Did I just get shot?

If I could explain what a burst Achilles tendon feels like, it would be this: A loud pop and a shot of pain on your heel. You fall to the ground and you look to see what stone or bullet just hit you. Nothing. No blood, no red mark, just an immediate swelling around the ankle. Oh, and you can’t walk. You’re down. It often happens at the first step, the first lunge off a start, and that’s what happened to me this past Saturday.

It was after Sophie’s science fair and I was feeling jubilant. We were going to celebrate her win. Instead we spent a few hours at the emergency room. Tomorrow, I’ll have surgery. Dr. Dave Matthews, who took care of Sophie’s fractured wrist last summer, will be seeing me. I’m grateful. He’s an awesome doctor with a great reputation.

UPDATE: Surgery scheduled for Wednesday. I was too swollen today. Dr. Matthews said I am the first woman he’s encountered with a burst Achilles tendon. He said it was definitely from my childhood injury of my tendon being severed by a broken soda bottle when I was 7 or so. Please send healing vibes, love, prayers. Mahalo.

This was our third visit to the emergency room this past week. I work for a medical insurer, and wellness is a big issue. Lowering utilization is as well. But the Benders have blown it for our medical plan. We go long stretches not needing any attention. It all seemed to pour right on us this week.

I’m on crutches for the first time in my life. Getting around the house and taking care of myself is difficult. I’m waiting for my husband to come home from work so I can shower without fear of falling and cracking my skull open.

John says this is an awakening for the girls: They’re doing chores I’ve kept to myself for too long. They’re taking care of me, too. It’s nice but I’m not used to it. And he says that this is the beginning of a new journey for me. No more running/triathlete ambitions. I may never run again. I do hope to get on my bike and revive my competitive swimming career. I’d love to also get back into my yoga, but at the moment I’m terrified of stretching anything in my body.

Foot is in bandages, stabilized until tomorrow. It throbs a little bit. I can’t run out and retrieve the avocados that just hit the ground. I’m immobilized. I can’t stand it.

But maybe I need this retreat.

 

Bye-bye, January, and good riddance!

Despite the fresh new year, its first month knocked me around a lot and I’m glad to shelve it. This morning a friend on Facebook posted a link to a speech Steven Jobs gave in 2005.

Now talk about getting kicked around. Steven Jobs tells three stories in his speech about how failures germinated future successes. How it’s very hard to see when we’re being dumped on that the event will set into motion actions, possibly years into the future, that result in realizing a dream that one never expected to come true.

Yesterday I tripped. I now know why. I wore fat pants and they caught on my shoe and I went down. I’m lucky I didn’t break anything what with the osteoporosis going on inside my bones. How dumb. I didn’t have to wear fat pants. I think I was feeling sorry for myself and did the “I might as well wear these because I look gross anyway” deprecating pep talk. But the week and the month were beating me down and I decided to surrender to it. Next time I do that, someone bitch slap me.

So why do I feel better today? I didn’t work out, I slept in. I rode TheBus like I always do, with the colorful and fragrant parade of humankind. But when I went up to wish my driver Dale a good weekend, I couldn’t believe the gorgeous moon beyond the windshield, Beretania Street, the Waianae mountain range… A reassuring orange orb of optimism.

Be a vessel of optimism. Let’s love everything we do from now on.

 

Fallen

Heaven bent to take my hand
Nowhere left to turn
I’m lost to those I thought were friends
To everyone I know
Oh they turned their heads embarassed
Pretend that they don’t see
But it’s one missed step
You’ll slip before you know it
And there doesn’t seem a way to be redeemed
 –Fallen, Sarah McLachlan

I was walking from TheBus stop on Beretania Street along Keeaumoku. Once I crossed Young Street, I smelled something foul. There he was scanning the side of that green building that has weird stuff in it: massage parlor, nail salon, bar, sushi place? I could sense someone was behind me, and I thought it was the guy I saw. I turned around and was startled, but it was a guy on a power walk, listening to his iPhone.

 

At first I thought I’d write about what it must be like to be a man and to sense that you’ve scared a woman. You’re just a regular guy, meaning no malice, going about your business, and realize some woman is frightened of you. It could be someone you’re standing with on the corner, crossing nearby in the parking lot into Safeway. My husband tells me it’s a sensation that really tears him up.

 

So the guy walks on, the other guy continues to search for cigarette butts (I guess), and I make it across King Street, passed theBus stop, passed Tanabe’s, and pass my homeless friend who sits on the wall, wearing the sunglasses I gave her. She has company. Two or three other lumps sleeping with their stuff, behind the temple.

 

I start thinking, in the old days families didn’t let their relatives go. They took care of them. And that’s when I fell, skinned my knee and got my pants dirty. Embarrassing. On my way down I thought that there wasn’t anything odd I stepped on. I felt pushed, perhaps by a Karmic reality check? What do I do that makes it possible for the universe to push my face into the sidewalk?

 

Quickly I got up, gathered my things, and hurried passed McDonald’s to get to work. Bloody knee. palms roadrashed.

 

I hope it’s the worst thing to happen to me today.

 

Legislating love

Disasters get in the way of the best-laid plans, don’t they? Darn that Haiti earthquake, the constant media coverage, the anguish of millions, the photos of broken children, the thousands of dead.

 

Really steals the thunder of, say, a “Traditional Family Values, Social Justice and Voting” rally at the State Capitol this Sunday, January 17, 2010, from 2-330pm. The holier than thou are instructed by iVote Hawaii, the Hawaii Family Forum and the Hawaii Catholic Conference to wear white. I guess that’s to show how much closer to heaven they are compared to the rest of us.

 

Are you going to counter? Wear a rainbow.

 

I’m certain I’m stepping on some toes here. But let’s think about love. I’m married to a man. We made an emotional connection, built upon it, got married and now raise a family. We live in a house, we drive a van, we have two kids. I’m sure I’d be welcome at the rally.

 

But there’s one thing no one has ever made clear to me: How can you be sure that the love between a woman and a woman, between a man and a man, is no better, no more real than the love between a woman and a man? How can anyone say that their emotional connection, their union of souls, their quirky couplehood is an abomination?

 

I think G*d is about love. All of these relationships are about love. They’re about realizing the potential of what two people can be together.

 

Isn’t it more of a sin to live a lie? Doesn’t it make sense that the G*d of love would want us to be true to ourselves?

 

There is a pocket of time in our lives where we push sexuality to the edge, experiment, get dangerously wild. It’s not something most normal people sustain. It’s there, it isn’t pretty to those around us, but we come to our senses and settle down. If THAT’s their problem, get over it and let the wild hairs fly because they take care of themselves.

 

Same-sex couples want to live openly, enjoy the same benefits as their heterosexual counterparts. They want to take care of each other, be next of kin, have the right to see each other if one is sent to the hospital for an emergency. They want to share medical benefits, adopt or bear children, protect each other. They want their love validated. What would that cost the rest of us?

 

It’s presumptuous to think love can be legislated against any particular group of constituents. Think of something else to do with all of that energy. G*d would love to see hearts turn toward Haiti.

 

Children

While on theBus earlier today, I had to wipe my tears while reading The Advertiser.

First there’s the coverage of the devastation in Haiti. On the front page is a photo of two women who just saw a little girl being lifted from the rubble. The cutline doesn’t say if she were dead or not, but the anguish of those women stabbed me so deeply in my heart.

Children are important. They are an investment in the future. They deserve every chance in life possible. It is very hard for me to understand how one can give birth and be indifferent to their offspring.

Before we started a family, I couldn’t care less about kids. There is now a huge space in my heart loaded with love for children. I think it’s because I had three miscarriages before my two girls were born. Honestly, you start making deals with G*d to become a mom. You never give up until you do.

So now the globe has thousands of orphans wandering Haiti, the world’s poorest country. We have to have hope that few if any fall through the cracks.

Which leads me to another story in the paper about a child: Cyrus Belt, the toddler tossed onto the H-1 Freeway like some useless rag doll by a neighbor. The outlook for Cyrus’s life was probably grim. His mother tested positive for meth less than a week prior to his death. His parents were divorced and his care by family and neighbors was haphazard at best. He’d often be brought home after wandering his busy neighborhood. Life should have been better for him. Instead, he existed with a plethora of substance abusers, people beaten down so much that they cared little for themselves let alone for him.

His father and aunt have filed a lawsuit against the neighbor, Cyrus’s mother, and the state Department of Human Services. I don’t think we can conclude that Cyrus’s father and mother were better of character than his mother, but I do think they’ve got a good point regarding the state.

If  DHS is so overwhelmed that it cannot follow up on social service cases involving children, then does Hawaii have a crisis regarding their safety? If there aren’t sufficient funds to take care of social services, how can life get any better? It hurts to think about it.

Look out for each other and don’t let the kids wander around.

I usually don’t know where the blog will take me, and this was a surprising turn. If you saw me carrying two cups from Starbucks today, I’ll confess. I’m a skinny, no-foam, sugar-free, green-tea latte fan from way back. But marketing has affected me and I got myself a tall skinny cinnamon dulce…coffee. I like it. Plus, it warmed my chilly hands this morning on my walk back to HMSA.

 

January obits

There’s a theory that people wait until January to die. They get in one last holiday season with their family, the house is cleaned for the New Year, the sky goes boom, boom and then: Pau.

I doubt veterinarian Dr. Nicholas Palumbo, who crashed his Piper single-engine airplane into an East Oahu ridge with his son Tim, had planned to die on Sunday. What an amazing man who led an amazing life, and who left behind quite a legacy of accomplishments. He had a wide circle of family and friends and was treasured for his care for animals and people on Oahu and Lanai.

Last week on Facebook I learned that one of our big brothers in the marching band died at 54. Harry Johnson played Tevya in the high school musical “Fiddler on the Roof.” He was larger than life and seemed to be an old soul even as a teenager. Then there’s James Delano, the founder of Lion Coffee. At 56 he died in Mumbai, India, on January 6. I met him when I was writing up a story about Starbucks coming to Hawaii when I was at Pacific Business News. His attitude then, and throughout his life was, “Bring it.” He relished challenges and lived every day as though it were his last. Too soon his last day came.

I learned today that one of the tutus I work out with in the wee hours of the morning at 24-Hour Fitness Hawaii Kai died on Sunday. Our last conversation last Thursday was about how her two grandchildren, cousins who are in school with my Sophie at Niu, would be off  this Friday for furlough and next Monday for Martin Luther King Day. She was the chief babysitter for her clan. A few months ago her white German Sheppard, Kolohe, died. Jane was devastated. Pets are just as dear as children and losing one breaks the heart. I understand Jane died of a stroke, her third one in about a year. She was a heavy smoker, yet she’d work out so diligently, and there she goes and dies.

We can be pragmatic about death, but we should also let the emotions wash over us. Feel the pain of loss, relive the tender moments, welcome the sudden jolt of a reminder of them in your heart years later. And realize how precious it is to breathe, look into someone’s eyes and connect.

I remember locking eyes with Charlotte when she was first born. This naked little baby placed on my tummy searching for her first encounter. Funny how one thing can lead you to think of another.

 

Remember? Huh? Remember?

On my way to theBus stop this morning, I was going through my mental checklist: work badge, bus pass, newspaper, phone, iPhone, jacks, lipbalm, bandana, sunglasses. Monster wallet, of course.

But I couldn’t remember if I had stuck my reading glasses in my purse, aka The Black Hole. But I do have spares at work. Fortunately, once I was on theBus, I found my reading glasses. Nothing is worse than sitting on theBus without the ability to read the paper or consult my iPhone. I have to look at people, or dodge eye contact. Watching the scenery go by isn’t so bad.

Remembering is one reason I work out like a brain-washed cult member. On the MSNBC Website is a story today about the benefits exercise has on brain fitness . It’s worth reading.

It might be amusing to have brain futs now in my life, but, seriously, I’ve seen the result of brain degradation and it isn’t pretty. It’s actually heartbreaking. Might as well be vacancy signs in their eyes. I don’t ever remember mentally connecting with my grandfather, and it was so dissapointing when my grandmother slipped away.

When I was single, I used to travel back to South Jersey for family visits a few times a year. Each visit involved a trip to Mom-Mom’s to help her with some cleaning. They’d save the big stuff for me: washing curtains and venetian blinds, bedspreads, area rugs… It was probably Catholic guilt, but during one visit, as I was toiling away, Mom-Mom shoved a $20 bill at me for my trouble. She did this three times.

I don’t remember @;-O if that was the last time I saw her, but this I do remember: In a phone conversation with my Mom after I returned to Honolulu, she told me that Mom-Mom said I didn’t clean anything. Whoa? Really? So why the $60 bucks throughout the day? Mom’s doubts assuaged, we concluded our conversation and I was disappointed at the end of that call. I was young enough to resent not getting credit for the labor, but not too young to feel my heart break at Mom-Mom’s lapse.

If you still need motivation to break a sweat, consider those who wish like hell they could. I have another reason, too: osteoporosis. I can’t believe I have it, so there’s another reason for a lunch-time walk, and to stand up straight. But that’s another post.

 

End of year purges

THAT was a rough weekend. My next weekend is going to be worse! Last night up until nearly midnight with that pre-NYE house cleaning business that is resulting in a purge of amazing proportions! The result is magnificent, but not without its costs in perspiration, and really, a wrenching of the soul.

Deciding whether my 45-year-old purse from First Holy Communion is an artifact worthy of retention. Or perhaps I should just harvest the holy cards? It’s getting easier to part with early artwork from the girls. But the goal is not to purge the past, but to find those nuggets worthy of preservation, and lock them in a time capsule the daughters can enjoy sorting through years in the future.

My mother, who owns a house with a white kitchen and nothing on the counters, used to send me a package every couple of years with the letters and clippings that I had sent her. By the third time that happened I figured she was chronically unsentimental. Think about it. When a grandparent or old aunt passes, part of the goodbye is the gleaning of old artifacts saved, each with their stories, good and bad memories. At my mom’s house I won’t even find an expired coupon.

I live thousands of miles away. Love her, though. Of this purging experience, she’d ask why I had all this stuff in the first place. She’d say, “who cares?”

Found an old guitar pick yesterday. Saved it.

 

The best restaurant in East Oahu

I don’t even have to tell you the name. Everyone knows which restaurant in East Oahu is the best.

Not that other restaurants out here aren’t wonderful. There are. Most are more in line with family budgets tightened in response to economic restraints. East Oahu has great barbecue places, breakfast joints, burger and burrito spots. When we’re in a hurry, there’s something to grab. When we’re in the mood for something specific, there’s everything but Indian out here. But when it comes to super special, we go to Roy’s in Hawaii Kai.

Roy’s Happy Anniversary dessert

Maybe we should reconsider that Roy’s is only for special occasions. We’re guilty of saving Roy’s for the best of times, but, my husband I have been thinking that if we were to go and dine at the bar on the incredible ribs and sushi, we could walk away not too full and with little damage to our family budget.

We went recently to celebrate our 14th anniversary. We’ve been doing this for years. This time it struck me how I want to be sure to see the familiar faces that make Roy’s such a great place to visit. General Manager Zameer Mallal not only greets us, but he visits our table a few times to chat and check on us. Our awesome waitress Michelle saw to every detail, including keeping my champagne flute filled with pink bubbly. Some guy named Roy visited and dropped off a special edition book about the restaurant and an envelope we could open for a future visit. Whoa!

In clear view of the dining room is the kitchen, run by executive chef Ronnie Nasuti. Although this is Roy Yamaguchi’s flagship restaurant, he cannot be at more than 30 places at a time. Ronnie is the captain of this ship. One of these days someone will publish a book about the chefs who sustain the legends created by Yamaguchi, Alan Wong, Sam Choy, Beverly Gannon, Peter Merriman, et al. Hmmm. That’s an idea!

What I like about living in East Oahu is that we are pretty relaxed about seeing each other IRL outside of the workplace. When I make a left out of East Halemaumau with Kid1 from Niu Valley Middle on our way to picking up Kid2 at Koko Head Elementary, I might see Nasuti on his motorcycle taking the long way to work, passing by the restaurant for what I bet is a relaxing ride on the Harley around the Ka Iwi Coast. I met Mallal at a school function, and get a kick out of his perspective as a parent of children older than mine.

Mallal told us that most of the staff at Roy’s Hawaii Kai grew up in the area. I believe it. Over the years we’ve been waited on by staff who work at our kids’ schools, shop at Safeway and have been spotted eating an evil 32-grams of fat hotdog at Costco!

Too often people are blindsided by the news of a local establishment having hit the skids and shuttered. We all magically work the numbers each month to pay the bills. School fundraisers always throw me!

Every once in a while, when the numbers are right, treat yourself and your family to dinner at Roy’s. Just because.

Tags: Alan Wong, Beverly Gannon, Costco, East Oahu, Hawaii Kai, Ka Iwi Coast, Koko Head Elementary, Niu Valley Middle School, Peter Merriman, Ronnie Nasuti, Roy Yamaguchi, Roy’s Restaurant, Safeway, Sam Choy, Zameer Mallal

 

IRL is always the best

I got to visit with my friend Lorna this morning at Keeaumoku Starbucks for what is probably the first time in a dozen years! She used to work at The Advertiser and is now at the Chicago Tribune. She’s home to help her mom who just underwent knee surgery at Queen’s.

Thanks to Facebook and Twitter, Lorna and I stay in touch regularly. I know what wine she’s drinking with her hilarious husband, Vince, on any given weekend. I sometimes know what stories her reporters are working on!

But this morning it was in real life, IRL. Seems that when you continue your relationships in a virtual world, when you finally do run into each other, you try to give the IRL moments some more meaning. I gave her a hug that I hope made up for 12 years of absence. I could go another 12 years without seeing her and it would be alright.

We know where to find each other.

 

Assignments

Although I have a full-time job, I remain an active free-lance writer here in Hawaii. At the moment I have two assignments. One’s an advertorial for Honolulu Lights, a Kahala lighting retailer that also features an electric contracting partnership. The other is a story about Stanley Ann Dunham, President-elect Barrack Obama’s mother, a former student at the University of Hawaii-Manoa. The 1,000-word mini bio, which is an assignment for the UH-Manoa’s Malamalama magazine, will emphasize her life in Hawaii and her influence on our newly elected president. My story is due next Monday. I’ll need to get in touch with Obama’s sister, who teaches at La Pietra School. I will. Somehow, I always pull these stories together.

I absolutely love to write. I learned in high school that I could write my way to good grades. While a student at UH-Manoa, I always took writing intensive courses and earned scholarships each semester with my written entries to competitions.

My job is such that my writing is more medical and technical, with little room for artistic expression. The free-lance assignments fill that need for me. I absolutely love the learning aspect of both my full-time job and my free-lance writing endeavors. I meet new people, I learn something new, and I get to share it with readers.

Because I have a little experience with public relations, having worked at two Honolulu PR firms with disastrous results, I am often asked to assist groups, usually nonprofits, with their PR needs. Although my former employers would scoff at my abilities, I always get press for the groups that tap my services. Many times I do this on a pro bono basis. That’s OK with me. It’s a good personal policy to keep the good karma flowing.

The hardest part of being a free-lance writer is realizing that the time I spend researching and writing stories is time I don’t get to spend with my husband and daughters. I’ve learned how time is such a valuable commodity when it comes to building solid relationships with these three very important people. In these tough economic times, I refuse no assignment. I simply squeeze the work in. And in between, I get all the hugs and kisses I can from my family.

 

Homework

When the girls and I get home from work and from school, inevitably the homework comes out. I have it, they have it, and you can bet each of us would rather do something else. I have to admit that I prefer working on a story to doing dishes. I have to do dishes at least five nights a week. U.G.H.

Kid 1 is a natural scholar and often her homework is done before we get home. Kid 2 is a creative and artistic child. You’ll find sketches of animals where math solutions should be. Both are brilliant and talented, but I have to say mean things to get them to finish: “NO ICECREAM!” “NO ICECREAM!” “NO ICECREAM!”

I don’t know what else to say. Any suggestions?

For two little girls who spend half their lives bickering at each other, they also exceed at distracting each other into fits of giggles. I try so hard to let it slide, slide, slide, but inevitably I have to say something like, “You have too much to do to be FARTING AROUND!” Imagine. More fits of giggles. Well, I’m committed to not using bad words, so I endure and I let that particular F word do its job amusing the girls.

I revel in being a Mom. For more than 35 years, I never thought I would be. I never wanted to be. It was all about me and that was just the best thing ever. But parenthood puts the entire globe into perspective. You become every child’s mother. You care about the ladybug that came in with the basil. Tenderness becomes your strong suit.

My kids surprise and disappoint me with regularity. Heck, I surprise and disappoint myself. I watch them experience the same thrills and frustrations I did. I want to help them avoid the worst, but I realize I cannot be on their Secret Service team forever.

My husband takes them to school each morning because I’m on theBus at dawn and in town before they even get out of bed. It’s a relief for me. If I telecommute, I join them. But it’s very hard for me. I want one more hug, I want to tell them one more time how much I love them, I need to say “be good!” “pay attention!” “get a sticker!”

I’m always quiet when I walk away. They are my jewels.

 

Gifts from the avocado tree

A creamy Sharwil makes the cut.

December is avocado time at our house, and the big tree in the backyard delivered just in time. On Sunday, December 7, 2008, I went out back looking to see if any had fallen and found three. One was more than two pounds and buttery perfect. Half got converted into guacamole for Kid 1, another quarter was put into a giant turkey sandwich for me, and the rest is nestling a lemon slice in the fridge to keep it from turning brown. These are the gifts from our tree. Believe it or not, I tell that tree every now and then how grateful I am for its creamy, giant fruit.

At our house, Sharwil avocado season begins in December and lasts until sometime in February. The stormiest of days, with their gale-force winds swinging the boughs, cannot cause the avocados to fall until they are ready. And yet, the wood is so brittle that if a person were to climb it, the branches would break right off. Harvesting usually involves climbing on the wall and using a mango picker, or waiting for the bombs to land on the ground, hopefully onto a soft spot, with a solid thud.

Our avocado tree is probably 30 years old, if not older, planted long ago by my mother- and father-in-law years ago when they were raising their four daughters and their one son. They remember the yard having plumeria, mango, orange and lychee trees, and being tortured at breakfast by daily servings of back-yard grown papaya.  By the time we moved in, a few years after we had married, with a 2-year-old in tow and a baby just a few weeks shy of being born, our yard had been converted into an extension of our house, a relaxing escape where we grow the avocado, Meyer lemon, Baehr and kafir lime trees, as well as various herbs, chili peppers and lavender. Giant agave and red leeia create natural bounds of privacy for our cats and kids. Last year a coconut sprung in our yard. I like it.

A cool sprig of mint ready to pluck.

A few years back, during those rainy 40 days and 40 nights from all of February through half of March in 2006, two giant limbs came crashing down. Fortunately the girls were in the house. But it was a dramatic way to start the day, and quite the cleanup. I thought our tree was dying, but it didn’t. A new branch sprang forth within the year, and perhaps next year it will bear fruit.

Each spring I would venture to say the tree, all 30-40 feet of it, pushes out a million or more blooms. Thousands become tiny avocados the size of a pinky fingernail. Hundreds grow into fruit, and about half are harvested. Some fall into the ditch that runs behind our house, some fall into the neighbor’s yard, some fall onto our tall coral wall and split in half before they are exactly right, rendering them useless. And some fall into places we never find until we do a complete scouring of the yard, months later. We’ve had to pull many seedlings out of the ground as only grafted trees yield fruit.

Unfortunately, I’m at a loss as to what to do with all of our avocados. Guacamole is a given, as is sliced for sandwiches and diced for salads. But what about soup or salad dressing? What about whipped and herbed as a butter to melt on a steak? Or as a facial mask? After a while, I’m happy to see the last of the avocados go black on the kitchen counter, in the garage, on the washer, on the dryer, on the ground.

By the time the pupu-lovin’ Super Bowl is over, we’ve had nearly two solid months of avocados in some style at some meal each day. I’ve shared them with neighbors and friends. I’ve even made friends with them! I’d fill a bag and board the morning express bus with them, handing them out to my commuting companions and taking the remainder for my colleagues at work.

Meyer lemons and Sharwil avocados weigh in.

An avocado tree, a lemon tree, a lime tree, basil, and chili peppers do more than sustain a family. They give me a chance to draw others toward their own culinary adventures. It is fun to trigger such a domino effect by handing them a lemon, an avocado, a sprig of rosemary.

Home-grown goodness can become an extension of your heart. Love on.

 

A birthday milestone

I had sent an email to some of friends on the eve of my 50th birthday about the birthday card from my mom. She was there back on 12/12/1958 when I popped out. My goodness, how can I be 50?

I expected the card to be hilarious, in keeping with her, and my, sense of humor. But it was actually quite encouraging and contemplative. How do I feel? Amazing. Grateful. Like dancing and laughing and getting up every morning at 330 to workout because there is so much to live for: a great husband, two amazing daughters, and so many friends.

Here’s what the card says:

Not over the hill

But on top of the mountain

That kind of youth

Doesn’t come from a fountain,

But flows from a heart

That is caring and giving,

Dreams that are dared,

A passion for living—

From tears and laughter

With no room for regrets…

And a smile that says,

You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

Furboy Comet with a gift of avocados. He’s such a sincere feline fellow.

So if you’re circling the airport, not sure you’re eager to approach Runway 30, 40 or 50, let me encourage you to put out your landing gear and glide in with a style that only experience gives you. So many people can benefit from knowing each of us. And we know enough to understand how well others bless us.

I’m pretty excited about it all, but, that’s how I’ve been for the last 49 birthdays, LOL!

 

Holiday pressure

Steamrolled by the whirlwind that has become Christmas 2008, I’m in a funk, I’m panicked, I’m trying to keep up.

The tribe of in-laws is in town, and we’ve been at family activities nearly every night. The mainland contingent returns for the holidays every two years, and it’s great to get together to talk, eat guacamole, drink sparkling wine, and take our turns at entertaining the whole gang. Last night it was a pool party and barbecue at Honolulu Tower. Tonight it’s a showing of “Peter Pan” at Diamond Head Theatre. Tomorrow? Their place or ours? The pressure is on! I’m as happy to cook and entertain as the next person, but I’m also working, writing free-lance stories, and covering the Mom and Wife details, too!

DH suggested a return to yoga, which is a good idea, but probably not until January. I regularly participated in a weekly session at work. The Friday noon class was best for me, but as the year drew to a close, there was an increase in lunches and meetings that bled into the time slot. Wednesdays are dedicated to Weight Watchers meetings, which will resume sometime in January. Telecommuting usually occurs on Monday and Thursday, unless meetings are scheduled, or I’m feeling the need to put in some reassuring face time.

Then there are the free-lance writing assignments. I almost never turn them down. I love working on the stories, but if they take too much time, or they go back and forth too often through the editing process, there is a decided diminishment of returns. I need to write once and be through with it. None of this twice or thrice stuff! Time is money, folks!

So what holiday ball have I dropped? We bought Madonna and child postage stamps, but didn’t send out holiday greeting cards. Our tree is still in its box. DH and the girls promised me they’d put it up today. I used to be pretty anal about how the decorations go on, but I’m letting my 9- and 7-year-old girls loose, promising myself not to change a thing, even if one side is more decorated than the other. I expect the faint memory of yogic breathing to kick in when I see the windsurfing Santa, which is predominantly red, next to a strawberry or an apple, instead of a white snowflake or ice cycle.

UPDATE! My gang put up AND decorated the tree this morning. They probably did it before breakfast! They love me so!

What’s going under the tree? I think we’ve got that covered, but again, DH has stepped up and organized quite a bit of this year’s leaner and meaner mission. Not that we’re stuffing their stockings with oranges, and we have made several threats of canceling the day altogether, but, we carefully scrutinized ideas and discarded those that would probably end up sitting on a shelf in a couple of weeks. Maybe I’ll bring out the “Toy Story” movies to remind the girls of how lonely a forgotten toy becomes.

I need to slow down and enjoy this life, my family, my home, and my friends near and far. There’s a cure for this. It’s called forgiveness, something I too often deny myself.

UPDATE: I like this column that is running in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review by Steve Hendrix of the Washington Post called “Being Father Christmas, part 1: The year Daddy ran Christmas.”

 

Planning the California Rolls; Xmas Spuds

Sidelined by the sniffles for the second night in a row, I’m home solo and not participating in family reunion activities. For some reason I come down with something whenever the gang is in town. I have to save my energy for tomorrow evening, New Year’s Eve, which we’ll be hosting. I’ll be making my infamously incendiary California Rolls.

Avocados from the backyard tree costar with a blend of surimi, green onion and mayonnaise, wrapped with sushi rice, cucumber slices and a stripe of wasabi. SIL1 taught me how to make them 10 years ago. Ever since we moved into this house eight years ago, I’ve been making them for each NYE. It’s expected.

But these days, I have to take care to acknowledge varying tastes within the family. SIL2 has a daughter who is a vegetarian. No one knows for sure what faces the end product of surimi is comprised of, but suffice it to say it isn’t a plant, an egg or wild-caught game, so she will not partake. More for the rest of us! Understandably, little girls like Kid1 and Kid2 do not go for wasabi, so I make a few virgin rolls for them and for my MIL.

The rest of the gang loves them, and loves chasing them down with champagne. It is the best way to enjoy a little NYE delight, that will no doubt be accompanied by sashimi, poke, spicy edamame and who knows what else will be brought to the celebration.

Holiday Rosemary Potatoes

There is one dish I make that everyone will agree on: roasted rosemary potatoes. For Christmas dinner, I am recruited to make this dish. Usually I get the 10-pound bag of red potatoes. I was asked this year to get more. So I made 15 pounds. I understand there were a few leftovers the next day for SIL3 to share with SIL4 and her husband.

 

Raising children

A brilliant send off to 2008.

This morning DH told our girls, Kid 1 and Kid 2, about how he walked across the street when he was four years old and introduced himself to the four-year-old boy visiting his grandma: “Hi. I’m John. I’m 4. Wanna play?”

When I was little we’d finish breakfast, run out the door, which always slammed despite Mom’s ‘don’t slam the door!’, and hopped on our bikes for adventures unknown. Sometimes we’d collect bottles and take them to the back of the mom-n-pop store for two cents each or a pretzel stick. Sometimes we’d play in the park a block away, climbing the giant sliding board, the monkey bars, the swings. Sometimes we’d play football with the boys, or baseball, or wiffle ball, or with Matchbox cars, building elaborate tunnels and structures in the dirt. We went home when called for lunch, then we were back out again.

Summers were a bit different. We’d wake, have breakfast and hop on our bikes to the swim club where we had swim team practice at 7:30 a.m. We had another practice at 4 p.m., so we stayed the entire day at that pool, swimming, goofing off, playing tennis, working on our tans, falling in love with little boys on the swim team.

I’m sure she did, but I cannot remember my mother giving any of it a second thought. We were out the door nearly the entire day. She worked at the post office, so we kept in touch, but her three kids were on autopilot most of the time.

Can’t say I operate the same way. Today I called the Mom up the street to let her know 7-year-old Kid 2 was on her way, via scooter, to play with her daughter. I waited at the end of our driveway and watched as Kid 2 scooted toward fellow Mom up the street at the end of her driveway. We waved to each other, and were certain that the boogeymen that lived between us would not harm the precious cargo en route.

It’s a shame it has to be that way, but it does. Even if we hear about it once, it’s too often that we learn of some dungeon in a home, or hole in a yard where a child was tormented to death. I don’t want to learn via the local news how unbelievable it is that someone so nice would be capable of such evil. For that reason, you have to put your guard up no matter who or what when it comes to your kids.

I’m a real Mama Bear. I had no idea how strong a maternal bond could be until I became a mother. I sometimes tell single or childless women that I was actually impressed with my ability to love. It’s almost scary. And it isn’t limited to my own kids. I see a child getting a whack or picked on and I so want to protect them.

Kids aren’t angels. They’ve got the capacity to pick on each other, to make their sibblings miserable, a skill perfected over the decades. As we become adults, we learn to control those impulses children get away with. As parents, we teach ourselves, as we teach our children, that the wisest choices are those that result in the greatest good. We don’t always like them, but we don’t stomp and pout about the result. We move on to life’s next lesson. It’s called growing up.

 

Lance Armstrong training in Hawaii

“Surrounded by humpbacks. Thank you, Hawaii. Pure magic here.”

Mahalo for coming to Hawaii to train for your races, Lance! Best wishes on your pursuit.

This photo is originally posted at: http://twitpic.com/11dva

Lance on Kaloko Road.

This photo is originally posted at: http://twitpic.com/11dv5

Lance decending Kaloko Road. Pretty zippy!

This photo is origionally posted at http://twitpic.com/11dtk

 

Obama’s Mama in Malamalama

What’s all this about? I have a story published in Malamalama, the University of Hawaii biennial magazine, about Stanley Ann Dunham, President-Elect Barack Obama’s mother.

Ann was a student at the University of Hawaii. It’s where she met Obama’s father, Barack Obama, Sr., the first African student enrolled at UH. The story is about a woman who questioned authority, crossed cultural barriers, sought to improve working conditions in third-world countries, in particular in Indonesia and other Asian areas, and helped by establishing microfinancing for the crafts men and women of these areas.

In her eyes, all were equal. Through her eyes, both “Barry” and his little sister Maya, developed a broad view of the world. The skills of a simple villager hammering out a metal puppet or dyeing a gorgeous batik would be compared by Ann to the wisest of government officials. She saw the value that a peasant brought into the world and demanded that those in high places appreciate that value.

August 2008 Obama body surfing at Sandy Beach

And now we have her son as our next President of the United States. Someone who spent time overseas absorbing different cultures, someone who attended the prestigious Punahou School on scholarship, while staying with his grands. Someone who has as often been on the outside as he has been on the inside. Someone with empathy. His Mama must be proud. We in Hawaii most certainly are.

I am honored for the opportunity to have written this story. Anyone would be blessed to know Ann’s story. You can find it here.

The magazine of the University of Hawaii

 

Monarchs reign at butterfly ranch

Kid1 and Kid2, mostly Kid2, are ranchers. They gather crown flower leaves from around the neighborhood that have the added bonus of Monarch butterfly eggs on their undersides. Soon, the tiny caterpillars emerge, too small for my Mama eyes to see, and they eat the milky leaves voraciously. It is their job. At the bottom of the butterfly chamber, which is a cylinder of netting and plastic, lies a compost heap of stems and poop.

A brand new Monarch butterfly clings to a companion's chrysalis.

As we kept adding leaves, we kept getting more eggs and more caterpillars. At the moment, we have nearly 20 chrysalises hanging from the top of the chamber. Today we watched as one wriggled out of its skin to reveal a beautiful jade green shell in which it will change from one creature to another.

What an opportunity! To change who we are — a fat and fuzzy caterpillar hellbent on stuffing one’s face — into a Monarch butterfly, delicate leg threads, inquisitive antennae, slowly flapping our powdery wings that closely resemble a Siberian tiger’s stripes.

When that first Monarch wriggled out of its chrysalis, we stared in awe as it clung to its neighbor, still deep in its sleep. DH offered it his finger and the delicate insect grabbed hold, seemingly aware that he would take it out of the chamber and to someplace safe in the world, in our yard, on our orange tree. It rested there for a few hours.

The first Monarch butterfly rests on the orange tree.

Kid2, our 7-year-old entomologist, has done extensive research on this species and proudly announced that the butterfly was a boy. The girls had named him Mr. Big when he was a fuzzy, fat, furious eater. Now so handsome and free, where will he go, what will he see?

 

My own weekend

Finally. Weeks and weekends have gone by since I’ve updated the blog. I’ve had obligations to so many others that I cannot remember when I felt a weekend was my own. I promised myself I’d put up an update.

I’m not alone, I’m not on my own. I’m in the center of my home. Kid1 and Kid2 whirl around me. DH is here and there. We check the yard for avocados. I make a run to the farm for my vegetables. We go to piano lessons. We make a run to Safeway. We check the mail. We release butterflies from our little ranch. We tweet. I play Scrabble online. I listen to the wind blow, the roof flexes and creaks, the furchildren check in, demanding scritches and stinky canned food.

Kid2 & Monarch Butterfly

It’s satisfying to know we are home, in touch with our family and friends through the Internet, knowing all I have to do is keep my eye on the pot of soup on the stove, sip my sparkling wine, and write.

I could use a pedicure. I probably need a haircut. There’s a lot of laundry that needs to be done. It can wait. I’ve slowed life down, I’m finally having some down time. And I didn’t even have to get sick.

I almost feel guilty, indulging myself like this. Actually, I don’t. The stress will return soon enough. Let this moment last.

 

So what’s a Twitter with you?

I joined “Twitter,” sometimes referred to as the Twitterati, specifically Twitterlulu, in November 2008. So far, I’ve managed to tweet more than 6,300 times with insightful messages of 140 characters or less in four months. My last four tweets are evident on the lower right side of this page.

I was turned on to Twitter by my colleague @LaurieCicotello, who invited me to follow her and pointed out a few other folks at work who were on Twitter. All followed back. I was very active in HawaiiThreads for a long time and found out that several of them tweeted as well, so there I got some more followers. I follwed them back. A tweeter or tweep can look for other tweeters or tweeps and see who they are following, and choose to follow them. Hence, you can be followed by other tweeters without following them back, and you can look at the followers of people you either follow or choose not to, and follow someone on their list. It’s not as complicated as it might seem!

Sometimes profound, often funny, with my tweets I offer contemplative reflection on what my life is feeling like at the moment. Sometimes I’ll retweet “RT” another’s information because I think it’s important, valuable and worth sharing with my followers who might not be following the originator. For instance @ActorsandCrew sends job information to people who might want to be in the entertainment or media industries. I know people who are following me are looking for work, so I hope it helps. I know what that trip is about. It’s no fun to be unemployed.

I have figured out how to use Pikchur and Twitpic to send my photos to the Twitterstream, with Pikchur providing me the added capacity of uploading my photos simultaneously to my BrightKite and Facebook accounts. My first Internet involvement was with my September1999Mommies account, which has dispersed over these last 10 years, but has little by little joined back up on Facebook. Now my tweets are seen on Facebook where I’m also hooking up with people I grew up with and went to school with. Social media is astonishing. So much so that the activity bogs down Twitter and the darling “Fail Whale” image shows up. I like finding “Fail Whale” images IRL, such as this one:

Inevitably, those of us who are tweeters encounter geek tweeps. I do not know what gets geeks excited. They tweet about code, write out weird computer terms like Web 2.0 and discuss widgets and gadgets of their multiple websites as though they were their pets or children. I’ve met a few tweeter geeks and for the most part find them relatively harmless. Some are really cool and handsome, whole packages (Like DH). Some of them are frighteningly socially inept. And some of them are just awww shucks kinda guys who are a little uncomfortable hanging out with tweetchix like me. Not that I’m available, LOL. I like to get to know these guys and see which of my single tweetchix friends might go well with them. I’ve been told by more than one that they are happily single. I remember being happily single until my mid30s! If you want kids, that’s about the time to start cultivating IRL (InRealLife) relationships. Just sayin’!

Speaking of IRL, a few months ago there was a combo event hosted by Manoa Geeks at Straub Hospital in Honolulu (Twitterlulu) that included Twitter enthusiasts, “Tweets,” like me. All of a sudden a meeting of the code crunchers became the hottest social happening in town because it was attended by tweeters! We tweeps got to meet tweet geeks like @rsuenaga, @pineapplejuice, @hawaii, @bytemarks and @KGMB IRL! Tweeters such as @AngelaKeen, @Spldrtngrl, @Cai_Mommy and @Melody joined me as we met other wahine (women) IRL such as @NicLauren, @Tweetpea, @AlohaGadgetGirl, and @SophieLynette. Since then, the Twitterlulu numbers have swelled. My fellow tweeter @Melissa808, who is a free-lance writer and the blogmaiden of UrbanMixPlatehas brought many of us together for lunchtime tweetups that she uses for her restaurant reviews. We had a very successful @Twestival thanks to several organizers such as @HawaiiRealtor, @Vbrown and @Diverdown, whose band Sunset was one of four musical groups to perform at the fundraiser at Ocean 808 in Honolulu.

Edit: Will any of us in Twitterlulu ever get to meet @Babooze? Next time he’s in town, @zztype better let us know!!!

As @Lavagal on Twitter, at the moment I have 552 followers. Some I know IRL, many I don’t. I may never meet @TiffanyPR, a PR goddess in New York City, but I love getting her insightful, insider tweets. I love attending the Manoa Geeks events and other tweetups because they give me a chance to meet more of the people whom I’ve gone back and forth with — in 140 characters or less — over what’s for dinner, who is running for governor, why @LanceArmstrong should respond to the Twitterati like us normal tweeters once in a while and what @MrsKutcher is now reading. I belong to a WeightWatchers twitter group, WWTweets, to log in my weekly weigh in experience. My Tweetdeck has a column set up for Twitterlulu tweets. And I follow an amazing array of high-profile Internet, social and government stars just because they put something out there and I may or may not care.

Either way, Twitter has expanded my personal community, while bringing the world to me through my little EeePc. As a writer, I enjoy the challenge of sending out a profound message in 140 characters or less, laced with a bit of Aloha. It is amazing what comes back.

 

Solar clothes dryer

Ever since we moved into our Hawaii Kai, Oahu, home eight years ago, I have been hanging laundry on our seven clotheslines that are in the garage. Exposed to the elements, with just a little bit of cover overhead, my laundry benefits from the germ-killing sunshine and sometimes for an extra rinse cycle thanks to the trade wind showers. Sheets dry on a breezy, sunny day in about an hour. Denim can hang over night. Aloha shirts and blouses hang on hangers. I probably have more than 250 clothespins and have come close to using them all. Sometimes I have to wait until a nosy carpenter bee is through inspecting my clothespin stash before I can finish.

My grandmother’s philosophy was to hang laundry on the line the way it is worn on a body. Shirts hung from the shoulders, pants from the waist. Therefore, the drape and wear on the person isn’t contradicted by the drape and wear on the line.

Besides the economics, one advantage to using a clothesline over a dryer is that you can leave it up until you have time to take it down. A lot of times I hang or take down my laundry last thing at night or first thing in the morning. It’s dark, the stars are sparkling, and I look at the constellations, planes and satellites as I reach up. Doing the laundry is cathartic for me. It’s a nice quiet time, whether I’m folding and stacking or hanging pants with pants, T-shirts with T-shirts, underwear and bandanas each from their own clothes pin. It’s a quiet me time when I get to think about things.

My lines are too tall for my girls who are now 9 and 7 years old. Eventually, I’ll give up my laundry duties to them so they learn one of life’s basic chores and so they’re never stuck without clean underwear. Besides, it’s time they learned to clean the bathroom!

 

Gaining through losing

I just reached a milestone with my Weight Watchers group, and have lost 19.6 pounds in the five months since I first joined at the WW at Work program, generously cosponsored by my employer, Hawaii Medical Service Association, HMSA.

I have tried WW Online, have the application on my iPhone, but, it’s not the same as seeing colleagues at work sharing the struggle, fighting the good fight, logging in the hours at the company fitness center. I kind of have a handle on the way WW calculate points, but for that I have yet another iPhone application, PointCalcLite. Enter the calories, the fat, the fiber per serving and out comes the points. Great for grocery shopping, budgeting the day’s intake. It keeps a daily tally. I’ve recommended it already to some of my fellow points counters, but it isn’t officially sanctioned by the WW organization.

It actually took me three weeks to finally weigh in minus 1.2 stubborn pounds to make my goal. I got my 16-week charm for perseverance at 16 weeks, of course. I asked where I should put it and the counselor said to me, “On your WW key chain, which you get when you reach your first goal.” Nothing snarky about her comment. Absolutely no maliciousness. I was having quite a battle. When I finally got that charm I sent out a Twitter and made a Facebook entry that indicated I was “Doin’ the Snoopy Dance, under the disco ball, playing the air guitar” all at once. I was THAT HAPPY. I AM THAT HAPPY.

This past weekend, I bought a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, size 10, as a target. Since I was at Costco, I couldn’t try them on in the store. I had to make that $19 purchase on faith, knowing that I could bring them back if I wanted, if they never fit over the next 90 days before the return cycle ended. I took them home, I stepped into them, and I showed my husband. Thumbs up.

After five months on Weight Watchers, the size-10 Calvin Klein jeans fit!

The HealthPass program at work, for which employees can volunteer to participate, has set my ultimate goal at another 15 pounds less than what I weigh now. The hardest thing about my being in a pair of size 10 jeans is that I’m happy about it. I feel like I’ve accomplished a worthy goal, that I look good, and that the six-day-a-week routine I have going to 24 Hour Fitness in Hawaii Kai is working for me. It’s part of my life. If I don’t workout, I get all futless and cranky. John set my bicycle up on a trainer at home for my one day off from the gym, just so I can get that endorphin rush from a pumpin’ workout.

Here’s what I’m thinking: I really do need to see if I can make this goal of another 15 pounds. My deadline is October. I get $100 if I make it. I got $100 for signing up and making the commitment. It’s six months away. Can I do it?

Enthusiasm for the Weight Watchers at Work program is waning. We only have five people interested in signing up for the meetings that begin April 15. If we don’t get enough interested, I will try to find one in my neighborhood that I can attend so I can continue on my quest. If I make goal, and I stay within two pounds of that goal, I get a free life-time membership. I’ll only have to weigh in once a month at that time, but I would love to continue to attend the meetings, especially at work.

My past is punctuated by several weight-loss battles. I’ve done so many different things. But I’ve learned that Weight Watchers, being conscientious about journaling food intake, and waking up at 3:30 in the morning to exercise at the butt-crack-of-dawn works for me.

I had to make a commitment to myself about not only wanting to not be a fat old lady, but to be the fit and trim wife and mom who is a perfect match to her husband and kids. I don’t see the point in letting my health deteriorate because I am in denial about letting food control my life. It really is possible to say no to the salivary glands, to push the second helping away, to say yes to you and no to another half-dozen notches on the belt.

It becomes more about you and less about the food.

 

Finding time for writing

I wish I could load up this blog more often. I love to reflect on so much. Last night as I drifted off to sleep, I thought of an idea for a children’s book that included birds, feathers and finance. I should pursue that. Suze Orman would be proud. I really should pursue my personal writing more often. It’s like a bottle of bubbly with an uncaged cork. I need to control its release or it will explode, evaporate and leave a sticky film all over my life. I’d only regret that. Better to pour.

I do a lot. I wake up at 3:30 a.m. Monday through Friday to workout at 24 Hour Fitness Hawaii Kai. I get home from the gym at 5 a.m. and get ready for work, hoofing it down to theBus stop by 5:45 to catch the express #80 into town. I connect to the first bus going back toward my offices on Keeaumoku Street and get there by 6:45.

At work I have my tea and my breakfast, four hours after I wake up. I then write, edit, update web pages, meet with people in other departments to plan on creating communications materials, layout and design a monthly newsletter, and offer moral support to my boss and colleagues. I am a cheerleader for my company and my department.

After work I drive home because my husband leaves the van near my office. He rides his bicycle home when he gets off work later in the evening. I pick the girls up at the after-school program and bring them home or to swim team practice. Once home, I start dinner, maybe do a load of laundry, go through planners, review homework, sign permission slips and write checks for field trips, lunch money accounts, feed the girls, wash the dishes, straighten the house up, take out the trash and recyclables, and set up for the next day. That includes setting out an outfit to workout in, an outfit for work, packing breakfast and lunch, getting everything into my purse, including my wallet, my bus pass wallet, my iphone, my cellular phone, my sunglasses, my reading glasses, my work badge, my Weight Watchers food journal, and everything else I cannot get through a day without.
For some reason, it is hard to get to bed before 10 p.m. on a week night. I keep wondering how I can be more efficient.

Thank goodness weekends are a bit more relaxed, but no less busy. We run errands, go to piano lessons, workout for longer sessions at 24 Hour Fitness, and try to squeeze in some fun like riding bicycles or going to the beach. Three or four times a month I like to go surfing or do a beach excursion. Immersing myself in the ocean is my psychotherapy. Coming face to face with a sea turtle or a sea lion, paddling through a cloud of moon jelly fish, stepping over the reef and seeing an octopus side wind its way out of my path, give me a chance to think about the world’s wonders.

Right now a happy cardinal is king of the avocado tree in the backyard. The cats are comatose on the tall coral walls, dangerously close to rolling off. Kid1 has her nose in a book, Kid2 is stealthily searching for lizards and other small creatures in our garden. It’s Sunday afternoon, life is as slow as it will get for us.

Thought I’d take a minute to write about it.

 

New motivation: Shake that thang!

Known for sending to Twitter my morning workout sessions, my Weight Watcher Weigh-In Wednesdays reports and the occasional confessional regarding eating bad stuff, I have made quite a few friends on Twitter among those serious about their battles of the bulge.

Motivated to inspire, I feed off the responses I get to my tweets regarding my workouts and the photos of my healthy food choices and creations. My early morning workouts impress many, but honestly the reason I work out when I do is because my husband works evenings and I cannot leave the house for a couple of hours leaving my 7- and 9-year-old girls on their own. So 330am wake-up times and 4am workouts it is. That’s my life.

Last week two motivated and very cool chicks on Twitter as @FabFatties and here on WordPress called a fatabulous throw down for those of us who want to shake our thangs out of the doldrums. Shannon and Angie of
www.weightlosswiththefabulousfatties.wordpress.com have come public with their fat asses. That is not an insult. That is reality. If you cannot admit you have a fat ass when you do, you will always have a fat ass, I don’t care how many magic pills you take. Be realistic. If you eat half a Texas sheet cake and chase it down with some kind of acai diarrhea maker, you are not addressing core issues you have with food.

What is this void you are filling with food that lets you behave like a bottomless pit? Is food love? Is food friendship? Is food a way to connect with people? If you can say food is not love, food is not friendship, and that you don’t need food to be a friend or to have a friend, then you should be able to assess food for what it is: nutrients for your body.

So what does your body want? In Hawaii we call it eating a rainbow. Fruits and vegetables should be the stars of the meals. Whole grains, lean chicken and fish, low- to non-fat dairy products start tasting better when you treat them like the nutritional gold mines that they are. When I make a salad at work, I get out my cutting board and appreciate that I can slice farm-fresh radishes, grape tomatoes and sweet peppers. Usually I grill supper at home, and put leftover chicken or shrimp on the salad. Not only am I having something wonderful for lunch, but I’ve made it myself and kept my wallet shut.

Dieting is about the food. That’s why I love Weight Watchers. Having done another diet program that mailed food to me, I really felt disappointed in the presentation and flavors. Weight Watchers allows me to create my own meals. I love to cook. I love to prepare healthy foods for my family. I love it when my twitpics get me attagirl tweets online.

For the record, I’m down 22 pounds since October 2008. I want to get down another 18 pounds to make BMI by October 2009. For the last month I struggled with one particular pound. That bastard of a pound dogged me for weeks, gone a day back the next. Well, I’ve shaken it. And if my WW scale from Costco is accurate, I’m down nearly another two pounds from Weigh-In Wednesday.

The @FabFatties’ challenge is inspiring because it requires participants to do several things each day for two weeks. Drinking water, counting points, exercising, the usual stuff. But also we are asked to recommend other tweets worthy of following. We’re to visit participants’ blogs and comment on them. We are to try and recruit someone to participate.

I already know I’m not going to win. I don’t get on and answer questions at the FabFatties’ site. I won’t recruit anyone. But I will be a virtual cheerleader on the sidelines.

Love you gals, Angie & Shannon. And I also am crazy about another gal who is also quite a motivator to me: http://foodfoodbodybody.wordpress.com/ I’m waiting for her to tell me her first name so I can post it. I don’t think her name is Foodie McBody! She sent me this super cool charm of a knife and fork with a laptop. It’s on my WW charm key chain.

UPDATE: HER NAME IS SUSAN! And she’s been to Hawaii several times!

Love to all you struggling and to all of you who support us! Keep up the good work, get up and shake that thang! Exercise is the BEST way to begin the day!

 

Getting out on the water

This article originally ran on HMSA’s Island Scene website. I am employed as a writer by Hawaii Medical Service Association. It’s a great place to work. (Yes. I drink the Kool-Ade, LOL!)

On Mother’s Day 2003, my husband gave me a 9-foot-2-inch surfboard. Bright and shiny with red hibiscus on the deck, that surfboard means so much to me. It marks a return to the sport I loved after taking time off for pregnancies.

Now that my girls are 9- and 8-years old, I’ve been able to go surfing more, but not nearly as much as I did when I was younger and single. My husband encourages me to get out in the lineup as much as possible because he knows it results in a happy wife. You should see me after a good surf session.

I began surfing in 1981, when I first came to Hawai‘i and was stationed at Hickam Air Force Base. When it was time to re-enlist, I opted for civilian life in Hawai‘i. It wasn’t always easy, but I usually managed to make time for a daily surfing session. Once you have a board, the sport is generally expense-free.

This Mother’s Day, my husband treated me to a two-hour stand-up paddle (SUP) lesson just to see if I would enjoy it as much as surfing. He didn’t want me to invest in a board and paddle unless I was certain that I’d use them.

My desire to take up stand-up paddle boarding was piqued by two things: It looks easy and is touted as an intense core workout. It seems counterintuitive that something so demanding can only succeed if the participant is relaxed. The boards are built for stability with wide decks and angled bottom rails that keep the board upright no matter how wobbly the paddler or how bumpy the waves or boat wakes. The padded deck works like wax on a surfboard, giving something to dig one’s toes into while slicing the water with the long-necked paddle. Some paddles are custom designed, but adjustable paddles can be lengthened or shortened as desired.

I used to surf all over O‘ahu and a few places on Kaua‘i. Now that I live in Hawai‘i Kai, I surf in Maunalua Bay, usually dawn patrol on glassy weekends. I surf with friends who have told me not to bring my SUP out to the lineup. Typically territorial, typically resistant to something new, those guys don’t need to worry. My goal isn’t necessarily to surf waves with my paddleboard. I do it to stay healthy and fit, enjoy the water, and paddle a few laps in the bay, with the added bonus of spotting sea turtles or monk seals popping their head above water.

Even if I were to take the paddleboard into the lineup, I told the guys that they had nothing to worry about. I might have an advantage standing up and facing the swell with paddle in hand. But I still have that good surfer-girl etiquette.

We say aloha on our last wave of the day to let friends know we’re going in. But every wave should be an aloha wave. It keeps the session light-hearted and fun. If you’re not having fun while surfing, then you shouldn’t be surfing.

 

Peddling our okoles up the Pass called Kolekole

I’m a weekend warrior on my bike!

The glow in the gap beyond John is Kolekole Pass.

Rick, in red, and Bobby, in TDF yellow, were our expert and enthusiastic guides.

Linda, Patricia and Shirley at the top of Kolekole Pass.

At the top of the pass is a legend about the beheading rock. Ouch!

Thanks to my husband I’ve become a bicycling enthusiast. I now mirror his admiration of Lance Armstrong and his addiction to the annual Tour de France. He commutes on his bicycle from work evenings and still recalls fondly his banana-seat Schwinn Stingray from which he delivered newspapers in Hawaii Kai.

A few months ago my husband John decided he wanted to ride in the Honolulu Century Ride, with me. All 100 miles of it. Just as he did when he wanted us to start a family, he had to present his case to win me over. It wasn’t that hard of a sell. Years ago I had commuted on my bicycle to University of Hawaii Manoa from our downtown condo, and I got pretty confident about urban bicycling.

Recently, he had built me a bike. It collected dust. I’d reluctantly get on it once in a while to do my time, but I thought it was so boring. I would rather rise at 330 a.m. to work out on the elliptical at 24 Hour Fitness Hawaii Kai than ride a bike on a trainer at the end of the day. I was too tired.

To be sure I’d be ready for the century, he encouraged me to join a group. So far, I’ve been on three group rides. Two were from the Kahala area to Hawaii Kai. I haven’t ridden with the same person twice, I’ve gotten to ride with some interesting people, but there isn’t much talking going on. Sometimes I’m faster than others, sometimes I’m slower. It’s all about the training, getting used to sharing the road with whizzing vehicles, dodging road debris, gutters and bumps, staying alert. It’s also about courtesy and acknowledging the goodwill of those wrapped in a few tons of steel. There can never be too many gracious drivers on the road. A mahalo and a shaka can take you quite a few miles.

This past Saturday, August 1st, it was a very different ride for me. We biked from Kunia to Kolekole Pass on the Army military base Schofield Barracks. About a dozen of us parked at the Kiss and Ride in Waipahu and, after a briefing from Hawaii Bicycling League enthusiast Patricia Johnson, we were single file on Kunia Road by 715 a.m. My husband and I were in a slow group and I was itching to do a breakaway. I had no idea what I was in for so I decided to let the others set the pace, conserve my energy, and overlook my frustration of riding slow. Besides, I wasn’t familiar with Kunia Road at all, and the 45mph speed limit meant cars and trucks were probably doing 60mph.

Once we got in the gate at Schofield Barracks, it was like being in another world. The road was calm, very little traffic, and we were able to relax and go as fast or as slow as we wanted. The military has its act together. I served in the USAF and a military existence is a parallel world. For a civilian on a military base, it can be an amazing eye-opening experience. There is no litter. There are no dogs running around. There is no broken glass on the road. Military uniformity includes not only one’s gig line, but the well-manicured environment of an installation.

We didn’t worry about getting a flat tire on base! According to Bobby, who was dressed in TDF yellow down to the lions on his socks, his GPS told of the inclines we encountered during our climb up Kolekole Pass. He said we rode up inclines of up to 12-13 percent!

I watched as my husband, Charley and Rick pedaled into the distance ahead of me. I even took their picture with my iPhone. I wanted to see if I could shoot a picture without dropping my iPhone, without falling on my right knee, my favorite place to land. The scenery was gorgeous and the eucalyptus trees cleared our sinuses with their minty fragrance.

As I was heaving up the hill, alone, having fallen behind the three guys but ahead of the rest, I was slowly passed by a military police car. I was worried he was worried about me! Then John came rolling back down. He said he thought I was right with them. I don’t know if he heard me scoff or what! He then said some encouraging words: “See that light there? That’s it. That’s the top.” We got there sooner than I had thought!

My heart rate climbed to 171 as I climbed those last several hundred feet, but we were there sooner than I had expected, and that is always a stress reducer! When it was time to go, John and I flew down the pass on a virtually deserted road, no cares about broken glass or fast vehicles or wild dogs.

It was a total wheeeeeee.

The ride back — out the gate to Kunia Road, south to the Kunia Wal-Mart, was as hairy going as it was coming. This time John and I were in the front with Rick, drafting behind him. It was amazing. The road was bumpy and I did get stuck in a concrete gutter for a bit, but we were able to maintain a good speed. I didn’t fall during the entire 28-mile ride.

I absolutely love riding my bicycle now. I look forward to those weekend group rides, getting comfortable riding on someone’s wheel, in traffic, on roads that more often than not are loaded with debris where the bicyclists ride. I like the sound of my shoes connecting with my pedals, the sound of gears shifting as our peloton straddles Heartbreak Hill. And I love the thought of alert, considerate drivers sharing the road with us.

 

Mitchell’s Five for Friday

1. Which of your stories have you probably told the greatest number of times to the most people?
I often gave John a ride to work early in the morning so I could have the car. That meant being on the road by 5 a.m. As we were on our way, I felt a pain I had never felt before: “That was different,” I said to him as we were rolling down toward the light at Punchbowl and Vineyard in the left turn lane. I dropped John off at The Advertiser. Sophie was in the back secured in her baby seat. I had several labor pains driving home, and through each one I huffed and puffed. Sophie, who was sitting behind me, huffed and puffed along as though it were a great game!. The labor was strong enough that I called my in-laws and asked them to meet me at the house so I could hand Sophie off. I then drove myself back to town, experienced several more labor pains on the way to The Advertiser building, where I gave the driving wheel to John. We then went to Kaiser Moanalua during morning rush hour. I gave birth to Charlotte at 9:30 a.m., two hours earlier than had been expected by the experts who checked the dilation of my cervix. No pain killers, the kid felt like a train coming out of me. I was 100 percent there and aware. Phew.

2. What’s a story someone else often tells about you, much to your chagrin?
When I was in kindergarten, Sister Mary Lambert, a Franciscan nun from Hawaii, took me to the front of the class because I was talking out of turn. She had me turn around, lifted up my dress so the entire class could see my yellow-flowered Carters underwear, and whacked me with the paddle. I was mortified. I went back to my table of five other classmates and put my head down for the rest of the day. I couldn’t look at anyone. It was so embarrassing. Thus began my career as a Catholic school girl who was always getting caught and nabbed by nuns who were willing to beat me. Why does anyone need to tell that story besides me?

3. What oft-told story from a chapter in your life seems to be remembered differently by different people who were there?
I could never dive off the 3-meter board at the swim club our family belonged to when I was a kid. One summer I stood up on that board for 45 minutes, petrified. The entire pool emptied and everyone stopped what they were doing, eyes on me. I couldn’t even be willed to drop into the diving well head first. Other versions indicate I was up there for hours; some people say I was crying; some say I was shaking up there. I know I still couldn’t do it.

4. What are some of the details, without retelling the whole story, of a story you’ve told often but never to your parents?
I don’t really have anything like that!

5. What song would be an appropriate soundtrack to the story of your most embarrassing moment?
Bad Company’s Feel Like Making Love. I felt like the kitty trying to get away from Pepe LePew. I knew it was the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong guy. I got away.

Thanks for participating, and have a happily-ever-after weekend!