Yes, we're aware that there have been no postings of late. Perhaps they are lost in the mail. Or, perhaps we'd better think of a better excuse. At any rate, don't expect too much this month...the Princess feels as if her travel schedule rivals Santa's, so she'll just take this opportunity to say thank you for reading and have a very merry Christmas! 

And, we WILL return.

Welcome to Hawaii

The visitor to Hawaii will quickly notice that road signs indicating mileage to the next town or other milestone have very large numbers on them. For example, on Maui we saw numerous signs indicating something like "Volcano—963.2 miles." One might wonder why interim towns or other sites of interest are not listed before the volcano on such signs. This is because there are no towns or other sites of interest between one's present location and the volcano, and at some point it was determined that a sign saying

Rocks-—4, 15, 22, 39, 65, 142, and 256 miles

Desert hillsides—Next 637 miles

Bend in road—1.1, 1.2, 1.3 1.37, 1.4, etc. miles

...might lull travelers to sleep and, worse, unnecessarily waste good signage.

Nevertheless, road signs have important information for the traveler. In Hawaii, most signs say three things: aloha (hello, welcome), mahalo (thank you), and Something Here Is Going to Try to Kill You.

This is true no matter whether you're on the beach, driving, or at the local grocery store. Here, for example, is a typical sign on the beach:

"Beware strong currents, swells, waves, rip tides, tides going out, tides coming in, flesh-tearing sea urchins, sudden drop-offs, sudden shallow areas, hidden rocks, rocks in plain sight, searing sunlight, sudden loss of sunlight, and other bathers, snorkelers, scuba divers, paddle boarders, kayakers, thieves, and individuals in unfortunate swim clothes."

Virtually every time we contemplated venturing into the water to snorkel, we were told, "Sure, it's a little rough today, no problem. Just time the waves and you'll be fine." It did not occur to anyone to question how people raised in the Midwest are supposed to know, instinctively, how to "time the waves." And if by luck or a miracle you do, by the time you convince the flippers on both your feet that they must work together to walk successfully into the water, your timing could take you right into the mouth of a Rogue Wave.

Or, say you are are settling in to see some amazing snorkeling sights. Suddenly, you feel weightless, free, moving along at incredible speed—but sideways. Then you are suddenly moving sideways in the direction you just came from. No matter how much you kick and order your body to go straight—that is, in the direction of your head—you continue to move 3 feet sideways one way and 3 feet back the other way. You have met a fun little prankster in the Hawaiian waters: The Current.

Another feature that is bent on perpetrating bodily harm are the roads. On most roads along the coastline, you have two options: Death by Smooshing Against Jagged Rocks, or Death by Falling Over Cliff's Edge Leading to Deep Ravine and/or Ocean.

In some locations there is a third option—Life—but it's pretty slim.

Other than these few trifles to worry about, you should have a GREAT time should you visit Hawaii. Just don't venture out of your hotel.

Better yet, don't step foot out of the plane when it lands. IF it lands...

The Princess seems to have become addicted to warm weather places this fall, and no sooner had she returned from Hawaii than she galavanted off to Orlando for work. In her absence, the Hero too did some galavanting, to normally forbidden eateries like KFC. We promise to return soon to our discussion of Hawaii.

A new weekday, invented by travelers: Muesday

The Hero and I have returned from our visit to Hawaii in one piece—an outcome that looked doubtful at certain points during our trip, which we'll discuss another day—although we feel like parts of us have remained behind in the various time zones through which we passed in the last couple of days. Factor in the recent time change for the mainland, but not for Hawaii, and you get: two confused travelers.

There is about a 15-hour period of time that is unaccounted for in our memories, other than intermittent communication with each other centered on determining what day it was.

"Is today Tuesday?"

"No, I think it's Monday."

"But didn't we already have Monday?"

"Uh, I don't remember Monday...maybe we spent Monday thinking it was Tuesday?"

We did agree that we were due back at our respective workplaces on Wednesday. This precipitated another volley of speculations.

"Do we go to work tomorrow? Or the next day?"

"I think it's more like tomorrow and half a tomorrow."

The last time we can clearly recall knowing what time and day it was is in the Maui airport, as we waited for the first leg of our trip back home. We were halfway through our Starbucks drinks when we realized, dimly, that by the time we got home we would have missed our sleeping hours—in any time zone—and therefore even though it was merely 6:00 in the evening on Tuesday (or was it Monday?), we should probably sleep during the 7-hour flight to Dallas. I promptly yielded up my coffee to the garbage can.

As we discovered, when you are traveling the one part of you that does have some sense of time is: your stomach. Even it, however, is limited in its usefulness. It can only alert you to a general feeding time, not specifically which meal should be forthcoming (lunch? dinner? linner?)

Perhaps it is just as well. If it is breakfast time in the time zone in which you find yourself, then even though you are SURE that you should be having lunch, every food item you encounter at the airport will contain an egg of some sort.

And should you find yourself in the airport at 4:22 a.m., as we did on Monday (Tuesday?), give several cheers for Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts, which seem to operate at all hours in any time zone, including Martian.

To them I gratefully raise my cup of Americano and say, "Happy Muesday."

"Nature" is entirely too natural

Our experiment in growing arugula and kale this fall is going about as expected. I water, fertilize, and find them the proper amount of sun, and in turn they neither thrive nor keel over (which is, I suppose, somewhat a success). They do not respond to gentle, soothing talk, singing, or threats. Pests unknown are getting more benefit from them than I am.

It was for this latter reason that a neighbor came to investigate and diagnose the problem. Although she has a vast store of knowledge herself, she brought along an impressive tome of a plant encyclopedia, required for a class she is taking. She commenced the investigation with a series of questions.

"Where did you get the plants?" she said. "Quality can make a big difference."

I admitted that I had started them all from seed.

She seemed impressed at this. "So you started them indoors..."

"Uh, no, I figured the main reason you do that is to give them a head start in the cold spring, but since it's fall..." It had made sense at the time, but a lot of things seem to make sense until you realize they are very, very wrong.

The questions continued about sun, fertiIizing, whether I had observed any critters on them, etc. I hadn't, but clearly there were critters on them because there were big holes in some in the leaves.

"And you looked on the underside of the leaves?"

I had not. If Ii turned the leaves over, and there was a critter there, I would be at great risk of touching it. And above all, my gardening motto is: Have as little contact with nature as possible.

But she, brave soul, is not afraid of contact with nature, and declared that we would not only inspect the underside of the leaves but do so with her jeweler's loupe, which would allow us to see any potential critters roughly at 2000000000% magnification. Thus an aphid would appear the size of a small battleship.

We did so, and although it took the better part of the afternoon for me just to figure out how to use the jeweler's loupe--it defies logic, as far as I am concerned--I finally located a fat, brownish insect.

And as I was inspecting it and we speculated on what it might be, I witnessed a marvelous display of nature. Or maybe the bug was getting tired of being examined and wanted to put on a show.

"It's pooping," I said.

"What? You can see that?"

"Well, a big, clear bubble escaped its rear end. Its assumed rear end,"  I amended. "The one opposite its eyeballs."

She said it certainly "sounded like excrement" to her.

Suddenly I wasn't so gung-ho on consuming this arugula I was working so hard to raise. Or anything else growing in nature, if this was what happened. Probably a lot more of it happened when I wasn't looking.

That was also the Hero's reaction when I related the pooping incident. " I could've gone all day without knowing that," he said. But then his mathematical curiosity kicked in, and he asked for particulars on the pooping. Was it clear, or white? How big was it? How big was the bug? What was the ratio of poop to total bug size?

"Maybe it's beneficial for us," he said finally, trying to put a positive spin on things.

With the amount of scrubbing I now felt I would be compelled to do with anything grown, I couldn't imagine that anything beneficial might remain afterward.

Maybe I should just leave nature to nature. After all, the bugs seem to know what to do with it.

_______
The Princess and the Hero will soon be getting on a plane and flying a long, long ways, hopefully arriving on the Big Island of Hawaii. That is the plan. There could be a different plan, however, if the Princess has to sit next to someone on the long plane ride who is not the Hero, and she must be forcibly removed from the plane for squeezing the someone's circulation off during turbulent parts of the flight (defined by the Princess as "if I feel like I'm in a plane, it's turbulence"). Stay tuned.

Portable pots

My foresight at planting our kale and arugula in large but lightweight containers (in former lives they were known as grocery bags and plastic tote bags) has proven magnificent. It has ensured that I spend my days fretting over exactly where on our property the plants will get the most sun and generally be the happiest, and then move them there.

And move them, and move them.

When I discovered that there was more sun in the back of the house, I hauled the five containers through the house, down the stairs, and out the back door. Later, there seemed to be a smidgen more sunlight in the front, so I carried them into the house, up the stairs, and out the front door. Sometimes when I went to water them, I would forget where they were. I brought the plants inside when a freeze threatened.

But still I fretted that they weren't getting enough sun. I realized they would get even MORE if I moved them back and forth every day—morning in the front, afternoon in the back.

But I kept picturing someone calling men in white coats to come and take me away somewhere to "rest," so I refrained.

I have done this moving of the plants enough times that I am considering stopping my weekly workouts out at the Y for, perhaps, several years. Of course, I am always considering stopping my workouts at the Y. But the Plant Workout, consisting of plenty of bending, stretching, stair climbing, even weight-bearing, might actually justify a boycott.

But then winter would come, and what would I do? Perhaps the cold season could usher in the Fake Plant Workout, in which I would shuffle pots of plastic plants from upstairs to downstairs, or even outside.

I'll definitely have to consider it, just as soon as I locate my living plants and water them.

We're on it! Or not

The Hero and I, in an uncharacteristic burst of planning ahead, have made our respective packing lists for our upcoming trip to Hawaii, even though it is still more than two weeks away. The Hero actually wanted to pack several weeks ago, once we made our reservations, but that unhealthy fervor soon passed.

Because the first leg of our journey will deposit us up on a mountain somewhere on the Big Island, my list of items to take more resembles a cruise to Alaska than a visit to the Aloha State:

Sweatshirt. Rain poncho. Warm socks. Carafe for coffee or soup. Hand warmers. Parka (rated to -20 degrees F). Extra blankets. Ski hat. Maybe another sweatshirt?

Whereas the Hero's sole provision for cooler weather is: enclosed shoes. Even this concession was made under protest. "I really don't think I'll need them," he said.

His list of items runs like this:

Swimsuit, check.

Sunscreen, check.

Sun hat, check.

Ukulele, check.

The ukulele is intended to enhance our sunset experience on the trip, and any other occasions where music might be wished for. (For example, during our mountain stay, I am thinking animal control.)

The Hero is vexed by one item not on the list: a hammock. He would gladly carry it onboard—if necessary, leaving most of his other possessions behind—if he could come up with a viable way of using it on our trip. "Look at those trees," he'll muse when viewing photos of a Maui nature trail online. "We could string up a hammock between those."

And it wouldn't be long before we might be strung up for doing so.

So now. all we have to do is wait for the Packing Fairy to emerge from somewhere, and with a wave of her magic wand put everything on the lists into our suitcases.

Right? There is a Packing Fairy, right? Please say there is a Packing Fairy. And that she knows exactly what we will need and what we can leave home.

Wait, Packing Fairy! Why are you taking the books out of the suitcase? I need those. Yes, all 15 of them! And put those hot chocolate packets back. It's gonna be chilly at night. Hey, maybe you should go work on the Hero's stuff. I'll take care of my own.

Thanks anyway.

The Hero and Princess learn about Hawaii

In anticipation of our trip to Hawaii later this month, we borrowed a documentary on that state from the library, and sat down to eagerly glean important information for our visit.

For reasons known only to themselves, the producers thought it a good idea to start the video with a piece about Hawaii's aquaculture industry. We listened to several earnest workers discuss their important work, and somewhere in a fascinating discussion of shrimp broodstock, we promptly fell asleep.

This reaction in no way should be taken to mean that we do not believe in the important work of the aquaculture industry to bring tasty, sustainably raised fish to our tables. But—and perhaps we are not very responsible tourists—it is not quite what we have in mind as we are planning what to do in Hawaii.

We awoke some time later to an explanation and illustration of the various forms of hula dancing, which, combined with our excellent nap, immediately rekindled our interest in the documentary.

As we watched, something seemed vaguely out of place. True, the video was a little dated, although we couldn't quite figure out how we knew this. Was it the clothing? the decor? tourists' eyeglasses?* And then we realized:

No one had a cell phone camera.

Oh, there were plenty of cameras. In fact the camera was invented for Hawaii. And in this documentary, everyone was wearing one, because that's what you do with an actual camera: you wear it. It's too big to fit in your pocket, or your purse, or anywhere else. When someone in the nearly bygone camera-toting era anticipated going on vacation and mentioned having to "get in shape" beforehand, they were probably referring to strengthening their neck muscles to accommodate several pounds of deadweight camera.

But Hawaii is, of course, more than fish and cameras and even luaus (though the Hero has declared his full intentions of attending a luau where they are serving roasted pig). There is also a lot of water hanging around, and sometimes it comes crashing over the sides of cliffs, resulting in impassable roads, which in Hawaii are sometimes more of a suggestion anyway. On maps there are more than a few places where the roads just end, and one assumes that there is a mountain or some other impenetrable object at that spot to prevent further motorist travel, such as a T-shirt hut.

We have not yet made it through the entire video, although we have every intention of doing so. It’s a good thing this wasn’t in ancient times, and we weren’t listening to the stories once told by storytellers. The stories were considered sacred, and once one started, nobody was allowed to move. I think they would not have been pleased by our nodding and napping.

Rather dull video aside, there is one inescapable fact about Hawaii that has already endeared the islands to us: it is the only state that grows coffee.

And that, my friends, makes up for all our involuntary instruction in fish farming.

*Total number of tourists wearing glasses in the video: 76.

Total number of Hawaiians wearing glasses in the video: 0.

Hawaii, the land of no windows

It was fully our intention to book a hotel room or condo for our upcoming stay in Hawaii—something close to the beach, with restaurants and everything else good and necessary for normal civilization. Instead we suddenly find ourselves a month away from staying in what appears to be a remote jungle tree house.

Our hosts' names are Peter and Barbara. This, at least, is somewhat reassuring, certainly more so than if they'd been named Mean Dog and Cruella. Their online profile indicates that it is mostly Peter who watches after the place and his visitors, while Barbara commutes to "the mainland."

This gave us pause. The Hero expressed doubts over what, exactly, she commuted for. The profile does not strictly indicate that it is for "work." For my part, I struggle to identify just what mainland one commutes to, on a regular basis, from the Big Island of Hawaii. True, there is my rather fuzzy grasp of geography, but still.

But we are willing to suspend judgment, because really the place does sound quite lovely and adventurous.

Take the windows, for example. Actually, someone must have already done so, because no windows appear in any of the 39 photos of the house that I was able to view. Walls appear to be something of a suggestion.

"So this will be a little different," I said to the Hero. "Things might...move in with us." I trailed off when I saw his face.

A few years ago the media reported the scientific discovery of a giant squid that had eyes described as the size of dinner plates. Those eyes engulfed the smallish submersible where the scientists were filming the creature. This is how the Hero looked upon hearing this news.

"What does that mean?" he demanded.

"Well, the place is kind of...open air."

The dinner plates got a little larger.

"What kind of bugs do they have in Hawaii?" he said.

"Big ones," I said. I based this on a fiction book I'd read some time ago, set in the rugged 1800s, in which insects and creatures of malevolent appearance seriously outnumbered people in Hawaii. And nearly outweighed them.

The website through which we booked our accommodations encourages asking questions of hosts. We decided this topic would give us our first questions: "How large would you say the average insect is around your property? Based on this, which would you recommend: insect spray or armor? Do we need shots? Does your house have windows? Can we come stay with you?"

This encouraging of questions is a practice the website might seriously consider abandoning after our stay.

Given all the lush vegetation surrounding our, uh, tree house, the Hero was concerned that perhaps we wouldn't have much of a view from our lanai, or open patio (a word that means, literally, "yes, you have a wonderful view, but you are also unprotected from huge bugs"). I directed him to a photo of an open window, through which could be seen a fantastic view of the ocean. "See? What more could we want?"

He looked closer at the photo. "Is that a...bathtub in front of the window?"

Okay, so perhaps the best view is from the bathroom. We'll be really, really clean on this trip.

Of course, there is no indication in the photo as to what the rest of the bathroom is like. Is there actually running water? A toilet? Who knows? And who cares? We can see the ocean from it.

No doubt this is exactly the attitude intended by the photo poster, in the hopes of distracting guests from realizing that this glorious view is unimpeded by an actual, enclosed window.

Instead of staying in the jungle tree house, maybe we'll just abandon it to the wildlife, and sleep outside ourselves.

Growing things

Amazingly, our experiment in growing herbs for the first time ever this year has turned out to be an enormous success. This success is defined by several outcomes: At no time did the herbs rise up and lead a rebellion, neither did they completely keel over from my alternating overzealous and underzealous caretaking, AND we even got to harvest a few leaves. None of these were consumed, however, because we placed them, with great reverence, in the Herb Hall of Fame in our kitchen.

Bolstered by such results, I was emboldened to take another step and try growing vegetables. I realize that humans have been growing their own food for some time now. Even after grocery stores began to appear, hordes of people kept on growing stuff on their own. Whereas people like me throughout history, who specialize in destroying anything green, gave up all pretense of trying to feed themselves once they realized someone else would sell them food.

But I had kept the herbs alive for some time—they actually looked heartier when we came back from a short vacation—so maybe there was hope. So, not wanting to ruin my potential protege with a lack of parenting skills, I threw myself into learning which vegetables would be suitable to grow in our conditions. These conditions included:

1. Little sun

2. Little space

3. Even less gardening ability

These restrictions left: the Shanghai rutabaga.

Fortunately this was not actually true. No offense to rutabagas, Shanghai or otherwise, but my vegetable career would have begun and ended right there if this had been the case.

I harbor some vague notions about the whole growing process, such as that everything gets planted in spring. Luckily this particular notion turns out to be inaccurate. I learned that I could start things like kale and arugula at the end of the summer. Moreover, they don't need as much sunlight as many other vegetables, or large tracts of land. I could grow them in pots.

So, kale and arugula procured, the next task was, I felt strongly, the most important part of the whole growing process: obtaining suitably adorable containers.

Planting was thus delayed thanks to the necessity of this task. The newcomers must not think they did not deserve cute homes like the flowers have, so not just any container would do. Books were considered, websites scoured, for just the right pots. Finally, the choice was made: a bright yellow rubber tote and a purple grow bag, which is made out of something like really strong felt. The yellow tote even came with a free spider, which I endeavored to convince to remain behind at the store, to no avail.

(We had intended to include here a photo of the containers, but realized one must first take such a photo before being able to share it. Oh, well.)

At this time the pots are roughly 6500 times the size of the seedlings, so clearly it is still the containers' time to shine—at least until the seedlings get a little bigger. Assuming they DO get bigger.

I'm sure that somewhere on the instructions for the seeds it says, "If you have traditionally had bad luck growing plants, well, let us know how it goes with these. To be honest, we really don't hold out a lot of hope."

But we'll prove them wrong. After all, we have cute pots.

When exercise is dangerous

Experts recommend finding an exercise schedule that works for you and that you can actually follow. After much trial and error, the Hero and I have discovered just that. We now keep a regular workout schedule at our local Y, consisting of about 6 weeks of faithful attendance and exercise followed by a couple of months (give or take) of slacking.* We find that this alternating of working out, not working out does the trick for us. It helps us meet our fitness goals, the main one being basically to not experience too much pain.*

Sometimes, however, despite our best efforts, this goal is thwarted. The other night, for instance, as we headed to the car after our workout, I suddenly developed a cramp in my right foot. Rather than ride home very uncomfortably, I told the Hero I would walk around the parking lot until it worked itself out. He waited in the car, taking advantage of my absence to listen to something very loud on the radio.

I circled the car, the foot felt better, and I headed to the passenger side door. The cramp hit again. Around the car I went a second time, with the same result. Then a third time.

I tried not to think about what anyone who was watching might be thinking, or if someone that very moment was calling security. "Yes, there's, um, a woman in the Y parking lot doing laps around a car with a guy inside."

But if I was lucky, they would simply conclude that I was too cheap to join the Y and use the elliptical.

When I finally returned to the car after my third circuit, the Hero was relieved. “I was afraid you were going to march around the car seven times and then blow a trumpet,” he said.

That clinched it. Clearly, it was just too dangerous for us to continue working out. Time to enter our second phase of the exercise routine: slacking.

________

*Not even thinking about exercising.

**To be fair, the Hero is more into workout pain than I am.

Weebles at the beach

Sitting on the beach, we have found, is very entertaining. We particularly enjoy watching the short, two-legged creatures wobbling around on the hot sand emitting little squawks and cries, looking for handouts, eating sand when that fails.

I refer to toddlers.

Toddlers are like the Weeble toys, wobbling around but never falling down for long. Although when they do fall, they are highly likely to cry, which I do not remember the Weebles ever doing. A Weeble is very stoic.

But toddlers are sturdy, and possessed of a self-assurance that convinces them they can catch seagulls, if only they chase them around long enough. And chase they do, in their characteristic lumbering gait, which is exaggerated on the shifting terrain of the sand. All the adults look on, unaware that they are slightly leaning this way and that, mimicking the toddler's lumbering, as if their motion might somehow prevent her inevitable fall. 

And there is the inevitable toddler hat. All toddlers, it appears, must be outfitted with an extremely adorable hat, with a wide brim and little straps enveloping their adorable, fat chins. We did see one toddler who bucked this hat trend by sporting a bright yellow bandana on his head, which kept threatening to slide down his face and become a neck scarf.

We watched one toddler, not quite able to walk by himself, nevertheless traverse the great gulf of sand from the water to the boardwalk with the help of an extremely patient adult. The distance must have looked to him like a transatlantic crossing, but he was undaunted. Plus, there were birds.

The Hero and I found ourselves becoming tired just watching him, as if we were making that great trek with him. We closed our eyes to rest, occasionally waking up to look around for him, and the toddler would still be making his way across the Gobi Desert, veering off now and then when a seagull lured him into a game of chase. He finally made it to firm land, never having caught one. 

Maybe tomorrow.

The Hero wants...what?

On a recent weekend the Hero and I set off on a walking adventure. Because my idea of adventure is rather limited—and hygienic—the walk took place very near our home. We thought that maybe we would chance upon a small clearing in the woods—a very hygienic clearing, of course—in which we could rest and read, and the Hero could resurrect his interest in sketching, so we packed a few extra supplies. The Hero grabbed a backpack and slipped in a book for each of us, his sketchbook, a pencil, and a few snacks. There was still plenty of room in the backpack.

"It's too bad we don't have a smaller type of bag to take..." He trailed off and looked at me, stricken. "I'm describing a purse," he said, realization dawning. "I want a purse." He shook his head. "It's the beginning of the end."

Long ago my nephew crusaded—at least in private, to me and to his sister—for male purses. Had he pursued this openly, who knows but that the fight would have been taken up by millions of men for whom pockets are not sufficient, and backpacks superfluous. They would have been firmly supported by wives everywhere who are weary of being asked to put their husbands' belongings in their own purses: "But you have that huge purse. My wallet and keys and the Home Depot receipt for the light bulb won't take up any room at all...oh, and the light bulb will fit too, right?"

Of course, male purses would come at perhaps a small price for wives. Their men would have a perfect excuse to not hold the ladies' handbags when shopping. "But I'm holding my own purse. I can't hold yours too."

We set off on our walk, the too-big backpack slung over the Hero's shoulder. He didn't complain. I looked for signs of wistfulness, but he seemed happily resigned to his purseless fate. Good. Now I don't have to worry about losing my repository for snacks and beverages.