The vog has cleared. It has been replaced by rain. At least the air is breathable again. I spent the morning shopping for nothing too glamorous, getting a haircut, etc. Hilo felt a bit like a sauna, all hot and steamy. The girl who cut my hair tried to make me feel good about my frizz by telling me that curls like mine are the latest. People are paying to have them put into their hair. Now if only my high-waisted, big-thighed-woman jeans would come back in style, I'd be the hippest cat on the island. Speaking of cats, my Lucy isn't feeling too well. Poor little angel. I gave her tuna tonight, just to get her to eat a little something. Normally, she would wolf it down like there's no tomorrow. At least she ate several bites. That's more than she ate of her regular cat food. At least she came in tonight and is now, as I type this, curled up on the couch.
I've made an appointment to have a mammogram and other womanly examinations in Honolulu at the end of next week. I'd do it all here, but what fun would that be? I've got a coupon for $75 off at the Hilton Hawaiian Village at Waikiki and it expires on October 1, so I've got to use it before then. And so, I will. It will be nice to get off this rock and onto another one, even if the trip mandates that I get poked, prodded and squeezed in the bargain.
The political races are heating up here in Hawaii, with new contenders for mayor and several council seats open to heated competition. Our choices for Mayor include a guy who's been accused of sexual harassment and another funded by large corporations in the islands. The harasser is now featured in radio ads, where he promises to eradicate the coqui frog. Never mind that there are tens of thousands, maybe millions of the little buggahs here. Of course, he served on the council during many of the years when the frog was taking over the island. He might as well promise to stop the volcano while he's at it. Fortunately, there are better choices.
There's a big disadvantage to living in a warm climate, especially one where it rains a lot. People wear all manner of open toed footwear, and when it rains, they often tromp through the mud, so their toes get pretty grungy. Not mine, of course, but theirs, whomever "they" are. Those dirty toes are then on display in the grocery checkout line, at the gas station, everywhere. I mean, when you're waiting in line, what else are you gonna look at? The National Enquirer? The 400 pound woman behind you with the butterfly tattoo on her lower back and a basketful of spam and chips? The bone-pierced eyebrows on the dreadlocked hippy who just strolled past? No. You are going to look down. The view is better near the floor, or so you hope. But there, attached to the hairy legs of half the people in line, you see black dirt imbedded into the callous cracks, nooks, crannies and toenails of slippah-clad feet. What ever happened to bipedal hygiene? It's the third world, I tell you; the third world. And of course here, in the rainforest, where nobody curbs their dog (including yours truly, mind you) it's the turd world. An absurd world. Or, since we are often referred to as a melting pot here in Hawaii, a stirred world. Certainly, with all the craziness today, it's an obscured, blurred, far from cured world.
It's time for me to take my ginkgo and make that appointment for a brain scan.
Gotta go. I'm pooped!
A hui hou. Aloha!
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