"Mommy, the look smaller..."

Three weeks after the Easter Bunny gave the milk to the chickens. No more boobs. Butt getting bigger. Where is justice.

Cinco De Mayo

Back on the street.

I spent all morning on the tour I stole from my one-day gig as concierge at the mothership resort. I have spent maybe 20 hours on email with these honeymooners, wobbling out at night when Kaikea has finally fallen asleep, since I don't have email at work. I take some pleasure in setting up the dream vacation, so have enjoyed it, but I have had to be careful to answer every question, type out detailed itineraries, anticipate any problems, so the guy who usually works that resort (and thinks he owns it, the smug little rodent) doesn't sniff out my antics. It turns out we're not allowed to bring tours with us when we leave the mothership, no matter how much work we've done. I didn't know, though I suppose I suspected, which is why I have worked so hard to keep him loyal to me. May 5 and he is my only tour, he's mine, mine, mine!

(Kaikea and I have been reading a new book, the Mine-o-saur, about a desperate looking little dinaosaur who snatches all the toys from the other dinosaurs and rants, "Mine, mine, mine!" until he discovers the other dinos, like the Whos in Who-ville, find joy in playing ring-around-the-rosy with only each other, no toys at all. The moral of the story, of course is that friends are the most important toy, and that to have them, we must share. I am teaching the greedy rodent how to share. I already know how.)

Anyway, the danger of not having people in front of you is surprises. Like finding out the groom is a strapping bear of a man, 6'4" and 285 pounds, and the honeymooners' Hawaiian dream of horseback riding has been squashed by our vendors' weight limit of 230. You would think that Hawaii, land of the mighty Polynesians, home of the 8-foot tall King Kamehameha (with, I assume, corresponding weight), where enormity is both beautiful and common, would have some mighty horses on staff, but perhaps real Hawaiians shy away from large land animals. Luckily my esteemed colleauge, the Class Act, was able to steer me to a company we do not contract wtih, perhaps run by Samoans, where the weight limit is a more civilized 300 pounds.

And even more luckily, the honeymooners did not want a helicopter ride.

So here I am, trying for number 2 for the month after blanking I don't know how many shifts in a row. I have exhausted the orthodox approaches, like helpful warm-up chat, asking leading questions of passersby ("Where are you viisiting from?" "What activites are you planning to do while you're here?" as opposed to "Hey guys, how you doing?" or "Can I help you?"), open body language, looking busy... I have even flashed a little leg. Nothing.

I am ignoring the monster-slayer in the next booth, a Barbie beauty with a killer close.

I have tried many spiritual paths in my life, and in the last seven months of this job I have revisited them all. Distilling dogma to action, I mix and match: supplication, visualization, chanting, begging, demanding, cajoling, creating, surrendering, loving, hating. I try them all now.

Twenty more minutes. Barbie walks by. She has 3 more tours.

Inner peace. "I am worthy." Sisterly love. "I am worthy." Bounty. "I am worthy."

The gods are with me. A Japanese couple cannot resist the luau. To do this I call the Japanese OPC and she does all the work. I get the credit.

Balance.

Now if only I knew what had worked.

I don't know if anyone is out there...

I don't know if anyone is out there, but I have been writing blurbs at work then having to print them out since my laptop has died, then retype them when I can, if Kaikea is elsewhere or asleep, and I am not. I am askew on the dates, but chronologically they make sense...


Another day and I am back to Death of a Salesman.


Four days ago my world was full of promise. I had bonused. I bought a couch with all the money I had in the world, against the momentum of all sound financial advice, the existing couch being a patchwork of a stained frame, nautical sea cushion sliced to fit, back cushions pilfered from a hibiscus-print sofa of another time, and an almost all-you-can fit sofa cover that would never stay put. Also, it turns out those bugs I found in the upholstery a few months ago were termites. We meant to throw it out and just sit on the floor when we first found the bugs, after we put tape over them and they made their way past it, but somehow forgot about it. How did we forget? Maybe because the dump is 40 miles away and we would have to pay to take the couch there. Or the proximity to cockroaches and centipedes if we sit at floor level. Or no chance at replacing it. Anyhow, we forgot. Then the bonus came, money in the bank, I saw an ad, couches the same price as my bonus, not thinking too much, just that I will look. Bonus in hand, certain the money will keep flowing. I found it. I love it. Morning, noon and night I love it. So clean, so pretty, so grown up, the only piece of furniture I have ever loved and purchased, took me to 44. I hope I don't have to sleep on it on the beach if I can't book any more timeshare tours. I'll get plastic slipcovers to protect it and Sam and I will take turns sleeping on the lava.


Twenty one days in. Eleven tours. No one committing. The monster slayers taking them down all around me. I am too nice. Don't want to inconvenience anyone. Where is my killer instinct? The instinct to feed my child? Where is my close? Just yesterday I was flying high that I might really love sales, if only I could find something I really believed in, like, like...me? More pitches, no dice. Day ends. No tours. Blank. Walk out as the biker/dope dealer books a lay-down in the corner the minute he walks in the door.


Race to Kaiser before it closes to pick up a prescription for Ambien, maybe someday I will sleep, now that I am done nursing, if Kaikea will stop pushing me with her feet in the middle of the night and my throat will stop hurting from the vog or the latest preschool bug. Off to pick up my sweet girl, always my darling, in the background still an optimist, I will get 10 this week, always a joy to see my daughter. "Auntie, auntie, watch this!" Her little friends climb, jump, spin, slide, throw. (The other day a man in his 20s called me "auntie," the Hawaiian equivalent of "ma'am", but with more aloha, and the fact that I am called that as a haolie a sign of respect, but still means o-l-d. Only buoyed by how many tourists call me "young lady" during the day.) Lift my own little monkey onto the monkey bars, watch her swing to the second bar, "Mama, watch this! I am a BIG girl, I've been eating my vegetables!" Two bites of carrot a week, making progress.



Not sure when it started to fall apart, but by dinner, I am failing at everything. Doubting my ability to clean shrimp, frustrated that no one in my family will like the Thai curry shrimp, even if I made it from scratch, which I most certainly will not when Thai Kitchen will do it for me. Get the water started, attend to Kaikea's tantrum. Clean up the mess. Answer a question. Patience running out. Chop a carrot. Too distracted to remember I wanted to chop the carrots into matchsticks. Too big, these carrots, and bitter, with the skins, for Queen K. She tries a bite, yuck, spits it out. No growing today, I guess. Water boiling. Kaikea's water boiling separately, she won't eat curry. Her pasta, ironically, "crazy bugs," the girl who kisses worms. Set the timer, wash the ants off the frying pan. Where did they come from? The tropics. Put in the rice noodles. Answer a question for Kaikea. Saute the shrimp, so big these shrimp, heat too high. How long have the noodles been on? Pour out water without tasting. Shit, not done. More water. Throw them back in. They will be mushy.


Thinking I should have gotten Xanax instead of Ambien.


Snap at my family. To Sam, "If you ever want to eat dinner you better help Kaikea with whatever she's asking for." A bit later, to Kaikea, "if you ask me again for a juice before dinner you will have nothing." Doesn't help my mood. Or the dinner. Mushy noodles. Overcooked shrimp. Kaikea seems to like her crazy bugs. Sam is always grateful for food.

I am motivated this morning, though. I am pulling out all my psychic meditation tricks and I am ready for action. I am early. I am set up. But these assholes won't talk about timeshares. They want something for nothing. Like this bozo who just walked in wanting a map. I tell him he can get a good one at KTA and I know he means a free map. He wastes my time with questions about directions, then tells me he doesn't need them, he's been to this island eight times already. People suck. I need to get better at getting rid of people who cannot make me money. This morning I lured in two people who were do-it-yourselfers and spent forty minutes on them, meanwhile having to out myself as a timeshare peddler with the better prospects, another couple who hovered until they heard the word timeshare and were out the door, plumerias trailing from their hair as they fled.

A monster slayer comes in to borrow more invitations she is booking so many tours.

I am not sure this is who I should be when I grow up.

Mirrors

My daughter loves to watch herself in the mirror. Sometimes, when she cries, she forgets all about whatever injustice she has endured and runs to the mirror to watch the tears run down her cheeks. She dips her tongue in them dramatically as they approach her mouth. Or, if she hasn't made it to a mirror, she hangs her head so they fall to the couch or the blanket, then touches the small puddle, admiring her work.

She always loved the mirror, but became intimate with it in the car. She has one of those mirrors that attach to the back of the seat in front of her. I have seen her talking, practicing expressions, admiring angles, singing, and, of course, watching herself as she cries. She used try to include me, but since the moped accident, and the time I had to slam my brakes on a little too hard to avoid crashing the rental van, when she sees me watching her in the mirror she will say, "Mommy, you better keep your eyes on the road so you don't crash." "The moped crashed into me!" I say, but she doesn't hear it.

Anyway, I still steal glances in the rear-view mirror and, like every woman, steal glances at myself. I am struck that my glances are not as admiring as hers. Now and again I might think, "I look pretty good." Most of the time, though, I"m wondering if I'm getting jowels yet, or how my eyebrows are getting lower, or the crows feet more pronounced. I'm irritated by the sudden wrinkling around my upper lip, which I avoided, despite heavy smoking into my thirties, for so long. If injections didn't look so painful, and weren't so pointless, I might endure them.

But I find myself wondering when it starts, if there is any way to avoid it, and know there is not. I watch Kaikea admire how her purple leopard leggings go with her red poka-dotted doggie shirt. She doesn't wonder if her butt looks good in them. She watches the hair fall into her face and declares with glee "I have enough hair for the ladybug barrettes!" She doesn't think it is too fine, or too dark, or too blonde, or that her haircut doesn't flatter her face. Perhaps she will find a way to cherish those feelings as they pass across her beautiful face, flashing in the mirror, the tattoos of girlhood--envy, invalidation, heartache, longing--and admire her work.

Changes on the Street

So the liar is gone. It's a relief, but also the street is a bit colorless without the villain. No one to gossip about shamelessly, no one to feel slightly better than, or slightly less than, depending on the moment. Only me against me.

I don't look like a girl in this....

"I don't look like a girl in this," Kaikea says to me, pulling at her simple white shirt in a near panic. We are late for school and work but I know there is no way to short cut this battle.

"Oh, okay, what do girls wear?" I say, genuinely curious.

"Girls wear happy shirts."

Oh man.

Happy must mean pink and red, polka dots and hearts, doggies, flowers, and most recently fairies. Happy shirts go well with happy skirts, striped, with butterflies, or, most recently, Hello Kitty hearts and letters in red and pink.

This is the new Kaikea, now 3 1/2, whorecently preferred to be naked. Her head, which has always been "the sacred head" as it did not enjoy washing, brushing or ornaments of any kind, has suddenly become a despository for bows and barrettes, which she orchestrates in a very rigid code. Barrettes go at precise places, at precise angles, and, of course, in certain colors. She wants ponytails, but has barely enough hair, and will endure the pain only if they are "flat" ponytails, which I am still trying to totally understand. If any of this goes awry, the sacred head omits a sacred fit out of the sacred mouth.

I am still trying to figure out where she got her ideas of girlhood, when she runs outside in her happy shirt, squeals with happiness as she finds a millipede, lifts it to her lips and kisses it. Balance.

Judgment

"I'm going to kill myself. It's my fault. It's my creation." These are my thoughts as I lie in the dark, imprisoned by the perfect sweetness, the hot weight of my daughter's need, helping her cross the threshold from awakeness to sleep, when all I want to do is rise from this nest and put my fingers to the keys, say something I need to say, be me. Nanny 911 shrills in my head, "you're raising an insecure child!" barked at the dad who insisted his daughter needed him beside her. Who is right? My daughter is afraid of the dark, clings to me, and I am right, she needs me, but she is also a taskmaster. At three and a half she demands, while waiting for the sandman and also the monster under the bed, for me to rub her back, her tummy, her legs, and, tonight, her arms, until she can slip off to dreamland.

I cannot express the sweetness and gift that is the smell of my dauther wrapped against me, cuddling with all her might. And yet I have moments on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Before I had Kaikea, two women spoke deeply to the reality of it all. One had lived on the edge but had great successes, including producing, had a grown son in her 40s and two children at 43 and 45 with a wealthy man. Her advice? "Don't do it! Be yourself, play the guitar, write movies, do what you do, be you, who wouldn't want to be you?" Another, "The women who have the hardest time are older women with masters degrees and other accomplishments, the women who are used to being themselves."

It's not like I was unaware of this argument. In my estimation, which lasted a couple of decades, a woman who wanted a career and motherhood needed to have the career first. I knew that, and I didn't quite have a career, though I had a life. But when people said to me, "your time is over," I honestly though they meant my time for massages, mani/pedis and long indulgences in movies with subtitles. I didn't know they meant in every part of my expression. And I didn't know it would go on and on. I thought I would lose a few month's sleep, not a few years'. And I didn't know that the moments I shared with my beloved daughter would be so excruciatingly precious that I could simultaneously drink in the sweetest moments of my life and want to kill myself so I could write about it, write about life, write about me, sing a song, express...I don't know what it is, I just know that I miss it.

A long time ago a friend asked me why I write. I struggled for answers (uh, to connect to humanity?) until she suggested it was because I couldn't help it. I was living in Austin, home of the aspiring songwriter, married to a songwriter. I saw a lot of songwriters--good, great, awful, mediocre--each as driven as the next, shamelessly, hopelessly. It humbled me greatly, and took off a good deal of pressure, to acknowledge that I just couldn't help it. In my 20s, when I realized I so badly wanted to write, I was wounded and discouraged by the lack of demand from my peers that I MUST put my thoughts down on paper. In my 30s, I worked tenaciously on a novel, short stories, anything, with no result, but a few gentle accolades and some promise. In my 40s, I am so grateful for a moment to put fingers to the keys, I am easier on myself. And yet, impossibly, implausibly, I lie with what I know is the most precious gift on any plane, a child who smells like heaven and who will one day roll her eyes at me and keep all her secrets within her and not know how to say what she means, and I squander this sweet precious moment of complete acceptance and need, with the desire to rise from the sheets and type on this computer these thoughts.

It makes no sense. And yet sometimes my love--for her, especially--and for life, for the ridiculous beauty around me that the judges on American Idol might make into a trite backrop, "The whale are nice, but do you always have to use them as a backdrop?" the turtles, the dolphins, the turquoise ocean, the snowcapped mountains, the spirit of Pele, even before I had all these eruptive forces to inspire me--somehow it really is this love that drives me to the computer because I am bursting with the need to "share." And then I arrive, and I am still too tired to say much of anything, but only know that I have crossed some threshold myself, even without someone rubbing my back, my arms, and my tummy, just for being here. Perhaps that is something I can hope my daughter finds for her own.