You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello...with my FISTS

As a self-respecting feminist, I try really hard to maintain my capacity to love my opposite gender and reiterate that feminism is about equality in all genders, all races, all nations, etc. And in terms of gender inequality, I could have it much worse in other developing countries. PC had me preparing for Sub-Saharan Africa, so in terms of gender relations, things aren't terrible. And eventually, in my faux-future plans, I want to head to the Middle East for gender work. In case you didn't know, women aren't the most heralded of beings over there.
So when I hear shouts of Hey baby! or kissy noises or obnoxious recantations of the word "BYE" in-passing (you say bye while passing someone on the street in Tonga), I put on my patient face and reel in my twitching middle finger.



But day after day of "Hey baby!" or whispers as men approach my gate when I'm trying to play my ukulele in my house, or when I'm out dancing with friends and get multiple booty-grabs...(and once a boob-grab,) I want to go APE-SHAT-CRAZY! I wanna go all J-LO (circa "Enough") on those bias and show them you don't mess with a Feminist Palangi on the dance floor! You don't ask for a dollar when I'm going for a run! Don't kiss at me while I'm biking to work! Don't ask for my number! Don't tell me I'm beautiful just because I have white skin! (Bitterly gasping for breath with an intimidating and slightly scary scowl draped across my freckled face.)


And the real problem: it's everywhere. So many insecure or repressed girls seek ANY form of male attention, so kissy noises and "Hey baby"s suffice enough for something. So this vicious cycle will never end, and I don't think my fists can handle day after day of pulverizing Tongan faces whose bone mass would disintegrate my knuckles in one blow.


I'm not violent nor am I excessively angry, but I did watch Kill Bill (Vols. 1-2) last night and it just blew on my flickering flame of activism. And I want a Samurai sword.

Acceptance Pershmeptance

In my ripe 23 years, I've learned to accept things.





But sometimes you have that moment. Where the last thing you want to do is accept some wrongdoing against you, such as my post-perm haircut in 9th grade (think Fara Faucett meets Edward Scissorhands), my near-homerun caught at the warning track due to a sudden change of wind-direction in the Regional Championship my senior year of high school, and my family's plague of terrible eyesight.
However, sometimes, there's a beyond.
Sometimes, I close my eyes or look at the sky and say,
GOD, why did you inVENT these things?!!!!
These are my list of complaints:


But today. Ohhhh, today. It's the day I wanted to get over with, but the day I've been procrastinating. It's a day that's brought about months of paranoia, medical checks, extra showers...
...

God created something so utterly pointless, so characterless, so crude, that in all its nothingness, all its boredom, it's decide to nest in my hair.



My head has itched for the last 9 months of my service--I've had it checked UMTEEN million times for lice, but always zilch.
About a month ago, during Camp GLOW, I was hugging so many girls (one of which we actually SAW lice in her hair and immediately ran to take approximately 3-5 showers), so it makes sense that I got it then. Which means I've had it for a MONTH!


About 3 weeks ago, I had a friend check my hair...I'd been scratching and scratching and she found a small brownish thing that just looked like a piece of my hair, as though I'd scratched out the root or something. So we thought that was that. No lice.
But over the next 3-ish weeks, my head has gotten itchier and itchier, I'm scratching more and more, scrubbing with shampoo, conditioning the crap out of my scalp (many of us have crazy dry scalps here,) and such.
However, I spent so much time waking up last night from my itchy head that I decided to call it quits. I went to the PC Medical Office this morning, where the lady took 2 seconds parting my hair and said, "Oh, Jamie, you do. You have them." She picked a couple, then said, "The nits have already hatched and you have them all over...let me get you the shampoo."


The most excrutiating part of the whole thing is that I had to go to work. I sat there for 3 1/2 hours just WAITING to shampoo my hair at lunch. At break, I biked to a store, found a fine-tooth comb, booked it to my house, and stormed through to the sink where I could apply the solution to my hair so aggressively I splattered it all over my clothes. 'Line (new infant kitty) was kind of freaking out.


I shampood twice, following the directions. After the first rinse I found lice corpses sliding down my dripping hair and felt a disgusting sort of vengeance.
Back to God. WHY on earth would creating lice be a good idea? Are they the spawn of some cool insect, like lady bugs? Lice do nothing but bother things, spread disease. They breed their spawn with special saliva that attaches to hair. They feed off of dried flesh! Why, God. Why?


So after my 5 hour pity party, I'm climbing out of my dark place of utter shame and resentment. I keep reverting back to my primary school days when I was prejudiced against the trailer park kids across the road (--we often had rock wars--) and blamed a girl in my class, who lived in that trailer park, for giving me lice.
I reckon I'm just at a point where I need to add this to my list of acceptance and move on with life. Lice...happens.
Now I just want to clean everything.

Hues

There's a moment in Sabrina (Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart) where Sabrina (Hepburn) fixes Linus' fedora as they drive along a country road. She begins humming "La Vie en Rose," a French classic most known by Edith Piaf. (Louis Armstrong also does a rendition of this.) Anyway, the song is a lovely little ballad about seeing life through rose-colored glasses.


Yesterday, for the first time in ages, I swam. I'm quite terrible at swimming--have always felt awkward and slightly uncomfortable in the water--but I'm 23 years old, have lived on an island for over a year now, and have YET to go snorkeling! In my entire existence, I've never even been snorkeling!
So yesterday, I went. A friend helped me, and we alternated between just snorkeling for the fun of it and practicing our swimming form. I must say, I'm definitely behind in the times. My body just doesn't feel right when I swim--my legs twitch in odd ways, my arms feel gawky and strange, and...ohhhhh, look at that pretty purple fish! Wooowwwww the currents down here, and the reeds are blowing because the current is like the wind of the sea! Man! Woah--check out how deep that drop--
Suddenly, a jerk on my foot and I'm screeching underwater. It's Andrew, pulling me back into focus. Right. Swimming. (Let's consider that the fixing-the-fedora moment.)


I got tired within minutes; it's been a long time since my arms have moved like that, so my shoulders are extremely sore, but I think this is just the low-impact workout they need.
I've always been a respecter of the sea--I admire its beauty, mystery, power...from a nice, comfortable distance. But yesterday I saw the world through blue-colored glasses. As I tried to practice on my form, I kept thinking of metaphors via fish, sea vegetation, floating diapers (we were on the waterfront, where sh*t gets dumped all the time.) Seeing through a different hue just changes things a bit. Though I felt awkward in the water, I also felt reed-like, just bobbing around where the current took me, randomly choking on water that sucked into my snorkel.


And I've finally come to a point in my life (I've been working on it the last couple of years) where, no matter how big or small the task, I'm accomplishing things I would normally be embarrassed to even try. Of course, it helped when Andrew said he wanted someone to swim with because he's a terrible swimmer (no intimidated factor is good), but I'm finally at patience with myself. I do have an undercover competitive thing going on, but mostly, it's with myself. Sometimes I often think it's this American mentality we have--like we need to be good at EVERYTHING, we cannot fail at something so we don't try it. (Plus, if you grew up with sports, it's kinda there.) So I'm sore and I'm happy about it. I'm pretty sure my 3-year-old niece, Ella, has much better form than me, but it's okay, I'll learn. Plus, I got to see fish that looked like zebras!

Life Via...X-Men?

I had my second rugby practice/scrimmage last night, and since then, I've been metaphorizing my dusty old pair of competition(s) to any and all things X-Men. Why? Perhaps because I watched the trilogy (but not Wolverine) in my hotel room in New Zealand and have since rekindled my crush on Hugh Jackman.


Anyway, I haven't played competitive anything in more than two years...actually, more like three. After 16 years of softball, my competitive energy had gravitated so southward, I'm pretty sure it's frozen in an Antartic ice cap. Perhaps some penguins are playing soccer with it.


I don't get competitive with card games, board games, video games (which I don't play) because my adult-onset ADD kicks in and I can't focus--NOR do I care--enough to try to win. (People LOVE playing Monopoly against me..."Sure, you want this whole strip of things? I'll sell it to you. But can you keep the money? I'm bored.")
But sports. Ohhh, sports. I come from a family of sport-heads. They grind up the bones of athletics and snort them with adrenaline injections. They cheer and yell at the TV--at athletes who are YOUNGER than me! They play fantasy football (this including my sister, who I'm pretty sure is more hopped up on FF fever than anyone,) and of course, we've all played sports. Except for my mom, who can do a mean cartwheel.


So as for my sports career, I was definitely born in the right family. I was a pitcher who, thank God, did not have a crazy dad who made me pitch in my sleep or do push-ups in geometry. I came from a family of supporters and athletes, so competition, motivation...all in the family. I recall my sister deliberately pissing me off before a game just so I'd throw harder. Hmm.
Anyway, since my career ended, I've loved being the bookish type. No competition, no adrenaline rushes to worry about. I always felt kind of double-sided with competition, thus my reference in the first paragraph. I always wanted to do well, I never let a batter crowd the plate without belting one at her kneecaps, I always tried to go in with strategy. But as for the I-win-therefore-you-lose mentality, it's not particiularly my thing. Mostly.


So I'm a bit like Rogue from X-Men. I have these competitive genes in my very microfibers, but I'd rather not have them. They don't motivate me so much and when I let them take over, I don't feel like myself. I feel like I'm equipped with enough ability to be competitive and successful, but the whole personal interest wavers a bit.
But I forgot what it was like. To be moving with one unit AGAINST another. When I'm learning a new sport--IF I choose to go against my grain and try something new in athletics (because I hate being bad at something athletic, like swimming, which i don't do)--I'm a bit reeled-in. I like to observe, figure out how to play, try to mentally process rules, etc. I definitely don't play balls-to-the-walls...especially in tennis shoes while playing on grass. (I nearly busted my arse 3 times yesterday because my tennis shoes SUCK!)
Before the scrimmage, I stretched a bit, tossed around the ball (which I'm totally good at!...if I pass to the left.) Then we started and I immediately set my butt-muscle on fire. I definitely should have jogged first to loosen up everything. But MAN. Right off the bat and still the rest of the scrimmage to play! I let someone switch me out once so I could stretch, which didn't particularly help, but I was so sad that I wouldn't be able to get in a good run, show them I could do it. There were very large guys out there--ones that could pivot and drive with the speed of Zeus' lightning bolts heading right toward me. (In that case, I side touch. Or well, I attempt to touch from the side but they move to fast and nearly plow me over, but it's okay.)


The last half of scrimmage, my defense went to poo-nanny. I got lazy and tired and was galloping like an old mule. I was on the wing and kept getting burned by Legs, who can run for days...quite quickly.


So with the last ounce of energy I could muster, I put aside my ADD and mental/physical tiredness, I made my hamstring work again, and I anticipated the pass to Legs and...



I ran with all the speed I had, forcing my legs to reach out, reach out...shoot, is someone chasing me? I hear noises! Oh wait, they're clapping! I did it! I scored a try!


I put the ball on the ground in the endzone-thing (you have to do that,) then jogged back to try to pretend like I wasn't gonna pass out. The guy I picked gave me a big smile and a high-five, which was fun.
I felt all Wolverine on those turds! I was all into it and intense and I got the interception and ran like I do when the dogs down my road chase me. Competition tasted deLICIOUS.
Only next time, I'm bringing out the CLAWS.

Fe-li-ne

Since Socrates' death, it's been pretty quiet inside my house. I've had a couple of cockroach-massacreing nights, but other than that, if you ignore dog fights, construction equipment, loud radios, roosters and rugby nights, my house isn't so noisy.


This weekend I heard a rodent in my walls mid-sleep and thought that soon I'd need a cat. I don't think I can handle finding another half-alive Socrates with bloody turd streaks across my floor. I need a cat.
The next day, a friend found a kitten. I said I'd take it. After all, a kitten would soon grow into a cat, aka: rodent-killing machine. Cold-blooded carnivore, hungry for mice and rats and cockroaches. Yessssss.



So the friend came over. And in his hand...this...INFANT kitten. Three weeks old at most. Tiny little fart of a feline, but completely adorable. I knew that I wouldn't be a cat-owner or a rat-killing trainer. I'd become a mother.


And so I have. In fact, not only have I been feeding this cat via soggy bread, my finger, a plastic bag (with a hole, more nip-like...kind of a disaster), or any other mechanism for feeding animal infants, but in the last day and a half, I've planned my weekend with time increments for my little Feline. (In Tongan, it's pronounced fay-lee-nay... I call her 'line. Or Turbo. Or Cat.) I woke up early this morning to feed her. I skipped out on the rugby game to feed her. (Well, kind of. I was also tired and didn't want to get cussed out again like I did last time...by the First Lady of Tonga.)
'Line has a little box with an old skirt in it for warmth and such. She's still so tiny that not only does she need extra body warmth, but finds it in strange places. The most prominent would be my foot. My foot is the new designated home. Where I go, 'Line follows my feet.



(AS we speak, she is now eating from the dish! Mama's so proud!)
So my feet='Line's sense of home-comfort. She loves to clamber on top and curl into a little cute kitty-fetal position or just sit there, her little puckered butt right on my tattoo. I assume it's because the floor is chilly, so it makes sense, I suppose.
But she loves attention, TLC. If I'm in the room and not paying attention, she begins a series of melodic tones that sometimes sound as though she's having a conversation with herself. And if i speak to her, she HAS to have the last word.
"Hey, 'Line."
"OW!"
"What do you think, should we watch a comedy or a Disney movie?"
"Reurrrrr."
"Comedy?"
"Err?"
"Disney?"
"Weooowwww."
"Disney it is."
"Rewwoouurrr."


I also gave her a bath today. This was after the plastic-bag disaster, though I think 'Line had the most fun since finding her new foot-home. I put some milk in a bag, poked a hole, and tried to put it in her excited mouth. She was so excited to be completely covered in milk that she ended up belly-up on the ground, mouth open in ecstasy, nose blowing milk-snot-bubbles, lapping up the milk that leaked and dripped from the unsteady bag.


So we had a bath. And she was a champ. She now smells like the blue Herbal Essences. She made nose bubbles in that, too.
'Line also thinks I have multiple locations of milk on my body, including:
-my toes
-my muffin top
-my collar bone
-my face (usually cheeks or lips)
-my hair


Of course, it's cute to have an infant kitten nuzzling your feet, neck and hair, but I'm a bit worried. I'm always the detached party in some intimate form of relationship. So I'm going straight from unattached and happy about it to full-on mom who alternates milk baths with shampoo baths, who cuddles with my infant one minute and shuts her in a guest bedroom with her bed-box the next.
In a nutshell, I'm happy about my new family member. She'll keep me company (though out of milk), she'll become a rat-eating machine (if one doesn't eat her first.)
*As we speak, a rat is running in my kitchen ceiling. A-hole.
Anyway, until she grows and can hold her own in the big outdoors, I'm afraid I'll become attached to this cat. (If she survives random ailments that many infant animals die from here...)

But then, she's gonna be a lean, mean rat-destroying machine...who is currently cleaning herself on my foot. And is leaving milk tracks. Nice.

My Body the Traitor

Week's summary:
The Bad: Chili Pepper juice embeds in your very fingertip fibers, which makes it torturous to pop in a contact or extract an eye boog.
The Good: I am in LOVE with my new ukulele. I have tons of new chords and play every night before bed.
The Bad: I feel restless in my house right now. This whole week, I want to be outside at all times deSPITE the hot weather. Maybe because I work in an office all day.
The Good: I had cornbread last night!
The Bad: I also had diarrhea until the wee hours of the mornin'.
The Good: I'm almost caught up on Glee Season 2!
The Bad: Cockroach invasion. Need more Pesticide.
The Good: I watched and fell in LOVE with Inglorious Basterds.
The Bad: I'm currently reading... East of Eden, How to Fight a Cosmic War, Things I've Been Silent About, and Traveling with Pomegranates. Woah, turbo. It's taking me years to finish ONE because I keep getting ADD and read another.
The Good: Halloween will be epic this year. Our costume planning is perfecto.
The Bad: All my Baha'i friends are leaving by January. :(
The Good: I started jogging again!
The Bad: My body is at about 7 different levels of suck right now. I'm still sore from Monday's rugby practice...eesh!
The Good: 7 1/2 weeks til I'm home for Christmas! WAAAHHHH-HHHOOOOOOO!

No Swimmin' in the Kitchen! (no shoes in the pool)

(*The above quote is via Full House, the alternate universe of my childhood. But I mainly remember it from my Assistant HS Softball coach.)



Despite all my magnificent "plans" to avoid an office job in my future...well, life, I am working 8:30-4:30 at a desk. In front of my computer. Sometimes crunching numbers, sometimes planning frantically (the two months before my NZ trip.)
So when I'm not clambering to work on my bulky, awkward bicycle, or clambering all over town in search of things (like veggies for my 'Eua friends, or a food place** open after 5pm,) I'm in my kitchen. (See bottom for footnote**.)
I LOVE kitchens. I love being IN kitchens--all that shiny equipment, glossy stove-tops, a veggie-filled fridge, homemade concoctions. My amazing grandmother sent me her church cookbook a few months ago and I've alternated between it, the PC cookbook, and my own creative, recipe-refusing methods of cooking, which usually works, except for when making muffins. I need a recipe for muffins.
Kitchens are just...HOME! They're the canvas, the unwritten page, the empty stage, only to be filled with warmth and enticing smells and a choreography of steps until the art is to be consumed with delight. And I LOVE consuming delight.



My kitchen is delightful. I have a nice little cupboard protected by wiring to keep out rats and other big things (though not ants so much), I have my own fridge and stove, and the kitchen is huge, so lots of space to move around. Oddly, I have 2 sinks in my kitchen, along with a little sima vai (water tank) spout for drinking . All three sinks drip terribly, therefore have to be tightened by the hand-force of God (hence the title.) But the kitchen is homey and colorful, and I love being in it. A happy kitchen reminds me of my mother, who I LOVE helping in the kitchen. We listen to oldies or cheesy ballads, dance around and play karaoke into spatulas. We're quite the pair.



So here are some go-to dishes in my kitchen:
-Papaya jam
-Applesauce
-Pot pie (one with white sauce (beshamel?), one with tomato juice as base)
-Tomato juice
-Stuffed eggplant
-Fried eggplant
-Chinese eggplant/tofu with chili pepper
-Cucumber salsa
-Tarts
-Chocolate cake with my famous peanut butter icing
-Brownies
-Curry potatoes with pele/spinach
-Bread (regular, Swiss bread, banana, apple, papaya)
-Energy Muffins (which I need the real recipe for...I messed them up last time)
-Baked squash
-Spoon rolls (a family favorite)

I'm pretty lucky at the resources here on the main island, but many staple cooking ingredients (like most spices, cream cheese, sour cream, cream of anything soups, etc.) aren't available, so it's fun to go on the fly and try something new.
Also, if you want the recipe for any of these, OR if you'd like to share recipes, please reply to this post! My favorite language is Food, so I'd be thrilled to share!

**I'm pretty sure a "food place" would be a restaurant. Oh, dear. I had to leave that brain lapse in here.

So Much for Embracing Hot Weather

If I walk around my house in my underwear, the increasing heat isn't so bad, as long as I don't stay in the kitchen while cooking (challenge 1,) open all doors and windows, and reapply deodorant every 2 hours.
Then again, the mosquitoes seem to be back in action...stupid perverts!

How 'bout a little touch?

My prognosis? Unidentified. My ulnar nerve (think elbow/funny bone) is irritated, but perfectly functional. The pain in my arm, however, is some random, phantom cause of which the doctor found no culprit. So I'm back.
And, naturally, have decided to join a touch-rugby team. :)



At first, I thought, "Hey, it's rugby, I'm not chucking the ball under or over-handed, so no problem." Didn't think about how side-ways the toss was...or how similar the spins were to fast-pitch.
My shoulder is quite sore, of course (as are most other body parts), but I had a BLAST! I play on a team with a few PCVs and some Tongans I've yet to meet, so due to our low number, we scrimmaged with the big boys (and some tough girls, too.) A Kiwi friend said to me, "Man, this team is now half-PC."
"That's what we do," I said, "Take over."
"Oh, Americans," he replied. (Snicker, snicker.)

Anyway, we practiced with a legit rugby team. I learned the basics, finally trained myself NOT to run in front (oh, my flag football days had me recalling plays and running patterns...sigh). The pattern to touch-rugby is quite rhythmical--almost like a teasing choreographed dance because everything is so stop-and-go. You get 5 touches (or downs), and the last touch is where there's a bit more strategy and such. When you've been touched, you place the ball between your legs and run to the side, where the driver tosses it to someone else and the next 'down' begins. It's all very fast-paced. Also, defense is man-to-man (oh, all these American sports metaphors), where I got burned a couple of times trying to play zone. Also on defense, you have to stay 5 yards back, which is particularly tough when you touch someone and immediately have to go against momentum and retreat backwards.
I got in a couple of good runs (my specialty in flag football), though due to my out-of-shape-ed-ness, I've lost a couple of sprinting gears. I should work on that.

In the spirit of the Rugby World Cup, I've decided to challenge myself with a new sport, so that's cultural integration, I reckon. I finally watched a full game--New Zealand vs. Australia in the semi-finals--and despite watching a fountain of blood spray from an Aussie nose, and despite nearly falling asleep, the sport seems pretty promising.
I just wish I'd brought my cleats. :/

The Toga Influence

This week, I've bought two scarves and have worn both of them as skirts, shirts, and, of course, wraps/scarves (it's friggin' cold here!) I think it's from not only my experimentation with fashion and all things life, but from my role as a philosophic Roman Senator who liked to burn things in our murder-mystery dinner party.



The night was all about good food, good drink, and good competition. The game is from the late 90s, and a PCV won it for a prize drawing during some kind of PC celebration. Basically, we were all characters and murder suspects, only with spiced up names like "Cleptopatra" (my friend Kaitlin, who you'll see at the end). With each round of the game, we were given more information about ourselves (which nearly convinced us all that we were the murderers of the fallen victim.) By the end, after evidence and speculation, defense and prosecution (kind of), we each placed our opinions on who the murderer was. I must say...I picked the right one.
Anyway, it was an amazing night. Different kinds of soup for dinner, amazing desserts, and fun times with friends who will soon return for Clean Life. (Fare thee well, Group 75.)
We Group 76'ers do have a new project coming up soon: a Murder Mystery Faka-Tonga! (Not that we have work to do or anything.)