The Coconut Chronicles: Blog

The Running of the Cats or Self-Discipline 101

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 21:44:31 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

No Scootie Award this week. Are you kidding me? It’s way too cold to scooter. We are in the grips of winter – mornings find us huddling inside long pants, fleece tops and, horror of horrors, socks! Last week, I even had to put an actual blanket on the bed. You may think we don’t suffer here in paradise, well, you are wrong. Pity me, oh yes, pity me!

Winter has, to be truthful, been chocked full of activity and fun. Our guests, at this time of year, seem to hail primarily from New Zealand and Australia. They come here to escape winter back home, which, I have been told, is even more grueling than the winters on Aitutaki. (Impossible!) Unlike the round-the-world travelers of the summer, these folks have limited time and they’re on a mission to have fun. This sets the stage for much frivolity. No one warned me that one of the dangers of running a small pacific resort would be sore cheeks from too much laughter and more than a few cocktail-induced headaches in the mornings.

Oh dear, I feel the pity waning. You’re not feeling very sorry for me any more, are you?

But now I have to speak of serious matters. (This is the Coconut Chronicle equivalent of those dreaded words, “Honey, we have to talk”.) About three months ago, I ran into a sticking point with the current novel manuscript. Work slowed and eventually stopped. I had a hard time putting my finger on the problem but I knew it was there. I’d sit down with Lappy, determined to push forward, type something along the lines of “The…” and then delete it. This behaviour would repeat several times before I’d give up and play solitaire.

Part of the reason I resisted the idea of becoming a professional writer for so long was that my Spock brain is distrustful of The Arts. So many artists seemed to me to be far too flaky for my liking. I have a strong work ethic and the idea of not working because “the mood isn’t right” or the “muse won’t speak” struck me as a pathetic excuse for laziness. Eventually desire outweighed common sense but I was determined to be the master of my crazy cranium and not fall into traps such as writer’s block and the lot. But here’s the deal: creativity doesn’t follow rules. Harnessing imagination is a bit like herding a thousand cats, (those of you who have seen the EDS “cat herders” commercial are having a nice visual right about now).

I’ve finally figured out what is wrong with the manuscript. I’ve also, with much foot dragging, begun to admit to myself that the solution will involve the erasure of characters I’m quite fond of, not to mention an almost complete rewrite of the hundred or so pages I’ve sweated over since November. Sigh. (Oh, I feel the pity increasing, good!) Still, knowing what needs to be done and actually doing it are two different matters. When it comes to distraction, I can run with the best of them. But my Spock brain is getting cranky, cracking its knuckles every time I start surfing the internet or daydreaming, as I am wont to do (just ask Prez, he’ll concur).

The time for discipline is now. With this in mind, I am not going to replace the bottle of gin I polished off last night, nor am I going to open my solitaire program, and…gulp…I am going to put aside my beloved Chronicles. Just for awhile. Maybe three or four weeks. Sniff. This is still peak season here and I really need to use every spare moment wisely. Damn, I hate being so level headed sometimes!

You can blame my friend Mompoet for this. In her most recent blog, (another great means of distraction), she talked of how she was going to walk away for a few weeks and concentrate on her writing. I realized that, although I would miss my little Mompoet word-fixes, to be a “real” writer sometimes the fun stuff has to take a back seat. If I don’t take myself seriously, why should anyone else? Sure, my blog doesn’t take up that much time on its own but added to all the extra curricular activities in my life it does. And, more importantly, it diverts my focus – I really need my focus right now.

Once I’ve lassoed all the cats and have them headed in the same direction, I’ll be happy to indulge my need for mindless rambling again (you lucky readers!). But for now, I’m going to say a temporary farewell and I’ll see you soon.

I will leave you with just a tidbit…

Prez and I went to “Romance Night” at Ultra Fancy Resort for my birthday but it rained and the fire dancing show had to be cancelled. Nevertheless, the food, as always, was spectacular and we are always able to entertain ourselves. For dessert, I ordered “potted chocolate” – as opposed to the “chocolate pot”, which is something else entirely, and illegal in most countries – and proceeded to moan shamelessly as I slurped it. More than a little tipsy at this point, I told Prez to snap some “dessert porn” shots of me with my decadent spoon full of gooey goodness. This he did. We were having a good time of it until Mr. Buff, the manager, happened upon us, exclaiming, “What the…?”, whereupon I lost all composure and laughed, embarrassedly, until tears rolled from my eyes. And here is photographic evidence of my tart-like display...

It all started out so innocently... Then came the wine and chocolate...

Oh dear, getting a little carried away... Busted! You didn't see that did you??

QUESTION: Will you miss me? (It's OK to lie)

Until….? I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Methinks the Lady doth Protest too Much

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 19:51:57 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

I’m giving this week’s Scootie Award to myself. I can’t say I’ve done anything to deserve it but I accidentally burned my leg on the tail pipe a few days ago and, in lieu of sympathy, (everyone here has burns on their legs from their tail pipes), I figured a nice trophy would make me feel better. Ah yes, I’m basking in the fame.

Speaking of fame, our little patch of sand made the news! But not just the news, no, we made CNN, the grand daddy of spin and propaganda!! Remember the Sunday flights controversy? Well, the drama continues as each Sunday, for the past three weeks, locals have flocked to the airport to protest. Why this gathering warranted three entire minutes on the Censored News Network is a mystery to me, however.

Prez and I attended the first protest, as spectators. At least three quarters of the island’s population turned out but the atmosphere was more of a Sunday picnic than a protest. Security consisted of about six police officers who spent most of the time either chatting with the crowd or taking photos. There were some signs with baffling slogans and a bit of singing, as expected, but otherwise the protest consisted of a big bunch of people casually observing the six folks who arrived on the hotly contested flight.

Oh, there was one exciting moment when a camouflage-sporting grandma crossed the rope barrier and struck a kung fu pose. The guard, who was laughing as hard as the rest of us, gently escorted her back behind the rope.

For the past three weeks, the protests have continued in much the same vein. I imagine, as time goes on, and the Sunday airplane continues to land, the protests will eventually wane. Or, it could morph into a weekly gathering with BBQ’s and kite flying. The Lonely Planet excerpt will read, “Don’t miss the Sunday airport celebration, where Aitutakians gather in the field next to the landing strip to welcome visitors!”

Side note: The World Wildlife Fund recently did a thorough survey of the lagoon and reef here. Their report was dismal, to say the least. Page after page of destruction, with notes such as: “should have been addressed at least 20 years ago”, forecasted the inevitable collapse of this wonderful ecosystem. And where were the angry crowds, singing and waving illegible banners? Where was CNN? Nowhere, that’s where. I have to wonder how any god would feel seeing his/her people wasting their time and energy on something as trivial as an airplane while they butcher his/her creations with wanton abandon?

In happier news, I think, I celebrated year number thirty-nine yesterday. We had a couple of hut turn-overs and lots of work to do, so celebrations were muted. I did, however, receive many wonderful emails and Facebook messages full of warm wishes – thank you everyone! One of the guests, having heard about my wheat intolerance and the difficulty of avoiding the evil little grain on this island, wrapped up a package of rice noodles and a couple of wheat/gluten free snack bars and gave it to me as a present. Prez cooked me the Aitutaki version of Eggs Benedict – coconut buns as a substitute for English muffins, and packaged Hollandaise sauce– and that was a nice, tasty treat!

Eggs Aitutaki

Then all of the guests sang a chorus of happy birthday to me as I exited one of the huts, arms full of dirty linen and cleaning supplies. Yep, just your average birthday.

The cats, however, did a little celebrating on their own...

Tonight, Prez is taking me to “Romance Night” at Ultra Fancy Resort Inc. There will be half-naked men dancing with burning sticks but, more importantly, there will be really, really yummy food! (I’ve also booked myself in for a massage this afternoon, at the spa – you’re allowed to give presents to yourself aren’t you??)

To be fair, Prez did try to give me a super-cool gift but nature did not cooperate. It is whale season here. The humpbacks have arrived to give birth to their young and can now be seen breaching and spouting outside the reef. When the new manager of Ultra Fancy Resort Inc, (who I will refer to as Mr. Buff – yes, ladies, he’s a cutie-pie…and single), dropped by yesterday, excitedly reporting that the whales were right out front, Prez instructed me to drop everything. We were taking an hour off for some birthday whale watching! Our ultimate goal is to snorkel with these majestic giants but one step at a time. We picked up Mr. Buff and another couple, en route, and then headed out the channel. This would turn out to be, not a whale watching tour, but a wave watching tour. Somewhere out on the Pacific, there must have been some wild weather, because we found ourselves in the middle of some of the most massive swells I’ve ever seen here. They were so big, they were breaking in the deep water, long before the reef. Yikes! Obviously my whale karma was bad that day so we gave up and headed back in – luckily the swells were running parallel to the island or the ride back up the channel would have been one of roller coaster proportions.

That was it for birthday excitement.

Oh, I almost forgot about the pervert-in-my-shower experience!

My whale karma may have been off but not so with my powers of gecko attraction. (Actually, they are known as mokos in Maori). There are a few mokos who hang out in our bathroom and when I stepped into the shower I found one clinging to the shower curtain. Ordinarily, these critters are very shy and run away the moment a human gets within five feet of them but this little guy seemed quite content where he was, even when I moved the curtain and turned the water on. “Close your eyes, you cheeky lizard!” I scolded him, but he continued staring, tongue occasionally darting from his mouth. Really, so rude!

He stayed there for the entire soapy spectacle and when I exited, he actually climbed up over the bar and re-settled on the outside of the curtain. Well, I flung a towel across my naked flesh, blushing with shame.

Very bad moko!

The Airplane Protest Committee will be hearing about this very devilish moko. I expect hordes of people, singing and waving signs such as “Shame on you moko!” or “Shower power!” or something, at my next cleaning. Keep your TV’s tuned to CNN…you never know!

QUESTION: Was there a point to this Chronicle?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

p.s. I know I promised to tell you the name of my…chickens. There are three that have been with us here since they were babies. I call them “The Beak-street Boys”. Of course, they are girls but I don’t care and they haven’t complained. (They’re just happy Prez hasn’t shot them…yet).

p.p.s here is a photo of us with a group of BC guests, the Madills, who we had tons of fun with. (Joe is a Kiwi, actually, but we won't tease him about that...or his fear of crabs). Greg is a very talented musician; the band he performs with is called "The

Ecclestons" check them out!

(L to R) Prez, Princess, Greg, Lorena, Willow, Joe...the Crab-fearing Kiwi

How to be Canadian

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 18:29:51 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

I am reluctantly giving this week’s Scootie award to the chicken-leg-chopping owner of the Para-Trooper Motel. How could I not? After all, it’s not every day you see someone with two hands of bananas, (weighing about 40lbs each), hanging off each side of their scooter and an adult cat (with all four legs intact, I should add), perched on the handlebars. Congratulations, you freaky little man!

Once again, the name of my…will remain a mystery because this is a special Canada Day Edition of the Coconut Chronicles! On July 1^st, Canada turns one hundred and forty-one years old, which makes me feel, at 38.92 years old, positively juvenile. And it’s not just Canada’s birthday, the Ripster flips the page on another year of life on July one. About this, Prez and I are more than slightly melancholy. You see, this year’s party, back in Nelson, promises to be the social event of the century as the Ripster’s friends and family gather, en mass, to celebrate both his birthday and his successful Everest summit. Oh, we received an invite – three houses, four BBQ’s, tons o’fun – but Air NZ has yet to establish a cheap commuter flight from Aitutaki to Nelson, so we’ll have to send best wishes from afar. Sigh.

And how does it feel to be a Canuck who spends so little time in Canuckland? Well, it was once suggested to me, by a friend, that nationalities tend to be at their most stereotypical when abroad and I think I must agree. I feel most Canadian when I am not in Canada. Whether this is a subconscious desire to hold onto my “roots” or if I’m merely more cognizant of my behaviour when compared to other cultures, is impossible to say. But let’s just say that, last week, when I went for an underarm wax, and the cap of the super-heated roll-on waxing device came off, and my poor pit was burned by molten lava wax, and after the “waxident” I still tipped the esthetician, and said thankyouverymuch, and smiled politely, I felt more Canadian than I ever have in my life.

CBC Radio, last spring, asked listeners what, for them, was most striking about living in Canada. Interestingly, the answer from fifty years ago when 80% of Canadians lived in rural areas and 20% urban, was exactly the same as today’s answer, when those statistics are now reversed: The overwhelming vastness of the land. But there’s much about being Canadian that nestles into our hearts and minds. For me, I love our sense of humour and humility…although I acknowledge it is a sort of backhanded humility as we all secretly harbour superiority complexes. But I feel my friend Sue, aka “Mompoet”, captured the essence of Canuckism in her poem, Hey Canada. She has been kind enough to let me reprint it here, though I must let you know that this poem was commissioned by CBC Radio for its 2007 Vancouver Poetry Face Off.

There are many uniquely Canadian references in here, so feel free to ask if you’d like anything explained! Now, without further ado…

Hey Canada

1967.

I’m lying on a cot in the nurse’s office

At David Oppenheimer Elementary

in Vancouver

where my parents enrolled me in Grade 1

when we came to Canada.

I’m bleeding maple leaf patterns

into a mound of tissue, clutched to my nose.

Up on a wall, the Queen is watching me

otherwise I’m alone

missing another assembly.

It happens every time

we file into the gym, stand to sing the song

racing pulse, sweaty palms, and WOOOOOSHHH!

O CANADA!

I pinch my nose, raise my hand

and Mrs. Forbes takes me to the nurse’s office.

I don’t know how many NFB films and recitations of

“The Cremation of Sam McGee” I’ve missed this year,

but I never miss your song, Canada,

even if it is just the Queen and me

singing it to each other.

At school and at home, I learn to be Canadian:

to celebrate Thanksgiving in October,

to call my french fries “chips”

and to eat them with gravy.

my “sneakers” are “runners”

my “mom” is “mum”.

I learn that zed is a letter and gorp is a food.

I dump Captain Kangaroo for Mr. Dressup

and learn the words of Dennis Lee,

“Alligator pie, alligator pie. If I don’t get some

I think I’m gonna die…”

I grow up proud to be a member of this

hockey-loving, CBC listening

Toyota-driving, draft-dodger-harbouring

wilderness haven of Hinterland Who’s Who.

We’ve got Emily Carr, The Group of Seven

Margaret Atwood,

the NDP, MSP,

Participaction and the Canada Council for the Arts,

Miles for Millions, the Marathon of Hope

both Expos

and those awkward aluminum teapots

at Bino’s restaurant that spill tea on your plate

so nobody will ever steal them.

By the time I finish school, I know you

in more complicated ways, Canada.

Most of the time you’re red and white and green all over

but you’re also shades of grey.

I wonder, Canada, how I’ll explain to my children

that it’s taken a dozen forevers and still

we can’t outgrow

scraped naked landscapes of clear-cut logging

highways that grow wider

as ice floes slip into the sea

how we never managed to truly

open our hearts and share the richness of this land

with each other and the rest of the world.

And I’m hoping I love you enough

that I can help us change our ways

even if I’m not sure how to do that, most days.

But some things are simple and always true

like the way we eat our cake and watermelon on July first

your birthday, Canada.

This year, I’m giving you

a pony, a hockey stick, a Canada flag

a model of the CN tower

a puppy, a medal, socks

a recipe for carbon reduction

a toque, a new Prime Minister, a CD of the Vinyl Café

and a giant croquet set

so everyone in the country can play.

After the croquet game, I’ll take you on a date

just you and me, Canada.

We’ll write a poem in the Bay of Fundy, then

watch the tide sweep it away forever.

We’ll dump a whole bottle of bubble bath

into Niagra Falls

just to see what happens.

We’ll kayak up the coast and marvel

At the mystic beauty that is Haida Gwai.

We’ll walk down to Starbucks

pay 5 bucks for a coffee

and complain about the Americans.

After that we’ll go far from the city, where darkness is

all around. Cradled in your arms, I will breathe in the

grey, green and brown of your mineral soil, and breathe

out blue, purple and gold into a crackling Northern

sky. This I will do for you, Canada, to say thank you for

making me want to learn more about you, for making

me want to stay.

As we gaze at colours and stars all around

you will whisper in my ear,

You are Canadian. You will always be a part of me, and I

will always take care of you, even when you are very old.

O CANADA!

Thanks so much to Sue for letting me use her wonderful words! Happy Canada Day to the folks back home, Happy 4^th of July to our American amigos, and lots of love to everyone else, wherever you call home.

QUESTION: What does being Canadian mean to you?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Man oh Man!

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 18:37:14 GMT

Hello, at last, from the Big Blue!

This week’s Scootie award was going to the two young men proudly driving down the road, each with a rooster tucked under one arm, until I learned the Cock-a-doodlers were going to be used in a cock fight. Shame on you fellows! Instead, it goes to the nice young man carrying a behemoth of a cooler under one arm, after returning from a day of fishing – I would give him bonus points if I knew the cooler had a tuna in it.

My running regime is progressing nicely. I can now call it running as opposed to shuffling, and I’m up to 12k now plus I’ve also been doing some hills (we have only two hills on the island, so when I say I’m doing hills I mean all of them). Of course, I have Rod to keep me company, he’s a big help. And not only in the exercise department, Rod also helps with hut cleanings and other chores. He even assisted me during a particularly grueling day of accounting. I haven’t yet taken Rod to bed with me but it’s not out of the question. I love Rod. What? Oh, don’t worry about Prez, he’s been known to use Rod from time to time, while raking the grounds or some other monotonous chore. I suspect Prez is almost as fond of Rod as I am.

Rod is my iPod. Rod the pod. I name everything, it’s a silly habit. Isn’t that right, Lappy? (She pets her laptop affectionately).

Anyway, I had this very long explanation for you about my naming fetish, and names in general, but then there was the rooster scooter incident, followed by an interesting discussion between Prez and me that changed my mind. So you will have to wait until next week to find out what I call my…

In the kitchen a few nights ago, Prez said to me, “You know I’m ashamed of the men in this world.” He went on to explain how it seemed, to him, the majority of men are either murdering bastards or spineless wussies. In other words, where have all the good men gone? (Yeah, I know, we women have been asking this one for years). While I know lots of good men, I can see his point. But what does it mean to be a man?

In prehistoric times, a man’s purpose was clearly defined – kill things with a pointy stick, bring them home for dinner, then create more humans. If Caveman A could not produce dinner or babies, he didn’t last long and Caveman B would step in. Brutal but simple.

In this more civilized age, a man’s role is an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of expectations. When does a man cross the line between Strong & Self-assured and Egoistic Macho Pig? I suspect that depends very much on the environment he finds himself in. The Cook Islands are still a very male dominated culture. My friend Moana was told at an Island Council meeting she attended – she being the only female present – to move to the back of the room. I’ve not experienced that degree of chauvinism but even when the more enlightened in the business community get together it is hard for the piggy among them to hide their true nature. Standing next to Prez, I’m all but invisible and my words meaningless -not to all men here, but enough to make it noticeable.

At the other end of the spectrum you have the men who John Wayne would slap silly if he were here, and alive. We had a guest a few months back who certainly wanted the world to see him as a He-man. Any time of the day, you could see him strutting about, shirtless, gold chains swinging in the breeze. (It is considered very rude to venture outside a resort here without a shirt on). In the basket of laundry he asked me to do, was a large beach towel decorated with all the signs of the zodiac…in various sexual positions. Ick, ick, ick! So, imagine my surprise when the bare-chested wonder steps into the office, pale faced and clearly distressed, to ask me if I would please kill the spider in the bathroom for him. Yes, some people are afraid of spiders, but even my friend Martha, who can barely tolerate a photo of one, has been known to tackle the odd arachnid if she needs to. Men, would you not be even slightly ashamed to have a woman march past you with a whisk broom to sweep away an insect?

F is an interesting case study in manliness. He is a kind of guybrid. He is, hands down, one of the most macho men I’ve ever met. To get him to the doctor for an injury, I almost have to force him at gunpoint.

Prez: “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

Princess: “Your hand has been cut off.”

Prez: “I’ll put a bandage on it.”

And yet, of the two of us, he will be the first to admit that he is the most romantic, the most cuddly, the most lovey-dovey. He’ll spend hours at a time giving me “neck rubbies” or “head scratchies”. Softy?

When I made the observation that our VHF radio reception on the property is spotty, at best, and should anything go wrong with the boat or the motor while he’s out fishing he may not be able to contact me, his response was: “Well, you know where I am and what time I should be back so wait an hour then get help. Hopefully someone will figure out which direction I’m drifting in.” If it were me, on the ocean alone, in a small boat, I’d have a GPS locator and several flares strapped to my body…and a life raft…scratch that, I wouldn’t be out there alone.

Yes, he is a macho macho man…who loves cooking and claims Phenomenon is one of his favorite movies because it’s such a great love story and tells his wife (on an almost daily basis) that she is beautiful and he’s so lucky to have her.

For all his softer qualities, perhaps because of them, I consider Prez a “real man”.

But fellows, tell me, where do you draw the distinction between a real man and a real jerk?

For me, I believe it comes down to respect: for one’s self, for others, for the world at large. While empathy is a quality more prominent in women, respect serves much the same function in men. Men who respect women would never consider telling them to move to the back of a room at a public meeting. Men who respect themselves would put on a shirt when visiting a culture sensitive to nakedness. Men who respect the world at large wouldn’t make roosters fight each other for sport. I don’t care how tough you are, if you lack respect you will never be a man.

Or maybe Rudyard Kipling had a better understanding of this subject than me?

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

QUESTION: Are you a real man?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Less is More...Darn it!

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 05:04:47 GMT

Throw out your diet books, I have solved your weight loss problems! My groundbreaking solution? Eat less.

Stop laughing.

You Nutters have been reading my Cook Islands culinary complaints for months now so what I’m about to confess may come as a shock. No doubt, the food here is abysmal. Taro? Delicious if you like food that has the texture and flavour of slightly thickened Elmer’s White Glue. The mangoes are world class, when they’re in season, same with pineapples and starfruit, but woman cannot live by fruit alone. I used to wait for the supply ship with a hope bordering on obsessive, “Maybe this month there’ll be something new!”, but no more. I’ve come to face the reality that white bread, coke, tinned corned beef, and meat pies are the staples of the Cook Islander’s diet.

For months, I dreamt of the day I’d return to Canada and gorge myself on Thai food, fresh broccoli, Panago Tropical Hawaiian pizza, Martha’s Greek cooking, Kozy’s everything, Indian, Italian, Mexican, you name it. (I even had fantasies of a McDonald’s Big Mac and fries – tell no one about this). My trip to civilization would be a return to the world of flavour. I pictured myself walking around for two weeks with some delicacy always being stuffed in my mouth. But something odd has happened.

Oh, this is hard to talk about. Give me a moment.

OK, due to the pitiful grocery selection here, a sort of “food malaise” settled over me. I’d go to the shelf, hungry, look at the meager selection, sigh, and walk away. Combined with heat that tends to sap one’s appetite, not to mention work days that often find me so busy I don’t remember to eat lunch until it’s already dinner time, my caloric intake shriveled to almost nothing.

Poor Helmi, when she came to visit, I forgot that normal people actually eat lunch and more than a few times she had to gently remind me that she was hungry and was it alright if she made a sandwich? Sorry for that Helmi!

But while my stomach shrank my energy level began to soar. I’ve begun waking up…friends, brace yourselves…early. I’m talking “before sunrise” early. Yes, me, the girl who used to joke that she didn’t know there were two six o’clocks in the day. I wake up – BING – and I’m ready to go. Prez is still sawing logs and I’m already drinking tea and typing away. I know what you’re thinking but I haven’t cracked, I haven’t gone bush, I just have more energy. Way, way more energy. It’s very wrong but I’m getting addicted to it.

And though I’m not overweight, even when I am stuffing my gullet and sleeping until noon, unnecessary pounds have vanished from my frame. Scales have never held much attraction for me – muscle weighs more than fat, remember that ladies – so I have a pair of pants, made of a completely non-stretch material, I use as my yardstick to tell if I need to take a break from the potato chips I pack away once a month (ladies, you know what I’m talking about). These pants are now very, very loose. This is no small event given that I have a derrière rivaling James Brown’s. Yep, baby got back.

Here’s an average day’s menu:

Breakfast – Bengal tea and two slices of multi grain toast

Lunch – sometimes none but often just a few pieces of fruit

Dinner – very small portion of whatever Prez cooks. (2 pieces of tuna, rice, and salad, for example)

Snacks – minimal, maybe a piece of cheese or a few crackers.

Desserts – occasionally a small bowl of ice cream or some licorice.

So here I am, lean and mean, and I love it. To quote Mr. Brown, “I feel good!” No surprise, I’ve known for years that eating less is one of the keys to health. In fact, an excerpt from Science Daily says, “For nearly 70 years scientists have known that caloric restriction prolongs life. In everything from yeast to primates, a significant decrease in calories can extend lifespan by as much as one-third.” One third? That’s a heck of a lot more life! But when there’s lots of yummy, scrummy, tasty treats at one’s fingertips what’s a girl to do?

The question is: now that I’m feeling the effects of minimal consumption, what will I do when I head north for my visit in October? Hmmmm. Honestly, the thought of feeling full and tired and bloated, no matter how delicious the fare, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Spring rolls or spring out of bed in the morning? Full tummy or full of life? Super size or just plain super?

Well, dear Nutters, I have come to the conclusion that while I will still partake of BC’s fine food offerings, the portions will remain small, tiny in fact. Of course, I will still be free to satisfy my darker needs…and by “darker” I refer to chocolate – nectar of the gods.

Oh, and martini’s. Lots and lots of martinis.

Instead of binging, I will focus my new energy on connecting with what I really miss most, namely friends and family. And shopping. (Don’t tell Prez about the shopping part though, he’s already in a cold sweat picturing me and my Visa alone in the big city).

So there’s my guilty secret, laid bare for all the world – well, a small segment of the world – to see. Go on then, laugh.

QUESTION: Is less more?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Meeting of the Minds?

Fri, 30 May 2008 20:00:34 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

If you imagine life on a small, sleepy island is all about drinking coconut water and wiggling ones toes in the sand, think again. Yesterday was the Big Meeting about the controversial Sunday flights. Action! Adventure! Romance!

Well, there really wasn’t any romance…that I know of. But I have a rich imagination.

Events on Aitutaki, unless they occur on a regular, say weekly or daily, basis tend to be slapped together with all the precision of a Russian automobile. Sometimes you will receive an email but more typically it is Nga, in the grocery store, asking, “Are you going to the really, really important tourism meeting this afternoon?” that alerts you to a function you should be attending.

Once you know when you are supposed to be there, the next challenge is where. Ask five different people where the really, really important meeting is and you will, inevitably, receive five different locations. Prez and I have developed a strategy to deal with this, we drive around town until we see someone who looks as if they’re dressed for a really, really important meeting and then we follow them. You’d be surprised how well this works.

So now you have the when and the where. (Forget the what, it is always a mystery.) You arrive at the correct place, take a seat, and then wait for the next forty-five minutes for everyone else to show up. You are on island time, get used to it.

All functions on Aitutaki begin with a brief introduction, usually in Maori and English, followed quickly by a prayer to bless the function. This is the part of the program I like to call “Spot the Atheists”. I scan the room and take note of all those who are not bowing their heads with a look of divine contemplation. These are the people I want to know better.

Next, someone in a fancy shirt, with a flower ei, stands up and says, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…blah. Blah, blah, blah-blah.” Everyone claps politely. Another fancy shirt person stands up and does the same. This is repeated a few times. Then the closing prayer – time I use to contemplate whichever short story is lingering in my brain, or what I might have for dinner.

The really, really important meeting breaks up and you mosey over to the snack table to chat with the people you know. “Well, that was a load of bs,” you say as you munch on your cookie. “Yes, yes, quite,” everyone else agrees. Then you leave.

At least, that’s how most meetings go here but yesterday’s was an exception. I have already spoken of god’s hatred of airplanes but, boy oh boy, I didn’t realize just how many locals were channeling his anger until yesterday. We arrived at the hall about fifteen minutes after the scheduled start time, took our seats, and forty-five minutes later the meeting started. The Mayor introduced the Deputy Prime Minister of the Cook Islands, whose name is Mr. Something-or-Other, and that gentleman, with all the charm of a used teabag, proceeded to tell the audience of locals how stupid they were, (well, he didn’t use those exact words but that was the gist).

For a moment, it seemed as if we were about to get yet another version of the “Blah, Blah, Blah” meeting but then a man in the back of the room shouted something in Maori. “What did he say?” I whispered to Prez, who whispered to our friend Moana.

“He said, ‘Speak in Maori!’”, Fred whispered to me, after Moana whispered to him.

Deputy Prime Minister Something-or-Other proceeded to flip back and forth between Maori and English, detailing the cruddy state of Aitutaki’s economy and how the Sunday flights are a necessary evil. Aside from the pasty white speaker representing the banks of the Cooks, that would be the last English we heard. Occasionally, we prodded Moana for translations but it wasn’t hard, from the body language of the speakers, or from the jeers and cheers of the crowd, to understand what was being said.

When the Fancy Shirt people opened the floor for discussion, the fun began. Queen Manarangi was first to speak, (yes, we have one queen and three kings here). Her speech had the most eloquent finger pointing, and she also had the nicest hat, so I liked her best.

Next up was Freaky Pig Farmer who owns the Para-Trooper Motel. How freaky is this guy? Well, he cuts one leg off all his chickens so they can’t run away from his property…because chickens are so hard to find here. The slogan on his sign, painted in a Kindergarten-student font, is “Cut out the middleman!” Sometimes I wonder if he actually meant “Cut up the middleman”. In any case, his speech had a fair amount of arm lifting and torso bending. Prez and I reckoned his idea to save the economy of the island was to cut one leg off every tourist so they can’t run away.

Epileptic Preacher stole the show. He’d raise his fist and then SLAP it down into his open palm, shout in Maori, raise his finger high in the air and proclaim, “God is number one!!”, followed by a James Brown-esque round of body tremors. This he did repeatedly. He was the crowd favorite, hands down. Even Prez started shouting, “Amen!” at the end of each punch. I only wished I had one of those big foam fingers so I could help him punctuate his “God is number one!” cries.

How do you top an act like that? Well, it wasn’t easy. One fellow proclaimed that Aitutaki is the most blessed of all the Cook Islands, which caused more than a few heads to turn, but failed to elicit any “Amen’s”. Still, the crowd was frothing, worked up into a plane-hating frenzy. There would be blood!

Or singing.

Sadly, Prez and I had an airport pick up so we had to leave right as the entire hall broke out into a rousing chorus of, “God hates airplanes, this I know, for the bible tells me so”, in Maori, of course.

What fun! I wish all the meetings were like that.

Oh, and the Sunday flights are going through whether god likes it or not. It was a done deal, apparently, even before the Big Meeting. It’s kind of a shame, really, I love having our Sunday’s free to drink coconut juice and wiggle my toes in the sand. But, in the words of our wise mayor, “You can’t stop progress. People need new motorbikes, new televisions, and new stuff.”

Can you argue with logic like that?

QUESTION: Do you miss having the world shut down on Sunday?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy and lovin’ life!

The Princess

Five, Six, Seven, Eight...

Fri, 23 May 2008 20:04:56 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

(Today’s Coconut Chronicle is a musical. This is what happens when you buy an iPod and listen to the Chicago soundtrack while you clean huts, for six months.)

He had it comin’, he had it comin’, he had it comin’ all along. If you’d have been there, if you’d have seen it, how could you tell me that I was wrong?

On May 21, our dear friend Tim “Ripster” Rippel stood on top of the world! He now adds a much deserved Mt. Everest summit to a long list of peaks and other mountaineering achievements. Along with the Ripster, six of his clients, and seven of his Sherpas also reached the summit. Not without it’s drama (I spent most of the 21^st on MSN Messenger, talking with Beckster and biting my nails down to the nub), including a high altitude rescue attempt, this climb has demonstrated to me, (as if I had doubts), what a first class human being the Ripster really is. CONGRATULATIONS TIM!!!

Andrew Brash (left) and Tim Rippel (photo taken from Andrew's website)

Got a little motto, always sees me through, ‘when you’re good to Momma, Momma’s good to you’.

We have been very spoiled lately. First Helmi arrived with loads of goodies. Next Big Sis’s wayward package finally arrived. Holy cow, the things a person can do with a vacuum sealer! We now have a spice for every occasion, Prez is rolling in licorice, our poor USB port has been saved by an add on, I have maps for novel research, the Tiger Sauce supply is topped up, I have new music to listen to, and much, much more. Then Mom’s package arrived a few days later with more dark chocolate, more licorice, and lots of other treats – even a fridge magnet of BOB, (Nelson’s Big Orange Bridge). Thank you, thank you, thank you! We are grateful and humble. Not sure what we will bring home in return…hmm, how do you feel about coconuts?

How you feeling?

Very frightened.

Are you sorry?

Are you kidding?

How could I forget to tell you all about our diving adventure a few Sundays ago? It was a textbook day – sunny, dry, light breeze – so Prez and I threw diving and fishing gear into the boat and headed off for some alone time on our favorite playground, the ocean. Our first dive was not only fun but also practical…we had to retrieve the anchor Prez lost a few weeks back, (oops). Anyway, we found the anchor in record time and then continued on exploring the depths. Beautiful.

We spent our surface interval eating, lounging, and fishing. As usual, the seabirds were up to their old tricks, trying to fool us into thinking there were tuna around, but all we hooked was one skipjack.

The second dive was in an amazing section of coral canyons Prez has named “The Five Fingers”. The underwater topography of this spot is breathtaking, and the two giant Humphead Wrasse (about 5ft long) we saw just before heading to the surface were worth the extra effort of donning all the gear, weights, etc. Satisfied with a good dive, we made our way up the anchor chain, pausing fifteen feet below the surface for our safety stop (this is where your body rids itself of excess nitrogen). Then we let go and started a slow swim to the boat. That’s when I saw the shark.

About three feet below me, a long, dark shape, (maybe ten feet from head to tail), slowly circled. I looked over at Prez and put a knife-edge hand to my forehead – a bit of diver’s sign language meaning “Big thing with pointy teeth directly below”. I’d like to tell you I was Triple C (Calm, Cool, Collected), and I really thought I was until I realized, in the excitement, I’d gone to the side of the boat without a ladder and now I was trying to climb aboard with forty pounds of gear on me. Oops.

Now you all know I am pro-shark. And let’s be honest, if Mr. Fin was anything more than curious, I would be in bitty pieces right now. But there’s something surreal about having one of the big bruisers sniffing you out while you bob on the surface like a wounded seal. My Spock brain was saying, “Oh look, isn’t that fascinating! I wonder what species it is? Well, no markings, so not a Tiger. Not a white or black tip either. The nose is quite rounded. Hmmm.” My Lizard brain was screaming, “Oh my god!!! Get in the boat!!! Big thing with pointy teeth!!! It’s going to eat us!!!” While my amygdala was in the middle, trying to restore order, “OK, Spock, I appreciate your observations but we really should get on the boat. Lizard, calm down, the shark does not want to eat you, stop crying.”

Back on the boat, Prez and I watched Mr. Fin do a few more lazy circles then swim off. Though my heart was jack-hammering the inside of my chest, I felt really privileged to have seen him. And the martini that evening tasted, really, really good!

...that funny, sunny, honey, hubby of mine.

We went for a nice long stroll along our local scavenger’s beach the other day. You know, if you ever mysteriously lose a shoe, and you look everywhere but still have no idea where it could have gone, well, I think I know where it is…

Why are there so many shoes in the ocean? Shoes, plastic bottles, rope, bits of metal of uncertain origin, plastic crates, you name it, you can find it on a beach. Prez is in the process of turning one of our FAD’s (Fish Attracting Devices) into an underwater metropolis by tying all sorts of odds and ends to it. Scavenger’s beach was a gold mine for such detritus (trash) and he also wins this week’s Scootie Award!

All I care about is doin' the guy in who's pickin on you, twistin' the wrist that's turnin' the screw. All I care about is love!

Our walk on Scavenger’s beach did not start on a good note, however. We found a poor little Tern that some… (watch your language, Princess)…idiot had tied to a rock. We freed him and I think he’ll be OK but I’d love to find the…idiot who did that, tie him to a rock, and leave him on a beach to die. Ditto for the…idiot who comes around our property at night to steal our hermit crabs for fish bait. Urgh!

And speaking of the environment…

Give 'em the old three ring circus, stun and stagger 'em. When you're in trouble, go into your dance. Though you are stiffer than a girder, they'll let you get away with murder.

Yesterday we went to yet another, “lots of talk, no action” tourism meetings. This one was a big hoo ha, with the Mayor that… (Princess, watch your language)…beacon of society, and other big wigs in attendance. The first fellow to speak actually blew my mind because the first thing he said is that the Aitutaki environment is the number one problem that needs to be addressed and the entire lagoon should be made into a protected area. HUH?! Is someone in power actually paying attention??

Nope.

We realized, pretty quickly, that the environment was just smokescreen, a breadcrumb to appease us, so they could move onto their real issue: Should they allow flights on Sunday? Believe it or not, this is a hot topic here. Never mind that there are shops, restaurants, and resorts that are already open for business on Sunday, never mind that many of the so-called good Christian folks spend half their Sunday pie-eyed in the bush, or that Sunday flights ran for eight years with no problems, the fact of the matter is God hates airplanes. Duh. The argument of the pro-Sunday-flights camp centers on Aitutaki’s sagging tourism/economy. They fail to see that one more plane load, per week, is hardly going to remedy the situation, particularly when those tourists are going to go home and tell everyone about the dead coral and lack of fish.

But, being a papa’a, (foreigner), I was a very good Princess and kept my mouth tightly sealed…for now.

I run so fast a shotgun blast can hurt me not one bit. I’m on my toes, ‘cause heaven knows, a moving target’s hard to hit!

After six long, sweaty months, when even thinking hard was tiring, the weather has cooled and I have started to run again! Well, “run” may be pushing it. Jog? Fast walk? Ok, ok, slow shuffle. But it sure feels good to be active again!

Well, that’s plenty for this week. Hope you enjoyed the ramble…and all that jazz.

No, I'm no one's wife
But, Oh, I love my life
And all that Jazz!

(Yeah, yeah, I am someone’s wife but the lyrics are copyrighted, so what can I do?)

Ooo, one more thing, (shameless plug), I have recently had a short story published in Storyteller Magazine. Well, that issue is now on the shelves! It's a Canadian mag so may be hard to find south of the border but back home you might be able to track it down at Chapters. Anyway, buy it, read it, write copious letters to the editor proclaiming my literary genius! (Well, I'd just be happy if you read it.) You can read a little blurb about the story and my bio on their website.

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy, and lovin’ life!

The Princess

Mr. Internet's Home for Wayward Bullies

Fri, 16 May 2008 21:52:27 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

The year is 1987.

My boyfriend, Stud, and I have just finished another round of sucking face and groping, and now we’re bored – as teenagers perpetually are when not groping or face sucking. “Let’s go over to Geeky B’s and hang out,” Stud suggests.

“It’s after eleven o’clock, he’s probably asleep,” I say, readjusting my bra and re-spiking my hair, (which may have been blue at that time).

“Are you kidding? He probably only woke up an hour ago.”

We hop in my car – well, my parent’s car, a massive, white and red Malibu Classic, Damn the environment, full speed ahead - and go. Sure enough, Geeky B’s house is dark but for one light in his bedroom. After a rap on his window, he lets us in. Stud was right, Geeky B is at his computer and his night has just begun.

Geeky B and I go back to the days of our 5-pin bowling team. (Yes, I bowled. I also collected comics, and kept my Star Wars collector cards in a photo album, in sequential order. Got a problem with that?!) He was at the forefront of the Computer Geek movement, with his pasty white skin, out of date clothes, and too-large glasses. He dropped out of school in Grade Eleven to spend more time on the computer. I worried about him, and the irony of that, in this age of technology, must be obvious.

“You guys gotta check this out!” Geeky B says, motioning to a large contraption sitting on his desk, beside his computer. The contraption is a metal box straight out of an eighties sci-fi movie. It is about twelve inches across and eight inches high, with all manner of cords, wires, and bits of…um…stuff poking out of it.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Watch.” Geeky B smiles, takes the handset of his phone from the cradle and places it into a form-fitting receptacle on top of the contraption. Then there is a flurry of keystrokes and incantations (and I think he may have brandished a magic wand). The contraption lights up and starts making all kinds of weird noises. As Geeky B types, we watch a glowing green sentence appear on his computer screen:

Hey, Gates, what’s up?

That’s when the magic happens. Words start to appear beneath Geeky B’s sentence, except he isn't typing them.

Not much, Geeky B. Got to Level Ten on Frogger today.

Far out. Still working on that stupid micro-whatever program?

Yeah, but my mom’s being a total cow, she says me and Steve gotta mow the lawn and rake the leaves once a week or she’s not gonna pay for our Doritos and Coke any more.

As the “conversation” continues, Geeky B turns to look at our puzzled expressions with a crafty smile. “Do you know where that’s coming from?” He asks. Of course, we don’t. “Texas!” (What? You thought I was going to say Seattle?)

“How?” Stud and I ask, in awe.

He points to the contraption, “Through that. It’s called a Modem.” (Cue the Steven Spielberg-esque music).

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the internet.

The year is 2008.

On a wee patch of volcanic land, somewhere in the South Pacific, from the comfort of my bed, (yes, I write in bed), I am “speaking” to you over the very same internet I witnessed the birth of way back in Geeky B’s bedroom.

Twenty years, less really, that’s all it took to get from there to here. Twenty years ago, I would have had to rely on letters to communicate with the outside world. Today, I can communicate with Beckster back in Nelson, in real time, via Instant Messaging, while she speaks to the Ripster via satellite phone, as he stands on the summit of Mt. Everest. How crazy is that?

I owe much to the internet. I live in a place with no bookstore and no library – heck, you can’t even buy a watch here – but I can research anything, down to the smallest detail with just my trusty laptop, (or “Lappy” as he’s affectionately known) and a few cords.

But there is a dark side to all this technology. Sometimes, I think they should have called it the Crack-net, to better express the internet’s addictive qualities. Be honest, how much time do you spend on Facebook? The other danger of the internet is the anonymity factor. Predators and bullies, who, in real life, are confined to back alleys or their parent’s basements, find a world, rich in victims, they can move through freely, all with the click of a mouse. And of course, as easily as I can find information on a 5^th Century BC trade vessel, so others can also, just as easily, find information on how to make a bomb with the items you keep under your kitchen sink. Scary.

While I manage to avoid – I hope – most of the predators and terrorists, and my limited bandwidth/speed keeps me from wasting too much reality time online, I have run into my share of bullies. If you’ve spent any time at all on a discussion board, you know exactly what I’m talking about because there’s always one, often more than one, of these real-life losers who live to taunt and ridicule unsuspecting newcomers to their little internet kingdom.

Discussion boards, or forums as they are also known, are essentially networking platforms for folks to meet online and discuss subjects they are interested in or passionate about. For me, as a writer, they are gold. For the manuscript I’m currently working on, I have a shipwreck forum populated by maritime archaeologists, salvage operators, and shipwreck enthusiasts, from all over the world, who supply me with leads and information I would otherwise spend months, maybe years, trying to track down. I am constantly overwhelmed with gratitude for the assistance these strangers so willingly provide. (If any of you are reading this – thanks again!)

I’ve been working on a short story I hope to enter in a competition this summer and I needed some technical information on life rafts. I emailed the Fergs and the Flying Powers (my blow-boater friends) for some info but I also found a good sailing website with a bustling forum, which I posted on. I’m always honest about my intentions when I post on forums, and so I explained that I was a writer, working on a short story, and looking for answers to a few technical questions.

So, what kind of responses did I get?

Most, as usual, were excellent, positive, comprehensive, and friendly. (If any of you are reading this – thanks again!) But, as usual, the bullies had to rear their ugly cyber-heads. Two fellows, in particular, seem to…well, how about I just let you read some of their comments:

“Look...I could be like everyone else here and tell you to get a real job....but I don't…”

“Professionally I wrote already over 180 reports...all over 50 pages they also have charts, tables, recommendations, fancy calculations and each is sold very expensively.... etc...
So I guess I am a writer too...just like you....PFFFFFFFFFFFFFF”

“He passes away a sucker, much like those that read this post... she is gone now, adrift in words that almost could be called plagiarism - a egoistic parasite that when given the chance dances for only the five minutes but if no quarters remain in the jukebox - gone - for ever more...”

There’s more, but you get the idea.

The best thing to do with these sorts of sad people is ignore them. Their rants are the same on every forum, on every subject. They are no different than the school yard bullies who, undoubtedly, used to beat up my friend Geeky B because he had the audacity to be different.

The year is 1998.

I’m all gussied up for the final X-Files wrap party at the Planetarium. From behind me, in the elevator, a deep voice says, “Princess?” When I turn around, a tall, dark-haired, strikingly handsome man, in an expensive suit and tie, is smiling at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, apologetically, “do I…”

“It’s me, Geeky B!” he says.

And so it is. We hug. He tells me about the big software company he is part owner of. I tell him about my job as a stunt performer. Neither of us is surprised by our career choices but we are ecstatic at our mutual success.

Is there a moral to this story?

QUESTION: Is there a moral to this story?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess