Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

It's Downright Cold

2006-01-17T16:44:00.000-08:00

I know at some point I had all the appropriate clothes to fend of the chill of a California winter. But somehow, someway, my closet has swallowed up those yummy wool, fleece, cashmere, and angora items and barfed them up in the Abyss of Lost Things That Will Never Be Found Again.

I've had so many garage sales and clothing give-aways in an attempt to rid my life of the endless clothing clutter that overwhelms my two walk in closets...could I have been so blinded by the summer sun that I neglected to anticipate my need for these pieces of clothing?

Arrhhhg.

I hate being cold.

Eleven Pros and Cons of Being 24 Years Old and Never Having Had a Real Job

2006-01-16T02:15:00.000-08:00

So you busy-bees of the Working World can know once and for all whether or not you're really missing anything...

Pro: I can count the amount of times I have actually been in "morning traffic" on my fingers.

Con: Two words...Evening Traffic. Can't you people stagger it a bit?

Pro: The words "corporate ladder", "memo", "deadline", "boss", "subordinate" and "you're fired" exist in a mythical land far far away from here.

Con: All the humor on the apparently very funny TV Show "The Office" zips right over my head.

Pro: I haven't had to wake up at the same early and ungodly hour every single day since the day I graduated from High School (my 2 weeks of college don't count).

Con: The rest of the world does. You miss out on alot when you wake up past noon every day. I especially miss...well...actually...I can't remember what I miss its been so damn long.

Pro: I have all the time in the world to get whatever I want to get done DONE.

Con: I never do. Why? Because...

Pro: I get to click my little mouse through my computer games all day and for as long as I want without anybody bothering me.

Con: Excessive mouse-clicking can cause pain symptoms like-unto carpal tunnel syndrome.

Pro: As a worker in the more..shall we say..."artistic" and "entrepreneurial" fields, I have never been limited to a specific amount of earnings.

Con: Not being able to solidly budget for that gorgeous Isabella Fiore purse I've been eyeing all season is torture.

Pro: I get to go to movies for the matinee price.

Con: The only people at the theater in the middle of the day are either the retired elderly or parents with their pre-school-aged children. The former are indecisive in the snack line and take too long when there's a long bathroom line and the latter scream the whole way through the movie or make asinine comments/ask embarrassing questions during the juicy sex scenes. Can't I just behold George Clooney's naked ass in peace people?

Pro: I've can watch "the Notebook" any time I get the urge.

Con: I am constantly out of Kleenex.

Pro: Not that many people are out doing their grocery shopping and errands during the day so I get decent parking and short check-out lines.

Con: The walk between my car and whatever shopping establishment I am visiting is probably the only exercise I get all day, so cutting that short is not necessarily a good thing. And short lines=chatty checkers. See my previous blog about "Strangers Who Smoke Weed". I mean, by the time you get out of there after all that small talk you might as well have waited in a long line. At least then you wouldn't have had to share the particulars of what exactly it is you are cooking with the groceries you are purchasing and with whom will you be consuming them and are any of them single cause I'm looking for a date and hey maybe I could give you my number and you could pass it along and hey what about you you're cute are you with someone oh you're married wow you look too young too be married wow too bad maybe in another life and do you need help getting these bags to your car and are you sure cause you look pretty weak nah just kidding haha well okay then have a good day and happy new year and happy belated holidays and happy early Valentines see you soon blah blah blah BLAH BLAH. Sheesh.

Pro: A little tradition I like to call Afternoon Tea with Oprah and Dr. Phil.

Con: Yeah...there's no con for this one.

And finally...

Pro: This one's self explanatory. I mean c'mon people...I'm livin' the dream! I'm 24 years old and I've never had a real job!

Con: However, I'm 24 years old and I've never had a real job.

Okay....well it sounds really lame when you put it like that.

Happy workday, workforce.

2006-01-07T04:50:00.000-08:00

Could my husband be any more perfect? I don't think so.

I just happened upon this picture and had to brag on my love.

The Phenomenon That is Bleu Cheese

2006-01-06T17:06:00.000-08:00

As I sit here adding various condiments to my yummy lunch-time salad, I wonder: Why is mold okay when it comes to bleu cheese?

Every week (okay, every month) I put on the cleaning gloves, get on my hands and knees, and scrub till I say uncle at the soap scum and mold/mildew that has accumulated in the dark recessed corners of my shower and around my kitchen faucet, appalled when I can't obliterate it from that oh-so-small corner--even with a bleach-soaked toothbrush--yet for SOME REASON I will look into the face of a big gob of blue mold right there in my cheese and I don't care. I'll even put it in my mouth and say "yum" like it's no big deal. In fact, I will enjoy it.

I mean, I know there's all kinds of nasty things about other cheeses and eggs and yogurt (the words "active cultures" on the label should sound the alarm) and just dairy products in general that I should be cringing at too, but they don't show any outward visual signs of being abnormal or strange or disgusting. I can see the mold on this cheese. It looks just like the mold I found on the 2 week old Italian take-out I threw out just yesterday.

But for some reason, it's okay with me and I'm totally about to eat it.

Strange, but yummy.

A phenomenon.

Okay, Okay...

2006-01-06T13:43:00.000-08:00

I couldn't resist going just a shade or two darker with this site...the font on that other template was making me insane! I guess they don't call me a perfectionist for nothing. All the little colorful dots still preserve the light-heartedness I'm aiming for...and they even kind of look like little twinkling stars, don't you think?

Just humor me.

2005

2006-01-06T00:23:00.000-08:00

So I know I'm not the only one who's sitting down to their computers this week to contribute a "New Year" themed blog to the internet abyss, but I can't resist. What a year. Upon reflection, I realize that this is probably the year that I actually arrived at womanhood. I'm sure I will arrive at womanhood in new forms every year (if not every day) from now on, but I can't help pausing to reflect on the year that made me one for the first time.

Pause. Reflect.

Was it facing the possible loss of first my father, then--briefly--my mother? It certainly seemed to dominate my thoughts this year. Was it going through the process of buying a house I loved, only to see it slip away, and then coming to the realization that letting it go was exactly the right thing to do? That certainly was an educational experience. Was it seeing the light shine into the darkness of my family and finally being able to accept what I saw and move on? Was it learning to love them without the expectation that I could change them? Was it the realization that they didn't want my help? All of that certainly plays a role. Was it watching my little girl sister fall in love and get married? Or seeing my little tiny brother--the one I could remember as a soft head of black hair, doll-sized fists, and mushy skin--start college? All that certainly did make me feel quite old.

Was it meeting new friends? Deepening the precious ones I have? Rekindling ones I had forgotten? Was it something about my constantly surprising and beautiful marriage? Was it finally learning what being loved by God truly meant?

Was it conquering my fear of airplanes, music, and Jeremy suddenly falling out of love with me that did it? Or was it the resolution that I just can't do elevators or quit nail-biting? Was it falling in love with fiction? Was it kicking the porn habit? Was it learning that how I feel about myself carrying a few extra pounds is up to me, just as much as whether or not I lose them or put on more is? Was it living to see the day my boobs grew big enough to buy bras at Victoria's Secret? Was it buying my first pair of jeans over a hundred dollars? Was it finally learning that my excessive shopping is curbed only by my clearly and religiously avoiding the mall?

Was it finally allowing myself to be what I am without feeling the constant need to apologize? Was it finally seeing myself grow into my skin and not be afraid of it? Was it the accepting of something? The allowance of something I hadn't permitted before?

Perhaps.

More probably, it is all of the above. Who I am now is truly the sum of many parts. Some easier to come upon, others harder to win. Some thrust upon me, others chosen.

Pause. Reflect.

Another year, another me. Another year, another more understood self. An arrived self. Arrived, only to move on and keep moving on to her next destination. More to come upon, win, accept, believe in, observe, trust in, take hold of, give up, discover, uncover, pray for, become--Parts, all coming together to make one complete and unerasable me, forever recorded in indelible pen, just the way I like it.

Me.

Just the way I like it.

New woman, new year. Happy 2006.

God bless us, every one.

Back from the Dead

2005-12-18T00:02:00.000-08:00

No, I did not die.

No, I did not evaporate off the face of the earth.

What is my lame excuse for waiting an entire month before adding a single word to my blog?

I've been busy.

I know. Lame. But what are you gonna do? Honestly, I've been really busy.

The person I was a month ago is almost a completely different one from the person writing this blog now, so I decided to change the look of things a bit to reflect my transformation. It's much more light and bright around here.

In the way of updates:

- We backed out of the house...at first I was sad, but now I am really glad we did.
- My Dad successfully underwent an experimental stem-cell surgery for his heart in Bangkok and we are waiting for him to recover enough to fly home to Hawaii...hopefully before Christmas.
- Hubby is in the market for a car. This is a big step for a couple who have been driving a free car for the past 7 years. Good ol' Camry has been by our side through good times and bad, and soon she will be solely my car while Jeremy gets to roll around town in a swank BMW X5.
- I finished my songs and showed them to my producer and she flipped over them. It's full speed ahead after we get back from Hawaii, which should be very interesting.
- I totally fell in love with reading again and as a result, founds the two greatest books of all time. The most raw and jaw clenching reading experience known to man comes in the form of "A Million Little Pieces." So good...if you can stomach it. Then there's my new favorite book of all time: "The Time Traveler's Wife." It's such a beautiful and touching and unexpected love story, you will be touched forever. I LOVE this book.
- I became the proud owner of a 20 inch iMac G5. Beautious and much to luxurious for me, but I'm not complaining. :) It practically purrs ate me.

And that's the basic gist of things. Unfortunately, I'm still busy, so I don't really have time for much more, but I promise to try and be more faithful to my blogspot.

Till then...

In Escrow

2005-11-17T13:31:00.000-08:00

Okay so I have, like, 5 minutes to blog here so this is going to be a bit disjointed.

I am in escrow on my first home.

4 bedrooms, undervalued by almost 150,000, 1 mile from the beach and harbor walk, directly behind massive greenbelt, running/bike trail, and playground. Vaulted ceilings, skylights, firplace, private back patio, park view from Master Bedroom, newly remodeled everything, 6 jet jaccuzzi tub. Closets in every room, brand new carpet, AND it comes with a refrigerator!

Alls I'm saying is: It's awesome.

God is SO good.

What's funny is that we weren't even in the market for a house (not seriously, anyway.) Here's the timeline...

Thursday, 11/10 - I pray about how hopeless I feel becasue I just don't know how we can afford to buy a house to raise kids in in the OC and ask God for a miracle and soon.

Friday, 11/11 - Hang with Poka and hubby and wax poetic/lament about impossibility of home owning in Orange County.

Saturday, 11/12 - Jer and I go out for a bike ride and decide to stop and check out an open house inside a neighborhood that Jeremy has always said he wants to live in. We do this sometimes for fun. As we're viewing the house, Jer and I both have visions of our family and our future. We look at the price. Kind of doable. We get info and leave. The more we thinka bout it, the more doable it becomes.

Sunday, 11/13 - We decide to put in an offer. We low-ball and manage to get just 10,000 over our asking price.

Monday, 11/14 - We accept and the seller signs the papers to begin escrow at eight minutes after midnight.

Tuesday, 11/15 - We freak out, and visit the house twice.

Wednesday, 11/16 - We are approved for our loan. (This is incredibly and ridiculously fast, just so's ya know.)

Thursday, 11/17 - Inspector comes and tells us our house is in almost perfect condition except for a few minor things.

So here I am, just thanking God for how awesomely faithful He is. He answered my prayer so quickly! Now I'll know better than to pray for something to come "soon", cause when God's means soon, he means SOON.

I cannot go into detail right now, but the fact that this is all working out is an absolute miracle. We've witnessed at least three throughout this process and I;m sure there are many more we haven't even been able to recognize.

Last miracle we need done, all you pray-ers out there, is for the down payment.

$150,000 down.

Jer's Dad has it, but we are about to drop a huge bomb on him that he may not take well, so we ae PRAYING that he can separate the down payment issue from the bomb-like issue.

Bottom line is, if God wants us to have this house, we will have it. He doesn't? We won't. Do I want it if God's doesn't want me to have it? Nope. So as long as God's will is being done, I am a-okay with whatever outcome.

So please pray for this:

1) Healing to be possible with us and Greg (Jer's Dad) on the big issue.

2) That no matter what, the down payment issue can either be seen as separate by Greg and be provided for us through him, or that my dad would be able to come through for us, or that it would come from somewhere else we don't know about. We just need a down payment from somewhere.

3) That God's will would be done above all, and that no other outside forces could come and prevent that from happening so we will know that whatever happens is what God wants for us and not coincidence.

Thanks y'all. I'll update you later!

Money CAN Buy Happiness

2005-11-09T18:24:00.000-08:00

I know they said it couldn’t be done.

But I have proof right here in my hot little hand--or more accurately, wrapped around my legs, hips and butt.

That’s right, the happiness I have bought comes in the form of a brand new pair of jeans.

And not just any jeans. THE jeans. They are beautiful. They are unique. They are hand crafted, have hand stitched details, are made with the finest denim available with just the right amount of stretch and just the right amount of flare and they are just expensive enough that you can still justify buying them but you know they're not lying about all the quality stuff. They make me feel skinnier, prettier, more fashionable, cuter, and just generally more excited to get up and get dressed in the morning.

They make me happy.

money = hot new jeans = happiness.

I just love provin’ the system wrong and damnin’ the man.

(PS: Just so you all know, that's not me in the picture. I look way hotter than her in the jeans, trust me--Undercover Celebrity, you gonna back me up on that or what?)

How a Book On Tape Brought Further Common Ground To My Marriage

2005-11-07T13:56:00.000-08:00

I guess I'm wandering back to my list again today because I'm suddenly inspired to tell you all about my new obsession: Books on tape.

I cannot get over the genius of this invention. Namely, the genius of this invention being made available on iTunes for download on my iPod. It all started when I saw "The Notebook" and became immediately obsessed and decided that I MUST read the book ASAP. After the sob-hiccups subsided and I was done wiping away the streams of tears mixed with liquid eyeliner that had taken over my face (that is another story that I will definitely have to share), I was filled with frustration that there was no bookstore near me that I could go to to immediately purchase the book. You have to understand that, at this point, I had a million tons of excess emotion surging through and numbing my brain (I told you, this is what inspiration does to me...totally illogical). It was at the edge of this hopelessness that the light-bulb came on: iTunes audiobooks. I heard about it but had never gone to that section of the Music Store, so I went to go check it out once and for all. I couldn't believe it! They were so reasonably priced! So easily accessable! Such unabashedly instant gratification! I downloaded that sucker right then and there.

I found I had never enjoyed reading more. Gone were the days of sitting on my couch "wasting the day" when there were chores to be done, dishes to wash, a heart rate I should be raising from time to time. Now I could make my house spik-and-span and run all over the city--all while reading a book. Even though my husband occasionally considered committing me for starting to weep in the middle of vacuuming (because of the book, people), I found I was thoroughly enjoying my new-found friend-in-digital-media. By the time I finished the Notebook, I wondered if I would ever buy a book written on paper ever again.

Fast forward a few months. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood-Prince is released. Now, for those of you who don't know me, I will fill you in--I am OBSESSED with Harry Potter. Almost as much as I am with The Lord of the Rings. And if that still means nothing to you, you can just use your imagination to think of the dorkiest dungeons-and-dragons playing, thick glasses and head-gear wearing, pants up to their top rib pulling, socially challenged human being you have ever seen, and that is the equivalent of how dorky I am about The Lord of the Rings. And Harry Potter is right behind it. I'm one rash thought away from attending a fan event in costume. Yeah, it's that bad.

Anyway, I digress.

So, I am a big fan of Harry Potter, so when the new book came out and I had finished reading it cover to cover within 24 hours of receiving it and I STILL hadn't had enough, I thought *PING*! Could it be on Audiobook? And guess what I discovered? IT WAS. Glory Halleluiah. Only one problem: The boxed set cost upwards of 200 bucks. So much for "reasonably priced". You could buy them separately, however, and I thought, "Hmmm. The Goblet of Fire movie is coming out soon. Maybe I'll just download that one for now to refresh myself for the movie." And you know what? I did. And you know what? It was better than I could have ever imagined.

You see, this guy named Jim Dale narrates it. And he doesn't just narrate it, he acts it. This Jim Dale is an absolute genius. He brought so much life to the story, so much reality to the characters, I just couldn't believe it. I was so excited about the whole knew way I was experiencing the book, and I just had to share it with someone.

So when Jer and I were on our way up to Santa Barbara to visit with family (basically, when he was a sitting duck), I started my campaign. After about a half-hour of uninspiring music I told Jer that we should plug in my iPod and check out the Harry Potter book I had on tape. After a short sales pitch and a promise that if he hated it in ten minutes we would turn it off, I plugged it in and pressed play. And do you know what?

He became hooked too.

"Getting to Santa Barbara never seemed faster!"
"We have to plan a road trip where we'll listen to books on tape the whole way!"
"I can't wait to see how they do that in the movie!"

After Santa Barbara I would go with him on his deliveries just so we could listen to Harry Potter together on the way. Sometimes we'd sit in the parking lot waiting for a chapter to finish. Every night we sat on our couch with hot tea and a fire crackling in the hearth and we'd listen to it through our little portable iPod speaker set. We had some of the coziest nights we've ever spent together listening to that book.

When it was over we were so bummed, but I found that the strangest thing had happened. Jeremy started asking me all kinds of questions about Harry Potter. He started asking me about when the movies coming out and what the next book is about and what happens to this character and what does that mean for that character. Bless my soul--he had become a Harry Potter fan as well.

On November 18th, we have a date to go to the Irvine Spectrum to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, opening day, on the IMAX screen. And you know what's so great? I don't have to drag him. He's the one that reminded me of the opening date. And I owe it all to iTunes Audiobooks and Jim Dale and the genius who created books on tape for the world to enjoy.

And if you happen to be at the Spectrum too and decide to go looking for us, don't worry: We're the one's not wearing costumes.

Discomfort

2005-11-06T22:39:00.000-08:00

So here it is, late on a Sunday night and I'm trying to come up with something current to write about. Unfortunately I've lost interest in my list for the most part and now I'm just kind of flying blind. It's hard to write when everything in your life is so unrelenting...I think that's the right word. I feel like I've become a whole new person in so many respects, but I can't even put my finger on a single reason why. It all started in Hawaii, when the past finally caught up with my future, and I let it go once and for all and for good. I've finally been able to move forward, and I feel like life is running ahead of me with a rope tied around my waist dragging me forward at a pace a tad uncomfortably fast for me. It's good to finally be getting somewhere, but it is a time of testing and growing and changing--and thought I always enjoy those times in an adrenaline-rush sort of way, they are always--shall we say--trying.

It's strange, having one foot in Hawaii the way I do, finding that no matter how long I am home in California afterwards, I feel somewhat distracted. I feel like I can't get back into any real routines, like I can't get too settled in because I have to be mobile, able to hop a plane at the slightest mis-beat of my dad's feeble heart. He is going to Bangkok to undergo experimental stem-cell surgery in less than a month, and he may not come back alive, so off I am again, to celebrate what may be the last Thanksgiving I ever get with him. This also marks the possible last chance I will have to share Christ with him, which--based on last time when he told me "never speak of it again", promises to be a daunting task. Defiitely leaning on the Lord for a miracle there.

On top of all that instability, one of my best girlfriends Abby (otherwise known as Poka Bean) moved an hour south to San Diego, and I have been hard pressed to find the time to see her. All of us girls who used to meet almost bi-weekly are now lucky to catch eachother twice a month, which makes life much lonlier and flatter up here in my little apartment. Even though the other three of us still live within a mile of eachother, we can't get it together to get together. It just wouldn't feel right without our Abby. The delicate chemistry of our little group has been messed with, and now we are having trouble adjusting to the new version of "us"--I know I'm not the only one. It's hard going through all of this without your friends readily available to you...not that I'd want to be unloading everything on them everyday, but just to know that you're in someone's life and that you have people in yours. That you're not cut off from the rest of womankind. That there are people who love you who aren't supposed to like your family or your husband. I miss that.

Also on the brain is my husband's tempermental back. He broke it as a teenager and then found it had miraculously (by the grace of God) healed. Now, unfortunately, it is acting up again--a direct result of his "I'll do it tomorrow" attitude about diet and excersize--and it is forcing him to re-examine his entire life. We have been talking constantly and well into the night, working on ourselves as individuals and as part of a couple and a marriage. He is becoming the man I always hoped he would become--motivated, confident, submissive to God, and a spiritual leader for our home. But I am having to step back and let him grow, learn new dynamics and ways of communicating, stretch out of the familiar and cozy little shell our six and a half years as a married couple have afforded us.

And then there's the music. Letting that back into my life was a difficult decision because I know that I am one of those people who is in danger of being almost completely swallowed up by her artistic side. it TAKES OVER. I am a control freak, and having such limited control over myself makes me beyond nervous. I can't keep normal bed-times, I can't stop thinking about songs and words and music and books and poetry. I become moody, emotional, depressed, and completely illogical. The dishes are stacking up, the laundry pile is overflowing and the bed rarely gets made anymore. If I'm Dr. Jekkyl/Mr. Hyde, it's the nasty monster one. It's the unfettered side of me that I keep locked in the basement when I'm in civilied company. I know it sounds stupid, but it's just how it is. Now that I have a chance to do things the way I want them in music I feel I can't pass the chance up. But of course I'm doubting myself everyday. Am I doing the right thing? Didn't I swear the music industry off forever? Yet here I am. And how can I know if I made the right choice until I put my foot in the water and see if it burns or goes in fine? I can't.

I guess there isn't a point to all of this, except for me to try to make some sense of it all and reflect on what God's doing. Sometimes I wish all the testing would end, but I know that before that happens, my dad will be long dead and that seems like an awful lot of time to skip over--though it's tempting considering the things I'll be missing if I do.

Who knows...only One does and He's not telling. And, truth be told, I wouldn't want Him to. It's all to learn, it's all to stretch, it's all to grow. It's supposed to be uncomfortable. And that may be all the comfort I need right now.

Take it Like a Woman and Say Thank You When Its Done.

2005-10-30T01:02:00.000-08:00

Okay. Now I remember why I gave up music.

I can't be trusted with it.

As soon as I let that creative demon out of it's cage, I can't control it. If inspiration calls, be it dark or light, night or day, civilized hour or uncivilized hour, I MUST ANSWER. What if I miss the chance to write the greatest song ever cause I was lazy and stayed in bed instead of jotting it down? Of course even if it wasn't going to the greatest song ever I would convince myself it was going to be when I can't remember it the next morning.

You see my double-edged dillemma.

And THAT, my faithful friends, is why it's 1:05AM and I am up writing this for all of you to see bright and early Monday morning: My "fickle friend" has chosen NOW of all times to smack me with a stroke of song-writing genius that has no sign of ebbing or slowing. NOW.

So much for "staying on schedule". (Trust me, the whole "sleeping at night" and "waking in the morning" thing is a relatively new discipline for me.)

AND, to top it all off, I have a TEMUR PEDIC CELEBRITY BED, people! NOT TO MENTION the warm body laying patiently in it waiting for me (and if you don't know my husband, you need to trust me that it's not just any old body...it is the hottest body of all mankind)!!! Its just a travesty.

All this ranting to say...

Craptrash.

It's going to be a long road to the finish line folks.

Cause, apparantly, music is not what I do--it's what does me.

And all I can do is exactly what the title says...

Starlet's Slutty Boots

2005-10-26T01:21:00.000-07:00

Everybody who's anybody knows that slouchy boots are hot right now.

That said...Starlet (that's me!), on a bit of a shopping binge a few weeks ago, decides that she must own a pair all her own.

She walks into Nordstrom.

With a credit card.

And what dost she behold, but the most gorgeous black, sleek, soft, slouchy, sexy, reasonably priced (ahem) boots that e'er her eye did see or her mind imaginate. (Yes, I did say "imaginate" on purpose).

It was love at first sight. THE perfect pair of boots.

So Starlet pulled out her credit card and used it like she does so well.

Starlet brings her sexy boots home and models them for her husband.

"I don't like it when you wear your jeans tucked in your boots like that," he says.

"That's the style now honey...it's cute," she says.

"Why don't you just wear them under your jeans like normal boots?"

"Cause you can't see the pretty buckle on the side or the slouch. It's a waste of a perfectly cute boot," she says.

He makes a face.

Starlet goes back to her closet.

She has no skirts the right length, so she pulls out a mini skirt which she hopes to offset with a blousier top.

"Sexy and sassy, or just plain slutty?" she asks her husband.

"Slutty." He says.

Hmmm.

She goes back to her closet.

She stares.

And stares.

Now her boots go with nothing.

"But I love them," she says to herself.

"But I have nothing to wear them with."

And then it dawns on her...

She reaches into the back of her closet and pulls out her very special "Naughty Cop" outfit (complete with handcuffs, thanks to Poka) .

Missing from naughty cop outfit: Hat and Boots.

Hat? No.

Boots? Yup.

Slutty?

You bet.

Beddy-Bye: The End of an Era

2005-10-24T16:03:00.000-07:00

So okay, this one's not on the list, but I just could not let this momentous occasion go by without pausing to pay it the proper respect. Did I break a world record on my bike? (I wish). Did money start growing on my plumeria tree? (Jeremy wishes). Did one of Jeremy's little swimmers make it past the goalie? (Malin wishes). No, nope, and nay. But something else very important, exciting, and kind of sad has, in fact, occurred...

We bought a new bed.

Wouldn't be a big deal, except that we got a Tempur Pedic Celebrity Bed...yeah baby, click that link and check that beauty out. It cost us lots and lots of hard earned money, but since we won't be needing another one until we're 44 and 48 (There's a 20 year air-tight warranty), we decided ten buckeroos every month till then for a perfect night's sleep seemed well worth it.

But what made me sad about it all was what we had to give up that money couldn't buy.

Our old bed.

Oh yeah...maybe it doesn't seem like much to you: two Jer and Starlet sized divots on our respective sides, flat-as-a-pancake edges where there used to be rigid ones, old ugly canvas surrounding the much less fancy non-memory foam of yester-year...all of which--proving true to form--has no memory of ever being buoyant or comfortable. But for all it's humble appearances, it sure has served our marriage well.

It has survived moves from four cities, carried us through five of our six years of marriage, and held our (ever-fluctuating) weight, night after night, for five years running. It has beckoned us from our travels, and comforted us when we're home. It has cradled me in my many years of constant sickness (thank God that's over!), and has protected Jeremy's injury-prone back from hurt. Perhaps most importantly, it has taken us from the novice sex-ers we began marriage as to the crazy kink-loving fiends we are today (Sorry, had to throw that in). In truth, it as been much more than a bed. It has been a haven: a place to call home when we didn't have one, a place to call ours when we had no place of our own, a place to be safe when nowhere else felt secure.

Unfortunately, however, it's time had come. Jeremy's back threw out for no reason, I was getting head-aches and waking up in the middle of the night. And when we took a step back and looked at our faithful bed we saw that the holes that marked where we slept no longer could be covered with my strategic smoothing of the covers. When Jeremy's back didn't improve and my headaches spread to my neck and shoulders, we decided it was time.

When the Tempur Pedic delivery men came to delivery our new bed, they asked if we would like them to take our old bed away--just like that--and I found I could not answer right away. Sure, we had said goodbye (ahem) to it the night before, but "take it away" sounded so callous, like we were turning our backs on a friend or putting down a pet after years of unwavering faithfulness and loyalty. I almost panicked a little. I knew the moment would come, but it was happening so fast. "Where could I store it?" I found myself thinking wildly as I ran in the house under the pretense of "asking my husband". I went to it and put my hand on it and said "Goodbye, bed. Thank you. You've been good to us." I immediately felt better. It knew that it's time had come too. It wanted us to be happy and comfortable again and knew it could no longer provide that for us. It almost seemed to tell me, "It's okay, Starlet. Let me go. Let me go."

And so I did. I went out to tell the men it was okay to take it away.

As they hauled it out, I went to put my hand on Jeremy's arm. I just needed to be touching him somehow. When the single most cherished piece of our furniture collection--the one most representative of our marriage--was being carried away forever, it just didn't seem right not to be connected to my husband (even if he was busy stuffing his face with fork-fulls of burrito).

And that was it. It was gone. It happened in less than one minute.

There was silence. (Except for the continued stuffing of the burrito).

As they disappeared out my door and I heard them scraping their way against the bushes down our narrow walkway, I couldn't help but hold back a tear or two.

But then, seconds later, there was scraping coming the other way. The delivery men were on their way back in, and in their hands was a brand new, beautiful, therapeutic, state of the art, NASA and Space Foundation certified, mind boggling ginormous California King sized Tempur Pedic Celebrity Bed (go ahead, you can look at it again if you want).

It was our future.

This is where we will get 20 years, 240 months, and 7,300 nights, of peaceful perfect sleep--guaranteed. This is where we will be cradled and pampered into dreamland night after night after night after night. This is where we will always feel like royalty. This is where we will conceive our children, rest when they have worn us out, and hold family snuggle sessions when they crawl in to join us. This is where my husband will run his fingers through my hair when I am upset, and where I will sing him lullabys on his way to sleep. This is where we will spend our Saturday sleep-in's and where we will long to be when the day gets long and we are weary. This is where we will sleep for the best years of our lives--for the youth of our adulthood. This will be our new haven, our island away from the world when nowhere else feels safe, our sanctuary in an uncertain world.

As it took the place of our beloved deceased in the bed-frame (kudos to Troy for building it, because its California King measurements are absolutely perfect), I realized that there was so much ahead of us, so much to look forward to--and that holding on the an old uncomfortable piece of foam was a pretty stupid idea. After all, that's all our old bed was...a piece of foam with canvas wrapped around it. It wasn't the bed itself that was special, it was what my husband and I made of it that was special. And I knew that we would bring the same (and more!) love and joy to this new bed--and to this stage of our lives together--that we had bought to the one before it.

So in honor of our fallen friend, Futon Mattress, I lift my proverbial glass. No one could say she wasn't a fighter, having battled the effects of gravity and cheap materials, struggling against hope to be comfortable for as long as possible, until, on October 24th at 2pm, she finally gave in, and--after 5 years of faithful service--succumbed to the wide-spread mattress epidemic, Wearing Out.

Futon, we know that even now you are looking down kindly upon us, and as we raise our (proverbial) glasses to you today, we want you to know that you were loved, cared for, and deeply cherished. Know that you will be missed, and that though we may have replaced you, you will always have a special place in our hearts that no other Mattress can touch. Your struggle for usefulness did not go unnoticed and was not in vain. We honor your fighting spirit today and everyday henceforth.

May ye rest in peace.

The House Built on Sand and the Light in the Darkness

2005-10-17T12:27:00.000-07:00

As I got on the plane to my hometown in Oahu, Hawaii, I knew two things:

a) I didn't want to go.
b) It wasn't going to be a pleasant trip.

What tipped me off? Maybe it was the frantic 808 phone calls I had been getting every night begging me to "come home" and "fix it". You see, after my Dad chose his girlfriend, Haumea, and NOT my step-sister's mother (aka, Auntie Liz) as his power of attorney, all hell had positively broken loose in The Big Brown House on the slopes of Diamond Head.

Haumea was on a rampaging power-trip, Dad was still getting shocked on a regular basis by his internal fibulator/pace maker (meaning his heart--and his life--was still in grave danger), Auntie Liz was outraged that she was not, in fact, his "chosen one", and both Auntie and Kea were both finding out for the first time the earth-shattering fact that Dad did love Haumea and that he'd been lying to both of them for the better part of their lives.

How I was supposed to fix all this, I didn't know.

But here I was, on a plane headed to my homeland, wondering what the hell I was doing.

"I'll just try to get some good quality time in with my dad," I said mock-soothingly to myself.

And beside that, I wanted to talk to him about his faith. After all, last time I had been there he made a small ambiguous declaration of faith, so I thought I might attempt to "water the seed" so to speak, as well as check to make sure no weeds had been growing up and trying to choke it.

I thought about all that lay before me, and I put my head in my hands.

"Lord," I prayed, "make me Your light in the darkness I am about to face. Lord, as your word says I should be, let me be a light in the darkness." I settled in for take-off.

Fast forward to Hawaii. Almost right away it became clear to me that I was absolutely right to not want to come here. The entire house was a bickering tense vindictive mess, and Dad was so irritated by everybody's arguing, he was snapping at people and hiding in his room the majority of the time (so much for my "quality time"). Not to mention the fact that, in the rare times he did emerge for any length of time, his sudden sickness had made him bitter, argumentative, and completely turned off to any talk of his faith whatsoever (so much for "watering the seed"). Haumea was rampaging as reported, poisoning Dad against all of us to prevent her failures as a competent and caring power of attorney from being relayed to him with any credibility. Auntie Liz was a devastated, disbelieving wreck, and Kea was coming almost completely unglued at the injustice of it all.

And here I was, listening to every story, mediating between parties, trying to relay compassion, trying to sift through the fact and fiction, trying to open eyes and change hearts--tugged on from all directions and watching pieces of myself drift away as I melded slowly into the house and it's vacuum of drama and destruction. I started to recognize myself...not the "me" of the present who had grown and matured in a Christian faith and a loving marriage, but the old me that lived and breathed this house. Angry, resentful, frustrated, isolated, and utterly hopeless feeling. I couldn't help them. I couldn't make them see no matter how hard I tried. I was a failure.

I would like to say that it was at this point that I took a step back and had a reality check, but it just wouldn't be true.

The truth is, I had a breakdown. I crawled up into my self pity and cried for two hours.

When I emerged, I saw my husband laying next to me. He was so refreshing--like an oxygen tank just laying there next to me when I was gasping for air. "Now there's something to be thankful for," I said to myself. It was cooler--the tradewinds had picked up--and the world had dimmed in the failing sun. I sat up slightly, leaning on my elbows, and looked out at the view before me.

I had seen it at least a thousand times. I had awoken to it every morning when I lived briefly on this floor in my childhood. I had looked out on it awkwardly with a high school boyfriend and endured an even more awkward kiss (one of only two consentual kisses I shared with anyone besides my husband). I had stared out smiling into it while music from the nearby open-air concert hall wafted up and melted into my family's laughing voices and the billowing smoke of the barbecuing hibachi. I have seen it through blurred tears of desperate pain as well as overflowing joy. I renewed my vows before this view, made love under it's stars, and had looked deep into it's dark night and twinkling city lights as I prayed to the God I did not yet know to make the crashing of my body to the beckoning pavement below as painless as possible.

I turned from it and looked up instead at the rough and naked beams that held up the patio cover I was now laying under, following their steady line to the edge of the house where they disappeared behind a redwood window frame.

They had been secured by the bare hands of my much younger father--a father who smiled often and lifted heavy loads with ease, who did not yet know that his heart would betray him a few weeks before his 75th birthday. This house was held up by the beams he lifted--the framework of a house and household of his own unique design--not just the house itself, but the workings within it.

Though I had never been ignorant of my father's true nature--good and bad--I realized that I had never really seen the whole picture. This trip, this low point, helped me to see with much deeper clarity what he truly was.

The light had come to the darkness.

The man with the God complex who had manipulated the lives of so many people--foremost among them, my family and I--for his selfishness and arrogance, was dying. And now the people who had worshipped him and lived in his tiny universe all these years found themselves facing the mortality of their finite god.

He built a house that he treated like a commune. He built a family he treated like a kingdom. He built people out of insecure and un-self-respecting children and forbade them to grow out of his control. Beam by beam, lie by lie, he built his universe on the hills. All our lives were shaped by and within his tremulous and imperfect design. He had turned away from what God deemed "good" and decided his own creation would be better.

But it wasn't.

He had built it all--every last redwood beam, every last concept and ideal, every last person and personality--on the sand.

"...and the rain descended, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house; and it fell. And great was its fall." Matt. 7:27

He was dying.

One man's dreams. One man's desires. One man's sin. Grain upon grain upon grain of shifting, sinking, formless sand. And now the ultimate wave had come. Mortality. It was crashing against the house with strength that could no longer be ignored

It was then that I realized what was really going on: It was all finally coming to an end--all of it--and I, having made myself apart of it again, was going down with the ship.

* * *

I can't explain it. Why it's so hard to let go of something like that house. I never knew true happiness because of it. Though it was warm and familiar and home, it never brought me comfort. I was loved, albeit incompletely, by a group of people who had stumbled into parenthood through a series of mistakes and momentum-propelled actionless "decisions". They loved us and we loved them, but they were impossible to respect, impossible to depend on, impossible to trust. They put their trust in us, their children. We were the fruit of their patchwork-kingdom, the beautiful prizes that made it possible for them to validate their botched lives, the innocent inductees into their unhappy commune whom they all hoped would have a better life than they had.

But then a funny thing happened when I did get a better life: They wanted me back. No one to depend on, no one to validate them, no one to hang their hope on. It wasn't enough that we went on to be better people without them. They wanted that better life for themselves. They wanted me to show them how. "Fix it," they asked, and I was doing my best.

But I cannot help them.

I cannot help them.

They serve a different god. And it was my God that delivered me. He brought me safely out of Egypt--out of the House destined to fall. He had made me the light through Him, and though I was dangerously close to being swallowed up by the darkness again, he had shined the light for me in my weakness and shown me what I was becoming too blind and overwhelmed to see:

I cannot help them.

They serve a different god.

The House is built on sand, "and great was it's fall."

"My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness.
I dare not trust the sweetest 'frain,
But wholly lean on Jesus' name.
On Christ the Solid Rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.
all other ground is sinking sand."

I looked at the man beside me, my beautiful, perfect husband, a representative of the new life God gave me away from this place. I looked at the house around me, built by a stubborn and godless man around the broken lives of his naive and trusting believers. I looked out on that all to familiar view once more--the practically screaming and waving proof of the majesty and beauty and perfection of the One True God right under their noses--and, it was then--right then and there, that I said goodbye to that house. Not just goodbye for the moment, not just for that trip in particular, but goodbye forever.

Not that I will not visit it, not that I will not love and still try to shine a light on the True God for the people that live hopelessly within it. Not that I will not continue to try. But I will never be a part of it again. I will never include myself in it's fate again. I will not be afraid to accept my better life--the life even the House wanted for me in spite of itself--the new life God gave me in His kingdom.

It's sad that it will take my father's death for the people I love to have a chance at life. It is sad that my father may not find The True Life before he leaves this mist--that he may live not just his life on earth, but eternity in agonizing separation from God.

I cannot help him. I cannot fix it.

But God can.

And just maybe--when the wreckage of this house has long been swept out to sea--there will be darkness complete enough for the light to matter. And maybe--just maybe--they will find it in time to truly Live.

A Shameless Attempt at Guilting Myself Back into Blogland

2005-10-13T16:30:00.000-07:00

I feel I must apologize for the serious gap between my last blog (with the topless picture) and the one I am currently writing. I have either had...

a) too much to write about
b) no time to write
c) no emotional energy left to expend writing

or

d) all of the above

After weeks of incessant tugging and nagging on the back of my brain, I have finally decided to revisit my blogspot to present an overdue offering of some kind--yet I find myself with a new option to add to the the growing queue of reasons why I haven't been writing:

e) I don't know where to begin.

How can I even attempt an explaination of what may be one of the top 10 most life changing months of my life? I think the answer to this one is clearly the same as the one about eating an elephant:

One bite at a time.

So, in true Bearca form, I am herein cataloging a list of future blog topics that I vow (read: "hope") to--at one point or another--conquer and cathartisize from my overfilled consiousness. Like my blogspot's version of a TV Guide--a list of "future programming" so to speak. Also in true Bearca form, I make no money-back guarantees that I will get through them all. Really, this is all just an elaborate sham designed to guilt myself into action with committments and statement I will later feel obligated to hold myself accountable to so I don't let laziness win over responsibility so easily anymore. I am, after all, a die-hard "list-making = results" type of person.

In no particular order:

1) Losing a father, gaining a father.
2) A crumbling family unit.
3) Reconciliation with my estranged sister.
4) Learning new strengths, recognizing weakness.
5) Why shopping is a big black hole of destruction dressed up to look like fun.
6) My slutty new boots that I refuse to return though I can think of nowhere to wear them respectably.
7) Why Costco is a big black hole of destruction dressed up to look like fun.
8) Nick and Jessica and why their split makes me extra sad.
9) Books on tape=my new favorite thing ever.

I think that about covers it.

At any rate, I guarantee you'll be reading alot more from me in the coming weeks. At least, I hope you will.

Just in case, however, stay tuned for more shameless guilt tactics coming to a computer screen near you.

How Do I Love My New Bicycle...?

2005-09-08T14:05:00.000-07:00

Let me count the ways...

Oh bicycle, you are shiny and olive green,
Your hand brakes are amazingly responsive,
Your many gears allow a weakling such as myself to climb hills with ease.

Oh sweet bicycle, you are so fun to ride,
Your seat is extra padded and your wheels have excellent shock absorbtion,
You protect me from the pain a bumpy road can cause in my "special place".

Oh precious bicycle, your tires are filled with slime.
Other bicycles would not hesitate to become flat at the mere mention of a nail,
But not you, oh bicycle...You reseal yourself with but a turn of your wheel.

Oh lovely bicycle, I look forward to you every day,
For you I will even wear a stupid looking helmet, cause I know,

Oh yes I know,

That you are the miracle that will cause my growing thighs to shrink.
Yes, you are the miracle that will cause me to fit in my size 2 jeans again.

Oh bicycle, oh shiny new bicyle
Only you could make me wake up before 7 AM each morn
Only you can cause me to look forward to working out
Only you can bring mutually enjoyable recreational companionship to my marriage

Oh sweet, shiny, precious, new bicycle,

I love you

A Crash Course in Humility

2005-08-26T00:59:00.000-07:00

Some back-story:

Ever since the beginning of all this drama with my Dad's heart, I've been dealing with another seemingly more sinister drama...the ever present tornado that is--you guessed it--my family. How many blogs have been dedicated to laments over their collective or individual stupidity/annoyingness? Too many.

I promise you, this is not another one of those blogs.

Of course, family tragedy seems to bring out the worst in everybody involved--therefore, as my Dad's condition has worsened, so has my tolerance level. Not only has everybody been their normal irritating selves...not only have I been forced to converse with them on a daily basis...not only have I needed them to give me cogent and complete information as well as assurance of some amount of control and care being given to my Dad while I'm gone...but they all seem to be, well...INTENSIFIED.

Unfortunately for me, this means I am dealing with two very raw, very open cans of worms at the exact same time when, honestly, there is precious little I wouldn't give to have both lids tightly resealed and never opened again.

I am discovering that nothing could have prepared me for this to happen and nothing ever will. It just happens, and you have no choice but to let it.

At any rate, I was sitting down taking care of (ahem) business with a boring bunch of old magazines to choose from for reading material when I saw a bible sitting there nonchalantly. Whenever I happen upon a lonely bible like this I play a little game with God where I say "Okay God, I'm just going to flip somewhere and You can make me open somewhere meaningful now if You'd like to impart something to me." It almost always yields pertinent results. So I flipped the old book open and what did I happen upon?

"...Therefore you are inexcusable, O man, whoever you are who judge, for in whatever you judge another you condemn yourself; for you who judge practice the same things. But we know that the judgment of God is according to truth against those who practice such things. And do you think this, O man, you who judge those practicing such things, and doing the same, that you will escape the judgment of God? Or do you despise the riches of His goodness, forbearance, and long-suffering, not knowing that the goodness of God leads you to repentance?" - Romans 2:1-4

Whammo...And the lights sputtered on.

To put it lightly:

Who the hell do I think I am?

All this time I have looked down on my family for their shortcomings. I know that that's no surprise to anybody who's read my blog more than once, but the (sad) truth is that I didn't see how arrogant I had become. All this time I had been thinking that I was better than them for whatever reason, but ALL THIS TIME, I was the one in the wrong. They had put me on a pedestal and told me I was equipped to fix their lives, and I had bought the hype. I had never stopped trying to change them, nit-picking their worst qualities, using the power they gave me to tear down in private as much as I built up in their presence. I was critical and unforgiving and bitter and vengeful.

And I'm sorry.

I see now, in the face of tragedy, that I am just as helpless and lost as they are. Some may have trouble grasping reality, some may mask their fear with attitude, some may use stupidity to avoid responsibility, some may appear corrupted by newfound power, some may be reaping years of bad sowing, some may be having trouble dealing with their emotions, etc., etc., etc.

But NOT ONE of those less than savory qualities have I not portrayed or felt rise in my heart both prior to and during this trial.

And not just that, but add to it my impatience, my lack of faith, my gossiping, my anger at God, etc., etc., etc....we could be here all day.

I am humbled by my gross lack of humility. I repent...boy do I repent. Because...

"Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you. And why do you look at the speck in your brother's eye, but do not consider the plank in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, 'Let me remove the speck from your eye'; and look, a plank is in your own eye? Hypocrite! First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye." - Matthew 7:1-5

As I go forward, deeper and deeper into the great abyss that is loss and grief and fear and uncertainty and instability, I can only thank God for using this time for something more than administering a crash course on Death and Survival. Any lesson beyond what grief can teach just helps to give it all that much more meaning--a positive purpose, which is what we all so desperately want from God in these fearful and dark moments. Now I have a point of view that will (hopefully) make it that much easier to frame the difficult times that lie ahead: One of patience, one that accepts imperfection from my loved ones and myself in the midst of desperation, and most importantly, one of humility.

Lord knows I will need all the help I can get.

Survival Mode

2005-08-22T03:34:00.000-07:00

Ironic.

I just got home and now my Dad is back in the hospital. This time things may be worse than we thought. I am told my Daddy may have just months to live.

And I'm lost.

I feel confounded, if that's the right word. I just can't seem to get my bearings. I feel like I've switched into survival mode or something...I'm just numb all over, but feel this horrible ache in my heart that sometimes produces tears. I just sat in front of a picture of my Dad holding me when I was a baby in my hallway tonight and cried for what might have been ten minutes or an hour.

Here they come again.

Thank God Jeremy is home, but now, I may be having to leave him again. How can it be that I have to go through this alone? How can it be that my Dad will never know my children, that they will never know him? It just seems unfathomable to me. Invincible, unshakable, crazy, eccentric, maddening, tender, complex, renown, one-of-a-kind Dad is about to end (whether it be months or a year or two from now, it's about to end)...this presence in my life--this man so much a part of me--is going to leave me and pass into memory. Memory is such a poor composite for a man so full of personality and spirit and history and life. Where he will go in the life to come, I don't know for sure...the best I can do is have faith that God will answer my prayers to not let him die until he's heaven-bound. That's the best I can do--talk to the One that decides what happens. It just feels so helpless, all this talking.

I don't know what to say or what to do. I'm stuck here for the next two weeks unless I travel between weekends (I have committments) and that just seems so daunting to decide about when I can barely remember to eat and drink water.

I don't know what to say.

I'm just trying to survive this when I feel like I'm dying.

Emergency Trip to Hawaii

2005-07-25T04:03:00.000-07:00

Abby, Emily, and Malin,

Hello all. When you read this, I will be in (or on my way to) Hawaii. My dad has entered the hospital for a second time with his heart ailing and I am going to be by his side.

Please pray for me and Jer and for my Dad...for healing, for strength...and especially for my Dad to come to faith in Christ.

Abby, welcome home! I'm so bummed our schedules ended up crossing...I hope my Dad gets better soon so I can come home and visit you and your new hubby in your new apartment! You KNOW you have LOTS to tell me (and I think you know I'm not just talking about the scenery in Europe.) ;)

Malin...What would I do without you? You are so amazing and a truly dependable and dedicated friend. I can't believe I'm leaving right after you get back! Hopefully I'll be back soon so we can hang already!

Emily, you and Abs should have plenty of back-blogs to read (if you ever decide to visit my blogspot again, Miss MIA) while I'm away or otherwise occupied. I'll promise I'll keep you guys posted with the latest...I'm not sure if my e-mail is going to work there so just check in here. And of course, I'll be on my cell phone, as will Jer. Please call anytime and often.

I miss all of you so much already...I don't know why since you guys won't be there and it doesn't make any sense, but knowing I have friends like you girls somehow makes the possibility of losing my Dad easier to swallow. Thank you for caring about me.

I don't know how long I'll be gone...hopefully not long at all. The aim is Friday...we'll see.

I love you girls...talk to you soon.

Pie

Helpless

2005-07-22T06:26:00.000-07:00

It's been a sleepless night after receiving a call from Hawaii at 3am notifying me that my Dad collapsed after his show and was rushed to the hospital.

I cannot explain the helplessness that I feel, being so far away and so out of touch. Having an older father, I always knew that I would be fairly young when I reached this phase of my life. I never imagined I would be so far away from him...living such a separate life...A life he doesn't understand because he doesn't know the Lord.

That's the worst part isn't it? When you know you've done the right thing and made the right decisions, but somebody you love had to be hurt in the process because they didn't understand or tried to stand between you and God's will.

There is so much regret between us.

I thought I had time...I didn't know how suddenly his health would decline. He was always so invincible in my eyes...how could he be so sick?

And now he's dying. Slowly. But he is dying. His heart is working at a percentage so low that his continual survival makes him a practical walking miracle...33%...and he's 75 years old this August. This is the second time in two months something like this has happened. This time, if it hadn't been for his pace-maker, he would not have lived.

He would not have lived.

And here I am...trapped. I can't get to him. We have many places to live in Hawaii, but Jeremy can't take his business with him there, so we'd have no income. He'd lose everything...we'd lose everything we've worked for. Our future. But if I stay here and my Dad dies while I'm living far away, I don't know if I'd ever be able to get over it. There are so many things I need to tell him...so much he needs to know...to understand. He knows so little about me...understands so little about the life I lead...the life his grandchildren will lead...the decisions I made. He doesn't understand why I had to leave. He doesn't understand why I don't want to be a famous singer. He doesn't understand how my marriage is working. I want so bad for him to know me.

I want him to know me before he's gone.

If not in this life, I need him to be with me in the next. I need him to get to heaven. Then we'll have the rest of eternity together...I can't stand the thought of him suffering in hell. It makes me sick. If he gets to heaven, he'll know. He'll understand. He'll see that I didn't abandon him or betray him or replace him...I just followed Christ and took the path He laid for me.

Unfortunately, that path lead me away from my Dad.

Now, here I am, an ocean away, while my dad sleeps in a hospital gown with needles in his arms...afraid and lonely and missing me and I am not there to stroke his head and tell him I love him and that just because I grew up and left it doesn't mean I left him behind.

Lord, don't take him until he is bound for heaven. Open his eyes to the truth about You and your Son. Open his eyes to the truth about me. Heal him...restore his heart's physical strength. Let him cry out to you in this time of fear and uncertainty, and may he find you Lord. Let whatever amount of faith he finds be enough.

Lord, make it right between him and I.

You are the only one who can reach him now.

Please keep my Dad in your prayers and ask God to show Jer and I what we should do. Thank you so much.

The Acne Conspiracy

2005-07-21T23:23:00.000-07:00

(Warning: I am currently being visited by the Red Lady who is playing my hormones like a piano and I am in a particularly bitter mood and self-pittying mood. I strongly suggest skipping this one and catching up on any other entries you might have missed. Have a nice day.)

Okay folks. The jig is up.

I demand to know who's bright idea it was to dangle the gleaming carrot of an acne-free face in front of us naive teenagers cringing against the endless waves of insecurity, sensitivity, and rabid raging hormones. Which dangling carrot am I speaking of?

"When you're done with puberty, it will all clear up."

LIARS.

Acne is a bitch...nay, I am acne's bitch. And I am apparantly already in my MID-TWENTIES.

Why not just tell the truth? Why not just tell us that acne is an evil multiplying monster that only grows two heads (pun intended) in place of the one you've vanquished? And don't forget the nice skin-tone-marring mark it leaves behind. Why not tell us the truth...that you will never be beautiful again, you will never have that gorgeous child-like glow radiating from your flawless pre-pubescent face...that from now on, you will only get uglier and uglier and your skin will get more and more disfigured, until you just resign yourself to the fact that you're lucky you married young so somebody could appreciate what you looked like without all the scars you now have splotching up your complexion?

Somehow, even though I wouldn't have been able to stop it, I think it would have been better to know.

If any teenagers happen upon this blog, this is my message: Don't believe their lies. Don't wait for it to go away. Just learn to enjoy life without clear skin.

I wish I had learned that lesson.

Why Being from England Seems Way Funner

2005-07-20T17:33:00.000-07:00

My recent obsession with Harry Potter (me and 20 million other people) has led me to this thought:

Being from England would be way funner than being from...well...here. Not that I'm unpatriotic (notice I said funner, not better)...I am PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN (cue the anthem)...

But just think...

- You get to have that cool accent and use words like "loo" and "bits and bobs" and "jolly good" in every-day sentences.

- Everybody from England is normally thought of as really witty with dry quirky senses of humor, so if you said something that nobody really understood, as long as you kept a straight face, most people would probably think you were telling a joke and laugh.

- Instead of waiting for the "accidental" leak of Paris Hilton's new sex video, we'd be holding our breath for Prince William's. (hehe)

- You'd get to see what it's actually like to drive (legally) on the wrong side of the road.

- Forget boring ol' intersections...it's all about the round-about!

- You'd get to take advantage of quick, easy, clean, and (excluding-but NOT minimizing--the recent bombing tragedy) safe public transportation: a.k.a. The Tube.

- You'd get to use all that pretty and colorful money every day. (Now I'll have an extra excuse for my shopping addiciton..."Honey, I just had to go play with the pretty money!")

- Instead of just "cities" and "towns" and "shops", you'd also have things like "burrows" and "hollows" and "townes" and "shoppes". Much more interesting sounding.

- You'd get to add "u"'s to anything with an "or" in it...like "flavour" and "colour" and "favourite".

- Fried tomAHtoes (not tomAYtoes) and baked beans are on every breakfast menu. Alls I'm sayin' is...Mmmmmmm. (All you nay sayers don't know what you're missing!...Although this is really the only bit of English food I'll EVER praise.)

- Instead of going to a "bar" to let off steam, which sounds pitiful and white-trashy, you'd get to go to a "pub", which sounds so much more rustic and jolly and involkes images of rustic jolly people singing English bar dittys at the top of your lungs and saying "cheers" and holding oversized mugs filled with yummy frothy beer...not images of tired-looking desperate middle aged women wearing too short skirts drowning their sorrows and fending off greasy cheese-balls with lame one-liners and handing out cards with their phone numbers pre-written on them trying desperately to get laid.

And last, but not least...

- One word: Tea. (Second only to Sparkling Water on Hoku's List of Favorite Drinks.) After all...

a) You wouldn't have to start your day off knowing you're a liar when you drink your cup of English Breakfast every morning.

b) You'd always be able to find something more than a few flavor of Tazo (yuck!) or Lipton on the list when ordering tea from a public establishment.

c) It's a daily excuse to eat cake.

If that last one doesn't convince you, nothing will.

So hats off to you, England. You seem like a really fun place to be from. I raise my oversized mug of yummy beer to you...Cheers, mate. And long live the Queen.

My Husband is Awesome Because...

2005-07-19T15:16:00.000-07:00

After six years of marriage, he still repects the "I cook, you clean" rule we set up in our first year of marriage.

He says "I love you" to me at least a hundred times every day.

He is never mean or put out after I've whined and whacked him away (unconsciously, of course) for three hours while he nobly attempts to wake me up before 1pm.

He pretends that my tears for the death of a character in a book are just as serious as tears shed for a real person.

He sits willingly and listens attentively to my "short" synopsi (synopsis's?) of every Harry Potter book that hasn't been made into a movie and pretends he is on the edge of his seat with curiosity...and never once mentions that I am making him late for his Poker game.

He always tells me my cooking is amazing, even when the entire meal's ingredients were accessed with a can-opener.

He doesn't think I'm an idiot even though I am just now learning how to fill out a deposit slip.

My husband is awesome...

...Because he just is.

Four Totally Random and Unrelated Inquisitive Thoughts

2005-07-13T14:45:00.000-07:00

Okay...I am a little bored today since my house is completely clean and I still have some time left before my daily "Tea with Oprah and Dr. Phil" break begins, so I thought I'd jot down some random and totally unrelated questions/thoughts I've been thinking...well...randomly. "Inquisitive thoughts", if you will. Perhaps somebody who can actually ascertain the questions from this rambling may be able to abate my wonderings. We shall see...

Totally Random Inquisitive Thought #1:
Sparkling Water is single-handedly changing my world as I know it. And the 12 pack I just bought from Costco yesterday is making me VERY HAPPY. I'd even go so far as to say that it's totally rocking my face off. I mean, what better drink is there on planet earth? Let me answer that one for ya...None.

My next question is, why on earth can't you get it anywhere except nice Italian dinner restaurants? Am I the only person addicted to fizz that doesn't a) like sugar, b) want to blow up like a humungous cellulite balloon and c) have my teeth drilled every other month for cavities?

Dark colas...PUH! Clear sodas...yech! Sugary soft drinks...be ye damned!

I. Heart. Sparkling. Water.

If I had the slightest idea on how to even BEGIN going about it, I'd be on a serious quest to get Sparkling Water put in every soda fountain world wide.

And thank you Costco for making my dream of being able to mass-purchase and stock-pile Sparkling Water a blessed reality.

Totally Random Inquisitive Thought #2:
Has anybody ever noticed that a very large number--if not almost every--idiom and saying we Americans use involve an animal of some kind?

For Example...
- Water off a duck's back
- The early bird catches the worm
- Let the cat out of the bag
- I smell a rat
- A monkey's uncle
- Take the bull by the horns
- Going to the dogs
- Something's fishy
- Eat like a pig (I guess the reason for this one is pretty self explanatory)

...And horses especially!
- Beating a dead horse
- Out of the horses mouth
- Pee like a race-horse
- Horsing around/Horse-play

Weird.

I wonder if it has something to do with our background in farming. I'm sure that's where phrases like "kick the bucket" and "Who left the barn door open?" come from too.

All's I'm saying is...I wonder.

---------------------------------------------

Okay, I didn't finish in time not to break for Tw/O&Dr.P (ooh, I like that abbreviation!), but now I'm back with my final random thought:

Totally Random Inquisitive Thought #3:
I read in a magazine that wiping a cotton ball that's been dipped in one part hydrogen peroxide and one part water on your face after you cleanse and before you moisturize at night can help prevent breakouts because it kills acne-causing bacteria.

Why hasn't anyone thought of this before?

It seems, at first glance, to be sheer genius. What I'm wondering is if the fact that no one's thought of it before might indicate a bigger problem, like, the fact that it might have bad long-term effects or something. Hmmm.

I mean, after all, hydrogen peroxide is pretty intimidating. It's in an ugly poo-brown bottle with the little H2O2 periodic table crap on it like somebody who understands the significance of what H2O2 means (and why the crap it was necessary to put on the bottle) should be using it, not you. Thanks, hydrogen peroxide. Now I'm reminded of how stupid I am and how much I sucked at Chemistry.

Thanks alot.

Am I really supposed to put what's hidden in that ugly brown bottle on my delicate facial skin?! Any substance that is hiding behind such an ugly bottle is totally un-trustworthy to me. Most facial products come in soft white rounded bottles (at least the color of the bottle isn't afraid to mirror the substance that's inside it!) with pastel-colored accents on the logo sticker that say things like "cleanse", "moisturize", "purify", and "protect". And then on the back with the directions that say relaxing things like "massage lightly in a gentle circular motion" there's a whole section where the directions are translated in French.

And this would mean:

Totally Random Inquisitive Thought #4:
Isn't that a little weird...all the French back there? I mean, last time I checked, French was not the most useful second language to know in the US. In fact, we don't really get along with the French right now, do we? Do they put it there in an attempt to legitimize it's worldwide-ness? Like: "See! People in France could use it too...of course it works!" Or is it to trick you into thinking it comes from beauty-central-of-the-world France or something?

Nice try marketeers. We all know the truth...That "Made in China" is always hiding on the bottle somewhere.

But it just feels better to see that French and those pastel colors, doesn't it?

----------------------------------

I totally just answered my own Totally Random Inquisitive Thought #4. This is kind of an epiphany for me...

Canada.

duh.

This is why the French hate us...cause we're so arrogant we do silly things like forget about our friendly northern neighbors.

Now I feel like a total idiot.

Thanks hydrogen peroxide. That's twice you've been implicated in making me feel like a dumb-ass.

I'm going to go comfort myself with some Sparkling Water.

The Doorway

2005-07-13T03:07:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched one of my favorite movies (and recent DVD purchase) Sliding Doors, starring Gwenyth Paltrow. I also meant to write a little something or other on my dear friend's last-Friday wedding, in which she shed her well-worn "Thom"-ness to become Mrs. Abigail Mae Wallace. After seeing this movie about "fate" (more on that later) and the "what if's" of life and love, I can't help but think of Abby and her new marriage...and breathe a big sigh of relief.

You see, when I met Abby, before she became the indispensable BFF presence in my life that she now most definitely is, she was dating my good friend...dear sweet Jim...

Good friend, bad boyfriend.

Just to refresh your memory (I say "refresh" because anyone who's anyone has seen it more than once), Sliding Doors inter-cuts between Gwenyth's character's life as it would have been with and without a series of events triggered by the missing/catching of her train home. Without getting too detailed, in one scenario, she gets home in time to catch her cheating boyfriend "in the act", which causes her to run into (while drowning her sorrows in a nearby pub) a man whom she happened to meet on the train earlier that day whom she ends up falling in love with and who turns out to be the one...a.k.a., the right guy. In the second scenario where she misses her train, she is delayed by extraneous circumstances and barely misses the exit of her loser boyfriend's mistress from their apartment, giving her no reason not to drag out an unhappy relationship with the sniveling sorry-excuse-for-a-man "whanker" (the movie was set in England). Of course there's a twist and a happy ending, which you should really see for yourselves if you haven't (cause, frankly, anyone who's anyone has...really, you should get with the program).

All that to say, I couldn't help thinking of my Abby's life as a mirror to the plot. Let's say Jim is "the wrong guy". Now don't get me wrong...Jim (Abby's ex) was not at all the cheating asshole that this character in the movie was. Jim is, like I said, a good friend to me who just happened at the time to be a not-so-good boyfriend. In truth--and the bottom line here--is that he just wasn't the right guy. (Jim is, however, the right guy to a great girl and is engaged to be married in September, so it's no hard feelings, really.)

It was really by a merciful twist of "fate" (we Christians tend to give credit to God in these matters, not to elusive concepts with origins in outlandish Greek myth, but hey...we'll say "fate" for the sake of the movie parallel) that Abby and Jon (her new husband) came to be as well. Their connection was instant and out of nowhere and then put up against incredible odds--ultimately surviving an extended long-distance-relationship after a single magical date. Jon Wallace loves God first, treats Abby with care and respect, cherishes her presence in his life, and loves her enough to drop his signature raised-by-wolves manhood and sob through his B-U-TI-FUL hand-written vows in front of all his friends and family (anyone who didn't cry with him either couldn't hear, or had a heart made of cold black stone). Jon is, without a doubt, her right guy.

(FYI: Movie spoilers to follow...)

In Sliding Doors, when the heroine's life that really happened is revealed, you realize that it was because of a tragedy inflicted on her in connection with her loser boyfriend that she finally meets her true love...That in fact, the "bad scenario" was really the better one, and that the bad things that happened to her were necessary to get her where (and with whom) she really needed. Truth is, I owe alot to God for Jim's presence in Abby's life.

I know that Jim wasn't the ideal boyfriend to her and that it caused her pain when their relationship didn't pan out after trying to make it work for so long and that watching the man she mistook for the right guy turn into an ex-boyfriend with no Jon in sight (yet) wasn't a comforting experience--but if it hadn't been for all of that...here's an awful thought...I might never have met Abby.

THAT would have been an utter tragedy.

I am not Abby's true love by any means, but I believe that we are true friends and meant to be in each other's lives. As she has heard many times (and I never tire of telling people when I talk about her), she was the first direct answer to my prayer for a true friend, and I know God himself handpicked her to fill that role. And (another utterly tragic and awful thought) without Abby's friendship, I would never have gained the friendship of my other indispensable BFF closest friend, Emily, who I also cannot imagine life without.

Abby was the doorway.

And now, the Lord has provided Abby with a doorway of her own into the life she's meant to live with Jon--the right guy.

I am so excited when I think of all that is before her...the overwhelming emotions that grow over time, the ceaseless joy of sharing unconditional love, the constantly unfolding revelation of God's love for her through Jon, the honor of sharing in a covenant that is the same as that which Adam and Eve first shared in the garden. And now, by the grace and foreknowledge of God (not "fate", might I add), she will have friends who will be bonded to her and committed to walking with her in her new life of true love and marriage.

In fact, all is as it was always meant to be.

Though it was painful at the time to watch one doorway close, the series of events that followed has lead to something so much more wonderful: the right life, the right friends, and--most importantly--the right guy.

Congratulations, Mr. Jon and Mrs. (AAAAAH! You're a MRS.!) Abby Wallace. May the Sliding Doors in your life always be opened and closed according to the Lord's perfect will, and may the door of our friendship remain eternally open.

I love you both.

The Torture Chair of Periodontitis

2005-06-28T17:17:00.000-07:00

I just got back from The Torture Chair of The Second Circle of Hell (aka, the dentist's office) to have more plaque (yes, this was round two) dug violently from my gums for an hour and a half with sharp (and frequently sharpened--awful sound) objects while I struggle not to choke on saliva I can't feel slipping down my throat, all the while keeping my mouth open against the stabbing pain in my neck (I think they should numb that part too). Oh, and did I mention that the numbness wore off almost immediately this time? Yeah. Awesome.

And yeah, it's my own fault. A lifetime of not flossing has led to early Periodontitis, or advanced Gum Disease, in which so much plaque hardens on your teeth that your gums have to recede to make room for it, causing heightened hot/cold sensitivity, and eventually, gum decay and recession to the point that your teeth could actually fall out. Gross.

After discovering this disgusting situation apparantly occuring in my mouth, needless to say, I am a maniac about my dental heigene. I take more time at night getting my teeth ready for bed than I do my face, which is really an amazing thing for somebody who once had a list of dermatologist-perscribed products taped to her bathroom mirror the size of a legal-sized piece of printer paper.

(I think I should add here that I just tried to drink water and spilled on myself. My lips were apparantly much number than my teeth seem so be, as they are starting to throb.)

I must also report that I am now the proud owner of a new Sonicare toothbrush--a gut wrenching $250 purchase I was told by my dentist was NOT OPTIONAL for periodontal disasters like myself (which wasn't a total loss because the cheap $10 Oral B one I had bought after my last visit thinking I'd beaten the over-priced-designer-toothbrush system moved from my bathroom counter and into my bedside table drawer). This amazing Sonic-cising toothbrush (which i no longer regret purchasing) takes two full minutes to clean my teeth, and honestly, makes them feel cleaner than they ever have. Supposedly it will massage my gums back to life from the brink of decay--not unlike those electric paddles that shock your heart back into rythm after it stops (Clear!)--which is also not such a bad thing. AND, it came with a whole extra system for Jer, so now we can have his and hers healthy gums and teeth and he is assured to NEVER have to endure the scraping and ripping and bleeding (I can taste it as we speak) that I had to sit through just this afternoon.

I also floss EVERY NIGHT. Which, let me tell all you non-flossers out there, is not really that big of a deal. Go figure! I mean it goes pretty fast after you've gotten used to it (and compared to the two full minutes of brushing I now do each night) and I've been surprised at how much gunk is still in there after you brush your teeth! I mean chunks of food people! Who knew?

And then, I go the extra mile with a two-minute-swishing of PerioCheck, a Periodontic Antibacterial Wash. It tastes like poo and you can't drink water or eat afterwards (which completely eliminates the whole glass of water before bedtime and the midnight snack--which are both no-nos for my acid reflux so I guess I shouldn't complain), but keeps my whole mouth completely bacteria free and plaque-hardening repellent.

All of this takes about 5 whole minutes, start to finish, and I actually am done moisturizing by the time I'm done swishing my mouthwash. This means the entire focus of my evening's bedtime preparations have to do with my teeth. I would be bothered by this...

...Until I recall the events of this afternoon.

And suddenly, somehow, preventative dental heigene seems like the most important thing on the planet.

Let his be a warning to you all...all you non-flossing, regular-old-tooth-brush-brushing, non mouth-washing civilians out there: Dental hygene is war, Peacock (please tell me you've seen Clue and recognize this quote). And trust me, you don't want to end up a prisoner in the POW camp of the enemy...their Torture Chair is a dirty bitch.

Ode to the Tree Cutter Man

2005-06-27T15:21:00.000-07:00

Oh Cutter of offending trees,
What joy you bring into my life!
You cleared my canyon of the crows,
and gave us back our line of sight,

Of ocean blue, afar and wide,
Of sunrise that I've hardly seen,
Because I'm often still in bed,
Still lost in late or early dreams.

Oh Cutter Man, I know you not,
But still I thank you every day,
For giving back what we have missed:
The view we loved in every way!

So now I raise my cup of tea,
In honor of your nameless face,
And say "Long live the Cutter Man!"
May he ever walk in joy and grace.

Amen.

WAY Too Cool.

2005-06-24T04:19:00.000-07:00

Okay. I just figured out how to add pictures. This is way too cool for school. Just so's ya know, this is a random pic I took of the trolley when Jer and I went to San Diego for Valentines Day. There'll be alot more pics from now on. TOO. COOL.

Lumines for PSP

2005-06-24T02:42:00.000-07:00

Note: For the record, I just figured out how to make links from your blog...how cool is that? Be expecting a little over-linking for awhile until the novelty wears off.

For my 24th birthday (yes, that was this year...still the youngest), my wonderful step-dad gave me the most coveted portable gaming system ever known...the Play Station Portable, aka, the PSP. And it's easy to see why it's so well sought after: The picture quality is better than an LCD or Plasma screen TV, it plays your favorite movies via adorable little mini PSP DVD's , it plays almost every game Play Station has ever offered...in fact it is basically an entire Play Station system in the palm of your hand (technically, hands).

Now I've always been a Nintendo gal myself--you know, Donkey Kong, Super Mario World..the classics--but this thing is threatening to convert me. It all began on the plane ride back from Hawaii when I watched Spider Man 2, and it was SO GOOD I don't even feel the need to see it again on a "real screen" (like those stupid $5 rip-off plane movies)...even though the PSP screen is only roughly 4" by 2", the movie practically jumped off the screen at me. GREAT for travel...which I am doing alot of this summer.

But lately the nifty little gadget has become even more awesome in my eyes because of the following: Lumines. Addictive little sucker. It's a game--kind of like Tetris, but more involved. I'm telling you, this single addictive force has kept me cooped up in the darkness of my office for hours on end on beautiful Southern California Summer days pretending to be blogging or checking e-mail so Jer won't chastise me for playing it so much--I mean noon and night. (I can't say "morning, noon, and night" cause I'm lucky to be up before 1 in the afternoon lately.) I mean, I am going CRAZY over it. I have shirked my chores, missed Oprah and Dr. Phil for weeks straight (gasp!), and have perpetuated my whack waking/sleeping schedule with Lumines binges lasting through the wee hours in which I should be attempting to sleep (of course, there's the teeth clenching that prevents even my most noble attempts from taking hold, but that's another story.) In short, it is running my life. And I've decided to put a stop to it.

I have decided and Hereby Decree...

No more Lumines unless:
- I crack the Bible or get some QT with The Man
- My chores are done
- Dinner is ready
- I've thought about working out (If I wait until I actually do I'll never play it again)
- My husband has had enough quality time with me
- I have blogged and read my BFF's blogs (see Little Poka Bean and Undercover Celebrity)

And...

No more Lumines when:
- It's past midnight
- It's sunny outside
- I'm on the toilet (it's not very conducive to relaxing and letting things flow if you catch my meaning.)

This doesn't leave me much time with it at all, but perhaps that's for the best. A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do. It's time to rejoin civilized society. And who knows? Maybe the whole clenching thing is just my body releasing leftover tension after thumbing away at making boxes against a time limit all day. Anyways, there's bound to be more sleeping going on around the Clements house at the proper time if all goes well.

Which means, for a change, you may actually be able to get ahold of me before 2pm.

Let's hope so.

The Happiest Place on Earth: Our 6 Year Anniversary

2005-06-22T15:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I celebrated my 6th Anniversary with the love of my life, my better half, the Best of the Best BFF's--my Jeremy. In keeping with Jeremy's awesome surprise track record, Jeremy spent the entire two weeks prior to the big day telling me that we should keep things mellow, avoid gifts, and just plan on a nice quiet dinner somewhere. Of course, on the day of, he managed to take me to Ramos House for brunch, take the whole day off from work to hang with me, whisk me off to Disneyland (he managed to get free tickets from some of his mom's dance students who are in the Fantasmic show) and then take me to "dinner"...at the #1 rated restaurant by the Zagat survey, Napa Rose, inside the California Adventure theme park hotel. AWESOME. And, as a gift, he bought us both Deluxe Season Passes so we can go to The Happiest Place on Earth and the Clements couple's single most sentimental location pretty much any ol' time we please for a whole year. MORE AWESOME. And, it's Disneyland's 50th Anniversary celebration, so everything is EVEN MORE AWESOME. If I were any more excited, I might just die of a Disney-induced heart attack!

I don't know what the heck it is about Disneyland that gets the grown-woman-of-24 that I am so flippin' excited. Ever since I was a kid visiting from Hawaii, I thought it was just the most wonderful place ever. I have seen (and own) almost every Disney movie (the good ones at least) and actually watch them from time to time. When Jer first asked me my favorite place to be in the world, I said Disneyland, which led to his decision to post-marriage-propose to me there. My first year living in California, we got season passes and spent many of our early marriage date-nights there. And yesterday, being there on our sixth anniversary just felt like the perfect end to our six years of marriage and the perfect way to begin our seventh. (Yup. I know. It's gonna be 7 next. CRAZY.)

Napa Rose was A-MA-ZING. If you ever have $60 per person to spend, this is the place to go. We had THE BEST SALAD I HAVE EVER HAD IN MY WHOLE LIFE there. It was a warm spinach salad with candied pecans and thick yummy strips of bacon topped with (get this) a honey glazed wood-fire oven baked peach stuffed with goat cheese.

Just take a moment to imagine how awesome this tasted.

If you are imagining how delicious this was, you are going to have to imagine that it's about twice as delicious as that.

Yeah, it was that good.

Then, we had a pheasant and wild mushroom soup with crispy gniocci dumplings. I love gamey meats and mushrooms so this was heaven for me. Jeremy is a huge gniocci fan, so betwixt the both of us we licked the platter clean, so to speak. (you've all heard that nursery rhyme about "Jack Spratt could eat no fat...", right? If not, you won't get that last part.)

For the main course we split a t-bone of Colorado lamb with basil pesto sauce. I order lamb almost any time it's on the menu and have had it in many different states prepared many different ways (if you ever get to the Vine in San Clemente, you MUST order it) so I can't say that this was the best persay, but suffice to say that Jer and I were so into it that we actually ended up picking up the bone with our fingers in a six star restaurant and sucking every last piece of meat off of it without giving the people around us a second thought. Plus I've never had it t-bone style, which was really special and super delicious...kind of like a lamb filet mignon. Mmmm. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

Afterwards, we tried to get out into the middle of the park to see the new 50th Anniversary fireworks show, but we didn't get a chance because it was SO crowded...I mean THOUSANDS of people and Main Street lined up to Chrystal Arcade (for those of you unfamiliar with Disneyland's layout, this is almost to the entrance, which is far cause the fireworks take place in the center of the park at Sleeping Beauty's castle), but we did manage to snag a great standing spot for Fantasmic (everybody was watching the fireworks so we had our pick for the best view). If you haven't seen Fantasmic yet, you MUST see it. For a Disneyland-buff/softie like me, it was the kind of amazing that could move you to tears (and in my case, did move me to tears).

At any rate, the anniversary I thought would be the "mellow"-est one turned out to be the best one we've ever had. And that is just how awesome my husband is. After six years, he is still working overtime to make every day so special--from the milestones to the manini (hawaiian for "small potatoes"). If there is one thing I can say has been a great secret to our unbelievably happy marriage, it is that my husband never takes me for granted...he is so attentive, so thoughtful, so selfless...he sees every day as the start of a mission to make me feel loved...And after six years of marriage, I love him more than I ever have and we are closer than we have ever been. I mean, what greater miracle in life is there than that? God truly gave me the man of my dreams...MORE WONDERFUL than my dreams ever were. I know that we have many more happy years before us...If we live long enough, there's no doubt we will see our 60th!

The truth is, my husband did give me a season pass to The Happiest Place on Earth...not yesterday at Disneyland, but six years ago in the Santa Ana Courthouse. Because a life spent by his side makes anywhere we are the happiest place on earth to me.

Heaven's Asphalt

2005-06-16T14:59:00.000-07:00

"...And the street of the city was pure gold, like transparent glass." Revelations 21:21

Yesterday evening, Jer and I attended the Bar-Mizvah of a close friend of my father's son's house in Malibu (does that make sense?). Of course, my father's close friend is a multi-millionaire and the house was a ridiculously humungous mega-mansion on the Malibu bluffs with an ocean view-from-the-top that could take your breath away.

The guest list was like a who's who of L.A.'s minor millionaires (and a few billionaires). The setting was their massive outdoor balcony complete with a lap pool (roped off, of course) that appeared to fall off into the sea, massive night-lit waterfalls, a koi pond (complete with a bridge), countless statues and pieces of original artwork (some spewing water), a dance floor and live samba band, 3 tables stuffed with the freshest fruit and the yummiest hor dourves and finger foods you could imagine, 3 full service bars (yes ladies...I partook on behalf of you all), and--unfortunately--an alarming amount of buddha statues. There was a magic show by the magician being trained under Lance Burton (I was called up to pick a card which he later skewered with a sword and let me keep--still don't know how on earth he did that). There were bejeweled frames at every seat and chocolates stamped with the Bar-Mitzvah-ed boy's name--Derek Ezra Brown--for party favors, and all the boys got to wear and take home embossed leather yarmulkes. The napkins were made of silk, people...silk!!!...NAPKINS!!!!

To tell you the truth, I was impressed. But also to tell you the truth, I was a little uncomfortable. Having grown up in Hawaii with my family's reputation, I am not used to feeling inferior because of my social status. Here, however, I was fully aware that the measuring stick I have used to determine that my life was indeed a very successful one was not going to be honored here. A much more sinister measuring stick was king here...money. This is a setting in which asking what one does for a living is not inappropriate, but welcomed--a social dance common among the financial elite, a game of pat-eachother-on-the-back between cronies, a way of bonding with other uber-rich status holders. There was an air of "specialness" that everyone seemed to be wearing, as if we were all invited to--not a bar-mitzvah--but a new level. We are here. Just look at the world below us, so small and insignificant. Each "How are you" was like a "Congratulations". Each "Nice to meet you" was like a "Aren't we fabulous?" and a wink. Every friendly nod across the room was like saying "If you're here, you must be okay. You are accepted. Welcome to our world."

I would also be lying if I said I wasn't a little suckered. I was invited here. I was hot in my sassy dress (I was workin' it people) and everyone loved my hair. My husband was hands down the hottest man within a hundred miles of the party. I am Don Ho's daughter. I used to be a star. I used to really belong here. I could belong here again. If I really wanted to I could...

I was asked many times what my husband does for a living. I'd pipe up nonchalantly: "He started his own business a few months ago...he sells batteries and computer components...I know, boring right? But let me tell you dahling it's surprising lucrative." And I'd make a surprised face like I can't believe my good fortune and laugh with that airy laugh that says "dahling you have no idea how lucrative it really is." We'd double kiss on both cheeks and part ways knowing nothing about eachother other than what our husbands did for a living and where we lived.

Almost all the men were old and had women on their arms that were younger than them, but still well older than me--and they all had gotten plastic surgery at least at some point in order to appear more youthful. I was one of the only blondes there, and definitely the only young blonde there. And Jeremy...well he was definitely the youngest adult man there. And like I said definitely the hottest. And everyone who didn't know my connection to Dad (and many who did) assumed that a young computer entrepreneur and his wife found hob-nobbing and rubbing elbows with the likes of them must be very "well-off" indeed.

If there is anything that my past career in music has taught me, it is how to make people believe more earnestly what they already want to believe, and let me tell you...I turned it on. That deceptive skill mixed with a natural penchant for social-chameleon color-changing can be a deadly combination, and I didn't hesitate to give them the show they wanted to see--chest pushed out, standing up straight, a swagger in my step, double cheek kissing, and flirting with the room till I was sure they loved me and the man on my arm enough to eat out of our hands. I was starting to feel the pull of the past tugging on me again stronger than ever. The more I blended in, the less of me I could define clearly. I was making them see what they wanted to see...not that I was ashamed of the truth...I just...

Even I didn't know why I was doing it...or I was afraid to admit it to myself.

After many hours of putting on these ridiculous airs (which now make me rather nauseous to recall myself doing) I found myself going through the dinner buffet line. I had eaten like a pig earlier, thinking that they could not possibly be serving an actual dinner on top of all those ridiculously lavish and plentiful hor dourves, so I wasn't really all that hungry and was dallying while I picked and choosed what I would put in the tiny remaining space I still had left in my stomach. Jeremy headed back to our table with his plate full. As I deliberated over the salmon, a man walked up to me. He was old...probably 65 years old at least. He was ugly and had white hair, as well as a thick French accent.

"Put it on your plate."
"Excuse me?" I said.
"You must try it mademoiselle. It is blah blah blah blah blah" (blah means he's speaking French.)
"If I spoke French, I'd probably know whether or not that was good or bad." I said coyly.
"Very good." he assured me.
"Well if you say so." I said, flashing a smile and giving my plate to the server. I have a problem where I flirt when I get nervous even though I don't mean to. But the man seemed harmless enough. I mean, I'm a quarter his age at least. He can't be talking to me because of that. He must know who my father is and want to be introduced. He wouldn't be the first to try that tonight.
"Who is that dark haired man I saw you sitting with? Is that..."
I smile knowingly. I've had this conversation before...many times. "Yes. That's Don Ho."
"Ahhh." He said, nodding as if I've confirmed his suspicions. "And he's?..."
"My father." I say nodding and smiling my best didn't he raise a nice girl? smile.
"Oh! Your father?" he said, sounding surprised.
"Yup." I say smiling and shrugging my shoulders like I always do...this serves as my way of acknowledging that I am aware he had me at the age most parents have their first grandchild.
"And that young man there," he said, motioning to Jeremy. "Is he your?..."
"Husband." I cut in.
"Ahhh." He said again. Then he continued, "You know that I have a home in Spain by the sea."
"Wow!" I say, humoring him.
"You are invited there whenever you wish...perhaps this summer you will come and visit me?"

Now, what happens next requires some explanation. First of all, this is at least the tenth time that night that Jer and I or my father and I or all of us had been invited somewhere to somebody's house in some exotic far-away location. This is the hundredth time this has happened to me in the course of my life at these sorts of social activities...invitations seem to follow celebrity, whether it be my Dad's celebrity or mine. Second of all, I know that these invitations serve mainly as opportunities to boast about exotic far-away property, and often as an opportunity to end a conversation with a new acquaintance that you rather like without seeming evasive or rude. And it is social protocol to always agree and say you will and won't it be lovely, and then part ways knowing you will most likely never talk to them again. Third of all, whether it be the party atmosphere or my own naivete or the excessive amount of alcohol in my system, to me this man seemed utterly harmless. He could've been my grandfather for France's sake! Taking all this into account, and the fact that I was sure that in this case he meant "all of you" and not just "me" having just referred to my husband and my dad, it may not surprise you to hear that I answered...

"Sure, I'd love to."
"I'm serious now..." he said teasingly. "Would you really like to come?"
"Why not?" I said, trying to appear game, thinking he's really taking this far, isn't he?
"Well then why don't you give me your number. I will memorize it."
"Sure." I said, (please keep in mind all the above explanations...) and I gave him my number. (Though I thought it odd he would ask for my number and not my dad's office.) After he had run it over in his head and said it out loud a few times, he said. "There, I've got it. I will be calling you very soon. This summer cherie...it will be beautiful."
"I can't wait!" I said, as if I believed all of this was true and not just a little socialite game, and flashed him my best good-bye smile.

But just as I was walking away with my plate of fish, it all went wrong...he caught my arm and pulled me back. He leaned in close to my ear and said softly enough to make my stomach turn:

"And be sure and leave that husband of your behind, cherie."

Yuck.

I was flabbergasted. I walked back to the table and told Jeremy about it immediately. He was of course ready to kill him, but of course I held him back. "Ignore him." I said, but I found I could not follow my own advice. I felt tricked...like I'd been had. How could I be so naive? As I thought back on the conversation, I realized that I had read everything all wrong. I had made him believe he had a chance by my behavior, not thinking it was possible that a man his age would fancy himself a candidate for a girl of my age.

But as I looked around me, it became all too clear. This was a land where money was the measuring stick...success was the standard. Everything was all about fame and money...We are the elite, we are the rich and famous, we look down on the world from the sky. Everybody there was used to getting whatever they want, no matter what rules they must break...they just bribe their way out of those. No thing is out of their grasp. To them, everything can be bought. And as long as there are things to be bought there are women to be bought who want those things and who will not hesitate to leave their husbands and fly to Spain for a romantic rendezvous with a complete (ugly) stranger forty years their senior.

As I looked around, I felt the spell that had begun to cloud my mind and taint my heart begin to lift and I saw. The gaudiness. The ridiculousness. The sadness. The arrogance. The falsehood. I saw the danger...The great sham it all really was...and the fear in all their eyes. The emptiness. I saw the massive buddhas and the plastic surgery-ed women and the excessiveness around me that could have fed and financed an entire third-world country and the loneliness of a perch so high off the ground and away from the touch of the ocean you see stretched out for miles in front of you and the people who played on it's shore.

And I saw my husband. A simple man with uncommon ambition, who took a risk starting his own business to be closer to me more often and trusted in the Lord to give us what we needed to get by. A man who works hard each day and does his best to seek the Lord with me and be the best husband he can be. A man who loves me more than anything God has created or ever will create, and who would walk through fire to see me content. A man who I love more than my own soul. He has struggled with me through the worst of times and shared with me the best of times. He gets up and works hard every day to provide for me and our future family with all he can while the Lord is blessing his business.

Why did I feel the need to perpetuate a lie about his financial status to make him seem worth something to these people? Was the Lord's provision not enough for me? I felt a sobering dose of shame slide down my throat.

"You guys got it."
"What?" I said, looking up to see who said it.
A 90-something-year-old entertainer now bound to wheelchair sitting at the next table over piped up again. "You guys got it."
I realized Jer and I had been holding hands and whispering to eachother. "Thanks," I said.
"I mean it," he said. "My wife and I have it too. Love. That's what you two have...I can tell. That's what really matters." As if he was reading our minds...or maybe he saw what we were beginning to see.
"Thank you," I said sincerely.

From that moment on, I decided that nothing--no thing or amount of things--would be worth the price of having their life. In fact, the more I looked, the more I realized that my little life was more successful than all of theirs put together. I have the Lord, I have true love, I have life-long friends, and I still want for enough to make me appreciate what I have.

In fact, the only things I still want for are the things that stay here on earth when I leave it. The things I've already been blessed with will be with me--and will still mean something--when I get to the life that truly matters. I already have the one thing their money can't buy--the one thing they want most, the life they wish for in their heart of hearts. I got it.

And so I walked away from the party and came down the hill with a new appreciation of my life, and a much clearer view of the direction I want for what was left of it here on earth. I watched as we drove past the moonlit ocean, close enough to hear the waves and see the sand. I held hands with my husband as we smiled knowingly at eachother, both seeing clearly for the first time that we will never find the grass greener anywhere than within the measure of the Lord's eternal success-measuring-stick. That in truth, a life blessed with faith and love and friendship is the best life possible, and though money and gold and life's material riches may come and go to finance the necessary consumerism of life, it is nothing but asphalt in heaven.

I just hope and pray that those people in the sky will find there way down to the truth for themselves someday. After all, asphalt can be a dangerously heavy weight against a human soul's chance to Rise.

Absence Makes The Heart Get Amnesia

2005-06-13T11:19:00.000-07:00

I'm baaaaaack!

I know that many tears have been shed for me in my absence, but at last, let the mourning cease! Sunshine has once again re-entered the skies and hearts of Southern Californians, as I--yes I--have returned.

Just kidding.

I missed you all probably more than you missed me. What fun is a pristine white-sand Hawaiian beach with perfectly-temperatured crystal-clear water without your best friends? Cold comfort y'all. Cold flippin' comfort.

In all honesty, I had a great time. Not just because I was livin' it up in paradise in the middle of it's best weather season...but because--drum roll please--my family actually didn't make me want to kill myself for once. The first thing I heard when I got off the plane was "everybody has been so excited that you're coming." I couldn't help but be a little suspicious, but when I got to the house, it proved to be the case...in fact, everybody was fawning all over us like royalty, practically tripping over themselves to exclaim how anxiously they've been waiting to see us. And they were being so nice. And it didn't wear off.

I watched my little brother graduate high school (and extended my trip so I could attend his kick-ass grad party!), celebrated my Auntie Liz's 50th birthday, celebrated my birthday with a family bar-b-que, enjoyed quality time with my family, went to church and heard Wendell preach again (Amen!), and most important, had some real connection time with my husband in the land that first brought us together. We frolicked. We cavorted. We disregarded the knowledge that "forgetting" sunscreen increases your risk of skin cancer. We wore bathing suits all day and all night. It was A-W-E-S-O-M-E.

Needless to say, by the time we really had to leave, I didn't really feel like it. Not that I didn't miss you all, but I just couldn't bear to leave all the fun. It's hard to explain to someone who has always lived in places similar to eachother...when you grow up in a place with such a different pace and a different way of life, it's hard not to just revert back to that old you who is more at home there than you are wherever not there is. I swear it's like some whack (if I may be so black for a moment as to get away with that adjective) form of amnesia, where as soon as you set foot on the soil of one home, you forget how awesome your other home is. It's like a comfortable old shoe that, as soon as you slip your foot into it, just feels like the only shoe meant for you--which makes having to leave that shoe for a new shoe that you have forgotten is also comfortable, just in a different way, that much more difficult.

On a side note, I think airlines are partially responsible for this amnesia. All that dehydration and decreasing personal space somehow makes your mind forget everything about where it's coming from and focus solely on where you're going. Those bastard cattle herders with their rationed water portions and sub-hospital food make flying a survival experience, not a "pleasure" as they try to pretend it is. "It's been a pleasure flying with you today." If we're giving them so much pleasure by flying with them you'd think they'd return the flippin' favor. At least let us keep our five bucks and still be able to watch the stupid movie. Considering that's half the price of a real movie and the theater screen is about a thousand times larger, I think it's a pretty huge rip-off.

Okay, I think I'm done ranting.

Luckily, it appears this travel amnesia works both ways. By the time I was back in my apartment in Dana Point, thinking of what awaited me in the coming weeks...reunions with friends, reunions with my closets (how do I love thee?...let me count the clothes...), summer bar-b-ques and girls nights and weddings (yay Poka!) and so much more...made me wonder why I ever wanted to stay in Hawaii.

I'm afraid I am just destined to be one of those people to whom the saying "home is where the heart is" will always have double meaning. It's fine as wine with me, as long as I keep on catching this amnesia of mine on my way in between.

And next time, I'll remember to bring my own damn water.

Embracing the "Emotional Hangover" and Learning to Write in Pen

2005-05-18T14:48:00.000-07:00

I just finished an excellent book (thanks Abby!) by Rebecca Wells called "Little Altars Everywhere". It's both strange and liberating to read a book with a main character so very much like yourself: It feels almost violating in a way--like somebody has taken your originality away-- but also comforting that there is somebody else out there who knows exactly how you feel.

Near the end of the book, my personality twin of the book, Siddalee Walker mentions something about getting an "emotional hangover" for a few days after having any contact with her family. I cannot fully express how ridiculously relevant this is to me at this moment. After spending an entire weekend with my family following a long four months of direct and frequent contact with select family members during my sister's wedding planning fiasco, I am definitely having Some Sort of Something that's making me crazy.

It's strange...you can spend six years away and then spend one moment in their presence--any of them--and feel like you did at the most awful moment of your entire relationship together. They all have this amazing way of taking away all the success and joy and love I have found in my life apart from them and making it feel meaningless. I turn right back into everybody's fix-it girl whipping-boy stupid-head who just takes the abuse up my ass like it was candy. No matter how much I am loved by my husband or how much I am loved by my friends, just one hour in their presence makes me feel as unlovable as sh*t flushed down a toilet.

Why, I wonder. It is not as though they inflict any deliberate cruelty on me. Or that they even try to be impossible. They tell me they love me all the time. They say they are proud of me. They smile at me when we talk and kiss me on the cheek when they leave. But it's what they don't do...what they don't say that the heart picks up on. It's all the secret past things that they have always been able to do to your heart oozing out of every inch of them. Or it's everything else. One moment they can't stop praising me, and just a second later they are making me feel ten inches tall in some other way. It's just natural to them. It's as if my happiness and contentment is a threat to them. And they take every chance they can find to put me back in my place. I can almost hear the inaudible whispers:

"You're one of us, remember?"

"We know you for who your truly are and you still make us sick."

"If everybody else knew, they'd stop loving you and see you for the idiot child you always have been."

I know that it is just the opposite...that I have never been known or loved until I met Jer, that I was never a "self" until I left them and discovered that I have value beyond the fulfillment of their needs. That they didn't hold the key to my life's success in their hands as they made me believe, but the key to my failure. That if they hadn't been so afraid of how much I loved them and needed their approval, they might have been able to actually give me some love and approval I needed.

I think what they resent me the most about is how much they have all in their unique ways needed me. Sure, all parents respect and look in awe upon their children and all younger siblings are taught to look up to and respect their older siblings. But parents should never lean on a child for support, or see their old-soul wisdom as an equivalent to adulthood--an excuse to check-out of the parenthood they didn't sign up for.

I have to check myself often...especially during these emotional hangovers when I am tempted to feel sorry for myself and give bitterness a foothold.

"Poor me."

"It's not fair."

"I get no thanks for all that they've put me through."

"Without me they'd be nothing."

All of these things I have to fight against at all costs. And when I fight against them, I have to be careful: I can't do it for them...in order to not let them have their way, to not let them have the last word. I have to do it for the Lord's blessing, myself, and those that depend on me.

I will not feel sorry for myself because I will not let myself give in to Satan's desire to see me crawl up inside myself away from Jeremy and die like that.

I will not complain about justice because if I got what I deserved in this life, I'd be lost...and far be it from me to be as ungrateful as telling God he dealt me the wrong hand.

I will not depend on the praise of man, nor will I ask for recognition for decency.

And I will not let arrogance infect my soul and draw me further from Christ.

It's just difficult, that's all. It's hard not to let all the ugliness and anger and rage and bitterness and injustice overtake you and make you one of them. It's unbelievably difficult.

I guess it's pretty unrealistic to say I don't do it for them in some small way--more to not be like them. But maybe that isn't such a bad reason to try--it just can't be the whole reason, I think. I'll have to sort through that one a little more before I can cast my anchor either way.

***

My mom told me right before she left (at the beginning of my emotional hangover), for like, the seventh time since she'd arrived in California: "You've just got to let it go, sweetie. You gotta stop letting it all affect you so much." I had to resist the urge I always have to just ignore her advice--after all, how can you truly accept advice from somebody who--a good 26 years older--spent the majority of your childhood asking you for advice? But when Jeremy said the same thing to me the next day out of the blue (in the throes of a full blown emotional hangover) I had to give it some weight.

I've always prided myself on being good at processing things, but now I was being caught of guard with an accusation of the opposite. If I truly am having trouble letting it go, then I needed to be honest with myself. If it's true, then why can't I just let it all go? Why does it all still affect me so much? More importantly, why at 23 (almost 24) years old, am I still having these damned emotional hangovers?

Of course my mom think's it's easy. It is easier for her. She had a life before my father and the creation of the abyss of sin and innocent-child-mind-f#cking that was our Diamond Head home. She got to choose when she'd leave and find a new person to love and connect herself to. I don't ever get that choice--they are my family, and I am connected for life whether I like it or not. It was all I knew, and once I figured it all out and tried to move on, the aftermath of it is all I have known.

I'm like a veteran of a war everyone pretends never happened. But not in the way you think of most war veterans--my mom most closely resembles one of those. She pulled herself up from her roots and signed her name to a tour of duty before the war began, and when she left she had somewhere else to go home to. I, on the other hand, was born with my name already signed. The war was my home and will always be my roots (if not my home anymore, thank God). I was a soldier from the moment I was born--hell, from the womb! I fought for life against my mother while nicotene and alcohol and tears and suffering and wishing I was gone coursed from her soul and into the skin and sinew of my forming peanut body. I was born knit together by the thread of regret, then breathed my first breath in the thickness of scandal and shame and pain and betrayal. My own father refused to witness or be associated with my birth and sent my mother up into the hospital from the service elevator because he was so ashamed of my existence! I was placed in the hands of my father's wife as he told her that I meant he was not coming back to her and she sobbed over my tiny body, mourning for her lost home that I represented. My mother had a bag packed to leave him a week before the skipped period announcing my life reached her heart and told her she had no where to go and no way to raise a baby on her own.

I had just to live to be hurt. Just to breathe to be resented. Just to exist to be an enemy.

I am made up of invisible scars--some still open in spite of my best attempts, some healing in spite of their best attempts, and some already healed (but not without much effort to keep them closed).

I guess the reason people think I have such a heard time letting go may be that it's true. I think what is closer to the truth is that I just have a hard time pretending. Things do still affect me. And they still affect everyone else too--Mom, Dad, Kaimana, Kea, Auntie, Haumea--Wendell even. They just don't know how to reconcile what they want to be and who they were. They think that pretending a part of them doesn't exist will make it disappear, or that being somebody else in the present erases who they were in the past. But the truth is that you can't erase anything in life once it's been written down in the history books. We are not made of pencil, but pen. We can't dictate what we have drawn ourselves as in the past--only what we will draw ourselves as in the future. We can only build on that ugliness and shame, drawing layer after layer after layer over that former awful version of ourselves until it's form is lost under the new self we create. And before you know it, that new drawing is beautiful and lovely and smiling, and it's still just as true and real as what hurts you to admit is under it all.

I think it's a shame when people try to forget that old outline, because then they never truly see it clearly enough to re-draw it well. And in the end, it just sticks out all over and sneaks out from the background to show itself when they aren't ready to see it.

And I think that's just the reason why I'm here right now, today, sitting in front of my computer after reading a book about myself, coming up quietly on the end of an emotional hangover. Because my family knows only the ugly and shameful lines that make up my self. Before I was old enough to draw for myself, they were the ones drawing me that shameful way. And when they handed over the pen, it was all I knew how to draw for myself until I left them and learned how to draw all over again.

It makes me sad for them that they may never see the truth about the new wonderful and beautiful and lovable picture that I am because they are afraid it will erase the old me they knew how to draw--and taught me how to draw--so well.

If only they could see the new lines I have drawn over theirs and accept them. If only they could admit I was better at drawing myself than they were. If only they could forgive themselves for handing me the pen at such an early age.

Maybe I do have a hard time letting go. But I think that it may be what has saved me more than what will destroy me. I think that knowing the truth--I mean knowing it: taking a good hard look at it and not being afraid of what you see--and having the strength to put it in the middle of the road (where anybody who walks along your life can find it) and step over it is more important than dropping it into the black hole of your psyche because it's too painful for you to look at. I think that's how they all got to be so good at drawing ugliness and so bad at drawing love--cause they never stopped to look at what their pen was drawing before they took another stab-stroke at the page.

And if leaving it all in the middle of my life's road means that they--or even I--can run back to it to try to make me feel bad or ashamed with it all over again, then so be it. If it means I have to have the occasional quick-fading hangover because of it, then so be it. If it means I have to spend my whole life seeing all the lines instead of some, then so be it. If it means I have to depend that much more on the Lord to nurse every last wound to healing, then so be it.

Just a little more venting, just a little more talking, just a little more writing--just a little hair from the dog that bit me--and I know I'll be off this hangover and back on my feet.

All in all, I'm not convinced that having an emotional hangover is such a bad thing. It's just the time you need to re-adjust your vision to what's really in front of your eyes--to help your eyes stop seeing only the lines they've convinced you to focus and begin to see the whole picture again.

So I'll drink this bitter drink now--as cutting and stinging as it may be going down--and I will start my next moment fresh. I'll put my pen down, roll my shoulders and stretch my fingers, say a prayer to the Lord for Him to guide my hand, and I'll grab Jeremy's non-drawing hand with mine for comfort. And when I pick up my pen again I will know full well what it is capable of...and what I am capable of with it held firmly at the mercy of my fingers. I will be responsible for what it draws, and I will never pretend I have not drawn something that I wish I could erase.

And if that means I never let go, then so be it.

Stupid People Just Get Stupider and Stupider

2005-05-04T22:04:00.000-07:00

It's true folks. While the rest of us critical thinkers do what we do best...think critically, stupid people do what they do best...be stupid.

Yes, I am talking about my Auntie Liz and Kea. This is probably a continuation of "Getting out of Egypt" in many ways, but it's been bothering me all day, so that normally means it's what I should blog about. :)

Let us set the scene.

I'm busy. I am planning my sister Kaimana's wedding and was helping with the second birthday party of my little hanai (a Hawaiian word for "just like, but not by blood") niece, Elsa. I am planning the bachelorette party of the CENTURY for aforementioned sister Kaimana and I am packing for a week away from home in which I will have to be completely ready for aforementioned wedding AND aforementioned bachelorette party BY FRIDAY. Then my family is coming down to visit/stay with me in my home, which means my home has to be SPOTLESS and ready for guests...which it never is unless...well...guests are coming (which means there's a lot of back-cleaning to do).

In order to not bore you with every last detail of my life, I will leave it at that and have faith that you have, by now, gotten the point.

Most important to this story is the fact that I have long been over the idea that life revolves around me and my family and the drama we all have in common (which was all I knew for the first 18 years of my life).

In times of busy-ness, this lack of drama-susceptibility becomes extra-apparent for those who would prefer to see me caught up in it because I don't have time to walk them gently through my detatchment. This puzzles and hurts them, and often leads to power plays much like the one I am about to outline for you.

Now, envision that it's last Friday. Auntie Liz and I are in the midst of an argument. I hang up on her (a merciful move, I thought, considering what I was planning to say if I stayed on the line) and leave it at that. She and Kea attempt to call me all day, and I ignore their phone calls. After all, I am still thinking those nasty things and can't trust myself not to say them should I get the chance (again, I feel I was being merciful here.) The next day is Elsa's party. Then, I am launched into what I knew would be my "Hell Week" before Kaimi's Week of Finishing Touches--to be spent in SB--followed by Weekend/Life of Blissful Marriage. I get lost in my busy-ness, and frankly, forget about my sad little Auntie and her sad little mini-me of a daughter, Kea.

Big mistake.

Turns out, the two most self-centered people in the world have decided that because I didn't return their phone calls MOMENTS AFTER the incident in question, I have been secretly and maliciously planning to never speak to them again and hurt their feelings by not calling to APOLOGIZE for hanging up the phone because it's DISRESPECTFUL. Why did I hang up the phone in the first place you ask?

Guess.

Give up?

Auntie Liz said, in reference to an instance when she and Kea had been treated badly by a black postal worker...and I quote: "Well Hoku, you know how rude black people can be."

First off, a side note: This is probably the seventh (I kid you not) derogatory statement in which black people are rounded up and decided to be something bad and described that way as a race by Kea and/or Auntie Liz. Second off, what's up with my mixed race family and racism?????

A side side note: I know I appear to be some sort of crusader against racism (and it's true, I do feel strongly that it's unacceptable). I would like to point out, however, that this is most likely because I have had two blowouts IN THE PAST TWO MONTHS (when it rains, it pours) with both my mothers who have made racist comments to me or communicated racist thoughts to me.

And now, I continue.

Now where was I? Ah yes. I had apparently neglected to apologize for being disrespectful by hanging up the phone. Now, forgive me, but isn't characterizing the temperment of an entire race based on one or two or even twenty women disrespectful?

But really, I'm still digressing, because what Auntie Liz said to me that began the argument is beside the point.

I will continue with my story.

So we were at the point in the story where I have meant no ill will, yet have gotten busy and forgotten to call back and resolve the "issue" that has apparently arisen.

So Kea calls me? Nope. She calls KAIMANA--the stressed out future bride, neck deep in her last finals, franticly getting ready to turn over her apartment and go to Greece on her honeymoon. Kea calls KAIMANA, UPSET, asking her why I won't call them back or answer their phone calls. Now, keep in mind that they haven't tried to call me since a few hours after the argument and it's been five days since then.

Why on earth would Kaimana know?

Apparently, Kaimi has been transpiring with me to avoid them.

Ridiculous.

Kaimana then calls me and warns me that Kea and Auntie Liz are all "in a tizzy" trying to get ahold of me.

I would just like to take a moment to point out this classic Ho Family moment. You see how something little gets turned into a big drama? That's they're M.O., those crazy Ho's...get as many people involved in your drama as you can and make as many people suffer with you as you can. SOMETHING BAD IS HAPPENING TO ME! OH THE INJUSTICE! NOW EVERYBODY HAS TO CARE ABOUT AND BE IN ON MY PAIN! HOW DARE YOU HAVE A LIFE! HOW DARE YOU BE BUSY! WE WERE TRYING TO CALL YOU!

I can recognize this pattern from a mile away--being, by now, a Ho Family Drama Expert. And what, pray-tell, makes the fact that they have been feeding off of eachother's little pity party drama even more glaringly obvious than it already would be to me, oh Expert that I am? Perhaps the fact that THEY DIDN'T TRY TO CALL ME, BUT CLAIM THAT THEY DID. The moment a lie has to be told to bolster your case, the moment it starts to weaken. I know this, and therefore I know a rat's in the room before I even have to smell it. They are pulling a classic Ho maneuver. Let us explore this fascinating phenomenon...

Picture, if you will, that I am B. They, on the other hand, are A. Kaimana is C. They are used to being able to mess with B directly, but no longer can. C has also long been out of their control, so A is always suspicious that B and C are in kahootz against them, therefore threatening A deeply and causing blind paranoia. So A hatches a plan. In order to engage B--who no longer responds to A in the way A intends--A goes for C, who will be able to engage B. Better yet, they will try to get C on their side by telling lies so C is now involved in A, and will vouch for A. This will supposedly make B either a) upset, or b) outnumbered, therefore weaker--or both.

Observe the carnage. This is the M.O. of weak people. It is the gang mentality. Instead of having strength on their own or dealing with things on their own, they get as many people as they can involved, whether it be for the right reasons or not (It doesn't matter because stupid people don't want the right reasons, they want to be right)

Another M.O. of weak people...bring up mistakes from the past in an attempt to make the stronger person feel bad and take a less dominant position.

Observe.

So I call Kea. I leave a message because she doesn't answer. I tell her that I have been busy, that it hasn't been malicious, that nothing evil is going on, and that if they've called, my phone's missed call log is a liar and I don't think that's the case. Most of all, I make it clear that if they have a problem, they should sack up and call me, not Kaimana, who has nothing to do with anything and what on earth would make you think that?

I get a call back after the amount of time it would take to immediately screen a call and listen to a message. Then I hear...FROM KEA...not Auntie Liz (observe how Aa has engaged Ab to make a bigger A and fight on Aa's behalf)

1) I should have called to apologize to them, because whatever anyone says, nothing could ever warrant the awful mean-ness of hanging up the phone on someone.
2) I should have bent over backwards to hang out with Auntie Liz no matter what's going on (even the planning of the weddng she is out here for) because she's only visiting for a little while and it really hurt her feelings this whole time when I've been so mean and intentionally not called her back when all she's wanted to do was hang out with me.
3) They hadn't heard from Kaimana either within the span of those five days, so how could they not assume she was "in on it"?
4) I should be responsible for being the adult in all situations and interactions with Auntie Liz while she will be free of responsibility and have full license to act like a child.

Okay, so Kea didn't actually say that last one out loud, but that's what I gathered.

After much explaining that I do in fact have a life beyond them and their desire to hang out (Hello!...I'm going to Hawaii to visit all of them right after the wedding!) and that they hadn't talked to Kaimana in weeks so why should these past five days be a sign of her allegiance to me against them--and obviously not getting through, I then proceed to call Auntie Liz and attempt to clear the air.

From her I find out...

1) She can do no wrong because every time I point out something or try to make her understand the way in which she might have overstepped her bounds in verbalizing that racist comment in front of Kea (who is well on her way to being a racist already and who is not a believer), I am told that I am being disrespectful and how dare I not apologize for hanging up the phone.
2) She is not responsible for any racist comment she might have said, because it doesn't matter if she said it, she doesn't really think that way, and I must have heard something different than what she said.

(Another side note: This marks the 788th time I've wished I'd recorded a discussion with Auntie Liz for evidence, since she can't seem to remember saying anything that implicates her in something requiring her to admit wrong-doing.)

3) She is not responsible for anything because apparently, I am responsible for anything that might have happened or anything she might have thought or felt during the time I neglected to do my respectful duty and call to apologize.

Again, I only inferred that last one...she didn't actually say it.

I make clear to her as best I can that for her daughter's sake, don't say anything like that around her anymore and for God's sake (literally), HOLD YOUR TONGUE WOMAN! In the middle of telling her all of this, what does she do?

Guess.

Give up?

She HANGS UP ON ME.

But of course, she calls me back that night while I'm on a fabulous date with my awesome husband and leaves a message on my answering machine saying in a sanctimonious voice that she is "calling to apologize for hanging up" and she doesn't want me to "let the sun go down on my anger".

Thanks for helping me steer clear of that one, Auntie.

Of course--because I knew how ridiculous our conversation had been and didn't feel at all different about what I was trying to say, whether she would listen or not--I hadn't given the incident another thought since she'd hung up until I listened to the message and learned that I shouldn't be angry anymore.

Glad that I have been apparently freed from any anger I may have been feeling, I decide to call Kea today because I am planning an outing for Jeremy's Mom, Jer, his brother Bill and I in which we will go to the famous House of Blues Gospel Brunch Mother's Day afternoon and was wondering if Kea and Auntie would like to come join us, as Kea and I had discussed in happier times. Auntie is after all--in some twisted way--a mother to me. I get a chilly response, but not too chilly that she would drive me away--the sad truth is, Kea wouldn't know the first thing about how to book tickets, so she's being nice to me because she needs me to do it for her.

Of course, a weak person who feels weak has two options. It all depends on whether or not you are a Stupid Weak Person, or a Smart Weak Person.

(I promise I am getting to point here, so just bear with me another moment.)

Observe:

Smart Weak Person: Learn from the stronger person by asking what to do, therefore gaining that knowledge and becoming less weak.

Stupid Weak Person: Get stronger person to be strong for you, then attempt to make them feel weak with a stupid comment so you don't appear as weak yet never learn so only become weaker and weaker and stupider and stupider, all the while believing you are better than other people because you say things that make you appear better and more in control.

Which one is Kea?

Guess.

Give up?

Apparently, Kea saw this as an opportunity to say:
"Yeah...sounds like fun...thanks for booking the tickets for us...and (snobby voice), well Hoku, it's good that you're making an effort because you really hurt her feelings when you forgot to call her on Mother's Day last year."

Last YEAR? Had I not been so confused, I might have been stunned silent by the sad lowness to which Kea had to stoop in order to muster up this comment. But instead I said..."Ummmmmm, okay. Well you know what, I'll just talk to you later then."

Now, despite it's aforementioned "sad lowness", this comment would have been an expert play. Kea knows me as I was in my past...chronicly and inexplicably guilty, always willing to take blame for other people, crushed by the mere suggestion that I had hurt someone...

On yet another side note, the truth is that this is a good quality about me. I am compassionate. A good parent and a loving family would foster this character trait and handle the person who had it with care. But not mine. And as I sit here musing over my keyboard I think I have really caught on to something here. The Stupid Weak Person trait is not just indicative of Auntie Liz and Kea. It is a trait that infects my whole family.

And not just the "non-Christians" or the ones still "living in Egypt", per say. Kaimana has been known to do this. Mom is also very adept at this. They just have less of it...their desire to be stronger is not as strong as their desire to follow Christ, which teaches introspection and self-criticism--the constructive kind..."How can I become better?", "What am I doing wrong?", "How can I serve God more completely?"

Which makes me wonder. How much of this Stupid Weak Person trait do I carry?

I do not know the answer right now, but as I take this question with me out into my life and wear it in the midst of my actions, I'm sure I will become aware of a part of me that bears this trait expertly, and when I find that part, I will prune it off--or allow the Gardener to do it Himself--and put it behind me as best I can.

All in all, I think we are all stupid and weak, aren't we? None of us know everything about ourselves, about the world, about God and how He relates to us as humans. None of us can keep ourselves from doing the things we know we shouldn't do (not even Paul could!) and none of us can help it when that Stupid Something inside us starts to take over and get us into trouble. When we are up against the standard--perfection--every last one of us appears stupid and weak. "Be perfect as your father in Heaven is perfect." A tall order for such helpless beings as us people.

But we do have a choice. What kind of stupid will we be? The kind that learns from weakness, or the kind that lives life pretending we've got it all together? The kind that admits our sinfulness and realizes our need for salvation or the kind that would rather stop the thinking at "I'm going to heaven cause I'm a good person" and ignore a faith that demands an admission of weakness? What could be worth ignoring even the possibility of heaven and hell and the existence of Jesus? Is pride worth it? Is comfort worth it? Is even a lifetime of sin and indulgence worth it? Sadly, for some people, the answer is yes.

And that, my friends, is the stupidest stupid. Because it's the kind of stupid that you pay for forever.

In all reality, a Smart Weak Person is just somebody smart enough to admit they're stupid. Stupid Weak People never admit anything that makes them appear weaker, and therefore, remain stupid.

Stupid people just get stupider and stupider.

The question for me now is whether Kea will continue to be a Stupid Weak Person, or if she'll break away from the example of her mother to become a Smart Weak Person.

I may not be able to show them how, but I know He can. And at the very least, that gives me something to pray for.

The Law Offices of My Company

2005-05-02T01:32:00.000-07:00

I couldn't resist sharing this funny exchange with those who visit my tiny slice of the blogging world. My husband wrote it to Jim (my good friend) as a joke because he's going to borrow our in-ear monitors for Ben, the lead singer of The Rosewood Fall (his band). In light of the legal hell we've been basking in with the whole getting sued thing, Jer wrote up a mock contract as a joke. I cried when I read it I was laughing so hard, but maybe it's just me...anyways, I hope it brightens up your Monday!

THE LAW OFFICES OF MY COMPANY
00000 BLANK STREET, UNIT X, CITY PLACE, ST 12345
T. 555.555.5555 F. 555.555.5555

The Rosewood Fall
James Wesley Roach IV ~ a.k.a. Chuck Thunder
Guitar Extraordinaire & Human Drum Machine

Re: On-Stage Audio Enhancing Device

Dear Mr. Roach:

I represent Hoku in connection with her on-stage audio enhancing device and have been retained by Hoku in the following matter. It has been brought to our attention that The Rosewood Fall (THE BAND) has requested the honor of borrowing an on-stage audio enhancing device (IN-EARS) from the beautiful and talented Hoku. I have reviewed your request to borrow said IN-EARS.

The purpose of this letter is to open negotiations with respect to THE BAND and IN-EARS and to resolve said negotiations without the need to resort to litigation. Per your request, there appears to be one main issue that has arisen: (1) You would like to borrow IN-EARS for the purpose of not sucking in your live shows.

With regard to your request, Hoku agrees that sucking while performing in a live concert scenario is not only humiliating, but can have life altering effects on the ego. In an effort to avoid all life altering ego lashings, Hoku has conceded your request and will allow THE BAND to borrow IN-EARS for a specified time not to exceed 687 (six-hundred-eighty-seven) days. The significance of said days is strictly confidential and cannot be disclosed at this time; but I will disclose that this time constraint was simply pulled out of my ass for no specific purpose other than to take up space as I am running out of things to talk about.

If in the horrific event that the IN-EARS become damaged in any way, including but not limited to, such as being lost, stolen, spat upon, stepped upon, sat upon, looked upon in an unfriendly manner, used for a body-surfing hand-gun, etc. the following repercussions will ensue:

(1) Your firstborn child will take the name “Felix the Cat”
(2) You shall buy Jeremy Clements a brand new 2005 Lincoln Navigator
(3) You shall wash said Lincoln Navigator once a week for one year.
(4) You shall purchase Jeremy Clements one vente soy latte from Starbucks Coffee Company prior to your weekly washing of said Lincoln Navigator
(5) You shall provide Jeremy Clements 17 (seventeen) VIP tickets to every Rosewood Fall live concert performance

Thank you for you cooperation and we look forward to imbibing alcohol with you soon.

Cordially,

JEREMY J. CLEMENTS

And this was Jim's reply (Glen Reely is the wierd mono-tone-voiced sound guy we toured with in my Glory Days):

Dear Mr Clements,
Hello I am Jerry McFaddenburger XIV and I represent Mr James Roach (AWESOME GYMNIST) in the name of the law...the holy and sacred law of this sweet land of milk and honey, the U.S. of A.

This letter is a notification of receipt of the On-Stage Audio Enhancing Device (IN-EARS) by my client Mr Roach (AWESOME GYMNIST) by Mr Jeremy Clements. Said IN-EARS arrived at my client's kibbutz at approximately 11am EST (EASTERN STANDARD TIME) by a handsome black man named Jeff. (Jeff enjoys sheperding and working in his home rock quarry in his spare time. )

This letter is also designed to reiterate the punishments and lashings that my client (AWESOME GYMNIST) must undergo in the event that said IN-EARS were exposed to any but not limited to the following (i) exposed to harsh gamma rays (ii) were made love to by a cocker spaniel (iii) obtained a pulse and decided upon receipt of life that life was just not worth living and threw itself to it's untimely death (iv) eaten by Glen Reely. If any of these incidents, or the incidents outlined in our original contract occurs my client (AWESOME GYMNIST) has conceeded to Mr Clementsesesseses requests regarding said Lincoln Navigators and Soy Ventis. However, since Soy Ventis are for women his better half Hoku must be present upon purchase.

We thank you for your cooperation regarding the On-Stage Audio Enhancing Device. May the good god of clear hearing shine his face upon you this good and holy day.

Sincerely.
JJ McFad XIV

Getting out of Egypt

2005-04-29T19:05:00.000-07:00

Most of the time I live my life in the blissful comfort that the more irritating and volatile members of my family live an ocean away on a piece of rock in the middle of the Pacific. I have my life here...I am the me that is adult and intelligent, beautiful and capable, loved and cared for. I have friends who think I'm great, I have a husband who would not only kill or be killed for me, but sees fit to live for me every day. I have a schedule, a plan, a daily routine that--though mostly consistent of cleaning, tea, and Oprah/Dr. Phil--leaves me happy and fulfilled at the end of each lovely and beautiful Dana Point sunset. I have achieved (by the sheer grace of God) what many people spend their whole lives searching for but never know--I am happy, I am content, and I am in love and truly loved.

Then, my family comes to town.

This time it is my Auntie Liz with my sister Kea in tow. They show up on my doorstep un-announced. They make plans (for which I hold up my entire day) and break them without calling. They come into MY home on MY turf and they argue with me about things that we have been arguing about since I was, say, 12. They insult my husband's ability to provide for me by insisting that--whether or not we have enough for savings at the end of the month--I should at the very least be provided with the luxury of digital recording for my television shows. They try to talk to me while Survivor is on (GASP!!!) and they leave their stuff in the newly-cleared-by-garage-sale space in my garage for an alleged pick up this weekend that I KNOW will never come and will turn into a wasted Saturday in which Jer and I will have to huck it somewhere.

They are interlopers.
They are disrupters.
Bottom line: They are fricking irritating.

Is there anywhere on the globe where a conversation about whether or not my step-dad is the evil manipulator of my obviously brainless mother (since she left my can-do-no-wrong Dad...um HELLO!...MULTIPLE IN-YOUR-FACE-AFFAIRS EVERYONE!!!) will not come up? Is there anywhere on the planet where I will never again be looked at as the ditzy manipulatable idiot everybody made me think I was as a child? Is there anywhere I can go where my ridiculously blind and perpetually "innocent" Aunt will stop blocking her own wrongs with the recounting of other people's short-comings and own up to even one iota of her life?

If such a place exists, sign me and Jer up for the first flight.

It's sad, because the older I get and the further I get from the time I lived in the vapid vacuumous hell-hole cult that was my up-bringing in Hawaii, the more I realize just how sad it all was...and how much more immeasurably sad it is that it is all still going on today.

No one has woken up.
No one has seen the light.
No one has smelled the coffee.

And what's the worst part?

My sister, Kea, who I had so hoped would finally see the truth and find a way to rise above the stupidity and squalor to find a way out for herself...she is only getting sucked further in.

This brings us to what bothers me most about Auntie Liz's visit: She is visiting to help Kea move back to Hawaii.

She has graduated from FIDM (Fashion School) with her teachers praising her talent as the best in her class. She has interviews with John Galliano and Guess lined up. She is beautiful and intelligent and strong and smart. She is on the cusp of her potential as an adult person...

But she's going back...back to live at our childhood home to be taken care of by Mommy and paid for by Daddy. And as I have gotten to know her in the weeks I have visited her leading up to her decision to move, I have learned some unsettling things.

She sees herself living in the richest part of Hawaii's east side, but cannot imagine herself getting a job. She's had nervous breakdowns and calls Dad for a plane ticket home to Hawaii almost weekly due to the stress of "living on her own" when she has not paid a single bill out of her own expenses at 22 years old--yet she "pities" my mother for not being independent enough to be on her own before marrying the love of her life, my step-dad. She throws literal shriek-and-stomp tantrums and didn't know how to run a washing machine until four years ago, yet claims that I "totally remind her of Jessica Simpson". She is snobby and self-righteous and selfish, yet looks down on "black people's attitude" because "if they're so poor, they should do something about it, you know?" She defends my dad's inexcusable actions without thinking and refuses to listen to reason or critically think about his fault in anything that goes on in his life or the home he has ultimate authority over. She is selfish, arrogant, immature, non-reflective and un-insightful and has never given a thought to getting to know herself or what drives her (she can do no wrong and it's everyone else's fault cause poor her, if it feels good then it's right, if it's difficult it's not supposed to be happening), and is frozen with a high-schooler's level of common sense.

She is, in effect, her mother.

In fact every last one of those descriptive phrases could be used to describe Auntie Liz as well.

Over the years, this is the Auntie Liz I have gotten to know:

She was snagged by my power-over-women hungry 35 year old father right out of high-school and therefore frozen there, mentally and emotionally. She throws tantrums at almost 50 years old, then yells at us for "not having any respect for her". She was beautiful and fit at age 18 so she's couldn't possibly have the dangerously high blood pressure the doctor says she now has and she'll wait till "she's really diagnosed with something" to drop the thirty extra pounds of weight she's been carrying around since her first child was born. My father was married when they became involved, but it's not her fault, cause his wife should have left him. He was already living with my mother but he didn't really love her and stayed with her for thirty years out of pity when he really wanted to just run away with her. (ironically, now that my mother has gone, he still has not proposed.) She is a Christian who knows that the Lord commands us to avoid the appearance of evil and to not be adulterous, but she was "married to him in her heart" the whole time despite his marriage to someone else, so she's never sinned and doesn't continue to sin by continuing to live with him. She just doesn't understand why, after "raising her children in the way they should go" all these years, her daughter doesn't understand the practical application of a faith in Christ and her son doesn't think having sex with his girlfriend that "he would never marry" is such a bad thing. She is a Christian, yet repeats to me the comment of her non-believing daughter, in the presence of her non-believing daughterr, that "black people can just be extra rude sometimes, you know?"

The bible says that iniquity is passed down from generation to generation. I note this here because it has become clearer and clearer to me as I have watched my life...and my "other family"'s life unfold.

My mother and I were saved on the same day listening to a message by my future step-dad called "Getting out of Egypt". As you can imagine, it was all about the Israelites and how they always complained about their hardships in the desert, wishing they were still in Egypt--and how, ironically, it was this very attitude that kept them in the desert for as long as they were there. You just can't mix a life serving God with a life wishing for a life not serving God. Hanging on to even one thing that belongs in Egypt will only keep you in the loneliness of the desert...you have to be willing to leave any and every thing that gets in the way of your pursuit of the Lord...even if that thing in your way happens to be your own family...

Matt. 35-39: "For I have come to 'set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law'; and 'a man's enemies will be those of his own household.' He who loves his father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me. And he who loves his son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me. And he who does not take his cross and follow after Me is not worthy of Me. He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for My sake will find it."

Luke 9:62: "But Jesus said to him, "No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God."

At the time, this was such an earth shattering concept...something was more important than the protection of our little vacuum of sin and sadness on the slopes of Diamond Head? My mother and I had been intrigued thus far (we had been going for many months prior to this message), but at the moment when the altar call came for a promise to follow Christ and leave Egypt behind for good, I took my mom's hand and told her. "We need to do this. It's time for us to go, Mom." We didn't know what we were going to do, we didn't know what it all meant, but we knew we needed to serve the Lord no matter what it cost us...we had no choice and nowhere to go. Like the Israelites, our only other choice was bondage. Bondage to sin, to manipulation, to Satan's control over the people and the home that controlled us. I was suicidal and starving myself and taking pain pills. She was drinking herself into oblivion every night and crying herself to sleep. The alternative was death. We wanted life. So we took it.

My Auntie Liz and my sister heard the exact same message. They remained in their seats during the altar call and when the service ended, my Auntie Liz went--as was her weekly habit--straight up to Wendell to rebut his message. In fact, she had not gotten along with my former pastor/now step-dad since the moment he looked her straight in the eyes and told her the truth...that she was living in sin and that her life was wrong in the sight of the Lord according to the bible. She had heard the message of freedom, but had rejected it before it could even reach her heart. And Kea watched her example from afar.

Shortly after my mother and I were saved, she was being prayed for after another service and the pastor who was praying for her, having laid his hands on her, had a vision and word from the Lord.

He said: "You will lead your family out of Egypt."

At the time it made minimal sense, but months later she received a phone call from my step-dad's mom saying that an apartment had opened up in the complex she owned and that she didn't know why, but she just felt like she should call her about it first. The next day, my mom was on our doorstep with a suitcase and a taxi waiting downstairs, telling me she was leaving.

What transpired in my heart and mind at this moment is a whole other blog. Let it suffice to say, I hated her at this moment...and many moments after. But now, I can't help but thank the Lord.

I moved in with her despite my open hatred for her because her apartment was down the street from Jeremy's, and it was during that time that Jeremy and I cavorted around Manoa, sharing the first flushes of early love's perfection and falling deeper and deeper in love. When she married Wendell, I lived with them (and my sister ended up moving too) because my Dad's true colors under pressure were so ugly, he made living in his home unbearable for us. He hated Christians, and now that I was a Christian and knew a Lord who loved me more than he ever had, we had nothing in common. I finally began to see that the life I had been told was okay and full of love was really all that I had suspected it was (even with the minimal knowledge of what was right and wrong in the outside world)...nothing but a sham created by selfish child-adults with no control over their impulses. I saw it from the Lord's point of view. Sinful, ugly, and evil. When I ran off to California to marry Jeremy out of high school, I felt like I was finally going to be able to live life for real...life without brainwashing and manipulation and parents telling you to do and be what best serves them and their desires. I was going to be happy. I was going to be loved for who I truly was. I was going to serve the Lord with everything I had. I was going to marry the man I'll love till the day eternity is over. I was free from bondage. I was led out of Egypt.

And so was Kaimana...when Mom moved to California only a few months behind me, Kaimana came with her, and she was also saved from the life of bondage she could have lived. She sought the Lord in the freedom of her new life, went to a Christian college where she met her future husband--a man who loves the Lord and who will be an amazing spiritual leader to her. She was led out of Egypt.

Auntie Liz, and her family, however, were not so lucky.

Auntie Liz was faced with the same charge that day, but instead of choosing a life close to the Lord, she chose a life close to her desires. She has everything she wanted in her life...she has the main love of her stolen man, she has the run of a huge house on the slopes of Diamond Head, she has more money and security than most people dream of...but she is nothing but hot air and emptiness.

She lives with the false comfort of a life lived without critical thought, a life lived without knowing herself or her loved ones beyond the way she wants to see herself and them. She is loved by a man who can never love anything more than himself. Her precious home is a demonic hang-out full of lies and perversion. She has lost the respect of her children but has no idea they don't idolize her. She perceives herself as better than everyone else in her heart and believes she hides it, but doesn't even realize how arrogant she appears. She is clueless and silly and empty and a child in every way, and she has never allowed herself to be challenged enough to inspire change.

She has never dared to show her children the way out of Egypt being unwilling to take the road herself, and she is now reaping the consequences of that decision...having to watch her daughter turn into her and her son turn into his father.

And the most tragic part of all is that she is completely unaware.

Proverbs 17:16 says: "Why is there in the hand of a fool the purchase price of wisdom, Since he has no heart for it?"

This is the tragic part.

She wonders, but will never know. She asks, but she will never understand her answer. She listens but she will never hear. She may hear, but she will never understand. She looks, but never sees. She feels, but she will never experience.

She is empty. She is alone on the edge of the desert with her two children, clutching a handful of Egyptian earth and wondering why her children do the same.

That is why I praise God today...for using my Mother to save us, for keeping his promise to take us out, for giving my Mom a Word as clearly as He did so we would be able to recognize His work and praise Him when it was done.

And I thank my mother in my heart today as well...were it not for her willingness to let go, I might never have made it out of the desert alive. I might still have been clutching Egyptian earth today, lost and alone--wondering and wandering with the purchase price of wisdom in my hand, emptiness in my heart, and everything at stake.

Revenge May Be a Dish Best Served Cold, But Humility is Best Served Piping Hot

2005-04-25T23:31:00.000-07:00

Well, I am happy to report that this week, in the continuing saga that is the Thoroughbred's fight for victory, something hopeful this way cometh.

It looked like a night destined for Thoroughbred defeat. First off, their game begins at 10:30 at night. Then, only enough players show up for there to be one sub, not the usual seven (This means tired boys have to play a lot longer). And, two of the star players are no-shows. And, one of the star players who does show is injured. To make matters worse, there is only one girl--one lonesome Thoroughbred cheerleader--for miles. You wanna guess who that girl was? Securing my abnormally enthusiastic Soccer-Mom-like status ("Soccer Hottie", as Jeremy has deemed me)--that girl was me.

And it's a damn good thing I came (pardon my Irish). Because guess who was goalie for the opposite team? That's right. Nasty. Irish. Man.

And--in a stab of poetic justice that had me on my feet before I knew it and shook the heavens and the earth below it because of it's sheerly awesome irony--the Thoroughbred's scored enough points against that Nasty Man to tie the game. Four exactly.

And what could make the serving of this heaping plate of humble pie to the Thoroughbred's evil insult-throwing arch-enemy even more earth-rendingy awesome?

My husband being the one doing the serving, that's what. Twice.

And thusly did my champion lead the Thoroughbred's to victory, and insodoing, did smite his evil nemesis--the Dark Lord of soccer--upon the indoor field. Amen.

"The Thoroughbreds"

2005-04-18T23:17:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: The following Blog entry is not meant to slander or defame the Irish race as a whole. All disparaging comments made after the adjective "Irish" in this blog are meant to describe a single man who's only distinguishing quality was an unmistakably Irish accent and a penchant for angering me. In addition, any Irish stereotypes used inappropriately throughout this blog were said in anger by a defensive wife, so please disregard those statements offensiveness for the purposes of this story.

So, it may interest you to know that my husband joined a team in a men's indoor soccer league called the Thoroughbreds. Yes, that is actually their name, and no, I have no idea who's wise idea that was. I mean, they must've REALLY been hurting for names. How do you go from, say, "The Titans" to..."The Thoroughbreds"? It's not even like they're "The Stallions" or "The Gallopers" or even "The Seabiscuits". They're "The Thoroughbreds". "Give me a T!...Give me a H!...Give me an O!...Gimme a...aw hell, forget it." Okay. I am totally digressing. Let me restart.

So, it may interest you to know that my husband joined a team in a men's indoor soccer league called the Thoroughbreds. Just a bunch of friends getting together for a little friendly play against other teams...which would be the case if the teams weren't made up of late twenties men staring nervously down the barrel of the big 3-0. They are testing themselves, battling the year's affects on their former soccer-star bodies, taking stock of what they have become. Will my endurance be the same? Will my body still respond when my brain tells it to move? Will I be as good a shot as I was back then?

The answer is sadly, no. How can it be? The body of a taught teenager trained to run three miles before soccer practice will always outrun, outlast, and outplay the body of a twenty somethings weighed down by softened muscles, extra weight from the sneaky decline of a slowed metabolism, and the many hands of time now acting like "weights around the ankles", I believe was Jeremy's description.

The logical mind understands. Normally, logic is the friend of the male sex in general. But not this time, because it's stronger, more stupid cousin, the Ego, always beats up on Logic and takes his spot at the front of the line. Now, because Ego has heard what Logic has to say, he will begin his diversion...the comparing begins. "Who is better than me on the team? Who am I better than? Who was better than me in high school? Am I better than them now?" You know how it goes...the classic bully urge in adult form. "I feel like I'm inferior, so I will cut others down so they feel inferior instead"--but as a rational adult, the name calling and fist-fighting has long been outdated. Now, they do the responsible thing...cut eachother down mentally. Childish, true. Sad, maybe. But don't blame them. It's Ego's fault. Besides, who are you to blame anyone anyway? Loser! (Oh, sorry, that's just my ego coming out on their behalf.) :)

Why the dissertation on the male ego? Because I want you to envision these men. These are good men who hold down good jobs and love their wives and try to do good for the world. They are kings in their own lands, lords of castle and countryside, with narry an unfamiliar nook to disquiet their contented souls. Now, they are caged animals hiding their fear behind smiles and friendly greetings, slapped savagely into a small space enclosed by a locking chain link fence with high nets and bright lights where they are forced to compete not just with themselves, but with other men--some who, (cue sinister music) dun dun DUUUN, remember them and played against them in their Glory Days.

All the things that have mattered to them in their lives are now outside the chain link fence--their excellence at work doesn't count, the success of their marriage doesn't score them points (though it scores them a more dedicated cheer section)--and inside that wall of linked chain and net, there is just testosterone, six sets of balls (Chris Pritchet's remaining ball and the soccer ball itself got teamed up on that one), and a big something to prove.

Can you see them? They are stretching, wild eyed and nervous, panicking quietly, counting down the final moments until they will be exposed for what they truly are. It is both pitiful and wildly inspiring at the same time...They are dreaming the impossible dream! They are fighting the unbeatable foe! They are going where the brave dare not go! They are reaching for the unreachable star! It is the moment of truth, and it is upon them. The question they have asked themselves over and over again since first noticing a drag in their step or needing an extra breath after a long flight of stairs: "Am I really as old as I suspect I've become?" Now is when the answer comes.

Game one of the season. "The Thoroughbreds" vs. say, "The Wildcats" (I don't actually know what their name was, but I'm sure it was better than "The Thoroughbreds"). Moments before the whistle blows, the players feign collectedness and lazily begin to make their way into position. This is where I enter the picture.

Imagine me. Here I am, sitting dutifully on the sidelines, filled with the anticipation of what I will see. Not because Jeremy's current soccer prowess means a damn lick to me, but because it means something to him. I've counted down with him to this moment. I've heard the stories. I've driven a thousand times by his high school's soccer field and have heard a thousand times about the boy who could always be depended upon to score for the win, who could outrun the best, who had colleges fighting to add him to their team with a bidding war of grants and scholarships.

I am watching my husband. He is a good man. The best man. The light of my life. Seeing my precious who I love more than anything else in the world disappointed would be the most heart-wrenching thing I can imagine at this moment. Though we have never voiced the truth about the real battle going on, I know what this is about. I know that much more is at stake here tonight than their place in the league.

And I am helpless. I try to affirm him as much as I can in the areas of his life where my opinion matters--and even where it doesn't--but I know that no matter what I say when he gets off that court, he will know more than me the truth of his performance, his prowess...his prognosis. He will remember the feel of his sixteen-year-old body and the pinnacle of his skill that I never got a chance to see, and he will know. This is a fight I cannot fight with him. He is on his own, and I am just a spectator, watching with the hope of a Roman gladiator's wife as her husband takes the ring with a starved lion...hope that must be blind to endure.

The whistle blows, and the play begins. I am already biting my nails, even though he is still waiting to sub in. "Did he want to be in the first line-up?" I think. "Is he upset that he's not?" I feel that Maternal Instinct introduce herself to me. "Hi." it says. "Here are your Jeremy-can-do-no-wrong glasses, claws are out and at the ready, just say when."

For a moment, I am surprised. "Ho ho ho," I think. "Who is this unexpected visitor?" After all, this is my husband, not my child. I should be prepared to let him handle this like a man. I should be prepared to see things fairly and unbiasedly. This is when Logic--already weak in the female sex--doesn't just have to give up it's seat, but rather run for cover because a smoking crater is now all that remains of it's former spot. Logic, meet The Maternal Instinct. Pity the fool that dares to block Her wrathful path.

This is when I realize that I am being faced with my own little battle...not with the past, but with the future. The moment of truth for me (cue sinister music) dun dun DUUUUN: What kind of Soccer Mom will I be?

I sit back and watch, preparing myself to restrain this unexpected lioness should she strike, hoping it will not come to such uncivilized carnage. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for battle, and put my mind determinately on the game.

In the first ten minutes, the men have already been separated from the boys, so to speak. There are some very good players driving the team...and Jeremy has emerged as one of them. I was pleased to see his natural skill was still largely and impressively intact. So far, the talons have remained folded in my lap, un-needed. The Thoroughbreds are not half bad as a whole, and Jeremy is getting plenty of game time. He is good. He is fast. He should be proud. I would be sighing with relief if it weren't for one small problem.

They are losing. Badly.

While this motley crew of Thoroughbreds huff and puff and blow the houses of their inner demons in one by one, the opposite team--well-oiled and well-practiced--is running circles around them. The truth is, the Thoroughbreds are all so busy fighting for their pride, they are forgetting to play as a team.

Tired B string players are not subbing out. Everybody goes for the ball and leaves whole sections of the court open and vulnerable. Everybody's playing everybody else's position. Nobody's talking. Nobody's is passing. Nobody's using the walls (a major asset in indoor soccer) because they don't want to let that ball leave their feet for one second. They all pound at the goal from impossible angles instead of giving it to the guy who is primed and open to shoot. It is a one-man journey for each of these men. One that seems to be heading toward a many-man defeat.

As the game goes on things begin to look up. It is the second half. They are really losing now, but seem to have figured out their mistakes and are beginning to play better as a team. The fancy footwork of the opposite team still prevents them from gaining any real ground, but at least it's a fair fight. It's starting to almost look like the friendly fun it was supposed to be...now that all the anticipation is over and the verdict is pretty much in, it's time to have some fun, right?

That's what I was thinking. I even thought about putting my Maternal Instinct claws away for the rest of the game.

But just a moment before would have been just a moment too soon.

A player from the opposite team has mosy-ed up to the fence and calls to his companions waiting for the next game in a snobby Irish accent that makes my stomach churl, "You guys can sub in if you want to? These guys are a bunch of losers."

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I can almost audibly hear my nearly-receded wolverine talons spring back out of my fingertips with a chink. Lioness at the ready, just say the word.

A million thoughts rush through my head at this moment:
I hate Irish accents. I am the closest wife to him, if I pounce first, I could shed first blood. What a rude bastard. I could kill him with my bare hands. Could I spit far enough to reach his face? What would it feel like to scratch out someone's eyes with bitten-down nails through a chain link fence?

Then, HE LOOKS AT ME. It is almost slow motion. Now is the time to say that biting remark! Now is when you zing him!

Nothing. I am so angry, my mind is both blank and racing with thought at the same time. DAMN IT STARLET! PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER AND MAKE THIS FANCY-FOOTWORKING LEPRECHAUN PAY!!!!!!!!!

He looks me up and down, leering at me with his beady evil eyes, then turns away with a snort (AND WITHOUT AN APOLOGY) to return to the game.

I feel my heart beating faster. I look out at my poor husband, a good man fighting a noble fight, and I want to tell him how wonderful he is. The awful Irish prick is chasing him around the court trying to steal his ball and his dreams and I want to scream, "LEAVE HIM ALONE! HE'S NOT A LOSER, HE'S MY HUSBAND AND THE BEST SOCCER PLAYER I'VE EVER SEEN! WE'RE ALL JUST TRYING TO HAVE A GOOD TIME HERE AND DO THE BEST WE CAN! I'M SORRY YOUR PRO CAREER DIDN'T PAN OUT, BUT DON'T TAKE IT OUT ON MY INNOCENT HUSBAND YA BASTARD!!!"

There was the comeback I was looking for. A day late and a dollar short, but it still had sting. I consoled myself with the thought that I had restrained myself nobly instead of been at a pitiful loss for words in my husband's time of need.

Later that night--after the Thoroughbreds' dreams of victory over the past had been replaced by the sound knowledge of their true place in the current Soccer Circle of Life, after they had gone home to sleep in the comfort and reassurance of their familiar castles and countryside--I lay awake next to my Thoroughbred, fantasizing about saying just the right thing at the just the right moment.

And my grade as a soccer Mom? Insufficient evidence to declare a verdict.

***

One week later, we are back at the soccer court. Everybody is more relaxed. With all their cards on the table, there is nothing left to prove, and after last week's walloping, they figure the only way left to go is up. I agree. (I didn't dare tell Jeremy about the mean guy's nasty comment.) After some friendly banter with my fellow observing wives, I prepare myself. Now I am the one feeling a little wide-eyed. "But why should I worry?" I think. "Everybody is so relaxed now that all the nervous energy from last week has burned off." I make a mental note to keep out my Jeremy-can-do-no-wrong glasses--I am his wife, after all--but opt to leave my talons in the retracted position. "I'm sure this is going to be just a fun, friendly game." I grab my seat outside the fence. I locate my husband. I wait for the whistle. And then, I panic.

The referee? Oh yes, you guessed it. Nasty Irish man.

I look wildly around me for some sort of Universal Soccer Force Trump Card to help me unseat this awful man from his un-rightful throne over my husband. When no one and nothing appears, I realize I must take matters into my own hands. I arch my back and contract the pouncing muscles in my legs. I bare my teeth and my claws pop out with a menacing chink. I am almost ready to strike, when...

He makes a call against the opposite team.

I immediately recoil. "Hmmmm." I think. "He seems to be calling it fair. Perhaps I will let him live." I relax a little, but my Maternal Instinct claws are DEFINITELY out and at the ready.

Second half. Things are not so bad. Our boys still have a chance. To be honest, I haven't even noticed the nasty ref. And then...

Jeremy and another player are racing to the ball, side by side, streaking down the field at top speed. They get to it at the same time, when BAM! The other player clearly gets in the way of Jeremy's feet on purpose and hits his kneecap hard on the hard floor, followed by his chin. He is down, OBVIOUSLY faking it to get the call, when out comes Jerk McRef waving a blue card.

"What the hell does that blue card mean?!" I ask, a little louder than I expected.

But within an instant, I know.

I watch in horror as Nasty Man leads my husband...MY INNOCENT HUSBAND off the court and into a PENALTY BOX. I hear the lock snap as he shuts the door behind him and I panic. I want to shriek "HE DIDN'T DO IT ON PURPOSE!", but bite my tongue, trying to pull it together. "I don't want to embarrass him." It is all I can do to stay seated and remain calm looking. All I can see from my vantage point is my Precious Angel, stretching behind a potruding box of chain link fence that now resembled a prison in every way imaginable. How long would he be stuck in that awful box? Was he feeling claustrophobic? Did he need water? Would he be embarrassed if I went over there? DOES HE KNOW I KNOW HE'S INNOCENT?! I am feeling slightly hysterical all of a sudden. I am suddenly aware that I'm hot all over. I don't even have time for talons, I just want to go rush over there and give my sweet hubby a big hug and kiss and tell him everything will be all right. I am craning, trying to catch his attention, about to spring up to go to him when he looks at me and starts motioning for me to come. My heart jumps for joy and I am there before I remember moving.

There he is, my innocent love, set up by an awful referee and framed by a clumsy player who can't keep his legs to himself, confined against his will to a tiny box surrounded by chain links and a locking door (which is waist high and short enough to give him some breathing room and a view of the court, I note with relief). I am speechless with helplessness. My worry has now turned the corner on rage, and as my eyes burn holes in the back of the referee/prison guard's head outside the locked half-door I ready myself to let all the evil words of my fantasies rip--just the right words at just the right moment--from the safety of my perch behind the chain link fence. Right as I am about to uncurl my forked tongue from behind my teeth, my captive husband speaks:

"Is there any ice?"

I am startled.

"Ice?"

"Yeah."

I realize that he is intending it for the clumsy players busted knee. "What a saint." I think whimsically and with a puff of pride. "Seeking aid for he that hath injured him." I would hug him if I could through the cruel bars...er, fence.

I speak. "I can't believe that nasty ref put you here!" I said, loud enough for Nasty Man to hear. "It's not like you did it on purpose!"

"Well actually..." my husband says. "It was a good call."

The guilty look on my husband's face was all I needed to wake up to just how low into the depth of Soccer Mom-dom I had truly slipped. I had committed the cardinal sin of Soccer Mom-dom. I had put on the Jeremy-can-do-no-wrong glasses and forgotten they were there. As the world around me began to slide in focus and I looked upon the situation with uncovered eyes, I realized...Jeremy can do wrong. He maybe could've avoided tripping that guy, but didn't, and he maybe deserved to be in that penalty box for awhile.

Sometimes we Soccer Mom's forget--one of the most important things about organized sports is accountability to the rules of the game, and sometimes...those rules even apply to our precious can-do-no-wrong angels.

And my grade as a Soccer Mom? Let's just say that after that walloping, I figure the only way to go is up.

***

So I guess you could say I've packed alot of life lessons into these past two Mondays, and I believe my husband has too. I about my future, he about his past. I still will glance lovingly through my Jeremy-can-do-know-wrong glasses from time to time, though I now know some of the pratfalls of such blinding eye-wear. I will bring my talons but only use them for emergencies, and I will limit my nasty word-slinging at Nasty Irish Man to my fantasies. After all, we will be seeing alot of eachother, seeing as though--I now know--he is the head of the league. Gag.

Jeremy will stop the whole tripping-other-players thing from now on and will--on and off the court--remain accountable to the rules. He will continue to look fondly on his past, but also accept with grace that being a damn good soccer player on a good team having a good time with his friends is okay too...And that it's okay to be a court official in one Kingdom some of the time, as long as you are King in another all of the time. Of course that doesn't mean Mr. Ego isn't giving up with a fight...

So if, the next time you are down at the 'ol indoor soccer field on a Monday night, you should happen upon a group of yellow shirted men struggling to touch their toes, don't be fooled. They may be wearing yellow t-shirts instead of jerseys, but in their eyes, they are wearing uniforms worthy of the World Cup. They may be called "the Thoroughbreds" instead of "the Warriors", but trust me, they are at war. Their cheering section may be a bunch of tired wives in their warmest sweats sipping Starbucks between cheers, but in their eyes, we wives are in our best and brightest yellow cheer outfits screaming "THOROUGHBREDS SHRED" at the top of our lungs between high kicks and back flips.

And if you see a little Soccer-Mom-in-training with blond hair and a nervously tapping leg waiting on the outside of a chain link fence for her King to come home to his castle, be warned that she may be wearing invisible eye-wear that impairs her sight (though let's hope she's aware of it this time). And whatever you do--no matter how harmless she may seem--BEWARE. DO NOT attempt to speak to her in an Irish accent....she's got invisible claws too.

A Thoroughly Awesome Weekend for Those in Dire Need of a Thoroughly Awesome Weekend

2005-04-18T00:28:00.000-07:00

Well, I am glad to say that I enjoyed a lovely break this weekend from the Dave drama that has ruled my life the past few weeks. Jer and I reveled in Freedom From the Phone (lately, the source of all Dave drama dealings and therefore very bad) that only comes from going to Salt Creek Beach (blissfully, no reception), sleeping in, and just down-right ignoring the phone.

Yes girls...I wore my tiniest bathing suit, I busted out my favorite summer straw hat (a fabulous Helene Kaminski I splurged on two summers ago and the only thing I've ever purchased from Nieman Marcus), pulled out my shortest skirt (the kind you can only get away with at the beach or in Hawaii), and threw caution to the wind as I layed out under the gorgeous California sun without sunscreen (but I did with-hold just enough caution from the wind-throwing to remind myself to cover my face with my aforementioned fabulous summer straw hat). I went on a long run, picked up yoga again, and decided I was going to quit complaining about my reflection and just be happy my husband thinks I'm "a perfect 10" (My husband told me to edit what I had originally written here, but let it suffice to say that I was naked and in a compromising position you probably don't want to envision me in--better just to leave it at that).

Jeremy surfed three days in a row--something he hasn't done in almost a year--and between "ripping" and "getting barreled", he talked on the beach with old friends about nothing. He wore surf trunks and flip flops and messy hair, he smelled like sunscreen and wetsuit, and he smiled without looking weak and got a distinctive wetsuit tan. He paddled till his arms felt like they would fall off and his back could no longer arch high enough keep his head above water. He started feeling more confident after seeing serious (seriously HOT!) results this week after religiously Herbalife-ing and working out, and started wearing his smaller shirts without fear of the dreaded belly bulge.

We went out on dates. We went outside. We held hands. (It just wouldn't be me if I didn't also mention...) We had GREAT sex. We snuggled in the middle of the afternoon. We didn't mention Dave and his stupid lawsuit even once.

It was a great weekend.

But you know what made it even greater?...The fact that we had such a crappy week! Just one of those ironic but incredibly awesome things about trials and tribulations. They're an awful bitch to go through, but sometimes, nothing can be more rewarding.

As Christians, it's so much easier isn't it? We have the Lord...The Universal Trump Card. No matter what happens, we always know that the Guy Who Runs the Place promised us it will all be okay. Maybe not in this life, but at the very least, in the next...and heaven doesn't seem to be the very least of anything.

We have but to ask, and it will be given to us.
We have but to speak, and He will listen; pray, and He will answer.
We have but to be, and we are loved.
We have but to try, and He will meet us.
We have but to call, and He will come to our rescue.
We have but to let go, and God will take the reigns.
We have but to love Him, and He will work all things to good.

This weekend was great. And not only that, but this week is going to be great...Not because we can make all our problems go away...Not because we know what's coming...Not because we have any control over the outcome...But because God does. Because the God who made the ocean and the sand and the sun and love and passion and happiness and trust and joy and peace and patience and kindness and goodness and self-control is the same God who's going to see Jer and I through all this. And because frankly, after seeing all those things at work in our lives--all the beauty in my perfect husband and in the sunny beach, all the joy in the children playing by the water, all the life and love that exists out there in the world beyond lawyers and contracts and money and batteries and betrayal--things just don't seem all that bad anymore.

Not that a few good orgasms didn't help to brighten my outlook on things either. :)

A Letter to Dave That I Will Probably Never Send

2005-04-15T00:11:00.000-07:00

Dave,

I am writing to you because, after my husband's repeated attempts to dissuade you from your mission to make an example out of him, I thought it was time I present this situation to you from another angle.

I understand that you are nursing the wounds of being screwed over by people like Jason and Jeff who have left your company at your expense, and can sympathize with your desire to send a message to Frosty and Nicole. However, you do not have the right to make an example out of anyone, let alone, my husband. As Christians, we are called to deal with the truth of every situation, and challenge ourselves to look past our selfish desires to seek the will of God and let justice, truth, and God's authority reign over our own hearts and desires. For you to attempt to punish Jeremy by a)letting a lawyer print falsehood about him and slander him on your behalf (I mean seriously Dave, is your integrity worth what you get out of accusing Jeremy of "stealing" and "hacking" and with-holding a computer "numerous times" when you never asked for it back even once??? Do not kid yourself Dave, a lawyer is just a legal representative of YOU and YOU are responsible for what he says, no matter what you'd like to pretend--a lawyer is not just someone to blame when you want to make up lies to bolster your case) or for you to attempt to punish Jeremy b)in order to "send a massage" as you told Jeremy at you meeting, is unethical, unscriptural, and wrong--and you know it, Dave.

What you need to ask yourself and deal with within yourself is why you didn't have the forsight to draft contracts or attempt to pursue legal action with Jason and Jeff. You have to take responsibility for your lack of action there, and NOT attempt to make Jeremy shoulder the responsibility for you. Jeremy is not at fault for your lack of restitution with Jason and Jeff, nor is he a pawn in your game to outsmart or scare your current employees--he is a human being with a wife and a future family to support and he is not doing anything wrong.

He isn't even a threat to your battery division. He conceded that at one point when he was still ignorant of his contract, he wronged you by mistakenly violating it, but told you that now he was aware of his limitations and would operate within them. But this isn't enough for you. You won't rest until you see him obliterated from the business completely--his only source of income when you have multiple sources of income and money to spare. It is a demand that is so selfish and greedy, so contrary to our faith and so absurdly impossible to expect, I never thought it possible...even from you, Dave. You don't even sell the same products! Jeremy is just trying to make a living on the small piece of pie YOU once verbally told him "you could not stop him" from eating from. Now, you've decided you'd like to twist the truth to get your way, and run him out of doing business in a corner of a sandbox you never touch, when it's ALL HE HAS--and consequently, all I have--to subsist on. Just to eat, Dave. We're in debt. We've got bills. We've got rent. JUST TO GET BY. We Chinese have a saying, "take everything you can and poison the rest." This same vindictive and bitter spirit is behind your attitude and actions. Do you want to be the man that succeeds at making this saying come true?

I hope you will come back to yourself Dave, and realize the ramifications of your actions: When you make an example out of my husband, you make an example of me and his future children. You are toying with a whole life--a whole family's life--in the name of getting more for yourself. And though you may not feel the repurcussions in this life, you will have much to answer for in the next...

Rom. 2:5 "But because of your stubbornness and your unrepentant heart, you are storing up wrath against yourself for the day of God's wrath, when his righteous judgment will be revealed."

Besides, you are making the wrong example out of the wrong person! Jeremy went through great pains to handle his being fired while on vacation with grace and humility. He strove to give you the benefit of the doubt though you had ripped months of blood sweat and tears out from under his feet and given it to his clueless assisstant IN HIS ABSENCE (you didn't even have the integrity to give your faithful employee the dignity of firing him to his face--or even to admit that you actually fired him so he'd be awarded his rightful severence--Gene, but not him? You can't just change the rules to suit your greed Dave.)--heaping insult and injury upon a man who had only tried to do his best and meet your ever-greedier demands. He treated his job as a service to the Lord, showing up early, staying sometimes till eight or nine at night, and if he came late in the mornings, he always went back in after dinner--sometimes after midnight, so he would not shortchange you or dishonor the blessing of the Lord he felt he had in your employment. You gave him no choice but to leave when you offered him a job that wouldn't pay our bills and then refused to budge (much like you are doing now) to make it work for us. When he went out on his own in an attempt to just make ends meet, he was in constant communication with you, doing his best to appease your ever-changing and always self-centered demands. He left Nicole with all the recources and more that he had started out with at the David Group so she would have a fair shake. He constantly checked his heart and his attitude in prayer and meditation to make sure he was never acting in vindictiveness or bitterness toward you. He has gone through great pains and lost alot of potential business trying to find new sources, new customers, new product lines because you told him that that was all he needed to do to be able to be in business and still maintain your agreement. Now you've changed the rules to suit you AGAIN. Doesn't TRUTH mean anything to you? What about YOUR word? What about YOUR end of the agreement?

Jeremy is not Jason. He is not Jeff. The truth and reality of this situation is that Jeremy did the opposite of what they did, and has treated you with more respect throughout this entire process than you ever treated him with. And you know what else? He's not Frosty or Nicole either. If they do decide to go out and "pull a Jason" or "pull a Jeff", so to speak, punish THEM. Sue THEM. Take THEM to court, not Jeremy, who has done nothing to you but try to honor his word--even after you repeatedly and consistently break your word and twist the Lord's to suit your own desires. You punish the infraction, not the possibility of the infraction.

Jeremy being in business doesn't affect your business. All it affects is your pride and your ego and your desire to shed blood for Jason and Jeff's wronging you. And NONE of those reasons are worthy of a believer breaking their word, compromising their integrity, and directly disobeying God as you have and are threatening to do.

You are not just suing Jeremy, you are suing me. I am Troy's Malin. I am your Debbie. What have I ever done to you, Dave? Be honest with yourself...what has Jeremy REALLY done to you? What is the TRUTH. Not what you want to hold him to and not what you can fabricate that will pin on him but WHAT HAS HE REALLY DONE TO YOU. When you look at the truth, I hope you feel as ashamed of yourself as every believer feels knowing you are one of us and even ATTEMPTING to take the actions you plan to take and having the attitude you have had.

We love you Dave. You are our brother in Christ and a former friend. We know you are hurting and we are praying for healing for you and your family. And we are praying diligently for you...for your heart to soften, for the Truth to cut through the lies and fabrication that have blinded you and hardened your heart to the Lord. We are praying for justice and for the Lord's will to be done.

Search your heart Dave. Whether you do or not, you will be accountable for what you choose to do in this life. This is a turning point, and can lead you closer to Christ or drag you further down the path of destruction you are currently on. Do not choose the wrong path, Dave.

I hope my attempt at reconciliation has not fallen on the same stubborn ears my husband has had to endure speaking to.

With Love and In Christ,
Hoku Clements

"Thy Will Be Done"

2005-04-09T01:56:00.000-07:00

It's late and I'm tired and my husband is fast asleep, yet alas, I am not. Nor do I feel in the slightest that I might be ready to be fast asleep anytime soon. The truth is, I am much to pre-occupied. My mind is full and my heart is heavy, and though I am filled with hope and assurance in the Lord, I cannot help but think about all we are facing.

When trials come (as they do in every Christian's life) sometimes, you can do nothing but trust the Lord. In Jer and my instance, there is no other option. We have no control over what we are now facing...all we can do is trust the Lord:

That He can and will influence a hardened heart and a stubborn mind.

That He can and will prevail over the true enemy.

That He can and will prevent us from being stolen from, killed, or destroyed.

That He can and will cause the truth to rise and prevail over lies and false allegations.

That He can and will extend grace while bringing about perfect justice.

That He can and will heal the bonds of a betrayed friendship.

That He can and will break the power of greed and mammon in our brother.

That He can and will convict us of and heal all of our collective sins.

That He can and will provide for Jeremy and I, no matter what.

That He can and will maintain his sovereign control over all of our lives.

That He can and will turn all things to good for those that love Him.

That He is merciful.

That He is graceful.

That He is our Protector.

That He is The Provider.

That He is trustworthy.

That He is faithful.

That He is perfect.

That He loves us all.

That He can and will keep His promises:

"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end." Jeremiah 29:11 KJV

We are all believers. We were all once friends. We are all still brothers and sisters in Christ.

Jeremy and I are in need of some serious prayer. If you have time to pray for us, please pray for all of the above to come to pass. Also, please pray for:

a) Our attacker to seek and receive Godly council.

b) For justice to be done, no matter what, and for Jer and I to rejoice in whatever that outcome may be.

c) That Jer and my faith would be strengthened.

d) That this would not go to court, but would be resolved as the bible says and as the Lord wills--seeking reconciliation, brother to brother.

e) That Jeremy would have strength, wisdom, and integrity throughout all he will face.

f) That I will have strength, wisdom, and integrity, and be a support to Jeremy throughout all he will face and we will face as a couple.

g) That the Lord would grant us peace and help us find time for praise as we learn to rest in the Lord's assurance and faithfulness.

h) That the Lord would protect us from the enemy and deliver us from evil.

i) That this would be resolved, once and for all, this time around.

j) That ABOVE ALL, the Lord's will be done, and for Jer and I to rejoice in whatever His will may be.

We are the Lord's servants. With willing and humble hearts, we lay down our lives and our worries to the Lord. It is all we can do. His will for us is perfect and will not forsake us. He knows what is best for us and can make His best come to pass if we just learn to get out of the way. So we will.

Thank you for your prayers.

And Lord, "Thy will be done."

Welcome Home, Tom Kimura

2005-03-31T23:13:00.000-08:00

I just got the news tonight that my dear friend Jeanne's husband Tom lost his battle with cancer today. I got to know Jeanne at Ohana Christian Fellowship, my former church, when Tom's illness was newly diagnosed. We--as a church and as individuals--closed ranks around her and prayed for her and her family throughout the entire process, watching in awe of her strength and reliance on God through circumstances that all of us knew we would not have accepted with such grace.
Tom came only a few times to visit us at church, but left an impression on all of our hearts. We could see his wife's dedication and love for him, and admired his willingness to attend despite the obvious pain it caused him--he limped and carried a cane. Most of all, we prayed for him, echoing the prayers of our beloved Jeanne for his salvation.
When Jeremy and I left the church a few months ago to enter the next stage we felt God was leading us in our lives, it was like we were leaving our family--our church had truly lived up to it's name ("Ohana" means "family"). Jeanne and I had become close--she was the children's pastor and I was the children's worship leader and my mom and her were best friends. Above everyone else, I knew I would miss her most. I haven't had as much contact with her as I would have liked though I got to have lunch with her a few weeks ago when my mom was in town. We learned that Tom had finally accepted the Lord while listening to Greg Laurie on KWAVE, and we praised the Lord for that though we also mourned with Jeanne--the end could come any day. She looked tired but still seemed strong, and when we left I was sad to say goodbye even though I knew God had already begun carving separate directions for our lives.
It's odd to think that it's over. That all that she struggled through so openly with us, all that we had been through with her on her journey--it had come to an end. As I think of Tom now, I can't help but see him through Jeanne--though I'd met him personally a handful of times, I know most of what I know about him from my relationship with Jeanne. Above all, I know that if Tom's life and death were for nothing else (though I know this is not the case), they were for the journey that we as Jeanne's Ohana have gone through. Through the Lord's amazing mercy and faithfulness mirrored in Jeanne's eyes, we have all grown closer, all pressed closer to God, all been in deeper prayer, and all learned to love eachother a little more. When I think of Tom, I think of all that the Lord has taught me through Jeanne Kimura, his wife.

Because of Tom, I have learned what it means to have faith:
There was nobody who had more cause to lose their faith in the Lord than Jeanne, yet hers only deepened.

Because of Tom, I have learned how to say "Thy will be done":
Jeanne prayed for healing until the end, but was always ready to accept that God's will was the best, even if meant losing her husband.

Because of Tom, I have learned perseverance:
Jeanne never stopped fighting for her family. She depended on God for strength, and never gave up because things were too hard.

Because of Tom, I have learned that God never puts you through more than you can handle:
Even when she learned that Tom's condition was terminal. Even when, in the midst of it all, her daughter Kati was diagnosed with an incurable intestinal condition and sent numerous times to the hospital. Even when she was slammed with schoolwork on top of caring for her sick family and ministering to the children because she was trying to get a degree so she could support the family on her own. She always said, no matter what: "It's okay because I now God would never put me through more than I can handle."

Because of Tom, I have learned not to take the gift that God has given me in my husband for granted:
Jeanne loves Tom the way I love Jer--and her speaking about him has made me realize that our marriages were very alike, and that tomorrow is not guaranteed to Jeremy and I either.

Because of Tom, I have learned that God is faithful:
Because Jeanne never lost her focus on the Lord, and though at times she cried and feared and regretted and hoped for a different outcome, she always praised God's faithfulness. She came with praise reports each Sunday about what the Lord was doing. With her eyes focused on the Lord, there was always something to be grateful for.

I could go on and on and on. And I know that there is a whole church family out there tonight that is thanking God for Tom too.

Finally and above all: Because of Tom, I have seen first-hand God's love and mercy towards mankind. The Lord could have let him go. He could have let Tom reap what he had sown in sin his entire life--eternal separation from Him in hell. But instead, God sent his Holy Spirit and Greg Laurie's voice to Tom mere weeks before his time would come, and He gave Tom an eternal place in the kingdom of heaven through his Son. He did not let him slip away and he did not leave ours and Jeanne's prayers unanswered. He did not give Tom, nor will he give any that he can get his hands on what they deserve. He is always knocking, looking eagerly for a way into the heart of man, even until the very end. He would not let Tom go until He knew he would be safely returned to Him. And this makes me love the Lord so much--to see his mercy poured out first-hand on a dying man. To know--Tom is with Jesus right now, that he has felt the Lords embrace and been warmed by His smile. That he is being led to a room in heaven that has been waiting for him, that he has walked the streets of gold and seen with new eyes the gates carved from one pearl. That he is healthy again. That he is whole for the first time. And that he is praising God for Jeanne, thanking Him personally for the gift that she was to him in life. For Kati and Thomas, his children. That he is eager for them to join him, but waits for the appointed time with joy--he understands as none of us truly can here on earth: "All in the Lord's timing."

For him it will be but a moment till they are by his side again, but for us on earth, cursed to be bound by time, the wait will be much longer. I know that someday--be it soon or far away--I will meet Tom again, and when I do, I will tell him all that I learned from him and from his wife. And when I see the Lord I will thank Him for Tom as I do tonight, for the life he lived and for the lesson I was taught through him: That He is merciful. That He is kind. That He is good. That He is love. That when it comes to His children, he will not let death have its way without a fight.

In my mother's e-mail notification of his death, this account was shared:

"He prayed with Jeanne the night before [he passed away] and it was
a prayer of thanksgiving. He was thankful for so many things and did
not despair for his future. In his last hours, he drifted in and out
of conscience and at one point opened his eyes and said, "the streets
are brighter than you can imagine."

Tom, until we meet again, rest in the peace and in the presence of the Lord. I thank God for your life, I thank God for your death. Welcome to our ohana, and welcome home.

Epitaph for the Tortured Artist

2005-03-23T13:49:00.000-08:00

I am writing today just to get back in the swing of contributing to this small, dark, and--lately--lonely piece of web real-estate that is my blog. I have been so busy expelling all of my creative energy on another writing-intensive creative project...my "book" as I call it, if not only to imply and confirm to myself that it will be one someday (if it's the last thing I do, damn it!). As evidenced by this blog, I have to be very careful to hold myself accountable to finishing creative endeavors I begin, because as the carcasses of abandoned half-books/short stories/songs/poems begin to stack higher than my creative accomplishments, I find that my creative mind is now becoming more mass-grave like than ever-flowing-well like. I prefer it to remain the latter.
My love hate relationship with everything I can do creatively was once a great source of annoyance to me, but as I get a little older and have more of a sense of humor about myself, I think I am starting to be amused by my creative indecisiveness. The urgency to accomplish and surpass others that characterized my youth is beginning to wear off a little*, and so is the idea that perfection is something I should be realistically striving for.

*isn't this ironic? The older you get, technically the less time you have to get everything you want to accomplish in life accomplished, yet you also start to realize that the "grown up" stage you were so excited to reach as a kid has already happened and that there's nothing coming up for at least 50 or 60 years when you officially reach "old age" (maybe I'm being a tad generous here, but what the hey, I believe in the "self-fulfilling prophesy" thing, which is probably also why I refer to my book as "my book", so that in saying it, I might find that it actually becomes one someday), so now you're staring down the barrel of a bunch of free time that seems way ample enough (perhaps deceivingly so) to get everything done you have planned and then some, so you relax. Weird. Okay, end of aside. You better go up to the last sentence before the aside and re-read it so the next part makes sense.

I don't feel dejected or disappointed about this, but--for the first time--rather, relieved, and I think that this must be a sign of some sort of maturation or growth on my part. I like to flatter myself by thinking so, anyway. :)
All that to say, there was once a time in my life where I would have thrown out blogging because I would have deemed my lack of attentiveness to it in the past month or so failure. Then, after having missed it intensely and wanting to start again, I would have hated the fact that I wanted to give something a shot again that I had so miserably failed at. Then, upon "caving" and taking blogging up again, I would have hated myself for not being able to resist it, seeing myself as weak, and thus, a failure. I would just like to take a moment to soak in the ridiculousness of this thinking, and apologize to myself for being such an ass in the past.

Okay. Now I am able to continue.

It's the same thing with anything else I have tried to do creatively--songwriting, singing, acting, dancing, writing, poetry, painting, drawing, etc. etc. etc. I'm afraid I have quite a long unhealthy history of throwing out the proverbial baby with the bathwater.
But how refreshing it is to be on the other side of all of that "tortured artist" crap. This one actually gets a headstone in my proverbial graveyard, I think. It's just so self-indulgent and all consuming...like the mosquito bite you can't feel until you let yourself scratch it, and then it just overtakes your consciousness because it's so constant and impossible seeming. I mean, it is still a challenge each day I sit down to my computer or open up my song journal or pull out my paint brush to drown out all the internal nay-saying that I spent the better part of my life giving in to. As an almost 100% artistic person, I find that if I do not keep up with my creative-energy-that-can-and-must-be-expelled-weekly quota, I can turn all that precious energy-to-create into it's darker and more destructive counterpart, energy-to-destroy. This is when drawing a blank one day becomes a complete collapse of my writing talent, or when painting a lousy picture becomes the proof of my eternal failure as a painter. Or when bad news throws me into a fit of depression, or when ambiguous words from a complete stranger morph into a direct attack on my moral character.
However, I feel like I might have finally found the brake lever on this runaway train. Spiderman's motto is: "With great power comes great responsibility." Mine is: "With great creativity comes great responsibility." I know that my artistic self is stronger and more prone to flights of fancy, so to speak, than my logical self, and that it has equal power to create me or destroy me. But I have also only recently realized the key--that I have the power to control it. Fancy that. And this is where the responsibility comes in.
The word "responsibility" would have frightened me in the past because of it's risky little ball and chain, the F word of my life, failure, (dun, dun, duuun) but I think I have finally started to grasp the inevitability of it--not in a bad poor-me way, just in a matter-of-fact way. You see, in my internal travels and siftings and fine tunings I think I may have stumbled upon the hiding place of the dirty little secret of all perfectionists like myself--arrogance. I thought I was pretty perfect. I mean, I could do a lot of things well, better than others I knew--and lived in constant fear of maintaining that "betterness". And the evil paradox--intense insecurity. Because what if I wasn't better than everyone else? What if I wasn't as good at all these things as everyone said I was? As I thought I was (in all honesty). What would I be worth, if not that I was gifted? What was special about me, if not that I had artistic talent?
The truth is, I am not perfect (a shock to you all, I know). I am extraordinary, but not because of anything I have done or can do. I am worth the space I take up on this planet, even if I fail every once in a while. I better be, because, as a point of fact, (another shock) I will fail again. I will draw another blank. I will write another song I hate. I will hit another flat note during a performance. I will miss another day of blogging. But I know now that I am the one who will be responsible for what happens next, and that in the end, doing my best is what matters most. I think that makes a fine epitaph for my tortured artist's headstone. May it rest as it only could in death--in peace.

Life Lessons in Computer Over-Use and Strangers Who Smoke Weed

2005-02-09T01:20:00.000-08:00

So, I'm finally back. My poor readers (all two of you) have had to read the same blog for the past few days and have suffered the indignity of having to read the same embarrassing (both for you, because your friends with me, and me, cause it's me) "Weekly Tidbit" for two extra days. I've been, most unfortunately, indisposed--waylaid cruelly by a strange and painful twinge in my shoulder that my recent detective work has told me is directly related to my computer use (or over-use), and more specifically, blogging.

The major problem with this is that I do many other things on my computer to get through my day. While my husband buzzes away at his all-consuming work activities around our dining room table, I'm normally e-mailing, wedding picture sorting (no, I'm still not done), game playing, and--most importantly--blogging the hours away ON THE COMPUTER. Granted, I'm sometimes playing the role of his secretary (do I feel a "Naughty Secretary Night" coming on?), helping him file and sort and stack, fixing him the occasionally cup of tea/coffee, and occasionally (okay, rarely) rubbing his shoulders and telling him what a good job he's doing--but these responsibilities don't arise frequently enough for me to make a real day of it. So I DEPEND on my computer for fun, leisure, communication, and expression. It is my faithful companion...My work-station...My dumping ground...My sanctuary...My cure for loneliness...My escape...My home away from home...It is, in short, nothing less than the hub of my existence...

Or so I realized when I could no longer use it.

Okay, maybe I was being a little melodramatic, but I'm being sort of serious. I was SO BORED without it. Every part of the house was clean...I read the Bible for hours on end (something I haven't done since God only knows when)...and I read the entire fourth Harry Potter book (yes, the thick one) in two days. It was gloomy and dark outside and I had nothing to do, so I was reduced to **gasp!** housework and reading.

Am I 90 years old or what!?!?!

What on earth did I do before the computer was invented? Silly things like reading for leisure and cleaning my room? I have no recollection of such activities ever occurring before the age of 20. I have definitely learned a valuable lesson. In the immortal words of Joni Mitchell:

Lesson #1 - You don't know whatcha got till it's gone.

After some EXCELLENT advice from my dearest Em, I now have my computer and its amenities in positions that don't send stabs of shooting pain up my shoulder each time I approach them. I am, however, experiencing a dull ache right now...I know alot of this damage is going to require some professional assistance at this point. How silly is that? It's not even carpal-tunnel or something normal. It's like I've invented a new computer related injury...like the "shoulderal-tunnel" or something. Really stupid.

Which (speaking of "really stupid") brings me to my next lesson.

Lesson #2 - Don't be overly nice to the checkout guys at Trader Joes.

This is not meant to be a slander at their position--I love and respect the hard work and dedication of the grocery store check-out man as much as the next guy. But I simply must warn all you innocent shoppers out there against this strange and dangerous phenomenon in which your "friends" at the neighborhood grocery store begin to take the inch that is your "Hello!", "How are you?", and "Are you working late tonight?" friendliness A COUNTRY MILE.

On the momentous night that I learned this lesson I was checking out after roaming the store filling my cart and chirping the occasional greeting to the working men and women all around me that I have come to recognize and even have snippets of what might be called a conversation with. There is the man always loading the banana's who tried to hit on me before I told him I was married or he saw the size of my husband (now he politely small-talks to me while looking rather nervous and sheepish). There's the man in the wine section, always keen to hand me my regular two-buck-Chuck. There's the guy in the jar/can aisle (which is always crowded) re-stacking and organizing the cans after a day's rummaging--he always makes a comment about how crowded the aisle is again and how his organizational work never seems to be done.

I find this sort of familiarity comforting. I can trust my friendly Trader Joes staff to bring me good service and an over-all good attitude--often sorely missing at your general run-of-the-mill grocery store. This is why I live in a small beach town. This is why "Cheers" was such a popular show. Camaraderie. Familiarity. "Everybody knows your name."

I also know the checkers quite well. The talkative ones, the pleasant ones, the irritating ones, the funny ones, the quick ones. I am normally very good at choosing the best line with the best checker. I carefully weigh the length of the line with the personality of the checker. I plan my move, and I strike. I almost always win out, and if I don't it's normally because of some old woman trying to write a check in front of me, not because of the checkers.

But tonight was different.

This fateful night, our cart settled in front of a familiar round man with spiky black hair and alot of energy--normally very fast and very pleasant. I had no reason to believe that this experience would be anything other than normal and fine. We exchanged our usual jovial greetings. This where the small talk begins. He beeped my pita chips and fruit salsa through the machine and began to speak.

"So have you found me a room-mate yet?"

Not what I was expecting.

"What?" My husband and I were suddenly very confused.

"Oh, wasn't that you I was talking to about finding a room-mate?"

"No, sorry buddy, wasn't us..."

And this is where I made the mistake.

"...why, what are you looking for?"

Now, let's just pause for a moment. I do happen to know a few people who need room-mates. But why on God's green earth would I suggest this man to any of them? I don't know him. He could be a checker by night and ax-murderer/serial rapist by day! Am I supposed to recommend a man I've spoken with for a combined time of about fifteen measly minutes over the past year and a half to be roomies with one of my friends just because he's nice to me and slides my produce through a scanner efficiently? And, more curiously, does he really think I know him well enough to feel comfortable doing such a thing to my friends? Is he under the impression that I am one of his friends?

All these thoughts raced through my head in an instant, and next thing I know he is launching into a story, the gist of which is that he got kicked out of his last apartment because his landlord/room-mate thought he smoked "too much weed" and now he needed a new place to live. He also saw fit to add that he couldn't afford to pay much and he didn't mind if his new room-mate was a male or female.

So far, this is what we know of this man (pre and post story):
a) He is a checker for Trader Joes.
b) He is a quick checker and was previously thought to have been pleasant.
c) He smokes too much weed.
d) He needs a room-mate.
e) He has mistaken our brief friendly exchanges over the past year or so as some sort of special bonding.

Jer and I shifted nervously at this awkward moment. He had just confessed to the use of an illegal drug substance to almost complete strangers.

And then he said it.

"I mean, you guys are okay with that, aren't you?"

We shifted again. He was holding my future cereal box just in front of the red scan light, waiting for a reply. We were hostages. He had the last of our cart's contents on the end of his counter and would not continue until we had answered his leading question. His eyes jumped searchingly between my husband and I, wearing an expression that seemed to reflect complete awe that there had ever existed a world in which a negative answer to his question could be. We would look like total squares if we said what we really felt..."Well no, ya loser, we're not okay with that!"...but we would be lying if we gave him what he wanted...the "Yes, of course!" that would align him with us in his quest for vindication against growing up and putting down the spliff. If we told him what we really thought, all future visits to Trader Joes would be filled with awkwardness and weirdness. What if we saw him, as we surely would? Or worse! What if he told the whole (undoubtedly spliff-supportive) staff! We would be black-listed from friendliness...glowered at and silently tisked at for our rigid judgementalism. The friendly "Cheers" atmosphere would turn into a dark unfriendly place where everyone knew your name but wished they didn't. This was embarrassing. It seemed we were, in fact, expressing "not-okay-ness" with his very way of life.

It was almost painful...there was so little left to be scanned. I felt panicked and unforgiveably naive...How had I steered us so blindly and so willingly toward this loose cannon drug addict? His "quick checker" status on article "b" was taking a turn for the worst. I just wanted to get home and get dinner started. My ice cream was sweating at the end of the station with the rest of the forsaken unscanned items--much like I was sweating inside. "Just scan the cereal box!" I wanted to yell, "Scan, Damn, it, do what you're supposed to do! SCAN!!!"

And then my husband said simply...

"Well, I don't know if my friends would be okay with that."

So simple, yet so brilliant. This statement both dodged the affronting question as to our stance on marijuana cigarette abuse (therefore preventing any store-wide disdain we might have suffered) and took us off the hook for not naming prospective room-mates, his little habit appearing to have narrowed our choices.

He went on--maybe not getting the hint--asking us to keep an eye out, and to tell the prospective roomie to come into the store to see him if they were interested.

And suddenly, out of the blue, I thought of a girl I knew who was looking for a room-mate. I knew she shopped "only at Trader Joes" and would be pretty enough to have been noticed by the men of the store.

"There is a girl who comes in sometimes after work," I blurted out in desperation to get the ball rolling, get him scanning, and get the hell out of there. "...Dark hair and light eyes, always in her work clothes. Her name is Kelly. You should ask her next time you see her."

Mercifully, he began scanning the remainder of our goods....

"Thanks!" he said.

...two more items...

"I'll keep a look-out for her."

"Great!" I said.

Thank goodness, he'd finally finished.

We paid, said our goodbyes, and walked quickly from the store. The wind felt wonderful on my face. The unruly cart swerved left and right as we made our way to the car, but I didn't care. I was free.

It wasn't until my husband began smirking at me that I realized what had just happened.

I had just recommended my husband's ex-girlfriend to a pot-smoking stranger looking for a room-mate.

And this, my friends, is lesson number three:

Lesson #3 - Always have the name of someone you barely know but dislike slightly available in the fore-front of your mind, just in case you should find yourself in need of someone to put in an awkward position in your place.

I mean, you guys are okay with that, aren't you?

Thank You, Dr. Phil

2005-02-04T13:43:00.000-08:00

I am a housewife, so it is only natural that at the end of the daily rat-wheel that is my responsibilities as a housewife--cleaning and making meals out of random things in the back of my cupboard (which gets harder every day as my cupboard's contents diminish) and cleaning up said meals--I reward myself with a cup of hot tea, a chance to sit and relax, and two hours of television's finest: Oprah and Dr. Phil.

I look forward to this moment each day. It is a nice pat on the back I like to give myself for getting through the day without taking a nap or entertaining depressing thoughts, as well as a daily goal--a trophy if you will. I know I must get all my work done if I plan to sit without guilt, which is what I remind myself of each time the couch beckons or self-pity threatens to drag me into the pits of despair. I think of the show's contents, always faithfully outlined at the end of the previous episode, and what I will miss if I shirk my commitments. Oprah's upbeat "wildest dreams" campaign sweeping the nation and Dr. Phil's pull-no-punches honesty/morality based reality checks give me a sense of goodness and truth in these utterly lost and morally vapid modern times.

I start my day with the Word of God and end it with the word of Oprah and Dr. Phil. What better day is there? What better bookends could bracket my daily hours? I sure as hell can't think of any.

So yesterday, as I settled with my decaf Earl Grey and a cozy throw in front of the television, I sighed with relief and a sense of accomplishment. I laughed along with "The Sexy Men of Wisteria Lane" as Oprah pumped them for secrets about future Desperate Housewives plots that we know they won't reveal (but don't we just love seeing them squirm?). I giggled as I watched the "just for the Oprah show" Desperate Housewives mini-episode, cleverly shot to include her in the show's major plot-points and scandals. I swooned when the "Sexy Men" dropped in on a group of girls (who faithfully held a DH Party each week) and supposedly made their "wildest dreams" come true by appearing (even though I'm pretty sure their actual "wildest dreams" did not include these men fully clothed).

And then Dr. Phil came on.

This afternoon's episode was special...a couple we have watched attempting to salvage their adultery-sundered marriage (the husband is the cheater) and family of three boys is appearing again, except this time the husband has refused to participate. He is with his addiction--the "other woman"--who is now pregnant with his first girl. In an effort to "get all sides of an affair", Dr. Phil is also speaking with a mistress who has born a married man's child in the last part of the episode.

Now, I love the "follow-up" episodes, because after weeks of seeing their suffering and confusion, you finally get the pay off in seeing these people's eventual healing--whether or not things work out the way they want with other people in their lives, seeing their personal journey completed is equally rewarding.

This poor wife had realized her husband was no longer the man she married, that she was mourning for a man who no longer existed, and that she was prepared to demand better for herself and her family. He had obviously made his choice by refusing to work on the marriage anymore...despite Dr. Phil telling him that he couldn't continue seeing the other woman while he was committed to working on the marriage, he had continued visiting her, asking his wife, "why can't I have both of you?". What an idiot.

We were happy to see this dedicated wife and mother's sad journey end in strength and dignity. We were content to let that louse of a man rot away in his self-imposed prison. And now we were going to hear the perspective of the "other woman".

The pre-recorded introductory spot ran. The edited soudbytes of her interview were juxtaposed against images of her with her illegitimate little girl, her opening the door to a headless man portraying her married lover, her sitting pitifully on her doorstep with her head in her hands.

She accused the wife of being in denial.
"What a bitch," I thought.
She claimed that the wife knows and has done nothing.
"What a lame rationalization," I judged.
She's not his first affair.
She's tried to break it off and make him go back to his wife, but she can't stop herself. "What a weakling," I decided.

She complained that her daughter would never have a father. She moaned about how hard her life has been. She cried, but no one pitied her. And now she would be speaking to Dr. Phil one-on-one.

One million viewers leaned forward as she took the stage.

We already knew who she was. We knew everything about this woman before she even opened her mouth.

"What a whore," I thought.
"She must have no self respect," I declared.
"How can she live with herself," I wondered self-righteously.
"She's not even pretty," I said to myself, and aloud to my husband as he passed by.

I, along with housewives across the country, waited silently for her to speak.

And when she opened her mouth, I was shocked.

She was quiet and afraid. She had no self-confidence. She hated herself. She felt helpless and out of control. She was lonely. She was lost in a vicious cycle and asking for help getting out. I recognized her immediately.

This was my mother.

The childish adulterer with no impulse control was my father. The strong wife was a foreshadowing of what my father's forsaken wife could have been but would never be. I was that illegitimate child. This was my parents story. This was the tree and I had been the fruit. This was my past, and I hadn't even recognized it.

And then I saw everything in a new light. I had always felt compassion for Melva, and when she died I had mourned the loss as if a distant relative had passed away. But now I mourned her again...not for her death, but for her life. I saw my life and my family through her eyes, and I understood why she always looked at me with that blank stare and cringed when I called her Grandma as my father instructed all of us to do. I wished for her life to have ended in strength...not in bitterness and scorn as it had. I looked at the wife on TV, fire in her newly-opened eyes, not tears, and determination that I'm sure her self-indulgent weakling of a husband would cower at.

My father. A sad shadow of a man...still following his desires and impulses as a child would, selfishly and compulsively, unwilling and too cowardly to even be faced with the truth of his own actions, unable to deal with the reality of his decisions. So immature, so lost, so helpless, so stubborn, so selfish. He had done to my older half-siblings what this absent man on television had done to his three innocent boys. He had abandoned them to be with my mother. He had abandoned Melva to follow his selfishness into misery.

My mother. She was an empty person like this mistress. So incapacitated by self-hatred and self-doubt, she couldn't even make a solid decision, let alone demand better for herself. She was frozen by fear, carried on the tide of circumstance, and ruled by the promises and lies of a selfish, manipulative child-man looking only for his own satisfaction. When I was conceived, the threat of loneliness became the threat of single motherhood, and she let go of any last ounce of courage to get out that she might have been clutching. She consoled herself with the same lies this mistress on TV went to sleep with each night for comfort and justification. She turned to drinking. She was an absent, pre-occupied, selfish, alcoholic mother. She was asleep.

I thank God for her because I know now that He would wake her someday. She would go on to know the Lord, to find her worth, to love a man who loved her back. She would be born again. She would be a success story. She would grow to know me and love me, and I would be saved because of her prayers.

But my other mother (my dad's other mistress) would not be so lucky. She would comfort herself with these same lies, stand by this same small man while he belittled her, and she would raise his children to believe the same lies while they learned how much a woman is worth from his verbal mistreatment of her. She had felt all the same feelings of self-doubt and fear that my mother had felt, but masked them with denial and arrogance. She would accuse Melva the most. She would deny simple obvious facts to preserve a fabricated "reality" she could accept without fear--mostly that she could accept being a part of without hating herself--and then would puff herself up with false self-righteousness about who she is in her "reality". She would have children, my dear siblings--blood siblings in my eyes--who would follow in her lies and fabrications, idealizing a man who loves himself above anyone and demonizing my mother, a grown-up woman who was brave enough to see him for what he is.

My other mother was not even present on the Dr. Phil show. She was not even strong enough to admit she needed help to herself, let alone Dr. Phil in front of millions of viewers. She was not even brave enough to step out of her self-imposed prison of falsehood and lies to take stock of reality. When Dr. Phil asked the woman on TV if she was willing to set a higher standard for herself, she said yes, and she too was changed. "It's better to be healthy alone than sick together" he said, and she agreed. But my other mother would never know the freedom of truth or the surrender of confession. She would never experience the sight and clarity of allowing herself to see and accept reality. She would settle for this man until she too was dead, and until she too would be mourned because she had never truly lived.

And I, the illegitimate child.

"What about my child?" the mistress said.
"What about your child?" the wife answered. "She isn't supposed to be here. Your family isn't supposed to be here."

And I realized--with profound relief--just how right she was.

My family has always been such a mess and our lives have always been so abnormally difficult. I have always been made to feel like either dead weight or a bargaining chip while my parents battled against themselves and eachother. I have always felt more mature than they were. I never respected them. I always saw them as the children they were. Yet they, in their insecurity, have always tried to make me a part of their drama--they have made me feel responsible for them, responsible for their mistakes, obligated to right the wrongs they could not. They feared my strength and my wisdom-beyond-my-years. They knew I would see them for who they really were if they didn't make me feel unintelligent and foolish. They knew if they let me out of the house or make friends my age, I would find out how healthy families run and what the real world beyond their made-up reality was like. They knew if I took on interests of my own, beyond their interests and dreams for me, I would someday follow those interests and dreams beyond their control. That I would surpass them. That my heart would carry me to a strength that they could not fathom, and that I would have everything that they were so bitter at themselves for giving up.

They were the mistake-makers. And I was the innocent result of that mistake.

I was born into their life, but I wasn't a part of it.

All the things they had told me to break my spirit, I now know for a fact are lies. All these things I've suspected but could never confirm, I now know for a fact are true.

I am not the mistake maker. I have made my own mistakes, granted, but my mistakes began when I began making them, not when they did.

What a relief.

At the end of my daily retreat I had come away with much more than my normal sense of rest and accomplishment. I came away with true peace between my past, present, and future. I finally had some clarity about where they ended and I began. I was innocent. It was all a sham. I was free.

Thank you, mistress lady, for introducing me to my mother. Thank you, selfish husband, for introducing me to my father. Thank you determined wife, for helping me better understand Melva, and for the fire in your eyes that helped me recognize the difference between the defeated mother of my past and the empowered one of my present and future.

And Thank you Dr. Phil, for helping me to "get all sides of an affair," and to finally make peace with my role in my parent's once and for all--that of the innocent bystander.

Normal

2005-01-31T11:27:00.000-08:00

Today, I'm sitting in my office and looking at the pictures I have put up of my family: My extraordinarily beautiful siblings and I, laughing and getting ready backstage at a tribute concert for my dad. Our family, happily eating a lavish dinner at an expensive restaurant during what I know to be "after hours" (at least after 11 0'clock at night). Vivid blue sky and arresting green landscape. My smiling siblings, embracing in front of a postcard-perfect view from our childhood home in Hawaii's top floor balcony. Diamond head. The ocean. A reunion with hula dancers that were my childhood playmates backstage at my Dad's show. Beautiful smiling faces in front of beautiful views in a beautiful land across the ocean.

Then, I look down at a picture of my younger, fitter, then high-school-senior husband about to kick--nay, annihilate--a soccer ball. His body taught with motion, sweat on his brow from the afternoon Orange County heat. There are families in the background, a few players from another team suiting up and stretching. There are bleachers. I see his father, the Parent Coach, running and yelling down the sidelines. It is Jeremy's mom behind the camera--I envision a younger Marilyn, her curly hair in a messy pony-tail, smelling of sunscreen, beaming with pride at her gifted son, taking the ball home for the team yet again, as he'd done in countless soccer games since he was in elementary school.

Looking at these pictures--each capturing very different lives, each telling very different stories--I feel oddly nostalgic. I have often felt this way, especially as a child, and have always been haunted by it's lucid ambiguity and inherent inability to be resolved. It's not really nostalgia in the sense of longing for what I once had--though at times I miss all that as well--but rather, for what I didn't have. And it's not as though I am wishing for a different life, I just wonder, sometimes...what would it have been like to live a normal life?

Isn't that what we all long for in the end? Even those that lead normal lives (unbeknownst to them) wish for normal lives. Though there are many compelling arguments against the existence of real "normality", its concept still tortures many young--as well as adult--lives. We live in a society that frowns upon individuality...We are taught as children on the playground that being different will bring you teasing and ridicule. We are taught as women in the "playing field" that being anything other than society's pre-ordained skin-and-bones blond/blue-eyed beauty will decrease our chances of finding love (a self-fulfilling prophecy, I believe). We are taught in the working world that fall-in-line drone-dom get's you a promotion and individuality/creativity is a hinderance in the fight for the next wrung up the corporate ladder. As strange as it seems, we humans--all more multi-facetedly unique than our mere thumbprints--desire and covet above all to be the same as everyone else (or at least to be seen as such). We desire, above all, to be normal.

In all my travels, no where I have ever been (long enough to notice, anyway) clings more stringently to these "normal" ideals than South Orange County. Not even L.A. can compete. Because unlike South OC, L.A. is all about self-realization and self-actualization. Individual goals--becoming an actor/singer/fashion designer, looking more skinny/fashionable/beautiful--reign supreme. In SOC, however, the focus is on creating an image for your family.

"I drive an SUV, which is expensive to drive; I get my hair and nails done and shop regularly, which is expensive to do; I live in such-and-such community, in which the homes are expensive to live in--all which is meant to show how well off we are as a family."

"My kids are involved in such-and-such activities and making great grades--this proves I'm a great mother and that my kid is better than your kid."

"My outfit is cuter and I'm skinnier, which means my kids have a cooler mom and my husband has a cuter wife than yours do."

Everybody wants to be upper-middle-class, white-picked-fenced, gated-community-living, good-child-rearing, SUV-driving, NORMAL people.

"My husband works at a good job which affords us a nice home and a nice car and I have unlimited recources for beauty and fun clothes while still having enough time to get food on the table and raise my children well."

These are the values our playground here in South Orange County reward. Being busy is a sign of prosperty, not familial neglect. An extensive population of Mexicans means you are now in the ghetto. Wearing leopard print instead of alligator print is so last season. Which side of the freeway do you live on? If your community has a name, you're rich. If it has a gate, your richer.

But what about "different" people like me? Where do I fit in this bubble of status and similarity? There's really no room for the individuals of this world, in this world...and definitely not in this city. Am I lower class because I live with Mexicans as next door neighbors and drive a Camry? Am I higher class because I have designer clothes in my closet and used to be famous? If my Chinese eyes or dark skin were any more pronounced (not to mention if I simply went back to my normal hair color) I might be suddenly be considered smart because I'm Asian, or frequently assumed to be Mexican because I'm dark skinned (those seem to be the only ethnicities that exist in anyone's consciousness in this city). What if I was as different looking on the outside as I am on the inside? And what does a normal looking girl like me do with all of this--difference?

I was brought up on a tropical island. I have brown hair and brown eyes because I am a mix-and-match blend of Chinese, Hawaiian, Portugese, and Caucasion, the child of a mother-father match that I have now learned (since moving to California) has a name: interracial romance. I was brought up isolated from friends my age--instead, I grew up almost solely in the company of adults. I slept during the day and spent my nights with my siblings, befriending the hula dancers and the entertainers who waited backstage at my father's Hawaiian variety show. My mother sang in this show along with my dad, and my siblings and I also began singing before being fully potty-trained--the beginnings of many years on stage as a family and individually. I lived in an eclectic mansion my dad built and designed himself on the slopes of Diamond Head with a 360 degree view of my picturesque homeland's very best and beautiful features. I grew up eating the very best authentic Hawaiian, Chinese, Japanese, Pan-Asian, "local" food money could buy, not tasting a hamburger (or red meat for that matter) until my birthdays were in the double digits. Money was no object. Fame was inevitable. My dad was a star, my sisters and I were the beautiful eligible bachelorettes of the island, heiresses to the legacy of the most famous name to ever come out of Hawaii. We were princesses--virtual Hawaiian royalty. My people and my culture looked to our family to give them a stake in the world.

I come from a beautiful heritage and rich culture that is almost dead because of the commercial mis-construing of it and our delicately balanced economic dependancy on the very tourism industry that is responsible for it's misrepresentation. My direct descendants were brought over on Chinese and Portugese slave ships to work the rice paddies and taro patches, hoping for a better life for them and their families. We modern-day Hawaiians struggle to preserve an almost dead language and remember songs that are the only recordings of my ancestors great deeds, learning songs and Hawaiian words as part of the state-sanctioned public school curriculum. We mourn the destruction of our sacred ways of life and the hostile take-over of our monarchy by foreign majorities in songs and history lessons. We live by the Aloha spirit. We embrace each other's success as our own. We stick together.

...And perhaps this is why I am constantly and inexplicably at odds with myself. One part of me was a slave, another part of me wielded a whip over my anscestors sunburned back. One part of me was singing a chant of mourning as our last Queen was put under house arrest and forced to turn Hawaii's rule over to foreigners, and yet another part of me was that usurping foreigner...a "haole" by literal translation--now slang for anyone in Hawaii who is "white". More recently, my family name is largely responsible for perpetuating Hawaii's campy image--a main beneficiary of the rest of the world's love affair with the commercialized version of Hawaii touted to them in travel commercials and glossy magazine ads.

My veins carry the blood of enemies. My blood tells the story of my homeland. Perhaps this is why I always feel so at home there (crazy family drama notwithstanding)...because so much of our history there is told in my blood. Hawaiian. Chinese. Portugese. Causasion. This is the history of Hawaii.

And yet here I am. Married. To a "foreigner". In California. Where virtually no culture exists and where Mexican is almost the only varied ethnicity. Where I am not famous, not important, not extraordinarily beautiful, not special (at least not in the way I was taught I should be), and not at home. A former big fish in a little pond, now, a medium sized fish in a very very large pond--and a disappointment to all who new me in the days of my potential...including myself sometimes.

What if I had lived here my whole life? What if I had been the one in the picture at the soccer field? Maybe I would have grown up with a white picket fence. Maybe I would have played in a cul-de-sac with kids my age, instead of under the dressing-room tables of hula dancers. Maybe I would have had a normal family, with a dad who worked at a real job and a mother who stayed in the home. Maybe I would have had dinner at the same time every night, or gone to sleep and woken up with the rest of the world. Maybe I would have grown up understanding status-wars as a way of life, trends as a given, and wearing sneakers more often than I'd go barefoot the norm. Maybe I'd be used to seeing mainly caucasion faces when I walk down the street. Maybe I'd see pictures of Hawaii and think it was beautiful. Maybe I'd see pictures of another girl my age's life in Hawaii and wish I could trade with her. Maybe I would travel to Hawaii and see her in a show, and wish I could sing, or that I could be famous one day. What if my outside matched my inside?

Maybe I'd be just the same as I am right now.

This girl and I may not have a history and heritage in common, but we share far more than many will ever know or admit.

Insecurity. Uncertainty. Self-doubt. Temptation. Anger. Rage. Greed. Guilt. Pain. Envy. Longing. Vanity. Maybe even substance addiction. Eating disorders. Or suicidal tendencies.

The terrors that plague every teenager. The selfish and destructive desires that everybody feels. The joy that the image of perfection and the picket fence can never bring. The rabid desire for fulfillment from money that will never come. These are the underpinnings of what unites us. No one is satisfied. Everybody wishes. The grass always looks greener, but just beneath the surface, we all wear the same shade.

How many times have I heard people wish for my life? Praise my "exotic" beauty? Marvel at my unique life-stories? Because though society tells us to desire similarity, we all inherently desire individuality. We desire normalcy because we are conditioned to--We desire uniqueness because it is in our DNA. Everybody wants...it is the rare man that finds true contentment in this life. Everybody suffers at the hand of this want...each in varying degrees of course...tortured by what could be and forced to live in what is.

That is what South Orange County is all about, isn't it? The could be. Projecting as closely as possible to "normal", all the while, hiding a broken home, emotional bankruptcy, and insecurity.

I fear I will always be at war with myself...and I think that for once I am okay with this. This is where being a "chameleon"--though sometimes a dishonesty--is an asset to my personality. I can fit anywhere because I am so different...yet so very much the same. Nobody may ever truly understand me...as close as my husband may come to it, he will never really know the full extent of my childhood's ramifications (nor will I, I suppose). Everyone will see their life and everyone else's through their own unique set of glasses--their experiences, their moral code, their beliefs and views of the world as they know it. I will never walk in the shoes of an overlooked Mexican bus-boy, but I have walked in the shoes of a persecuted ethnic minority. I may never walk in the shoes of the girl who grew up in a mansion in Orange County and tried to kill herself, but I have lived in a mansion Hawaii and tried to kill myself. I may never walk in the shoes of a Chinese slave worker who has uprooted himself and left his homeland for the promise of a better life, but I have uprooted myself and left my homeland for the promise of a better life with my true love and current husband.

I've realized, after many years of misunderstanding myself, that as different as I may be in every way, no life would have been better. All of us are different...and all of us are the same. I'm just grateful that I am who I am, and for my life--the life I have lead and the life that I now lead--and that I am surrounded by pictures of the ones I love, who have made this strange and wonderful life worth living.

Happy Birthday, UCelebrity!

2005-01-28T11:39:00.000-08:00

A Poem in Honor of Your Birth:

When you came into this world, my friend
Yes, when you had arrived
You made the world much brighter
Simply 'cause you are alive!
What would I do without your smile?
The dry patch on your head?
Your fear of sweating publicly
Or farting in the bed?
But seriously, I love my Em,
My BFF you are,
I thank the Lord that you're alive,
A cherished friend to this Little Star!

I'm sure happy you were born!

Love you,
Little Starlet

Blagger (Get it? Blogger AND Lagger put together!)

2005-01-27T15:22:00.000-08:00

Hey ladies...I know you are probably wondering where my new blog is and why I have taken so long to put one up today...after all, I'm a housewife for a living and should have all the time in the world. Well, I sat down to write a "little something" and ended up writing a soul-searching mini novel that I haven't even finished yet, so I'm sorry about leaving you hanging all day. Instead I'll leave you with a joke so you can read something semi-funny before you have to sit through my novella later (which, you are more than welcome to skip over, by the way, despite your solemn vow not to miss a single day...just read this one tomorrow too.) This joke is in honor of Jeremy quitting his job due to a Ridiculousness of Boss and the fact that Demotions Are Stupid. Also, this is a shout out to UCelebrity for her recent (hopefully temporary) disallusionment with formerly awesome job. Okay...here goes:

New Rules For Employment
SICKNESS AND RELATED LEAVE: We will no longer accept a doctor statement as proof of sickness. If you are able to go to the doctor, you are able to come to work. SURGERY: Operations are now banned. As long as you are an employee here, you need all your organs. You should not consider removing anything. We hired you intact. To have something removed constitutes a breach of employment. BEREAVEMENT LEAVE: This is no excuse for missing work. There is nothing you can do for dead friends, Relatives or coworkers. Every effort should be made to have non-employees attend to the arrangements. In rare cases, where employee involvement is necessary, the funeral should be scheduled in the late afternoon. We will be glad to allow you to work through your lunch hour and subsequently leave one hour early, provided your share of the work is done enough. YOUR OWN DEATH: This will be accepted as an excuse. However, we require at least two weeks notice as it is your duty to train your own replacement. RESTROOM USE: Entirely too much time is being spent in the restroom. In the future, we will follow the practice of going in alphabetical order. For instance, all employees whose names begin with ''''''''''''''''A'''''''''''''''' will go from 8:00 to 8:10, employees whose names begin with ''''''''''''''''B'''''''''''''''' will go from 8:10 to 8:20 and so on. If you''''''''''''''''re unable to go at your allotted time, it will be necessary to wait until the next day when your turn comes again. In extreme emergencies employees may swap their time with a coworker. Both employees'''''''''''''''' supervisors in writing must approve this exchange. In addition, there is now a strict 3-minute time limit in the stalls. At the end of three minutes, an alarm will sound, the toilet paper roll will retract, and the stall door will open. PAYCHECK GUIDE: The following helpful guide has been prepared to help our employees better understand their paychecks: Item Amount Gross pay $1,222.02 Income tax $244.40 Outgo tax $45.21 State tax $11.61 Interstate tax $61.10 County tax $6.11 City tax $12.22 Rural tax $4.44 Back tax $1.11 Front tax $1.16 Side tax $1.61 Up tax $1.08 Down tax $1.14 Tic-Tacs $1.98 Thumbtacks $3.93 Carpet tacks $0.98 Stadium tax $0.69 Flat tax $8.32 Surtax $2.23 Ma''''''''''''''''am tax $1.23 Corporate tax $2.60 Parking fee $5.00 F.I.C.A. $81.88 T.G.I.F. Fund $9.95 Life insurance $5.85 Health insurance $16.23 Dental insurance $4.50 Mental insurance $4.33 Disability $2.50 Ability $0.25 Liability $3.41 Coffee $6.85 Coffee Cups $66.51 Floor rental $16.85 Chair rental $0.32 Desk rental $4.32 Union dues $5.85 Union don''''''''''''''''ts $3.77 Cash advance $0.69 Cash retreats $121.35 Overtime $1.26 Undertime $54.83 Eastern time $9.00 Central time $8.00 Mountain time $7.00 Pacific time $6.00 Time Out $12.21 Oxygen $10.02 Water $16.54 Heat $51.42 Cool air $26.83 Hot air $20.00 Miscellaneous $113.29 Various $8.01 Sundry $12.09 ------- Net Take Home Pay $0.02 Thank you for your loyalty to our company. We are here to provide a positive employment experience. Therefore, all questions, comments, concerns, complaints, frustrations, irritations, aggravations, insinuations, allegations, accusations, contemplations, consternations, or input should be directed elsewhere. Have a nice week. The Management

A Momentus Occasion in the Life and Times of Little Starlet

2005-01-26T10:19:00.000-08:00

So Jer and I have been trying this new thing where we sleep in the buff (this is not the Momentus Occasion in the Life and Times of Little Starlet, by the way). I know, it seems strange that this was not something my dirty little mind and I decided we should do a long time ago, but alas, it has, until recently, escaped me. So after a few off-temperature and, well, naked feeling nights, things have been grrrrrreat! A major set-back, however, has been the lack of boxers--my husband's usual sleep-bottom of choice--which I normally hook my right hand in before nodding off (he sleeps with his back facing me and I sleep on my back, so don't get any ideas you dirty birds!). Unfortunately, the lack of my little "security blanket" has dis-favorably contributed to the already difficult time I have sleeping, and since my husband's only suggestion was that he wear a belt to bed (I know you girls don't have a full visual of what this might look like, but trust me, it caused us to share the biggest laugh either of us have had in a long time), I have been forced to forgo some precious hours of sleep--which have made the mornings come too quickly and with much dragging of feet.

But this morning, something strange and wonderful happened...as I lay blissfully semi-conscious between the warm sheets of my perfect bed, I noticed the sounds of the morning outside my bedroom window--as well as the sensation of needing to pee really badly--when all of a sudden (this is the Momentus part)...*CLICK*...my alarm went off. That's right folks, you read that one right. I WAS UP BEFORE MY ALARM. And guess what time my alarm went off this morning...not 9. Not 8:30. Not even 8. Nope, dear friends. My alarm went off at 7:30. That means that this morning, I broke a personal record...This morning was the earliest time I've ever been naturally awake...EVER. This is not counting the bad early-awake times...like when I sit stick-straight up in bed, wide awake, at 3:30AM for no apparent reason. Or when I don't actually sleep at all...that doesn't count either. What I mean is GOOD awake...normal-for-the-rest-of-the-time-zone awake. And the best part? I felt refreshed. I mean, it was pretty hard to get out of those warm sheets, especially when I got that hot naked husband of mine's inviting warmness emanating from just a roll-over away, begging to be snuggled with. But by now I've learned the value of capitalizing on alarm-shock to get me out of the bed before I get ahold of that snooze button. Normally I need a blast of water in the form of a shower to complete the wake-up cycle, but not this morning. I was up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and had plenty of time to eat and read and pray and worship and think and sit and just get ready to take on the day. It was--in a word--awesome.

All of this begs the question: what were my parents thinking, raising me to wake up at noon every day? They've done me a serious disservice with the whole "I'm-proud-of-my-little-night-owl" thing. Daylight is much better than darkness, let me tell ya. Even morning darkness is better than night darkness. And I seriously think that it sets your temperature for the day to get up early...I mean, if you are awake in the cold of the morning, then the rest of the day seems warm, instead of being cold all day like I normally am.

In short, I hope I can figure out how to make the natural wake-up thing happen every morning (...and a way to sleep happily without resorting to "the belt"). Can this night-owl finally change her feathers? Let's hope the frick so. Cause if every morning began this way, I may have finally found something worth waking up for.

The Straw That Broke My Back

2005-01-21T17:35:00.000-08:00

Those of you who know me well (and everyone reading this does) I used to have a pretty serious anger management problem, as evidenced by the awkward locations of hanging artwork in my apartment which are really covering holes in the wall where I angrily unleashed my inner Tae-Bo Master all over my bad self--and the innocent wall. Yeah, that sounds really bad, I know, but at least I haven't pulled a Liza Minelli and started beating up on my husband, you know? Gimme a little credit. Okay, but you don't have to cause actually, that's pretty bad no matter how you cut it...

Whatever, moving on.

Though this same kind of wall-as-a-punching-bag thing has happened in all of my three previous apartments, somehow I always neglect to mention it to the owners of the apartments when I put in my application to rent...but hey, that's what a deposit is for, right?

Again, moving on. Gosh, I'm all over the place tonight!

So, now-a-days I consider myself pretty good at controlling...myself. I've worked hard to grow past this childish temper-tantrum mentality and on to the responsible anger expression methods of adulthood. Such as the silent treatment (passive aggressive), or counting to ten backwards (seeking the upper hand over your anger), or asking for "a break" before things get out of hand (cooling your proverbial jets--normally the last stand against an urge to react violently).

Right now, I am on "a break."

Not from my husband--nay, on the contrary--from a story he is telling me about an old friend of ours who has abandoned all good reason to follow the path that is easiest for him instead of doing what he should do...and he is screwing my husband and a few of his friends over in the process. And it just makes me so mad because I'm dealing with so much of this stupidity in my life where I have to just sit idly by and watch my friends and loved ones ruin their lives.

Damn it, I gotta take another break.

* * *

Okay, I'm back. So, you can tell this is bothering me pretty bad.

But at this point, what it makes me most of all is just really sad.

What is it in a person that chooses justification and rationalization over self-examination? As Christians, we know there is JUST ONE absolute truth...something is either RIGHT or it is WRONG. So what is it in people that will forsake the truth to let a wrong thing be right in their own mind? It doesn't change what it really is, so what purpose does lying to yourself really serve? Is instant gratification more important than being honest about what's really going on? Does it really work for them to say, "Well, it's just easier for me this way" and they can still sleep at night? Is anything really too hard that it's really worth giving up what's right?

Being a believer in Christ is about sacrifice...it's not all about sacrifice, but the crux of our faith is just that--faith, and part of true faith means that even when the scenario we know is not right but we want so bad dangles in front of our faces for the taking, if we deny it for the right thing, God is able and willing to bring us something better that we cannot see. So many people cling willfully to their precious sandboxes when God is just trying to see an indication that they are willing to let go in favor of Him so He can give them a place on beach. It's happening all around me in my life...it's ridiculous. I watch one person after the other lose themselves in their carnal desires and their instant-gratification short-sightedness, wasting away--giving up everything else they could have or did have in order to justify their precious lie that most of them know is a lie. And you know what their big answer is when I ask? You know what I always hear? You know what my husband heard today from his former friend?

"It's just too hard."

Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING is so hard to go through that it's okay to stop honoring what's right.

It's the same thing with this War on Terror. Nobody wants to do the right thing and emancipate these people! Why? 'Cause Americans are dying. What about the thousands of people who lived in fear of being kidnapped and tortured to death by a horrible dictator? What about the women who are still considered "man's property" by state law? What about the children who grow up learning propagated songs about killing themselves? There was a time when things like that were worth fighting for to Americans. But now it's just "too hard." It's much easier for people to just blame their laziness and selfishness on Bush's oil-hunting or incompetence. But what's right? The big and little decisions in our lives about right and wrong--individually and as a nation--have global consequences. The deterioration of the moral fabric of our society can be chalked up to the little decisions we make in our own little lives every day, which slowly turn into a way of life, which translates to a cultural definition that exposes us for the lazy, self-honoring, "personal truth" (HOGWASH) lovers we have become, using OUR FREEDOM to PROTEST A WAR that will not only GRANT THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE THAT SELF-SAME FREEDOM, but also save thousands of people's lives, as well as change the face of the world as we know it for the better. "It's not our war." "It's not our responsibility." We have the recources, we have the security, and we have the strength as the world's superpower...WHO ELSE'S RESPONSIBILITY WOULD IT BE!?! We have become so good at rationalizing our way off the straight and narrow in favor of the easy way out, we can't even see how ridiculos we are.

Integrity=Doing what you know is right, no matter what the cost.
Maturity=Doing what you know is right, even when you don't want to.
Honor=Ascribing someone or something it's proper value.

It means more to me to die with integrity, maturity, and honor, than it does for me to die comfortable.

If all that makes you angry, then you can just go punch a wall.

The Wrath of The Red Lady, First-Hand

2005-01-20T22:49:00.000-08:00

WARNING: IF YOU ARE A MAN OR SQUEAMISH ABOUT FEMININE-SPECIFIC MONTHLY AND MEDICAL ISSUES, CEASE READING AND DO NOT REVISIT. THIS IS A BLOG ABOUT MY PERIOD.

So, I once considered myself quite the lucky lady when it came to the monthly fabulousness (yes, that was sarcasm) that is The Menstrual Period. I have, I must say, THE WORST bouts with PMS of anyone I know, but then, when the festivities officially begin, I'm pretty a-o-kay. Yeah, maybe I cry during car commercials and acquire a greater affinity for chocolate, but for the most part, the seriously negative effects I had heard recounted time and again by my fellow ladies-in-red were foreign to me. My emotions normally ran the gamut from feeling left out, to feeling (if I may be honest here) sort of smug, and I often made it a point at the end of these harrowing tales to chime in:

"Yeah, wow, that really sucks. I guess I'm just really lucky I've never had to deal with anything like that...but I can only imagine."

I said this mostly in the foolish hope that my stating it out loud would somehow solidify it's truth and rightness in the universe--like a spoken understanding between God and I--and that everything would stay the same bearable way it's been since the fateful day ol' Lady Days first came a-knockin'.

Unfortunately, God didn't seem to be in on our little agreement.

I had heard tell of having to leave work because of cramps, of laying in bed with a heating pad and moaning with pain, of staying home instead of heading to the beach with the posse on a beautiful summer day...I had heard but never understood. But now--shut my mouth--I have felt with my own pelvis the destructive power that is The Menstrual Cramp. And all I have to say is: Yikes.

I tossed. I turned. I sat up. I laid back down. I walked. I stood still. Nothing could alleviate the pressurous rollicking ache that was suddenly a-visiting upon me and my unhappy pelvis--quite an un-announced and unwelcome visit, might I add. And the worst part is that, as a result of my non-experience in the matter, I had no (read: ZERO) supplies on hand. I had no Midol (my husband was gone for the day with our car), I had just sent my heating pad off to Santa Barbara with my sister (she had a nasty back-ache), and I was beginning to weigh seriously the actual consequences of an Advil overdose.

Things were not looking good AT. ALL.

I wish I could report that something miraculous happened to suddenly lift the evil cramp curse, like an angel appearing and saying, "Oh, Starlet, we in heaven have made a grievous mistake! These cramps were meant to get the lady next door...we know about your little agreement with the Boss Man and that you don't get cramps during your period! Silly us! Oh, and by the way, those lottery numbers you asked for are blankety-blankety-blank! Good luck!"...then touch me with her magic wand and *POOF!* No more cramps! (And a couple million bucks. Hey, a girl can dream, right?)

But unfortunately (surprise!), no such miracle occurred. I just had to tough it out like every other girl I ever knew.

I feel a little better now, I guess. All in all, I had a crappy (or, more accurately, crampy) day today, but tomorrow's a new day with new hope for angelic visits and new opportunities for my husband to pick me up some Midol. This may be the only time it ever happens (I hope!), but I seriously doubt that, and now that I've joined the ranks of so many other women, I feel a new-found respect and compassion--the kind that can only come from experiencing something yourself. It seems that I have, again (see yesterday's post), stumbled upon yet another way (there are so many!) to appreciate and admire my dear friends. And, looking on the bright side, I no longer have to feel left out during those battle-scar-sharing conversations--I have a harrowing tale of my own now, and I'm sure many more tales will follow.

So in closing, I would just like to recognize all my girls (you know who you are) and lift a proverbial cup to you in a toast of admiration...For your bravery, for your strength, and for your many years of long-suffering endurance--I salute you.

But, don't you all forget...I'm still the youngest one in the group. :)

In Praise of Malin

2005-01-19T16:42:00.000-08:00

I babysat my best friend Malin's (almost) 2 year old angel of a girl-child named Elsa from 8:30 this morning until about noon today. Elsa knows me pretty well--she calls me Auntie and my husband Uncle--because we have been in her life since mere hours after she entered this world. We were the next people on the list to get the announcement call after family (and--if I may be so bold--I daresay we're nearly on the family list) and Jer (my husband) and I have both been in Elsa's life almost every other day since she was born. I frequently walk with Malin in the morning down to the harbor of our little beachside town where Elsa is promised a chance to "look at the boats," and "look for the puppy-dogs." It's always me--married but not yet a mom, toting only a rather large wedding ring ensemble, but certainly not a baby in a stroller--next to Malin. She is pregnant and about two months from popping, but looks the way a shorter than the-5'10"-norm fashion model would if they had simply slid a slightly too-large and pointy ball of some kind between their flesh and internal organs. She's a "brickhouse" my stepdad said upon meeting her (not in a creepy of inappropriate way at all--if you've ever seen Malin you'd understand that he was saying nothing more and nothing less than a cold hard fact). PLUS she's pushing a stroller with--and I'm being serious here--THE CUTEST BABY OF ALL TIME inside. She's the mom. She's the one with the beautiful Elsa. She's the one who in her 7th month of pregnancy looks like if she took that silly ball out of her stomach she would be able to do a Sports Illustrated cover immediately. Oh, and did I mention she's Swedish. Born and bred. And obviously, she has the good genes to prove it.

Now, after many years of therapy, I am now comfortable enough with myself to say this publicly: I am not half bad looking myself. That's right. I would even consider myself pretty sometimes. I work out, I eat right, I have a freakishly fast-and-fabulous metabolism. In fact, right now I could probably squeeze into my small jeans...maybe even button them up. But next to Malin the Super Mom, I'm the lagging youngster who's good looks are not a great accomplishment and who's choice to walk today is not a great victory. Malin has the proof of her triumph--a beautiful girl that everybody knows once languished in her belly (before squeezing out through a hole that is normally the width of two "super" tampons at best) wreaking havoc on her body and appetite, and a pregnancy that would be undetectable were it not for her massive belly (when everyone knows that 99.9% of women in the world gain pounds of weight). And, she's out for a walk. I, on the other hand, am just a cute walking buddy to that amazingly beautiful pregnant woman walking her amazingly beautiful baby.

Now don't get me wrong...I may sound jealous but I'm not. I have my strengths and weaknesses and Malin has hers, she fills in the blanks of my personality and I fill in the blanks of hers--she is like a sister to me, and we both love eachother and value ourselves individually. But I can't help but notice...and smile in happiness for her...that when it comes to our morning walks, she's the star.

So like I said, today I babysat.

Now since I knew I had some time and it was during our normal walk time, I thought I'd go ahead and take Elsa out for our harbor-side circuit. It was a beautiful day and I could always use some fresh air and exercise. So I packed her up and off we went. As we passed people on the way I suddenly noticed eyes of admiration straying in my direction. Women whispered jealously to each other as they passed me by. The "good mornings" from the mosying strangers were directed at me. Tired, slightly overweight (justifiably) looking women pushing their own new baby's joggers either kept their heads down or stared longingly at me. Women giggled to their husbands or boyfriends and pointed to Elsa, smiling at me with that congratulatory smile I had come to see directed at Malin.

I wanted to tell them, "She's not mine! This body did not just have this baby! I'm just babysitting!" I felt uncomfortable. I felt guilty. But then I felt...well, kind of proud. I started flaunting it a little. I started saying "good-morning!" first. I stopped referring to myself in the third person as "Auntie" when I spoke to Elsa. I nodded gratefully at the smiles of admiration and congratulation. I was having a blast. We came up the last hill to Malin's house and I felt rejuvinated--not just physically, but emotionally as well. Elsa and I played all the rest of the morning--drawing on her magnetic board, taking turns with "I see you!" (a game my husband introduced, might I add proudly), practicing somersaults, and ripping all the shoes out of the the shoe basket. Besides one unfortunate poopy diaper, it was an altogether blissful day. When Malin came home from her appointments and put Elsa to bed for her nap, I got my free hair coloring (she's also a gifted hair stylist/colorist and I trade babysitting for beauty services) and my husband dropped by to pick me up...it was time for me to be heading home.

As I walked away from my best friends house, I breathed a sigh with a smile on my face. Now what was I going to do with my evening? My husband and I might play games, or maybe even see a movie...we could go out to dinner if he's had a profitable month, or we could just go to our local coffee shop and chat over a warm beverage. We could watch T.V., we could stay up late, we could even rush home and snuggle the rest of the night till we fell asleep. And as I saw the smiling faces of my best friend and the darling baby I loved in her arms waving at me from their driveway, I realized just how lucky I am to be me. Cause when you're a mom, you have the day I had today everyday...wonderful, to be sure. But EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Your child clings to you day after day to the point where it's no longer a novelty to have her look up at you (from under your pregnant belly, no less) and say "hold you?" (meaning "hold me.") Their happiness and security depends on your creating and keeping a predictable schedule for them--which pretty much kills spontaneity in a marriage. Your glimmering hope of a chance at freedom hangs in the balance each time you begin calling around for a baby-sitter, and when you leave you always feel guilty in some way.

So at the end of the day, as my husband and I settled in at our quiet home with every prospect open to us for the night, I find myself more grateful for my life than I've been in a long time. And I know that next time Malin and I go for our morning walk, I will be the one with the biggest smile of admiration for her in all the harbor.

Alcoholics Anonymous as a Metaphor for Life

2005-01-18T16:12:00.000-08:00

Alcoholics Anonymous is one of the most popular, effective, and widely respected alcoholism rehabilitation organizations in our country. The very name proports an air of secrecy and anonymity. Yet does anyone else besides me catch a whiff of irony in the fact that the first thing you must do before becoming an active part of the program is to state your name, followed by your greatest weakness, to a room-full of your peers?

"Hi, my name is Bob and I'm an alcoholic."

It just seems like a weird thing to do at a place with "anonymous" in the name.

But more on that later.

As a new blogger, I am beginning to understand something. Part of what makes blogging a favorable and successful creative outlet/hobby (which is where I have decided to compartmentalize this) is not hinged on anyone actually reading it so much as whether or not certain people don't read it.

In the end, isn't anonymity what this is all about?

In many ways, it's curious to me that blogging is something I would even consider wanting to do...but then maybe it's not so curious. In my "former life" as I like to call it (this title separates it from the present while lending a little dramatic flair), I was an emotional exhibitionist of sorts--I didn't care who knew what about me because I wasn't going to make any apologies about Who I Am. After all, what did I have to be ashamed of? Being born into my parent's mistakes didn't make me culpable. But as I grew older and the mistakes became my own I found myself increasingly guarded. Suddenly there was much more at stake when opening myself up to scrutiny--suddenly, there was much more available to scrutinize.

So what is it about blogging that appeals to the "new me"? Wouldn't this sort of public forum seem like an affront to my new self's cherished privacy?

The simple appeal seems to be this: Expression without accountability.
Why, for instance, didn't I broadcast from the rooftops the location of my blogspot on the web to the network of friends, family, and acquaintances that is my world? My parents have been encouraging me to get back into writing for years. My sister would be proud to see me speak highly of her in the opening paragraph of my first entry. My step-dad is an amazing writer, political enthusiast, debater, and thinker who would fill his page with insight and epiphany that would be an absolute pleasure to read. So why wouldn't I spread the good news? After all, if writing to be read is not the purpose here, then what is? If I'm taking all this time to form feeble disorganized thought into semi-cohesive sentences, why wouldn't I want people to read it? Why wouldn't I fling open the proverbial doors and let the world see what's inside?

Because then I would have to be accountable for what I write.

While weeding out the people from my list that I was unwilling to share my blogspot with, I realized to my unpleasant surprise that virtually nobody was left. The truth is that virtually no one in my life knows the truth about me. Not my family (save one sister with a penchant for writing), not my friends (save 3 of my best and closest friends), not my in-laws, not my former co-workers, not my neighbors--not nearly nobody. My husband, my 3 best friends, and my little sister--they are the only ones who made the short list. Being forced to separate the truth-seers from the censored in my life has put me face to face with an unsettling truth about myself...

Everybody else knows a version of me that I have fashioned carefully just for them--like a hologram that reflects an image and likeness of what somebody wants to see (or more accurately, what I want them to see) but is merely a ghost...an empty play of light manipulation and meticulously constructed design. Nothingness with the semblance realness. In it's harshest form, a mockery of reality.

Doesn't it say something about ourselves that we have built so much of our society and our daily way of life on privacy? In the pre-sin garden of Eden, Adam walked with God and talked with him--"naked and unashamed". But what is the first thing that Adam and Eve do upon sinning and therefore understanding sin--they hide. They cover themselves from each other, they cover themselves from God. And isn't that what we are all most afraid of? Nakedness. The bareness of life without our precious projections and carefully crafted garments. Because if others can see out sins, our shortcomings--the TRUTH-- then we, in turn, must accept it--be accountable to it. "I am this, I am that, I am doing this, I am doing that."

Daniel 2:22 "[The Lord] reveals deep and hidden things; He knows what lies in the darkness..."

James 5:16 "Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for eachother so you may be healed.

Why does Alcoholics Anonymous require an admission of guilt? Because if there is no acknowledgment of a problem, there is no desire to find a solution. That is what makes our seemingly harmless guises and garments so incredibly dangerous. Because dying believing that your sin is not there because it is hidden is the only unpardonable sin. Unfortunately, many will perish at the hand of this very delusion.

Would it be so bad if all of us saw eachother for who we really are? God sees it. Our very skin is like freshly cleaned glass to Him. There is nowhere to hide when he is looking--and He always is. So what is the purpose of hiding? If His is the only opinion of us that truly matters in the end, then why should it matter what my parents think, what my siblings think, or what the man I meet for the first time on the street thinks, for that matter? Is it pride? Yes. Is it fear? Definitely. Is it right? I think the answer is conclusively no.

But my answer to the next question is the one that really makes me squirm.

Will this acknowledgement of hiding's utter futility prevent me from doing it?
Probably not.

But maybe it will if I tell the truth to myself about what I'm really doing when I go into hiding: Lying.

It isn't truthful to say one thing and mean another, to present one version of myself and be something else, to project a hologram where flesh and bone is required. And as I find myself naked before my own scrutiny, fearful and full of pride, gripped with a fierce desire to protect my precious fabrications from exposition--I feel sad. And It's almost enough for me to give the truth about myself a fair shot.

2 Corinthians 5: 2-3 "For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed with our habitation which is from heaven, if indeed, having been clothed, we shall not be found naked."

Hi, my name is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and I'm a liar.

Blogging for the Hopelessly Indecisive

2005-01-17T22:03:00.000-08:00

This is pretty big for me. Is it because I have finally conquered dyslexia and made a successful life for myself in business like my husband? Nope. Is it because I survived a dangerous and painful lung surgery like my sister and have lived to tell the tale (or any tale for that matter)? Negative. Is it because I've emerged from a messy break-up from a serial cheater and found joy in new love again like my mother? Nuh-uh.

Alas, no.

This is big for me because I am (like it says in the title) hopelessly indecisive.

The decision to commit to writing on a regular basis again (it was a passion in high school) is like committing myself to a lifetime of celibacy (NEVER) in my fearful mind. A victim of the evil self-induced cocktail that is high hopes + failure once in what now feels like another life, I have found myself reclusive...mousy...withdrawn...gun-shy...and, well...indecisive.

What's sad is that my friends never knew the old me--a troubled child with island fever (I grew up in Honolulu, Hawaii), but self-confident and always hopeful. I saw my future as an endless meadow of potential and success. In my dreams I was a tireless bird in flight across the Pacific on my way to California (as cliché as the bird thing is, there's a reason it's such a popular fantasy), where people lived who could love me --and would love me, even after they got to know me--and where everyone was basically good, caring and selfless (by this you should ascertain that I lived a very sheltered pre-marriage life). When I met and married my husband (a SoCal native) at 18 and was whisked away to live out my dreams in California by his side all my greatest hopes were--in my mind--confirmed by his sheer awesomeness. And when I got my record deal (mere months after arriving in California!) it actualized my greatest dreams and life goals! I was escaping the hellhole that was my childhood! I was leaving the insanity-inducing hot box that was Hawaii to me (at the time, mind you...not so much now that I've spent enough time away to realize why all those crazy people used to call it "paradise")...I was that bird, and I was spreading my wings to victory and joy, and I was going to have everything I ever dreamed of in the arms of everything I've ever dreamed of in a man!

And then reality set in.

I was a successful singing star. I was on TV almost daily. I could catch myself on the radio at least four times a week. My hit song made the top 10, then the coveted top 5 on the billboard chart. I was jet-setting across the country and seeing the world. I was being sent boxes of designer clothes gratis even though I was wealthy enough to buy it. I had made it.

But I was miserable.
My voice was molded by a producer singing vicariously through me and doctored to fit an image and "sound". I worked constantly to keep up my image in public until my already faded self was in danger of disappearing completely. The sound of "my" fake sounding voice being broadcast into thousands of listeners radios began driving me to tears. When I made the top ten, I was criticized until I hit the top 5, and when I hit the top 5, I was criticisms because I wasn't number 1. I saw the world through tiny tour bus and hotel windows (if I was lucky) and could name my favorite terminal in any U.S. airport, but didn't have anywhere I could call home. I received boxes of sample sized clothes I was starving myself to fit into, all the while being told I was too fat and had to lose more weight. I wanted to kill myself.

So by the time I made the decision to give it up, I had lost everything--my dignity, my joy, my hope, my self confidence...even my health--everything except my husband, who (God bless his long-suffering heart) had selflessly served me as a "personal assistant", then "tour manager", and now--as I became a "civilian" again--he was back to being my doting mate and lover. Somewhere along the way it dawned on me...the whole world is not full of people who are basically good, caring and selfless...that's just my husband.

Fast forward to present day. He is a successful technological entrepreneur and I am his doting housewife and lover...recovered in many ways, but still a shell of my former self and not nearly healed...and trying my best to fight off the awful abyss that is depression once and for all. The public recognitions have died down, I can finally listen to music again without wanting to scream, and I have actually risked enough rejection as of late to acquire more-than-surface friendships with some girls in my new city of residence. I've started to believe my husband when he tells me I'm beautiful to him even when I can't fit my "small jeans" and most of the time I can accept without skepticism a compliment from a stranger about my personality or appearance. In short, I'm getting there. Slowly but surely...I'm getting there.

Hey...and guess what? I did something big today. I was confident enough in my ability to do anything that I actually decided to do something. Maybe it's not lung surgery. Maybe it's not an overwhelming obstacle to you. But to me, it may just be the beginning of--dare I say it?--something good. Yeah, maybe it's just the beginning of another failure, but hey...it's a decision. And at the very least, that means I'm just this one step closer to the end of hopeless indecisiveness in this one washed-up star.