There is an old Ann Landers column (possibly Erma Bombeck – I’m fuzzy on the provenance) that compares having a handicapped child with going on vacation. You’re planning on going to New York. You pack for New York and buy tickets in advance for Broadway shows. You can’t wait for that first slice of real, New York pizza.
Somehow, though, when you get off the plane, you’re in Paris. You don’t speak the language. You don’t have the right clothes. The food is covered in sauces. And you’re a little shell-shocked, because this vacation is going to be nothing like what you planned for and expected.
But Paris is lovely, too. And the language, once you learn a few words, is beautiful and expressive. Paris will never be New York, but it has its own rewards and blessings.
The different reactions to the finale of Bones – S6 reminded me of that column.
We wanted this
And we got this
We expected another 30-40-50 years conversation
“I’m . . .I’m pregnant. And you’re the father.”
Some of us (Hi!) are just giddy to be in Paris. Some of us are irritated and trying to figure out where the plane went off-course, demanding to be taken back to New York.
In Defense of Comfort Sex
Over the past couple of weeks, there has been a vocal, negative reaction throughout BonesBlogWorld to the thought that our lovers might have become lovers on the night of VNM’s death. The consensus among some seems to be that turning to each other in that moment of pain cheapens the first time, or takes away from the importance of the moment. I disagree.
In moments of great pain and loss, most of us seek some sort of physical comfort. Friends and family members who are rarely together cling to each other with long, hard hugs at funerals. We rub shoulders and pat backs and hold hands and grip arms. And sometimes, in the quiet of the night, we turn to the person sleeping next to us. Those moments aren’t just about comfort or forgetting or physical release. Those moments are a celebration of life, a subtle recognition of and fighting back against the fear we all have of death.
Neither Brennan nor Booth went looking for comfort sex, either in the arms of a stranger or with each other. I don’t believe Booth had that motive in mind when he insisted she spend the night. I don’t believe Brennan went to him that night thinking of sex. But once they were together, lying in each others arms, once her tears were spent and his heart was full of pain on her behalf, turning to each other was a natural, beautiful, emotional climax.
I don’t believe there was anything cheap about that moment. In a moment of crisis, it was appropriately fitting that Temperance Brennan and Seeley Booth were there for each other.
A Date by Any Other Name
Define ‘dating.’ What do you believe is the purpose of dating?
I submit we have spent the last six seasons watching Brennan and Booth ‘date.’ I submit BONES might appropriately be renamed THE COURTSHIP OF MAX’S DAUGHTER.
There has been a bit of furor that this couple – with its very nontraditional, nonstandard female half – has become a couple in a nonstandard, nontraditional way. Zero to pregnant in 129 episodes.
I submit this couple’s path has been uber-standard, that they have followed an old-fashioned idea of traditional. They have courted in the old-fashioned, no-sex sense of the term.
They have had conversations about religion and politics and children, and about plans for the future.
There have been gifts, small personal tokens that prove how well they know each other.
They have spent time together driven by a desire to spend time together, not by work. We’ve seen them meeting for dinner and we’ve seen them meet for drinks. We’ve heard about afternoons at the pool. We’ve seen them staring at the stars on a summer evening.
They have gotten to know extended families. They like and respect each other’s families – even when it comes to Booth and Max.
They ‘broke up.’
They survived the introduction of another love interest.
And they came back together.
They have killed for each other.
The only thing missing is a front porch swing and mom flicking the light on and off.
Rather than our plane going off-course and taking us somewhere we didn’t expect to go, I submit for your review and discussion that we may have boarded at the wrong gate. We planned for New York. All the other planes in the airport always go to New York. But this particular flight was always going to Paris.
Try the escargot. It’s really good with garlic butter and melba toast.
And remember . . . the Eiffel Tower is 6 inches shorter in winter.