Closed on Sundays, really

If you are one of the rare few who still stops by Closed on Sundays periodically to see if there is an update, I'm so sorry that it's been this long since our last post. I'm even sorrier to say that this will probably be the last post ever.

On our first trip up to Pololu Valley, Onaona and I decided it a romantic notion that there are still small, locally-owned and run stores that choose not to open for business on Sundays. The almighty dollar doesn't hold sway over everything, and some people would rather have the day off. It was a pain in our collective ass that morning, because there was nowhere for us to use the restroom. But, imagining ourselves in the same position, owning a business that is as close to us as home, we thought it nice that there are still people out there who prefer to sleep in than to make an extra four dollars selling us a cappuccino. That morning, we saw several signs in storefront windows casually mentioning, "Closed on Sundays."

Anyway, I hate to be the guy who has that website that was last updated in 1998, so I'm going to eventually take this one down. The fact of the matter is, I just don't have that much to say these days. They say about songwriters, there needs to be an extremity of emotion to have something to write about. It would be difficult to write about the average time you had on your average day with your averagely interesting friends. You need to have happiness and grief. That's why songs are all about love and sadness (and partying). I do, of course, have love, but I was never good at writing about that. I'm much better at complaining and making fun, and there's just not that much for me to complain about these days. I couldn't imagine my life working out any better than it is.

I might once again have a blog, someday in the future. And Onaona always has the family website. But for now, I really am Closed on Sundays.

I will leave you this one last thing. It seems, I made a mistake in my last post, months ago. Note the picture below:



This cow has horns and udders! Holy moly. Suffice it to say, I confused cows for deer. While female reindeer can have horns, female woodland deer (Bambi's mom for instance) do not. Only the males do. Thanks to Random Anonymous Guy for pointing that out. I assure you sir, that I will never again pretend to know anything about cows.

Thanks for visiting our blog. I hope you enjoyed your Sundays.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

Boy cows have horns. Girl cows have udders. Hawaiian cows have gender confusion.

Cafeteria Food

I don't know how well you remember the food of your school cafeterias. I can't honestly say that I remember it well.

The food I remember was served in a partitioned styrofoam tray. The square concavity at center-top was the perfect size for our cube of chocolate milk, "blue" milk (low-fat), or "red" milk (whole milk). The large trapezoid bottom-right was where the Main went, be it grilled cheese, buttery egg noodles or something like a hamburger. In the tray's three other slots went one or two of the sides - peas and carrots, green jello, tomato soup. For an extra quarter in elementary school, we could get an ice cream. Inflation brought it to seventy-five cents by high school. It's probably four dollars now.

I have a hard time remembering more than this because the cafeteria food I grew up with was largely forgettable. Granted, there was the occasional pizza day (which was awesome), and the apple crumble was actually pretty good if you could get past the look of it. But for the most part, it was what it was - nutritious-enough sustainance mass-produced on a limited budget by unskilled cooks and served at a specific time to hundreds of people.

I was a harsh critic then. (I still am.) But looking back, it's pretty remarkable that millions of school systems across the country can do this on a daily basis. Take note, I am not showering praise on the deliciousness of our country's cafeteria food, I'm just saying it's quite a feat that so many kids get food at all. Especially for two dollars.

---

It's funny, I think, the way certain things come back to us when we're older. We start out small, bald, and toothless. We grow older and stronger only to grow older still. Eventually, in our elderly years, we might shrink in size and strength. We might lose our hair and teeth. We might need the support of a railing to walk, and the support of our families to bathe, eat, or dress.

And apparently, if you are a subscriber to the Meals on Wheels program, you can have your local cafeteria food delivered to your door.

Meals on Wheels "provides nutritious meals and other nutrition services to men and women who are elderly, homebound, frail, disabled, or at risk." To some degree, the Meals on Wheels system started in war-torn Britain, where in 1939, German bombs found many British citizens without homes, and likewise, no way to prepare food. The Women's Volunteer Service for Civil Defense followed by preparing and delivering food to the local disadvantaged. Moreover, they delivered canteens to servicemen who attached to these canteens the moniker, "Meals on Wheels."

My grandparents participate in the current incarnation of the Meals on Wheels program. Every Monday for the last six months, I've driven down to St. Joe's Elementary School to pick up seven meals for each of them. Technically, the meals are free, but we provide the suggested donation of $2.50 per meal. Each frozen meal comes with a main and a side of vegetables. With it, I also pick up a seven boxes of milk, a few fruit cups, a few apples and oranges, and seven slices of wheat bread. Every few weeks, a dessert is included - chocolate pudding cups, or cookies.

These are not excitable meals. I've been urged to try one (Grandma!), and suffice it to say, I've resisted any subsequent urgings. But, they are reliable, cheap, practical, and not awful. I'd have to say they're a step down from cafeteria food, since they are in fact that: cafeteria food, but frozen and reheated. It is, however, only a small step down.

In fact, I have to commend them for their service. Unfortunately, my grandparents live just outside the delivery zone, so rather than having it brought to their doorstep, someone has to pick the meals up for them. Fortunately, because of this, I've met some of the dozen or more people who hustle every Monday to make this happen. Every one of them is friendly and helpful, and as far as I know, almost all of them are volunteers. Naturally, the food could be better, but more than anything else, my grandparents just like to have the burden of making their own food handed over to someone else once a day. And at $2.50, it's a steal.

To be fair, my grandfather, who eats anything, and who's best compliment is, "Good," very nearly squeals with delight when I bring over something from Panda Express, or a bento from Blane's Drive Inn. Anything, to break the monotony of frozen cafeteria food. But 97 years old now, where would he be without Meals on Wheels? Moreover, since my grandmother does all the cooking, where would she be? Probably exhausted.

So anyway, it might not be the most delicious stuff, but thank goodness for cafeteria food.

It's sad when...

There's still a week and a half before we have to return to the mainland and Grandma has already started saying, "We're going to miss you."

Hold Your Breath

A video of Kawehena:

A Note from Utah

I haven't had an original thought for a while, so I'm posting an e-mail my father sent:

I hiked up Timpanogos Mountain with my son-in-law, Barry, my daughter, Keiko, and their children. We only went as high as Timpanogos Cave, which has some unusual stalactites and stalagmites. The cave is reached after a climb of about a mile and a half from the ranger station, and a vertical ascent of about 1200 feet. The climb is roughly equivalent to walking up the stairs of the old World Trade Center buildings from the lobby to the observation decks, but doing so along a narrow switchback trail at cliff's edge.

I felt proud of my accomplishment, having reached the cave entrance without having a heart attack. However, just as I was about to return from the cave, I spotted a young Hawaiian boy nearly at the top of the climb, having done it on crutches.

Farting rocks.

Everyone farts. We're human, its just what we do. We know how relieving it feels to just let one rip, and we also know how uncomfortable it can make you if you really have to fart but can't, say because you are in public, or in the company of others whom you do not feel comfortable farting around. Heres our story:

Dave and I have been together for almost 2.5 years, and for the majority of that time we couldn't fart in the company of the other person. In the beginning it was bad. When I moved into Dave's small (but nice) Manhattan studio apartment, I was very self-conscious, even in the bathroom. I couldn't make #2 with him in the next room, for fear of odd sounds and the inevitable waft when I opened the bathroom door. He was the same way. Luckily, our work schedules conflicted just enough to allow for the requisite alone time in the apartment to "handle our business" so we weren't completely full of sh**. But it soon became ridiculous and our bodies were very disappointed, so in this regard we quickly overcame the shame of our humanity. The bathroom became the flatulence etc. sanctuary--anything goes!...as long as it stays in the bathroom.

Yet despite our breakthrough with the bathroom, we still had the problem of farting in front of each other. Or not farting, as it was. Admittedly, there was progress: overtime it went from zero farting in front of the other, to running to the bathroom to fart, even in the middle of LOST (ok, this was just me), to farting just when you knew it would be silent (and praying it wasn't violent). For two years our routine went like this.

And then Dave proposed.

Immediately it became apparent that if I was going to be with this guy for the rest of my life, I would need to learn to fart in front of him. So I let one rip. And then I said "yes."

Nah, just kidding. I didn't do that. But wouldn't it be funny if I did?

When Dave and I arrived in Hawaii--exhausted yet happy--our lives took on a different set of priorities. I don't know whether it was the engagement or the environment, but suddenly, farting in front of each other was no big deal. Now, it happens all the time. And we are much happier and healthier because of it.

Moral of this story? Don't marry 'em until you can fart in front of 'em.

Irreverance of the Day

In The. If you were to say the words, "in the" twice every second, 10,000 times, it would take you 83 minutes. That being said, how often do you suppose the phrase, "pain in the butt" is used on any given day across the country? 10,000 times? 1,000,000 times?

So, why is it acceptable to say "pain in the butt," but not, "butt pain"? Like, "she's being such a butt pain." It's exactly the same thing. In fact, it's better. It's 50% shorter. If everyone started saying, "butt pain," the US economy might see an increase in productivity.

Just a thought.

Kawehena's Ideal Cupcake

If I were to guess what Kawehena's ideal cupcake would look like, I'd imagine a paper cup filled to the brim with icing and then finished with a sprinkling of cupcake crumbs over the top.

Lord of the rings was too long

Quite funny. Quite.

Laupahoehoe 2008

Pictures from Laupahoehoe 2008 are now available! Have fun!

"Baby" Carrots

When you go to the supermarket to pick out some tomatoes, or onions, or carrots, which ones do you pick? I'm sure, like me, you pick the roundest, brightest ones with no apparent bruises or disfiguration. And this all makes sense if you've ever gotten home to find that your onion is bruised on the inside, rotten, and no good for your famous goulash recipe. But if everyone's picking out their vegetables that way, what's happening to the ones that are bruised and disfigured?

Everyday, thousands of tons of produce are discarded at supermarkets, and what's more, thousands more are discarded before they even make it to the supermarket. Probably millions.

So, imagine this, you're a California carrot farmer with 400 acres of land devoted to carrots and other supermarket produce and everyday, 2500 tons of carrots are harvested, but only 2100 are sold. The other 400 tons are simply tossed out because they're bruised, or discolored, or not straight and pointy. That's 800,000 pounds daily!

Mike Yurosek couldn't take it anymore, so he invented the "baby carrot." Mother Nature invented the baby carrot, but he invented the "baby carrot." Note the quotation marks. In 1986, Mr. Yurosek used an industrial green bean cutter to trim his unusable adult carrots to two-inch lengths. From there, the carrots were removed to an industrial potato peeler, where they were peeled and whittled down to the nubs pictured above.

"The babies were an economic powerhouse. Stores paid 10 cents a bag for whole carrots and sold them for 17 cents. They paid 50 cents for a 1-pound package of baby carrots and sold them for $1. By 1989, more markets were on board, and the baby-carrot juggernaut had begun." - USA Today 8/11/04

Now they're everywhere. People take them to work as a snack, they're served on airlines, they're in kids lunchboxes. When, as a whole, Americans are eating worse than they were forty years ago, we eat 67% more carrots than we did in the 60s, and that has quite a bit to do with the "baby carrot" phenomenon.

Mr. Yurosek, who died of cancer three years ago, is credited with changing the entire carrot industry. And from the articles I read, he was a charitable man with strong ties to his community. His Bunny-Luv brand continues on.

Exam P/1

About a half hour into the test, I damn near cried. After months of studying, all the frustration, afternoons at Starbucks instead of at the beach, missing The Office, paddling and other events, I was going to fail. And not only was I going to fail, I didn’t even know where I was going wrong. If I failed this test, the backup plan was always to figure out how to answer the questions I got wrong and retake the test in July, but what would be the point if I didn’t even know what the questions were asking?

The first actuarial exam is a 3-hour, 30 question multiple-choice focused on Probability Theory and Calculus. When the same test was administered in February, an unusually high 43% of all those who took it passed. Usually, only 37% of the 3500 people taking Exam P/1 are successful.

In theory, you only need to get a D-minus to pass. There are 30 questions and passing is just 60%, or 18 correct. Sort of. An undisclosed number of questions are just “practice.” They don’t count. They’re in there as a trial run for next year’s exams. So really, passing is 60% out of 26, 27, or 28 questions. Except it’s not. There’s also something of a curve, and the test administrators are vague about what this means. Officially, anyone who exhibits all of the skills necessary to become an actuary passes. So if Dave gets 19 questions right, and Onaona only gets 17, but Dave clearly has no idea what the Cumulative Distribution Function of an Exponential Distribution is, then Dave fails, and Onaona could very well pass. Moreover, if the administrators notice that almost everyone got question #21 wrong, they might conclude it was too hard and just strike that from the records. Even if I got that one right. Oh well.

So after having my fingerprints recorded, and my pockets emptied in front of a test official, I was signed into a private exam room. On the whole, I felt pretty confident going in. I had taken some practice exams and consistently scored above 80%. Anxious to get this over with, I dived into the tutorial that preceded the test. Almost all the tests are now administered by a new technology called, “Computer.” The tutorial familiarized me with what a “Mouse” is and how I was about to use it in taking this exam. Nevermind the fact that I registered for the test using the Internet. Five minutes later, I hit a button, “End Tutorial” expecting a screen to pop up introducing the forthcoming test. Instead, I found that the test had started! On the screen was question #1, and the 3-hour timer had already started counting down.

I couldn’t answer the question. I jotted down a few things, but I had no idea what I was supposed to do, so keeping my composure, I moved on to question #2, and started a new page in my test booklet. Shucks! I didn’t know that one either. In fact, I couldn’t figure out any of the first 4 questions. At this point, I was sweating – both literally and figuratively. I managed to squeak out an answer to question #5, only to find that I had no idea what to do with question #6. It was now 30 minutes into the test and I had answered only 1 of the first 6 questions. Generally, I like to think of myself as proud and determined, but I can honestly say that I was very close to walking out of the exam room. And I might have if I had had my wallet with me, or my cell phone, or a ride.

I didn’t want to go back into the restaurant industry, but I would have to. I would have to explain to everyone that I had failed this test that I had been studying for for so long. I would have to tell my 93 year-old grandmother. And since she doesn’t hear very well, I’d probably have to tell her three or four times with increasing volume. But I had nowhere to go, so I might as well see what the rest of the test looked like, and besides, technically speaking, I could still pass if I get most of the remaining questions right.

I got 21 of the next 23 questions, I even had time to go back and figure out one of the questions I had skipped at the beginning.

After the test is over, you are virtually required to take a 15-minute survey. It’s not really required, but after you take the survey, a window pops up to tell you if you’ve unofficially passed or failed. The real results aren’t mailed for eight weeks, but most of the time, if the computer says you’ve passed, you’ve passed.

I passed.

It was a delicious feeling. Also delicious was the Champagne Onaona and I drank after. And the TV we watched after that. And the first night of deep, peaceful sleep in a long while. I probably wouldn't have slept so well if I had walked out.

"I will kill you!"

says I, if you are a rather large centipede running around in my living room. Tuesdy, on the other hand, says, "I will sniff you!" if you are a rather large centipede running around the living room. And occasionally paw at you.

For most of the morning, Tuesdy was preoccupied with the wicker basket in the corner of the living room, hopping and jumping around it, trying to crawl in it just to crawl back out again. I figured he had decided to claim the lucky basket as his new fort--much like he had commandeered our mailbox as his clubhouse--and was frustrated with the still current tenants of the basket: Hiinae's weights and exercise equipment. Not noticing anything unusual about this typically bizarre Tuesdy behavior, I paid him no heed and left him to his business while I tended to mine--checking email, making coffee, taking a shower.

Almost an hour later I noticed him still hovering around that basket and decided maybe I should check out what he was up to. There must be more to it than just the basket itself since his attention span isn't generally focused on one thing for this long. And also, its gotta be a bug, or something thats moving, cause cats lose interest in stationary objects like its their job. So preparing myself for a cockroach, and praying its not too large, I approach the basket and peer inside.

Chills ran down my spine when I saw a large centipede about 6 inches winding its way through the weights, trying to avoid Tuesdy's curiosity. I almost cried. My first instinct was to designate this a "man's job," wake Dave, and make him groggily destroy the monster. But my ego quickly dismissed the idea, so I put on my superhero cape, grabbed two magazines, rolled them up, and started removing the weights from the basket while screaming and doing a tribal dance to intimidate my enemy. Tuesdy seemed excited to have a playmate join his game and became even more enthusiastic about sniffing his wiggly friend. Well, the "friend" soon shot out of the basket and began crawling across the living room floor. Still screaming, I wack it repeatedly with my magazines, but the blows do nothing to penetrate the shiny brown armor. Tuesdy continues to excitedly sniff and paw, and twice I accidently hit him on the nose.

Finally I realize this wacking isn't working, so I pin the centipede down and with it securely writhing between my magazine and the floor, I catch my breath and decide what to do. I need a heavier tool than a makeshift-magazine-turned-sledgehammer, and thats when I remember Hiinae's weights. Continuing to pin the centipede down with one magazine, I unroll the other, lay it flat over the animal-monster, and proceed to drop a 10-pound weight over the writhing bug. Three times. I was taking no chances here. There is no way it could survive these fatal blows. And I was right. But what I failed to take into account was the mess such an impact would leave. There were centipede guts EVERYWHERE, in gooey clumps on the carpet and on the magazine with little centipede feet strewn across the floor. I almost threw up.

Tuesdy, not knowing the game was over, continued to sniff, but I took him away before his paw dipped into and spread the disaster.

The Neigbors (aka I am a product of pop culture)

We have new neighbors. They moved in a few weeks before Mom's birthday, and it was at her birthday party that we all realized a loud local family now lives where the quiet Japanese family used to. The neighborhood is definitely more lively with them around, due in part to the fact that they have a few young kids (which inevitably attracts other young kids from around the neighborhood), and in part because peculiar things happen around their house, like random cars driving slowly past their house at night, and policemen suddenly stopping by.

However, they are not the only house whose domestic noise spills out into the streets (goodness knows we've contributed our share over the years). The house across the street also contributes a good deal to the accoustic makeup of our neighborhood, not to mention that they get A LOT of visitors. Random cars frequently pull into their driveway at all hours of the day, though a policeman has yet to make an appearance.

So, with all this excitement in the neighborhood, I guess I'm a bit on guard. Or on edge. Or more aptly, just really want some juicy gossip to happen. And I thought I was going to get my wish last Saturday morning when I heard a big booming voice coming from outside. Immediately I rushed to the kitchen window, thinking it was coming from our new neighbor's house, considering they already had a previous brush with the law. But when I didn't see any people, cars, or anything unusual from that direction, I glanced across the street, and thats when I saw a large man dressed all in black yelling into the window of the house across the street. I thought "No way!" because I thought it was the cops and how crazy is it that both our neighbors get visited by the cops in one weeks time!? But then thought "Awesome!" cause the guy didn't seem to be wearing an official cop's uniform, so I thought maybe he was part of the Hawaiian Mafia, here to collect his large sum of cash, or someone's left toe.

Being that our kitchen window screens are filthy, I ran to the living room to peek out the large glass windows. I saw the man in black move into the garage and start rummaging through all the items, perhaps looking for something valuable to confiscate or destroy to assert his dominance. The man was quickly joined by his accomplice, a short, squat, blonde woman with a cropped haircut wearing a bright turquoise tanktop, denim culottes, and sneakers. ....Huh? His accomplice is a rather round, middle-aged woman?

Thats when I saw the sign..."Garage Sale Here Today."

My fantasy shattered, I realized the man in black was not a cop or part of the Hawaiian mafia, but just a garage sale customer trying to get the attention of the family inside to let them know he and his wife were here to peruse their wares. And come to think of it, he wasn't even wearing black.

Snapshot

Introducing Snap Shots from Snap.com

I just installed a nice little tool on this site called Snap Shots that enhances links with visual previews of the destination site, interactive excerpts of Wikipedia articles, MySpace profiles, IMDb profiles and Amazon products, display inline videos, RSS, MP3s, photos, stock charts and more.

Sometimes Snap Shots bring you the information you need, without your having to leave the site, while other times it lets you "look ahead," before deciding if you want to follow a link or not.

Should you decide this is not for you, just click the Options icon in the upper right corner of the Snap Shot and opt-out.

I've installed Snap Shots on both Closed on Sundays and my personal resurrected blog Critical Marginalia, each with slightly different features. The most noticeable is that Closed on Sundays contains the Snap Shots icon (which looks like a thought bubble) next to each link while Critical Marginalia does not. Also, Closed on Sundays requires you scroll directly over the icon specifically--allowing for a more directed, less accidental experience with Snap Shots--while Critical Marginalia allows a scroll over just the link, making Snap Shots more accessible, possibly to a fault.

Which do you like better? Do you like Snapshots at all? Feedback would be great! Thanks guys!

Our Ka'u Adventure!

Dave and Onaona's Ka'u Adventure album.

Ok, this post is a long time in coming. Dave and I took an adventure to Ka'u a few weeks ago and ever since, I've been trying to figure out a way to post a slide show of our adventures, rather than a series of pictures like I did for our "Thailand" adventure. Because blogger is affiliated with Picasa (and hence google) they require you use this software to embed a slideshow. Well, I wasn't too happy with the results and plus the template for this site is a little different from standard blogspot sites (which we changed to connect to davidguay.com), so embedding a slideshow wasn't all that easy. Instead, I decided to use a Flickr slideshow, accessed through Snapshot. Just scroll over the link, click on the pop-up and voila! I'm still experimenting with different media, so please bear with me, but in the meantime, enjoy a little into our adventure! And don't forget to click on the "i" for some "witty" captions!

Tuesdy the Cat

To our devoted fans:

Sorry. We've been busy and we've been lazy. You'd think with both of us unemployed we'd post more. Well, to quickly make up for our lack of noise in the face of time constraints, here is a video of Tuesdy...being a cat.

And a new song inspired by the Orange&Fuzzy:

Tuesdy the Cat
Is gettin' really fat
Whadda ya mean by that?
Its just my fur!

Dear KTA Parking Attendant Guy

You have changed my life. I just want to say thank you.

Until the other day, I thought I was a great driver. And if not a great driver, at least a great parker. And if not a great parker, at least I was confident that I could reverse out of a parking stall without banging another car.

But the other day, when I was reversing out of my parking stall after finishing my KTA shopping, and I saw you sprinting towards me as fast as you really couldn't, blaring on your whistle in that annoying JPO way, frantically waving at me to stop even though there were no cars reversing at the same time, no cars waiting for my spot, heck there weren't even any cars parked next to me, I knew I had a lot to learn.

Quickly, instinctively, I slammed on my brakes...otherwise I would have run you over, you were so intent on directing me from my stall that you almost walked into my moving car. From there, you proceeded to demandingly instruct me--with more frantic hand gestures and loud, shrill, stocatto whistles--to continue doing what I had been doing, and would most likely be done doing, had you not so abruptly stopped me.

At first I was irritated and insulted that you would think I couldn't reverse out of a parking stall unassisted. But just as I began to shift my little Nissan Sentra out of reverse and into first, I saw, not just a car, but a minivan, turn into the same parking row, and I thought to myself, "Thanks KTA Parking Attendant Guy. Who knows what would have happened if you weren't here?" (Absolutely nothing).

So heres to you, KTA Parking Attendant Guy, for reminding me and the rest of Hilo, that when its busy, we will never be good enough to reverse out of a KTA parking stall without the help of a KTA Parking Attendant Guy. (But when its not busy, can).

Oh well.

Admittedly, I've been a bit hesitant to post anything because the pressure is on. Dave's posts are good and funny, and theres no way my posts can compare--much in the same way that his humor sorely defeats mine in real life. But I'm a team player and this is supposed to be our blog, so I thought I just better post something.

But then I realized I can't.

Because its Sunday.

And we're closed.

Oh well.

Tan Line

I should wear shorts more often. Or not at all.

Making Coffee

On the first day of the Introduction to Psychology class I took freshman year of college, the professor promised he would teach us, among other things, techniques that would benefit our studies. As if to prove it, he took a Polaroid of each us and returned five days later knowing every one of our names. It was a class of 120 students. He taught four classes that semester. In retrospect, I might have been a better student if I hadn't skipped so much.

But anyway, one of the things he noted in lecture one day was how important environment is. The way things are interconnected within our brain adds importance to the context within which they are presented. Theoretically, if you study while listening to music, you will better recall the same information during your exam if you are listening to the same music. Which is unfortunate, since you cannot listen to music while taking an exam. Not only are sounds important, but all the senses - sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. As I begin my daily studies at a local Starbucks I inevitably think, "Remember to get a grande dark roast before the exam."

The idea of environment also suggests that your morning coffee is not just a caffeine buzz. If you routinely start your day with eight ounces of coffee, one teaspoon of sugar, and one teaspoon of Coffeemate in your favorite Hello Kitty coffee mug, you just might be better off than if you don't. Of course, you might be even better still if you completely ween yourself off of coffee, eat healthy, exercise, and sleep eight hours every night. But that's not the point.

Anyway, imagine that for decades you've started a pot of coffee first thing in the morning. While it's brewing, you'd stroll out to the end of the driveway, and return with the newspaper. You would, as on any other day, enjoy both the coffee and the newspaper in your favorite lounge chair. But one day, just a couple months short of your 97th birthday, you wake up and walk to the kitchen. There, you see a coffee maker and you know you want coffee, but your Alzheimer's has stripped from you the ability to make it. You stare at the same coffee maker you've had since the 80s, and nothing.

Since then, only a few days ago, my grandfather has remembered how to make coffee. He made some for himself this morning. But I imagine it was a pretty helpless feeling that day. A, "Where am I?" sort of feeling. I imagine the newspaper felt different. And his favorite lounge chair.

These are things I never thought of when Alzheimer's was someone else's problem.

Anyway, tonight, I stopped by to visit him late, around 10:00. He was watching, "Watari, the Ninja Boy" on the Nihon Gold Network. It was awful. I presented a bowl to him and he recognized it immediately. Sitting in the chair just three feet from the television, he spooned away. Finishing the bowl slightly out of breath, he exclaimed his highest superlative. "Good!"

It was clear this was not the first time he had had chocolate ice cream - he knew exactly what to do with it.

Toilet Shopping (part 2)

Also, it's weird trying to explain to your grandmother what a bidet is.

Toilet Shopping

I went toilet shopping with Grandma yesterday. I don't understand how she convinced herself that she needs a new toilet to replace the one in the bathroom adjacent to her bedroom. Not only does the existing toilet work perfectly well, but she doesn't even use that one (she prefers the bathroom adjacent to the living room).

I had always heard that toilets can be expensive, but was pleasantly surprised to find that Home Depot sold one for about $50. It appeared really small, with a narrow bowl, but I'm sure it works the same as the ones at HPM. HPM, the local building supply store, had a range of toilets in a variety of styles. The boring white ones started at $250. There were also some fancy ones that weren't a part of the "Toilet Showcase" and were instead found in the model bathrooms found throughout the store. Those toilets started at $1000 and I found a couple for $1500.

I didn't have the time to really decipher how one toilet could be so cheap and another so expensive. Surely, more goes into it than what material the handle is made out of (some were gold-plated). But I'll figure that out another time. This time I was a bit antsy, because while I was reading the price and features of each toilet to Grandma, Grandpa had decided to wander around the store. And in my short time here, I've found that Grandpa doesn't care enough about any store to wander around, unless he needs to use the bathroom. And if you haven't picked up on where I'm going with this yet... I was in a toilet store. I was afraid that someone might find him in one of the model bathrooms testing out a $2000 toilet.

Naturally, my fears were assuaged when I heard his cane clacking out of the warehouse, where he used what was probably the employees' $50 toilet. And was surely, well satisfied.

Lamb and Hummos

I've always thought of older people as getting more and more set in their routines. As it were, Grandma does have her favorite brand of paper towels (Viva), and her favorite brand of napkins (Zee). She prefers the Kamuela tomatoes to the Hamakua ones and there is a particular vendor at the farmer's market who has the best papaya.

But that being said, I've been surprised at her excitement to try some new things. Or, new foods anyway. It was always the case that when my family would come to visit Hilo, we'd take out my Grandparents to their favorite Japanese restaurants. And now that they are 93 and 96 years old, and have been in this town for over 50 years, they just can't take it anymore. They've preferred the Thai food I've brought them on occasion, and relish the "American-style" foods I've cooked. Even when I've attempted Japanese food - fish with ponzu sauce and miso-glazed eggplant - they say, "It's not like any Japanese food I've had before, but it sure is tasty."

And that brings me to my first point. I am not surprised when people tell me that they've never had hummos before. For one, it's not that imbedded in the American culinary landscape. Also I guess, because I was once afraid to try it, I expect to see that in others. Grandma loves hummos. Incidentally, I introduced it to her as an accompaniment to another eggplant dish. She liked "the dressing," so I presented her the package and she started spooning it over everything - the sweet potato greens, the artichokes, the lamb... Which brings me to my second point.

While I'm not surprised when someone hasn't had hummos before, I'm shocked to hear that someone hasn't had lamb. I recognize that not everyone likes lamb, but for some reason, I at least expect everyone to have tried it. In Grandma's nearly 93.83 years, she's never had lamb. I nearly wet myself. I just couldn't believe it when she told me.

Boy, was she excited to try it for the first time. "Something in the kithcen smells real good! David's preparing another treat for us."

Boy, was it disappointing. Actually, it wasn't so bad, but she couldn't stop talking about the hummos. "How's your first lamb Grandma?" "Oh... Good... This hummos is really great. Where'd you hear about it?" Anyhow, what I was really impressed with was how proud she was that she had finally had lamb. "I've had plenty of opportunities but I've always passed it up. I'm glad I finally got to try it."

That was pretty cool.

(This is what lamb looks like before it is cooked.)

Dear Starbucks Guy,

First, I want to point out that I love your establishment. There's no place better to get a few hours of studying in. And you did a fantastic job freshly grinding and brewing that Pike Place Roast. It was delicious. The way you do your job is truly special.

But seriously, the whistling's got to stop. I know you're happy, and you love your job, but you are really, really bad at whistling. Like, the worst. Those sudden, random, high-pitched bursts are just not very musical. I don't know how you've made it through twenty-something years of your life without anyone telling you how bad you are. Other than that, you're doing a great job.

Grande coffee, please.

This is my wishing tree.

As in, I wish I had a wishing tree.



Like this one. Its beautiful.

"Thailand!"

Still feeling the wanderlust that enticed us to leave New York, Dave and I took a trip to "Thailand" this past weekend to see the world and just escape it all. "Thailand" is absolutely beautiful! We saw:

The worlds tallest palm tree



ONE spectacular waterfall (Dave is dubious about this descriptor):



Bizarre foliage:



and a water buffalo that looks amazingly like a cow named "Ted."



Dave even got to take a picture with a native! (it took a little bit of coaxing and even some tribal dancing to get him to cooperate; and even after offering him a copy of the picture, we still had to pay him five bananas!)



We had a great time in "Thailand" but are glad that we can finally cross it off our "pretend we've been there, but never actually done that" list. Next "stop:" "Scotland!" or "Middle Earth!"

Lack of Inspiration

I know lately we haven't been posting very often. It might sound romantic, but the covariance of two random variables just isn't as inspirational as you'd think. I've been flooded with upper and lower case sigmas, mus and the occasional phi. Apparently, x and y just isn't enough anymore. In order to learn probability theory, you also have to minor in Greek. Anyway, here's a picture to remind you that we're still Closed on Sundays.

3 down

Today is our 3 month anniversary here in Hawaii. When we realized we had already been here for three months, our conversation went something like this:

"Can you believe we've been here for three months?!"
"No way!"

Then we bought new t-shirts.

Cat Easter

A picture of Tuesdy and Dave retrieving paper balls from under the couch. We had a hunch that there may be a few under there; we had no idea there would be so many! Tuesdy was so excited he could hardly contain himself! It was like Cat Easter!


















Tim, on the other hand, could really care less about this sudden plethora of paper balls, despite all our efforts to entice him. In fact, after a dramatic eye-rolling and an exaggerated yawn, he resumed his wishful daydreaming of roaming the great outdoors. (I'm pretty sure I could hear him humming 'Part of your world.')

Happy Birthday Dad!

Today, March 31, 2008 is 65 years from the day of his birth. He is old. Legally.

At the ripe age of 65, he can talk loudly, walk slowly and set the thermostat either really high or really low. If someone says something he doesn't like, he can pretend his hearing isn't what it used to be. He can show his appreciation for dinner by farting unabashedly (and probably in public). He can tell the same stories over and over again. He can do this and many other things he's already been doing for years.

Theoretically, he can retire. Although I suspect, it won't happen so easily. He's stubborn. He does what he does. Like any other year, he will invest heavily in a garden that rewards him with 600 asparagus spears and 3 tomatoes. He'll continue to send all three of his kids an e-mail every March that his Crocuses are starting to pop out of the ground, that Spring is officially here. The e-mail will be accompanied by 8 enormous jpegs of dirt. One week later, I'll get double prints in the mail of the same exact picture. It will be years before he stops telling me to "be careful" when I cross the street or go out for a drive. He'll ask me why I never read that book he gave me on the central banks and their influence on the local markets and the ways I can maximize my return in a shaky economy. He'll randomly send me an e-mail telling me about how the stars looked this one night in 1968, how it was also the night that some war started in Eastern Europe, and on a side note, Hillary Clinton is going to ruin this country and Stouffer's Lasagna is delicious. I'll visit him in Connecticut and he'll give me $40 for the same large pizza that has cost $15 all these years. He'll probably also get choked up and shed a few tears while remembering my mother.

I can't say I've always agreed with the way he's done his job all these years. But he was my father the best way he could. He told me recently that he's proud of me. For every year we get older and I become less embarassed of my father, I am more proud of him and the job he's done. I wish him a happy birthday.

To market, to market, to buy musubi.

The Hilo Farmers Market is by far the best place to get produce in this town. Prices are significantly cheaper than any supermarket here, and quality is much better. The crowds can be very heavy on Wednesdays or Saturdays so its best to go early in the morning; too late in the afternoon and the best vendors are gone.

When the stars are in perfect alignment, and we haven't stayed up late the night before theorizing about LOST, Dave and I like to arrive early with our coffee and recycled KTA bags in hand, mosey a quick lap around to check out the wares, then hit the papaya lady, the banana lady, and the pineapple guy (not literally), pick up some spinach, green onions and bell peppers when needed, and head to the back of the tent for an assortment of musubis! Dave was in heaven when he found this table! Actually, so was I, but not for their musubis. They make the best coscoran, a delicious compliment to morning coffee.

Grandpa Would Rather Be Watching TV

Scared

I did it.

I know people have different ways with which to conquer their fears. Public speakers will picture their audience naked. Some people vomit. Jack Shepard, on ABC's Lost, stops, allows himself to be scared for a count to five, and then goes on.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and imagine myself accomplishing the task at hand. Sometimes, I'll only need to tell myself it'll all be over soon.

Anyway, it was tough, but I've trimmed Grandma's toenails, and I probably won't have to do it again for another couple weeks.

It was awful.

Back by popular demand!

Here is one more video of Laakolu, taped while he was still in the hospital, making him almost one day old!! He needs no introduction, so without further ado...

Last Week

Laakolu is here! We were out at Kozmic Cones when it happened. Onaona, Kawehena and I had been at the hospital all day and left for a short lunch break, since it didn't look like the labor was going anywhere for a while. We returned to find out the baby had been born while we were gone. My double burger was so-so.

The baby arrived with gusto. After building up the suspense for an extra couple days, he almost literally popped out in a "fastest ever" 10-minute birth. He immediately opened his eyes, looked around, and made plans with his father to go cliff-diving next weekend.

Also this week:
-Onaona and I had to entertain a 9-year old and a 5-year old for a large chunk of a five-day period. It was exhausting. We are no longer planning to have kids. We are going to have cats instead.
-We had a big family dinner celebrating Onaona's Mom's birthday. There was ten pounds of meatloaf.
-I turned 29 on the same day my grandparents celebrated their 68th anniversary. Grandpa said, "Oh. It's been a long time."

Nahum 2: The Second Coming

On March 17, 2008 at 3.53pm Nahum La'akoluakaumuali'i Miller arrived weighing 7lbs 1/2oz and measuring 18.75". He is too cute for words, which is great cause I'm too tired to write anything else. Nahum I wasted no time in getting up-close and personal with him. More pics to follow.

Ke-LOOOOOOOOOO-La!

On December 30, 2007, Keolapono Keiichi Maeda was born to my sister, Anuhea, and her husband, Darren. Like all babies, he was a tiny little thing when he was born, but now he is a Chubuta!! (thats my word for chubby baby). And man is he cute! He stays awake more often now, and surprisingly eats less, and is finally becoming fun to play with. :) And he loves when Aunty plays hairscapades with him! He makes a funny little noise, which we've decided is his attempt to laugh. If you listen closely to the video below you can hear his little giggle, which sounds like a bunch of quick hiccups.

Within the next week he will be joined by his cousin, Laakolu, also already known as Nahum 2: The Second Coming. The next few months promise lots of adventures!

Just a typical conversation...

O: "Hey, did you know that grandma rocks a Guess bag?!?"
D: "Really?"
O: "Yeah, that big 'G' on her purse stands for 'Guess'."
D: "Hm. I always thought it stood for 'Grandma'."


(now you see why we do not attempt profundity.)

Hello Maryland!

Dear Indiana,

I know you caught what you thought was a sigh of relief when I found out we're moving to Maryland. It's not that I wouldn't have been happy with you, it's just that you weren't right for me. I recognize that you've got the Indianapolis 500, and a great football team, that you're kinda close to Chicago, you've even got your own little piece of Lake Michigan, it's just that, I already have a relationship with Maryland. I've already lived nearby, in Washington. And I have friends in Maryland. Plus, we'll be closer to family.

No hard feelings, ok?

Today's Picture

Thursday Afternoon

"Do you clip other people's toenails?"
"What?"
"I'll give you ten dollars if you clip my toenails."
"Grandma, NO!"

Marshmallow Love

At a bbq at my father's house the other day, Kawehena (my niece) and Miki'ala (my sister) demonstrated whats its like to be young and in love with marshmallows. Marshmallow love is rather messy...yet exciting, especially if there is a camera around.

The Best Banana Bread Ever!

For Christmas, I requested and received another cookbook. Which is funny considering I’ve complained about only receiving cookbooks since culinary school. Also funny is that I only put cookbooks on my Amazon wish list, and I complain about only getting cookbooks.

Anywho… Mark Bittman’s “How to Cook Everything Vegetarian” has a few killer recipes. One is the banana bread recipe. I would reprint it (without permission) here but I can’t. The book is very large and fluorescent green, but I can’t find it. Anyway, I have something scribbled in my notebook that looks like this:

1 1/2 C. All-Purpose Flour
1/2 C. Whole Wheat Flour
1 tsp. Salt
1 1/2 tsp. Baking Powder
8 Tbsp. Cold Butter, cubed
3/4 C. Sugar
2 Eggs
3 Bananas, sliced
1 tsp. Vanilla Extract
1/2 C. Pecans, chopped
1/2 C. Shredded Coconut

Preheat the oven to 350-degrees, and grease the bottom of a bread pan. In a large bowl, combine the flours, the salt, and the baking powder. In a blender, puree the eggs, sugar and bananas. Add the butter and pulse until it is incorporated. Don’t overblend. You should be able to see a million little butter dots throughout. If the mixture is too dense to blend easily, I like to grasp the blender from under the base with my left hand and from the top of the canister with my right hand, squeeze together, and shake the whole darn thing. While it’s blending. You can also use a large food processor. That would be easier. Anyway, add the wet mixture to the dry mixture and stir together. Once this is uniform, fold in the vanilla, nuts, and coconut. Pour into the bread pan and bake for 45-60 minutes. Or 65 minutes if you’re using the oven I’m using. Test it with a knife or toothpick or something.

Cheers.

spam musubi

how do i love thee? let me count the ways.

Since when

It’s 9am. I feel like I’ve just rolled out of bed, still a little bleary-eyed. Incidentally, I’ve already made myself some toast and coffee. And delicately scooped the seeds out of two papayas. Meantime, Onaona’s worked out, eaten her papaya and hopped into the shower.

In the next few hours, we will have gone to the farmer’s market for some more papayas, bananas. If there’s anything else excruciatingly delicious, we’ll get that too and figure out what to do with it later. Afterward, the supermarket to get some ahi block that Grandma & Grandpa can have for lunch. Naturally, she’ll thank us profusely and ask me why I haven’t learned to drive our manual transmission car yet. Onaona and I will excuse ourselves for a beginners’ yoga class, Grandma will say goodbye, but finish telling two or three more stories before we’ve made it out the door.

If this were Saturday in New York, I’d still be asleep. Or working, but wishing I were asleep.

I sure wouldn’t have accomplished so much by 1:00. I wouldn’t even have accomplished breakfast.

I never knew my mother...

…was so funny. She definitely does not mean to be, but just naturally gestures humorously, making waaaaay out there comments and conducting her own soundtrack. A different mother than I knew growing up; its kinda fun discovering my mom “the woman.”