I Just Don’t Understand the Appeal of:

White cars, white furniture, white shoes, white deodorant, tighty whities.
Small, poorly ventilated public restrooms.
Chain restaurants.
Hot Pockets.
SlimFast.
NASCAR.
Gigantic Breast Implants.
Botox.
Plastic Surgery to make you look like a celebrity.
The Engagement of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.
Scientology
Fundamentalism.
Republicans
Intolerance/Hate
Speed Dating.
Paris Hilton.
Beer Nuts.

Somebody Answer the Phone!

For real-real telephone call:

Pinkie: Hello
Unknown Caller: Yeah, is this 555-1212?

Pinkie: Yes, it is. Who is this and for whom are you calling?
Unknown Caller: You don’t know?

Pinkie: I’m afraid I don’t. Could you help me out here?
Unknown Caller: How you call yourself a psychic when you don’t even know who it is that’s calling’or who they callin’ for?

Pinkie: I don’t call myself a psychic, that’s my mother. She’s the real deal, but being psychic doesn’t work like that.
Unknown Caller: Well, how it work?

Pinkie: Every psychic is different, but my Mom has to tune into it kind of like tuning an old TV. She has to pick up the frequency of the person she’s doing the reading for or the thing she wants to know. She doesn’t walk around all day in psychic mode.
Unknown caller: That makes sense, how it works, hmmm. So she a for real-real psychic. My friend Landa say she is the best and she don’t charge no money only take donations whatever people can afford. Landa told me the psychic lady never charged her or asked for no money. Landa said she just pay her what she feel was fair. That true?

Pinkie: That’s how it works around here. Do you want to speak to my Mom or schedule an appointment to come see her?
Unknown Caller: Naw, I was just curious how it work. You tell your Mom she helped Landa a lot and I appreciate that. She’s my best friend and she had a lot of troubles, but your mom helped.

Pinkie: I’ll tell her that and I’m sure she’ll appreciate knowing she was able to help. Thank you for calling.
Unknown Caller: One more question, are you psychic? My grams was and she passed it down to one of my aunties., but she never did nothin’ with it.

Pinkie: I’m not as talented as my Mom is, but sometimes I have dreams that come true or feelings.
Unknown Caller: So guess my name just one try and then I’ll let you go?

Pinkie: Um, okay…Melissa.
Unknown Caller: [Laughing] You didn’t even try to be psychic. How many black woman you know named Melissa?

Pinkie: Just you, Melissa.
Unknown Caller: You’re crazy. I like you. My name’s Jenetta. Well, good-bye. Tell your Mom thanks for Landa.

Pinkie: I will, Melissa. Bye.
Unknown Caller: [Still laughing] Bye. Have a blessed day, crazy psychic girl.

Good Day, Sunshine!

This morning at the oncologist, Mom and I knew something good was afoot as Dr. D came into the examination room with a HUGE smile on his face and quietly hummed "Don’t Worry, Be Happy!" under his breath during the initial check up. This coming from a man who, while naturally upbeat and positive, is not one to bubble over with effervescence. He maintains his professionalism at all times. When you're doling out life and death diagnosis, a poker face is always best.

"Diane, you’re responding much better and more quickly than expected to the chemotherapy. Your last scan shows no signs of the caner in the lymph nodes. It’s too soon to know for sure, but you’re giving this cancer a royal beating. We need to stay the course of treatment and finish out the next five weeks. After that, I want to keep a watchful eye on things and if there’s any recurrence at all we’ll have to consider radiation and chemotherapy. But as the Magic Eight Ball says, 'Outlook is good!'"

Instead of breaking into tears, Mom and I couldn't stop laughing.

Epilogue: Mom fired off e-mail to my Dad letting him know the good news. Dad's response:

"I knew before you did, Di. Do you think for one moment I'd be able to sit and wait for news about the love of my life? So long as I agree to let him make the diagnosis and deliver the news, Dr. D's been e-mailing your cat scans, x-rays and lab results since day one. Keep up the good work! Bald is beautiful on you, babe. Talk to you same bat time, same bat channel."

Mom is seeing her first client since she started chemo. She's a little nervous, but Rodge is an old friend and has been seeing my Mom for years. She makes no guarantees that she'll be able to see anything, but she wants to try. Having psychic ability is no different than any other natural born talent, the more you use it the ability the better you get. Practice and application keep your senses sharp. And if you feel like crap and you're energy is low, you're not going to perform at peak level.

The key for a psychic is learning how to keep your intuition and your imagination separate. Having a vision isn't any different than the daydreams we all experience in when we’re driving down the road and sort of "check out" for a while. Two miles later you can't remember how you got there or the passing scenery, but you know you've been driving the whole time. It's like your conscious and unconscious mind are co-pilots. When you zone out the mind goes on autopilot keeping you on course, the unconscious and conscious mind step away for a smoke, a cup of coffee and a water cooler discussion about all the random stuff floating around in your head. A good psychic can switch to autopilot at will and can remain aware enough while in this state to pick out the things that seem real and likely to happen versus random bits of imaginary flotsam and jetsam. Does that make sense?

You Got Any Pics?

Someone out there in cyberspace e-mailed me to ask me what I look. I'm not intentionally being mysterious--though I have changed the names of everyone I mention in the blog as a courtesy. Here are a few random digital photos that I found on my laptop. Nothing special, just an ordinary chick.

Jack took this photo right before I left for Cincinnati. My T-Zone be shiny!


The rickety old dock is where we tie our fishing boat. That's me in the foreground lying on the beach in front of the famous house on stilts.


The quality's not so great, but that's me on the beach in Bora Bora.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!

Jack wrote me last night with interesting news. Lani, his Polynesian business partner, is getting married in a month to a French woman he met in Papeete (the capital of French Polynesia on Tahiti). Over the next two months, Lani wants to move the business to Tahiti and combine forces with his brother who has an established scuba boat that caters to more typical tourists—less adventure scuba, more snorkel and dives in less remote areas. Lani's made no secret of his desire to move to Papeete. He grew up on one of the most remote islands in French Polynesia and finds no novelty in being a partial castaway. What's surprising is his desire to end the extreme scuba business and move into more moderate waters so to speak.

Lani's one of the craziest, coolest, bravest and the finest specimen of manhood you could ever meet (Yes, Jack's hot, but even he agrees Lani is truly God's gift to woman). He stands 6 ft. 5 in. tall and is 250 lbs. of solid muscle. Combine this with a mouth full of perfect teeth; rippling muscles; six-pack abs; dark wavy hair; brown and gold-flecked, almond-shaped eyes; and a lantern jaw and you’d call him the Polynesian David. He packs a triple threat by also being extremely smart, honest, hardworking, kind, generous, funny, charming and he loves his Mom, children and animals. Long story short, Lani is a helluva guy and we both love him dearly. Jack says his betrothed, who I’ll call Brigitte, is every bit as great as Lani and that he truly has met his match.

So what does closing the scuba business on our island mean to Jack and me? Well, it means we can stay on the island and live off my teaching stipend that ain’t much, or we can move to Papeete and work for Lani and his brother. Jack would make more money as a dive master in Tahiti than he does as a silent and unofficial partner now (it's all those darn French regulations about foreigners working and owning in the islands). We would also have to give up the house on stilts, the garden, the beach right below our front door and being far removed from the rat race. Papeete is Tahiti's version of New York City.

Jack and I have been talking about moving back to the States for a year now. We both love the island love, but we miss our families, the convenience and the cost of living back home. My Mom getting sick shook us both up and made us realize how long we’ve been away. We want to see our families more than once a year and we want to be able to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice if there’s a family emergency. So we talked and we talked and we talked and we decided to move back to the mainland. Jack will stay on the island for the next two months and help Lani move the boat and the business to Papeete. Gus, our dear German ex-patriot friend, will give our sweet beach cats a good home and Taranga will start recruiting for an art and English teacher right away. Out landlord Tiki will rent out the house on stilts to one of the locals.

We don't have a lot of material things we need to ship home. We really did live simply and we managed to save some money in the process. Lani will give Jack a decent sum of cash as buyout for his part of the boat and the business. We start our new life in the States in the black. We’ll live with my Mom and Dad for a until the end of the year and then move to Key West. Jack's brother runs a dive and jet ski business in the Keyes (the ocean is in their family blood) and can use the help. There's even a job or two waiting for me one as a part-time curator in a museum and the second as 2nd chief cook and bottle washer in my sister-in-law's restaurant.

When I told my Mom we were moving back, she didn’t ask me why, she didn’t cry, she didn't say I told you so. She held my face in her hands and said,"I always knew you’d be back, that made it easier to let you go." August is going to be crazy month in the House of the Hairless Psychic. Jack comes home and is bringing Taranga along for her visit to the mainland. My father comes home from his tour of duty in South India for Doctors Without Borders. Little sis and the kids are driving down from Chicago for three weeks before school starts.

I said my good-byes before I left. Somehow I knew they might be my last. I hope I go back someday. Change is good. Being with the people you love is even better.

Hannah and Her Sisters

Hannah is my oldest and dearest friend. We've known one another since our first day of Montessori kindergarten in 1976. She snatched my coveted violet blue crayola while I was in the midst of coloring my artistic interpretation of Pewpie, the tiny, bubble-breathing dragon. who lived in my belly button.. With her short boy haircut, Sears Tough Skin Denims, Red Chuck Taylor's and Spiderman t-shirt, Hannah appeared destined to be the class bully. The truth is she was a total girly girl being raised by a widowed construction executive and the youngest of four children—and the only girl. I punched Hannah hard in the shoulder and snatched the crayola back—that's how you earned respect in a house full of boys. Hannah shrugged, grabbed the blue violet crayola from the box and continued drawing flowers and butterflies. We've been kindred spirits ever since. Three months younger than me and two years older than Jenna, my baby sis, Hannah filled the role of middle sister and honorary daughter in my family.

Unlike her brothers and "honorary" sisters, Hannah stayed in Cincinnati. She majored in architecture at UC and is now a principal partner in her father's construction company. She kicks ass on the job all while wearing a construction helmet and manages to look graceful and feminine doing it. Ironically, her two oldest brothers pursued careers traditionally dominated by women as nurses—darn good ones, too. Brother #3 is a computer programmer. Her father is proud of all his children, but he nearly burst with pride when Hannah joined his firm.

Hannah isn't taking my Mom's cancer well. She cries every time my Mom is out of ear and eyeshot. Agreeably, Mom looks sick with no hair, pale nearly translucent skin and her always-slight figure made slighter by the cancer diet. Last night, Hannah cooked dinner for Mom and I while we played with Amelie and Amelia, her two-year twin girls. Smack dab in the middle of dinner, Hannah has a breakdown and starts telling my Mom how much she means to her and how she is the mother she never had. True to form, Mom folded Hannah up in her tiny little arms and rocked her until the tears subsided. The twins kept asking "Grammy, why Mommy cry? Grammy, why Mommy cry?" to which she answered, "Mommy just needed a hug, baby girls."

We all piled around Hannah and hugged her for a few minutes. The twins in unison said, "We hug Mommy good, Grammy. Squuuuuuueeeeezeeeeee."

Hannah's mother died from breast cancer when she was three. That makes watching my Mom go through her struggle with cancer that much harder. She thinks I'm a tower of strength because I don't cry. Truth is, I'm terrified of losing my Mom. I just choose to do my crying in private. Mom needs to see my strength and resilience right now, not my tears.

Taranga, the Polynesian Sea-God(dess)

Taranga is my best friend in all of French Polynesian. She is the feminine namesake of Tarangoa, the Polynesian sea-god, who separated the sky from the earth. He is the son of the earth-goddess Papa, who had so much water in her body that it swelled one day and burst forth, becoming the ocean. Taranga's mother loves to tell the story of her birth in the middle of the rainy season. She explains that each contraction coincided with violent lightning and loud claps of thunder and with each push to free Taranga from her womb the winds blew harder shaking walls and rattling the windows of the midwife's tiny office. Moments after Taranga was born and she let out her first cry, the storm settled, the clouds cleared, the sun came out and a rainbow appeared. How much of this is true and how much of it is embellished with a mother's love is up for discussion, but I choose to believe that the whole story is fact.

To know Taranga is to experience first hand the human equivalent of the eye of the storm. She has more energy, strength and presence than any person I've ever met. All of this wrapped up in a tiny body standing five feet three in flipfops with long black hair shiny as an oil slick and honey-brown eyes that look right through you. Taranga is the first in her family to go to college and attended the Université de la Polynésie Française where she majored in education. For almost 20 years, she taught at a primary school in Papeete. Taranga never liked Papeete and describes living there as "a tropical version of New York City with all the crowds and congestions but none of the culture." At the age of 42, she found her true calling and now runs the tiny atoll school. Taranga is the person who hired** me to teach English and Art to the 102 students at her school. The best job I have ever had.

**The term "hired" is used loosely due to the fact that work visa's are not granted in the islands by the French government. Unemployment is a huge problem--though in my case, Taranga has been looking for someone to teach Art and English for three years. It was a matter of being in the right place at the right time.

More later...

Taste of the Tropics

Mom and I visited Krohn Conservatory on Thursday. It was a rainy, gloomy day. Mom was feeling a bit defeated by the fatigue-inducing chemo. I was having tropical climate withdrawal. The tropical room at the conseratory did the trick for both of us-lots of thick palms and succulents. The conservatory houses a large variety of ferns and unusual cycads. Bromeliad and begonia surrounds a koi pond. There's even a waterfall and cave. The tropical room maintains a high humidity and feels like the atoll in the cool season which happens to be right now. My favorites plants are the chocolate tree, pomengranite, vanilla vine and the dwarf banana. It even smelled like home. The trip did us both good.