My Ridiculously Awesome Weekend!

First, none of the pictures are mine. I stole them from Google.
Okay, so this is a long blog to read, but totally worth it because its choke full of cool stories! First off, I spent the past weekend with my Auntie Sierra in Kalaheo. On Saturday we all went up to Hanalei side to go to the beach alllllll afternoon. That night, when we had stopped to eat at Bubbas (“We cheat tourists and drunks”) somehow the keys got locked in the truck. Fortunately I was the only one holding a cell phone, so Sierra called her sister to have them drive to Kalaheo then up to Hanalei to get us the spare keys. For those of you in Idaho, it would be like someone calling you in Driggs, asking you to drive to Jackson, then turn around and drive to Idaho Falls. For those of you in Montana, it would be like driving from Bozeman, to Manhattan, to Livingston. Long freaking way. So we were in Hanalei from 7-10pm, listening to really crappy live music, catching whiffs of ganja, and, on my part at least, having a keen old time texting a friend.
Then next morning I went to church in Kalaheo ward and sat next to that same friend (Brandon) and his friend (Kori). Quite enjoyable. Funny thing happened in sacrament. The closing song was one of those short two or four liners that no one knows or ever sings, so no one sang it. After the song had dribbled to a close, the chorister dashes to the microphone and tells everyone they were going to sing it again because she felt like she was the only one singing. So the congregation made their mumbling a bit louder. Afterwards both Brandon and Kori turn to me and say “Welcome to Kalaheo ward. Stuff like that happens all the time.”
After church, however, was the best part. Kori’s 80 year old (or so) grandfather, Brother Hasegawa, was getting baptized. From what I’ve been able to glean, he’s the only member of the family who isn’t a member of the church. They call him “The Missing Link”. He’s never wanted anything to do with the church, never wanted anything to do with the elders, and to all intents and purposes it appeared the only way his family was going to get him into the church would be to wait until he died and do his work by proxy.
Until God sent “the angels”, aka the sister missionaries.
Now, we haven’t had sister missionaries over here for a very, very long time. On the second day they were here, they were having lunch with a member and asked her about any non-members they could go visit. She told them about her son, but told the sisters that they’d have to stop by the Hasegawas to get directions. So the sisters met the Hasegawas and continued to stop in whenever they were in the neighborhood or felt prompted.
One day they were sharing a message with Sister Hasegawa and were about to share a word of prayer when Brother Hasegawa came in. They asked if he wanted to join them, he did, then they asked if they could share the message again, so Brother Hasegawa could hear it. And history was made. Brother Hasegawa started sticking around for the messages and was soon being taught the gospel.
Meanwhile, one of the sisters, Sister D, is from Idaho Falls. Her father one day is prompted to go to Reed’s Dairy to buy ice cream. While there, he’s talking to the owner and mentions his daughter is serving in Kauai. The owner mentions that his son married a girl from Kauai. After comparing notes, they discover that the Reed daughter in law was Brother Hasegawa’s granddaughter. So after this Sister D’s dad sends his testimony to Brother Hasegawa.
And so on Sunday Brother Hasegawa was baptized by his grandson Kori and given the gift of the Holy Ghost by his son (son in law?). They had one of the sisters speak before the baptism and then after they had a surprise for Brother Hasegawa. Instead of Brandon’s dad speaking on the Holy Ghost, they called Sister D, who had returned home to Idaho, and held up the cell phone to the microphone so she could speak about the Holy Ghost and be part of the program.
The whole thing was so amazing. I had goosebumps the entire time and I don’t even know the family! Then after receiving the Holy Ghost, Brother Hasegawa, his face almost entirely hidden from the huge pile of leis around his neck, says a few words to thank everyone. His first words as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Afterwards, there was a big luncheon and I sat and ate ridiculously good food and talked to my friend Tina, who’s leaving for a mission to Portugal in December. After she left, I talked to Brandon and various other people until the only people left in the church were his and Kori’s family and it was three in the afternoon. One of the best Sundays ever!
Then one of the BEST DAYS EVER happened. Monday night Brandon sends me a text telling me to skip work because we were going on a NaPali Zodiac tour for $20. Google this so you can see what I’m talking about! Normally this 5-6 hour tour costs $160, but because the captain is Brandon’s friend, we got the hook up. (See Picture 1)
So, those of you who know me know I can’t swim and am more than a little afraid of water. I have nightmares about being dragged out to sea by a freak wave. So seeing this thing and knowing I’m going to be two feet above the water going over 40 mph…ya, little nervous.
The harbor you set out from is about 20 miles or so from the NaPali coast (seriously, google pictures of this place and bear in mind pictures don’t do it justice). Partly because our captain (Brandon’s friend) is insane and partly because you can drive to most of the places we were passing, Captain Danny rocketed to the start of the cliffs. (FYI: these cliffs are the second largest sea cliffs in the world, taller than the Empire State Building, and can’t be accessed by road at all.) Off to the right you can see Niihau, the Forbidden Island, and up ahead, you can see the cliffs rising slowly, tantalizingly, out of the water.
Before we could really get into the cliffs, Danny stops so everyone can snorkel. Now, remember, I’m in this boat, don’t swim, and have been refusing to snorkel for years and years because I’m way too chicken. But I’m looking at this water and thinking, ‘It’s pretty flat. When am I ever going to get to do this again? The guys are watching. Be a Nike slogan and just do it.’
So I snorkeled. In the ocean. Where there’s no walls to protect me from man eating sharks and turtles and Nemos. The girl terrified of water. SNORKELED! And it was awesome! I don’t know what kind of fish I saw and I dare say I could do a little research, but who cares what the little ones were because the highlight was seeing a Humuhumunukunukuapua’a! (See Picture 2) After snorkeling, Danny books it to the end of the coast, to Ke’e Beach. Along the way we’re seeing turtles popping up everywhere and, best of all, spinner dolphins, not ten feet from my foot. (See Picture 3)
Now, you have to understand what speeding across the ocean is like in a little raft like thing. The waves were “small”, only about 2-4 feet high, but when you’re only 2-4 feet off the surface of the water, and slamming up and down the swells, “small” waves create big waves in your stomach. It’s incredibly difficult to come up with the words to describe what it’s like to be bouncing around a raft like a carnival ride, your hands gripping a rope so you don’t get thrown overboard, your feet tucked under another rope for added protection, getting sprayed by cool salt water, the dolphins a few feet away and some of the world’s most awe-inspiring scenery all around you. No picture, no words can sufficiently convey what you see, hear, smell.
The water, as we progress, continues to turn impossible shades of green and blue. At times, you can see the bottom of the ocean flashing past you. Above you are the black cliffs covered in green and topped with misty clouds. Helicopters and seabirds buzz around reminding me of a bee hive. (See Picture 4)
Some of the cliffs look like a giant hand took a knife and cut a mountain in half. In ancient Hawaii, the ali’is (chiefs) would be buried somewhere on the cliff face. The person honored with the task of burying the ali’i would then jump to his death so no one would ever know where the man had been buried. This way, their enemies couldn’t steal the bones and consequently the ali’i’s mana, or power. Danny was telling us that in the 70s an outrigger canoe was found in a cliff. How in the world they got a canoe up there is beyond me. (Oh, when they tried to get the canoe down, they broke it into a millions pieces. Guaranteed there were traditional Hawaiians beyond pissed about this. Moral of the story: leave the bones be.)
So we get down to the end of the coast and Danny takes the boat slower and closer along the cliffs. He tells us about the Hanakapiai Beach, known locally as Hanakapidie because so many people drown. He tells us about the Hawaiian story about the star children frozen into rock spires. (See Picture 5).
We also hear about the Kalalau Trail, one of the world’s most difficult and beautiful hikes. It’s only 11 miles one way, but it takes you an entire day. Then you camp and the next day hike back out. He pointed up to a thin line hugging the edge of one cliff and told us how narrow the trail there is and how people crawl on their hands and knees to keep from being blown off. It makes me sick to think about doing anything that fool hardy. It wasn’t until yesterday that I thought about what would happen if two crawling people going opposite directions met on the trail. (See Picture 6). As you can see, there’s not really room to turn around or squeeze past.
Eventually you reach Kalalau Valley. (See Picture 7). According to our guides, this valley once held 2000 Hawaiians at their peak of power. Come the 60s and 70s, it became the Taylor Camp (named after Elizabeth Taylor’s brother), the most documented hippie commune in history. Apparently there’s still the odd hippie living there (illegally) and growing food and sweet, stinky weed. Danny joked about how the feral goats have eaten all the marijuana and are now very peaceful, happy animals. I suppose this would make them easier to hunt. At any rate, this is where everyone camps who were crazy enough or brainless enough to brave the trail. I’m perfectly satisfied with the fact that I will never see this valley unless someone drops me by helicopter or I’m boated in, if that’s even possible.
Danny keeps boating along the coast giving us fascinating information that of course I can no longer remember since I was starting to feel a bit queasy. Great thing about being with a group of guy friends and having the captain know your friend is that they make sure you’re okay and not scared and…to be perfectly honest…give you a half dozen reasons why you are desperately trying not to get sick enough to puke. I’d have no qualms about barfing in front of strangers, but people you know? I don’t think so.
The reason the zodiac tours are a million times better than the catamarans is that you get to go in and out of the caves! Again, how is one to describe the oppressively damp heat of a dark cave? You hear the water splashing and slapping against the back wall, trying to carve its way through the center of the island. Around you is the shiny rock, looking very much like someone’s taken an ice cream scoop and carved pieces out. Ahead of you is the fiercely blue sky through the entrance. Danny tells us that the winter waves get so high, it engulfs the entrance, trapping all the air inside and causing it to burst out of the cave like a gun, taking huge chunks of rock with it.
There was one cave that made a U-shape and we sped through it in a big circle a few times. According to Danny, it’s the Tunnel of Love when you go slow and the Tunnel of Terror when you go fast. Understandable, because it’s dark and you’re wondering if you’re possibly mentally unbalanced captain can even see where he’s going. But going from the bright, hot sun to the dark cool cave and suddenly into the light again…oh my goodness!
In this cave is a hole in the ceiling where the end of a waterfall dumps into the ocean. This was without a doubt the most beautiful thing I saw that entire day. (Apparently it made the cover of a National Geographic photography thing.) (See Picture 8).
We also turned a corner and upon this huge, breathtaking cliff where a spring of water was dripping into the ocean. You can’t see the water until you get right under it and watch the droplets coming down in slow motion. It was like something out of a dream or a really awesome music video. I could’ve stayed there for a long, long time.
But we continued on to what they called a “Traditional Hawaiian Washing” in the “Waterfall of Fertility” which basically meant they were going to drive us under a freezing waterfall a few times until we were completely drenched. And believe me, Danny made sure everyone was soaking. But seriously, I’ll take a bit of cold to get dumped on by water that only a few moments before was in a rain cloud. But you couldn’t stay cold for long, because we sped along to a beach where we could land and eat ono grinds (delicious food). Seriously, it was good. As we landed, they announced that if anyone had to tinkle, they could either “pretend” to swim or use the outhouse, but don’t just go into the trees and take a leak because the beach was an active archeological sight. Since I had to answer the call of nature, I was left with the option of either walking back into the water and having everyone there know I was peeing my pants, or use the hazardously unsanitary outhouse. The latter had toilet paper, so the choice was easy.
After eating Danny asked our little group of friends if we wanted to go on the tourist hike and learn about Hawaiian history or take his “manly” hike. Now, I’ve heard stories about his idea of hikes so I quizzed him on how difficult this “manly” hike of his would be and then decided if it got too much to do in slippers (flip-flops for you mainlanders), I’d just stop and wait for them to return.
So glad I did the “manly” hike. He led us through the trees up a dry river bed over rocks and around decaying goat carcasses to where a waterfall had at one point cut a tube out of the rock. Beautiful! Over the ledge you could see the tops of more and more cliffs stretching farther than you can see. If you’ve seen the third Lord of the Rings movie and remember the part where Aragon ventures into the mountains to find the ghost people, this looked very much like that. If you turned around, you could look down the river bed to the ocean below. Incredible.
Monkey Man Dan decided he was going to show everyone the cliff the goats clamber over by leading everyone up a steep slope of shaky rocks. I stayed behind. I dare say I could have handled climbing the rocks in my hiking shoes, but not foam slippers. One of our friends went up, but turned around and came and sat with me when he saw where Danny was leading them. (Danny and his sister, by the way, were barefoot. My EMS senses were tingling overtime.)
That was the last stop. It was funny, when everyone headed back to the boat, to notice how all the tourists were huddled in the back of the boat because no one was brave enough to sit in the very front, where the splashing and bouncing were the worst. However, since I’m apparently braver than them and technically not a real customer (they paid $140 more than me) I was relegated to the very front. SO MUCH FUN!!! The way out we had to stop to have the tourists switch places because they didn’t want to sit in the very front. Granted, the way back wasn’t as bumpy, but I stayed in front the entire time. I can very much understand why someone would get addicted to being out on the water.
Long story short, it was ridiculously amazing and I loved it! If anyone ever takes a trip to Kauai, save up your money and do this! It’s not a tour to snap pictures (take a catamaran for that) but in my opinion going in and out of caves and under waterfalls and being a few feet from dolphins and getting sprayed by the water is way way way way WAY better than standing on a boat with a camera! (See Picture 9).

Chickens chickens everywhere and not a one for eating!

I realized the other day that next time I go to the beach I should spend less time reading and more time watching the people around me. What a show!
There's the man sitting crosslegged on the sand, his grey, wasit-length beard and lack of facial expression making him look like a leftover hippie or wannabe yogi. Except that the heavyset woman right next to him is wearing a dorky visor, a stylish swimsuit, and is reading a book. Quintessential odd couple.
There's the haole local, his arms covered in tattoos and his bleached hair pulled back into a ponytail. He's gliding his surfboard expertly past the tourists who are struggling to stay on their feet in the knee-high water as they attempt to board their boards. They stop their splashing long enough to enviously watch him go by. Haole boy looks proud of him self. You can almost see him puff his chest out.
There's the woman whose face places her in the 50-60 year old range. But what is a 60 year old woman doing with a tiny string bikini on? Perhaps she was a Vegas show girl and struggles to let go of the fact that her body is no longer appealing? Hasn't been for about 20 years. Her body is shining with enough oil to cover everyone on the beach and still have enough left over to make french fries. She's got her arms, legs, and fingers splayed to make sure every ancient skin cell catches as much toxic UV rays as possible. Her tanned skin is wrinkled and leathery and I'm mesmerized. I wonder, if I watch long enough, will she shrivel up like plastic fork in a campfire?
Not far from her is the man with the rotund paunch and the plastic coconut bra. He may have an odd sense of fashion, but the entire hour plus that I'm there, he's in the water splashing and laughing and playing with his kids. There's something to be said for that.

***

I'm sitting in the parking lot of the public library finishing my fries and watching a wild rooster and hen get closer to the car. I wonder briefly if chickens can smell and search the beak for anything resembling a nostril.
The rooster gives me a cold look and puts me in mind of another rooster. Two years ago my mom, me and Sidnee were parked at an overlook watching the waves. Sidnee is throwing food at the ever-present chickens, but she soon tires of it and closes the door. Suddenly, we all hear a loud thump on the windows and turn in time to see the rooster attacking the car, furious that we'd ceased to feed him. Maybe Hawaii should spring for some "Warning: Attacking Chickens" signs or at least some saying "Please don't feed the wildlife".
The chickens at the library are getting ominously closer and I debate whether or not I should roll up the window, just in case they CAN smell and happen to be a fan of greasy, sugary McDonald's french fries.
Maybe they've heard I live in the cock fighting capital of the island and will rise up against me in a show of Chicken Solidarity. Here's for our fallen comrades!
I sit in the car until I'm sure they're gone, then make a mad dash for the library doors. You can never be too careful...

My encounter with salt water. Not the ocean.

I got a bit bored this afternoon and decided I since it has been awhile since I have tasted Root Beer, I'll walk down to the 7-11 and get one. According to Google maps, its only a half mile, 10 minute trip. I can brave the unknown horrors of the ghetto for that long. No problem.
And it wasn't a problem. It was entirely uneventful. The whole trip, walking there and back and waiting in line at the register, took less than 25 minutes. Probably less than 20. I wasn't really keeping track. Not quite the time waster I'd imagined.
On the way back home I decided to call my cousin Emma and see what she was wearing for the first day of school.
"I wear a uniform, remember?" she said.
No I did not.
The whole conversation lasted 2 minutes and 18 seconds and when I hung up I noticed something very odd. There were two drips of water running from the inside of my elbow and down my arm. For a second I tried to think of where I could have been splashed with water when I realized it was sweat. I don't sweat cartoon-like droplets, but in the short amount of time my arm had been bent, it had been enough to make it sweat.
This was a first for me. A disgusting first. And I had to share it with the world.
And this, my friends, is what living on an island does to you.

Why I'm In Lihue

Sooooooo, it has come to my attention that there's more than a few people who don't know I'm here and why I came. So I decided to put it on the blog so anyone with more energy than me can read it-this way I don't have to tell the story forty times. It isn't lazy, it's economical.
So there I was in Rexburg, looking for work and wondering if the pool was every going to get finished and opened so I'd actually have a job. I was hired, but because of the weather and flooding, they kept pushing the start date back. I wasn't about to wait around for a "We might open" but no where else would hire me.
In the meantime, my Aunt Sierra was getting ready to move and the idea was put in my head to move as well. I'm single, unattached, assetless-basically a hobo-so why not try somewhere else? I didn't take it seriously because...well...it was crazy and made no sense. But the thought wouldn't leave, so I decided to get advice from some friends. Then the thought really wouldn't leave, so I decided I better do some serious thinking. So one weekend I decided to do a whole lot of fasting and praying and pondering about whether this was something I should do. The ENTIRE weekend I felt really, really good about moving. It felt like the first time in months God was finally saying, "Ok, now it's time." Sunday I had my brother give me a blessing and that doubled how good I felt about the move. So I decided I would move.
Then Monday morning dawned and I kept thinking how crazy it was and how much it didn't make sense and I began to doubt that I had recieved my answer. On Tuesday, we were driving back from Walmart and drove past the construction area that would one day be the pool, and I felt sick to my stomach. A lump formed in my throat and I took a few deep breaths to keep from crying. This was strange. Usually driving by the pool made me feel excited and I didn't understand why I had such a sickening reaction to it now.
That night as I was praying and fussing over whether I had actually gotten an answer or whether I was over analyzing things and feeling for some inexplicable reason that this decision was a big one and I really needed an answer, I had a prompting to flip my journal open and read. So I opened it to an entry where I had written about how many times we get on our knees and whine about not getting answers and God's looking down at his watch thinking 'Can't you wait ten more hours? You'll get your answer tomorrow.' And all the emotions of the last two days, the ones that made me feel like crying at every moment, disappeared, and I knew I'd get my answer the next day.
Soooo, that next day I went to the temple and in the Celestial Room I pulled out the scriptures and opened to one that basically said, You already got your answer. "What greater witness can you have than from God?" Touche.
After that I knew I'd gotten my answer to go, but so did the adversary. He began working against me harder than he has in months. Every waking moment and most unconcious moments were filled with horrible thoughts and feelings designed to make me feel like the worst person on earth, completely unworthy of this move, and that if I do this, I am the most selfish brat and everyone will hate me. It scared me. I knew I was supposed to go, but I was so overwhelmed with fear (of the unknown, of everyone hating me) that I quibbled.
Until my aunt walked in and sat down. "Kim," she said in that mom voice that makes you feel guilty for everything you have ever done in your life and even for those things you haven't done. "Are you going?"
So I said yes.
My mom called a few minutes later and asked if I was going.
I said yes.
And immediately I was assaulted by a horrible guilty feeling, a feeling that I was the worst person in the world, a selfish spoiled brat, and that if I go horrible horrible things will happen and it would be much better to stay in Rexburg where it's safe. The feeling was unrelenting, so I knelt down to pray and asked that if I was doing the right thing, to please let me feel safe, calm, and not guilty. IMMEDIATELY all those horrible feelings went away and I felt so good, so happy. A few days later I bought my ticket.
Everytime I've prayed about it I've gotten the same confirmation that moving is the right thing to do. When I landed here, I felt so peaceful, it was like I was floating and I took it as another confirmation that I was doing the right thing. Absolutely no clue why I'm here, yet, and it may be that I won't figure it out for a while, maybe even after my time here is over and I've moved on, but I followed the promptings and I know I'm where I should be.
Ironically enough, as soon as I bought the ticket, the weather cleared up and the construction on the pool finished and it opened right before I left. Interesting, don't you think, that it kept getting pushed back until I made my decision, and then it suddenly opened?
So public opinion be hanged, I did what I knew was right. We'll see what happens.

Greetings from the Ghetto

So I lack the motivation to organize the following thoughts into a coherent flow, so instead, I'm going to take the easy way out and give you a few disjointed snapshots of my first few days. If you don't understand, tough coconuts.
Okay, so my first day in Kauai I accidently saw two birds doing something unseemly to the (apparently) romantic mood music of incessant rooster crowing. Awkward. Reminded me of the lizards in California I thought were "playing". And what, you are no doubt asking yourself, is with all the chickens? Well, first of all, about a decade ago (or more) there was a little storm called Hurricane Iniki that blew domesticated chickens all over the island and over time these little walking lunches became feral. This may sound like the plot to a cartoon, but I'm being very serious. So when you come to Kauai, part of the tropical fauna you'll encounter are farmyard cluckers. (Come to think of it, these babies are the ultimate free range livestock and if it wanders into your yard, a little work you got yourself a bucket of fried chicken. And no, that's not why there's only one KFC on the island.) Anyways, so the fact that all the neighbors around here have roosters sounding off in their backyards didn't really phase me. I just assumed they were taking advantage of the low cost food source.
However, I failed to add 2 and 2 and come up with 4.
You see, my aunt lives in Hanamaulu, aka Little Manila. And these Filipino neighbors aren't rasing hens, they're raising roosters.
The other day a great deal of short Filipino men were gathering across the street. I was trying to figure out why they'd chosed the gates of the so-called park (park my foot, it's just a field) as their official 'talk story' site, when a thin, short man pulled out two metal cases with holes. The cases were clucking. The men drifted to the back corner of the park and slowly others arrived as if some unseen signal had been sent. The onlookers included a pregnant woman pushing a stroller, followed by two little girls. Who the freak takes children to a cock fight?

Outside you can hear and see the helicopters fly in and out of the airport. In a way I find them a bit depressing. It almost seems like they're trying desperately to leave the island but are being pulled back by their inadequacies. On the other, funnier, hand, it's amusing to think about the tourists who spend countless hours flying over here so they can...fly some more. To be fair, I have been told that the views on the helicopter tours are spectacular and to my right is a narrow chain of mountains looking not unlike moss covered ridges on the back of a stegasaurous. They'd probably look cool from the air. But speaking of flying, it never ceases to amaze me that we can leave the coast of California and somehow, miraculously, land on a teeny, tiny island in the middle of the largest body of water in the galaxy. Navigational instruments aside, how is it that human beings, who can't ever seem to find their car keys, can find this?

I heard a rustling in my room the other night and was afraid a mouse had discovered my bag of carmels. I squeaked and slapped my hand on the bed hoping the noise would let the rodent know a panicking human was nearby. I clicked on a nearby lamp and found a mouse on the glue trap. I wanted to be sick. It took me a few to realize the only way of getting it out of my room so I didn't have to listen to it squeak all night was to pick up the trap and take it elsewhere. So after a great deal of squeaking on both sides, I moved the quivering thing outside. Put another trap down and a day later another one had committed suicide. There are absolutely no words to tell you how disgusting that is. Please tell me I don't have hauntavirus written in my future.

My Musings On The British Royal Family

I recently red on the Guardian website (a British newspaper) that Prince William and his bride are the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Well, isn't that...something. I guess for ol' Billy the title of "prince" has become a tad passe, but whatever the large toothed royal thought of the additions to his resume, I was preoccupied by a far more pressing question: What if the queen ran out of places and titles to give to the seemingly prodigious amounts of aristocrats, many of whom have enough names and titles to sound like a law firm? Will it ever come to the point where Her Majesty will grandly bestow upon some relative the auspicious title of Duke of Heathrow Airport? Then again, I imagine random towns or well known locations will find themselves honored with their very own members of the aristocracy before Heathrow. Perhaps we'll see a Duke of Goole or a Duke of Stonhenge? Or what about the Princess of the Spittal of Glenshee (not making that name up) or the Duchess of Beachy Head? (If you receive a title named after one of the most notorious suicide spots in the world, I think it's a pretty good indication the family doesn't like you and you may stand in danger of being secretly edited out of the line of succession. I give you fair warning.)
I for one am dreadfully worried about this scarcity. I'd rather not see the queen telling her third cousin twice removed that he can't be the Assistant Duke of Kent because someone already called it before he did and, shucks, the title of Count of The Mumbles (again, not making that place name up) was taken just last week. Tsk tsk tsk.
On a related note, I think it might be fun to be queen and come up with various titles and honors. Anyone I didn't care for would become a Knight of the Grand Order of the Keepers of the Colostomy Bag, commonly referred to as the Crap Keepers. Anyone who takes umbrage (a very fun word) can stuff it.
And one final thought to tickle the mass of nerves we call a brain, does anyone else feel like the queen's living a preternaturally long life? Or is it just me who feels like she's been seventy for the past twenty-nine years? And does she ever feel haunted by the thought that her unfortunate-looking son may be wishing she would just pop off already?

So I was listening to old Scottish Jacobite songs the other day and it got me to thinking about certain moments in history and which side I would've been on had I been born then.
1) Battle of Hastings 1066-I'd have been on the English side
2) Jacobite Wars 1715 and 1745-I'd have been a Jacobite
3) 1970s Northern Ireland-I'd have been in the IRA. For that matter, a century or two earlier I'd have been one of the Irish getting dispossessed by the Scottish immigrants.
4) 1500s Mexico-I'd have tried to kill Cortez
5) 1500-1700 Americas- No surprise for guessing which side I'd be on.

This is just a short list, but as I was thinking it over, I realized they all had one thing in common. The side I sympathize with were always the losers! Which is probably why I wasn't born then.
Then my thoughts turned to my genealogy and where my European ancestors where from and where would they be during these momentous events? *Sigh* They were on the opposite sides. They were the Normans who invaded England, the royalist supporters, the Scotsmen who pushed the Irish off their land in Ulster, and a great deal of them (though not all!) were the hairy immigrants swarming onto America's shores. Hmmmmmm. This could prove to provide interesting conversations in the hereafter.

The Stench of the Snow

Walk in the south doors of the Snow building on the BYU-Idaho campus and you are attacked by a smell that's a cross between sweaty feet and unwiped butt. You spy a bronze statue of Christ, His face twisted in disgust, and you ask yourself the question "Why does a building dedicated to God smell like the bowels of hell?" Should you brave the stench and continue further into the building, you pass by a dozen or so students lining the walls and chatting amiably or concentrating on their computers. All are seemingly unaware of the puke green vapors swirling around their heads and causing the carpets to curl. These people are not Sweating to the Oldies, or mimicing Richard Simmons's figure on a TV screen, nor do I hear the telltale trumpeting coming from their netherregions, the hallmark sound of 'cutting the cheese'. So where does this smell come from? Are the music majors practicing behind the closed doors of the narrow hallways working up a massive sweat as they empty their spit valves? I can imagine a pianist playing with such passion the keys are slick with sweat and their bowels are weakened and let loose bursts of methane. On one hand you have to admire such malodorous dedication, but on the other hand, a certain orifice needs a cork. Since it's not very likely that the University is going to spring for a truckload of Febreeze (because apparently there are students who enjoy basking in the pleasures of pit funk because why else would they hang out there? It's not like there's ten other buildings to loiter in) and since it is also unlikely that a general disclaimer will be issued, I take it upon myself to give you unsuspecting and innocent victims of the general public this fair warning: Beware the Stench of the Snow!

It's snowing outside like a mo-fo. Most unfortunate. As I was watching the snow fall and waiting for the computer to open my program, I noticed the recycle bin icon was full to the brim of crumpled paper. "Hmmm," I thought. "There's a lot of deleted things in there. I should empty it and make room on my computer." There's only one thing inside. So if there's only one item in the recycle basket, why show all those crumpled papers and make you think it's overflowing? Why not show only one crumpled paper?
Sigh.
I haven't had much time for updating my blog. I've been plotting out my giant 48x48 painting. As of now it will be of the Laie Temple, but if that turns out to be too complicated...well...maybe I'll do something abstract (aka it can look like crap and no one will notice because it's "abstract").

Outside my window are snow flurries and the ground is slowly being covered by the deathly white I'm sick of seeing. It has been raining recently and silly me was sure I saw spring in the air. I've been digging out my sandals and my ballet flats to wear because I'm sick and tired of my snow boots. So much for that...
Still no job. I've stopped counting how many applications I've filled out. Somewhere around the 60s or 70s. And its always the same reply, "We're going with someone more qualified." Whatever.

The Threat to My Life

Water is evil discarnate, but over the years H2O and I have come to a tenuous agreement. I don't go near him, and he holds off on his homicidal tendancies. I'm not entirely sure what I've done to make him so angry, but my word has he tried to kill me an awful lot of times!
By the time I reached high school, I realized he was thristing for my blood and I'd so assiduously avoided any incarnation of him I scarcely showered. But junior year we went to Hawaii and when you're on a tropical island, you have to go in the water.
It was there and then that Senor Agua decided to pull his dirty trick. You see, I was very careful not to go too near the water or spend too much time in the water, so as not to give him the uperhand. He realized this and devised a way to make sure I was miserable even when I wasn't in the water.
All he had to do was get me wet and I'd break into this horribly read and painfully burning, itchy rash all over! The heavily touristed beaches have makeshift showers to wash the salt water off, but seculded beaches do not. So I sat there and burned and itched and everyone wondered why I was so allergic to paradise.
At first we thought it was just that one year. Perhaps some sort of odd weather event with a Spanish name (El Itcho?) had caused some strange microbes to churn up in the water. Plausible. But everytime I've returned to my island home, water still gives me a rash that threatens to eat me from the outside in.
And H2O likes to keep me on my toes. He likes sending reminders that even on dry land, a thousand miles away from the nearest ocean, he's watching and waiting. He'll send me a dream full of tidal waves larger and more ominous than anything reality can produce.
But although my life is in constant peril, I have my little revenges. I drink a glass of him and there's nothing he can do about it and after a while, I'll smirk and wave as I flush him down the toilet.

The Lone Democrat

Last night I did something completely out of character. I walked around looking at cows...for fun! Actually they were bulls, but whatever. The fam was headed to Riverbend to check out the bulls they'll be auctioning off today and to eat a ranch-worthy meal of steaks washed down with Mountain Dew and I figured I'd go along. You know, spend time with the siblings. Anyone who knows me knows when I was younger I had reoccuring dreams about cows (with blood dripping down their vampire teeth) eating people. Probably a product of my life-long fear of cows. And anyone who knows me knows I'm not really a farm/ranch/cowboy kind of person. Apparently that gene skipped me. So while Shay and Sidnee were eyeing the bulls with FFA trained skills and making a mental wish list, I was fretting about the mud getting on my boots and wondering who was stupid enough to climb in the pens to walk around with the giant, scary animals. Once they were satisfied they'd seen every last animal, we went back into the barn-that-looked-more-like-a-hotel-than-a-barn-cum-auction-area and got in line for the food (which, of course, was the real reason I came). The salad was delicious, the cheesecake to die for, and the steak...well...I came to the realization that despite my previous declarations, I could never eat a human being. No matter how hungry I was. The steak, though it smelled really good, was bleeding all over my paper plate and soaking through onto the plastic table covering. It wasn't really cooked at all, just browned on the outside, so that the inside was chewy and reminding me very much of the autopsy I'd witnessed. When you get right down to it, flesh all looks like flesh, no matter where it comes from. I tried to eat some, to be polite. I mean, I was surrounded by BIG beef people, all of whom looked like they could beat the crap out of me (and who no doubt could tell I was completely out of my element). But every bite I took made me feel like a cannibal. Unlike some carnivorous vampires (aka my brother), I can't handle the taste of blood. About half way through the dinner I realized a few things. Practically everyone there had a cowboy hat on and the same exact mustache, the ones that look like it's dripping onto their chins. I also realized the only guy I saw there that was remotely attractive was the only one not wearing cowboy gear. That's rather telling. And the third thing I realized? My little sister is smarter than practically everyone on our table. She was holding conversations with doctor so and so from Simplot and miss so and so from Altech. I didn't understand a single flipping word she said, so I started holding coversations in my head with imaginary people. And then the room started to smell like cow poo, so I looked around and noticed the farmhands, or whatever they perfer to be called, had walked in to get some dinner. No one else noticed the smell, I'm sure. To them it no doubt smells like money or washes them in waves of nostalgia. As for me, well, I was wearing Dolce and Gabbana perfume, thinking it would be funny if my reggae ringtone went off, and realizing I don't fit into any category whatsoever. Hmmmmm.....

Laptops and Lions

I'm not sure how I feel about the buy a laptop give a laptop to a kid in Africa concept. Which African child is it going to? If the commercials are to be believed, it's kids in a dumpy one-roomed schoolhouse in the middle of the savannah. But what good are laptops to kids without electricity or clothes or clean water? Granted the computer is over the top exciting for them and probably the only time they'll use one, but in the middle of nowhere Africa, all they'll be able to do is type a Word document. It's doubtful they'll have internet, which would be able to bring the world to the small village in Kenya and probably the best, if not the only, reason to give them a computer. Fat lot of good it does with no internet access.
So maybe the commercials aren't correct. Maybe the computers are going to a school in the middle of the city. Those students would be more likely to have access to the internet and electricity and it's feasible that learning how to use a computer in primary school helps them in secondary school.
But pull the camera lens back a bit and look at the whole picture. The unemployment rates on the Dark Continent are abismal. The child may know how to use a laptop, but there's no guarantee it will help him get a job if there are no jobs to be had.
It makes far more sense to provide that child in the middle of the grasslands with a nearby source of clean water, immunizations, training in hygiene, and, perhaps most importantly, a source of income for the family. If the parents have a source of income, they'll be more likely to send their children to school. Otherwise, every able body in the family will be needed to scrounge for the next meal.
And what about the cities? There are no shortage of experts, armed with solid data, that claim Africa is in dire need of economic development. A great example is Nigeria and there telecommunications boom. Not only are people gaining access to phones, think of the jobs it's providing.
One could argue that a student who graduates with years of experience on a computer under his belt is perfectly placed to be a leader in any development ventures. This is true, but only if the development is happening. What good is an educated workforce with no work?
Laptops to African children has the potential to be a great idea, but in order for it to have an impact far more is needed. It's a bit like spitting into a forrest fire. It isn't enough to pat yourself on the back when your spit gives a satisfying sizzle, while the rest of the world continues to burn.

Dog Treat Confession

There was a box of animal-shaped cookies sitting on the counter. The front had a picture of a cartoon dog and the back of the box had silly word games. It was a disappointingly small box, but I figured some cookies were better than none and I popped one in my mouth. It was delicous! Thick texture and rich in vanilla flavoring. I threw some more in my mouth, grabbed the box, and headed for the stairs.
"What are you doing?" my mom asked.
"Eating," I replied through a mouthful of cookies.
She blinked at me and said, "Those are dog treats."
Sure enough, they were animal shaped, vanilla flavored dog treats. I blame the misleading packaging. Word puzzles on a dog treat box? What dog unscrambles letters while they snack away? But they were good cookies, I'll have you know. If my mom hadn't been watching I'd have finished the box and no one, not even me, would've been the wiser.
This isn't the first time I've misread a label and lived to regret it. One day I grabbed what I thought was a tube of Vagisil. Two minutes later I realized it was actually a tube of IcyHot. I'm sorry to say it took a while for me to put two and two together. My first thoughts were ones of panic, as I was deadly certain the California public bathrooms had given me an STD. I sat there, in pain, wondering how I was going to explain an STD to my family and imagining all sorts of other horrible things before I thought to check the label. I would've thought the minty-fresh smell would've tipped me off, but apparently not.
It reminds me of a story I was once told about my grandma. While using the bathroom after a particularily spicy Mexican meal, she spit on the toilet paper before using it for its specified purpose. I understand your pain, grandma.
I consider these geneticly acquired Lucy Moments, as we call them, a mark of hidden and untapped genius and I'm not alone in this belief. I've heard people read, for example, the warning label of cortisone cream stating that the contents are not to be ingested and they wonder what sort of GENIUS sticks cortisone in their mouth. I am that genius. Is it my fault that the cortisone container is the exact size, shape and color of my toothpaste?
I believe it was Einstien (possibly not) who said, "There is a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased that line." What he failed to mention was that he erased the line because he was tired of misreading the labels.
And erasing lines and labels opens up a whole world of ways to spice up your life, some, perhaps, more embarassing than others.

The computer camera is staring at me

Well, here I am updating my blog after heaven only knows how long since my last post. Interesting, this compulsion to update, despite the obvious lack of blogowers. As I'm not entirely sure when my last post was, and I certainly don't care enough to check, I can't update the void on the comings and goings of my jejune life. So why not begin where everyone else does? Somewhere in the middle.
I've reached 52 applications (in two different states) in my ongoing quest for gainful employment. It's a painful process, really, on so many levels. At times you wonder why you bother being a good employee to build an inspiring resume when it does squat to get you a job at the eternally-hiring Walmart. Michael said not too long ago that he has a new coworker who used to be a carnie. Maybe that's where I've gone wrong. I became a store manager supervising six employees. I should have dropped out of school and hit the road with the Bearded Lady and Elephant Man.
I'm back in Rexburg, as of Saturday. My comparison with The Burg and black holes is depressingly accurate. I can't seem to get out of this place! I'm dreadfully aware of the look people give me when I mention how much I dislike it here. It's a look similar to the one they wear when they're emptying the litter box. Why do heads shake and tongues tisk when I say "I hate Rexburg" but it's perfectly normal for the head waggers to say "I hate California?" or "I hate New York?" So what if Rexburg is 99.99999% Mormon? No where does it say I have to like it simply because of the religious convictions of a majority of the population and because my religious views match theirs. It doesn't fit me, never has, but I took the step back into the Twilight Zone with a great deal of faith....and because I pretty much had no other option.
I cannot tell you how difficult it is going to be for me here. Aside from the Pavlovian response to Rexburg in general and BYUI specifically, I'll be living with my mom. When you're used to being on your own, moving back in with parents is a bit like a kick in the crotch. Much as a person cares for their family, they don't want to be nit-picked all the time, especially after the year I've been having, and the relationship/friendship/whatever between my mom and her ex-husband is beyond the bounds of awkward for me. But when your mom has only one friend, you bite your tongue about awkwardness.
At any rate, I'm holding onto the memories of my friends in Bozeman with a bonafide death grip. It makes me sick to think I may never see some people again, to think that life will move on and whatever part I played in their lives and memories will disappear. I like change, I embrace it (most of the time), but the idea of being forgotten, or of forgetting, is difficult. As is moving forward into the darkness (as usual) without their constant support (not as usual). A great deal in my life has been sacrificed, or taken, these past 13 months, but the idea of Bozeman and the people there kept me holding on. I stuck it out for them, so now that I've been put in a situation without them I'm at a loss.
And so as I struggle to hold onto the scrap of faith I'm hoping I still have that things will work out and that the Lord led me here for a reason and that I'll have the blessings to balance out the pain, I'll, with any luck, keep updating this blog for the benefit of posterity and the security of the nation. To wrap it up, I'll leave you with a quote from Dale on King of the Hill: "That is the worst smelling feces I've ever smelled."
Wise words, my friends...