What I Don't Understand

There are many things in this world I don't understand. Like calculus. And the internet. And how you estimate how many stars are in the universe. (are all of these things connected somehow? if i learn calculus will i be able to estimate the number of stars in the universe?) And also why, on earth, my school has fourteen hours of graduation practice.

Fourteen hours? What could we possibly do for that long?

That's what I was thinking when I walked into the gym today (after paying seventy-eight dollars of dues, including three dollars from a ID i swear I never had). And then we learned the songs (and motions) to Lean on Me, You Are My Fire (my childhood in note form), It's Hard To Believe (ahh, High School Musical), and two others songs I'd never heard of.

That was six hours of practice. My legs hurt and my respect for Michael Jackson has gone up, because I do not understand how people do that with their body. We have four more hours of practice tomorrow and I'm wondering, what's left? I'm told we have to practice walking and moving our tassels, which is, after all, very complicated.

I guess. Maybe?

But it can't possibly be four hours worth of complicated. Right?

Over.

Graduation BeMoanings

FUN FACT: This is my last week of high school and my last week of seminary.

This fun fact? Has not clicked at all. I have no real feelings about it. I don't really believe in it. I've told myself that it was coming for so long that, now that it's here and fun facts like the above are bouncing in my ear until my skull rings, I find myself brushing them off and saying Uh huh. Yeah. I'm sure.

I wonder when reality will hit. When I'll suddenly realize that this is where the sidewalk ends and high school is moments a way from become the good old days and I am going to have to wash my own socks from now on and ever after.

I hope it doesn't happen in the middle of one of my graduation speeches. (yes, plural. not only was i unsuccessful in passing my high school graduation speech off to Vita, i am now talking in seminary graduation too... Brother Oleole told me i'm representing all the girls in our graduating class, but no pressure or anything.)

I'm the crying sort. Have I mentioned that? I cry. A lot. Often and hard. None of this single streak stuff for me; that's for amateurs. I do full-on, red-faced, mouth-creasing, eyes-burning, lungs-searing sob fests. (When we watched Titanic in school I was the first girl to break down. Ila was next to me and it started this chain reaction until our entire row was crying into kleenexs we made Taylor fetch for us.)

Books, movies, long days and particularly cuddly looking bear cubs send me over the edge. Coming to the Great and Grave Realization in one of my graduation speeches is thus potential humiliating. And it's totally the kind of thing that would happen to me.

I can just see myself, the poster-girl for one of those high school cliches I've been avoiding for the past four years, standing up and talking to all my school-mates, their friends, families, and dogs and sobbing, "I'm going to miss you all so, so (sob) much."

No. No no no. I refuse.

What I am tempted to do is quote Bilbo Baggins: "I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

It's perfect! Half of the people up there I haven't talked to since sixth grade and most of them think my name is Melissa. (you know my name, right?... right?)

Anyway, I might be spared the humiliation of sobbing in front of everyone, or the awkward displeasure of my school councilor when I half-insult everyone I'm graduating with, because last time I checked my cap and gown were yet to materialize. I just might not walk at all. Which would be OK by me, but I'm pretty sure my mom, school councilor, and various English teachers wouldn't be happy.

You know they're making us all wear white shoes for graduation? How lame is that? I don't even own white shoes. Do you think that they'd give my graduation speech away if I showed up in yellow wedges? Because that's a risk I'm willing to take.

Over.

Tetanus, Pineapple, and Other Unfortunate Combinations

I googled tetanus symptoms today.

I got hit by a bus a week or so ago. (i suppose it's more accurate to say I hit a bus. the bus itself wasn't really moving at the time. but "hit by a bus" sounds so much more dramatic. and less clutzy. ) When I got around to showing my mom the torn skin on my back she decided I needed a tetanus shot. Then Monday happened. And the tetanus shot didn't.

My mouth has been really sore, and because I'm mother's daughter it occurred to me in the middle of Wives and Daughters this morning that maybe sore mouths are a sign of tetanus. And I was dying. So I got up to google it.

Apparently sore mouths have nothing whatsoever to do with tetanus. So my oral woes must be a result of the obscene amount of pineapple I've been eating.

I haven't written in a really long time. I know. Actually, I really thought about not blogging. I'm still thinking about it. But you haven't gotten rid of me yet. I will probably switch blogs when I got to college, though. Does anyone have any good blog name suggestions? Names are not really my strong point. I'm also going to have to figure out how to make a blog. Katie made this one. Pretty, huh?

Anyway.

Since my last post

--a tsunami came. the warning came when katie and i were on a walk and we figured that someone accidentally pressed the big red button. not so much. i walked up to a hill to get away from it at about two in the morning. it was about two feet tall. ihop opened at three. i had to go to school the next day.

--i have driven a lot. on highways. i am getting better at shifting and steering, but not so good at stopping and starting. the people who drive behind me hate me, 'cuz i usually go the speed limit. my dad has only used the emergency brake once. and i still haven't hit anything.

--i became a valedictorian without knowing how to pronounce it. i really want to give my speech to a guy in my class. i'll get up and say "hey everybody, i'm giving my speech to Vita." and then Vita would get up and do a rap or something. and everyone will tell me how good my speech was. i still don't know how to pronounce valedictorian.

--i got hit by a bus.

among other things.

I accept only 70% of the responsibility for the obscene amount of pineapple I've eaten. The other 30% goes to my visiting cousins. Because they are tourists they are allowed to stop by random fruit stalls and buy all sorts of fruit. (fruit like really, really green guavas. do guavas ripen after they've been picked? how about after they've been cut? inquiring minds want to know.) Pineapples have been bought often. And cut up. Left on the counter. Beautiful and glistening.

(picture compliments of YumSugar, Burning Questions. and pineapple makes your mouth hurt because of bromelain.)

I have eaten much of them.

Do you blame me?

Lots of pineapples make your mouth hurt. You're supposed salt them so that they don't. But I always remember that just when my mouth starts hurting. I have no memory. Or self control. Thus the sores on my mouth.

The good news is, I don't have tetanus. Probably.

Over.

I (Kinda) Drove

I started learning how to drive tonight. Like, in an actual car. With no strange flimsy manual letting me know that it is darker at night than it is during the day. There was actual gas involved. And you know... strange lights were flashing on my dashboard. I kept feeling like they were trying to tell me something.

Anyway. I have emerged unscathed (at least physically) and have concluded that I have not played enough video games in my life. The whole steering thing? Totally foreign.

I did kind of sort of get the hang of it. About half way through my dad suggested that I start driving on the right side of the road. I thought about telling him about my secret dream to be James Bond, but I already told him about my secret dream of being a street performer with an electric violin in NYC. I'm mindful of his feelings and I try to only drop one secret dream a week.

The good news is I didn't crash into anything. But when I'm in the car there are two categories of things: The ones that don't move, so I have to try hard to miss them. Then there are the ones that do move, so I can have some hope of them diving out of the way.

...What?

My dad told me that I was the best first time driver he'd ever seen. But the only other first time driver he'd ever seen was himself... so I'm not sure how encouraged I am by that.

I'm going to completely switch gears (ha... get it? fine... never mind) here and mention a few random things now.

1. Prom is coming up and I'm going to be happy when it's over. As fun as it is to watch everyone primp and prepare I'm tired of everyone ragging on me for my lack of school/senior spirit in not going. I have no school/senior spirit. I thought this was blatantly obvious. Since, like, sixth grade or something. I'm not sure why anyone is surprised anymore. The only one who hasn't bugged me about it is the guy who is also not going because he broke up with his girlfriend.

2. My mom is sanding/recoloring (I know there is a technical term for that, but I don't care) the kitchen counters. She wears this funny looking gas mask when she does it (I love you mom. You are very cute in your funny looking gas mask). As ridiculous looking as the gas mask is, it's also very useful. The wood dust and thick brown goop she applies to the wood makes my head spin when I'm in the same room with it. It's really sad how useful things are ridiculous looking. Someone should declare thick tennis shoes, sweat pants, and ridiculous looking gas masks attractive, instead of high heels, skirts and two inches of makeup. Talk about ridiculous. It's too bad I love high heels.

3. We made cupcakes in culinary today. Well, no, we didn't actually make them. We decorated them, though, with chocolate curls and chocolate drizzles. They were chocolate cupcakes. Any class with that much chocolate in it automatically gets bumped to my favorite. It might have more competition if we were reading The Importance of Being Earnest instead of Heart of Darkness in Lit.

It is later than it should be and I have a grueling day of cutting out pictures of garnishes and talking about Saussure. I am a very diverse person, my friends. My talents are few and far between.

Over.

A Pointless Post Concerning Valentines Day and Belly Dancers

On Valentines day a boy gave me a flower...

He was four (or five? possibly six? what, I barely know how old I am) but, personally, I think that makes it cuter. I also got Valentines from my entire Lit class. Among the notable well wishes and compliments (50% of them told me I was smart... which would have been flattering if I wasn't sure that they said that because they couldn't remember anything else about me), I was told that I was smarter than Glenn Beck... Thanks, Kiana. I think.

Be warned: This post has no point. I just wrote an essay about Beloved that was dripping with points, and I've run out. So this will be throughly pointless.

I've been studying for my drivers test (finally) and have spent most of the time wondering who wrote the manual. Whoever it was delighted in obvious truths such as: "No one can see as well at night as they can during during the day."

Um... Yes. Thank you for that. I was unsure before.

I really like some of their hypothetical questions too, one of which involved jaywalkers and asked how a mature driver would engage in such a situation. Among suggested answers was "give them a little nudge to show them who's road it is." I guess can't really begrudge them that one. If I wrote a driving manual I'd probably work in as many incredibly stupid answers as I could.

I hope I never write a driving manual. Ever. I do wonder how you'd go about getting that job, though. Kind of like being a tattoo-artist. Do you have to be licenced  or read a manual? Who do you practice on? And belly dancers too. How do you learn to belly dance and when does it stop becoming a slightly strange hobby/exercise regime and start being a profession? I'm not sure. And I don't think I care enough to google it.

One of the problems of living in a small college town is that it really isn't part of The Real World. Most people here go to school or work for the school. We don't have any driving manual writers, tattoo-artists, or belly dancers that I'm aware of. And while that's OK we're not chock-full of chefs, engineers, interior decorators or farmers either. The result being that when I sat down to write out my possible future occupations (for a school thing--I'm am neither cool nor nerdy enough to diagram my future without my grade being involved) I could only think of four. Four occupations total, not occupations I wanted. They were: teacher, plumber, and beautician. And tattoo-artist

Help.

I am going to finish these posts and leave these thoughts and go study for my theory midterm. Hegel and Gramsci are calling, folks. I'm going to go answer them so that I'll maybe have some occupational options later in life. I don't think I'd be a really good tattoo-artist.

Over.

Being A Tourist

My cousin, my cousin's husband, my cousin's husband's sister, and my cousin's husband's sister's husband are all here vacationing with us this week. (Did you get all that?)

I woke up on Friday and found the latter two mentioned on my living room floor and woke up on Saturday and found the former two on my office floor. I was pretty disappointed today when I woke up and found I didn't have any extended (or very extended) family on my kitchen floor. None in the bathroom either, though that would have been a little disturbing.

When family comes to visit us, which happens anywhere from once to three times a year, we pull out our book of Everything You Need To Know To Be A Tourist In Hawaii. Everyone has something to add. Mei likes to give them the rundown on malasadas (think doughnut holes, puffed up, deep fried with powdered sugar and some kind of filling)

and Ted's Bakery Chocolate Haupia/Chocolate Macadamia Nut Pies

so that they'll go out and buy some so we can eat them too.

My mom warns them about things. She tells them about people who have gotten lost in the mountains, or have dived into the ocean and hit their head on the rocks they didn't know where there (always look first!) or got a terrible infection from corral scrapes. She also tells them about places that they should eat, like the shrimp trucks, Haliewa Eats, etc.

My dad tells his famous rip tide story:

Ahem. Back when dad was body-boarding in really big waves (and mom insisted that he have an equally big life insurance policy) he was out at the beach one day when he saw these two military guys, buff and tattooed, swimming against a current. The life guard was on the beach trying to explain to them through vague gesticulations that they needed to swim parallel to the shore. They weren't getting it and my dad paddled out and saved them.

Moral of the story: Even when you're a big, buff, tattooed military guy, you don't fight against the water and win and if you try you're going to end up being saved by a communications professor who is much smaller than you.

My cousin, Julie, told my dad that she already knew about swimming parallel to the beach from Bay Watch, so she was good-ta-go as far was water safety was concerned. See, Bay Watched payed off. I feel the same way about West Wing when I take Gov quizzes.

My part in all of this is the chapter titled How Not To Look Like A Tourist. There are several things one must remember when doing this

1. It's called LEE-KAY-LEE-KAY High way, even though it's spelled Likelike.
2. Don't take your Hawaiian pronunciation too far, it's not pee-pay-lee-nay, it's Pipe Line.
3. Take my high school band shirt and throw it on your dashboard, in a vain attempt to convince those who would break into your car that it isn't really a rental.
4. Don't leave anything in your car in case they're not convinced.
5. No aloha shirts, fanny packs, straightened hair, flowered board shorts, or cameras hanging around your neck.
6. If you wear any of those things, please don't stand next to me.
7. Put on sun screen. No matter what your teacher told you, the sun you've lived under is different from the one here. I don't care if you tan. Here you burn.
8. No, really. No one likes lobster skin. It's painful and embarrassing. 

So far no one seems to have earned any third degree burns (this time). They've had Ted's pie and yesterday no one was dragged out by a riptide. So far so good.

Over.

strike against capitals

once upon a time...

paradise lived in peace. it was beautiful.

blue water. blue skies. balmy beaches. you know. paradise. it was beautiful and limitless. and insect-less.

but that golden age passed. now we have cockroaches. and centipedes. centipedes are long, striped, ugly things. however, they probably didn't deserve that time i chopped one up (they still live after you do that, you know) and then boiled it, because my friend told me that if you just flushed it down the toilet they would crawl back up.

were you lying, bria?

centipedes turn blue when you boil them. thought you might want to know.

anyway. lots of nasty things came with the fall of paradise's golden age (which may have coincided with the fall of the titan's or eve and adam's expulsion from eden), but perhaps among them most evil were mosquitoes.

my mom told me they probably came in a water barrel. some demented ship brought evil on wings to paradise. demented. it is a good and accurate word, only because sadistic sounds a bit harsh. after all, it didn't know the awful, evil disease it was carrying. so demented will do.

last night mosquito(es) woke me up. three times. three times! there is no evil like that which deprives sleep. I am not a nice person when i'm tired. i get these craters under my eyes that make me look like i'm a druggy (i'm not, i promise), i can't be bothered to make my clothes match or straighten up my hair. i suddenly dislike things for no reason.

like today. today i have a sudden and fierce dislike of capitals and opera music. thought you might want to know.

over.