As an adult I have yet to find a suitable living situation. Forget trying to attain that "home" feeling. I used to think that's what it was all about, that contentedness that most of us have under the abode of our childhood. Now I realize that probably develops with time. So what it's really all about is just finding the place that has more in the pro column than the con.
Hawaii has been a struggle in that respect. Satan's condo, which I shared with Michael for the better part of a year, was never even in the running. Marya's was clearly tentative from the get go, although there was some level of comfort. Kailua had the neighbor's very verbal wiener dog (a generous 8 feet from my bedroom window) and the naked amazonian roommate from Minnesota (who still hasn't returned my deposit) as the obvious cons. No pros could have saved the situation. Not to mention the commute, which is now vitally important since the demise of the Honda.
Here in Makiki, life is a bit simpler. The apartment complex was pet friendly, which was the main draw. Sacrifices were made in various departments. Size, laundry, dishwasher, size, laundry, modern appliances. It's clean! I was finally able to adopt my own cat for the first time in my adult life. You will learn more about Lucy later. Because of the pet friendly nature of the building, we are practically living in a kennel. I've seen one other cat, otherwise we are in dog city. Two doors down there are two maniacal chihuahuas, or some other ugly rat dog breed. They rarely shut up. It's the price I pay. I also suspect that apartment of the constant ganja, although I think there are several culprits. Not that I care, at least not here in Hawaii.
On the other side are the lesbians. They're an awkward lesbian couple. I thought the ginger was a really unfortunate pear-shaped man at first, completely undeserving of the cute hapa chick. Oh no, she's just a really unfortunate pear-shaped woman. They are a downright funky couple. Super nice, but they have inappropriately timed and high-pitch sex. It sounds like a cross between a monkey and the Chiquita banana woman. And I'm guessing it's not the ginger making those noises. The walls are thin and at 7am there's not much else happening to block out the noise.
Who has wild monkey sex at 7am that often?
Other than that, there's just the surfers occupying the house in the back. They're generally courteous, but occasionally they'll start sanding down the boards before noon. Not any worse than the construction or lawn maintenance that takes place each month. Still, I wouldn't mind finding somewhere where I'm willing to have it be more permanent. I'm not implying that most people go without their grievances. It just seems like the pros should outweigh the cons if you're going to make somewhere a long term residence?
Showing posts with label Waikiki. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Waikiki. Show all posts
Monday, February 7, 2011
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 23, 2009
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
Thank you,
Concerned haole girl
Monday, January 12, 2009
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
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
Monday, January 5, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
thanks to everyone that made my day special!
So, all in all, I'd say my 27th birthday was a success. I slept in, much to my mother's disapproval. Life is tough when you're the owner of a Blackberry. I set my phone to vibrate, but it vibrates rather vehemently. So all the texts and phone calls that were meant to extend birthday wishes actually kept repeatedly waking me up all morning. (Not that I'm complaining. Actually I am.) In addition to that, I also receive all email alerts on my phone, including any activity on facebook or myspace. So the damn thing was going off every 15 minutes. At one point I threw it on the floor. What can I say, I'm loved.
In the afternoon I made my way to Ala Moana.
I hoped to find a deal on a cute little something to wear to dinner, but after a few hours of meandering I settled on a new pair of shoes to go with a dress I already owned. Good enough for me. Shoes are one of my vices. I also stopped by the MAC counter in Nordstrom to get my makeup done. I would not normally come up with this idea on my own, but several friends suggested it. They insisted I treat myself. And I decided, why not? So I did.
Dinner was scheduled at Gyu-kaku in the evening.
There were four of us attending for sure (Ash, Quita, Phil, and moi). An intimate little group, I suppose. I haven't eaten there in months. It can be rather pricey if you get carried away. Two others also showed up (Michael and Nick), which was an awesome surprise. Pitchers of Kirin Ichiban were consumed. We started off with poke, assorted kim chee, and tofu salad (the dressing is delicious). My only requirement was harami miso (beef with miso sauce), but we also ordered garlic shrimp, garlic scallops, miso butterfish, sweet onion, mushroom medley, bacon wrapped asparagus, and premium kalbi (which was the happy hour half off special). I got a lychee martini rather than a birthday cake, which was fine by me. And then the staff came around and sang. And their way of celebrating was bringing me a birthday shot which tasted like apple, but apparently had 151 in it.
Instead of having dessert there, we spontaneously decided to head over to Coldstone. But alas, they had just closed. Since we were already in the area, we crashed Buca, even though they too had just closed. This worked out well. Alex bought our dessert. And then apologized for harassing me so much, which was appropriate. Tiara met us there. And then we moved on.
The night continued on to Charthouse for a lychee martini or two. Mmm, my favorite. And then we ended up at Red Lion's in Waikiki. It was much busier than on previous Mondays, which was disappointing. But in the end it was a fun night. Lots of socializing and laughs. The only negative aspect of the evening was my camera getting broken. It's not in the best condition anyways, but the person put in charge of documenting the evening with photos dropped the darn thing. He's looking into getting it fixed for me.
All in all, a much better birthday than 26. The lack of a blizzard guaranteed that one though.
In the afternoon I made my way to Ala Moana.
I hoped to find a deal on a cute little something to wear to dinner, but after a few hours of meandering I settled on a new pair of shoes to go with a dress I already owned. Good enough for me. Shoes are one of my vices. I also stopped by the MAC counter in Nordstrom to get my makeup done. I would not normally come up with this idea on my own, but several friends suggested it. They insisted I treat myself. And I decided, why not? So I did.
Dinner was scheduled at Gyu-kaku in the evening.
There were four of us attending for sure (Ash, Quita, Phil, and moi). An intimate little group, I suppose. I haven't eaten there in months. It can be rather pricey if you get carried away. Two others also showed up (Michael and Nick), which was an awesome surprise. Pitchers of Kirin Ichiban were consumed. We started off with poke, assorted kim chee, and tofu salad (the dressing is delicious). My only requirement was harami miso (beef with miso sauce), but we also ordered garlic shrimp, garlic scallops, miso butterfish, sweet onion, mushroom medley, bacon wrapped asparagus, and premium kalbi (which was the happy hour half off special). I got a lychee martini rather than a birthday cake, which was fine by me. And then the staff came around and sang. And their way of celebrating was bringing me a birthday shot which tasted like apple, but apparently had 151 in it.
Instead of having dessert there, we spontaneously decided to head over to Coldstone. But alas, they had just closed. Since we were already in the area, we crashed Buca, even though they too had just closed. This worked out well. Alex bought our dessert. And then apologized for harassing me so much, which was appropriate. Tiara met us there. And then we moved on.
The night continued on to Charthouse for a lychee martini or two. Mmm, my favorite. And then we ended up at Red Lion's in Waikiki. It was much busier than on previous Mondays, which was disappointing. But in the end it was a fun night. Lots of socializing and laughs. The only negative aspect of the evening was my camera getting broken. It's not in the best condition anyways, but the person put in charge of documenting the evening with photos dropped the darn thing. He's looking into getting it fixed for me.
All in all, a much better birthday than 26. The lack of a blizzard guaranteed that one though.
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