Dear, I love you. Or: Anthology. The Bad Assignment, and other tales from the bedside

The Mean One was on a rampage tonight. I spent a good 15 minutes with 2 CNAs trying to herd him into the bathroom so we could clean the poop off his balls.

He knew he needed the bathroom, but didn’t really know what to do once he got there. The bewildered look of a dog that’s finally caught the car bumper comes to mind.

Earlier, he stiffly set his cup of cocoa down to turn to me and say (more clearly than anything else he had said) “I have to shit.” But then once he got in the bathroom, he would not sit on the toilet when I pointed it out. It didn’t really matter, because he had already clearly filled his brief, so I asked him to sit so I could help him get cleaned up. Instead, he insisted on taking his gown off, and became very angry when he couldn’t figure out how to open it from the front. I lifted the front of it off and he threw it angrily on the floor.

He would not sit on the toilet but he did manage to get his stool-filled brief off. He continued to escalate, as I tried to clean him up, so eventually I gave up and backed off. He stood stooped there in the bathroom like a defiant 5-year-old who had just won the tantrum, wearing only yellow traction socks and a lot of poop.

So I called for help. One lovely CNA came to my rescue and I didn’t even say anything when she opened the door.  She slowly swept her gaze across the scene and, registering the loose poop dripping from his ballsack - she instantly joined me in battle.  

We cajoled him to let us clean him up, but he wasn’t having it. He was swiping at us here and there, so: like matadors we danced around him waving bath wipes trying to run one between his legs before he swung an arm. I dodged an ill-aimed fist to swipe a wipe, pivoted on one foot and landed my three-pointer in the trashcan. Nothin’ but net. The crowd in my head went wild.

They’ve simmered down a little, the Mean One in Bed B and his roommate in Bed A. Now they are doing the chatter thing that little boys do- talking about everything and nothing, and occasionally responding to eachother. But- it’s not cute toddler confabulation, it’s word salad.

May I regale you with the last 10 minutes worth of the verbal reparteé?

A: “Excuse me! Where did that jeffecoffits came along? What else are you getting to?”

B: “Mary Mary Mary Mary whew!”

A: “Dear, I love you!”

A: “Yes but this there befriender the apron!”

B: “Mother. Mother. (Helicopter sound effects)”

A: “WHY BELL WHY BELL WHY BELL WHY! Hey Jack, where you got your dick from?”

B: “Have to sharp my own knife. The other other other other ones.”

A: “There are many jewelry! You had to big explode the exploder!”

B: “28, 21, 56, 28, 71, 71, 56…”

A: “So whattaya gotta be? Someda hava ranger?”

B: “78 71 76”

A: “I like you!”

B: “Shut up.”

A: I like you my dog.”

B: “Shut up I said.”

A: “Oh man did I got a bad death tonight.”

B: “73 86 78 71 76”

B: “Double giant tire. Tum thumb thumb thumbthumbthumb”

A: loud fart

B: “Shut up.”

A: “Wait’ll he smell his bandry!”

Oh man did I get a bad assignment tonight.

All fall down.

I walked the whole labyrinth, 

Laid my skin and soul bare and left it drying 

Met a Minotaur of my own making.  

I fought him with fists and furious excuses.  

We ended up making friends and playing a furious game of 

chess by the sea.  

My monster, and me.  

He schooled me with a sneaky rook or two, but I hooked him in the end.  

I heard from the son of a shopkeeper 

That the son of the sun was horsing around- 

Drove his carriage right into the ground

Left his sister crying

Her tears turning to sweet amber

We all fall down, you see.

The sun and the moon and me,

We all fall down.

If nothing else, this place will cure me of my slovenly ways.

I'm learning to live with the vagaries of tropical life.
Hawaii is full of magic, from the glorious sunsets, to wildlife and flowers, it's a vivid life.
The land is alive, the trees are vibrant, everything seems to exist in the brightest shade of a color that it could possibly be.  
It's all of the edges of the color wheel.
The ocean, the birds, the smells, the very air is screamingly vivid.
As Tom Robbins once described South America:  "It's vivid.  Too goddamn vivid."

Learning to live in a colorful place isn't all rainbows and birdsong, though.  There are a thousand tiny frustrations that weave their way into life.  

The traffic is ever-present, and worsening.  

There's no trash service.  

Service is glacial.  

Any service.  From car service, to any government organization, to restaurant service...  It's all on island time, and that takes some getting used to.   

There are bugs.

Lots. Of. Fucking. Bugs.

Here's where the Roach Rodeo begins:

Let's first begin with some cockroach facts.  They are pests, but they are highly tenacious and successful pests and so they may worthy of some respect.  I'm hoping that learning a little more about the little bastards might help improve my squealing housewife "GET IT!" reaction to them making themselves at home in my home.

Cockroaches are insects, meaning they have 6 legs, and their skeleton is the outer part of their body.  They are members of the order Blattodea, to which termites also belong.  They are generalists - "among the most primitive of insects" (even the Wikipedia article drips with scorn for the things) meaning that they have no specialized sucking mouthparts like aphids, or other true bugs.

The Wikipedia article even discusses prehistoric roaches, calling them "Roachoids".  

This is my new favorite thing to call other idiot drivers.  My mom likes to make up epithets, shouting "Fuckwad!" or "Dickweed!" at people committing traffic faux pas.  The next guy to pull out in front of me is getting a hearty "Roachoid!" 

I digress.

Let it be known that cockroaches are not even considered "true bugs".  They are imposter bugs, poseur bugs.  They are the half-wit cousins; the redheaded stepchildren; and they cannot sit at the lunch table (pun very intended) with the cool kids.  Thus judged, we shall see how fairly:

While these cretins are describes as "primitive", there are some redeeming characters among them.  

German cockroaches live in an "an elaborate social structure involving common shelter, social dependence, information transfer and kin recognition." (Wikipedia)

Half-wit cousins who recognize their redheaded stepchildren, then.

Also, Domino cockroaches are kind of cute.  They look like a flat, black and white ladybug.   Like if Andy Warhol did ladybugs in black and white, that's what the Indian variety of cockroach looks like.  

We've all heard the "factoid" about how roaches could survive a nuclear holocaust.  Some can survive, apparently, temperatures to -188F.  This is not a comforting fact.  If they can survive temperatures that low, they may be able to survive high temperatures as well.  My primary battle strategy was to set them all on fire with a blowtorch.  

Cockroaches exhibit collective decision-making.  Like a quorum about food or shelter.  

Get this: American roaches raised in isolation get depressed.   They are behaviorally different than roaches raised in a group.  

Everything I'm reading about cockroaches says that they're kinda like cows: they help eachother out, they're curious, they do stuff in herds.  They communicate to eachother with various kinds of hisses (ew).  

Well, shit.

Now I feel like I need to approach them like cows.  They're just looking for a place to eat some grub, and get busy making some more little cockroach babies.  Some of them even parent their little roachlings.  

If you're wondering how we got on this subject (I sure as fuck am): well, wonder no more as I am about to get to the damn point of this rambling story.  I applaud you, dear friend, for sticking with me this far.  

I have dubbed my adventures in making friends with the cockroaches the "Roach Rodeo"

I'm sure with my squealing and squawking, chasing them with a slipper or a rolled-up towel... occasionally throwing books across the room... I resemble a damn rodeo clown: alternately running toward - and away from - a mad bull.  

My dear friend K says: "Can confirm, you do look like a rodeo clown."

Well, I'll be the Queen of the clowns at the Roach Rodeo, then!

Athens.

I decided I didn’t want to go to the Acropolis.  
I know that it and the Parthenon are important things in human history, but - 
I've found that I just don't enjoy looking at Old Stuff that much.
I could take a picture of some thousand year old columns, that 
Look like every postcard sold in the tourist trap shops nearby...
Or I could wander.
I don't mean to downplay the impact of getting close to something ancient and beautiful, my friends raved about hiking up to the top of the hill and experiencing some epic history.
I just wanted something else.

I turned down a cobbled street and met Yannos, a Greek hipster who runs a little shop with indie art and loves Kurt Cobain.  He was thrilled to hear I’m from near Seattle and that I had been to Aberdeen once-  and lit up, telling me about seeing Foo Fighters at the Odeon last year.  The place was built in 51 AD, and renovated in 1950, so Dave Grohl and friends had to get a special permit from the Central Archaeological Council of the Greek Government to be the first band to rock it.  He said he closed his shop for the first time ever for that concert.
The shop is called "Flaneur".  

I sat on a rooftop bar, listening to a small band of Greek musicians play the exact song you knew would be playing at a rooftop bar in Athens.  There’s an oboe and a tambourine and a beautiful brown woman in a flowing and slightly tattered skirt dancing with them, passing the hat.  The others are wearing jeans and t-shirts and everyone is having fun.  Some old pillared ruin crumbles on the hill above me.  The white city on the other side of me glitters, and I find it strange to think that way over there, reflecting the sun's intensity at me, that’s just someone’s house.  

Yannos suggested that I check out a free concert that night, and I'm so glad I did.
Some Greek millionaire decided Athens didn't have enough parks, so he built one.  
Opera house, library, pond replete with free sailboats you can sail on it...
And amphitheatre with a 360-degree view of all of Athens.
I wandered in to find a lovely woman singing with her guitar, accompanied only by a cello.  
I enjoyed the lovely view of the city and stars, and was struck
When she covered Leonard Cohen's "Bird on a Wire", which he wrote while living on the Greek island Hydra.
I knew it from my Dad singing it to me as a kid.
It was such a perfect moment: the view of an ancient city and the song from my childhood.
I loved every minute.

Made my way home that night, singing Bird on a Wire all the way, 
"I have tried/ in my way/ to be free."

Relax.

I remember this feeling.  
The last time I felt this was sitting on the bow of a boat, riding along the black and red slashes of mountains that rise out of the Red Sea in Egypt.  
I was talking to a kind Egyptian hippie about a profound and abiding oneness, eternal connection, and about the stars.   
I felt a deep an abiding home in myself- stripped of my usual worries and trappings, I am perfect and whole as I am.   
I love this about going far away, to be reminded just how close home really is.
The first thing I notice is how long my neck feels.
I know that's a funny thing to notice, but stick with me for a moment:
My shoulders, having tightened for so long against my sea of troubles
Atlas and I, trying to hold back a tide of worry and expectation
Suddenly have the space to remember that 
What's the worst that can happen?
When you zoom out from your life a little:
What's the very worst that can happen?
And, there really isn't that much that I actually can't handle, and so:
I don't have to hold up the whole world.
I don't have to breathe every breath as if it was my last, either.
I can just listen to the sea and remember
We will all wash away.
We will all disappear
But for now,
I carry nothing.
And my shoulders are really far away from my ears.

Maui, Day 2

We wake too early.
I am almost universally unhappy to wake up.  I have learned to simply be pleasant until I feel pleasant, which happens almost universally after about a half hour and a cup of coffee.

The Adventure of The Day begins with sea turtles.

We have parked our car on the marina seawall and made our way to the 65' catamaran that will be ferrying us to some prime snorkeling spot this morning.  I am buzzing with excitement - sailing is one of my very favorite things.  We join a small group of people standing on the seawall across from our slip to watch a giant green sea turtle munching on algae there.  Two smaller turtles munch, too - each two feet across.  I don't know why I'm so surprised to see that they look just like paintings of sea turtles.  What a touristy thing to think.

We all file onto the boat, 22 people plus the crew and motor out from the marina.  The man at the helm is the quintessential salty sea-captain.  His leather skin and baggy clothes make him look just like a painting of a captain, too.  His two brown crewmembers do his bidding without question.  They clearly respect him, and so we do, too.

Not 15 minutes into our journey across the channel, someone shouts something and we all turn to see the splash of a humpback whale that has just breached high above the water.  Moments later, two whales erupt out of the water into the air and slam back on their great sides, about 200 yards from our boat.  We all scramble to take a few blurry pictures, awestruck by the sight of two 30-ton mammals playing "who can jump higher".  Even the captain slips his phone out of his pocket to record - it's such a rare sight to see two whales breaching.

The wind picks up, and so do the waves slapping the underside of the trampoline between the catamaran's hulls at the front of the boat.  Most of the passengers scurry toward the protected cabin, but not me.  I know that going in the cabin in such choppy water is a great way to get seasick.  That, and I am a gleeful 6-year-old again - belly-laughing at the ocean while lying on my belly on my dad's old wooden sailboat.  The roll and heave of the hull against a full sail, the salt spray on my nose, and the humming of the halyards in a stiff wind is pretty much paradise for me.  I wind my fingers in the trampoline's lacings and plant my chin on the aluminum brace of the catamaran and howl back at the restless sea.  My soul is restless, too.

The Quintessential Captain turns us away from our original destination, as the wind has made it too dangerous to make the crossing.  We head for what's described as a turtle-cleaning station.  All the local turtles come to this specific spot, and a crew of cleaner wrasse nibble bits of dead skin and parasites off the turtles' flippers.  Turtle Spa Day.  I was looking forward to snorkeling in the Molokini crater, but really any snorkeling will do for me.

We are not disappointed.  After the initial gasping shock of slightly chilly water, and a couple of choking false-starts with my mask, I forget my anxiety.  There are schools of striped convict tang, fat black triggerfish with their electric blue trim, clownish yellow tang, iridescent parrotfish and the tiny polka-dotted boxfish.  And turtles!!!  They really do glide into a single spot between two rocks and raise their fins to be cleaned.  As soon as one turtle departed, another would wander in.  I think we counted 7 big green turtles cruising around the area.  Great shoals of japanese tourists on pool noodles snapped photo after photo with their big clear waterproof cameras.  I wished I had a camera to take a turtle picture, but there are so many paintings and pictures of them anyway - mine wouldn't be any different.  So I swam on, unencumbered by trappings or equipment - trying to keep moving so I'd be warm enough to stay in the water.

I finally hoist myself up the catamaran's stairs when my toes go numb from the cold.  78-degree water is warm, but not warm enough for my 98-degree body to keep going for more than about an hour.  We lunch and catch one more dip in before sailing back into the marina.

We spend the afternoon shopping in Lahaina - all of the painted shells and brightly silkscreened t-shirts blaring "I WENT TO MAUI" hide a couple of small, worthwhile shops.  One held a print of an orchid that I loved, and another was littered with shark's teeth and antique compasses.  This tiny beach town reminds me of other tiny beach towns - a festive veneer covers a quietly desperate dependence on tourist money.  Most places selling souvenirs: "proof" you really were there, that it wasn't all just a dream of paradise.  I see so few people at the sales counters, and wonder who it is that really buys most of this crap.

Dinner of the most delicious scallops I have ever eaten is cut short by our evening entertainment plans.  We hurry out of the restaurant to catch an Uber to the next town, unaware of the situation that was about to unfold.  Dr. Pops sits in the front seat, and Ducky and Dear and I pile in the back.  We're a little tipsy and already giggling.  The tiny haole driver lady makes polite conversation while I try to hold back my laughter.  You see, Dr. Pops is not a fan of Christmas music.  True to his grouchy veneer, he detests Christmas Cheer in all of its forms.  We have happened to hop in the one Uber in town that is festooned with Christmas crap, and when he huffed quietly at the Rudolph on the dashboard, we found this hysterical.  I get stink-eye from the driver in the rear view as I try to hold in my snickering.  I don't mean to mock her decorations, but we have fallen deep into a giggle loop from which there was to be no salvation.  I hold my breath and try to play with my phone, only to be met with catty texts from my seatmates.  We all quietly shake, tears rolling down our faces.  Oblivious, Dr. Pops rolls his window down to take in the night air.  "My antler!" cries the driver, only she's from the east coast so it's "Moy antlah!" "You've lost moy antlah!"

I look over to her side of the car, where a plastic and faux-fur antler is closed tightly in the window.
In addition to a christmas banner, blinking Rudolph and tiny lighted christmas tree, the car had had antlers.  In rolling down his window, Dr. Pops had sent one antler bouncing down the Lahaina highway behind us.  "You know, Blitzen only had one antler," he rapidly quips, hoping to pacify her.  "We have to go back!" she shrieks, "they don't make them like that anymore!"

In the back seat, we're unable to control ourselves.  I ask, "do you decorate for every holiday?" And dissolve into hysterics as she swings a sharp left to go back and get the lost decoration.  I'm quite sure she is going to find her antler and dump us all out on the side of the road.

After finding her fuzzy car ornament lying between the lanes and bustling back into the car, she is relieved.  "There," she sighs, "all back to normal."  More catty texts in the back seat debate the definition of "normal" as she continues the ride without comment.  She deposits us unceremoniously at our destination where we cackle and snigger our way inside.

We take in an evening of music with some wonderful slack-key guitar and ukulele players.  Dr. Pops has been following these musicians for years, and has made a fan out of me for sure.  I loved the twangy sound of their 12-stringed guitars.  Two beautiful hula dancers brought tears to my eyes as they danced the stories of life on an upcountry farm, and of brilliant Hawaiian sunsets.  I felt a sharp pain of regret that I have not spent more time with my grandmother.  My sweet Gram taught hula in the 50's on O'ahu.  Now that she is near 90 and losing her memories and faculties - the hula dances she taught remain clear in her mind.  I will always cherish the time I have gotten to spend with her: hearing her stories of island life, and watching her lovely hula hands mimic the rain coming from the clouds or the ocean waves on the sand.  At the end of the night, when Slack Key greats George Kahumoku and Sonny Lim led three younger 'uke players in a jam session - we were all mesmerized.  Their harmonies and uniquely Hawaiian sound was wonderful.

Our heads nodding, we traipse back to the condo and collapse into bed.  I count off the things I've seen and done in two days in Hawaii: whales, sailing, snorkeling, live music, fresh seafood and a grand sunset.

This is a full life.

Maui, Day 1

I wake up to the smell of breakfast cooking.
Oil and eggs and toast and pork.
I feel instantly anxious - I have a thing about food, you see.  I hate to eat other people's food. 
I wander out to say my hellos and catch up with some people I haven't seen in a year.  It will take some time to soften the mild strangeness, but we have plenty of that.
Both time, and strangeness.

We set off on a walk down the beach path.  It's lovely, winding along with the ocean on one side, and luxury resort after grand beach house on the other.  We watch be-hatted women with their small wild children and bored husbands.  We snigger like a junior high clique at overstuffed beachgoers in questionable attire.  I walk arm-in arm with my good buddy we'll call Ducky.  She is a few years younger than me; smarter and funnier and possessed of a greater depth of character.  She is the source of a primal silliness in my life.  She pokes, prods, licks and otherwise explores strange objects, fruit and social customs that might otherwise go unnoticed.  Today, she wants to know what a palm nut tastes like.  For your information, you can probably let raw palm nuts go as per Ducky's opinion, they taste absolutely horrible.

We wander past elaborate swimming pools with sandy bottoms and deluxe beach bars.
A 10$ smoothie tastes the same as a 4$ smoothie, so you know.
Ducky and I gleefully play the giant "Connect Four" game at one stop.  She wins.  This is how is has always been with us: near-constant play.  We play at life.  Most of the time, we both win.
We turn around at the end when the beach path becomes sandy, and walk another hour back to our hotel. 

My other two friends are a man we'll call Dr. Pops and his stunning wife.  He calls her "Dear", somewhat sarcastically so I'll do the same here.
Dear is a witty woman.  Blonde and fit and relaxed, she enjoys traveling with her sarcastic and sometimes codgerly husband.  Dr. Pops tries to be grumpy, but is in reality deeply compassionate and sensitive.  He enjoys a comfortable retirement from a very stressful life cutting bones apart and knitting them back together in the operating room.  They are great fun and have been so gracious to invite Ducky and I to stay with them in a condo on the beach that I could never afford. 

We make a brief jaunt into town to rent snorkeling equipment.  I comment on the volleyball-sized avocado the man behind the counter is eating, and he hands me a slightly smaller one to take home.  The gift avocado proves an excellent sales tactic, as Ducky and I end up booking the next day's adventure and purchasing two dorky straw hats to keep the sun off our faces.  Rent-The-Things Man makes the usual jokes, flirts with us harmlessly, and assumes incorrectly that we are Dr. Pops' daughters.  Ducky teases him mercilessly while he grumbles all the way back to the condo.

At 5:15, we all hurry to pack everything up so that we are on time for the day's Board Meeting.  Dr. Pops calls the meeting to order, and we all toast the flamingo pink sunset from our beach chairs in front of the condo.  No-one has any new business for the agenda other than where we are eating dinner tomorrow.  We hastily adjourn the meeting so that we can continue to enjoy our double gin-and-tonics without the burden of decision-making.  Everyone giggles at the last rays of the day. 

Dinner at the MonkeyPod cafe down the street is delicious.  My fish tacos go down well with the lovely Chardonnay.  Dr. Pops regales us with a story about the time he scored some weed from one of the waiters there.  He passes me his little vape pen under the table and I take a puff.  I never figured him for the type, but I suppose everyone is these days. 

My last thought as I fall asleep is that I am so glad I am here.