The conversation you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed so that everyone can feel my pain. The time was shortly before the onset of November, or 21,245 words ago. I think I've used some of them twice.
"I think you should do NaNo."
“Nano?”
It’s not that I can’t keep up, but whenever the Captain wants to win an argument, he uses words I don’t understand. I think he gets them from random advertisements in Popular Science magazine. This one sounded vaguely like one of those yoga poses that causes your hamstring to snap.
“Yep, it’s that. . .”
“Oh, I know. That’s what that alien said on that hokey show back in the 70’s. Remember Robin Williams played him.”
“He didn’t say Nano. He said Nanoo. It means hello. I think.”
“No, I think it meant goodbye. Sort of like Over and Out.”
“Maybe it was one of those all purpose words that means something else. Like Aloha.”
“Aloha? Like in Hawaii? If a research trip to Waikiki is involved, count me in.” Finally, an idea I could get behind to try my spray-on tan.
“Waikiki is way too expensive.”
“Maui? I can pronounce them all, but I can only spell the main ones. I’ve been practicing my vocabulary for extravagant vacation destinations.”
“We’re not going there either.”
“It figures. Like when you say we’ll go to a romantic movie only we never do.”
“I took you to see Inception.”
“What was romantic about Inception?”
“People were asleep.”
I pause. It’s true that when you reach 50, a full night’s sleep is about as rare as a trip to an exotic island. But a movie where the girl dies doesn’t strike me as romantic. “I don’t think that counts.”
“Fine. I’ll take you to a romantic movie.”
“I don’t know what’s playing in Hawaii.”
“We’re not going to Hawaii.”
“See. I told you. You hold out the roast pig then you yank it away.”
“Roast pig?”
“Isn’t that what they eat in Hawaii? When they have those luaus and girls in grass skirts do the hula while you eat?”
The Captain pauses a moment to reflect on girls in grass skirts. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to Hawaii.”
“Looks like you’re not going now, either.”
“I was just trying to talk you into participating in NaNo.”
“Is that one of your SciFi alien words?”
“No. It’s short for NaNoWriMo.”
“Oh, well that makes it better. No trip to Hawaii and now you’re speaking in tongues.”
“It’s short for National Novel Writing Month.”
“Oh.”
“You sign up to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November.”
“Is one of those words Hawaii?”
“No.”
“Then you can go sleep by yourself. I’m going to the movies.”
“What’s playing?”
“A romance.”
“Which one?”
“It’s a oldie, playing at the cultural center downtown.”
“But which one?”
“Blue Hawaii. But don't worry. It's a discount show.”
Laugh
Showing posts with label Hawaii. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hawaii. Show all posts
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Tour of Duty
Daddy served in the Pacific theatre during World War II on a submarine that was more like a prize in a cereal box than the sleek, nuclear vessels of today. When I was a kid I thought he was a great adventurer, having seen both oceans during his travels. It never occurred to me there might be more to see; more water than two oceans could hold. My boundaries were limited by the amount of space I could imagine, and I was already pushing the envelope. Dad would laugh and shake his head at my excitement when he talked about being stationed on Hawaii or seeing Mount Fuji through the periscope.
“Did you ever see the Hollywood sign?” I asked once, my voice filled with wide-eyed wonder.
He grinned. “If I had, I’d have been going the wrong direction.”
When I was older, he sent for a copy of a Reader’s Digest book that showed all sorts of wonderful places to visit. That book visited more exotic getaways on the way to my mailbox, than I have to this day. I’m not sure I believed it was real.
One year after I was grown and somewhat of an Authority on The Way Things Are, Son One conducted an interview with his Papa for a school report. He didn’t ask the same questions I’d gone on about as a kid, “Where did you go?” “Did you bring anything back in case you ever had a little girl that needed a surprise?”
He asked about torpedo tubes, leaky oxygen bottles, depth charges and other things that made the war seem uncomfortably close and noisy. It finally seeped into my me-generation brain that if the folks causing the unpleasantness on top of the water had taken a page from Luke “Stay on Target” Skywalker’s book, I wouldn’t be around today to tell clever stories about other people’s adventures.
For the first time I realized that tour of duty didn’t mean tour of luxury vacation spots. It meant that he did indeed bring something back from his travels. Memories.
My memories come from sitting in the comfort of Daddy’s lap and listening to tales of a faraway war. His memories come from standing in the face of danger and showing his heart.
His memories are of men who gave their lives so that I could look at pictures in a book and have hopes of traveling to them one day. Men and women that knew what it meant to serve with mind and body and make whatever sacrifice it took to preserve the minds and bodies back home.
My thanks go out to all of these men and women. And to you, Dad.
On Memorial Day and every day.
“Did you ever see the Hollywood sign?” I asked once, my voice filled with wide-eyed wonder.
He grinned. “If I had, I’d have been going the wrong direction.”
When I was older, he sent for a copy of a Reader’s Digest book that showed all sorts of wonderful places to visit. That book visited more exotic getaways on the way to my mailbox, than I have to this day. I’m not sure I believed it was real.
One year after I was grown and somewhat of an Authority on The Way Things Are, Son One conducted an interview with his Papa for a school report. He didn’t ask the same questions I’d gone on about as a kid, “Where did you go?” “Did you bring anything back in case you ever had a little girl that needed a surprise?”
He asked about torpedo tubes, leaky oxygen bottles, depth charges and other things that made the war seem uncomfortably close and noisy. It finally seeped into my me-generation brain that if the folks causing the unpleasantness on top of the water had taken a page from Luke “Stay on Target” Skywalker’s book, I wouldn’t be around today to tell clever stories about other people’s adventures.
For the first time I realized that tour of duty didn’t mean tour of luxury vacation spots. It meant that he did indeed bring something back from his travels. Memories.
My memories come from sitting in the comfort of Daddy’s lap and listening to tales of a faraway war. His memories come from standing in the face of danger and showing his heart.
His memories are of men who gave their lives so that I could look at pictures in a book and have hopes of traveling to them one day. Men and women that knew what it meant to serve with mind and body and make whatever sacrifice it took to preserve the minds and bodies back home.
My thanks go out to all of these men and women. And to you, Dad.
On Memorial Day and every day.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wasting Away in Halloweenieville
* Special Halloween edition - Join us at Humor Bloggers.com*
I may have to adjust my hair color and distinguishing characteristics and join the witless protection program. It’s half past Labor Day and I’m wearing white.
In the South, the temperature can reach deep fat fry until you’re toasting the naked New Year's baby's sensible clothing choices, so the fashion police gives out warnings instead of tickets for infractions well past autumn. However if you’re sporting white linen when you’re shopping for chocolate Valentines for your sweetheart, somebody’s going to be doing hard time on the Gap’s website.
Admittedly, from listening to testimonies from a knowledgeable selection of teenagers in my household I’m clueless when it comes to accessorizing, but I still think parkas and Ugg boots are out of place in an area where ice cream puddles in the plastic bag between the store and the car until the twelfth day of Christmas.
I gave away my fleece-lined scarecrow costume and cut the sleeves out my my Frosty the Snowman sweatshirt a long time ago. Now I sport a winking Jank-o-Lantern button on my T-shirt for Halloween and a tank top that sings Jingle Bells and flashes Peace on Earth in multicolored LEDs for later festivities.
In flashy catalogues full of natural fiber separates that travel to my mailbox from above the Mason Dixon line every year, I fall in love with summer sweaters every time I see carefree models cavorting next to a rocky shore with a washable wool wrap tossed carelessly over their shoulders.
Around here, we can get first degree burns just from sauntering to the mailbox at midday. The last time I put on a sweater before the appearance of the jolly old elf from the North, I passed out from heat exhaustion and had to be revived by two paramedics dressed in cut off jeans and T-shirts, carrying emergency supplies of sweet tea and crushed ice. In the South, we don’t need fabrics that will “wick away moisture”. We need T-Shirts outfitted with vacuum pumps to siphon out sweat.
So for Halloween, don’t check my street for any little goblins decked out in Star Wars characters that require pounds of fake fur or Transformer costumes with thirteen layers of shape-changing insulation. The most popular look on our street is Jimmy Buffett.
When the sun beats down hard enough for the heat to last until midnight, you can’t go wrong with flip flops, cut off jeans and a Hawaiian floweredy shirt.
And after the kiddies go to bed, the parents won't turn down a treat from Margaritaville.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Periscope of Time
Daddy served in the Pacific theatre during World War II on a submarine that was more like a prize in a cereal box than the sleek, nuclear vessels of today. When I was a kid I thought he was a great adventurer, having seen both oceans during his travels. It never occurred to me there might be more to see; more water than two oceans could hold.
My boundaries were limited by the amount of space I could imagine, and I was already pushing the envelope when I went the distance to the dime store downtown. Dad would laugh and shake his head at my excitement when he talked about being stationed on Hawaii or seeing Mount Fuji through the periscope.
“Did you ever see the Hollywood sign?” I asked once, my voice filled with wide-eyed wonder.
He grinned. “If I had, I’d have been going the wrong direction.”
When I was older, he sent for a copy of a Reader’s Digest book that showed all sorts of wonderful places to visit. That book visited more exotic getaways on the way to my mailbox than I've seen to this day. I’m not sure I believed it was real.
One year after I was grown and somewhat of an Authority on The Way Things Are, Son One conducted an interview with his Papa for a school report. He didn’t ask the same questions I’d gone on about as a kid, “Where did you go?” and “Did you bring anything back in case you ever had a little girl that needed a surprise?”
He asked about torpedo tubes, leaky oxygen bottles, depth charges, and assorted unpleasant ideas that made the war seem uncomfortably close and noisy. It finally seeped into my me-generation brain that if the folks causing the unpleasantness on top of the water had taken a page from Luke “Stay on Target” Skywalker’s book, I wouldn’t be around today to tell clever stories about other people’s adventures.
For the first time, I realized that tour of duty didn’t mean tour of luxury vacation spots. It meant that he did indeed bring something back from his travels. Memories.
My memories come from sitting in the comfort of Daddy’s lap and listening to tales of a faraway war that was already won. His memories come from standing in the face of danger and showing his heart.
His memories are of men who gave their lives so that I could look at pictures in a book and have hopes of traveling to them one day. Of men and women that knew what it meant to serve with mind and body and make whatever sacrifice it took to preserve the minds and bodies back home.
My heartfelt thanks go out to all of these men and women. And to you, Dad.
On Memorial Day and every day.
My boundaries were limited by the amount of space I could imagine, and I was already pushing the envelope when I went the distance to the dime store downtown. Dad would laugh and shake his head at my excitement when he talked about being stationed on Hawaii or seeing Mount Fuji through the periscope.
“Did you ever see the Hollywood sign?” I asked once, my voice filled with wide-eyed wonder.
He grinned. “If I had, I’d have been going the wrong direction.”
When I was older, he sent for a copy of a Reader’s Digest book that showed all sorts of wonderful places to visit. That book visited more exotic getaways on the way to my mailbox than I've seen to this day. I’m not sure I believed it was real.
One year after I was grown and somewhat of an Authority on The Way Things Are, Son One conducted an interview with his Papa for a school report. He didn’t ask the same questions I’d gone on about as a kid, “Where did you go?” and “Did you bring anything back in case you ever had a little girl that needed a surprise?”
He asked about torpedo tubes, leaky oxygen bottles, depth charges, and assorted unpleasant ideas that made the war seem uncomfortably close and noisy. It finally seeped into my me-generation brain that if the folks causing the unpleasantness on top of the water had taken a page from Luke “Stay on Target” Skywalker’s book, I wouldn’t be around today to tell clever stories about other people’s adventures.
For the first time, I realized that tour of duty didn’t mean tour of luxury vacation spots. It meant that he did indeed bring something back from his travels. Memories.
My memories come from sitting in the comfort of Daddy’s lap and listening to tales of a faraway war that was already won. His memories come from standing in the face of danger and showing his heart.
His memories are of men who gave their lives so that I could look at pictures in a book and have hopes of traveling to them one day. Of men and women that knew what it meant to serve with mind and body and make whatever sacrifice it took to preserve the minds and bodies back home.
My heartfelt thanks go out to all of these men and women. And to you, Dad.
On Memorial Day and every day.
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