampan off Hilo and his mother from disease—his uncle, a barber in Lahaina decided he could manage to care for but one of the two children.  He therefore sent Grandpa's sister to live with relatives back in Japan.  As an adult, Grandpa, a Kula Sanatorium yard man, sent her money because her family was so poor, World War II ceasing all correspondence for a time.  Many years later, they resumed correspondence, and decades later, reunited in a sorrowful reunion at which Grandpa's sister couldn't stop crying.  Their second reunion, however, went much better as she had found peace amidst all the painful memories.
     My maternal grandmother died when Mom was a child so Grandpa, a farmer with a fifty acre plot in Honokaa and seven daughters to care for, gave the youngest up for adoption.  Though Aunt Mae seldom was included within the close, tight circle of all our other aunties (partly because she lived in Chicago and other faraway places), my mom and aunties corresponded with her and met up with her in recent years for vacations and other gatherings.
     My sister Joan adopted her sole child from Korea.  The two couldn't stop crying on their trip home together to Hawaii—my sister for joy and pity at her daughter's tears; my one year old niece due to fear of the strangers taking her away from her beloved foster mom.
     My sister's husband's twin sister was given up for adoption shortly after birth due to their mom not feeling up to the task of raising them both. I met Samantha at my sister's wedding—a beautiful, confident woman who is included in numerous of my brother-in-law's family gatherings back east where he grew up in New Jersey.
     And my half-Scot, half-Siamese father-in-law was as an infant adopted by a Chinese family in Malaysia.  He grew to six-foot-four and played for his future country's national basketball team as center, but quit when he saw the United States' team in which their shortest player was taller than he was.
     Our personal encounter with adoption came over a year ago when routine ultrasound images showed abnormalities in our eight-weeks-old fetus my wife Deanne was carrying.  Our doctor made us an appointment at a fetal diagnostic center and offered to later test for chromosomal abnormalities such as Down syndrome and spina bifida—early notice apparently to give us time to decide whether or not to terminate the pregnancy.  I told Deanne, who later brooded over the prospect of caring for a special needs child that if we didn't feel up to it, we could consider giving it up for adoption.  But if we did give it up, we'd have to do so at birth, because once we brought it home and cared for it, we'd become so attached, it'd be too painful to give away after that.  She didn't like the adoption idea because when her dad, as an adult, tracked down and talked to his biological mother, she outright rejected him and told him to never bother her again, which devastated him.
     Abortion was something neither of us felt comfortable with, so that left us with planning to keep the baby, possibly skipping the test, and praying everything would be fine.
     Two weeks passed and the next ultrasound showed the baby fine, clear, and healthy, but also an abnormal bulge in the uterine wall that the doctor said the fetal diagnostic center may better be able to identify.  Three days later, the fetal diagnostic center's high-tech ultrasound showed the same size fetus with no heartbeat, and multiple chromosomal abnormalities—possibly Down syndrome.  The fetus had apparently died in the intervening period.  We opted to wait for a natural discharge of the fetus' remains (or a miracle recovery), but ten days passed and Deanne seemed increasingly less pregnant.  At the next doctor's visit, the ultrasound confirmed no growth and no heart beat or blood flow.  The doctor recommended a procedure to remove the fetus, placenta, and other baby-related support systems to prevent infection, which Deanne and I agreed to.
     The miscarriage shocked and disappointed us.  We had been buoyed by the prospect of a fourth child yet stressed at the same time by the logistics of planning a preparing for its arrival and funding its future.  What eased the pain and emptiness was knowing God had decided for us.  It was if He said, “No, not now.  I want this child with me, chromosomal abnormalities and all—it doesn't matter to me, I love it just the same.”
     Deanne had a dream a couple days later of her deceased father (who recently died after a prolonged bout with colon cancer).  She placed a baby in his arms and said, “Here's Jen.”  Dad had never met our youngest child Jaren, who just turned six, and Jen was the name we had preselected from six-and-a-half years ago to name him, had he been a girl.
     A part of me wondered:  If God blesses us with another daughter, will we still feel comfortable naming her Jen?  It took us awhile to come up with that name (not her real name, by the way, we don't share that with anyone until after birth).  But after Deanne again got pregnant, we realized, no, Jen would not do.  So we came up with a different name.  God again called the fetus to Him (after two weeks).  It had been such a short pregnancy, and we had guarded our hearts just in case, so the shock of disappointment was not quite so severe.  God's will be done in all things.  He has been good to us beyond compare.

Date Nights

     Deanne and I have been married for fifteen years—the fifteen happiest years of my life (and hers too, so she replies sometimes more convincingly than others).  Most everyone agrees that a key to happy spousal relations, especially for couples raising kids, is continual courtship-style dating.  One Christian counselor advised that in economic terms, spending one to two hundred dollars every other week and enough for one “big” thing (trip to Europe, week in a ski lodge, etc.) every other year or so is a bargain to keep things alive because the cost of divorce is magnitudes higher (in terms of alimony; child support; duplicate housing, utility, and insurance costs; etc.)  Fortunately, my wife and I don't have such expensive tastes and manage to date on much less (and have yet to do, post-kids, a “big” style thing—we travel as a family; our budget and baby sitting options don't allow the two of us to disappear for days at a time.)

     We find that the best dates don't involve shopping (especially not for necessities) and rarely involve movies.  All too often, these get us into tunnel-vision mode, detracting from attentiveness toward each other.
     Dates we enjoy involve concerts, eating, scenic walks (highly recommended) window shopping, plays, shows, and a variety of music forums.  When I think about it, it's shocking how limited the variety of our dates have been.  But due to physical limitations and preferences, we discovered early on that our dates wouldn't be about skiing, skating, golfing, bowling, dancing, scuba diving, or hiking, or about adrenalin-rush adventures (crowded festivals or group-oriented activities).  We prefer our alone-times to be about anticipating then sharing a slow-cooked meal sans the hassles of preparation and clean-up, which always puts us into wind-down mode.  Or sitting quietly to witness a live performance (with plenty of hand-holding, whispered conversations, people watching, and discussions before and after.)  Or walking after a meal or show at my slow, preferred pace (man takes the lead, like in ballroom dancing), looking, exploring, and doing whatever catches our fancies, spontaneous and free.
     Fondly remembered shows included Altar Boys, Spring Awakening, Rain—The Beatles Experience, Loggins & Messina, Diane Shuur, Manhattan Transfer, The Nutcracker, Die Fledermaus, and The Odyssey.  Fondly remember restaurants included Chai's Bistro, The Chart House in Haiku Gardens (where we married), Canton House, Empress, The Olive Garden, Maharani, and countless others.  Pleasant walks included Waikiki, Fort deRussey, Ala Moana, Downtown, University, Puck's Alley, Waialae, Kapahulu, strip malls, Ward area shops, Honolulu Waterfront, and Aloha Tower Marketplace.  Only now do I realize how urban our walks have been (we're not much into picnics due to the burden of preparation and clean-up and we hate long drives), yet, they've never felt hustle-bustle, perhaps because our focus had been on savoring the child-free moments.
     Deanne is from a big city, so man-made scenery tends to comfort her.  Although I'm from Hilo and sometimes still long for a more open-air environment, I've adapted and learned to enjoy doing simple, fun, and easy things together even if in high population density locations.  Though often surrounded by people, we still feel alone enough—unrecognized and left to our own private intimacies—to reconnect as man-woman friends.  As another pastor once said, couples rarely fall out of love.  It's when they fall out of friendship that trouble begins.
     It's up to us, then, to keep our friendship alive by continuing to court each other (dress up, bathe, primp, and offer gently courtesies), making the effort to be attractive and sexually desirable.  Dating offers the opportunity, yet it's up to us to make it happen.  Fun and romantic?  Or painful and boring?  Usually it's the former or at least part of it is.  Total bombs, though rare, are learning experiences.  What went wrong?  Poor planning?  Bad attitudes?  An over-busy schedule?  In the midst of such a bomb, I start praying, and God always comes through—even if it’s just a pleasant surprise restaurant at the end of a long, hot walk through an unpleasant neighborhood.  And such memories tend to stick—the good within the bad, which makes it sometimes seem even better than it really was.  But that’s okay—it’s all good when you’re dating your spouse.