Overall malaise explained!

It's my pituitary gland! While that might not seem usual cause for an exclamation point (!) I am suitably excited enough for three!

"If the T4 level is low and TSH is not elevated, the pituitary gland is more likely to be the cause for the hypothyroidism. Of course, this would drastically effect the treatment since the pituitary gland also regulates the body's other glands (adrenals, ovaries, and testicles) as well as controlling growth in children and normal kidney function. Pituitary gland failure means that the other glands may also be failing and other treatment than just thyroid may be necessary. The most common cause for the pituitary gland failure is a tumor of the pituitary and this might also require surgery to remove." www.endocrineweb.com

The doc said that this combined with my eczema points to an autoimmune disease, triggered by internal or external allergy. Pleasedontletitbeglutenpleasedontletitbegluten. Or dairy. Stinky cheese and crusty bread are rewards for this lifetime of suffering and I just can't do the time without the reward.

Either way, she's put me on thyroid medication and upon inspection, they are the exact same medication our 16 year old golden retriever takes every morning.

That's right Rosie, I'm right there with you.

Aloha.

"We offer you this Snickers."

Work has been physically brutal the last few weeks. If I get home while the sun is up, I try to go for a run. I love passing all the drunk golfers on their way home, and smelling early barbeque in the neighborhood back yards. If I get home after the sun has set, I am done for. I usually eat, shower, read, internet, or tv, then in bed by 10pm. Last night I was on the tv portion of the night was there was a tapping on my door. I know exactly who it was; Naia, the girl who stays with her dad next door on the weekend. Dad has been over a couple of times to chat about raising a teenager, and while I don't mind at all, at the literal end of the day, I like a little privacy. Last time I gave him a stack of fashion magazines to give her. Could be a controversial move but the poor thing is struggling.

I lowered the volume of my new favorite show, and didn't move a muscle. These walls are thin. I hear the guy next door blow his nose. I knew that she knew that I was home. She knocked five different times, each to a count of three. Oh boy... this little girl is... special. Maybe not officially, but socially, most definitely. Jason ran into her when he was helping me move in, and said, "Excuse me." Her answer was, "You're excused."

She comes to see me as a client at the spa. I didn't realize she was the girl next door until Tsunami Saturday, when she brought me over a surprise Krispy Kreme.

This morning I found the following affixed to my door, complete with a mini Snickers bar:



First of all, why are they trying to fatten me up? Second, whose number is that, because dad better not be using his daughter to get me to call? Third, THAT IS SO KAUAI. Seriously.

The coconut wireless. Last week my boss heard about my key-losing adventures via that exact medium. Sometimes it's great, like the time I lost my drivers license and someone found it, recognized me, and returned it to the hotel in under an hour. Sometimes it's not great, like when the boss finds out that once again, you've managed to lose a vital possession running the bay on your day off. When you want this exact person to give you lots more responsibility, it's not a good thing.

So do I call? I'm going to call, but in the middle of the day, on a weekday, and pray for voicemail.

Aloha.

What I can offer to everyone.

I found a random pink pill in one of my bags and took half. It's been an hour and I can't exactly what it was, although it was definitely a depressant...

At work today I had a guest come back and see me for a final service before he flew out. He's a talkative and fairly charming guy, easily star-struck and a bit "Aww shucks." He was telling me about his daughter and how she needs him to play with her hair and stroke her face before she falls asleep every night. He said he begs his wife for the same treatment but she says her hands get too tired.

So, for the last 20 minutes of his appointment, I stroked his face gently and played with his hair. I didn't necessarily do massage moves, I just intuitively did what I think he needed. He fell asleep fast, almost curled up on his side.

It was so intimate that I felt moved to write about it. When the hour was up, it dawned on me that he would be paying for that experience. I think sometimes we book services like massage, facials, even nails and haircuts and we don't go because we need our muscles unwound or pores extracted. We just need another caring human to nurture us and to let us feel perfectly safe. My heart grows bigger every time I am able to move another person to feel loved and nurtured.

Now I'll sleep.

I dream of Freja Beha hair

Freja, Freja, Freja. I'm sure she makes even the straightest of girls blush. And yes, she makes me do much more than blush, but what I'm thinking about tonight is her hair. I've been thinking about her hair for over a year now. She doesn't even have that hair anymore, it's grown out to a long shaggy bob with bangs. But that weird, messed up skater-boy haircut that she was sportin' on '08 has stuck with me.

I have long, wavy, auburn hair. I wash it every other day, put coconut oil in it, braid it, and let it air dry. I am as hopeless at using a hair dryer as I am at running the bay without losing valuables. It doesn't lend itself to much other than Pre-Raphaelite. In doing a bit of googling, I came across this gem, "After washing, the tresses were plaited while still wet...and then allowed to dry, creating a naturally crimped look." The source is a book called The Pre-Raphaelite Women: Images of Femininity in Pre-Raphaelite Art, by Jan Marsh.

I shaved head head in college and then proceeded to wear a beanie for six months. God bless Colorado winters. It was also the mid-nineties and things were still all "rave-y" so with my big JNCOs, silver eyeshadow, and septum piercing, I could kind of get away with it. I was dancing at a rave once when a woman started filming me. I asked her what the project was about and she described some sort of queer studies thing and then said, "And you've got that funky butch dyke look down!"

Jen loves that story.

I then grew out my hair for three years and decided to chop it all off again my last year at college. Still raving, but I was now living in London, about to graduate with a degree in Language and Literature. Obviously looking the part for my soon-to-be-offered high power job was obviously not an issue. I walked into the Toni and Guy salon, pointed to a haircut on the wall, and sat down. I had a couple long, tiny braids with beads running through the underside of my hair (rave-y?) and I asked if I could keep those and still go short. The guy didn't even acknowledge my question, rather he sniffed, raised an eyebrow, and lopped them all off.

And while hot girl ranking plummeted with the lads, I actually felt totally confident in a different way. I remember catching sight of myself while shoe shopping and thinking that even if I wasn't a "cute girl" anymore, I looked self-possessed as hell.

In typing all of this, I'm thinking that perhaps what I'm searching for is a definitive look. Dita Von Teese does not need to cut her hair in order to look like the most self confident woman in the world.
Maybe I'll guarantee singledom the entire duration of my island stay, and cut if off again.


Damn, Freja, Aloooo-ha.

"Baby, your boobs aren't big enough to use them as storage."

Today's woes actually began last night, when Baltar kicked me off his spaceship. What can I do? I am unlovable in my distance, both spiritual and physical.

Today began with new hope. Sun! The sun finally appeared, the Kauai Tourism Board exhaled, and tourists got happy and started spending money again. When the weather's shitty, the tourists get resentful of giving such an uncooperative island any cash and the service industry acutely suffers.

I took the opportunity to relax around the apartment until mid-morning, instead of my usual sprint out the door at 7:30am, trying to get in four miles before the rain started for the day. Around ten I drove down to Hanalei Bay and parked at the patch of beach known as "Grandpas." No one can tell me why it's called that, but the entire island knows it as such. There's also Kiddies, Black Pot, Pine Trees, and Bathrooms. But I like Grandpas. I don't know if that's possessive or not. Grandpa's? Do the Grandpa's own the beach? Grandpa's Beach? Or Grandpas plural, just lots of old guys.

Anyway, in preparation for my chug along the bay, I dropped the key to my car in my sports bra. I have used this trick since high school. It's always the bra drop or the shoe tie and since I was running barefoot, I had no choice.

Forty minutes later, the key is gone, and I'm a hot sweaty mess, trying desperately not to look quite so bedraggled, as I'm going to need to turn on the charm. I call my friend Renee. Her advice is first, "Baby, your boobs aren't big enough to use them as storage." And then she offers her husband to drop me in Princeville in an hour and a half. Hmmm... I call a couple more people and get voicemail. Hmmm... Hello surfers! I managed to get a shirtless beauty over to break into my car with a single sad look, but once in, I have no way to turn the engine. Hmmm... Hello beach bum!

I approach the nearest one who I know lives in his van, offer $20 and the chance to experience an actual woman in his passenger seat, and we're off to P'ville. Until the goddamn muffler falls off his car and we spend 40 minutes attending to it. Well, he attended, I took sneaky photos of the ordeal. See me in the reflection?


Get back to Grandpas, grab a smoothie, go to the farmer's market, get home and throw some laundry in, take a well-deserved shower, put laundry in the dryer...

"Goddamn it!!!" I put my new high-tech acne machine through the wash. My brand new, just paid $100 for Zeno. OK, obviously today's woes have been put into motion by my prematurely geriatric mind and I have to address it. What would Marion do? She would lecture me on amino acids and evening primrose oil. I went to Foodland, purchased two organic chicken breasts, baked them and had half of one over a salad for dinner. What would Mom do? Drink and go to bed. OK, evening sorted.

Aloha.

The Pond

It looks beautiful, doesn't it? It was beautiful on a warm morning, after a run, a light trade-wind blowing. Or a chilly morning, light rain, the hot water delicious on my skin. That shower's outdoors, and whatever mother nature was serving up on a particular day in Hanalei, I got to experience first hand. See the fresh water through the wood slats? That's another thing I got to experience, very personally. That koi pond was the source of all the water to the cabin. Washed my dishes, brushed my teeth, and bathed all my bits in that pond water. It was wonderful at first, fortifying to my city ways. I felt goddess-y standing naked outside, not really caring if the homeless man in the jungle was watching or how big the spider in the web above the shower head was growing.

Well... deep down I cared, but when you're paying $1200 a month to camp, you must be suppressing a bit of reality anyway. Five months of showering in that pond water, festering with frogs, pig shit, and various fowl, this happened:


Around the same time, my landlord developed a yeast infection in his mouth, a neighbor up the way, an eye infection, and Renee, sores on her legs that refused to heal. Doctor's orders on all three? No more pond water.

I used to be very judgmental in regard to people not taking proper care of themselves. A lot of it has to be with the fact that I'm paid to touch people, clean or not, and seriously, some folks should be ashamed. How hard is to to exfoliate and make sure your feet don't reek? But after showering in that pond water for five months, I developed eczema that I'm still battling. It flares up when I'm stressed, but keeping my skin clean and well-hydrated keeps it under control. It completely went away in Tokyo and got so bad upon my return, my boss debated letting me see clients.

In other news, I got fantastic news on the career front and celebrated by purchasing these boots:

These boots are the opposite of a dirty, pig-shit, pond shower.

Aloha.

Au courant

Yesterday was a tormenting day at work and in order to cleanse myself of the taint of so many bodies in need, I fell back on my rituals. I walked home from the resort along the cliffs over the ocean, stopping to watch for whales. At home, I made a farmer's market salad and ate outside in the very last glimmer of daylight. Then I took a bath as hot as I could stand it, poured a large Springbank, two ice cubes, and settled in for the night to eat some pretzel sticks and watch The September Issue.

I am indeed enamored with fashion. I myself am not particularly fashionable; I don't have the body or wealth for it to come too easy, nor the "eye" for it to come naturally. I could never be a stylist or editor, re-imagining clothes and inventing trends. Rather I have an intellectual curiosity mixed with a young girl's glee. I follow the shows each season, know the major players, and read the blogs. In Saudi Arabia, I would stay up very late to watch Elsa Klensch on CNN and various fashion reporting shows out of Lebanon. I can speak the language. I remember once at work asking a coworker if her client was "the one with the Anna Wintour bob?" and her insiders laugh at my question. Ah yes, Anna Wintour. She's not really the insiders code name though. No, that probably falls to Carine Roitfeld, editor-in-chief of Vogue Paris. Still incredibly famous in the fashion world, she's just off the radar enough that most people in gen pop don't know her name.



It's obvious which Vogue each of the above women respectively charter, isn't it?

One thing that struck me while watching last night was the natural appearance of so many of the woman working at American Vogue. Maybe it's because I work in the beauty industry and therefore am constantly coaching and tutoring my clients on how to achieve the plumpest cheeks, fullest lips, most even-toned complexion, but I was surprised. It could have been an East Coast thing as well. Most of the clients that I see from NYC have that similar look; wilted and wrinkly in the face, hot body, opposite of "cute" fashion. West Coast ladies are a different species, with their huge lips, big brea..., wait reverse those, big lips, HUGE breasts, and love of cute.

I do "cute" pretty well on this island, but I prefer ladylike. Ladylike with a nuance of strange, maybe. Like blue eyelet on a warm spring day in the city, but with knee socks and heels... *sigh*



Aloha.

Hawaii's quintessential address

Long day of brand training today. I work in an environment that strives for five diamond/five star status. We haven't been officially rated yet, but rumor has it we were shopped before even being open 6 months, and fears are that it didn't go well. I think that anyone shopping a major remodel under the 6 month mark, is trying to reward 4 stars instead of 5. I've helped open two spas and both were new constructions. In both locations fire alarms, loss of power, music, and data, and hvac issues were all a common occurrence. If we can get in our required two instances of formal name use, anticipation of guest needs, serve beverages on a tray, and bake a cake for your tenth wedding anniversary while the freakin' fire alarm is going off, please...

I really want that job though. I've a hawk eye for these things, fine-tuned for years by a southern mother raising a girl in the Middle East. Here's the 2010 Annual Star Awards. I noticed both the Ritz in Vail and St. Regis in Aspen only managed 4 stars. The Broadmoor scored 5 in both spa and hotel. Next time I'm back in Colorado, I want to drive down to The Springs and experience them for a night.

Working in this environment must affect my everyday life. Once one starts a new habit at work it's hard to shake it at play. One thing I am working on is my colloquial "you guys." I absolutely need to stop addressing people as "you guys." It's the equivalent of licking one's fingers at the dinner table. Or at least, that's how I'm thinking of it in my mind to get myself to stop saying it. The trainer highly suggested I use "Ladies and Gentlemen" but that's not rolling off the tongue very easily.

We touched on pointing today as well, which made me giggle, after the point-fest faux pas that was Tokyo. It absolutely does look completely tacky when you see how the gestures look done side-by-side: the finger point vs. the open hand sweep.

It's these type of things though, that make me wonder how all this is going to translate on Kauai. In Denver I could maaaybe get away with sweeping hand gestures, "Ladies and gentlemen," and drinks on trays in my everyday existence, but here? My friends in Hanalei already think I'm a princess, and so my conclusion is that in order to avoid ridicule, I'd just have to hang out with work people.

FYT, a favorite picture of Tokyo. It reminds me of getting lost in Shinjuku, and the little places that felt like solitude in that rush of humanity.



Aloha.

Mahalo for removing your slippahs.

I had broadband installed today. The tech took off his shoes before coming in, which is an absolute necessity on the islands, and in opinion, needs to carry on over to the mainland. When I watch TV now, I cringe when people wear their shoes inside the house.

When the cable guy was done, he needed to see my driver's license in order to verify my identity. He actually giggled. The Oceanic Time Warner cable guy giggled at my stupid driver's license picture. When that picture was taken 6 months ago, I didn't think it was so bad. I am embarrassed to admit it after today, but I actually thought it was kinda cute. When I protested, he said, "you just look mad in that picture!"

So I did a side by side comparison, and I don't think I look mad... I just don't look islandy yet.



If I'm at all dressed up, I still get, "where are you visiting us from?" all the time. But today, I have on a ratty dress, crazy hair, and lip gloss. It's the island girl look.

Aloha.

Wish you were here.

 Insomnia has always been one of my big issues, but since moving to Kauai, I have slept peacefully and consistently. I think it has to do with the amount of sunlight I'm exposed to, regulating my circadian cycles and pumping me full of vitamin D.

I was a total wreck this time 2009. I hated my boss, felt claustrophobic in a relationship, and was struggling with how different I was from all my friends. They tend to have things like husbands, well-paying jobs, and houses. Babies too. I had an apartment I shared with my girlfriend and our cat, a low-paying job, and no biological means to procreate with the woman I loved.

Fast forward a year... Jen and I have split up and I won't go into the gory details of what else I have cookin', but I will admit that babies are heavily on my mind. I want one. And I want one with an amazing person. I want one to celebrate the beauty of humanity and the story we tell throughout our lives. Full stop. I will update on that situation when I've some real news to share.

But moving on, or rather back, what to do to cheer myself up? The first night Jason met me, I was wearing red pants. I no longer feel quite so cavalier as to sport red pants, those these days, I use red lipstick.

When I saw the little bird on the lanai matched my lipstick, I ran outside and took a group photo. I wear my glasses about once a month, reason being, they always end up looking as they do in the photo above. Are my ears crooked? I look high.

In Kapa'a today I saw a sticker on a truck that sums up how many of the locals feel:




Notice the gun?

Aloha.

Wahine wear

It's pissed-off tourist season on Kauai, which, in translation means it's been raining every day, all day. I've been feeling down lately, and usually a cure for the blues for me is vigorous exercise. Today I said to myself, "to hell with getting wet and frizzy, I am going for a run!" And so I did, but first I had to figure out what to wear. This is usually not something I ponder, I grab shorts and a t-shirt or tank, and go.

However...

On Kauai, there is tourist wear and there is local wear. If you are local- and by local, I mean you live here, are kama'aina, not Hawaiian- then you are expected to show some skin. When I jog Hanalei Bay in shorts and and t shirt, I look like the fattest of redhead super-blobs to ever run the bay. I'm 5'8 and about 132. Not small, but not fat. But here, when you dress conservatively, you're asking to be disdained. Most girls run the bay in their bikinis. Some are tan, lithe, 23 year-olds. Some are tan, chubby, 55 year-olds. Doesn't matter, everyone's in a bikini. There's also a difference between the bikinis the locals and tourists wear. Local girl will be in a brazilian bikini, cut away on the bottoms, and hanging out everywhere. Even the big girls are in them. Tourists are in their one piece (totally weird here) or muted color full-bottom bikinis with spray tans and done hair.

A local girl is always luscious looking. Very long hair; like the rings on a tree trunk, you can tell how long a woman has been here by the length of her hair. Long hair, little clothing, faintly tinted red from the island dirt. Basically a bit off looking, compared to the mainland. I once ran into a woman at Costco wearing a beige bra as a shirt and no one looked twice but the tourists. You can get away with some crazy shit here.

Local boys are even more casual. It's hard to get them to put on a shirt. You will also know them by the Kauai local boy truck.



Keepin' it classy on Kauai. Today I ran in a pink sports bra and adidas shorts. Seven more pounds and a few more months of island living before I'm rocking the bikini.

aloha.

That aint no slippah spider

I blame Tokyo. A dear friend invited to tag along on a business trip to Tokyo, and who says no to Tokyo? I had about 2 weeks notice, which was just enough to realize I had no appropriate clothing or shoes, to order a bunch of stuff online, and for only two things to manage to get to Kauai.  Forgive me, I've spent the last 6 months basically camping on a very expensive deserted island.

So I arrive in Tokyo with my hodgepodge of collected wintery things: a velvet jacket which had been on sale for like 6 months, some boots with tons of potential, and a new perfume that was heavy and wintery and the opposite of the way anything on Kauai smells.

The jacket and perfume were winners. Boots not so much. That's my review under msmelissa on the Nordstrom site. Shhh... I wore those things all over Tokyo and sent them back a week later. But hey, I am loyal and they get lots of my money.

Long story short: Tokyo rocked. We laughed our asses off, got lost, drank excellent scotch, ate some astounding and some questionable food, bought music, and delighted in how awkwardly different American culture is to Japanese. My friend is quite small and very slim for a guy, so he fit right in, while I, being 5'8 and insisting on wearing heels the whole time, was BIG.

Even being huge there, I still felt 100% woman. I woke up and put on a kimono. I wore make-up. I wore tight clothes and even when I was in pain, I put on those heels again, because damn it, I looked good.

Coming back to this island: I arrived, and drove my beat-up car with no ac back to Hanalei. I had to stop to fill up gallon jugs of water behind the health food store, as I couldn't drink the water at the cabin. Then I off-roaded on a jungle path for 1/2 mile until I got home and lugged bags and water through the mud and foliage. The homeless man and his puppy staying in my cabin greeted me with the news all my wine and scotch were gone. The next night, I found a cane spider in the cabin. It was so huge that Jeff needed A NET to capture and kill it. That ain't no slippah spider. And then the morning after that, I took a shower, covered myself in a rich lotion, and put on my bathrobe, which unbeknownst to me, was crawling with ants which were now all over my naked body. OMFG, kill me now.

I went from clean, dry kimonos, room service and breakfast buffets, fashion and new music, to the above scenario. I moved.

Getting back to my original point, somehow this all relates, though I'm still figuring it out.

Aloha.

Tsunami Saturday left-overs

I just selected my profile picture and after glancing through the past year on iPhoto, nothing quite sums up the past 6 months as a picture of me looking bedraggled, confused, and in an obviously Kauai setting. I'm like the big, red, haole giant of the north shore, trying to fit in and yet still hold on to some semblance of the city girl I was 6 months ago.

We had a tsunami warning on Saturday and friends from Hanalei were evacuated and came and hung out with me in high and dry Princeville. They brought what food they could score from Foodland on their way over: Oreos, stoned wheat thins, brie, bourbon, and radishes. On their departure they took all the good stuff and left me with the radishes.

Radishes?

So tonight I lopped off the little radish balls and made soup with the greens.

Aloha.