Hawaii Fo' Real

I admit it, I LOVE reality television - the trashier and stupider the better. In my mind, there are two types of reality tv - those shows with some redeeming value (albeit tenuous) and those that are 100% trash tv. I feel like my soul and my brain will not turn to mush if for every hour of horrible reality I watch an hour of good reality. For example, I have an unnatural need to watch episodes of Pit Boss over and over again until I can recite every word of little people dialogue that is uttered from the adorable teeny mouths of Ronald, Sebastian, Ashley and Shorty. Of course, I can justify to myself that the hours spent locked in my room enjoying yet another Saturday Pit Boss marathon are directly contributing to the knowledge of pit bull breeds that I need to acquire in order to achieve my goal of someday opening my own bully rescue organization. Yes, yes, that is what I tell myself but the dark truth is that I actually spent $10 to order an autographed photo of Shorty (which sits right next to my laptop, still in the envelope because the Diva is horrified that I have it) because I have a mad crush on him. I also told the kids I bought the Nigahiga DVD from Shorty's Charities because they were big fans and the money went to help pit bulls but I don't remember a thing about the movie because all I did was watch Shorty (oh, and Hercules too). I can also justify watching RuPaul's Drag Race and RuPauls' Drag Race Untucked on the grounds of wanting to know more about cultural diversity and to examine current fashion and makeup trends. In reality, I watch it because those girls are even snarkier than Perez Hilton and hit below the belt with more power than Mike Tyson - pre facial tattoo era. If you haven't watched it, you really need to tune in now. Imagine a show where everyone is Danielle Staub from the Real Housewives of New Jersey, only less mannish. You will surely learn something - like why drag queens buy a lot of duct tape and the need to blend your foundation carefully so you don't look like you have a 5 o'clock shadow. Plus, two of the finalists are Asian and there are no WASPY blondes in the pack - when does that ever happen in a straight beauty contest? Now, as much as I love reality tv, a new crop of shows is really pushing my ability to justify going into a coma in front of the boob tube. I did like Sister Wives when it first came out but it is a little difficult to be sympathetic to wives' 1, 2 and 3's plight of financial strain when pimp daddy hubby pulls up to the chamungous home of wife #4 in his brand spanking new $50,000 two seater Lexus convertible. Such suffering he must be feeling as he only had the soft top for the vehicle and not the hard top. Add to that a highlight job on his faux Fabio hairdo which must have run at least $200. There are currently reality shows about people who purchase abandoned storage lockers, who run pawn shops and price antiques, who sell cupcakes and debuting this weekend, a national television network is running a show about women who cut coupons! One of the women featured in the promo explains that she spends about six hours a day cutting coupons and she feels she is a failure if she walks out of the market having to pay anything. I started thinking what the next big reality tv show will be. With the boom in all things Hawaii, how about a reality show based on the lives of us real island folk? No, not faux-waiians like the Chapman crew (although a show on the criminal activity they have been involved in would be kind of cool like Tim's nekkid arrest at Ala Moana or Baby Lyssa's recent tyrade at her neighbors or Duane cutting in line in front of everyone at the Target snack shop - including me) but real local people. The closest we have is the show Wedding Wars on VH1 that is filmed at Turtle Bay but that doesn't count even though there are a few multiracial couples and the women all boiled their panties over the fire last week. What do you think of these shows? SURVIVOR: KEEAUMOKU STREET: Each week, the hostesses are put to the test to see who can make the most bucks while having to fondle the least amount of sukebei old guys on their fourth divorce. Challenges include identifying the guy that owns the construction company from the guys who just work for him, picking out the fake Prada bag from the real simply by smell, running a mile in crystal stripper shoes to escape from the liquor commission inspector, and convincing Mama-san that the big tip in your bra is actually your change from Palama Market. The winner is the first hostess who makes enough money to pay for her red Mercedes sedan in cash. DOWNTOWN MINUTE TO WIN IT: A horny contestant is given only a minute to determine if the young lady standing on the corner of Hotel and Bethel at 3 am is a policewoman in disguise, a pre-op drag queen who was on the same football team as him in high school, his crackhead cousin Tita Girl or an actual 100% true hooker. The contestant can use his senses of smell, taste, hearing and sight but no touching allowed (unless he pays $50 up front). The winner is the one who isn't arrested, who isn't emotionally scarred by falling in love with a guy who has a bigger dingding than him, who manages to convince Tita Girl that it's still incest even if you don't pay for the sex, and who doesn't end up with more crabs than are for sale by Vietnamese fishermen at the Maunakea Marketplace. NEXT: NO BE ONE BUTCH VERSION: Happily single women are subjected to blind dates with men picked out by their interfering aunties whose one goal in life is to get these ladies married off "so people no think we get one butchy in da family". The women recieve $10 for each minute they spend on each date with a $5 per minute bonus if the guy brings his mom on the date, has a middle comb, has a long nail on his pinky which he uses to pick his nose and "flick 'em", or monkus about missing reruns of Dr. Who on BBC. The date immediately ends if the guy announces he's aunty's kumu hula or says he is required by law to inform you that he is a registered sex offender. NEXT: I TINK HE'S ONE TILLY VERSION: Happlily single men are subjected to blind dates with women picked out by their recently divorced uncles whose one goal in life is to score with the mothers of the prospective dates. The men receive $10 for each minute they spend on each date with a $5 per minute bonus if the woman has more underarm hair than they do, if her fashion sense involves a hairnet and otafuku slippers, if she admits she cannot eat spicy food "because it does damage to my piles the next day". or if she has more than 10 Hello Kitty items on her person. The date immediately ends if she bench presses more than the single guy or if she says, "I hope you are as good in bed as your Uncle." POLITICIAN MATCH GAME 2011: Contestants are shown a photo line up of 10 Asian males who are members of the Hawaii legislature and must match the face to the name. Bonus to the person who can identify which yellow politico is the one he or she voted for. In the final round, contestants must distinguish between Colleen Hanabusa, Mazie Hirono and Pat Saiki simply by hairdo. THE PRICE IS RIGHT: The game is seasonal and only occurs on December 31. Contestants must run around the island trying to find 10 pounds of top grade ahi at the cheapest price for sashimi or face the rath of an angry Japanese grandma. Winner is the one who saves enough money to buy real mochi for the kagami set and not the fake plastic one from Don Quixote. The prize, being able to show up at family gaterings the rest of the year without being labelled "one bakatare" or being demoted to only picking up poke. Loser is the one whose fish is "too expensive", "mealy", "mushy" or worst of all, "dah buggah was frozen". The punishment, being told you only need to bring napkins or chips "like da haole relatives". PRETTY LITTLE LIARS: This is a five year long competition between insane parents who are determined to get their neurotic and overindulged rugrats into private school kindergarten. Points given for creative interpretation in filling out applications - for example, referring to your son who likes to play with matches as "having a burning flame of desire for academia" or your daughter who eats poop straight from the diaper as "dedicated to organic gardening and eating healthy". Bonus points for flying in an interview coach from Tokyo University to work with your kid from age one or trading in your dumb biological child for upgraded pre-wired model from China. Automatic disqualification for paying Daniel Dae Kim and Linda Lingle to pose as you on the parent orientation tour.

Rayni My Rock

There is a belief amongst dog people that you do not choose the dog that comes into your family but the dog chooses you. I really didn't understand that until Rayni became a part of my life in 1987. She came to me after what was probably the darkest year in my life, a year of sadness and lost hope. Her spirit gave me a desire to try again for something that I always knew I wanted. And that was no easy task.

At the time I decided I needed a dog in the house, I was on the verge of staring my third and final in vitro fertilization attempt. It had really been a difficult road for Oscar the Grouch and I. We thought like most married couples do that when we decided to have kids, it would take us maybe a few months to get pregnant. Granted, we were in our early thirties - kind of on the older side physiologically - but with stories in the media about women in the 50s and 60s on the Mainland having test tube babies, it didn't seem like a long shot. Boy, we were ever wrong.

What we thought would take two months max turned into a three year ordeal that brought us to the breaking point financially, emotionally and physically. Not a single pregnancy during the entire time and worst of all, no medical reason why it was not happening. Anyone who has undergone infertility treatment can tell you that a diagnosis of "unexplained infertility" is the worst thing that can happen to you because you are in a state of limbo for the duration. In a way, it is easier to be told that there is something medically wrong with you so you will never conceive your own child. You mourn your inability to conceive a biological kid but that puts you on the path to seek an alternative. You don't have to wonder what if or when because it is effectively a done deal.

With unexplained infertility, you keep trying and trying because there is still a glimmer of hope and no end in sight. You cannot give up because there is no physical reason to stop trying. You cannot move to the other path because you will see that baby waiting for you on the other trial.

The worst part of the ordeal for me was coming home to an empty house after each month's failure. While your spouse can be a rock, he is dealing with his own issues and as compassionate and caring that Oscar was, I don't think he really understood the depths of my loss. I don't think any man can truly understand what a woman goes through when you are told yet again that it didn't take.

I knew I needed an addition to my family that would greet me when I got home from what I anticipated would be yet another failed IVF. I had a house rabbit named PJ but as much as I adored my bunny, I knew from the past two failures, he would not "cut it" in terms of emotional support. So, the month before I was scheduled to go back to Kapiolani for IVF attempt 3, I went to the Humane Society to look for a dog. As is the case with anything involving something furry, Oscar had no idea about what I was planning to do.

I had no idea what kind of dog I wanted. My only requirement was that the dog get along with my rabbit. That was pretty much it. As I walked through the cages of adoptable dogs at HHS, my heart sank because I did not feel a connection with any of them. Being a demented dog lady pretty much all of my life, I knew when the dog was the "right one". It's even more of a spiritual thing than meeting your significant other. There is just something that hits you in the heart and soul but unfortunately, I didn't feel that with any of the dogs who were in the adoptable section. However, something told me not to give up, to keep walking around the place because someone there was the right one for me.

I walked behind the adoptable dog section and saw two small crates behind the cages. Each held a dog that looked extremely scared and forlorn. I walked up to the crates and looked at the dogs. One was a Chihuahua-Terrier mix that cowered in the corner, did not take one step in my direction. The other was a black furry mutt, kind of on the raggedy side. She too stayed in the corner but when I went up to her crate, she slowly walked over to the front and leaned against the door. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and I bent down to pet her. We never broke eye contact and I knew this was my dog. However, she did not have an information card nor did she have an ID tag so I worried that she already belonged to someone else.

I asked an HHS employee about her and was told that they did not know what her status was. They let me take her into a play area and spend time with her. She was still a little shy but did not leave my side the whole time. She did not run around the pen like the other pups nor did she make a sound. Just kept looking up at me as if to say, "You know I am your dog, right?"

The employee returned and said the dog's name was Kealani. She was approximately 10 months old and her family had given her to the HHS because she was too noisy and too hyper. Swearing me to secrecy, the employee told me that she had been at the HHS for a while and was actually in the holding area awaiting transfer to "death row". It was likely if I hadn't taken her home, she would have been killed the next day. Because she was a black dog who had been considered a "behavior problem" by her former owners, she was viewed as unadoptable and the space she took up was needed for a more adoptable "pretty" dog without any issues.

Of course, I adopted her then and there. Unfortunately, I could not take her home because HHS requires that all animals be spayed or neutered before they are released to their new families. When I picked her up a few days later, I noticed that rather than surgical stitches, she had been closed up with wire. Yes, wire. I took her immediately to our vet and he was horrified. He said that was animal abuse and reported it to the authorities. This is a major reason why I cannot work at, volunteer at or support the HHS (in addition to it being a kill shelter). For almost a year after we took her home, whenever we drove past the HHS, Rayni would jump from the car seat and cower onto the floor of the car until we were near University. I wondered if it had to do with the fear that we would leave her there or the pain she underwent during her medical "care".

The vet also pointed out at her first examination that it was likely she had been abused or neglected. She had a large patch of fur missing near the base of her neck, along her back. He said she probably had been chained up all day and the collar had rubbed all of the fur off of her. She was "noisy" because she was in pain and she was "hyper" because she did not have a lot of time away from her chains. Until the day she died, she was terrified of large trucks and would bark hysterically anytime one came down the street. I wonder if she had been a guard dog who was chained up in an industrial area somewhere to serve as a watchman.

Oscar was shocked but not surprised when he returned home from his trip to Florida to find out that our family had grown from two to three.

From then on, she was my constant companion. Just as she stayed by my side during our first meeting at the HHS, she was my support as I underwent IVF number 3. My acupuncture doctor had ordered that I stay on my back in bed with my legs raised for two weeks after the IVF. Although Rayni was not a bed-loving dog (she always preferred the cool of the floor), she would jump up and sleep next to me as soon as I woke up and remained there until I went to bed. She would take her favorite spot, under the end table next to the bed, curled up next to PJ the bunny. They were just inseperable. Because PJ was black too, you couldn't tell where he began and Rayni ended.

When I would get up to do something, she was right next to me every minute. Once the pregnancy was confirmed and I got back to somewhat of a normal life, she no longer hung out in bed with me but returned to her favorite spot on the floor. However, when I was put on bedre

st at 28 weeks, she returned to my side on the bed.

Because she and I were so close, I worried about her reaction once the twins came. Would she resent the attention they required? Would she go into doggie depression? I should have known not to worry about anything like that. From the minute the kids came home, she appointed herself their guardian. She slept under their cribs and would only let my Mom and I near them. Anyone else, including Oscar, was met with a serious growl and a menacing look. When the kids were in the living room, she was right next to them watching their every moves. When they would sleep on the floor, she would serve as their pillows - one head at her front paws and the other at her back paws. Several times one of the kids would grab her tail and use it as a pacifier!!!

She continued to think of them as her property and even began "herding" them when they started walking by bumping her nose into their heels when they ventured beyond the point that she considered safe. Unfortunately, this usually resulted in them crashing down onto her, full smash, but she never snapped or whimpered. She'd let them use her to get up and would go back to herding them again.

Of course, when the Mad Cow came along, she already knew what to do and took it upon herself to be his playmate. I think she wondered why our "litter" this time was only one and not two because she spent a lot of her time letting him do whatever he wanted to her. He would pull her whiskers and she'd kiss him when he was done. His favorite game was to try and catch her tongue. It was gross and hilarious at the same time.

These are the memories of Rayni that I will keep in my heart always. Even in her final moments, she put the needs of our family first and put on a "brave face" for the kids. When they came in on Thursday morning to say what I knew would be their final goodbyes, she painfully forced herself up from what had been her standard position for the past week (lying down on her right side on the bed, unable to move) to greet them and kiss them. The minute the front door closed, she slowly went back down to the reclining position. I told her that I had to take the Diva to school but would be back shortly. Although she could not move and her eyes no longet met mine, I knew that she understood what I was saying and that she would wait for me to return.

When I got back, I told her that the kids were all out of the house and that we were ready for her to return home where she could play with her beloved bunny pal PJ and our foster dog Lana who she adored. Having been through the death of several pets in the past, I knew our time together was drawing to an end. I lay down next to her as she had done with me some 14 years ago. I thanked her and told her I loved her. She took three short breaths and she was gone. Less than 5 minutes had passed since I had gotten home.

Since she has passed, people have asked me if I will get another dog "to replace her". The answer is "Yes, I will get another dog" and "No, I will not get one to replace her". Nobody - two footed or four footed - will ever replace her. She was a one of a kind dog, my rock who was there to comfort me when noone else could. I can only pay homage to all she gave to me by rescuing another "unadoptable" dog like her.

If You're Happy and You Know It....

Two years ago, a friend of mine asked me a question that you'd think I'd be able to answer quite easily. It had nothing to do with the meaning of life or the application of the theory of relativity in the real world. It was a very simple succinct question, "Are you happy?"

Easy right - yes or no.

I am still pondering the answer to the question today. I think I answered something like, "Uh, I don't know. I guess I'm okay."

She shot me a look like the police must give a suicidal person about to take a great leap off the Golden Gate Bridge. A look that said she should either slip some antidepressants in my cup of Starbucks or suggest I download a psychotherapy app on my I-Phone. Instead, she paused for a moment and asked, "What do you mean you're just okay?"

All I could do was respond, "I'm okay, you know, okay. Not happy, not sad, just okay."

It was totally noncommittal but totally honest. Maybe it is an Asian unemotional thing but I really feel most comfortable when I am living in a state of total okay-ness. I has nothing to do with an innate need to dull any feelings but more about enjoying living as flotsam on a sea of stillness. I have no desire to ride on the crest on a big wave or exploring the depths of underwater darkness in search of some bizarre glow in the dark mutant octopi.

Why is it such a bad thing to embrace being okay?

I for one don't trust people who are happy happy joy joy all the time. I assume they are either in total denial about what is going on in their lives or have a variety of physical ailments that can only be treated by mass quantities of medicinal marijuana. Really, think about the people you know who are perpetually happy? There is something kind of unsettling about their creepy toothy smiles. Kind of John Wayne Gacy-ish. Scary scary clown. The worst is when they feel compelled to bring you over to the sunshiny marshmallowdom in which they live. I'm sorry but no matter how many jars of jellybeans or sunflowers you place on my desk, I will still prefer to share my space with gloomy Grumpy Bear with the raincloud on his tummy instead of that idiot Tenderheart Bear with the sparkly rainbow tummy.

Perhaps I need to create my own Care Bear, apathetic bear. On his tummy is the photo of someone who pretty much doesn't give a fluffy furry fart about much of anything. Of course, he would be grey and have a bottle of wine by his side.

I don't think of myself as a depressing person though. I do accept that I am very pessimistic and take great joy in seeing the pure rottenness in everyone. I know it is totally demented to take great pleasure in pointing out to myself how other people really suck but it is such a deliciously evil human experience - like watching American Idol only to see Randy get fat again or waiting for Steven Tyler to b-yotch slap J-Lo. Who cares about the singers, let me watch the dysfunction unfold in the inevitable clash of the titan egos.

While there may at times be a black cloud of doom hanging over my head, I don't feel that is a bad thing. I get lots of shade so I preserve my sickly whitish-yellow jaundiced skin tone and it lessens the occasional hot flash. When something terrible happens, I am prepare because I expected it. Plus, you have no where to go but up when you accept that you are living way way down. Besides, doughnuts stay softer longer in the dark than in the sunshine. That is the key.

Now, my kids would prefer that I be one of those ladies who spend their days dressed in crisp white clothing and doing "normal" charitable work. I overheard the twins telling their friends that I was "a strange goth Mom who wants our brother to be a drag queen". They were clearly humiliated that I was not the typical private school Mom that populates the land known as Ann Taylor. They were bummed that they got stuck with a chubby Asian Lily Munster who spends hours contemplating her next tattoo or pondering designing a line of jackets for her ugly hairless guinea pig instead having the perfect Priscilla Prissy Pants Mama who spends hours searching for the perfect set of seatcovers for her van or taking her Lhasa Apso to the spa to get matching manicures. While most mothers would be bummed at the less than positive portrait of themselves painted by their children, I was okay with it. Actually, I felt a little happy - just a little bit not enough to take me out of my perpetual so-so-ness - to hear my kids call me strange. It was like an off-kilter badge of honor (or is it horror?).

But then, as much as they dread seeing me get out of the car wearing one of my inappropriate t-shirts and a jeans skirt with a broken zipper, I know there is a part of them that feels relieved that their Mom can kick the crap out of anyone who gets in their way or at least looks that way. Maybe it has more to do with looking like a crazed homeless woman than looking tough. Either way, it's okay.

So, to answer the question, "Yes, for this moment, I am happy." What is the secret to my current state of bliss? The universal bearer of human joy - cold Panda Express leftovers in the fridge waiting to be eaten.