Fear the Crab

Harken back to the tales of old, when a man’s home became his fortress, besieged on all sides by the noisy conspiracies of cockroaches in flight, saved at the eleventh hour by the timely arrival of nose-borne boogers.

Listen well, then, when I describe the true-to-life account of the same man’s further adventures in home defense!

* * *

I was jarred awake by a crash, a sharp crack of decibel followed by the trickle of something in cascade. It sounded like breaking glass. Yes, the sound of a window break, accompanied by the tinkling of glass on the floor. Adrenaline-rush, on!

Whilst waiting for my super-Hulk-powers to formulate, I made the split-second decision to grab my collapsible baton, the one I used to carry with me on bike rides. No intruder would walk away from this encounter with an un-bumped noggin.

Maile worriedly asked what was going on, but I had to quickly calm her before entering Rambo-mode. I apprised her of the situation, then crept into the hallway, straining my ears to detect the sounds of further intrusion.

Stop! Wait by the doorway before proceeding. The killer may lurk beyond. Darn, I should have brought one of Maile’s dental mirrors to check around corners. I hoped it would not be a fatal mistake.

I had to chance a peek into the living room. The cold light of my blue LED clock cast disturbing shadows, but yielded no other movement. My eyes were well-adjusted to the dark, and I saw nothing out of place. The windows here were not broken. I continued down the hallway, stealing a glance into the empty bathroom and adjoining bedroom. My next destination was the kitchen, likely the source of the intrusion into my domicile.

If the intruder was in the kitchen, the battleground would be a tough one. If this person did not have a weapon, one could easily be found within the many cabinets. I could only hope that their search for utensils would be akin to mine (fruitless and frustrating, thanks to countless reorganizations).

The ambient light from outside filtered through the frosted louvers, glaring across the many silhouettes of pots and pans, and threatened to reveal my approach. Behind me, the wall was illuminated by this soft light as it streamed through the doorway I was next to, therefore I could not peek around lest I cast my shadow to amplify my presence. I now had a decision to make.

The light switch was on the other side of the wall I was against. I could easily reach my hand around the edge of the doorway and bathe the area in fluorescent luminescence. This would possibly serve to blind the intruder temporarily, and enable me to rush in and incapacitate my opponent with a swift chop to the back of the neck, ala Star Trek. However, my own vision would suffer the sudden burst of brightness.

My only hope would be my intimate knowledge of the kitchen layout (just, you know, not the contents of the cabinets). Having tread many a path between the tables and chairs, I could let my body’s memory of the area guide me into position during the few milliseconds available to me. It just might be enough.

Decision made, I switched the baton to my off-hand, slowly reached around the edge of the wall and pressed the light-switch. With a guttural cry from my bottom, I charged forth, stepping into the blaze of battle to challenge the intruder of my domain.

Nobody was there. The kitchen was empty, no one hiding behind the counter, nor in the sink. Both microwave and stove were devoid of life, and the toaster was untouched. The windows were intact, the doors secured, and a quick inspection of the outside yielded no signs of trespass.

This was not a trick of my imagination. I clearly heard the sound! Maile heard the sound! What was it, if there was no intruder and every barricade to my castle was left unbroken? I gripped my baton tightly. Something had come. It had gone without incident, but it had made its presence known, nonetheless.

On high alert, now suspicious of every shadow, I returned to my den. Disturbed by this recent activity, I could only find solace in the fact that when danger threatened, I was ready to defend and protect my family and home. Perhaps, some comfort could be taken from that.

* * *

Maile, in the course of these events, sleepily went to the bathroom and found that her razor, normally hanging from a suction-cup hook in the shower, had fallen. The suction had come loose and both implements clattered upon the shower tiles.

She just didn’t bother to tell me until I came back to bed.

Maile and I splurged on cinematic entertainment, buying three movies from Borders. This outing saw my first purchase of a Blu-Ray disc, Casino Royale. I haven’t watched it yet, but I have heard enough first-hand accounts of its decency to feel justified in the monetary expenditure.

The next movie was technically a choice of mine, but only so far as making its existence known to Maile. El Espinazo del Diablo (The Devil’s Backbone) is classified as a horror movie from Guillermo Del Toro, and since that director has a good history of weaving a terrific story, Maile was inclined to get this.

El Orfanato (The Orphanage) is another movie of the horror genre, and while it was not directed by Del Toro, it did feature him as a co-producer. Which could mean almost anything, I guess.

I only watched bits and pieces of the two horror movies, preferring to spend the rest of the time addressing the less-spooktacular adventures of Rayman’s Raving Rabbids. Maile contends that the movies were not at all scary, but if it’s one thing that I do not like, it’s creepy ghost kids.

My mother told me a story of how my brother would, as a young child, be awakened by nightmares in the middle of the night. The waking-up part, I’ve witnessed personally, but never thought much of it beyond a casual, “He’s at it, again.”

However, my mom revealed that my brother would wake up because he was being visited by little ghost children, who wanted him to come out and play. He would get scared, naturally, and bolt for my parents’ room. Turns out, long long ago, the area where I live was once home to a village whose population were besieged with plague, and a great number of children died. These kids were burned to stop the infection, and their spirits (along with anyone else, I imagine) still remain in the area.

If there’s one thing creepier than a ghost, it’s a frickin’ ghost kid. Adult ghosts can have a friendly melancholy that you can easily wrap your head around, and often they act as messengers of a wronged past or harbingers of omens to come. You can learn something from an adult ghost, I think. A lesson exists from those vengeful ghosts, too; don’t mess with them and get the fuck out of the house.

But ghost kids are unpredictable. They can be mischievous, they can be malicious, and they always look at you in that blank expression. Adult ghosts will tell you flat out what’s bothering them. Ghost kids seem to speak in riddles, or not at all. Ghost kids are fucked up, man, and ghost babies are the worst of the vile, monstrous lot.

Ask Maile, one of these days, to tell you the story of the ghost baby crawling out of the ocean, its lamenting cries preceding its arrival on sandy shores.

EDIT: The Kimberly told me of a time when she was house-hunting, and during a visit to this quaint little abode surrounded by a jungle of vegetation with her ex and two kids, how the house felt cold and dark. Evidence of the previous owner’s family still lay in plain view, most notably the child-proofed stairway with baby gates at both top and bottom, and acrylic-paneled banister. Something about the house was unappealing, so The Kimberly passed on it.

Later, in the car, her then-4-yr-old son mentioned that he didn’t like the house, either. When prompted why, he said, “That baby was really mean. I didn’t like him.”

FUCK!

Invited Maile’s family for a late Mother’s Day dinner. Today was the only day all interested parties could attend, in particular my mother-in-law. Besides the usual clean-ups of household areas, we made an adjustment to the arrangements of the house, that of putting the second leaf into the dining table, to extend it for the glorious occupations of more-than-six people.

Expanded dining table

If the table settings seem weird, it is because we only had six place mats and damn it all but for the unexpected but delightfully welcome guests. The flowers were a nice touch, considering we got them this very day. Had to get two more chairs from the parents’ house, but they’re cool with that, because they bought new chairs and felt no compunction to hold onto the old stuff. Why not let the kid have it?

The table does not look as different from the default setting of one-leaf, but trust me, this is naught but the longest table in the history of this one’s experience with tables. Look at the number of chairs, damn it!

I think Maile went into an overdrive of cooking. Consider the proportions of the entree to the dessert:

Mmm...

This is not a trick of the camera, but rather a documentation of the priorities given to consumables. Truly there was a distinct thought given to the order of magnitude for each dish, because as dinner progressed, Maile had much of one over the other. I leave the specifics of the selections up to the reader.

The conversations were excellent, of course, and much was to be said regarding the adventures of men and women, the complexities of living together, and the discomforts of Las Vegas outings.

I had wine. A lot of wine. ‘Twas not because of the company, no, and how rude of you to think so. I had the wine because it was an excuse to have the wine, something I have been sorely lacking as of late. The excuse, that is.

I happen to think the wine was a pleasant by-product of the evening’s festivities, especially since I finished off the Boarding Pass bottle and moved on to the Fat Bastard. Before visions of general verisimilitude of tipsy party-goers fills your head, I was the only one drinking and thus the only one with the verbal thoughts of the true intentions of men and women, living together.

Sometimes I wish I had more drinking buddies, but other times I do not. I don’t think I would particularly enjoy it if everyone else were drunk with me. It’s hard to say when it’s been so long since I’ve gone drinking with more people than myself, but I’d like to think that I would enjoy an outing of tibbly conversations and general silliness. Unfortunately, it’s a lot harder to remember the fun-timey drunk-timey when one is deep in the nethers of shiraz.

I think there is a difference between sons and daughters, in terms of following orders from parents.

If the mother says, “Go with your father to his doctor appointment,” the son will dutifully accompany the dad to the office. There, the son will sit in the waiting room and watch cooking shows, read magazines, or listen in on one-sided phone conversations from the receptionist, whilst the father goes in to see the doctor. Once the session is finished, both father and son pay for parking and leave, figuring out what to get for lunch.

However, it seems that when the mother asks that the son go with the dad, what she is really saying is, “Go with your father, sit in the doctor’s office and listen to what the doctor has to say.” In other words, the son is supposed to act as reconnaissance, after which he is to relay all relevant information so that the mother can be assured the father isn’t lying.

When the son returns home, he will be asked, “Did you go with your father?” and the son can truthfully answer, “Yes.” However, the next question then becomes, “What did the doctor say?” To which the son would reply, “I don’t know, ask Dad.”

Daughters apparently have this inherent ability to append unspoken addenda to verbal requests, and by some indications it is not limited to bloodline. Both Maile and The Kimberly seemed to know that physically sitting with my dad when he got his imaging results was what I was really supposed to do.

Yet the failure of my inability to properly decode the secret order is chalked up to my not listening. Excuse me, but from what I understand, the idea of successful secret codes is that the decryption keys are pre-arranged. It does no good if the recipient of said secret codes cannot decipher and reveal the hidden messages, much less so if he is not made aware that codes are being issued in the first place.

The trouble is, therefore, not in the fact that I wasn’t listening (I was, technically, listening quite perfectly), but that my orders were not properly worded to give the correct meaning and intention. Maile says that it should be common sense that I “know” what my mom was intending.

I contend that common sense in these circumstances is like being asked to buy milk from the market, and going after the brand that’s on sale, or the carton that has a longer expiration date. I should not be chastised for buying 2% over Skim or soy over cow, when such important decision-making factors were not disclosed properly before said excursion.

There are days when, despite the plethora of activity occurring within, I do not feel like noting anything here. Which seems rather strange, given the fact that I am writing about things here, and I will continue to elaborate on the day’s activity. Perhaps then, this is not such a day.

* * *

I mowed the lawn, using a fancy walk-behind gas-powered mower. It is fancy because the wheels adjust independently to their own heights, enabling me to lower, raise, or angle the blades for customized cutting. The mower has a gas pedal of sorts, more like a lever near the handlebars, which I have to hold down if I want the engine to continue running. I suppose it’s more like a safety feature, turning the mower off if I let go of it. There’s also a small lever that spins the front wheels, helping me push the mower along.

Despite the fanciness, I still needed to push the darn thing around the lawn. The grass grows unevenly, with thick patches on one side and dry areas on another. I think the dry side gets too much sun, while the lush side falls into shadow later in the day since it’s closer to the house. I finished off the lawn with the weed-whacker, trimming the edges and taking care of the areas the mower couldn’t reach.

One important lesson I learned; make sure the bag is properly attached. And the end of my mowing adventure, the bag was noticeably empty. I first thought that I really didn’t cut any grass, but it turned out that all the cuttings went into my shoes. The bag itself was just sitting on top of the frame, pretending to be a State worker.

* * *

A big dumpster arrived on Friday. It is for the old rotten, termite-eaten fence that was replaced by a composite material. So naturally, Maile and I took this opportunity to get rid of a few other things. One desk, one dresser, and one table were tossed in, all of which suffered from wood rot and termites. Some old broken weights literally covered in rust, including a nautilus-type home-gym system, went on top of the furniture. You know, to keep it down.

We wanted to dump more things, but then we realized that we might not have any room leftover for the old fence. I suppose stopping there was a good thing, because afterward I felt very itchy. Likely all the splinters, dust, rust, and insect droppings were doing a macarena on my skin.

A proper shower was in order. Given the earlier sun exposure, I promptly took a two-hour nap.

* * *

Maile and I finished the evening with dinner at Hy’s Steak House. Tasted the escargot for starters, dove into a prime rib and garlic steak, and topped it all off with the cherries jubilee ice cream flambe for dessert. Frickin’ awesome, I tell ya.

Afterward we stopped by Macy’s to take advantage of the wedding gift cards we collected. We looked for curtains, but couldn’t find any. Does Macy’s not carry curtains? I find it hard to believe that Hawaii’s flagship Macy’s store does not stock what a simple online search displays.

Granted, we may have just missed them. We wandered the bed and bath section, where we thought curtains would be, but we could only find shower curtains. So instead we bought some picture frames for the living room, since Maile wanted a coherent theme. Perhaps I’ll take a picture of the area, when everything’s complete.

Or maybe I’ll just wait for another blousey day.

This morning I happened upon a full-page color newspaper ad for the new subdivision developing in Pokai Bay. The pictures on that web site show some beautiful single-family homes with spacious interiors, surrounded by lush green grass and clear skies. The newspaper ad featured “EXTRA LARGE back yards!” to appeal to those families with kids, or anyone who likes to run around. The subdivision is away from the noise and hustle-bustle of downtown, but only “minutes” away from the “blossoming second city” of Kapolei. Homes start in the low $400,000 range, which considering the market around here, is pretty good.

Here’s the catch: Pokai Bay is in Waianae. There is only one road from Waianae to anyplace else, and “minutes away from Kapolei” is true, if you consider a 20-minute commute as quick, not to mention that you have to pass through Nanakuli, another large area. And if the distance weren’t bad enough, any small accident on that single road will tie up traffic for hours, and heaven help you if it’s during rush hour.

Another “gotcha” is the specific location of this subdivision. I feel I can only do it justice with this image, direct from the web site itself:

The black-and-white area to the right of the map is the Pokai Bay subdivision. On the flank are other homes, and there’s an elementary school in the corner (I taught remedial reading for one year at that school!). On the left is Waianae Mall, a little strip mall housed in big blocky buildings.

What’s key is the little area, half out of frame, near the bottom. Those silos and storage tanks. What is that?

It’s the Waianae Wastewater Treatment plant. Let me tell you, after working in the vicinity for one school year, the smell literally becomes a part of your DNA. The only thing that can save you from a nose-full of the dregs of humanity is if there’s a good wind that day blowing out to sea.

Aw, but then if that happens, your quick jaunt to the beach is ruined. Even then, you’re not missing much. The water there has some of the filthiest muck I’ve ever regretted wading in. It’s not a pleasant experience to be frolicking amongst the empty potato chip bags and used condoms. No, seriously.

The ad has the title, “You must see it… to believe it!” and I think that’s about the only thing that’s really true. Of course, you have to physically be there to see it; pictures on a pretty page aren’t going to cut it. I seriously doubt this development will attract anyone from town, despite the price. Pity the poor fools on the continent who receive this ad or chance upon the television commercial; many go forth and buy without setting foot once on the property, just because of the “allure” of owning a home in Hawai`i.

Speaking of trapping insects, Maile and I purchased some plants of the Nepenthes family, aka pitcher plants. We figured since our house has a few ant nests around the perimeter, we can watch the balance of nature at work with some carnivorous creations.

Nepenthes Red Dragon

This is the Red Dragon, a hybrid of the thorelli and truncata families. It’s supposed to be a hardy plant well-adapted to the environment around my house. We’ll see how well those big pitchers handle the tiny ants.

Nepenthes bicalcarata

The second plant is the bicalcarata, an interesting little thing that almost looks like it has two fangs on the upper lid. Rather than making with the stabby-stabby, it’s thought that the two prongs generate the nectar that attracts insects, which crawl onto the fangs and fall into the pitcher.

What’s interesting is that those Wikipedia articles list the two plants as endangered or threatened. The garden store where we bought ours grows their own plants, so perhaps the label is only applicable for plants in the wild.

Today our dining table was delivered and assembled. It’s a solid hardwood table with primavera inlay and cherry veneer, but I don’t know what the “primavera” stands for as far as furniture is concerned. The table was bought at a place called Room Stores Hawaii, which is an outlet store for the main company, CS Wo. However, the table was originally sold by the local branch of Ashley Furniture, which departed Hawaii under “mysterious circumstances.”

New dining table

I don’t know whether or not the table’s origins determined its price, but we seemed to have gotten a pretty good deal on it. For our requirements of a wood table for seating at least 8, with a pedestal base instead of legs on the outside, it seemed like $2,000.00 was the bare minimum. And this is just for the table. We already have a set of 6 chairs (we used to have 8, but my parents took two of them), but if we wanted a whole dining room set, the price would have skyrocketed. For our table, we paid less than $900.00.

I’m sure I could have found something cheaper online, but a dining table is best inspected in-person, so that was out. Craigslist was another option, but browsing there is like going to a flea market, hoping you’d find what you’re looking for.

Our table was actually the second one we looked at. The first was also solid hardwood but with a teak veneer. While the requirements were met, the color was a bit off and didn’t match the chairs we already have. We did fall in love with the table we wound up purchasing, because everything after that either did not look right, or was too expensive.

After delivery and assembly, Maile and I wiped down the table and set the chairs around it. Color coordination seemed perfect, and there was plenty of leg room. It felt like I was playing The Sims, dropping a table in the living room whilst we gather around in Simspeak. If only the rest of the house could be configured Sims-like.

I think the amount of work that goes into planning a wedding compares only slightly more than the necessary steps to change one’s name after the event.  Maile decided to take my last name, thus beginning the research and paper trails to make it happen.

What makes it seem more complicated is that for some of the agencies, the marriage certificate is needed.  This legal piece of paper won’t arrive for another 120 days, leaving Maile in a sort of limbo, or purgatory.  Social security and a driver license are such examples.

At the same time, the driver license requires that any address change must take place within 30 days of that change.  I know this is more a general procedure for anyone that moves, but for Maile it seems like it would require special attention.  Does she put her maiden name or her married name in the correspondence?  If she puts her married name, will that cause confusion at the DMV as they process the address change?

Another complicated part that doesn’t have anything to do with name changes is the addition of Maile to my health plan.  There is so much paperwork involved with this “lifestyle” change such as beneficiaries, names, addresses, and above all the added premiums I’ll have to pay.

The only agency that seemed to smoothly complete Maile’s name change was American Express.  I highly suspect it has something to do with AMEX wanting to make it as easy as possible for their customers to keep spending money.

During the initial wedding plans, Maile’s brother was tapped to help out on the registration table. An easy task to involve him in the event.In the months following, there was a bit of hemming and hawing about how he wasn’t going to go, then he was going to go, and back to not going. Shiny, just let me know a decision before it’s too late.

Soon afterward, he relapsed by taking a hit of crack. He felt guilty about it afterward, and turned himself in to his PO, and spent a couple of nights in jail.

At that point, we took him off table duty. I asked two of my friends if their daughters would like to help, and they all agreed. I then had 4 people on the registration table; more than enough to handle the crowd.

Turns out the hemming and hawing by Maile’s brother and other concerns stemmed from issues unrelated to the wedding, involving mainly the immediate family and their relationship with his girlfriend. As that came to light, there were talks and discussions and I guess everything was worked out, so that’s fine.

But now I am being told that he wants his “job” back. He felt hurt that he was taken off table duty because he really wanted to be involved and help out. Maile’s mom has suggested that I put him AND his girlfriend on the registration table, and from what I can gather, Maile agrees (though I don’t know if it’s just out of agreement or any other reason). At the time this was brought to my attention, I sorta acquiesced, without really saying anything or suggesting alternatives. I had to think about it.

Last night, I spent the better part of an hour considering everything. I believe I have come to the conclusion that I will not be changing my mind. It’s not because I don’t feel that I can trust him around the gifts; I feel I can’t trust his reliability.

It’s quite possible that he can do an excellent job at the table, and that there would be no problems and everything will go smoothly. However, at this point in the wedding plans I cannot take the chance that something will happen between now and then, leaving me stranded. I do not expect any amount of vouchers from either Maile or her mom can sway me in this, too.

He feels hurt that we took him off the job. My thought is that maybe he needs to remember this “hurt” and turn it into “experience.” Take it as a lesson in how his behavior can have an impact on others, and how sometimes, certain actions cannot be undone. Perhaps if he remembers this, if he remembers how he felt when he had to suffer the consequences of what he did, it can serve him in the future when faced with the temptation to use drugs again.

The drama is in trying to convince him of that, and in a way that he doesn’t use it as an excuse to go back to drugs (the old “woe is me” attitude). And, too, I will most likely be suffering the consequences of this decision. Whether it’s from him, or Maile or her mom, I can’t tell.

Today begins the first day of living alone. The Parents have moved into the new “smart house” for the most part, leaving me responsible for my own daily upkeep and maintenance. For the time being, I have to content myself with leaving the house as it is now and hold off on any reorganization. One reason is because I don’t have the time just yet to devote to moving furniture and cleaning out closets; another is that I need new storage compartments like file cabinets and bookshelves to start organizing. I also have a wedding coming up, and Maile-plans to arrange for her moving in.

So currently I just use three rooms in the house: bedroom, bath, and kitchen. The kitchen will prove interesting, as I am a complete moron when it comes to cooking (see earlier post about Rice Krispie treats). At this point I wouldn’t trust myself with frozen pizza, and I’ve had bad experiences with THAT.

I was made aware that some people aren’t going to be attending the wedding reception. Shiny, just get me the RSVP card so I have a record. What I did notice was that this drops the guest count to a point where we lose some hotel compensation; that is, the amount of money we spend has dropped below the threshold for certain freebies. To me, it’s not a big deal, but Maile wants to add more people. I’m fine with that, and I made the suggestion that maybe we can invite the rest of the people from The Dental Lab, since we couldn’t before due to the cost. If anyone asked, we could just say that we got our tax returns and can now afford to bring everybody else. Maile agreed. Maile went to The Lab and hand deliver some invitations we had prepared.

Afterward, I was privy to the activity that occurred. Seems the invitation for one person at The Lab was “altered” by request of other parties. Instead of inviting that one person plus a guest, these other parties made Maile change the invitation to just include that person. Some of the reasons for this change were given to Maile as, “She doesn’t have a boyfriend and isn’t married, so you only need one” and “You’ll probably only get $20.00 from her AND her guest.”

That set me off. Maile found my reaction extremely funny, but I am most upset with this interference of our wedding reception. I find it quite rude to not only force me to choose who I don’t invite, but also imply that the reason I want to invite people is to score some money. That’s fucking offensive to me.

I don’t fucking care if person B irritates person A; that’s the personal property between those two. If I don’t have a problem with either, why should I not invite the both of them? I’m not going to make the decision to attend for either person. If both sincerely want to attend our wedding, I’m sure they can both act civil for 2 or 3 hours even if I seat them on different tables. If either feels they can’t put aside their differences for me, then they can decline their attendance.

I’m inviting people whom I feel I want to share in this special moment. I do appreciate those that suggest I should invite another person I didn’t previously consider, since I am forgetful and might not remember that Ms Jane Doe helped pay my way through college or something. What I don’t appreciate is any suggestion that I DON’T invite someone because of a personal problem someone else has. In fact, I’ve already NOT invited someone from The Lab because of pressure from outside sources.

And to tell me that I’m only going to get $20.00? Ridiculous. I don’t need gifts. I’m not doing this crap for gifts. You want to give me a gift? Fine. I am sincerely thankful for your generosity and I do appreciate it. Yet I do expect that you give that gift out of the kindness of your heart. Don’t misinterpret my invitation to share in this joyous occasion as a request for you to give me materialistic shit.