Hanging out in middle school is like traveling to a foreign country you didn’t really want to visit. The culture is mysterious, the language is strange, and the people dress funny.
And as I learned recently under the pulsating strobe lights of the Marco Forster sixth grade sock hop, they don’t dance like us either.
If you are like me, you haven’t been to a sixth grade dance since…well, sixth grade. I bet you haven’t missed it either. Back in August, I ticked “Chaperone Dances” on the PTA volunteer form. How hard could that be? It’s not like I had to bake anything.
One nice lady clued me in on the golden rule: NO bumping and grinding. If I were to see any B&G infractions, I was to separate the culprits posthaste. I immediately felt comfortable since I figured this would be no different than a Friday night at Renaissance Cafe.
It was kind of dark without the fluorescent lights, which was worrisome. How was I going to spot illicit body contact if I couldn’t see anything? The music thumped, thumped, thumped as background to a maniacal bouncing DJ with knees like duelie shocks. He was busy whipping the kids into a frenzy by throwing cheap Mardi Gras type necklaces into the crowd. I leaned against the wall, smug in my lack of desire for plastic beads.
Then he shouted, “This is for all you M&M fans!” I perked up. I thought he was going to throw candy next and maybe I should be chaperoning closer to the stage. After all I am a big M&M fan. Snickers, too. But he didn’t throw anything. He and the students just bounced along to rap music. Then I got it: Eminem, the musician. Oh.
So far, no dirty dancing. In fact, I was hard-pressed to see anyone actually dancing with another person. The best way I can describe the scene is a massive bouncing throng following Tigger the DJ, or whatever his name was, like he was the pied piper.
“You guys know how to swing?” Tigger screamed. I quietly snorted in disbelief. I can’t even swing. How could they? But the crowd roared an enthusiastic “Yeah!” Does swing involve physical contact? Should I prepare to tear apart true lovers? The music started. I soon realized what swing means to eleven-year-olds: take your partner by the hand, and swing them around as hard as you can. Unceremoniously let them go. With luck, each partner goes catapulting off into the crowd hoping to knock into as many dancers as possible.
So that was what they meant by bumping. Now I understood.
Then Tigger played a slow song. For about twenty seconds, there was a mass “deer in the headlights” reaction. E very kid on the dance floor wanted to bail. One brave couple on the periphery attempted a very stilted waltz. A boy on stage started waving his hands over his head. Every sixth grader immediately followed suit until it looked like the stands at an Angels game. We were all relieved to have something to do.
After the fourth song sung by someone impersonating Minnie Mouse on helium, I realized the only grinding I’d be encountering was the grinding on my eardrums. This was music? I didn’t know these songs. I couldn’t dance to this stuff. Even my kid had deserted me, off bouncing with her friends somewhere, I thought morosely.
Tigger must have picked up on my funk. “Now I’m gonna take you back to 1985!” The crowd cheered. But I knew now that every hurrah simply means, “I’m not in math class!” Still, I was heartened. Finally, at the very end, some real music. Who would it be? Springsteen? The Stones? Lynard Skynard? Fleetwood Mac?
Turns out it was a new song called, believe it or not, “Back to 1985.” Figures. I slumped against the wall. Quickly, I straightened up and pasted on a smile for my daughter who was finally headed my way after ninety minutes of relentlessly avoiding my chaperoning.
I knew I must look like a harbor in the storm to her. She was probably tired, hungry, and overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of her first school dance. I bent down to hug her and she shouted words of comfort.
“Don’t forget, Mom. You owe me ten bucks.” The techno pop was blaring so loud; I had trouble hearing her. I’m sure she was telling me how much she loved me.
Ah, music to my ears.
Monday, April 14, 2008
I Never Used To Think I Was A Disaster Waiting To Happen
I never used to think I was a disaster waiting to happen. When we bought our house in Dana Point, I figured we had finally found paradise. There were a few “disclaimers” mixed in the escrow papers, silly warnings about wildlife and other dangers. Lose sleep over a rash of raccoons, a preponderance of opossums? Not me.
Then Hurricane Katrina slammed New Orleans. Before that, the tsunami roared through Asia. I started thinking about the reality of my little coastal paradise: earthquake zone, flood zone, tsunami zone, wildfire zone, and nuclear meltdown zone, not to mention an uncomfortably close proximity to terrorist targets. It’s a Disaster Zone Convergence. I live smack dab in the middle of what I now can only call “The Bermuda Shorts Triangle.”
Without a plan or a paddle.
I googled “disaster preparedness” and then corralled my husband. “I need cash. Give me small bills, everything you’ve got.”
“Is this a stick up?” he answered. I explain patiently that cash is king in a major disaster, so we need to stockpile. Credit and ATM cards may not work if the power is out. He was silent for a long moment, probably contemplating the horrors of being stuck penniless. Finally he said, “Tell me again the downside of you with no credit cards.”
This was not going in the right direction. “We also need to come up with an evacuation route. My cousin in Houston only got 40 miles in 16 hours. Freeways won’t work. I-5 is out. PCH will be a nightmare. I think we should steal a boat.”
“Why don’t we just buy one?”
He’s wanted a sailboat since the moment we moved here--exactly as long as I’ve refused to buy a boat. My disaster plan may need to a few tweaks. I skip ahead to step 3.
Stock up on shelf-stable food. That seemed like an important one to me since I do love to eat. I headed to my local big box retailer, the one that gives you a forklift to haul around your groceries. Shelf-stable…shelf-stable. Then I spotted the perfect end-of-the-world food: dried beans. Fifty pounds of beans is awfully heavy, especially when the little buggers shift.
I got my beans home after a small tussle with the trunk of my car, which reminded me I need an emergency car kit too. Somehow that bag of beans looked a whole lot bigger in my pantry than in the store. The pantry door only stuck out an inch. Hardly noticeable.
My husband walked in. “What’s wrong with the pantry?” Although somewhat annoying in the kitchen, he’s good to have in a disaster. Not only is he handy (he can build us a shelter from palm fronds), he knows how and where to shut off the gas. He swung open the cabinet door, dislodging my beans. I didn’t even get the chance to tell him they were shifty little guys.
“Beans?”
I explained the whole bit about the necessity of emergency provisions. I stressed the phrase “shelf-stable” hoping to impress him with my new encyclopedic knowledge of
disaster planning. Besides, weren’t beans packed with protein?
He practically snorted. “I’ve never seen you eat a bean unless it’s refried, much less cook one.”
I smugly reply that, worst-case scenario, I will be eating tasty beans while he will be licking the paste off old wallpaper. He responded that he would just lay in a personal supply of Hostess Twinkies since they were full of preservatives.
That was below the belt.
It probably wasn’t the best time to ask him for his Swiss Army knife.
Then Hurricane Katrina slammed New Orleans. Before that, the tsunami roared through Asia. I started thinking about the reality of my little coastal paradise: earthquake zone, flood zone, tsunami zone, wildfire zone, and nuclear meltdown zone, not to mention an uncomfortably close proximity to terrorist targets. It’s a Disaster Zone Convergence. I live smack dab in the middle of what I now can only call “The Bermuda Shorts Triangle.”
Without a plan or a paddle.
I googled “disaster preparedness” and then corralled my husband. “I need cash. Give me small bills, everything you’ve got.”
“Is this a stick up?” he answered. I explain patiently that cash is king in a major disaster, so we need to stockpile. Credit and ATM cards may not work if the power is out. He was silent for a long moment, probably contemplating the horrors of being stuck penniless. Finally he said, “Tell me again the downside of you with no credit cards.”
This was not going in the right direction. “We also need to come up with an evacuation route. My cousin in Houston only got 40 miles in 16 hours. Freeways won’t work. I-5 is out. PCH will be a nightmare. I think we should steal a boat.”
“Why don’t we just buy one?”
He’s wanted a sailboat since the moment we moved here--exactly as long as I’ve refused to buy a boat. My disaster plan may need to a few tweaks. I skip ahead to step 3.
Stock up on shelf-stable food. That seemed like an important one to me since I do love to eat. I headed to my local big box retailer, the one that gives you a forklift to haul around your groceries. Shelf-stable…shelf-stable. Then I spotted the perfect end-of-the-world food: dried beans. Fifty pounds of beans is awfully heavy, especially when the little buggers shift.
I got my beans home after a small tussle with the trunk of my car, which reminded me I need an emergency car kit too. Somehow that bag of beans looked a whole lot bigger in my pantry than in the store. The pantry door only stuck out an inch. Hardly noticeable.
My husband walked in. “What’s wrong with the pantry?” Although somewhat annoying in the kitchen, he’s good to have in a disaster. Not only is he handy (he can build us a shelter from palm fronds), he knows how and where to shut off the gas. He swung open the cabinet door, dislodging my beans. I didn’t even get the chance to tell him they were shifty little guys.
“Beans?”
I explained the whole bit about the necessity of emergency provisions. I stressed the phrase “shelf-stable” hoping to impress him with my new encyclopedic knowledge of
disaster planning. Besides, weren’t beans packed with protein?
He practically snorted. “I’ve never seen you eat a bean unless it’s refried, much less cook one.”
I smugly reply that, worst-case scenario, I will be eating tasty beans while he will be licking the paste off old wallpaper. He responded that he would just lay in a personal supply of Hostess Twinkies since they were full of preservatives.
That was below the belt.
It probably wasn’t the best time to ask him for his Swiss Army knife.
I'm Always Thinking Of Home
No matter where I visit, I am always thinking of Dana Point and how we compare. It’s my civic duty to participate in our grand sprucing-up scheme. I love makeovers, and I’ve got plenty of tips.
First, I advocate stealing.
Please don’t go rip off a lighthouse or something. I’m talking about ideas. Let’s take other cities successes and make them our own. We need a distinctive style, one that sets us apart from, say, San Clemente or Laguna Beach. We’ve dabbled in “Cape Cod,” thrown in a splash of “Aloha,” and said “Ole!” to some Spanish.
But today, as I write this column from the Nashville airport, I smacked myself upside the head when I realized the answer was right before my eyes. Dana Point could use a dose of “Redneck Style.”
I am here for the wedding of my niece Andrea to her beloved Tommy and a visit with my favorite brother, Bob Totty a.k.a. “Tennessee Thunder” on the drag racing circuit. I used this time to infiltrate the Redneck camp and learn their ways. They never suspected a thing. A few even asked, “Are y’all fixin’ to write about us?”
You better believe it. There’s a lot we can learn. Here’s how to tell if we’re a redneck:
Redneck Family Style—the definition of family to a redneck is simple. If you’re here, you’re family. Since everyone you meet is most likely a cousin, it’s best to treat them right nice right from the start. Tommy taught me that when I went to shake his hand. He looked at me like I was a three-headed goat, “I don’t know where y’alls from, but we hug women here.” Dana Point men, take note.
Redneck Redevelopment Agency—rednecks know to put their money where it counts, on the fun stuff. Life begins when the factory shift ends. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that Gary’s big ol’ RV with its sixteen slideouts was larger than his house. Y’all got to budget for the toys.
Redneck Tourism Board—there is no redneck tourism board because you aren’t a tourist. Y’all are family, remember? You don’t worry about pedestrian-friendly ‘cuz everybody drives a pick-up everywhere. No one walks. How are you going to carry your cooler full of beer?
I asked the clerk at the motel if I could walk to shops. She said, “There’s a Wal-Mart over yonder, but I wouldn’t walk.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is this a bad neighborhood?”
“Nah,” she said. “I’m just lazy, is all.” So I paid six bucks for a block-long cab-ride where I was informed by the chain-smokin’lady cab driver that I looked exactly like her bartender friend Patsy ‘cept she wears make-up and has more on the upper deck. It bugged me because I was wearing make-up. Another lesson: rednecks are brutally honest.
Redneck Sports—rednecks love their football with a passion and intensity that borders on insane. In California, we create 12-step programs for addictions like this. The University of Tennessee’s team colors are bright orange and white. This in no way derails anyone from painting entire rooms of their homes, you got it, bright orange and white. What rednecks know is that football is the great equalizer, turning strangers into friends—or enemies—depending on what team you support. Maybe it’s time to get out there and root for our Dolphins…
Redneck Names—rednecks don’t call anyone “dude” especially not girls, which is sort of refreshing. Y’all might be called “Boy” or “Girl” and it might be the equivalent to a slap in the face or an arm slung around a shoulder depending on the tone of voice. Rednecks respect their elders. Parents are often called “Daddy” and “Momma” no matter how old their children. I am “Miss Jody” to the kids even though I am married. The security guard at the airport just called me “Missy.” That’s because I’m family.
Rednecks are also partial to double names, names that end in “y” and nicknames. So don’t be worried that “Animal” can crush beer cans with his forehead. He probably can, but then he’ll offer you a cold one from the bed of his Ford F-150. My family has carried Robert E. Lee’s name down through the generations. It doesn’t seem to matter that the South lost the war; it’s enough that they are Southern.
So Dana Point, let’s treat strangers like family, have a little fun, show some respect, and never forget to say, “Y’all come back now, y’hear?”
First, I advocate stealing.
Please don’t go rip off a lighthouse or something. I’m talking about ideas. Let’s take other cities successes and make them our own. We need a distinctive style, one that sets us apart from, say, San Clemente or Laguna Beach. We’ve dabbled in “Cape Cod,” thrown in a splash of “Aloha,” and said “Ole!” to some Spanish.
But today, as I write this column from the Nashville airport, I smacked myself upside the head when I realized the answer was right before my eyes. Dana Point could use a dose of “Redneck Style.”
I am here for the wedding of my niece Andrea to her beloved Tommy and a visit with my favorite brother, Bob Totty a.k.a. “Tennessee Thunder” on the drag racing circuit. I used this time to infiltrate the Redneck camp and learn their ways. They never suspected a thing. A few even asked, “Are y’all fixin’ to write about us?”
You better believe it. There’s a lot we can learn. Here’s how to tell if we’re a redneck:
Redneck Family Style—the definition of family to a redneck is simple. If you’re here, you’re family. Since everyone you meet is most likely a cousin, it’s best to treat them right nice right from the start. Tommy taught me that when I went to shake his hand. He looked at me like I was a three-headed goat, “I don’t know where y’alls from, but we hug women here.” Dana Point men, take note.
Redneck Redevelopment Agency—rednecks know to put their money where it counts, on the fun stuff. Life begins when the factory shift ends. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that Gary’s big ol’ RV with its sixteen slideouts was larger than his house. Y’all got to budget for the toys.
Redneck Tourism Board—there is no redneck tourism board because you aren’t a tourist. Y’all are family, remember? You don’t worry about pedestrian-friendly ‘cuz everybody drives a pick-up everywhere. No one walks. How are you going to carry your cooler full of beer?
I asked the clerk at the motel if I could walk to shops. She said, “There’s a Wal-Mart over yonder, but I wouldn’t walk.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is this a bad neighborhood?”
“Nah,” she said. “I’m just lazy, is all.” So I paid six bucks for a block-long cab-ride where I was informed by the chain-smokin’lady cab driver that I looked exactly like her bartender friend Patsy ‘cept she wears make-up and has more on the upper deck. It bugged me because I was wearing make-up. Another lesson: rednecks are brutally honest.
Redneck Sports—rednecks love their football with a passion and intensity that borders on insane. In California, we create 12-step programs for addictions like this. The University of Tennessee’s team colors are bright orange and white. This in no way derails anyone from painting entire rooms of their homes, you got it, bright orange and white. What rednecks know is that football is the great equalizer, turning strangers into friends—or enemies—depending on what team you support. Maybe it’s time to get out there and root for our Dolphins…
Redneck Names—rednecks don’t call anyone “dude” especially not girls, which is sort of refreshing. Y’all might be called “Boy” or “Girl” and it might be the equivalent to a slap in the face or an arm slung around a shoulder depending on the tone of voice. Rednecks respect their elders. Parents are often called “Daddy” and “Momma” no matter how old their children. I am “Miss Jody” to the kids even though I am married. The security guard at the airport just called me “Missy.” That’s because I’m family.
Rednecks are also partial to double names, names that end in “y” and nicknames. So don’t be worried that “Animal” can crush beer cans with his forehead. He probably can, but then he’ll offer you a cold one from the bed of his Ford F-150. My family has carried Robert E. Lee’s name down through the generations. It doesn’t seem to matter that the South lost the war; it’s enough that they are Southern.
So Dana Point, let’s treat strangers like family, have a little fun, show some respect, and never forget to say, “Y’all come back now, y’hear?”
Mother's Day Do's and Don'ts
Mother’s Day is Sunday May 8. I had my first child on a Sunday May 8, which also happened to be Mother’s Day. I wish I could say I planned it that way, but babies show up when they darn well feel like it. All I could control was the pushing. Here’s the problem: once you get a baby for Mother’s Day, it’s hard for any future gift to compare. That’s my family’s dilemma. What are they going to get mom? I Googled what moms really, really want and really, really don’t want. Use this limited information to get on mom’s good side this weekend and make your slacker siblings look like ingrates by comparison. Even better, if you can get them to work off the “don’t want” list because you told them it’s what mom asked for. It will be beautiful. First, get her a card. Ninety three percent of all moms like to get a Mother’s Day card from their children. On time, I might add. One hundred percent of that ninety-three percent will declare it is the most precious gift they could ever receive, and they plan on keeping it forever. I’m not sure the percentage of moms who are lying. But I know the ninety-three percent figure is true because it came directly from a survey funded by Hallmark. No vested interest there. But if you are in the market for a Mother’s Day card, pick something nice, even though you prefer the one with the fart joke because it reminds you of your brother. I will go so far as to say moms love homemade cards even better than store bought. Write your own message about a specific memory of mom, not just “You rock, Ma!” You can also use the opportunity to disparage your siblings. Something along the lines of “You must have breathed a sigh of relief when I was born. Finally a good-looking one!” She’ll make it a keeper for sure. I recently received a homemade card with an alien floating above the message, “I love you to the farist panit.” All you moms out there will be able to decipher the kindergarten code as easily as you can read a rectal thermometer. Try to beat that, Hallmark. My Google search informed me moms do NOT want breakfast in bed. I was shocked. You mean I wasn’t the only mom who dreaded the breakfast in bed tradition? I thought it was my own shameful secret. Good mommies love stuff like this, right? Not me. I hate that feeling of being stuck in bed like a pinned butterfly while ominous crashes, bumps, and howls emanate from the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast seeps under the door. Thinking about the cleanup in my future is exhausting enough to send me to my bed—if I weren’t already in it. Finally, the beaming little faces appear bedside. They jockey for best tray-holding position, knocking the orange juice all over the newspaper. But still no one will give up hold. The hot oatmeal is now a cold, congealed lump big enough to clog the disposal. I think about saving it for Father’s Day and then sticking it down the drain. Payback, daddy, for encouraging this fiasco. It’s good for a guy to feel needed on his special day, too. We just need him under the sink with a wrench. Enough daydreaming. The cold yogurt is now warm. A group decision determined the yogurt be scooped into a lovely china bowl and decorated with blueberries. I know this because I can see the newsprint ink in the finger holes where the berries are now buried like pirate’s treasure. Yummy! Everyone piles on the bed to watch me eat. There’s no getting out of this. I peel a squishy banana. “Can I have a bite?” “I want a bite too!” “I get the first bite since it was my idea!” The squabbling begins anew. Where is my husband? He is in the kitchen savoring a peaceful breakfast alone. So where was I? Oh yeah, the Mother’s Day list. What does she want? If she lives with you, she wants a break. No offense. Just for a while and maybe with a spa treatment thrown in for good measure. If she doesn’t live with you, then she wants to see you - without feeding you or doing your laundry. Get a spa treatment together… Whatever you do, make it clear to your sibs you have always been mom’s favorite.
Slow Down, This Ain't The Mainland
SLOW DOWN. THIS AIN'T THE MAINLAND. The faded sticker on the back of therusty pickup in front of our rental car was easy to read since we werehanging about three feet off the poor guy's bumper. Yeah, we weretailgating. But he was doing about 40 mph, and my husband and I were in ahurry to start our relaxing Hawaiian vacation. After all, we had a hundredand one things to do on Maui and only ten days to do it in.Two local guys with skin the color of koa wood lounged on sand chairs in thecargo bed of the truck. Trade winds rather than vehicle speed must haveaccounted for their blowing hair. Clearly, they were not late for work. Aswe passed on the left, the young men made hand signals at us. Fingers wereextended.I was shocked.It wasn't middle fingers like I'd expect on the 405, but a friendly wave ofthumbs and pinkies. Even after our aggressive driving stunt, we had justbeen welcomed to the island aloha style. I turned to my husband and said, "Idon't think we're in Orange County anymore."We smiled at our new buddies and waved back awkwardly, instantly hooked onMaui.Our first couple trips were typical hotel/air packages. The big resorts werebeautiful, plush, and exotic yet I wanted less manicured, more mess. Nomanufactured Hollywood version of palm swaying romance would satisfy me; Iwanted it real. Could the island be experienced in a more authentic way? Was"Old Maui" alive but buried under golf courses and tourist traps? And mostimportantly, could I find it before my plane left Kahalui? Yes, yes, and yes.Vintage aloha still exists on Maui, even flourishes. Leave Whalers'Village--or Little South Coast Plaza as I call it-behind and you'll discovertraces of the true and gentle island spirit. If you want a vacation thatbypasses Molokini cruises and timeshare presentations, here are some small,jewel-like treasures to uncover:For the story of the islands in dance, skip the "Las Vegas" luaus massiveenough to herd in mainlanders like cattle, or rather "cash cows." Forget themetallic grass skirts, the lame one-liners, the let's put a coconut bra onsome fat guy from Iowa and make him do the "Hukilau."Instead, go see hula at the Lahaina Cannery Mall. There are several shows aweek and it is free. The local hula schools perform in full costume forfamilies, friends, and visitors. Don't expect slickly professional,especially from the children or keiki. Do expect a graceful and beguilinghomage to native heritage.Some things just seem to go with Hawaii. Imagine a south sea paradisewithout Kodachrome sunsets, tropical drinks garnished with flowers andpineapple, or my favorite hot weather Hawaiian treat-shave ice. It'sunthinkable. I know one man who bicycles ten miles each way every day forLorraine's Shave Ice on Hwy 30 in the tiny hamlet of Kahakuloa (open summeronly).Ask Lorraine to show the kids her "pet crocodile," actually areptilian-shaped mountain while you slurp your guava shave ice with a scoopof ice cream in the bottom. Don't leave without picking up a jar of her home made passion fruit jelly. Spicy and sophisticated, it makes a far morememorable souvenir than another blue box of macadamia nuts.I know your mother told you to never pick up hitchhikers, but things aredifferent on Maui. So don't tell her. Thumbing a ride is as common as skimboarding. Everyone we have picked up has been grateful for the ride andrepaid us by sharing wonderful stories as well as tips on off-the-guidebooksplaces to eat, see, or visit. One surfer recommended the Bamboo Forest onthe Pipiwai Trail in Southeast Maui, a scenic hike we'd never heard of.So what's the best beach on Maui? It depends on what you want. Ho'okipa isspectacular for windsurfer watching and always worth the stop, but the wateris way too rough for swimming. Sunbathing is out too unless you don't mindbeing wind-whipped by your own hair.My favorite beach is Napili Bay. A medium-sized cove of golden sand, gentlesurf, and great snorkeling, Napili is just south of Kapalua. Ringed bylow-rise condos and the Napili Kai Beach Resort, this sunny family beach isa worthy and affordable place to park your suitcases. Napili grows on you.Many families come back year after year. For some it's a decades-oldtradition.You can tease out bits of old Hawaii even in the middle of touristactivities. One of our favorite things to do is stroll the Boardwalk atKa'anapali anytime after sunset. Elegant statues and stone carvings line thetiki-torch path. Walk towards Lahaina, past the Marriott until you reach therope hammocks strung between the palms. Big enough and private enough forlovers or several giggling children stacked on top of one another, thehammocks afford glorious views of blistering stars though whispering fronds.Waves crash just feet away, and if you are really lucky, the moon mightshine a path straight across the channel to Moloka'i. Mmmm.rock a while. It's pure Maui bliss.Another tour bus destination is the Sugar Cane Train out of Lahaina. Sure it's hokey. But if you stop first at the tiny hole-in-the-wall bakery a fewhundred feet shy of the train station and pick up some crusty French breador danishes and wash it down onboard with some ice-cold coconut milk stillin the husk, then you've elevated the experience. A tip-sit in the back carfacing the rear. You get to look at pretty scenery instead of the backs ofJapanese tourists.Leis are a vital component of Hawaiian culture, layered with meaning. AuntieNani teaches the art, history, and customs of lei making at the shops atKapalua. She brings along fresh-picked plumeria and other local flowers aswell as biting commentary and an occasional swear word. Local color and alei you made yourself for only two bucks. I bet that's not what you expectfrom one of the most exclusive resorts in West Maui.I know you are on vacation, but go to church anyway. You won't regret it.Kahana Door of Faith, a tiny church on Lower Honoapiilani Road in Kahana,has a Sunday service filled with island gospel music complete with ukaleles,hula, and prayer. Don't dress up; it's come as you are. Barefoot childrenmeander in and out while the aunties in their colorful muumuus occasionallyscoop them up for kisses. The congregation embraced me-and I mean thatliterally-and then invited to share in a celebratory feast afterward. Isampled delicacies both foreign and delightful.So if you too are in pursuit of the spirit of "Old Maui," look first to herpeople. Ask the gap-toothed wizened old fisherman on a stretch of emptybeach about his catch, talk to the bodysurfing kids resting long enough tochow down on raw Top Ramen, or strike up a conversation with a lady sellingmangos from a rickety stand in front of a home with a corrugated metal roof.Then you too will be living aloha.
Some People Like Getting Riled Up
Some people like being riled up. It makes them feel alive. I think I may be one of those people. The nice thing about residing in the Capistrano Unified School District is the apparently unlimited supply of Things for Parents to Agonize Over.
This is a perfect fit for me because I would hate to run out of opportunities for worry. I’m the kind of person who believes my air-travel anxiety actually helps keep the plane safely in the clouds. Thus, the perpetual nail-biting panic the school district keeps me in is actually a blessing in disguise. Capo USD frees me up from stressing over even bigger problems like possible tsunamis or nuclear meltdowns or a Diedrich’s Drive-Thru.
I got a letter in the mail recently that was addressed to “To the Parents of…” I hate those letters. They never say anything I want to hear. I’m always afraid it will start off with something like “A case of Ebola has been noted in your child’s classroom…” Usually the bad news is so sugar-coated, it takes me a couple of days to realize I should be steaming.
Here are some of the topics of previous letters. Since I didn’t save them in my Creative Memories Scrapbook, please forgive me for paraphrasing:
· We are moving the first day of school to the end of August. Not only does the change improve our test scores and make us look better, it will totally blow a hole in your time-share week on Maui. Too bad for you.
· We are starting the school day ten minutes earlier, obstensively to free up the buses. Now we get the little rugrats while they are nice and sleepy and you get them back squirrelly. Plus you need to get up earlier anyway.
· We can’t pay for 3rd grade class-size reduction this year—so you get to. And we can’t pay for it next year either, or ever again. So dredge up a million bucks or so from your change jar or down the seat of your car or in the bottom of the washing machine and hand it over nice and easy-like. And nobody will get hurt.
· We may have to close an elementary school because there aren’t enough little kids probably due to the fact that they all go to the elementary school we built right next door. But we reserve the right to change our minds as often as we wish. So maybe we won’t close the school. Maybe we were just testing you to see if you read our letters.
The latest letter went something like this:
Good news! We found enough money to build a brand stinkin’ new high school! Scheduled to open in 2006, we may even decide to keep it open. Or maybe not.
San Juan Hills High School is set in the pristine hills of San Juan Capistrano and conveniently located next to the dump, so you can drop off your freshman and your old fridgidare in the same trip! A shining testament to secondary education, San Juan Hills will relieve the tremendous pressure of overcrowding at our other high schools, even the one you thought your kid was going to attend. Yes, maybe, by the way, your precious cargo will be schlepping hideously heavy backpacks up and down the sparkling new corridors of SJHS. So get over it already!
This latest news really bummed me out. Could it be ol’ Dana Hills High won’t be in our family’s future after all? Huh? I haven’t really gotten my middle-school mojo going and now I’ve got to skip ahead and worry about high school?
I’m not equipped to do that. I’ve got to obsess about middle school first. Just thinking about sixth grade gives me a temperature. We all know the rumors. And look how often they turn out to be true? Take Brad and Jennifer. Am I right? Didn’t the National Enquirer call that one in December?
That’s why I listen to rumors. Forget the facts. Forget the mom who says her kid loves middle school. Yeah, sure. She may just be covering up her little pre-adolescent’s stint in Rehab for all I know.
Our kids walk in the middle school door looking like Shirley Temple on the Good Ship Lollipop and walk out Britney Spears: tattooed in ultra low-rise jeans, carrying a silly little dog, and hanging with boys who belt their pants below their butts.
I’m scared, really scared. And it feels so right.
This is a perfect fit for me because I would hate to run out of opportunities for worry. I’m the kind of person who believes my air-travel anxiety actually helps keep the plane safely in the clouds. Thus, the perpetual nail-biting panic the school district keeps me in is actually a blessing in disguise. Capo USD frees me up from stressing over even bigger problems like possible tsunamis or nuclear meltdowns or a Diedrich’s Drive-Thru.
I got a letter in the mail recently that was addressed to “To the Parents of…” I hate those letters. They never say anything I want to hear. I’m always afraid it will start off with something like “A case of Ebola has been noted in your child’s classroom…” Usually the bad news is so sugar-coated, it takes me a couple of days to realize I should be steaming.
Here are some of the topics of previous letters. Since I didn’t save them in my Creative Memories Scrapbook, please forgive me for paraphrasing:
· We are moving the first day of school to the end of August. Not only does the change improve our test scores and make us look better, it will totally blow a hole in your time-share week on Maui. Too bad for you.
· We are starting the school day ten minutes earlier, obstensively to free up the buses. Now we get the little rugrats while they are nice and sleepy and you get them back squirrelly. Plus you need to get up earlier anyway.
· We can’t pay for 3rd grade class-size reduction this year—so you get to. And we can’t pay for it next year either, or ever again. So dredge up a million bucks or so from your change jar or down the seat of your car or in the bottom of the washing machine and hand it over nice and easy-like. And nobody will get hurt.
· We may have to close an elementary school because there aren’t enough little kids probably due to the fact that they all go to the elementary school we built right next door. But we reserve the right to change our minds as often as we wish. So maybe we won’t close the school. Maybe we were just testing you to see if you read our letters.
The latest letter went something like this:
Good news! We found enough money to build a brand stinkin’ new high school! Scheduled to open in 2006, we may even decide to keep it open. Or maybe not.
San Juan Hills High School is set in the pristine hills of San Juan Capistrano and conveniently located next to the dump, so you can drop off your freshman and your old fridgidare in the same trip! A shining testament to secondary education, San Juan Hills will relieve the tremendous pressure of overcrowding at our other high schools, even the one you thought your kid was going to attend. Yes, maybe, by the way, your precious cargo will be schlepping hideously heavy backpacks up and down the sparkling new corridors of SJHS. So get over it already!
This latest news really bummed me out. Could it be ol’ Dana Hills High won’t be in our family’s future after all? Huh? I haven’t really gotten my middle-school mojo going and now I’ve got to skip ahead and worry about high school?
I’m not equipped to do that. I’ve got to obsess about middle school first. Just thinking about sixth grade gives me a temperature. We all know the rumors. And look how often they turn out to be true? Take Brad and Jennifer. Am I right? Didn’t the National Enquirer call that one in December?
That’s why I listen to rumors. Forget the facts. Forget the mom who says her kid loves middle school. Yeah, sure. She may just be covering up her little pre-adolescent’s stint in Rehab for all I know.
Our kids walk in the middle school door looking like Shirley Temple on the Good Ship Lollipop and walk out Britney Spears: tattooed in ultra low-rise jeans, carrying a silly little dog, and hanging with boys who belt their pants below their butts.
I’m scared, really scared. And it feels so right.
It's A Jungle Out There
Tell me the truth. How are you doing on the Resolution? You know which one I mean. I make it every year when I look in the mirror on New Year’s morning. My face says I partied like it was 1999 when the reality was I fell asleep at nine p.m. Unfortunately, the rest of me matches my face.
It’s time for desperate measures. It’s a New Year, a time for fresh starts, for getting serious. It’s time to Get In Shape. At least I have a lifetime membership to the local gym, whether I want it or not.
The average new member lasts only thirty-two days before quitting. I promise myself that won’t be me. 2005 is going to be different. 2004 and 2003 were going to be different too, but this time is…uh, different.
Some backstory: I bought my membership for the enormous sum of $300 when I was 21. At the time, I was punching a timeclock and barely making rent. My dad ranted at my financial stupidity. He predicted they’d shortly be out of business and I’d be both gym-less and too broke to pay my phone bill.
He also predicted John Travolta would never make it beyond “Welcome Back, Kotter.”
Got any more good advice, Pops? Actually, he was right about the gym. I went a few times, then quit for years on end. That should have been the end of the story. But a big chain bought out my gym. A couple of years ago, they had the gall to build a fitness center right on the way to my kids’ school.
Talk about guilt. Every time I sat at the intersection of Golden Lantern and Del Avion, I felt like sweating. It was almost enough to make me gas it through the yellows, but I’m not eligible for traffic school for another fourteen months.
So here I am at the gym.
I am learning there is a reason the words “jungle” and “gym” go together. You may already know this, but I was frankly shocked to discover there are the posted gym rules and then there are the “real” rules—the rules of the jungle. In case you are just starting back like me, here is the lay of the land:
Gym Rule: There is a 20-minute maximum time limit on all cardio equipment if people are waiting.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan. Treadmill Mine! Elliptical Mine! Stairmaster Mine!
If you want to fit in, follow jungle rule. It requires strength or stealth. Most gym monkeys use stealth. To stop your cardio LCD clock from booting you to the back of the line and making you late for work, artfully drape your towel to obscure the entire display. Wear headphones to avoid pesky loudspeaker reminders and never make eye contact with the poor slobs who are wishing for you to pull a hamstring so they can get your spot.
Gym Rule: The floor must be free of all personal articles.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan. Free weights mine! Exercise ball mine! Space on floor mine!
Again in order to fit in, follow jungle rule. Claim as much territory as possible with your personal possessions. Plop a sweatshirt and a newspaper on an open Precor and go soak in the spa to loosen up for your workout. Your equipment will be waiting for you when you are ready. Or save a spot for your pal with a bottle of water and set of keys. If anyone complains, and almost no one will, simply protest loudly that you or your friend were only going to be a minute.
Gym Rule: Please do not monopolize or linger on equipment.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan, King of the Jungle! TV mine! Abs bench mine! Make good bed! Tarzan hot! Tarzan sexy! Tarzan walk around naked in locker room! Tarzan make you not know where to look!
Jungle rule means never having to say you are sorry. If you don’t like what everyone is watching on TV, grab the remote. Take cuts when you can. It’s invigorating. It’s good to start the day with assertiveness. An excellent warm-up for the road rage you’ll encounter on I-5 as you head to the office in just a few more reps. After all, it’s a jungle out there, and you are prepared.
Happy New Year and good luck with the resolutions. Maybe I’ll see you at the gym. If you get there before me, save me a spot on the Lifecycle.
It’s time for desperate measures. It’s a New Year, a time for fresh starts, for getting serious. It’s time to Get In Shape. At least I have a lifetime membership to the local gym, whether I want it or not.
The average new member lasts only thirty-two days before quitting. I promise myself that won’t be me. 2005 is going to be different. 2004 and 2003 were going to be different too, but this time is…uh, different.
Some backstory: I bought my membership for the enormous sum of $300 when I was 21. At the time, I was punching a timeclock and barely making rent. My dad ranted at my financial stupidity. He predicted they’d shortly be out of business and I’d be both gym-less and too broke to pay my phone bill.
He also predicted John Travolta would never make it beyond “Welcome Back, Kotter.”
Got any more good advice, Pops? Actually, he was right about the gym. I went a few times, then quit for years on end. That should have been the end of the story. But a big chain bought out my gym. A couple of years ago, they had the gall to build a fitness center right on the way to my kids’ school.
Talk about guilt. Every time I sat at the intersection of Golden Lantern and Del Avion, I felt like sweating. It was almost enough to make me gas it through the yellows, but I’m not eligible for traffic school for another fourteen months.
So here I am at the gym.
I am learning there is a reason the words “jungle” and “gym” go together. You may already know this, but I was frankly shocked to discover there are the posted gym rules and then there are the “real” rules—the rules of the jungle. In case you are just starting back like me, here is the lay of the land:
Gym Rule: There is a 20-minute maximum time limit on all cardio equipment if people are waiting.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan. Treadmill Mine! Elliptical Mine! Stairmaster Mine!
If you want to fit in, follow jungle rule. It requires strength or stealth. Most gym monkeys use stealth. To stop your cardio LCD clock from booting you to the back of the line and making you late for work, artfully drape your towel to obscure the entire display. Wear headphones to avoid pesky loudspeaker reminders and never make eye contact with the poor slobs who are wishing for you to pull a hamstring so they can get your spot.
Gym Rule: The floor must be free of all personal articles.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan. Free weights mine! Exercise ball mine! Space on floor mine!
Again in order to fit in, follow jungle rule. Claim as much territory as possible with your personal possessions. Plop a sweatshirt and a newspaper on an open Precor and go soak in the spa to loosen up for your workout. Your equipment will be waiting for you when you are ready. Or save a spot for your pal with a bottle of water and set of keys. If anyone complains, and almost no one will, simply protest loudly that you or your friend were only going to be a minute.
Gym Rule: Please do not monopolize or linger on equipment.
Jungle Rule: Me Tarzan, King of the Jungle! TV mine! Abs bench mine! Make good bed! Tarzan hot! Tarzan sexy! Tarzan walk around naked in locker room! Tarzan make you not know where to look!
Jungle rule means never having to say you are sorry. If you don’t like what everyone is watching on TV, grab the remote. Take cuts when you can. It’s invigorating. It’s good to start the day with assertiveness. An excellent warm-up for the road rage you’ll encounter on I-5 as you head to the office in just a few more reps. After all, it’s a jungle out there, and you are prepared.
Happy New Year and good luck with the resolutions. Maybe I’ll see you at the gym. If you get there before me, save me a spot on the Lifecycle.
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