Fake Plastic Trees

A few years ago we got smart and bought our first (and only) artificial Christmas tree.  It was kind of a surprise thing when we were in City Mill (we even supported local business in the process!) and saw that they had one, and I mean, ONE fake tree on sale.  It cost us probably under $30, and it's perfect for us.

Now, I've had a real tree in my house my entire life.  Once, I even bought a Christmas tree when it was snowing!  Not in Hawaii, of course, but it was as close to movie-perfect as it gets.  I remember listening to Fiji on the radio while the guy strapped the tree to the roof of my car.  It was huge and unwieldy and didn't give off any good smells, but it was snowing and I could live with that.  So, yeah, real trees.  Mmm.  That smell is distinctive, isn't it?  And it was the leading reason we kept buying them.  That and the fact that buying a fake one just seem to make the holiday more plastic.  (If you'd like to hear what a plastic Christmas sounds like, listen to this song and find out.  By the way, I love the song.  It totally captures the spirit of a consumer-driven, canned Muzak holiday.)

But then you kind of begin to realize that it's just a symbol and you can make a symbol out of just about anything.  And you can also make it mean whatever you want it to. Maybe this fake tree symbolizes our love of the holiday as well as our love of nature and preserving the environment.  It means we don't participate in the consumerism of finding the best place to buy the best tree at the best price.  It's about peace of mind and conservationism.  The same tree has been a part of our family for the last three years, you know?  So it's like family.  Family you bring out into the living room for a few weeks then pack in a box in the closet for the rest of the year.  Okay, so it's kind of what you'd like to do to some family, some of the time.

It's now at the point that I don't really miss the real tree smell, and enjoying the fact that my new tree doesn't shed like a neurotic cat was pretty immediate.  There are no bald spots, no messing with it for hours initially (then a few minutes for days afterwards) to make sure it's standing straight, and I don't even have to forget to water it!  One of the best aspects of having this fake tree is that we can put it up exactly when we have the opportunity to do so.  Yesterday, for example, when we had only a window of about an hour to put it up, we didn't have to go to the store and spend 30 minutes looking for the perfect imperfect tree, let it sit outside and drop for another 30 minutes, put it in the stand and fiddle with it for another hour to make sure it's straight and won't topple over, to finally put the lights on and then realize the tree STILL isn't straight.  We had time to put it up and decorate it all before Charlie had to go to work.  And that was the best thing.

Five Degrees of Thought Separation (Or High School to Poop In 5 Easy Steps)

1.  Over the past few weeks, Noah has been talking to me about school registration for next year.  He wonders about taking Honors courses and has gotten into two of them: social studies and science.  I told him I support his decision to challenge himself, but that he'd better do the work because there's no sense in taking the more challenging courses only to fail them due to laziness and not difficulty.  Unlike his mom who failed at least one quarter every year she was in Honors English.  I'm talking about getting an F at least one quarter a year.  Those same study habits followed his mom to college, but the work was a lot easier so she was able to pull off As and Bs.  Ultimately, she dropped out altogether.

2.  I went back to school last fall so that I might improve my financial situation and as a model for my kids.  Going to my youngest sister's college graduation sealed the deal.  I'm motivated in a way I've never been before.  I work hard, I'm well-organized, I opt to study rather than do sucky things like go to the movies with my friends.  So, it's no shocker when I take an English class this year and my professor rocks my world by suggesting I major in English.  It's a life-long dream of mine, make no mistake, but one that frightens me because it actually means something to me.  It isn't just something I have a passing interest in or happen to be good at or have had lots of practice doing.  It has tremendous value to me.

3.  So, I think about this every morning on my way to work when I drive past UH Manoa.  (Could you people turning left into UH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE turn your signal on before you get to the light?  Give us a heads up so we can change lanes ahead of time!) Driving past UH always makes me think about my future.  But, anyway, once I past the school and just before I hit St. Louis Heights Drive, there's a little sign on the side of the road that says something like "Clean up your mess!" and has a plastic bag attached to it.  I assume its so that people will pick up their dog poop.

4.  When I got home from work today, I changed my clothes and found something to feed my face.  Mmm.  Leftover breakfast.  What do I hear outside?  Niele me poked my nose through the blinds and heard a neighbor across the street telling a lady on the sidewalk that she has to pick up her "dog's shit like everybody else."  She's defiant, but he persists, saying "dog shit" about 20 times.  "People got kids over here," he says.  She just stares up at him on his balcony.  I couldn't see him from my front window, but I could see her, and the two thoughts I had while looking at her angry face was one, that more than just those people on Dole Street care about dog messes and two, "Right on, man!  You tell her!"  Because I wouldn't.

5.  Which reminded me of what I did the other day at Times on Beretania, the one by Safeway.  Traffic was kinda bad so although I wanted to go to the Times on Waialae, I had to bypass it because of an accident at 6th and Harding.  Halfway there, Lucy says she's gotta go bathroom.  There's one at Times, so we head to the one on Beretania.  She waits in a very short line, she's second, and there are two people working the counter.  But they don't help her after five minutes, so I go stand next to her.  Maybe they don't think she needs help.  We wait another 5 minutes (or so) and finally one of the clerks deems himself ready to help us.  "My daughter needs to use the bathroom," I tell him.  "Oh.  Actually, the bathroom is out of order right now."  I am beyond frustrated.  Long day at work, drove in traffic, and then waited in line for NOTHING.  We could have bought what we came for and left in the time it took to stand in line.  I normally don't say anything, but I couldn't stop myself from saying to the guy, "Well, it's a good thing we waited then, yeah?"  Because, come one, put a damn sign up or something.  Don't waste my time.  But I felt embarrassed afterwards because it was a stupid thing to say and it wasn't his fault.  But, shit, put up a sign or something.

My Aunty

I had plans for Tuesday.  We would take the kids to Ward Theatres and see the $1 movie, Star Wars The Clone Wars.  We would buy cheap hotdogs, maybe some popcorn, and enjoy the air conditioning. Instead, Charlie took the kids hiking at the Hawaii Nature Center and I hopped into my dad's car and went out to Waianae to see Aunty Pearl.

Life changes with a ring of the phone.  One minute you're wondering what snack you should have while watching The Host, the next you're crying like a baby.  Who cares about the snack, you know?  Why did I ever want to watch this awful movie?  How can I care when life has changed to dramatically?

It's a long drive between Makiki and Waianae, and one I'm not used to making.  I get car sick, like, majorly, and I was unlucky enough to have to sit in the back.  Stomach churning, neck and shoulders aching, feeling sweaty and cold at the same time, I was even more miserable than I expected to be.  We got to Aunty's house, I stretched it out, and we headed out back into their beautiful garden to where my uncle was.

Uncle Al loves his garden.  You don't even have to talk to him to know that, you just have to look at the garden.  The well-tended rows of edibles, the carefully manicured GREEN lawn (in Waianae, mind you), the fruit trees laden with guava, bananas, and papaya.  It is no wonder we found him there, surrounding himself with his hard work and the literal fruits of his labor.  Aunty Eva calls it the Garden of Eden.  She spoke off and on about what they grew there, what they've grown there, what he's tried to grow there, and how Hinano has inherited her dad's dedication and love for that garden.  Aunty Eva bragged about the size of their lettuce, claiming one leaf could be your entire meal.  I listened to her, allowing her the comfort of small talk.  Between bouts of saddened boasting, she would insert commentary about Aunty Pearl's failing health.

Dad, Jonah, and I made our little procession into Aunty Pearl's room.  You should understand that we are a reserved family, not used to emotional outbursts such as tears or professions of love.  Anger is something we know and express well because it is safe.  So when we walked into that little room, Hawaiian music softly playing on the tiny tv, we did not wail or tear at our clothing or gouge our eyes out.  Dad gently held her hand and told her we were there.  Jonah talked to her in Hawaiian, a move I suspect afforded him a measure of privacy.  I wept openly, but said nothing.  I do not regret keeping silent.  I know she knew my heart.  She always knew our hearts.  Before we left the room, we all laid hands on our aunty, dad's sister, and Jonah lead us in prayer.  

We spent the remainder of the early afternoon in their front yard, under a tarp.  The hum of the drinking fountain (they actually have one attached to their house) and the smell of Uncle's Black & Milds a constant backdrop to the stories being shared around the tables.  At first glance, Uncle looked as if he had been drinking for a long time, but then I realized what it was.  Not drink, but lack of sleep.  Aunty Eva told us how much pain Aunty Pearl had been in toward the end and how her crying and moaning at night made it so that the rest of the family had to move out of the room.  Aunty Pearl and Uncle Al have been married for over 50 years.  Companions for 50 years.  Uncle told us stories about them.  He still remembers when he first met my aunty.  Some of these stories included my grandparents, too.  My uncle saying, "I can move on, but there's no need for anything new if I no can share it with her."

Couple hours we spent sitting around those tables, talking stories.  They weren't all about Aunty Pearl or my grandparents.  We talked about our kids, our cousins, work, Vegas, the weather.  We laughed so much, my face hurt by the time we left.  My cousin, Peterson, who was raised by our aunty as if she were his actual mother, flew in today for a few hours before flying back home to go work tonight.  Who can inspire that love?

Aunty Pearl passed away this afternoon.  While we were there yesterday, the hospice people came and turned off her pacemaker.  The nurses, who were already familiar with uncle and everyone else, were equally friendly with us.  I don't know how they deal with saying goodbye to not only their patients, but their patients' families, too.  They are special people.  If it weren't my aunty they were working on, if it were someone else, she would be the one with the biggest, most sincere smile, hugging each one of them and thanking them for everything.  I have no doubt that she would be the one they remembered.  Her beautiful smile and her warm, engaging personality.  I'm not exaggerating that because I loved her, it's the truth.  You could not meet Aunty Pearl and not feel like she loved you already.

I wish I could have spoken to my aunty one more time, but I am also selfishly glad that I did not have to see her in so much pain in the end.  The last time I saw her was at her 50th wedding anniversary party a couple years ago.  You can see pictures in my Facebook photo album.  She looks lovely in green, glowing with an obvious pride, surrounded by friends and family, celebrating the continued love she shared with her husband of 50 years.  You might miss it, you might even misinterpret it, but you can see how my uncle loved her.  But if you knew her, you'd wonder how anyone could resist loving her.

How MySpace Ruined My Memories

I blogged a lot on MySpace.  It was probably the big reason it took me so long to make the move to Facebook because Facebook only had "Notes" and wtf reads or uses those?  If you haven't been made aware, MySpace recently gave themselves a huge makeover which included eliminating blogs.  Confused?  Let me clarify.  If you wrote years and years of blogs on MySpace, like I did, they're GONE.  MySpace says they're not deleted and they're working on a way to give them back (I have an idea-- just, you know, GIVE THEM BACK), but who knows?

It was totally lamentable.  I wrote A LOT.  I always meant to back up my entries, but it seemed so daunting since I had so many to copy.  But I let it go.  What's done is done and I have more pressing disasters to deal with.

But I found out my aunty is dying.  She had a stroke and is on life support and isn't expected to live once they turn off the machines.  She is the sweetest person I know and reminds me a lot of my grandmother.  I wrote about my Aunty Pearl long ago, about how she made me feel so special every time I saw her, and I would like to have been able to re-share that with you.  Or to read it again to myself.  Because I remember how it felt when she took my face into her hands and said she could see my grandma in me.  I remember how she was always thrilled that I named my daughter Lucy, a nod to my grandma, Lucille.  I remember her beaming smiles whenever she saw us, as if our presence was just the most important ever.

I understand that it doesn't mean much to a lot of people that I wrote this down a couple years ago, especially since I'm writing it down again now.  But more than my desire to share it with you, I wanted to read it again as a tribute to what she means to me.  Almost as if reading it again could bring it all back and make the stroke as if it never happened.  So that I might almost believe that when I go to Waianae tomorrow, it's not to say goodbye, but to see her enormous grin and feel her hands on my face.

Therapy

Last year, after lots of pain and frustration, I found out I had a a bum knee and a bad back.  That's not officially what the doctor said, but saying "arthritis" and "slipped disc" make me feel old.  She asked me to choose from a list of therapy centers and without doing any kind of research, I picked Kaimuki Care because of their location.  They're on the top floor of the Kaimuki Shopping Center (you know, above Longs and Times), which is a funny place for a physical therapy center to be.  You can either walk up a fairly large set of stairs OR take the elevator and then walk the entire length of the building to get there.

I was nervous.  I'd never been to therapy before and I didn't know what to expect.  To the end, I didn't know what to wear.  Workout clothes seemed too casual, but regular going out clothes seemed too restrictive.  Because you sweat in therapy.  You stretch and do weight training and do exercises you wouldn't ever think of yourself.  My least favorite of those was scooting myself on a rolling office chair down the length of the hallway using only my heels.  Killer!

Anyway, Kaimuki Care turned out to be such a winner.  I saw two therapists, which I guess is unusual, but they were both great.  It worked out for me, I think, to get two different brains trying to figure out my workouts. Working on my pain management and conditioning.  They were friendly and personable and attentive.  They were firm, but responded immediately if I experienced any pain or discomfort.  They listened.  After climbing up those steep steps one day to get there after a particularly pain-filled day, I had to confess that my knee was killing me.  We skipped the exercises that day, and they focused on not just alleviating my pain through massage, icing, and electro therapy, but also in determining where and what the problem was.

Therapy ended months ago.  On my first day, I couldn't even stand on my left leg, no joke.  It was so weak.  And because I'd try to compensate by relying heavily on my right leg, it resulted in a near slipped disc.  By the end of my sessions, however, I could stand on my leg and my back didn't have me wincing in agony.  My therapists taught me the correct way to use exercise equipment as well as how to properly stretch and exercise my target areas.  And when I went in last week to pay my bill, they all recognized me and said hello.  My therapist asked how I was doing and offered more tips to help with the knee pain.

Do you know what it feels like to be liberated from almost constant pain and discomfort?  Do you know how it feels to finally function like most normal, able-bodied people?  Though I continued to go to the gym a few times a week, I'd slacked off on my stretches since we moved to our new place.  Knee got sore again.  Started the right stretches with that damn karate belt (we have a love/hate relationship) a few days ago, and I'm right as rain.  Still wear the brace at the gym, but it's good.

It's possible I might have gotten the same high-quality care somewhere else, but I know for sure that Kaimuki Care does good work.  I'd recommend anyone who needs it to go there.

Sometimes Turning On The Light Helps

I remember when I was in intermediate and high school, there were days that I just knew were going to suck.  There was a certain tang to the atmosphere.  An absence of something or a deepening of space between people and things.  Everything looked and felt just slightly different-- as if I were a person living one of my lives in a very similar but different dimension.  This was not a dimension in which I'd been born a boy or was confined to a wheelchair because I'd been in some horrible accident, no.  It was one in which the differences were minute, where everything LOOKED okay, but really was covered in a fine mist of not--quite-rightness.  Maybe I had a maroon backpack instead of a red one.

And those days were sad days.  Those days were the ones I found it hard to connect to my peers. It was hard not to look at strangers or even people I knew and not envy their lives and the ease they seemed to experience while walking in their shoes.  Those were the days I felt I was going to choke on my own despair.

And for some reason I cannot explain, I feel that tonight.  It didn't start off this way, but somehow, without those signifiers, I feel great sadness for my son.  Not even for myself. For him.  Because I felt that the other day when I tried to register him for school and walked out unsuccessful, and I had tried to deny it.  I had to feign confidence so that Noah wouldn't doubt and lose confidence himself.  But I worry for him, the changes.  New school, new challenges, new friends, and people can be so cruel.

So far, he's been lucky, I think.  I always like to think of him as my adaptable child because he seems to adapt so well to change.  Every state, every school, every move he seemed to bounce back fairly quickly, without the need for a life jacket.  So far, Noah hasn't even shown much hesitation, either.  I know he must worry, but his outlook for the most part seems optimistic.

I just don't want him to have those wrong-dimension kind of days.  I know he will, and I know he must have had some by now, anyway.  It's not unreasonable for a mother to want her child to never feel hurt or lonely or despair.  I remember feeling so miserable some mornings, wondering how I was ever going to finish the day without dying.  Except I also remember that maybe by lunch, I'd found a way to cope and things weren't so bad by the end of the day.  I'd made it.  There are still some days I feel that way, and in fact there were many days in between school and now that I felt that way, and I guess the ones I had back in the day served to teach me how to cope with them as an adult.

I do things now to distract myself, to keep myself from descending into self-pity.  I know Noah will learn the same.  Doesn't mean I stop wanting to protect him, though.

In Which the Crazy Lady Buys Toilet Paper

Safeway recently changed the packaging of their toilet papers and now they're more distinctive.  Prior to this change, the only difference one could really discern was that one plastic wrap was blue, another teal.  Now, one's greenish with ducklings on it, another is purple with a swan on it (kinda scary-looking swan, too, if you ask me).  The one I like is the blue one with the white bunny on it.  I've had enough time to stare at this package when I sit on the crapper at home, so I knew which package I wanted.

Safeway Beretania, however, didn't have any on the shelf.  Just so happens when Lucy and I were looking for toilet paper, one of Safeway's employees asked if he could help.  I told him I wanted the toilet paper with the white bunny on it.  He was confused.  They just changed the packaging, said he.  Yes.  I there were no bunnies on it before, but now there is.  See how this one is greenish with duckies?  This one's purple-ish with the swan?  I want the blue one with the bunny.  Despite thinking I'm a looney (it was plain on his face), he went in search of white bunnies.  And came back bearing gifts, but was quick to say to me, "I think they're all the same."

But they're not!  While Lucy and I waited, we noticed how the swan package proclaimed "Strongest"! and the duckies boasted "Softest!".  I even showed her the tiny quilting and explained I didn't want that.  Sure enough when we inspected the bunny package, it read "soft & strong".  We like the best of both worlds, thank you.

The Measure of Good Service

Sometime in my late teens, my friends and I used to spend a lot of time in all-night restaurants and coffee houses, paying for coffee, salads, and nachos on our meager budgets.  I'm guessing we weren't the favorites at Denny's when considering our money spent to time spent at their table ratio.  But still we expected to be treated like any other paying customer.  We were there to spend money, after all, and we deserve to be served.  Do you remember the measure of good service?  For me, it was always prompt beverage refilling, even if it was just water.  I can remember numerous nights at Denny's in Waikiki (the one that was on the corner of Kapahulu and Kalakaua.  We went there after my senior prom, remember?), pasty-mouthed and livid because my tiny cup of water had not been refilled in half an hour.  Outrageous.

Well, yesterday I filled out the eCafe surveys for my teachers and it brought to mind-- what is the measure of good (online class) service?  I'm so easy.  I put a lot of weight into how promptly my teachers respond to emails or discussion inquiries.  I've heard so many stories about being ignored by professors, about assignments being posted willy-nilly in random places, and so I feel really lucky that I haven't had those nightmares so far.  My teachers were all punctual, clear, and fairly transparent.  I lucked out.

If you're wondering what my measure of good service is these days in restaurants, would you be surprised if my list has grown?  Prompt refills still tops the list, but also important is whether my server asks my kids if they want dessert, especially when the dessert isn't part of their meal.  I mean, don't do it.

How do you measure good service?

Asking

Amanda Palmer's Ted Talk, entitled The Art of Asking, inspired me.  That and our recent adventures into Craigslist to find a new home.  Why don't I ask for stuff?

As many of you who have moved quite a bit like I have know, and even those of you who have only had the joy of moving once or twice, moving sucks.  No matter how far in advance you begin preparing and packing and purging, it's not enough.  Even when you have a team of professional movers come and do the bulk of the work, it's not enough!  Usually at the very end you're left with a lot of leftover crap, especially if you have to clean the old unit by yourself.  In addition to the broom, bucket, lamp, radio, and shower curtain, there's the odd chair, bookcase, fan, and closet full of odds and ends that never really see the light of day until it's time to move.  What do you do with that crap?  If you're anything like me, you toss it in the trash pile because if you have to move just ONE MORE piece of shit, you're likely to lose grip on that one last thread of reality.

Which brings me to Amanda Effing Palmer.  Did you watch the video?  The gist is: ask people for stuff.  I watched it a couple of weeks ago so I don't exactly remember every detail, but I don't remember her talking about how asking for stuff will make you look ghetto or poor or selfish or, as people say in Hawaii, you won't look "chang".  Asking creates a relationship between the giver and the receiver.  And those two points got me.  If Amanda Palmer (who is in no way suffering from a lack of wealth) can ask her fans (who are strangers to her) if she can crash on their sofas after a concert and not think she's being cheap, why can't I ask for stuff without looking cheap?

The video kind of brings a new perspective.  Amanda Palmer used to busk for money, but instead of viewing that as something she did while looking for a Real Job, she says that WAS her job.  And watching her say that, how can you think she was anything but sincere?  Like that, the idea of asking for what you need, the way Amanda talks about it, like it's nothing more than asking someone for the time, lifted the taboo from asking.  For me, anyway.  It liberated my mind.  Because as much as I don't care about what most people think of me, I don't want people to think I'm needy or selfish.  I don't want people to know that I'm cheap (even though I am).  According to the Ted Talk, that aspect doesn't even enter the picture for Amanda, and I'm pretty certain that if it did, she wouldn't even acknowledge it.

But why not ask?

So, the other part of my story is that we're unpacking, right?  And space-wise, this new apartment is about the same as our old place except with a much smaller outside area and a much smaller kitchen.  But there are other features that we can take advantage of if only we had the proper tools, and here's where you come in.  I thought, "Why buy new stuff?  Why not ask my friends and family first?"  I come to you, my friends and family, with a list of crap we could use and would love to take off your hands if you have extras or are planning to donate to Goodwill.  It is NOT to ask you to buy anything for us.  I would hate that.  Charlie would hate that.  If you have any gently used items on the list, let me know!

Well, here goes:

• plastic hangers, especially the ones with those slots on top for straps
• oven mitts and/or pot holders
• wooden clothespins for hanging laundry
• beach towels
• a small laundry basket

Oh, and if you happen to need a desktop fan (or three.  Really.  I have three.), I can trade!  Or just give to you.  We also have a few little kid board games to give away as well.  Just ask :D

Moving

I've wanted to blog on so many different occasions lately, but always had more pressing matters to tend to.  Packing, moving, homework, work.  Yep.  That's been my life for the last week and likely for the one coming up, too, with the addition of cleaning.  Here's just a few observations, not artfully remarked upon.

1.  When It Rains.  You know what happens.  The UHaul truck I rented yesterday was defective.  I realized when I tried to park the truck on my street that when it was in park and with the e-brake fully deployed, the 17' truck ROLLED.  Down the street, if I would let it.  So when my brother and I changed seats, he had to put his foot on the brake while I got out of the truck.  And then when we were pau, we had to park it about 5 or 6 blocks away where the street was flat.  And then it wouldn't start again after that.  Skip the long story in which the truck starts up again, I had to stay in the cab with my foot on the brake while everyone else unloaded.  Good times.

2.  My kids are camped out on the floor of our old living room, watching Beyblade on Cartoon Network.  This show is funny even for its genre.  Spinning blades do battle.  At least with Pokemon or Digimon, the battling monsters are capable of expressions and have an identity.  These are basically spinning tops that do not have faces or wings.  They spin and sometimes, apparently, disappear.  I'm guessing because they're moving so fast?  I don't know.  I'm not a regular watcher and neither are my kids.  It's fun to hear them make fun of the show, though.

3.  I have to do a project for my Hawaiian Studies class.  It's due on Tuesday and I haven't done much more than acquire the materials I need for research.  This is stressing me.  Plus midterms coming up.  Ugh.  And no internet at our new place until March 9.  Double ugh.  

4.  Noah got a digital camera for Christmas last year from my mom.  He hasn't yet taken it anywhere, but he likes playing with it at home.  He and Lucy make short videos at home.  He takes random pictures.  But when we really started to move, Noah decided he wanted to document it through his lens.  At times this has proven to be irritating, especially to someone like me who wants to get shizz done NOW.  I know, though, that we're gonna love these pictures.  We're going to thank him.  I gave him an assignment a few days ago-- he had to take pictures of the rabbits for craigslist.  They're good!  

5.  Also on the topic of Noah, he's stoked to be going to a different high school next year.  I thought he'd be disappointed about leaving most of his friends, but he's not.  He's actually EXCITED about the change.  But he was always like that.  He was always adaptable.  I attribute that to how my awesome mothering (that much is obvious, right?) and also his start as a military child.  New preschool?  "Goodbye, mom."  Kindergarten?  "Just drop me off, mom."  Two new schools in the third grade?  "I can find my class myself, mom."  I shouldn't be surprised by his current eager anticipation.

I think it's time now to head back to our new apartment.  While we really loved living in Kapahulu and all the conveniences it provided (how about no traffic?), living closer to the city will offer new delights. Plus our apartment is pretty sweet.