mamasaymamasamamacusa

So my Mom is coming to visit....

Finally, a visitor! I realize they're not exactly giving away plane tickets these days, but you'd think people would be more willing to travel here. I provide them with a great excuse to splurge for the trip, especially when it comes to my parents. After all, they've spent quite a sum on visiting my sister over the years, even if the individual tickets were cheap. I'd say it's time it was my turn. Besides, Hawaii is much more interesting than Oregon.

There's no negatives about the situation, other than my Dad not being able to come, but there are concerns. I've already voiced my insecurities with my living situation to her. Not that I am insecure about it. Insecurities just have a way of happening when it comes to maternal relationships. For instance, I sleep on a mattress on the floor. It's comfortable and it works, but not exactly conventional. I did move here with basically what fit in two suitcases and a carry on, so having a mattress is a blessing. And my Mom knows that.

Money is going to be a bit tight. I am always short on cash as it is. Since moving it just has a tendency to disappear. However, my Mom has forewarned that she will be too. Apparently she's going to try for some spending money from my Dad and even Grandma, but that's best case scenario. Doesn't matter. The main priority is getting to see each other after almost two years. I want to show her the island though. Not in the cheesy tourist way, although certain "musts" will be on the list. After all, I have yet to make it up Diamondhead or to Pearl Harbor, but I want to show her the island I know too. The places and food the tourists don't know about. The real Aloha spirit, not just what can be found in Waikiki.

And then thirdly, I kind of didn't inform her of my relationship status. Actually, I take that back. I told my Mom when I went on a date and she had a horribly typical interfering mom response, or at least I interpreted it as that. It wasn't entirely my fault. My sister reprimanded her for how she responded, saying it was understandable that I freaked out. But following that whole debacle I just told her that the date was a flop and nothing came of it. Which would be fine if he and I didn't live in the same house now. And if she weren't staying at the house during her stay. Hmm. I decided to tell her information on a need to know basis after our misunderstanding. And, well, now she needs to know.

Monday I told her I've been dating someone. She was dumbfounded, which was confusing to me cause I figured she suspected something. I mean, I've been referring to a mysterious car for a while now. Either she didn't pay attention or she thought I had enough cash sitting around to buy one.

Now I have just over a month to bring up the fact that we live in the same house, which isn't too bad. Not sure whether I'll just claim that it's a recent development or not, but at least I've done the hardest part.

I don't care. I'm just excited. I haven't had something this big to look forward to in a long time.

an offer i couldn't refuse

The easiest way to get back into the habit of blogging is food. Moving to Kailua brings with it a broad spectrum of culinary choices. I still miss my ramen concubine at McCully Shopping Center and have yet to find comparable charsiu here, but the area is not void of tasty meals altogether.

Last Monday I took a day off for myself. This differs from plain old taking a day off. I needed a "me" day. Some time for myself, to think or not worry about someone else and what they want to do. It's not as selfish as it sounds, just more of a self-preservation tactic. Everyone should have their own alone time.

I went to lunch at Crepes No Ka 'Oi. Originally I wanted to try Boots and Kimo, since I've heard so many people rave about it, but they were going to close in half an hour and there was still a line. Crepes No Ka 'Oi is just a few doors down. I walked by and recalled reading about them. After perusing the menu I decided to give it a go.



I ordered The Godfather, which was basically a mozzarella caprese inside a crepe.



Look at all that balsamic goodness oozing out! I was pretty impressed with the size of it too. The menu wasn't too extensive, but then considering you're dealing solely with crepes I suppose it wasn't bound to be a novel. There was one involving Nutella that sounded fabulous had I been in a dessert mood. And a berry one that was tempting as well. I will definitely be back.



Oooo and they had this nifty light fixtures that I want.

back with a vengeance?

I'm back. After a several month long hiatus, I'm not quite sure as to how "back" I am yet. Perhaps I just feel the need this one night. I am left physically exhausted by the day but mentally alert. I know I need to write more often. I know that. And I have often felt the urge, just not the motivation. Or perhaps it's the other way around? I mean well, I swear.

The thought of writing a recap of the last few months is disgusting at the moment. The details of my life are often too much for me to handle, so I shall spare you. Suffice it to say that I have extricated myself from the unsatisfactory living situation. I am the inhabitant of a house for the second time in my life, even if it still is a rental. I'm now living on the windward side, which is a hugely welcome change. The drive is not that much of a hassle.

Chores are becoming an issue. There is a monstrous pile of dishes in the kitchen. Every plate and bowl in the house is dirty and stacked 2 feet high. After being unofficially dubbed the mother of the house, I refuse to tackle the majority of them. I went on a cleaning spree a few days ago, so my share of household duties have more than been fulfilled as far as I'm concerned. And yet the dishes are untouched. I have to draw the line somewhere.

I went in search of a bowl, figuring I could handle washing just one, and discovered that mold has taken a deathly grip on the mile high pile. The dry-heaving set in and I had to exit the kitchen immediately.

After one roommate left for Minnesota for 3 weeks, I am left in a house with men. And Lord knows, men don't know how to clean.

so much to update, so little time

I promise I haven't forgotten about you....

decisions, decisions...

Is April Fool's Day ever actually humorous post grade school? I feel as though it would be a touch on the cheeky side to feed you some lie about how I'm pregnant or I've eloped or I'm moving or I won the lottery. Of all 365 days on the calendar, you're least likely to get away with it today. Even if the stars align and have left you with a reality that sounds like it's fictional, no one will believe you today. Try as you might, that miraculous promotion will be scoffed at. Isn't it pointless to play? Isn't that something that's only acceptable when we're 12? Or maybe if we work for Michael Scott?

That being said, I'm going to completely disregard today's date and be straight up with you. I'm at a crossroads. A few months ago I was forced to make a decision. That decision ended up being that, whether I wanted to move or not, it would be in my best financial interests to stay in Hawaii. Detroit is fucked. Even if I had the assets to move, that is not the environment I want to be in. So I stayed and found a certain level of content with my life. Three months later, I am presented with a new decision. I know this is where I need to be for now. I'm okay with that. I have a semi-lucrative job. I'm dating someone. I have a mediocre social life. However, now I'm beginning to see that should I want to exert the effort to begin a life here there are choices I can make to facilitate that decision. In other words, should this be more of a long term thing I need to start making life easier. This living situation, as is, is not ideal. Scratch that, ideal is not even an option at this point. This is not a long term situation. Crazy Mary Jane aside, I do not want to pay this price, especially since I could get more furnishings for a cheaper rent. We occasionally have an unexplainable roach problem, which is unacceptable in my eyes, especially when I find one on my bed like I did an hour ago. I love living with Marya, but if I'm elsewhere in Waikiki we can still have our fun.

My creative and professional needs are also not fulfilled. Buca is easy. It's easy money. It's stressful and annoying, but the only people I have in Hawaii are there. And there is fun. You know, when I'm not irritated. Yet I'm capable of and have experienced so much more that it's not really a long term option. If it is, I need something else in my life to satisfy me. Oprah visited recently and I filled him in on my situation. He made me promise that no matter what and above all else, that I will write. Not blog, but write something. Anything. He even gave permission to use him as fodder. That would be something. Who knows where it would lead, but it's something more.

Vegas is a much needed reprieve from all these thoughts. It's a much needed vacation from Buca. And seeing Andy will help. Just the fact that I've known him for so long and therefore he knows me so well will give me some perspective. I'm sure of that. It may also be difficult to return to a social situation where I don't have that kind of connection. Then again, it was difficult to leave it in the first place.

so fresh and so clean

Tonight my hands smell like home. I'm not sure what exactly that means. Home to me now has a lot broader definition than it did before. It means everything else in my existence prior to moving to the island. Therefore pinning this aroma of nostalgia and comfort is rather impossible.

My date drove up to drop me off at our usual spot only to discover a Navigator limo occupying the entirety of the area on the side of the road. We drove around the block only to find it hadn't budged. So we made our way on Kalakaua, for a slight detour, only to find that we both had to go shi shi really bad. So we stopped off at the Kapahulu Zippy's to use the lavatory. A rather long detour, but once after taking care of business I immediately took notice of how my hands smelled after washing them. I am a fan of cleanliness but this soap smelled delightful and something about it seemed to hit a little closer to home. I am obsessed with the smell, to the point where I want to visit this Zippy's on a regular basis just for their bathrooms. Perhaps I should take note of the actual soap. I don't know how or why but it reminds me of my childhood...maybe my Grandma?...or home...or something in my Michigan past. And I can't stop sniffing my hands.

Awkward? No, just nostalgic....and sanitary.

fatty mcfatty

So not only is Michigan the most unemployed and poorest (okay, this part may not be factual) state, but apparently we're also big fatties too. This I already knew as it was in the news several years ago, but that still doesn't make this acceptable.

a new meaning to the phrase "coming out of the closet"

As I've discussed here before, I have a third roommate who is essentially the bane of my existence (obviously excluding all male of the species). Most, if not all, of my reasons for being so annoyed are valid.

For discretionary purposes let's refer to crazy roommate as Mary Jane.

Mary Jane never leaves the apartment. I'm not saying she's a homebody. I'm a homebody. I mean she's a hermit. She leaves for 5 minutes to go to the store and it feels like there should be a national holiday dedicated to the glorious occasion. There is no reprieve! She never cleans. I still use Marya's bathroom, not out of laziness, but I'm not going to clean the bathroom by myself to have her nasty ass trash it. She's lived here for almost a year and either goes without tp or steals it out of the other bathroom. She's high 24-7. I am not against a little herb, but she is the epitome of a pothead. She eats all our food without replenishing. She talks while you're watching TV. She's unemployed, for reasons unknown to me, and does nothing but burn illegal DVDs and play video games. She lives in the closet, yet I still can't move into my half of the bedroom even though I'm paying more in rent. (She can't even pay her pittance on time.) She tries to accommodate me by leaving a fraction of the closet for hanging my clothes (and acted offended when I immediately didn't take her up on this offer), yet I can never get to these belongings without feeling awkward. Basically I can't use the bedroom period without feeling awkward, although I did finally make my bed last week out of desperation. I have yet to sleep in it. I've lived here for almost three months now.

My annoyance is heightened since I've began dating someone. His living situation does not allow for visitors, so we are left dealing with my situation. Living with two others, no matter the size of the apartment or sleeping arrangements, limits privacy to begin with. Sleeping on the couch doesn't fly when you're sharing it. This is essentially the reason I made my bed, but I still can't have "alone time" with somebody sleeping in the closet. Yes, she sleeps in the closet. When I say she lives there, I mean it. Her bed holds her laundry. There are times when I realize the closet door is closed and I haven't seen her for days. I've never smelled death, but I've wondered what I would do if I smelled something funky. (Probably make Marya search for the corpse.)

This is the biggest cockblock I have ever faced!

Today I looked forward to a day of relaxation. By 2pm I felt the immediate need to escape the apartment merely because of her. My mother always said I'm easily annoyed, but I know that's not the case here. Mary Jane was on the phone complaining, as usual. (She makes herself out to be a victim of her own drug-driven existence. One day she was on the verge of tears because she didn't have $2 for bus fare in order to obtain her food stamps. That was another day I had to flee the apartment in fear of her bumming money off me. It's not that I'm cheap. I just have no pity for her and I was honestly more afraid of hitting her than anything.) When I use the phone I am discrete. If I'm having a serious or private conversation, or perhaps one that might become more intense or involve yelling, I'll go onto the lanai. This is for my own privacy and consideration for those around me. She just strolls around the entire apartment without any concern for anyone else. Excuse me, but I don't need to hear about your inability to feed yourself, especially while I'm watching Scrubs. I'm not taking pity on you. I'm not going to give you food or money. We are not BFFs. You're making me want to punch you.

The conversation today began with complaining about her disability claim (she's clearly not disabled) but made it's way quickly to politics and the media. Mary Jane is 32. (Thus only making her lifestyle all the more reprehensible.) She's clearly been around long enough to have a respectable opinion about politics. She's technology savvy enough to understand how the media handles politics. And she acts as though she's extremely aware and competent about all this. Yet during her rant I hear her discuss how she actually tuned in to FOX News for their coverage of Obama's speech and was appalled at how anti-Obama they were. "They really were like ripping him apart." And yes, she says "like" at least a dozen times a minute as if she's the lead cheerleader from your local high school.

Honey, where has your ignorant ass been when you claim to follow the media's coverage of politics? FOX has a conservative bias just as MSNBC has a liberal one. Everyone knows this. Why are you acting appalled?

She then went on to say, "And that Hannity Colmes guy is a fucking moron." No sweet tits, you're a fucking moron. His name isn't Hannity Colmes, just Sean Hannity. Colmes was the name of his former liberal counterpart. But yes, Hannity is a fucking moron. You two should have a lot in common. Perhaps this is a more forgivable mistake, but by that point I was so aggravated that I knew I had to leave. Before I left I heard the conversation venture into religion, another supposedly taboo subject. I left sans makeup in order to go down to Deeps and drink. I had no intention of drinking today, but Mary Jane began what became a day that makes getting drunk necessary.

That's it for now. I am off to finish my bottle of wine.

i would totally give adam brody and jon stewart my number...

Just another reason why Jon Stewart is a genius. You know, aside from him making Jim Cramer (and CSNBC?) look like a complete douchebag last week. Maybe I'm just a simple minded pervert, but this is comedy to me. Yet it's comedy that serves a purpose (other than making us laugh). I'm not implying I defer to TDS for all my news coverage. It's not meant to do that. It is good to keep a sense of humor about oneself when determining what the fuck our country has gotten itself into these last couple years though. And teabagging is definitely on my top ten list of funny things. Top five to be more exact.

Just watch his facial expressions and comedic timing. And the wit! Priceless.

Oh yeah, and I have a thing for Jewish boys anyways (Adam Brody, can you hear me?), but Jon Stewart is hot. I would definitely hit it. Haha.

éirinn go brách

A very Happy St. Patrick's Day to all of you Irish and non-Irish folks out there. Oddly enough, this is my third St. Patty's Day in Hawaii. Perhaps it won't rain at the block party this year. That would be lovely.

much needed vacation!

Spontaneity has made a glorious entrance back into my life. Maybe that's the reason for my funk of late? Life just got a little too predictable perhaps? Well, not anymore. I'm going to Vegas.



Andy boy and I were texting. I've been trying to get him to come out and visit. In fact, back when I moved out to Hawaii we had planned on him coming out in January (which obviously didn't happen). Supposedly we were gonna spend a week on Maui (see the whales) and a week on Oahu. So we were arguing back and forth, me nagging him to visit and him telling me to come home and visit, when he casually suggested I meet him out in Vegas. This was two days ago. I entertained the thought for a day. I requested the days off yesterday. And I booked the flight today. Huzzah!

I've never been. I haven't seen Andy in over a year, which is a first. And if there was ever the perfect tour guide for Vegas, it would be him.

we've got the funk, or rather i do...

funk /fʌŋk/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [fuhngk]
–noun

2. a dejected mood: He's been in a funk ever since she walked out on him.

Yep, that is most definitely what is going on with me this week. I am in a funk. If I were actually on meds for depression like I should be, I would have to consider having my dosage upped. But alas, I am not medicated. Instead I get to battle the constant nagging belief that my life (read: me) is pathetic and inferior and worthless. I never understand what brings these bouts on. Normally I am happy-go-lucky and love my life. Maybe I have Seasonal Anxiety Disorder because of the crappy weather? Maybe the neurosis brought on by dating someone has culminated into full on funkiness? Maybe I'm just stressed out and homesick?

In any case, this funk has affected my desire to write. I want to blog. The ability is still there and I have much to blog about. I have been inundated by the same persistent thoughts night after night. The only problem is I don't want to verbalize them. Maybe capturing them in blog form would make them real. Maybe I don't want to deal with them yet. Maybe I don't want them out there for others to see. Not sure.

Every time I'm in a funk I get introspective. And it becomes all-consuming. Sometimes I feel like my life has already been written. It's a 27 year old dusty novel on a bookshelf somewhere, except I've become misguided and unintentionally rewritten it, thinking I know better. That's the only explanation for feeling as though nothing has gone according to plan. Teaching was never in the cards. Neither was Hawaii. Me being bitter and alone? Never. Why would that ever have been my fate considering how capable of loving I am? I was never supposed to be stuck in a career with little future in a dying economy given my intellect and love of learning. Clearly something went wrong. And now I am left trying to tie up this chapter so that I can somehow transition myself into the next authentic one.

It's been so long since I've been in a relationship, and I use that term loosely. I have no idea of the exact parameters of whatever it is that I'm in right now, mainly because I'm just not that girl. I'm not going to pass a note that says check yes or no if you're my boyfriend. If you're both equipped with enough common sense, the "discussion" is usually deemed unnecessary. Yet I've found myself in this new relationship-ish deal after being single for quite a long time. I realize the singleness was more intentional than I thought. Now I'm reminded of all the excitement of being in something fresh and new and unknown. However, I'm also suddenly brought back to the annoyance of what I escaped a couple years ago. Turns out I was more scarred from that asshole than I thought.

nike said it best

During my adventures to and from the optometrist earlier this weekend I had the opportunity to do quite a bit of thinking. I have no clue how or why these moments strike me, but it's as though my life had frozen and I realized where exactly I was in the "big picture." A little over a year ago when I not only quieted my internal struggle by deciding to move to Hawaii, but I actually followed through and did it, I had no understanding of the ramifications of that decision. I had no way of knowing. And, when making that decision, I knew this. I knew the only way to find myself here was to just do it...without overthinking it.

So I did. And the circumstances that I found myself in a year ago are monumentally different from where I find myself now. Life amazes me sometimes in that way. Usually I'm distracted by day-to-day life, but when I'm left communicating this to my counterparts 8,000 miles away, I realize the enormity of what I've done.

I miss everything about home, but rarely realize how much until I'm left pondering the details. Yet I'm content here. There's the financial aspect of it all, which has been the bottom line throughout this experience. Sad, but money is what dictates our lives. Then there's the emotional/mental realizations I've gone through. I've got something good here. Not sure whether it's of the permanent variety, but for now my life is solid. And that has been something I've been striving for since I couldn't even tell you when. And for now, I'm okay with that.

return of panchita

I apologize for not updating. My irresponsible pothead hermit roommate didn't pay the internet bill for a week. But alas, we told her she had too and now I have returned.

sick of being sick

It's been over a month now. At one point I thought I was getting over it. A few leftover sniffles, but I was on the brink of being healthy again. The sniffles lingered, a cough developed, and then I was back to being a full-fledged mess.

Now I think I'm back on the road to recovery, but I still have this damn cough. And it's bad. I think my roommates want to kill me. I know I wake them up with my hacking, but I can't help it. I have to breathe.

Tomorrow I'm hitting up Walmart after the optometrist. I'm going to stock up on every possible remedy in stock. Sudafed is no longer enough.

living with asbestos

So how's this for fun? I have to be out of my apartment this morning at 7:45am and I can't come back until 5pm, except I work at 4pm so I have to be out all day. Why, you ask? They're bringing the building up to fire code and removing all the asbestos from the ceiling in the hallway on each floor. Awesome.

Good to know I was living with asbestos. Mesothelioma, here I come!

What am I going to do with myself for 8 hours??????

redrum

My irrationally paranoid (as if any paranoia is rational) mind was convinced that somebody was stabbed in the apartment elevator tonight, or at least it was for five seconds before reason set in. We've had a barrage of various construction workers in and out of our building lately, so the possibility for suspect behavior seemed to be high. At least in my world. Not that I'm implying those employed in the field of construction are more likely to commit a homicide. The more probable option would be an enraged and sleep deprived tenant (not unlike myself) was driven insane by their incessant early morning noise and stabbed one of those neon-clad slumber-hating mongrels. And this took place in the elevator, maybe for easy body disposal, resulting in the disturbingly bloodlike splatters on the floor of said elevator.



It was either that or candle wax. Maybe somebody was holding a midnight vigil for someone that tragically died in the elevator shaft years ago? In which case, I hope there's no ghosts in my apartment. Cause I could handle that even less than the lack of sleeping in lately.

I can't explain how my mind works, but in my defense, at least logic usually sets in. Usually.

now paging mr. right or mr. right now

What is it about dating that makes one turn into an anxious, self-conscious, second-guessing adolescent each time? It doesn't matter who your date is, whether you've been pining over him for years or merely agreed to join him merely for a free night out (not that I would EVER condone such behavior). It doesn't matter how long you've known him, once you're in a dating situation you will cease from being your normal self for a few hours. Perhaps this likelihood would change if the setting were less stereotypically "datey," but tonight that was not the case and I have never felt less like a woman (or myself, for that matter) since...well, the last time I went to the movies on a date.

The arduous process begins with making the decision of what to do. Considering 90% of first dates occur at the movies I have no idea why I feel such apprehension when participating in this decision making. Why even bother when both parties know they're going to fall back on the safe option? Let's just make it an unwritten rule that all first dates must involve a movie theater at some point in order to eliminate all the trauma. Although, on the off chance a male of the species shows any sort of originality whatsoever, perhaps the option should be left open. (Seriously, ask me if I want to drink cheap champagne down on the beach late at night, hike up Diamondhead to watch the sunrise, or drive aimlessly around the island stopping for everything and nothing at the same time...and I will marry you within a heartbeat.)

Once the activity is agreed on both parties have to negotiate specifics. Which day? Which theater? What time? And, most importantly, which movie? This is not as easy as most people (or perhaps just me) think. The real difficulty is not in the actual decisions that need to be made, just in the fact that neither party wants to make them. She wants to make sure he's actually interested in the movie they see rather than just appeasing her by nominating a chick flick. He, on the other hand, wants to make her happy. Little does he know, if he were to be a man and call the damn shots (while not being a dominating jerk about it) she would be thrilled. As a female, I hate planning the date you asked me out on. You asked me, you're paying, show me you know how to treat a lady.

On arriving to the theater (here's to hoping there were no awkward silences in the car!) there's the question of payment. Menfolk, despite being the ones to pay (at least you better be), you do have it easy here. Women are caught in the treacherous "do-i-make-a-reach-for-it" dilemma. We assume you're going to pay, but we don't want to look like we assume you're going to pay. We also know reaching into our wallets for money seems asinine and somewhat trite. We have to be ridiculous and do it anyways lest we seem rude, but you know it's just for show. It's the catch-22 of dating. If you're a real man and it's a true date, make it easy for us and tell us once you start to see the reach in action to put our money away for the night. (Although, I do personally like to contribute something to the night in the form of buying snacks or paying for parking, etc. Call me a modern woman.)

Alright, despite a possible minor reenactment of "the reach" scenario at the concession counter, we're assuming you're sitting in the theater now. Choosing a seat isn't generally a big deal, especially if it's packed. In fact, the beginning of the movie shouldn't pose many problems. It's only once you get a third of the way in that the real issues take precedent. In the official handbook of dating guidelines it states that hand holding is expected at one point during cinematic viewings (and demanded if the movie is scary or intense) and if there is an absence of any hand holding by the end of the date that abnormality is afoot. Guys, if you can't find the nerve to grab her hand at some point then I have no clue how you ended up on the date in the first place. You're telling me it's easier to ask a girl out and chance rejection than go for the hand hold after you've discovered she isn't going to turn you down? Grow a pair! It's not the girls job to make the moves here! Rest easy, the girl should make her hand available to you when she's ready. This isn't baby-making we're talking about here, it's hand holding. You paid a minimum of $20-$30 to spend this time with her. She accepted your invitation, so she's obviously somewhat into you. This gives you permission and rights to hold her hand. Trust me.

After the movie, you're both forced to have the obligatory "so-what-did-you-think?" conversation. Of course, unless the movie sucked donkey balls, you're both gonna provide a good but noncommittal answer, maybe discuss a few specifics, and then move on. Unless you've bravely managed to discuss it previously, you're now left in the car deciding where the evening will go next. Food usually comes up eventually, but whether you're starving or just using the excuse of eating as another easy out, neither of you can commit on what kind of nourishment you want. Nevermind that this is a great opportunity to find out about the other person's likes or dislikes, each person is too focused on pleasing their date without revealing anything embarrassing or appalling about themselves. ("Hmm, I really want a cheeseburger but then I might sound like a fat girl! And what if I suggest going somewhere with a happy hour, will he think I'm a lush? Is he a lush? If I suggest Italian it'll probably be expensive and he'll think I'm high maintenance. I'll just wait and see what he suggests. Oh, if he says Italian this will definitely not be the last date.")

The food portion of the night is typically uneventful. Orders are made, but little food is eaten. It may be just me, but I rarely order what I would under normal circumstances. Whether this is because of temporary insanity or my ability to be easily persuaded I don't know. The check is delivered, presenting another financial stand-off, but hopefully by that point you've mastered that situation. The night draws to a close. The car pulls up to your apartment. Any conversations are neatly tied up. The seatbelt is undone. And then there you are...

I'm beyond the age where there's a taboo on first date kissing. I'm twenty-seven. If I want to kiss a man, I'll kiss him. The whole problem is reading him. No man should ever assume he's getting a kiss. They know this already. And we all know they're hoping it's a possibility. However, even if both sides want to, even if the girl is aware the guy wants to, even if the guy is aware the girl is willing, there are those inevitable seconds of romantic psychological limbo that determine how the night will end.

Also inevitable is the sense of relief once you're walking up the steps of your building. The pressure is off. You have time to call your girlfriends and rehash the awkward events of the evening. You can change into your comfortable clothes and put your hair back in a ponytail. And then you're left wondering what will happen from here.

I know my dating observances are negative and opinionated, but this only strengthens my hopes that one day there will be a date that breaks all my expectations. I will be eased and impressed. My faith will be reinstated. And I'm convinced that man will end up being my man.

Here's to hope!

dates make me feel barfy

Wow, have not been on a date in forever. Did I always get this nervous? Yes, I know the answer is yes. I know I can't leave hungry because I'll be miserable throughout the movie, but I can't eat much because then instead of just feeling like I'm gonna throw up, I might actually throw up.

On a side note, I'm watching Mr. and Mrs. Smith and I'm debating the realism portrayed here. For two trained badass assassins, they're lousy shots. However, the scene where they're trying to kill each other in the house is damn hot. There's nothing like two sexy people in formal wear trying to beat the shit out of each other.

Ah, Hollywood...

the unbearable lightness of cake

Just when I thought my days of dorkiness were surely coming to a close, I find myself stumbling back into my severe bookworm tendencies. I've been devouring books left and right lately. However, in my defense, only one of these has been purchased so at least I'm not blowing money on my literary addiction like usual. (No, the rest weren't stolen, they were borrowed.) I also have a Borders frequent members card. The minute discounts, although essentially pointless, assuage my guilt just enough to keep me coming back. Currently I am reading I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley. Ah, humorous memoirs! My new favorite genre. The quirky and slightly morbid first paragraph grabbed me and I couldn't resist sparing the $14 to take it with me. It consists of short stories, which is a perfect light read for the bus or down time at work.



There's nothing like the smell of a new book. It's subtle and clean, but unmistakable. When I smelled this one, as I do every time I buy one, I realized that no one else on this earth would understand unless he or she was a book junkie too.

The other book I'm reading at the moment is The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. (Oh yes, folks. I'm reading two at the same time. And I have no idea why I do this or how I do this, but it works.) This one's been on my to-read list for a few years. I even may have rented it from the library with good intentions of reading it, but I just never got to it. However, a few weeks ago Marya was recommending reads to me from her own bookshelf and brought this one to my attention. Usually I take recommendations lightly, but Marya has similar tastes and doesn't waste her time with obnoxious chick lit so I figured I was safe. She also mentioned that it may be necessary, even with my decent vocabulary, to keep a dictionary at hand while reading. I enjoy a challenge and I always look to expand my vocabulary. Needless to say, I was intrigued.



Obviously it's not a light read. It's quite intense and, ironically enough, heavy. Or rather, I doubt that's truly ironic because I'm sure that the author was fully aware of the irony when providing that title. My attention span is usually shot by late night, so in all fairness to Milan Kundera and his creative energies, I usually read this one while relaxing down at Starbucks with a notebook in hand in order to write down any words that are foreign to me. Perhaps one day I'll reveal my vocabulary revelations to you in a conclusive blog.

freezing in paradise

Back in June I had the pleasure of visiting Maui. I am an informed traveler and therefore knew to not miss the sunrise on Haleakala.



After waking up at 3am, Wheeler and I started the trek up the mountain. By 5am we reached the Haleakala National Park visitor center. We pulled over to use the lavatory and braced ourselves for the inevitable drop in temperature. We dressed as accordingly as we could with what we had. The brisk 52 degree morning air instantly catapulted me back to a chilly springtime afternoon in Michigan. I was comfortable and refreshed. Wheeler, who was born and raised in Hawaii, thought she was dying. As she was going to move to Chi-town in 2 weeks, I had a good time teasing her and warning her that she might as well get used to the temperature. By the time we reached the top it had plummeted another 10 degrees or so. I was still fine with this. Yet looking back at photos, Wheeler is miserable and incapable of smiling. I decided to do a little climbing in order to get a better view and took my hoodie off at one point from the exertion. The cold air hit my lungs and stung a bit as I jogged up to the summit, but the sensation simply transported me back to the way I felt after a round of conditioning during a softball practice early in the season.

Looking back at this experience I laugh at myself. It was obvious I was new to the islands still (and in most ways I still am). Today it probably didn't hit 70 degrees during the day. It was overcast with an occasional sprinkle, although no real rain. And windy as hell. It was freezing. Yes, I now react to any drop in temperature like the rest of those that live here. If it's below 75, it's fucking freezing, especially without sun. You can spot the Hawaiian residents. We're bundled up in pants, sweatshirts and jackets on days like this. The tourists stick out in their vacation garb, tank tops, and sandals. For them, the weather here is still warmer than it is back in Iowa or wherever it is they're from.

It's just sad because I desperately wanted to go to the beach today. My barely perceptible tan lines are one shade of melanin away from being completely imperceptible. And that's just not acceptable.

happy anniversary to me

Today marks my one year anniversary in Hawaii.

a lot of change will do you good

It's amazing how much everything has changed in the past year. There's so many new people I've had the pleasure of meeting. There's so many people I've known and lost, one way or the other. I just wish I knew if all this change is for the good or not. I figure it has to be.

And is all of it worth not being able to see all those I love on a daily basis?

megan, the coffee slut

Why is it that I frequent certain bars every other week or so and I end up being charged for only one drink out of several, yet I go to the capitalistic entity known as Starbucks every single day (sometimes twice) and yet I get nothing? In both establishments my name and my "usual" beverage are known, but only at Starbucks is that kind of loyal patronage not rewarded.

Not that I expect or demand anything for free. I'm not a cheap ass. I go there for the coffee, just as I go to a bar for booze (usually there's a certain social element as well). The recognition and personal greeting are rewards themselves. And I am usually not charged for an extra shot of espresso or a flavor addition. Yet after years of devoted caffeine consumption and Lord knows how much money spent (really, I don't wanna know...) you'd think they could slip a free latte across the counter for me occasionally.

smile like you mean it

Dental hygienists are the spawn of the devil. Okay, perhaps an exaggeration on my part, but I do believe one of the requirements to become one has to be seriously sadistic tendencies. As the taste of my own blood filled my mouth I was just waiting to hear evil laughter emanating from behind that surgical mask.

My gums will never forgive me.

My teeth, however, are beaming with pride over the fact that it's been 3 years since I've stepped foot in a dentist office and I remain cavity free still. Rock on. These same teeth would be a lot happier if they hadn't also learned that I was advised to finally have my wisdom teeth pulled. Not because they hurt or anything, just as a preventative measure.

And since when do you not receive a free toothbrush at the dentist?!?!

On the way back from the dentist I had the funniest bus driver EVER. He was rambling on and on about anything and everything. He talked in weird voices and accents. After an older couple exited he told the rest of the bus patrons, "Alright, now that grandma and grandpa are gone WE CAN PARTY!" My faith is now restored in the public transit system, for they apparently are capable of hiring silly people.

thank god for being a pedestrian

Is it wrong of me to enjoy watching people getting towed? It's not that I'm happy for them, I just find it amusing. Like when you see someone fall and can't help but to laugh. I have to work in the a.m. and yet I opt to stay up late to see their drunken responses when they discover their car missing. Not only that, but considering I'm standing out on the lanai it's perfectly reasonable they could see me watching them in what is most likely not their proudest moment.

Our cops are assholes. They sit in their cruisers nearby and wait for vehicles to park in the verboten area. As soon as the driver leaves, they call the towing company to pick the car up. This cycle continues several times each night. If you ever wonder why most people that live here avoid Waikiki, aside from the grotesque numbers of tourists, this would be why.

girl anachronism

I apologize for my choppy and anachronistically challenged posts lately, but I'm dealing with an unreliable internet connection here, folks. You're lucky to get what you did.

Oh, and what's up with Caroline Kennedy withdrawing her name from consideration for Hillary Clinton's open Senate seat? Did anyone else find the notion of a Kennedy (obviously Uncle Ted doesn't count) back in politics nostalgic? (Or would I have to have lived during that time period to count it as nostalgia??? Speaking of anachronistically challenged, maybe I am?) I always had a mysterious admiration for her, despite not knowing that much about her.

a letter: dear honolulu police department...

Although I appreciate your level of attentiveness, could you please stop using your position of authority to tow cars in Waikiki every night and start concentrating more on all the ice heads running amok in our beautiful city? I would appreciate it...and I don't even own a vehicle.

Thank you,
Concerned haole girl

america the beautiful

After eight long years, the reign of Bush is over. While I regret the loss of comedic fodder this change brings, I am hopeful and excited about our country's future...and ultimately, my future. Normally I hate change. I never adjust well. However, even my own reluctant self can recognize that it is time.

I am not going to blindly romanticize Obama's presidency like so many other Americans seem to be well on their way to doing. He is not a god. Our economy is not going to miraculously do a 180 today. Cancer is not going to suddenly cure itself. I may be hopeful, but I am still a realist. He admitted himself that mistakes would probably be made. He is human. And although staunch Republicans will most likely label Obama's confession as nothing but a disclaimer, just to cover his ass should something the magnitude of the WMD debacle occur under his watch, I believe he too is just trying to inject a morsel of realism into America. Bottom line? There is no easy fix. The good news? Now we have hope.

Hope is miraculous.

Apparently Republicans (okay, only the ignorant ones who feel the need to broadcast their opinions to the masses and condemn those with different ideas...so, you know, 90% of them...okay, I kid, I kid) aren't familiar with hope. I find it futile and redundant to rant about political differences. There are a few points I'd like to make though.

Republicans are a disgustingly negative group (obvious generalization). Their response to this would be to paint Democrats as unrealistic hippies with their heads in the clouds. Then so be it. I don't believe I'm unrealistic, but I am optimistic. Is that so bad? Isn't that the only option right now. What's the point in being all woe-is-me-I-lost-my-tail-again about the economy?

Democrats were deemed classless for booing Bush when he appeared at the inauguration. Perhaps it didn't exhibit the flawless manners our mothers sent us out into this world with, but those matter little after enduring eight long years of Bush. Mature? No, but well deserved. Although I won't say the entire nation was unwavering in their support of him, especially later on in his presidency, I do think that we all wished him success. How could we not? Whether we liked it or not, he was our president. Our success was dependent on him. Yet self-righteous Republicans can't do so much as hope the best for Obama and he has barely even started his term. This is the country you live in. Isn't it against your best interest to wish the worst for him? If you think I'm making this up just check out Rush Limbaugh's remarks of late. IT'S ONLY BEEN DAYS SINCE HE WAS SWORN IN! And Limbaugh specifically hopes Obama crashes and burns.

Please, please, please put your differences aside. Everyone is aware of where each side stands. No one is asking you to agree with everything Obama has to say, not even Democrats should feel obligated to do that. There is no reason to divide ourselves though. The current administration doesn't want everyone brainwashed to be on their team, but they do want some bipartisan efforts to be made. If we are going to mend our country, we need to do it together.

a moment on the lips

I'm debating whether or not to go back on the South Beach Diet. In the last few weeks I have made an attempt to eat healthier. Groceries were purchased so that I could avoid the temptation to dine out. I find my portion sizes are more realistic if I'm making my own meals. I also made try to avoid artificial items (with the exception of a can of Wolfgang Puck's New England clam chowder...what can I say, I wanted some chowdah!).

Although this is progress, I still indulge occasionally. There are some local eateries that I frequent and until I summon the nerve to commit to South Beach (for it is not something to be entered lightly) for an entire month, I will continue to frequent these places. I just try to make healthier decisions when doing so.

Saturday, in an effort to avoid a massive crowd in queue for the Bus and the inevitable corresponding hour long trip, I left for work early. And I arrived to Ward Center in 20 minutes. Haha! I knew coffee was required to function in Buca di Hellhole, but instead of the habitual Starbucks run I opted for something different. Since leaving the land (in recent years it snuck it's way across the border) of the Canadian coffee haven Timmy Ho's, I miss a plain ole cup of decent coffee. Nothing flavored, foamed, or fancy...just good strong fresh-brewed coffee. Double cream, single sugar, if you please. Oh, and my sweet tooth was also acting up...again. So with a good book in hand, I stopped by Satura Cakes in hopes that I could spend an hour relaxing before heading in.



I was not disappointed.



In previous trips I have sampled many of their gourmet desserts and have yet to discover one I wouldn't order again.



Their coffee is strong, while still remaining enjoyable. And the delightful caramel crunch cream puff contained just enough sugar without causing me to go into diabetic shock. My only complaint is that they never leave enough room in your coffee for cream, nor do they ask. It happens every time and I'm always too distracted by the aromas to remind them, resulting in a puddle of cream diluted java in my saucer. I balance my various belongings in one arm, use my backside to open the door, and tread cautiously like a tightrope walker, hoping not to stain my shirt with the precious liquid.

My food travels also lead me back to Mac 24-7 last night. Oprah and I were not entirely impressed when we visited several months ago. Portions were adequate, but it still seemed overpriced. However, when it's 1am, your options are limited. I was hungry, but indecisive, which is usually the case with me. For some reason I decided on the cinnamon cluster pancakes. Whether or not the three pints of Newcastle I had influenced me in this decision, I don't know. But the two don't go well together. Surprise, surprise.



Yes, they are as big as they look. Over a foot in diameter and three stacks deep. I responded to the server by joking if I received a prize for finishing them. He replied that I wouldn't have to pay and he'd put a plaque up with my name on it. I smiled back in amusement until I realized he was serious. Really? Shouldn't I have been warned about this? I mean, I think it was pretty obvious I had not intended on participating in some kind of gluttonous competition upon entering. What's wrong with a girl just waiting some pancakes?

Alas, I barely made a dent. The kindly server wrapped the leftovers for me and sent me off into the night with a cake box full of pancakes that could feed a family of twelve.

auntie em! auntie em!

I can't be sure, but I think the sun may be attempting to shine. This is quite unexpected. The city issued a weather warning days ago, hoping for Honolulu citizens to be able to brace themselves for the tropical storm (60+ mph) caliber high winds we were predicted to endure. Mind you, we're always subject to spontaneous high winds. I don't see why we're supposed to go into hiding now. The last 24 hours (this prediction was put into effect 6pm last night) have shown nothing out of the ordinary weather-wise. No large trucks or buses were blown off course, like they claimed was possible. (Hallelujah, considering I take the Bus to work.) No lawn furniture, street signs, or inanimate objects were turned into deadly projectiles, like they warned. (I prefer not to die a la Final Destination, thank you. Especially considering my graphic dreams of late.) Sure there's been some mild winds and intermittent rain, but nothing a hot cup of tea (cocoa, coffee...pick your poison...) and a good book can't solve.

Fifteen minutes later...

Lo and behold, clear blue skies and flawless rays of sunshine! If only sunset wasn't in half an hour.

I have yet to determine whether or not I approve of my ever-changing work schedule. On one hand, I do need to dispose of the physically taxing and financially disappointing doubles. However, the other shifts I've been assigned aren't exactly lucrative. It's hard to tell whether this is due to the drop in overall sales post-Christmas, or just my schedule itself.

That being said, I don't mind this whole having-Friday-nights-off deal. Friday nights have always been hit or miss anyways. Tonight I took the opportunity to finally make guacamole. Ole! I altered a few things from the norm, most notably the diced jalapeno. I'd give my recipe, but I regard it as somewhat secret. Let me just clarify that no cilantro was involved. Absolutely not.



And yes, that is a bottle of Menage a Trois red wine. (One of my favorites, and not just because of it's suggestive name.) No cooking activity is complete without a glass of red wine.

Now I've inspired a culinary fiesta, if you will. Marya is off to buy tomatoes to make some salsa. (Perhaps I should have told her to pick up the goods for margaritas, as that would go along with the theme? Oh well.) And then it's time to enjoy Mary Poppins. Don't ask.

las locas cucarachas

I recently had to relive my cockroach nightmares. The disgusting little critters are just one of the disadvantages of living somewhere warm. There's only so much that can be done to avoid them. We all know the basic rules. Don't leave food out on the counter. Put your plates directly in the dishwasher. Religiously take out the garbage. Clean diligently! So on and so forth. Sometimes it just isn't enough.

In my last apartment I found a dead one underneath my bed a few days after moving in. That was my introduction into the wonderful world of roach carcass disposal. I suppose it could be considered being eased in since I managed to escape the horror of actually killing it, but it still wasn't a pleasurable experience.

Almost a year later, I am no closer to remaining calm in their presence. I can manage to stifle a scream or avoid ridiculous amounts of freakish dancing around when I find them outside. All bets are off when the suckers are 1)large, 2)alive, and 3)indoors though.

Marya fumigated the apartment earlier this week. Unbeknownst to me, but a couple of our little friends had been spotted cruising around the place lately. So we went chemical crazy and set off nine bombs. Woohoo! I expected it to be dead roach city when we returned six hours later, but no. No dead bodies. Nothing.

However, I was relaxing on the couch/my bed later in the evening and a huge one scurried out from under me, heading helter skelter toward the entertainment center. Cue me screaming bloody murder (although no actual words were intelligible) and running frantically toward the kitchen for the can of Raid. This brought everyone out from their respective hiding places in the apartment to determine what was causing me to act like Tonto on drugs. Luckily by the time they discovered the cause of my hysteria it was already dead (I hope so, with the amount of Raid I doused it with). Body retrieval is something I am still incapable of, so they were able to offer their services and finish the job.

I still keep the can of Raid at my side, just in case.

just a shout out to my crazy bus friend!

The insane Greek man from the bus apparently jinxed my complexion. I'm now breaking out like a hormone-crazed teenager. Thanks so much, dude!

a letter: aloha, japanese women...

I am concerned about you. Your behavior at the local Waikiki Starbucks each afternoon has convinced me that you're either crazy or mentally deficient (possibly both). Out of the two, I'd opt for crazy. I don't mean to single you out. My intentions are good. I tell you this because I have realized you might not be aware that your actions are in any way unusual. In order to make our coexistence a little easier (especially since we frequent the same caffeine mecca), I am willing to help.

Just a piece of advise to the young lady in front of me in line earlier this week, if you have some kind of alarming or unsightly skin condition please dress appropriately. People cannot be trusted not to stare. People are inherently rude. Long sleeves and pants may seem an extreme option in Hawaii, but there are lightweight material options (i.e. linen) that won't make you sweat to death. The rest of us (for the most part) dress for our body type. For you, this should include whatever funky scaly business you have going on.

To the older woman who sat down, albeit briefly, next to me this afternoon, why that seat? Most people have something called personal space. The outside seating at Starbucks is quite extensive. There are individual tables in order to provide some measure of privacy. I realize it appeared as though I was seated by myself at a large table that would accommodate the rest of your group, but the scattering of personal affects across from me indicated that I was not alone (heaven forbid someone take a bathroom break). Out of the other five chairs at the table was it necessary to sit in the one right beside mine? Especially since I was facing your direction already and was forced to change my position to avoid feeling completely weirded out by your intrusive presence? Instead of feeling weirded out, I had to settle for simply uncomfortable. Was it necessary to sit at my table at all considering I could easily spot other seating options a mere ten feet away? The situation didn't strike you as awkward? Your daughter certainly thought it was, or at least that is what I assume she was telling you when she discovered you there because you immediately moved over to the next table. I can't be sure though, since I don't speak Japanese. Hopefully she educated you further about American customs and how we get freaked out if you invade our personal bubble.

Most importantly, please stop feeding the birds, you crazy bitches!!! There are multiple signs posted in the area for your perusal at any time.



Not only that, but they are most kindly written in both English and...yes, JAPANESE! Thanks to your incompetence, or perhaps it's just a rebellious penchant for breaking rules, the entire patio area is like a Hitchcock movie revival. Both my friend and I have already been attacked by both the pigeons and sparrows. She got smacked in the face a few times by a pigeon and I got dive bombed by an innocent looking sparrow. Lord help you the day one of them poops on me.

Not only do you insist on feeding them, but then once they begin congregating around your little buffet you react in pure terror. Hello? Have you not put two and two together? This is why there's signs. You feed them and they will come. If you don't like it, then stop. But no, you keep doing it! And I'm not talking about one instance. This is a daily occurrence. Please stop.

That is all for now. I hope there's no hard feelings. I don't hate you. I admire your brave and curious ventures into the realm of fashion. I think the majority of your children are adorable and well-behaved, which is a rarity in this world, so kudos on that. Glad we could be straight-forward with each other and I'll see you tomorrow for coffee!

Peace and love,
Megan

michigan and hawaii, please don't get any ideas...

Before I begin, let me just state that I am now a huge advocate of the pedicure. Not only was it relaxing and therapeutic, but I no longer have to be ashamed of the condition of my toes after a vigorous work week. No longer will I be mistaken for white trash or a fourteen year old, at least not based on the appearance of my badly chipped polish. Both sets of nails are still holding up immaculately (knock on wood), although they've only had to endure one day of work so far.

Now that that's out of the way, let's talk about the state of California sending IOU's back as a tax refund, as though that's a valid form of payment. When your state government (perhaps if it was somewhere inconsequential like Kansas, or even a state with a shameful unemployment rate and a practically bankrupt car industry like dear old Michigan, but California?) is considering giving you an IOU, you know the economy is fucked. The worst part is the lack of shock. I'm not saying this was expected, but people (at least the ones I've talked with) have been estimating that "things will get worse before they get better." This vague prediction could cover many potential financial dilemmas and apparently IOU tax refunds is one of them.

The most unbelievable aspect is the fact that tax payers aren't allowed the same option. This recession affects our economy on every level. Yes, the state government of California is poor, but so are the citizens. If IOU's are a reality right now, shouldn't it be an option available to everyone?

P.S. I did not mean any harm against Kansas. I'm sure it's a lovely state and it probably contributes much to our country. It's just that it's boring. And no one even knows the Kansas City Royals exist. Sorry.

omg i totally got like a mani pedi today

I am not exactly the high maintenance type. I was what would have been most definitely categorized as a tomboy throughout my formative years. The harshly cold Michigan winters wrecked havoc on my unprotected adolescent lips, yet they remained painfully chapped thanks to my aversion to chapstick. (Ironically enough, this unexpectedly turned into an almost resolute dependence on the stuff practically the moment I hit sixteen. To this day, I have at least one on hand at all times.) Nail polish was a laughable product to me for years. I had no nails to speak of, both because I had no interest in having any and I simply was forbidden due to playing the piano (because of my long nail beds, my teacher would insist that I cut them as short as possible to prevent them from clicking on the keys). Gradually I became girlier as I grew older and finally, by the time I reached twenty, I finally had the desire to grow my nails long.

I did manage to have my first manicure at age thirteen, although it was about as exciting as watching the home shopping network to me (my Dad bought all us women one for Easter one year). Not only that, but the little Vietnamese tramp hacked my cuticles to shreds. She had to wait until the bleeding stopped to proceed on to actual polish. At the time I assumed this was just part of the process. You know, "no pain, no gain." Now I realize she had no idea what she was doing. No wonder I resisted all that was girly for years after. I associated it with brutal torture.

That being said, I do enjoy the occasional pampering nowadays. Since that first uninspiring visit to the nail shop on the corner, I have had a handful more manicures, most notably for Prom and the weddings I have stood up in. My annual Nordstrom spa massage (best Christmas present idea EVER!) usually renders me incapable of speech for at least an hour after. I spend the next 364 days anticipating my next visit.

Considering my tomboy past, I have never experienced a pedicure. I believe my sister originally intended my gift certificates for either this or a facial, but the idea of a massage was always much more inviting. I think it's something about people being up close and personal with my feet. Now, I have good personal hygiene. I spend 90% of my non-working time in slippers (flip flops) so my toes have to be presentable, but I do spend my work days entirely on my feet...in smelly hot work shoes...for sometimes up to 13 hours a day. So there are days where the condition of my lovely extremities are not quite as glorious.

Recently I have had several sources assure me that whatever the condition of my feet, the pedicurist has probably seen much worse. I was officially convinced. And today I found myself receiving a mani/pedi for the first time.





Pedicures are amazing!!! I am instantaneously in love with anyone who massages me, especially my feet. I was pretty much drooling with hedonistic satisfaction. I was lulled into a stupor by the sound of the mini jacuzzi bubbling away, the gentle hum of the vibrating massage chair, and the flowing singsong of the salon employees Chinese banter as they went about their business. And although my color palette was limited due to Buca's "no nail polish" policy, I truly appreciate the clean, simple, classy look my choice resulted in.

a canadian in waikiki: my adventures in public transportation

There was a crazy man on the Bus today. Damn public transportation, attracts the nutters every time.



I was running late for work. There wasn't a whole lot I could do about the situation, aside from calling the managers and informing them, until I actually arrived on the premises. However, it occurred to me once on the Bus that there was a general and unsightly lack of make-up on my face. In my hurried afternoon of coffee retrieval and laundry separation, I had forgotten to prepare my visage for the evening. As the majority of my income is based upon tips, I need to be somewhat aesthetically pleasing. Sad though it is, sometimes tips can suffer when one doesn't exactly look "put together."

So there I was applying make-up without a mirror. Not only was I taking on this delicate procedure while being jolted and jostled around Waikiki in a motorized deathtrap, but I was attempting to do it without being able to see what exactly I was doing to my face. Needless to say, I was in deep concentration. That is, until a heard a masculine and exotically accented voice behind me. This voice asked if I was Canadian.

Random much? I turned hesitantly and answered honestly.

"No, but my mother is."

I get that my appearance screams that I'm a white girl in practically every way, but what about me specifically marks me as someone Canadian (or in my case, as close to Canadian as you can be without actually being Canadian)? I was intrigued, until I realized this old man (edging dangerously towards his 70's and smelling distinctly of stale cigars) was talking nonsense. Apparently I put on my make-up like a Canadian.

What does that even mean?

I have spent my life surrounded my Canadian women. Okay, perhaps that statement is a little extreme. I did actually grow up in America, so chances are the majority of the women I've encountered have indeed been American. But my Mother, the woman that taught me how to wear make-up, and my Grandma, the woman that taught her how to wear make-up, have been undeniably influential throughout the years. And I have never been aware of a purely Canadian way of putting on rouge. I think I would have noticed by now.

Yet now that this man had opened the doors of conversation up, he felt the need to continue. Awesome. Clearly my frustrated and stressed out aura was not perceptible to crazy people.

He asked whether I lived here or was just visiting. I had already managed to communicate that I was going to be late for work. Obviously I would not be employed on the island if I were merely a visitor. He then ascertained that I had been living here for less than six months because he had never seen me on that bus route before. I politely corrected him (that logic doesn't even make sense!). He asked where I worked. I lied, for personal safety concerns, and said Old Spaghetti Factory. He asked if I was married. He then went on to tell me that he only noticed my make-up rituals because he was in photography and they often have to be aware of a subject's make-up. He then told me that I had a beautiful skin color, a pretty face, but that I had some problem areas around the jaw line. Was this a recent problem or just since I'd moved to the island?

Really??? Is this a socially acceptable way to converse in your homeland? Thanks asshole. Yes, I did break out a few days ago. Probably from stress related to having to interact with nut jobs like you.

At this point I was bordering on being flat out rude to the man, which I saw as no injustice since he was being rude and invasive to me. I was throwing looks toward my other fellow bus travelers that pleaded for help, but to no avail. Aside from a brief call to work to inform them of my eventual arrival, I had no choice but to deal with this man's barrage of interrogations and try to deter him as much as possible.

At some point he told me more about himself. His name. He's Greek, but he lived in Vancouver for some time (and wonders if this is where my dear Canadian mother hails from as well...hell, maybe they knew each other back in the day). He laments the turn toward the inanimate in the photography industry since the popularity of the internet (because people are so hesitant to have their photos available for the masses to view online for fear of stalking or worse).

Mind you, this man was only talking to me a total of ten minutes. He just had this much to say.

Once we finally came to my stop I just made a run for it and never looked back. I took a different route than usual, so as to appear that I was headed for Spaghetti Factory, but who knows if I was convincing or not. If I've been found out, I could be dead next week some time.

I'll start composing my will tomorrow. If there are any requests, feel free to throw them out there.

what doesn't kill us makes us stronger

If nothing else, my life is definitely far from boring. I am now a wandering nomad. I miraculously pulled off not being homeless. Although I have no where to call my own, I am not sleeping under the neighborhood bus stop, which is something to be grateful for. A lot has changed in the last month. My plans have had to be readjusted multiple times to the point where I'm not sure there is a plan any longer. I know I can't move back in my current financial state. My only other real options are to rent a car and commute from Ko Olina or use the next ten days to peruse craigslist for a temporary living situation (which is mildly disconcerting and uncomfortable, to say the least). Neither of which is completely satisfactory.

Oy vey.

P.S. Happy New Year.