Breaking News Before Coffee

We can't bust heads like we used to. But we have our ways. One trick is to tell stories that don't go anywhere. Like the time I caught the ferry to Shelbyville. I needed a new heel for m'shoe. So I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt. Which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on 'em. Gimme five bees for a quarter, you'd say. Now where was I... oh yeah. The important thing was that I had an onion tied to my belt, which was the style at the time. You couldn't get white onions, because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones...

--Grampa Simpson

Hubby and I had a stupid argument this morning about what the term "Breaking News" means. A topic too stupid to discuss at 6:30am, when one of us was just waking up and the other was just about to leave the house for the day; certainly a topic too stupid to discuss before either of us had any coffee. So up front, sorry Hubby for wearing an onion on my pants and taking the ferry to Shelbyville before coffee.

If you're like me, you see the TV screen flash "Breaking News" and you think you're going to hear something important. You stop and listen.

I've noticed that the breakfast TV news I watch in the morning has been having a lot of "Breaking News" lately. As usual, I stop to listen, only to find out that the "Breaking News" is just a regular news story, and not anything really important, or not important enough for me to miss my bus and be late to work for.

I brought this up to Hubby this morning. My complaint was that my preferred breakfast TV news source was using the term "Breaking News" too loosely and almost becoming a crying wolf situation where I wasn't going to stop and listen to them whenever they said some story was breaking.

Now I trust Hubby. I understand his position. I trust that his definition of "Breaking News" is the correct one. He's dedicated his professional life to journalism. If I were to trust any source regarding the definition of newsy-type terms taken at his word, without demanding any documentation, it would be Hubby.

His definition of "Breaking News" is news happening now; news that is happening and being reported or revealed at this moment. I completely understand the definition and agree with him.

My argument was that the general public doesn't view the term "Breaking News" the same way that a reasonable person would.

At 6am, before my coffee, I think of "Breaking News" the same way I think most of the general public does. I'm guessing that this is the way the general public thinks because I got my definition from about.com, the premier source for pedestrian definitions;  "Breaking news usually refers to events that are unexpected, such as a plane crash or building fire. Breaking news can also refer to news that occurs late in the day, close to a news outlet's usual deadline."

When I hear the term "Breaking News" on the news I expect to hear something that's going to affect my day; something like a big crash on Muni that will keep me from getting to work on time, some giant fire, a really famous or well-known person dying or getting badly hurt, a natural disaster like an earthquake over 7.0 or a 30 mile long cyclone brush fire filled with robots, killer bees and siafu ants making its way across the plains states. I don't want to hear about a policeman who shot a burglar in a small city 500 miles away from me, or that some former presidential candidate had some sun spots removed from his face and he's recovering nicely at his vacation home somewhere fancy, gated and exclusive. Save those stories for the regular news rotation and leave the "Breaking News" stories for things that will have an impact on my day, especially at 6am.

As annoying as it is, it seems that my preferred breakfast TV news source honors the true definition of "Breaking News" and not that of the general public. I'll have to remember that and not hurry to the TV every time I hear the musical cue followed by the phrase "Breaking News."

Hope I don't miss anything important. I really don't like siafu ants.

On Overlooking the "h" - An Open Letter to Noosa Yoghurt

There's a little market across the street from my office. I don't go there very often because it's super expensive. I usually only go there when my boss sends me out to go get him lunch. I hardly ever go there when I have to do the paying. At first, I didn't go there on my own because the manager was always standing around and he had a perfect manicure and he seemed to be channeling his inner Gavin Newsom because his hair was always perfect, just like The Gav's always is, but his employees were always rushing about working super hard. The manager seemed like he didn't want to be there, like his father in law gave him the job to keep him busy and the workers didn't seem very happy. Then I got over it when I discovered the BLAST sandwich (bacon, lettuce, avocado, swiss cheese and tomato, people!). I'm sure I just made up everything about the former manager of that store. I didn't know him personally. I'm only guessing based on observation that he didn't work. Maybe he was just really great at keeping clean. I wasn't making up the part about his hair, though. I think he really did like to model his hair on the former SF Mayor turned Lieutenant Governor of California. Call The Gav what you want, he does take care of his personal hygene.

Anyhow, even with the BLAST sandwich, the store is pretty expensive. I'm guessing it's because it is the only market around. I could walk to Safeway but that's about 1/2 a mile away from my office. Not a far walk, but not conducive to grabbing a quick bite.

So anyways, not wanting to eat at the cafeteria in my office complex and because there wasn't enough food to pirate from the meeting that was going on in the office today, I walked over to the little market for some lunch.
I should note, that even though the store is needlessly expensive, the quality of the products are really yummy. They have a fairly comprehensive selection of specialty items and are always getting in new things. And, because it's worth mentioning again, they sell a BLAST.


Today I noticed a new yogurt. Noosa Yoghurt. While the "h" in the word "Yoghurt" bugs me just as much as the backwards "R" in Toys "R" Us, I decided to give it a try.
Two things stopped me at first from doing so (three if you count the "h"). First, this market only carried fruity varieties of the yogurt. I love yogurt, but I'm a plain yogurt kind of girl. I like my plain yogurt. Most of the time fruity yogurts are too sweet and it's like eating candy. Second was the price. This little market was charging $3.49 for the yogurt (maybe it was $3.99, I forget. My point is that the 8oz tub of yogurt was over $3).
Two things made me pick up the yogurt and buy it anyways. First, the flavor. One of the flavors was Strawberry Rhubarb. I like Rhubarb, but hadn't had any in a while. It sounded good. I used to work at a bakery and I had to make Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp every single day. I never got sick of it. It was so delicious. Second, and what really got me to purchase the yogurt was that the little market had an introductory price of $1.99. Sold. $1.99 is a totally reasonable price for yogurt in the FiDi in San Francisco.

So here's what I liked.
1. The packaging. I liked that the container has a lid and not just a foil top. I understand why some yogurt makers did away with the top (less plastic) but without the top, the yogurt container is renered useless. This one has a top. I'm able to use the container again and again. Also, it's packaged in a flat 8oz container, not the standard yogurt cup that stands 3.5 inches high.
2. While I stated a few lines above that I'm a plain girl. I like my plain yogurt and will choose that over flavored 87% of the time, I did like the Strawberry Rhubarb flavor. It wasn't to sweet. I like the tangyness of yogurt and am always disappointed when that flavor is masked with sugar.

What I didn't like
1. The "h" in the word "yoghurt"
2. The price of the yogurt at this little market. Over $3 is too much for 8oz of yogurt. Even the Old Chatham isn't over $3, and Old Chatham plain yogurt is so yummy, and there's no "h."

Overall impression
1. I would definately eat this again, but once the introductory price goes away at this little market, I'll only get it if someone else is paying.
2. I wish they had plain. Plain might get me to pay full price.

Conclusion
Good enough yogurt for me to overlook the "h."

Justin Timberlake; A Dream

This morning I had a dream about Justin Timberlake. Again, no, not that kind of dream, although Justin Timberlake..... might have been nice.

Anyhow - I was at some function that was filled with work people plus a few people from hula class and lots of strangers that in my dream I knew but I can't remember now. I was talking to this girl and told her that I needed to get a hold of "Jason." Jason was actually Justin Timberlake, but he kept switching back and forth from being Justin Timberlake and Justin Taylor Thomas from that Tool Time Show that was on a long time ago.  Justin liked to be called Jason on his off time. I told her that J and I were seeing each other, kinda dating. We went back to this dorm-type room and did a few shots of tequila together. Once I took the 2nd shot I felt bad about it. I'm almost 7 months pregnant. I should have only done one shot, not had two. I told the girl from work that I thought it was necessary to drunk dial Justin Timberlake. Trouble was, the only way we communicated when not together was to DM each other on Twitter. I wanted to DM him, but the two shots of tequila was keeping me from figuring out how to do it. I went to go find The Hubby. I found him in the kitchen next door to where I was  staying, hiding behind the refrigerator, grinning from ear to ear and  eating 3/4 of a lemon meringue pie.

How Are You Feeling?

People ask me a lot of questions and make a lot of comments. I guess it comes with the territory of being pregnant.

Questions I've gotten -
-You're pregnant again???
-Don't you ever want to have time to yourself?
-Were you trying?
-Are you going to use drugs during labor? (followed by judgemental and unwanted advice on the pros and cons of pain medication during labor)
-Aren't you too old to be having babies?
-Was this baby planned?

Comments I've gotten
-I thought you were done having babies. (I wasn't done having sex, so . . ..)
-You got so much bigger than when I saw you last month (because pregnant women love to be told how fat they're getting)

Depending on the person asking or depending on the question dictates how I respond.

If I like you, if we're friends, if we're family, I'm going to give you an honest response. I know that 99% of the time your questions and comments are well meaning and you deserve a thoughtful answer.

If you're a stranger on the bus, a co-worker I don't talk to very often, the lady standing behind me in line at Walgreens or a barrista at Starbucks, I just might give you a response you're not expecting. Most of the time I'll respond with "Why do you need to know?" or just roll my eyes and ignore the asker. Sometimes I'll give a smartass answer like "well, I thought about it long and hard, and since the baby was conceived on a table top video game, I think we'll pay homage to that. What do you like better for a girl, Zaxon Galaga, or Q-bert Tempest. Hubby likes Missle Command Defender but I think it's a bit much. I mean, we're not freaks or anything."

There is one question that doesn't offend me, or isn't even really out of line or too personal. It puzzles me, if anything else.
Why do people always ask the pregnant lady "How are you feeling?" The bigger my belly gets the more this question is asked in place of "Hi" or "Good Morning." How did "how are you feeling?" become the standard greeting to a pregnant lady? I admit that sometimes it's handy because I can make an easy get-away by saying something non-commital like "fine." Sometimes though I respond with "fine, how are you feeling?" But overall, it just puzzles me. When my co-workers I usually only come across in the breakroom or aquaintances I have ask me this, do they really what to know the answer? Do they really care about the heartburn and the gas? Are they really that concerned for my well being? For some reason, that question really perplexes me. I know it's people just being nice and considerate, not knowing what else to say, but it's just strange to me that it has replaced 'hello.'  If you said 'hello' to me 27 weeks ago, why can't you still say it? Someone asked me "how are you feeling?" the other day. I told her fine, then asked her why people always ask that of pregnant women. Her response was "what else am I supposed to say?" like she didn't know how to address me now that I have an alien belly. Just say hello or whatever it is you said to me before.

40 minus 25 equals only 15 weeks to go

Here's me.
Entering my 25th week of pregnancy.

The Little Chicken Pie, according to the baby website I look at most, is about 9 inches long and weights about a pound and a half. This week she's (yes, it's a girl) working on producing healthy lungs. That's why I quit smoking this week. Just kidding. I don't smoke. I tried a clove once when I went to see Dread Zepplin and Gay Bikers on Acid at some nightclub in Cambridge, England in 1990. The clove, along with the Malibu Rum already in my system didn't complement each other and well ... let's just say I haven't had a craving for either since. I do crave wine, though. I miss wine. I have a nice bottle of something yummy and expensive tucked away in a drawer in my dresser. In October I'm going to drink it.

Anyways, I'm pretty sure I'm in my 25th week. At my doctor's office, they'd say I was 24w2d. In my head that puts me in my 25th week. I get confused on the whole numbering thing. Human gestation is 40 weeks long, but that 40 weeks starts 2 weeks before one actually does any, um . . . Baby Making. Gestation is 9 calendar months, but it's also 10 lunar months. It's all too confusing to me. I'm sure it's confusing to a lot of us. Maybe the confusion is part of the reason not very many babies are actually born on their due dates. In my half-hearted, 15 second search for accurate statistics using a the default search engine on my computer, I found that only about 5% of all recorded births occur on the given due dates. 80% of the babies are born either 2 weeks before or 2 weeks after the given due date. That's a huge window; a whole month of "any day now."

I'm looking forward to meeting the Little Chicken Pie.

May Wordle

The Boy's Brother - A Contest

This morning The Boy was telling me a story all about his brother.
The Boy's description of his brother was so detailed and fantastic that
1) it totally made my day to hear him describe it, and
2) I wish I could draw so I could have on paper what it looks like.

I know that there are plenty of you that can draw better than I can so I'm having a contest.

Here's the contest -
I'm going to describe what The Boy told me about his brother, and you are going to create an image of him.

Here's the Prize -
The prize for the best entry will be, ummm, something I have thought of yet, but mark my words,it'll be great (at least according to me.)  It'll be a physical object I will mail to you (or give to you if I know you and you live close) and only slightly more valuable than bragging rights. In other words, I might make something or give you something I have in my house but am not going to spend any of my own money on it, PLUS I'll announce the winner on my blog, thus ensuring your place in the pages of my blog, if not my heart.

How to Submit -
Submissions should be either given to me directly if you know me and see me often enough, mailed to me if you know my address (which I'm not posting so you'll just have to know it already) or emailed to hulasunset@gmail.com. Submissions should be received no later than my level of tolerance for receiving submissions. In other words, when I feel I'm done taking submissions, I'm done, and the contest is over. If you see that I've posted the winner's entry on my blog, you can take that as fact that the contest has ended. If I tell you the contest is over, it's over. If I decide it's over and don't tell you it's over, it's still over. Contest ends at my whim.

Submission Description -
You can submit a photo, a painting, a drawing, a collage, a sculpture, shoebox diarama or anything else along those lines.

The Description of The Boy's BrotherI'm not sure if it was his little brother or his big brother. The Boy wasn't too sure either. He also wasn't too sure if I was his brother's mother, but maybe I was. It didn't seem to matter to him. It was his brother nonetheless.
His Brother is a wolf.
He has a tail where his nose should be.
The Wolf is brown, like The Boy (which is super funny because The Boy is a blond-haired and blue-eyed. He's beige if anything, but I couldn't change his mind. His brother was brown like him.)
His butt is in the middle of his shoulder blades, so is his nose. His butt and his nose share the same hole and it's located on his back between his shoulder blades. To poop, he sneezes out his backhole. He poops on leaves that have fallen from trees. The Boy demonstrated this for me. It' looked a lot like "banana" from "Superman / Banana" from Tony Horton's P90x series. See pose below of some woman demonstrating"banana."

The Wolf eats what all wolves eat which is a steady diet of dead cats and spiders (either live or dead, The Wolf does not discriminate.)
He is very nice, and a very good brother and he's nice to our cat, but the cat has to move away and go live with The Boy's girlfriend named Summer (not sure if Summer is real or not.)
--End of Description.


Happy creating everybody. I can't wait to see what y'all come up with.

The Big Spider - a dream

This morning I told The Kiddies about a dream I had had that morning.

Hubby and I were in bed about to go to sleep. I noticed on the wall on Hubby's side of the room was a GIANT spider. Its body was oval and about 2 feet long and its legs were even longer. It was a weird tan color. I could hear the 'click click click' as it walked across the wall. I pointed it out to Hubby. He just shrugged and said "oh, it's back again" then turned over and went to sleep.

The Girl asked me what did I do? What happened to the spider? The Boy interjected and said that he entered my dream and killed the spider for me.

I'm Full Now - a book review

I read The Hunger Games a few weeks ago, all three books.

I think I took a bit longer to read it than most people. Most people I've heard about reading these books tore through them. The Girl tore through them pretty quickly. I tore through it, kinda, but it wasn't because the story was so gripping I just had to read more. I read through it quickly because it wasn't too difficult a read. I mean, it wasn't like trying to get through Moby Dick or War and Peace or anything.

I thought the premise was interesting and I hadn't read anything quite like it in a while. Overall, it was a fun book to read and a nice diversion to get me through my commute to and from work.

It's about this girl who lives in a North American type area, except it isn't the USA. The government has totally taken over and all the districts, sort of like states, and they exist to keep the capitol happy, entertained and well stocked. To keep the districts down, they make the teenagers kill each other and everyone has to watch. This festival of dying teenagers is called "The Hunger Games."

This girl takes care of her mom and sister, kills animals for food and hangs out with this guy who pretty much does the same thing. She's good with weapons, he's good with traps. He digs her, but she's wishy-washy and doesn't know if she likes him back. Her sister is chosen to compete in the Hunger Games and she takes the sister's place. There's another person from her district that is chosen to compete. Over the course of the game they become friends with benefits but surprise surprise, she can't decide if she really likes him or the other guy. This theme is played out throughout the series and it gets tiring. Choose already. Cut one or both of them loose. In the end one of the guys chooses for her, says adios and gets work in another district. My guess is that he finds someone less whiny. She chooses the other guy because he's a sad sack who stays behind and by her side.

Oh and in the course of this girl whining about her boy troubles, she manages to kill a few people, befriend an alcoholic, stay alive, start a revolution and topple a government.

Super Cat and The Dolma Principle

I was going through old blog posts that I had never published and found this little gem written about 6 months ago. I don't remember what prompted me to write it. Usually there's a trigger. Can't recall what it was. I have to admit I did some editing and grammar correcting, but it's pretty much untouched from when I first wrote it.

Enjoy --

When I was in the 5th grade I had to write and make a book. I had to write a story, illustrate it, then make a book. I had to sew the paper together then attach it to the cover made out of cardboard and wallpaper samples.

I remember the stitch the teacher made us use to sew the pages together. I told her that my mom had taught me an easier one that looked the same and served the same purpose and tried to show it to her. She told me that she knew a bit more about sewing than my mom and I should just shut up and use her stitch. I told her that (up to that point in my life) I had never owned a store-bought blanket. All I had were hand-made quilts from my mom. She told me not to be a smart-ass and sent me on my way. (One time when I sprained my knee this same teacher didn't like the way my mom had put on the ace bandage and re-bandaged it. When I told her that that wasn't the way my mom did it she told me she knew a bit more about bandaging knees than my mom did. I told her my mom was an RN and not a 5th grade teacher so my mom knew more about bandages. She told me not to be a smart ass and sent me on my way.)

Anyhow, the book I wrote was called "Super Cat Saves the Onion Fields." (I don't have it anymore. When I was in high school my friend E and I traded elementary school projects for fun. She got my book and I got her project "Uruguay: Land of Discovery." I still have her Uruguay project. I wonder if she still has the Super Cat book.) The book was about a cat who was really really into body building. One day he got a package filled with a cape and boots from a mysterious source and was told that he was to become a super-hero for one very important mission. He was to save the Onion Fields from a group of Mean Men. The dangerous part of the mission was that since kids hate onions, they would most likely throw rocks at him while he was flying to the fight the Mean Men. The night before he was to save the Onion Fields Super Cat snuck into the bedrooms of the children who had the potential to hate him and sprinkled happy potion on them. Super Cat was then able to save the Onion Fields from the Mean Men and the kids still liked him. The End.

So I've been thinking about hate the last week or so. I remember when I was in the 2nd grade I was playing soccer and I told one team mate that I hated another team mate. I don't think I really hated her. I don't even remember her. I think I was just trying to be cool by saying I hated someone.

A short time later we had a lesson at school about hate. We were taught that when one hates another, one wishes all sorts of physical, spiritual and emotional harm to fall upon the one hated. It means that one doesn't care if the other is hurt, is injured, dies. When I learned that it really freaked me out and I vowed never to hate anyone, ever. I still feel this way. I don't remember who taught that lesson, but point taken. No hating.

We all have our own weird prejudices. We all grow up learning how to hate. We learn it from TV, our parents, our schools, society in general. As screwed up as it is, it's true. Some people hate groups of people from other races, some hate people with different philosophies or religion, some hate people based on how they identify themselves. Those are all stupid reasons to hate. I once knew a lady who, as far as I could tell had no prejudices towards people of different races, beliefs, nationality, etc., but she had this penchant for hating people who didn't follow the latest fashion trends. Another stupid, but really odd reason to hate.
I have been known to proclaim that I hate dolmas. They're slimy, they stink, they have a weird aftertaste, they look weird. Is hate for a particular food really hate? Can one harbor malice towards a food? Hating a certain food doesn't mean I think dolma production should cease. I hold no malice towards those who make dolmas for a living. You won't find me at the office of my local dolma distributor with a can of gasoline and a lit match demanding they cease production lest their dolma distribution network be blown into smithereens. The rest of the world is free to eat my portion of dolmas, and I'm happy to live in a dolma-free state of being, politely turning down any dolma offered to me be it on a deli platter or at a buttet. I guess instead of saying I hate dolmas I should just say I think they are really really vile but I recognize that others may see value and deliciousness in this Mediterranean culinary offering. More dolmas for them.
Can the same principle be applied to people? I've met plenty of people I don't want to spend anytime with. It's more of a personality thing than any other quality. They whine too much. They complain too much. They're too pious about their opinions and think everyone else is stupid. I don't hate them. I don't wish them harm. I just don't want to be around them.
There are people at work I don't wish to know socially. It doesn't mean I hate any of them. It doesn't mean I can't be courteous to them or work with them on a team with, complete a project with.  It just means that I don't want to spend any time with them when I'm not being paid to do so.  And oh my gosh, it's possible (gasp!) that someone may not find me the most agreeable person and not like me. As crazy as it sounds, it just might be true; I may not be everyone's cuppa tea.  There may just be things about me that rubs someone the wrong way. Imagine that.

I think that everyone has something to offer. You just have to be patient enough and strong enough to dig through all the muck to find it. Perhaps the whiner and I like the same books. Perhaps the complainer and I both like to watch Romantic Comedys. Perhaps I will run across a dolma lover who hates raddishes. I love raddishes. We each will have something to give to each other. We can both find value in each other through our likes and dislikes.

I try to teach my kids that you don't have to like everyone, but you do have to treat everyone with the same respect you want to be shown (how golden rule of me, eh?) You don't have to be friends with everyone but you should be friendly to everyone.

Don't be a jerk is what it boils down to. That's the Dolma Principle - Don't be a jerk.

April Wordle

A little late posting the April Wordle. Looks like I wasn't very prolific in April. Only two posts to contribute to the wordle. I LOVE that it says COFFEE in big bold letters.

Enjoy

Drinking Coffee for Two

There's this podcast I listen to on occasion called Stuff You Should Know. I like it. Two nerdy guys (ok, but totally nerdy in a kinda hot way) explain concepts and activities that on the surface may seen kinda off or boring but usually turn out to be pretty interesting. What got me hooked was the one about ticks. What got me really hooked was the one about biospeleology. Who knew that I'd find the one about cave biology interesting?
Anyhow, sometimes they go off on little tangents talking about topics only slightly related to the featured subject matter.  Once such tangent was about the term Cuppa Joe. Doing some half-ass research I found that the term cuppa joe has a few supposed origins. The one that popped up the most was that the secretary of the navy during WW1 named Josephus Daniels banned alcohol on navy ships. The sailors started calling their coffee a cuppa joe as a result.
That's not the explanation I got from the SYSK guys, and I like their version better so that's the one I'm going to say is true, simply because I like it better. Brittish drink tea. Americans drink coffee. Brits in WW2 started calling coffee "joe" after GI Joe. Cuppa Joe. Of course the SYSK guys explained it better, more colorfully and with a few more words than me, but you get the idea.

My doctor gave me a list of things that I can and can't eat now that I'm eating and drinking for two. In my opinion there are some smart things on the list as well of some stupid things, but that's another blog post for another time. This one's about coffee.

According to the medical practice I go to, I'm allowed to have up to 200 mg of caffeine a day. I started thinking about my caffeine consumption. Some days it's more, some days it's less, but in a nutshell, the below describes my coffee drinking habits.

My pre-pregnancy coffee drinking habit
If Hubby or The Girl make coffee before I get out of bed I'll pour myself a cup, take a big gulp, leave my cup on the counter or coffee table, get ready for work, realize I poured myself a cup of coffee, go get it, find it cold, thus undrinkable, give it a warm up, take a gulp, put it down and forget about it until I get home and see my almost full cup and I think "oh, I forgot about my coffee."
If Hubby or The Girl do not make coffee, I go to the little bakery across the street from my muni stop and get an 8oz cup of the worst brown water I've ever had, thinking it'll get me through until I get some real coffee in me. I take a few sips then pour out the rest when the train comes.
Whether I have coffee at home or before I get on the train, I make myself a cup when I get to work. I have a few sips, then get to working. I forget about my coffee, it gets cold and I throw it away.
In the afternoon I make myself a cuppa tea, usually darjeeling. I set it on my desk. I let it seep too long and I have to pour it out, or I steep it just the right amount, drink half, then forget about it, it gets cold and I dump it.
All in all, I think I get about 1/2 cup, if that, of coffee in me a day.

I think my pre-pregnancy coffee drinking habit is just fine and I don't need to make any changes.

The Slumber Party - A Dream

They say that when you're pregnant you have some interesting dreams. Here's one I had this morning.

I went to The Girl's friend's house to pick her up from a slumber party. When I arrived, her friend's house was totally trashed by the kids at the party. I started helping out by cleaning the room where The Girl had slept. While cleaning up her stuff I saw my $11. I went into the living room to talk to someone for a minute, then when I went back into the room where The Girl had slept, her stuff was all cleaned up and my $11 was gone. I went into the kitchen. I saw my $11 on a shelf. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Someone saw me do it and thought I was stealing, so I put it back. Then The Girl's friend's dad starting yelling at his two Brazillian sons to get into the kitchen and help. They set a little mini factory in the kitchen and started making fudge, all kinds, even savory fudge like sun-dried tomato fudge. Then Magic Johnson came up to me and told me that being pregnant has really messed up my skin, then I noticed I had broken out with a fresh garden of acne all over my face.

March Wordle

I only posted one time in March? Gee whizzers.

Ritual Rain in Kapalakiko

I know this to be true: It never rains on hula night.
Don't ask me how. Just take me at my word. I know a lot of strange things and that which I don't know is rarely filled in with inaccuracies; hyperbole for sure, but never lies.


It may rain day of. It may rain after I get home. It may even rain during class, but it's never rained going to class or coming home - until last Wednesday.

As I was driving to class in the rain I thought 'this has got to be a sign.' Turns out it was.

Last class Kumu talked about (and I'm paraphrasing, not using his words exactly) that we've kind of found ourselves in a hula rut. Week after week we follow the same pattern; we go to class, warm up, dance, have table time, dance and then we go home. We have become lazy about showing up on time. We aren't fully present while in class.

What was once ritual has become routine.

I totally agree. Sometimes I miss class because I have a legitimate reason - I'm away for work or Hubby has a deadline on a story he has to get out and can't watch the kiddies. Sometimes I don't have a good excuse and just feel like playing hooky or watching The Middle. Sometimes my absence falls into a gray area of legitimate. I spend so much time at work and sometimes have overnight trips that I feel guilty for not spending enough time with my kids. Hubby says it's fine and I should go to class, but sometimes I just can't tear myself away from my babies.

Missing class hurts. It hurts me because I miss out on a night of practice, a night of instruction, a night of spending time with a great group of people I wouldn't ever have gotten to know were it not for hula. Not going to class hurts the rest of the class as well. I notice when people are missing. I'm sad when people leave. We need to be able to feed off of each other and dance as one. We can't do that when parts of us are missing. Going to class to learn from Kumu doesn't just make us better dancers. It makes us stronger as a class.

It's something I've come to count on. It's something I've come to crave. There's an intangible "something" I miss when I'm not in class.

Last Wednesday's rain washed away the routine and gave us the opportunity to start anew.

Going forward I'm excited to be able to say "it never rains on hula night, except for that one time . . . . "

February Wordle

Grains and Tony Bordain - A Dream

*

 Last night I had a dream I was spending a week at Tony Bordain's beach house. It was New Year's Eve.  A lot of people were with me. In my dream I knew them but I can't remember who they are now. Tony Bordain had a crush on me. I was thinking that I should write him a thank-you note for letting me crash at his beach house all week. I made a side salad. It was made from some kind of grain. When cooked it was black and white. It sort of looked like a cross between quinoa and cooked wild rice. In the side salad I added some bleu cheese cut in 1" squares and some kind of fruit. I also added some chopped up romaine lettuce. I tried and tried but I couldn't get the salad to mix together. The grains kept clumping in one end of the giant lexan container I made the salad in. I got annoyed with not being able to mix the salad so I put a little bit of each component of the salad onto a big spoon and gave it to Tony Bordain to try. He said he liked it so much he was going to add it to the menu of his restaurant. He handed me a piece of paper and told me to write the recipe exactly on the spot he was pointing to on the paper. I tried to write the recipe on that spot but I ran out of room and gave Tony Bordain an incomplete recipe. He still had a crush on me, though.

* I took this picture of Tony Bordain. It was at a restaurant in the complex by the building I work in. A coworker and I sat outside the restaurant and listened to him answer questions from an audience who paid a lot of money to eat a meal in a restaurant at the same time as him then listen to him speak. My co-worker and I brought our own lunches and saw the whole thing for free.

Hey Pablo! -- a dream last night

I had a dream about Paul Rodriguez last night. When I mentioned it to hubby he said "that's enough, I don't need to hear any more." I tried to tell him it wasn't that kind of dream, but he didn't want to hear about it. I told him anyways. He turned up the volume on the TV but I kept talking. The TV has a finite volume. I don't.

We were in San Francisco but the location was sort of like a cross between The Embarcadero around where Red's Java House is and the parking lot at Palo Verde and Stearns in Long Beach, but not how it looks now. It looked more like when the old Taco Bell was there and before Tom's Liquor was razed. I was walking with this woman who used to work in my office. Don't know why she was in my dream. We never really talked to each other. Our departments hardly ever crossed paths. We were friendly to each other, but didn't hang out or anything. Anyways, this woman and I were walking through the weird parking lot and I spotted Paul Rodriquez. I said "Hey, you're Paul Rodriquez, what are you doing here." He said "Yes, I am. I'm making a commercial for El Faro." Then he walked over to a group of men and started talking to them. As he was walking over I yelled "Dude, you should do a commercial for Gordo's. They make way better burritos. Hey, can I get a picture?" Then he totally ignored me. He was talking to the El Faro ad guys and didn't want to talk to me because he thought I was dissing El Faro, which I wasn't. I just like Gordo's better.

Cats, Banana Sam and Taking the Kiddies at Their Word

When The Girl was about 3 years old I heard her ask from the other room "Mom, can I be a cat?" Thinking that she was going to crawl along the floor, saying meow, rubbing the side of her face against the furniture and pretending to scratch the furniture, I said "Sure, you can be a cat."
A few minutes later I found her sitting on the living room floor with an orange Sharpie in her hand, drawing stripes all along her arms, legs and belly.
I had only myself to blame. I did, in fact, say she could be a cat.

Yesterday Hubby had a similar experience. The Boy LOVES wearing his backpack. Usually it's full of crayons, hotwheels and various things from the house he finds interesting. As Hubby and The Boy were leaving the house yesterday The Boy said "Daddy, I have monkeys in my backpack." Hubby, thinking The Boy's statement was just the odd chatter of a 3 year old boy, dismissed it. The Boy has been very interested in the story of Banana Sam, and that he was returned to the SF Zoo in a backpack. Perhaps Hubby was thinking The Boy was referring to that incident.

As it turns out, The Boy did, in fact, have monkeys in his backpack; two of them to be precise. He had stolen the salt and pepper shakers off the kitchen table. Now his backpack and all its contents are sufficiently seasoned.

January Wordle