Kinda a Big Deal: Part III

Part III: Travis’s mom is also kinda the man

And so begins the final chapter in the Agustin saga...

At some point post luau but still during my bacchanal blissed out state, I had told Travis’s Mom that I’d love to go sightseeing the next day with her, Sarah and Deshie. It never occurred to me that either one of us would follow through with this; until Travis called the next morning to cheerfully remind me of what I had agreed to.

I felt like Death. No, Death would never be this hung-over and slovenly. Death would not have drooled all over its pillow in the night. Death would not have prayed for the end at 4 in the morning when it began dreaming it was being chased by girly men in orange sarongs. Death would have remember to put pants on as it crawled into bed after pigging out at the luau (get it, pig out? Mwhahahahahaha. And yes, Death would have made a better pun there).

So I pulled on the only pair of shorts that would fit and dragged my bloated carcass out the door. I met up with Travis’s Mom, Deshie and Sarah and slid into the backseat praying that I would not become “that weird girl who

booted in the car that time.” Small goals. Baby steps, Jess.

Mrs. Agustin proceeds to not only drive us all over beautiful Oahu but first tells me all about the pertinent island history and then interrogates me cheerfully along the way, alternating her questioning of me with her questioning of Deshie. Before we even reach the Dole Plantation, Deshie and I have disclosed our names, ranks, serial numbers, our status as organ donors, and most importantly, all the pertinent details of our respective love lives. Deshie’s involves a super-jacked college football player, and mine involves…Aaron, leader of the Mobile Irish Car Bomb Unit. I can tell Mrs. Agustin is impressed with my choice and only wishes her little Sarah was quite as lucky.

Eventually, she drops us off at the entrance to the Dole Plantation Pineapple Maze, site of the largest outdoor maze according to the Guinness Book of World Records in 2001.

Let’s review for a second what pop culture has taught us about outside mazes, shall we?

Exhibit A: Take family friendly Harry Potter. Remember the one where Harry’s super preppy classmate gets snuffed out by Ralph Fiennes (sans nose) in the maze? Oh I do. Important lesson for the kiddies: It’s all fun and wizard games until somewhat gets fried and the maze tries to drag them off.

Exhibit B. Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Winona Ryder and Jude Law’s ex-wife decide it’s a really good idea to go out cavorting in an outside maze during a storm in their nightgowns and then wham! First they’re making out and then Pow! Jude Law’s ex is being eaten by a hirsuite creature played by Gary Oldman with a bad accent. Not exactly a happy ending for anyone.

Finally, Exhibit C. Reach way back to The Shining. Crazed Jack Nicholson chasing his family around with an ax in the maze until it comes to life and starts chasing them around in a blizzard of bad special effect from the 70's. Good times.

I think we all know where I’m going with this.

Mazes are super fun!

Pineapple-shaped mazes are even more fun when you send in three females in it with no senses of direction and little motivation. We gamely wander about looking for all these bizarre checkpoints, pineapples: palm trees, suns. I climb through holes in the hedges and suddenly I find my inspiration. All I can think about is…Dole whip. Delicious Dole whip waiting at the end of the maze. A glutton to the end. Eventually, I convince Sarah and Deshie that while this has all been in good fun and what not, there is Dole whip to be had and there is no shame in quitting. That’s right, we left the maze early to join up with Travis’s mom (the only one of us smart enough not to go into the maze) and then we all head into the plantation to get Dole whip, a glorious creation that looks like soft serve, but tastes like pineapple divine. (Check out the picture I snapped while in line and decide if you’re as supremely mature as I am).

From there we embark on and all out assault of the beaches: Waimea, Sunset, Pipeline. I am bowled over by Mrs. Agustin’s ability to wedge the car into the most impossible of parking spots all the while explaining to me in the rearview the different characteristics of each beach. These beaches, all strikingly distinct in composition and appearance, all share one thing in common this weekend: The waves are enormous, a parting shot from the most recent storm. The waves are large enough that the lifeguards have posted the “no swimming, no surfing, no going within 25 yards of the surf unless you have a freaking death wish” signs. Of course, there are several morons trying their best to pretend they are illiterate and disregard these signs. A threesome inches closer and then step over the imaginary line drawn in the sand.

The lifeguard picks up his megaphone with a sigh. “Excuse me folks,” he booms, “we’re asking everyone to stay behind those signs at least 25 yards from the shore because of the dangerous undertows.” He puts down the megaphone and reapplies zinc oxide to his nose. The trio edges closer to the shore. The lifeguard picks up his megaphone again. “Hey guys, maybe you missed the signs or misheard me the first time but it’s incredibly dangerous out there today so we’re asking everyone NOT TO GO WITHIN 25 YARDS OF THE SURF. SO PLEASE GET BEHIND THE SIGNS.”

The lifeguard doesn’t even put down the megaphone this time. He hates his life.

The trio makes a break for the shore. “OH FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY. ARE YOU PEOPLE DEAF, DUMB, AND STUPID? DO YOU REALLY THINK I’M GOING TO JUMP IN AFTER YOU AND SAVE YOUR DUMPY ASSES FOR 15 BUCKS AN HOUR? FAT CHANCE! I’M GOING TO SIT UP HERE IN MY LIFEGUARD CHAIR AND LAUGH WHILE YOU DROWN.”

Okay, so the lifeguard doesn’t say this. But man, you can tell he wants to. Instead, his tanned highness descends the lifeguard tower and stalks across the beach to have a private word with the Darwin award triplets. I can only imagine that he is speaking very slowly and using monosyllabicsm to explain the finer points of being dragged under by killer waves.

Now, at this point, it’s about 5 pm and I’m starting to nod off in the sand, but Mrs. Agustin isn’t done with us, we’ve only driven around 2/3rds of the island at this point. As I slide into the car, my head lolling from side to side, I am in deep admiration of Mrs. Agustin. Not only is she a saint for driving us around the island, but she is also the nicest, most energetic person on the planet. And she packed us cookies! She packed us cookies and Capri Sun juiceboxes! She has just surpassed Travis as my favorite person on the whole island. Sorry, Trav.

The rest of the island tour is a bit of a blur to me, the one standout is Chinaman’s Hat, a lush green island rising out of the blue waters. I remember it so distinctly because…well…there’s no way that that can be its real name, right? Not in the age of all things politically correct, right? Oh but it is.

Again, I nod off in the car only to wake up to Mrs. Agustin telling a ghost story about the Pali lookout and how during the great battle to unite the islands of Hawaii, the great King Kamehameha and his men started throwing soldiers off the top of the mountain. The legend goes that at night you can still hear them screaming atop the lookout as they fall. Mental note to self – go back to Pali lookout. During the day. And pack Capri Sun juiceboxes.

When I wake up again, we’re back in Waikiki and Mrs. Agustin is thanking me for the company, as if I did anything other than shuffle around like a detoxifying lump all day. I probably even drooled in the backseat, it’s just dark and no one can see it yet. I thank her profusely. In a single day, Travis’s mom has pretty shown me the entire island and told me all of the good stories you won’t hear on the tour. Plus she fed me cookies made from scratch.

Travis, who is Kinda a Big Deal, had to come from somewhere right? I think we all know that point of origin now. Like I said, Travis's Mom, also Kinda a Big Deal :)

Kinda a Big Deal: Part II

Part II: Travis is still the man.

“So you ready for your first luau?” Travis asks.

Ready is an understatement. I was born for this. There are very few things I do well, but eating is one of them. And Travis has already given me a preview of the menu: “oh you know,” he says offhandedly, “pulled pork, fried chicken, BBQ beef, mahi mahi, coconut cake…”

Travis, you had me at pulled pork.

From the window of his father’s car, he eyes the sky critically. There are dark clouds moving over the island, hardly ideal weather for an outdoor luau. This is immaterial to me. If the sky were raining volcano ash, I would still sit there eating fried deliciousness and you would find my charred ashen remains intact and ready for a Pompeii-style exhibit. You know the one, where people’s bodies were found in various poses, asleep, crouching, huddling. I would be the one with the engorged stomach and one hand with a fistful of meat going for her mouth.

Travis’s Dad drives out to Pearl City, where Travis lives, and we are joined by Travis’s little sister, Sarah and her visiting from the mainland friend, Deshie, but not before Travis’s mom decks me out in a fragrant lei. I feel like family already. Sarah and Deshie are 18, this is what we literally geeks like to call foreshadowing. In case you’ve missed it, they’re underage. This will come into play later in the story.

Travis, who Sarah calls “Trav” drives us up a highway and into an industrial park. I am convinced that Travis is either a. lost or b. a serial killer about to finish us off. He chatters on about gasoline refineries. Something something nothing to do with pork, so I’m not really listening, but looking out the window, the sky is cloudy, but it looks like we may not be eating waterlogged pig at least. Which I would still be okay with.

Eventually, we pull into a beautiful spot, hard to imagine only minutes before we were in an industrial park, right by the crashing waves and a gently setting sun behind clouds. “Welcome to Germaine’s.” Travis grins.

Again, because Travis is the man, he’s already explained some of the finer points of the luau. By finer points, I mean, how to get more alcoholic froofy drinks. Admission gets you dinner and three drinks at the bar, but, if you buy a souvenir Germaine’s glass (8 dollars at the giftshop, folks), it’s like you’re getting twice as much. Guess where I headed first. Souvenir glass? Check.

We stake out eating spots, it’s family style, so we find a nice table with some people from California. At some point, the stage lights come on and a well-fed woman in a red mumu, our lovely hostess, invites us to go watch the traditional removal of the pig from the underground oven. We all mosey over to where the oven is and two burly Hawaiian men clad in (not making this up as you’ll see from the pictures) orange sarongs, like the sarongs that women wear to the beach when they’re feeling all thunder-thightastic, appear with conch shells. They blow on these. I can’t stop staring at the heftier of the two men. His sarong is cinched awfully snug. Two words: love handles. Clearly, someone hasn’t just been removing the pig from the underground oven. Snark snark snark.

Then the fire guy, also in a girlie sarong, comes barreling out to light the torches around the circle. Of course, they won’t stay lit because it’s quite windy by the ocean. (Random disgression time: This reminds me of being a camp counselor and a torchbearer. For Indian Pageant, we would soak these enormous torches and hope to light the four torches without igniting ourselves or the campers. It was good fun, huge risk management issue of course. And maybe one year, my best friend Jane and I overdid the torches for Indian Pageant, and maybe we almost lost Julie B. to the torches one there. I dunno how she kept her eyebrows. But man oh man, did it look cool and getting loopy of kerosene wasn’t so bad either). Anyway, torch man tries to do his thing, gives up, heads off to sulk in his girly man sarong off stage.

Now the announcer explains that the two men have a hard job removing the pig from its underground oven. To demonstrate this, these two laborers reach down, open the lid, shake a fisherman’s net full of world’s most delicious smelling pork. Very hard work. Then one of them reaches down and pulls the pig head out and puts that on top of the pile. Still, I’m not seeing the labor here. You should see my mom stuff a turkey, everyone, including the turkey, are breaking a sweat by the end of it. Anyway, then the men lift up net swinging it little to show its heft, a little piece of pork falls to the sand. I am dismayed at this (this pork could have found a happier home in my stomach, thank you very much) and am markedly less impressed with these two. The announcer invites us back to our seats to get ready for some entertainment. Travis and I hang back. Travis has a new camera and wants some beach shots of the ocean, so imagine my snarky pleasure, when after everyone else has left, a little golf cart appears to truck the pork off. The dudes aren’t even gonna carry it over to the serving table. I point this out to Travis and we have a good laugh and make sarong jokes. Snark snark snark.

Entertainment happens, this involves smoking hot wahines (ladies) in hula attire, green skirts, yellow tops, and bare-chested ripped men. This is fine by me, but it’s tough to concentrate on the hip shaking and the cultural story telling accentuated by chiseled abs because I haven’t eaten since 11. I can smell smoked meat in the air. And I’m two drinks down. Travis assures me there will be more opportunities for cultural enhancement later after food has been consumed. Whew.

Eventually, we get to the buffet table and I pretty much heap anything that is fried, meat-based, or coconut covered onto my plate. I am proud to say that Sarah and Deshie took as much or more than I did back to the table. Alas, one member of our party did eat fairly daintily. Not that I’m calling you out, Travis.

Deshie tries poi (pictured purple goop in cup). Poi is a Hawaiian delicacy. Poi is Hawaiian for “tastes like school paste.” I’ve already done my poi tasting. Travis advises that dumping sugar in it makes it taste bearable. It doesn’t. Then it tastes like sugar covered school paste. Trust me, skip the poi, double up on the coconut cake.

Food is beyond description. I’ll try anyway: It tastes like the best Christmas morning I’ve ever had. It tastes like the time the Red Sox won the World Series in my lifetime. It tastes like there’s a party in my mouth and everyone is invited.

After I clean my plate, go back for seconds, and then for four more slices of cake, I get another lava flow, delicious alcoholic fruity drink. The bartender cards me. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh. I get back to table and Sarah is giggling. “Aren’t you like, old?” She asks this having seen the whole thing. How to answer this, I wonder? I think throwing poi on her is out of the question. She is Travis’s little sister. To add insult to injury, Deshie returns to the table shortly thereafter with her own lava flow. An alcoholic one. “Didn’t they card you?” Sarah asked wide-eyed. “Nope,” Deshie says proudly. Triumphant giggling ensues. (see picture, Deshie on the left, Sarah on the right. Would you serve liquor to either of these two and think it was legal to do so?) Great, the 18 year old can get a drink, but little old cobweb-covered, one foot in the grave Snarky can’t get no respect.

The lights go down and the real Hawaiian entertainment starts. I’m better able to concentrate now on the cultural aspect. The dances get progressively more intricate. A line of hula girls appear with poi balls which they whip around themselves like little round ninchucks. Then the fire dancer dude comes out and even though it’s windy, he goes nuts, twirling the fire around until my mouth just hangs open for a good three minutes during his entire act and encore. What could top the fire dancer, one might wonder? Here I’ll help you. Up until this point, the hula dancing has been more chastely animated and less suggestive. Well, that all goes out the window as the music goes slinky and the men start clearing their throats in the audience as one particularly attractive hula girl, lit in only blue light, begins to undulate to the music. She’s facing away from us, bare backed. I know that all of us: bloated snarky blogger, conservative Midwestern bible reader with two children present, greasy ponytail man from Vegas with fake pleather vest, are all thinking the same thing: Is she topless? (And for most of us in the audience, in particular the teenage kid with acne in front of me is thinking, please god, please let her be topless).

Beautiful hula girl turns around. A collective breath exhales sharply.

Of course she isn’t topless, you pervs. This is a family show. She’s wearing red sequined pasties. Pasties, man’s gift and curse. Pasties, the controversial compromise to nudie dancing reached by no less an authority than the Supreme Court.

Well-fed red mumu lady closes down the show. I will refrain from all jokes about things not being over until the fat lady sings. But hey, that’s what happened, okay? Just telling it like it is.

Being responsible, we make Sarah drive us back to Travis’s place where his mom promises to take me sightseeing the next day with Sarah and Deshie. I’m my glorious food coma state I agree, thinking that this is just one of those polite things you say to guests but never act upon, and besides, I have just one thought right now: how quickly can I get into a pair of elastic waist pants?

First luau. Total success made possible again by Travis. Apart from being a total lightweight at the buffet table, Travis turns in another stellar performance as tour guide, gentleman, man of leisure, luau extraordinaire. Still kinda a big deal.

Next up. Kinda a big deal – Part III: Travis’s mom is kinda the man too.

Kinda a Big Deal: Part I

These next two blogs will pay humble homage to my officemate and tour guide Travis.

Part I

Travis is the man. Although this coop is the first time we’ve gotten to hang out, Travis and I have been crossing each other’s paths, unknowingly, for quite some time. We both went to Colby (okay, so I’m a little senior to Travis, I’m what you called of “advanced age” so we only overlapped by a year, but we knew a bunch of the same people). We both worked at the Colby bookstore and shared the same “best boss ever stories” (Barb is still my favorite employer of all time). Then Travis and I wound up at the same law school as Huskies. And then we both found ourselves in Hawaii on this co-op. Small world. Stop yawning. I’m working up to snark. Snark targets will involve chunky go-go dancers, so keep reading.

Anyway, Travis is from Hawaii and eventually he wants to come back here to practice, so he is my default tour guide and walking Hawaii encyclopedia. I pepper him with questions on a daily basis.

They range from the stupid: Travis, how do I pronounce ‘kapiolani’?

To the legally philosophical: Travis, how come nobody owns the land they live on?

To the irritating: Travis, where can I find a burrito?

And finally to those questions you want to ask but shouldn’t in polite company.

Me: Travis, what’s with all the streetwalkers outside Denny’s?
Travis: They’re part of the tourism industry. They have an understanding with the cops. Those ones aren’t totally trashy, they’re kind of like “on demand” hookers. They cost more than regular cable-type ones. But then, around the pro-bowl, the real talent flies in from Vegas and there are turf wars.

Me: Oh. But why are they outside Denny’s?

Travis: Bars close at 4 in Hawaii, Denny’s is open late. They know to go there for the late night crowd. (Unprompted) Wanna know what they call male transvestite hookers?

Me: (Pausing, wondering why Travis would know this, and still picturing attractive Vegas talent stepping off the plane in Hawaii come pro-bowl time. Do they all take the same flight? Would it be like migratory birds, a massive influx of streetwalkers in strange sequined plumage? And does Denny's PR department know about this? Maybe they could offer a late night special value meal like...sorry, back to Travis and his male transvestite hooker fun facts)…Umm…yes?
Travis: Mahu.
Me: “Mahu.” I repeat. (Mental note. Do not order ‘mahu’ on demand and do not go out clubbing during Pro-Bowl and wind up in the crosshairs of a hooker turf war).

Right, so back to my point that Travis is the man, and he got us in free everywhere, which makes him kinda a big deal. We went to the promotion event at Fashion 45, the Waikiki Trade Center’s newest night life addition. There was an open bar from 9-11, we showed up at 10:30 or so, bypassing the velvet rope and the 15 buck entrance fee, and then Travis and I, true to our Colby and Northeastern roots, did our schools proud. I won’t speak for Travis, but I wound up somewhere between 5-9 free drinks in the ½ hour remaining for the open bar. Ho-hum, ho-hum.

Also, and I’m sorry to say I couldn’t snap any pics of them discreetly (you’ll just have to take my word and Travis’s), but the bar hired go-go dancers (we think) to get things started. These girls ranged from the very attractive underfed low self-confidence hotties to a Yeti in a too-tight white mini with no discernible undergarments (shudder shudder). In addition to trying to get the liquored-up patrons on the dance floor, they were nice enough to grind up on each other, super nasty style. Good god. All I have to say has been best stated by the immortal movie, Dodgeball: “Usually you pay double for that kind of action, Cotton.”

I will also note that taking pictures at all or remembering one’s name after 5-9 free drinks is somewhat…challenging and I know that I haven’t previously posted any trashy going-out pics prior to this, indecently clad Europeans yes, but no messy bar scenes. Not so much here. This restraint arises out of my utmost respect for Travis. He’s a gentleman. And this has nothing do with the fact that Ms. Drunk Snarky could barely work the camera, never mind the flash. Sigh. Good times. You can at least get a feel for the tribal feel at Senor Frogs.

At some point, we moved to another bar, Senor Frogs. Again, there’s some talk at the door and the cover is waved, my hand is stamped, and someone hands me a plastic cup called “The Yard” (seen pictured as held by Travis), which bears the following inscription. “Warning: Yard consumption may enhance the appearance of others. We are not responsible.” (I didn’t know it said this at the time. I didn’t see this inscription until I woke up the next morning in bed cradling the Yard like a teddy bear. To complete the image I also had a big smeary blob of a hibiscus on my face that looked alarmingly like a bruise. I think this was the hand stamp from the first place. Otherwise, I cannot explain the appearance of this flower on wrist and cheek.)

Senor Frogs was big and flashy and loud with some sort of tribal music and packed with sweaty, tan people and it reminds me of Coyote Ugly where the bartenders (pictured below) get up on the bars and dance for your entertainment. They even find a clever way to incorporate the Yard into their routine. The best part is though, they’re dudes, not skanky anorexic chicks who can’t act (sorry, Coyote Ugly) or fat wilderbeast go-go dancers without panties, so I feel good cheering them on. These guys I did manage to get a picture of, more or less.

And the night devolved from there as people got really sloppy until I woke up sometime the next day, as previously stated, cradling the Yard in bed, smeary blob-like flower on my face. I know what you’re thinking – total overachiever. It’s okay to be jealous.

Like I said, my officemate, kinda a big deal on the Waikiki Club scene. Stay tuned for kinda a big deal – part II. My first luau. No orca-fat go-go dancers. But will involve men in sarongs with love handles, and pig parts.

And the winners are...

Dear loyal blog followers.

The results are in!

1. The B-52 Bomber is: an unnecessarily large cockroach. Sorry Mom. These unsettling Sugar Cane roaches are aptly named because they fly and it is impossible to take them down because of their hard shells. Fun fact: they can live without their heads for up to a month. I have only ever seen one on a sidewalk in Honolulu. I mistook it for a pothole.

2. In order to combat the rat problem, the Hawaiian government released what non-indigenous predator into the fragile ecosystem: the mongoose. The mongeese did not solve the problem because they are nocturnal and instead devoured the local bird population at an alarming rate. You see them every now and again. They’re ugly little suckers too; looks like someone stuck Ross Perot’s face on an opossum.

3. Which of these is not a delicious island delicacy? Mahu. The Mahu is actually the Hawaiian word for male transvestite prostitutes. A Locomoco is a Hawaiian breakfast dish, although there are many variations, the essential loco moco consists of white rice topped with a hamburger patty, a fried egg, and brown gravy. Sound gross? You should see it. This of course can only mean that Aaron will want to eat at least two of them when he comes out here. A Puka Dog is an island hotdog of sorts made of premium Polish sausage type meat (read: weird pig parts) jammed into a delicious bun with gooey mango and pineapple sauces. Malasadas are hot dough balls with delicious creamy filling, imagine that fried dough and cream puffs had a love child, this would be it, and you would eat it, you just ate someone’s baby.

4. If you are caught jay-walking in Waikiki, a bike cop in neon green will: issue you a 100 dollar ticket. Neon green Fascists.

5. Which beloved Boston Red Sox ran in the Honolulu Marathon in December? Hideki Okajima. Melissa, we are temporarily revoking your status as a Red Sox fan.

6. Which of these films does not feature a scene in beautiful Hawaii: “Into the Blue” is set in the Bahamas and although Jason rightly points out that “Snakes on a Plane” does feature “a hottie getting bitten in the boob,” there is also a scene involving Sam Jackson in the Honolulu airport, my friend.

7. A lava flow is a local shot consisting of: light rum, pineapple juice, cream of coconut, banana, strawberry puree. The strawberry puree is what makes it look red like lava. I drink these at an alarming rate on weekends, they go down real easy. A lot of you guessed D., the one with overproof rum. This is actually the recipe for a Suffering Bastard. Haha joke on you. A. and C. were Jess Martin creations.

8. Brush up on your Hawaiian vocabulary. The word `ôkole means: orifice, usually the anus. Pretty much everyone got this. You're all just as mature as I am. So there.

II. Multiple Choice Questions about your Blogger:

9. I work in an office affectionately known as: the Fish Bowl.

10. During the 2008 all island, all night power outage, I stumbled around armed with: a green glowstick.

11. On Christmas Day, I did all of the following activities except: sang the holiday favorite “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” at a Japanese Karaoke bar. Yes Leslie, you’re right. I wish I’d done this.

12. I caused a stir at the local farmer’s market at the base of Diamond Head by: falling down an embankment, winding up with backside covered in mud. And then I had to walk around nonchalantly in my white shorts as if nothing had happened. Of course, everyone selling at the market faced the hill where I had fallen and they all chattered unflattering things about my balance in Hawaiian. I couldn’t even haggle that day, I had no bargaining power. I was the white honky who looked like she’d crapped herself.

13. On the two occasions I have attended a free hula class, I most resembled: a badly wounded walrus. The real answer is D, I’ve never attempted to hula, I don’t want to be asked to leave the island. But, I liked “C” so much and I really do feel this is representative of my dance skills in general. So I took “C” or “D” and everyone guessed one of these two, so every at least got one right.

Short Answers/Essays, if you must:

14. If your snarky blogger were a stereotypical symbol of Hawaii (such as a palm tree), she would be _________________.

Here are my top 3 picks:

1. A volcano, amazing to admire, but not as dormant as she might seem.

(Thanks, Hubbard. I love that you called me dormant. This cracked me up).

2. “A volcano because you are the Hawaiian god of liquid filled chocolate cherries and all else chocolate, what does down often flows up” (Thanks, Dad).

3. “Pale Tourist” (Thank you, roomie. Love you too).

15. If you yourself were a stereotypical symbol of Hawaii (such as a palm tree) you would be _________________. (Not so easy to turn the knife on yourself, is it?)

Here are my top 3 picks:

1. “I would be one of those dashboard hula girls…cause that’s what I look like when I dance (bop bop bop), I like free rides, and everyone should have me in their car.” (Michelle, you rule. Bob, bop, bop).

2. “the native guy from ‘Forgetting Sarah Marshall’ who looks like a giant baby.”

(Anna, I laughed so hard and then had to watch the movie).

3. “I would a polyester Hawaii shirt. I’m durable, weird, but I kinda fit in…ish). (Roomie, you made both of my short essay lists. Baller. Except that you spelled “durable” wrong. And I sat there looking at “dirable” for a good awhile and had to phonetically sound it out).

Bonus Question: This is a legitimate Hawaiian idol. Fill in the blank…

“I am the SHARK god.”

I did like “Fecal god, left by my dog after eating something not so agreeable,” and “Richard Nixon Look-Alike.”

Prize winners:

Okay, there was a tie for Grand Prize winners with 9 correct, so those two got the top prizes. And then I agonized over honorable/horrible mention prizes. I wanted to go with 5 and then that # crept up to 8 and 8 is such an awkward number. So in all, 10 people are getting prizes. Everyone else gets an air high five.

Grand Prize Finishers:

Amy Langley Panichella: Amy repeatedly tells me that she is my most loyal blog reader and guess what. She is! Well, she shares this dubious honor with the other grand prize winner. Your prize? You my dear are getting a lovely set of kiu kiu beads. Kiu kiu beads are island treasures, native Hawaiians also use this nuts for lamp oil. They were so beloved that the Hawaiian Royalty incorporated these nuts into their royal crowns. Also, although you are tiny, the shirt is not for you, it’s for the Bean. And yes, it is too large for the Bean. This is because I had a mental break down while in the store staring at all these bizarre designations such as 15-16.2 months of age. I’m sure you know this, but it was news to me that babies grow at an alarming rate. And then the saleslady made the fatal error of asking me if I had a little one at home. This caused me to run screaming and so I fled to the kiddie t-shirts section which was less intimidating, so when the Bean grows bigger and is less blobby and anatomically sound, she can wear this. Oh, and I threw in some local chocolates for you and the hubby.

Anna Lawless: When I saw this dashboard hula, I thought, wow, Anna has a brand new car and an unhealthy love for the law. So shake it Lady Liberty. And if you hate her, you can give her to Scout to shred and just tell me that you were in a car accident and only Lady Liberty was lost. But really, you should watch her shake her hips. She’s mesmerizing. I did not send chocolate since you already threatened the life of a co-worker who brought in cookies, and I don’t really want to be sucker punched when you get off the flight, as funny as that might be.

Honorable Mention Prizes:

FAMILY PARTICIPATION PRIZE: My Dad: You’re my hero. And you were the only family member who participated, even though my Mom is a total blog stalker AND she tried to solicit trivia answers from me ahead of time by pulling the “but I was in labor with you for nearly two days” card. Think blood runs thicker than water? Think again. Dad - Your gift is a secret because you like surprises, so it will be arriving soon and then you can show it off to Mom and John and they will feel SUPER JEALOUS.

BEST COUPLE PRIZE: Melissa and Jimmy. Good effort guys, you each scored a “6”.

Your Prize: These creepy little dolls came in the package positioned this way, I didn’t put them that way to be suggestive. You can share custody if either one of you can stand to have them in your room at night. I swear, the little dude one, his eyes follow you around (which is why I covered them with a plastic bag while they were still in my possession). The other little prize did not come with the dolls, in case you were wondering.

Horrible Mention Prizes:

(You guys are all getting shot glasses of some sort because obviously you all were drunk when you took this quiz. So they won’t go to waste. Snark snark snark. Actually, they’re kinda cool because they have the drink recipe written right in them).

BEST OVERALL USE OF SNARK: Leslie Stierman, your colorful little comments such as, “you wish you sang karaoke at a Japanese bar on Christmas” and other assorted snarks wins you a “Shark [snark] Attack” shot glass.

BEST DESCRIPTION OF JESS MARTIN: Hubbard: I don’t think I’ve ever been described as “dormant.” I like that, it’s like I’m a bad recessive gene. And because Aaron is probably going to beat you up after he reads your answer, you are getting a Screaming Tiki shot glass. I looked for a volcano themed one, but they didn’t have one, and this one was funnier anyway and uses Irish liqueur. Like you, funny and Irish.

BEST DESCRIPTION OF YOURSELF: Michelle: you rock my face. Everyone should have you in their car. Bop bop bop. You’re getting the Hawaiian Sunrise shotglass with the hula girl. Because everyone should have you at the bottom of their glass.

WORST SCORERS (Less than 6 right) – THE WIPE OUT AND BEACH BUM AWARDS:

Wipe Out Award – Jason. Wow. I want a new roommate.

Beach Bum Award – King.