Anywho, I’m supposed to be motivating over to this Spago VIP party as part of the Maui Film Festival tonight, but instead I’m lying on my couch in a Spiderman sweatshirt thinking about a convo I had with a friend today.

While talking about whether most people (male or female) wanted to be in a relationship, it came up that in the last few months I’ve had three or four offers (requests?) to get in a relationship (or even marry) male friends that I have never been romantically involved.

Friend: “I wish I had that kind of mojo where women were like ‘Hey. You. You’re the one.”

Me: “Yeah. It’s pretty weird. I don’t really know what to tell you.”

Friend: “Well, I guess you really are the complete package.”

Me: “Thank you.”

**moment spent in silent contemplation of my life, as it were. Or at least as it stands at the moment.**

Me: “Lot of good it’s done me!”

So whatever the heck i am bringing this up for (probably the fact that I am stalling on attending my fifth event alone in as many nights) I’ll conclude with what I told him.

My teacher recently told me that the only reason to get into a relationship is because you cannot NOT be without the other person.
And that’s my pledge from here on out: Mr. Complete Package or get used to showing up alone to a VIP party and in a Spiderman sweatshirt and jeans.
Like a boss.

Him: “What are you returning?”

Me: Cloud Atlas.

Him: “Was it good?”

Me: Possibly.

Him: What’s it about?

Me: I can honestly say I have no idea.

Him: So you didn’t watch it?

Me: No I watched it. Two and a half times, actually.

**gives me a look of what I perceive as annoyance and perhaps minor confusion**

Me: I don’t know. It’s about the past. And the future. Korean women who are robots that bleed. I think they’re robots. I’m not sure.
Halle Berry is in it. She’s aging well. Hugh Grant is in it too. He is not.

*crickets*

Me: And every time I blinked my eyes Tom Hanks was on the screen looking like a totally different person. In fact, he may be the only actor in the thing. Him and one really outstanding makeup artist.

Him: Oh.

Me: It’s a rabbit hole, baby. And it just keeps going.

**retrieves whatever he’s decided to rent instead and beats a hasty retreat.**

Some men claimed that the shirt I was wearing said “Everybody let’s get naked” in Japanese. I promptly had one of them take a picture of it (and largely a picture of me apparently) and texted this photo to my brother as his girlfriend is Japanese, and I don’t want to be the jerk wandering around in a shirt that will cause Japanese people to snicker and then look at me with pity. Turns out my shirt says “Exile on Main Street” and has some stuff commemorating the Stones’ first album on CBS. Ridic.

My friend used to work in a psychiatrists’ office as a receptionist.

Apparently when things got slow she’d read people’s files.

This is a small town on a small island, so invariably some of those people are out and about in the real world.

A few months ago this guy was talking to us in a bar. He was strange, and I wasn’t interested. He may have bought me a beer.

Anywho, we walked away and my friend whispered to me his name and diagnosis, which I believe was schizophrenia or something pretty serious. It’s absolutely terrible that I know this and isn’t even relevant to the story, but there you go.

Moving on, I saw him again last night at a somewhat swanky event I was attending alone because I had a press pass and by and large no one I know here could afford to go to this thing (me included).

He didn’t remember meeting me before and proceeded to hit on me.

Our actual conversation.

Me: “I think we’ve met before.”

Him: “I don’t think so.”

Me: “Yes, in fact, that’s why I haven’t been back to <<name of place we met>>”

Him: I think you’re older than me.

Me: Probably.

Him: When’s your birthday?

Me: Why?

Him: What’s your sign?

Me: Closed

Him: What’s your element?

Me: What?

Him: I’m air, so I need someone that’s fire.

Me: (suddenly remembering that my sign is also air) Well, I’m also air so I guess that’s just one more reason this isn’t going to work out.

Him: I need to you become fire.

Me: That’s not going to happen.

Him: We’re going to get along great!

WTH?

Seriously, what in the actual hell?

This picture is old, but it’s all I could find in a pinch. This is after I bought him that fancy dog bed because a pet psychic told me to. Long story. Maybe I told it here. ?

You know it’s been too long – waaaaaaaaay to long – since you’ve last posted when you struggle to remember your password.
I can’t tell you how many posts I’ve started and then abandoned or never finished and then realized they were now too old to count as updates, but all that is behind us as just now in my head I came up with a Plan B.
Get a load of this: how’s about I share a little snippet or anecdote or thing I want other people on earth to read that’s too long for Twitter (yes. I post on stupid Twitter. Don’t be hating.) as much as I can, hopefully daily but probably not but I’ll do what I can and we all know where these kinds of promises have led in the past?

Deal?
Coolio.

—-
Once in a while I forget my dog exists.
Sensing this, he creeps into the bathroom and sticks his head into the shower while I am in there happily shampooing my hair and thinking about tacos, very nearly terrifyingly me to death.
Well played, my not so little friend. Well played.

In fact, insane people would go to a level beyond insanity if they had to deal with what’s going on with me right now.

It’s all (mostly) good though.

I am weirdly hitting my stride and finding this strange sweet spot on this island that kind of stuns me a little bit.

I feel really blessed, honestly. There’s a belief here that “Maui” (as if she were a sentient being) embraces you or boots your ass out, or it could be Pele and the others. Regardless, somebody up there likes me and although the pay ain’t so impressive, I am getting (milk money) funded to write funny pieces a la this blog.
So yeah.

The money may suck (balls), but there is a notable audience involved and I get to do what I love (attempt to be funny) so I’m actually freakishly happy about it all.

Anywho, last night I was hanging out with some friends and someone went to a site that I write for to show someone else a piece I did. While there, a headline -

Woman Arrested After Falling Through Ceiling of Police Station -

to be exact, caught their eye.

At first I thought my editor was assigning satirical pieces to someone else and was kinda pissed, but when I realized this ACTUALLY HAPPENED I decided to attempt what a team of a dozen seasoned writers do daily and as a group and with the advantage of bouncing off others and for six figures for David Letterman by myself.

There are some changes here that aren’t mine and that wouldn’t have necessarily been my choice, but my editor was having a bad day – unrelated to me. I am a veritable ray of sunshine. Plus, I’m super grateful he lets me run this stuff at all…no less to such a broad audience – so I decided not to split hairs and here you go. As usual, linked before it’s over because I don’t honestly know if I have legal rights to reprint it.  (???)

Plus, then you can go and leave “fan” comments to counter the guy who called me a “whiny coward” three times over my in-jest Iao Valley hike piece.

Gah.

It’s called a sense of humor, dude.

Look into it.

Top 10 Excuses for Being in the Ceiling of a Police Station

**Editor’s note: This article is based on yesterday’s story about a woman who was arrested after falling through the ceiling of Kihei Police Station.**

(Or, if you’re being particularly obnoxious/”Hawaiian” about it) AlooooooooooHA!

My best friend lost her job – and the job provided housing so she is both jobless and homeless now – and is staying with me. Thus, millions of random pictures are being taken all the time whereas before I simply took pictures of the pets. Here I am being faux-outraged last night that the dog is attempting to lick my plate…as if this doesn’t happen daily.

First off, I have good news for you! I am going to do a better job about blogging. Like at least once a week. Scratch that. TWICE a week at least I will blog. Why’s that? you ask.

Well, because I freaking love it, that’s why!

I jest.

I mean, I don’t not love it, it’s just that it’s time-consuming and sometimes really hard to come up with something useful to tell you.

However, I attended this writing conference and kept getting hit over the head by all this “social media is more important than knowing how to spell” advice, and even though I’m exaggerating a bit on the spelling part, the one thing that’s clear is that I somehow have to build a “following” so that when my books are finally freaking published all of you will run out and buy them.

I was also told self-publishing is a bad joke (sorry self-published folks) even including Amazon or eBooks because

a) How do you know Amazon or whomever is being honest with you and really giving you your money? (Yikes! Don’t they already own the world? Do they really need to steal too?)

b) Unless you sell at least 10,000 copies it’s really more an embarrassment or proof that your parents love you (I know my dad is good for a solid 20 copies right off the cuff.) or a display of vanity and likely to be lost in a sea of garbage anyway. People were actually being encouraged to NOT ADMIT they’d self-published. You could sort of feel the shock and shame in the room. I’m too lazy to be self-published, so I just sat there and looked smug.

Anywho, it wasn’t all “you will probably never make it” and “you’re more likely to have sex with the Dalai Lama than see your book with a Penguin logo on it” (although there was a fair amount of that going on), I’m more determined than ever to write something worthy and that people are fighting over the right to publish, so in addition to these new-fangled efforts to build what one of my ex-boyfriends calls my “Legion of Followers” via this blog and I guess my Twitter and god help me, I suppose even Pinterest, I am also going to knuckle down on my fiction. Impossible odds, you say? I can’t help myself. I have a feeling…

In other news, I have been asked to start submitting one “fun” piece a week as part of my A&E writing gig here on Maui.

This is super freaking awesome, because basically it’s what I’d write for you guys…only less vulgar…and it has to be about Maui…and I’m not allowed to say “I” because my editor thinks that’s lazy. (???)

Too bad though, because one of my ideas REQUIRES that it be in first person and that’s how I’m writing it. So there.

Anywho, here is my first installment of the “fun” pieces which mocks all these people who keep trying this ridiculously dangerous four-day hike and getting themselves airlifted out of it.

I’m cutting it off halfway because I’m not entirely sure I have the rights to this even though I wrote it and because I happen to adore said editor and would never want to anger him. He can be quite the sharp-tongued serpent if you catch him on the wrong day.  ;)

Dear Would-Be Olowalu to Iao Hiker

sat·ire  

/ˈsaˌtī(ə)r/

Noun

A literary work in which human vice or folly is exposed or criticized through irony, derision, or wit. 

Dear Would-Be Olowalu to Iao Valley Hiker,

It has come to our attention that you keep trying this, despite the preponderance of words like “certain death,” “impossible,” “beyond stupid,” and “Darwin Awards.”

Speaking of which, we can’t help but wonder if the ancient Hawaiians started the tale of this “trail” or “pass” as a means of thinning the herd; a survival of the fittest snipe hunt, if you will.

But we don’t actually know that. All we know is that attempting this hike is a terrible idea. Even “Maui Revealed” doesn’t recommend anyone take a shot at this insanity.

Thus, we are left to draw one conclusion as to your motives, oh intrepid hiker: you are on a suicide mission.

That stated, we offer up some helpful tips.

Not that we want you to die – not at all; in fact, please seek counseling or at least hike something reasonable like Polipoli and get your head on straight – but because we realize it must be disappointing when you hear the chopper overhead and know you’ll live on to see your name featured on this very website.

Plus, we can’t imagine what all these airlift rescues are going to do to our tax rates.

Presuming this is what you seek, and in no particular order, here’s how to ensure you never return from your “mission” to the Iao Valley via the back road.

1. Water is for cowards. That’s right. We said it. Looking to meet your maker somewhere before the summit? Dehydration is the name of the game.
2. Wait for several days of intense rain. Nothing says “no body was recovered” like a flash flood.
3. Get the rest of the list by clicking this link which will take you to the original.

This is awesome.

Granted, I have a business card that says “Vanessa Wolf, Journalist,” but that is a gross exaggeration of fact and/or total fiction, depending upon whom you ask. (The assertion, not the card, that is. The card is very real.)

That stated, I think it is completely unfair to use the titles of these blog posts as examples of how “NOT” to craft titles for pieces I write as “news” (although, again, there is “write one fun piece a week” talk going around that also involved the discussion of an opening line about “This is not news.” So there you go.), as

a) I am not a journalist!

b) I suck at titles

c) I don’t particularly care not to suck at titles

d) vagueness is interesting…to me.

e) “Me of Little Faith”: would I read that? Probably. If I knew I wrote it.

Seriously, once in a while someone writes me to comment on how much they loved some ancient post, and I have to go look it up to see what they’re talking about, and more often than not, I’m all, “Damn! I wrote that!? That’s pretty good…”

But I digress…as usual.

Hopefully you guys aren’t coming for the fabulous blog titles anyway, but for the haphazardly timed and hopefully droll material I once and awhile pull myself together to write once in a blue moon.

So anyway, since it’s been a couple weeks since I last updated you, allow me to share my 2013 Resolutions, as publicly posted to Facebook on time.

(Apologies to my parents and any sensitive sorts for #3. It’s kind of an inside joke that you probably don’t want too many details on except to say: thanks for the good genes.)

VANESSA WOLF’S 2013 RESOLUTIONS
1. Finish two of the five novels I currently have half-written.
2. Fix The Book Formerly Known As ZION and self-publish that baby.
3. Exercise three times a week and improve my already (allegedly) “magical ass” into something that shrines are built to.
4. Change my name to V-Wo (goes with #3).
5. Stop dating psychopaths.
6. Stop using my bed as a dumping ground for junk mail, dirty clothes, seventeen issues of The New Yorker, dead batteries, dog toys, and empty bottles of wine.
7. Drink less wine and wake up less with that sinking “Did I really…[fill in with something that's probably worse than you think]???” feeling.
8. Believe six impossible things before breakfast.
9. Laugh until my stomach hurts at least once a week.
10. Find something to be grateful for every day.

What isn’t on this list – only because I just thought of it a couple days ago – is BE BOLD. In all caps like that. BE BOLD.

Personally, I think it’s a good thing needlepoint is no longer quite so popular.

In my writing, my choices, my hairdo, my seasoning of soup…I intend to be bold this year.

Again, I have to apologize to my parents as that sentiment probably scares the hell out of them. In general, the adage in my family is “Vanessa is fearless,” so plans to be even more so are likely alarming when you’re fond of your (alleged) only daughter, but I can’t shake it. I feel like this is the year I need to make some big moves and paint with broad strokes and get some things going finally…and it seems like in life that requires boldness, shaking things up, putting yourself out there in a way that not everyone is going to like or appreciate, but that those who “get it” will love.

What’s that they say or somebody said anyway? “”Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid”"

There you go.

More on that (perhaps) when I can articulate my thoughts better…

Moving on…

In the words of several former bosses, “So….what else?”

What else?

I’m pretty good.

Life goes on.

I go on.

I’m two weeks into breaking that “work out three times a week” resolution, but I’ve been dreaming about running which maybe means I’ll actually do it someday soon.

I’m in the throes of making a complex calendar of plans as we speak. Maybe I should go buy one of those big dry erase calendars?

Speaking on the frivolous use of money, I tried to buy  myself those turquoise boots, and they won’t send them to Hawaii.

Let me repeat: I want to buy boots that cost $159 and THEY WON’T SEND THEM TO HAWAII.

I know…right!?!?

Fare well, turquoise boots, my star-crossed love. We were robbed.

We have mail here. Stamps cost the same as everywhere else. There’s even a box outside my house and the lady drives up to it every day but Sunday and sticks stuff in there. The boots could be shipped. There are ways.

But, actually, since “Hawaii” isn’t even in the drop down list, there aren’t ways, so I guess I’ll just take it as a sign it wasn’t meant to be.

In other news, I just now learned today that Lance Armstrong was stripped of his titles for using steroids.

THAT’S WHY ALL THE WEIRD LOOKS FOR MY ‘LIVESTRONG’ BRACELETS!!!!

(Well, that and the fact that Livestrong bracelets were cool for five minutes…five years ago. And I’m just kidding. I’ve never owned a Livestrong bracelet.  I don’t have balls, so prostrate cancer is no concern of mine.)

Anyway, I have critical laundry and vacuum duties to attend to, but nice chatting with you.

Live long and prosper and keep doing what you’re doing, because you look gorgeous.

~Shakespeare, Henry IV

I doubt people would enjoy champagne as much if opening a bottle of it resulted in a small fiery explosion.

It’s almost over. Arguably the most hopeful, horrific, joyful, painful, free falling, unexpectedly memorable year of my life.

Over and out.

2012: Kiss my ass.

Thank god they invented the new year: the seed in our minds blooming into the idea of a fresh start or another chance. What would we do if it all just ran into one big blob? Well, except consider ourselves to be a lot younger.

Still, specifically calculated advanced years and all, I  am glad to see the door close on 2012: the Year the Mayans Tried to Kill Us.

So here’s to survival instincts, old loves, lost causes, dear friends, dashed hopes, clean water, shooting stars, bold dreams, bigger actions, and endless possibility.

May your joys be as deep as the ocean, and your misfortunes light as its foam.

It’s a little nippy this morning (well, nippy in a tropical way) which is kind of nice and makes me not really want to get up and walk the dog and listen to the cat scream like a banshee for his breakfast.

Hell, who am I kidding? I never feel like doing any of that.

Anyway, and as you know, it’s a bit of a melancholy Christmas around these parts, but I decided to (wo)man up and face it head on. I have not one, but two fully decked out Christmas trees set up. I have about ten wrapped boxes under said trees – some, admittedly empty, because when I first set it up around Thanksgiving I was totally going through the motions. However, there are some real presents there now: gifts from friends, family, or “Santa” (I say lying to myself is perfectly acceptable in certain circumstances.) Santa heard about those turquoise boots I wanted for my birthday and decided to show me some love.

I have a ham in the fridge and a half-dozen half-prepared side dishes and at least 20 people coming by today to eat some it and hang out and hopefully help me stay in gratitude and focus on what is good in my life.

I’ve always been someone who loved Christmas.

I used to sit in Catholic mass and read the hymnal, humming all the Christmas songs to myself. My father accused me of being Italian (apologies to all the Italians out there as apparently my family associates your heritage with being tacky.) when I left a fully lit mini Christmas tree up in my room year-round. The summer of my 11th year, I was banned from touching my step-grandparents’ organ because I wouldn’t stop playing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on it. Granted, my piano stylings were self-taught and it was summertime…

Anyway, I think that twinkling light-loving, carol bellowing, starry eyed little girl in me will carry the day. At least I hope so.

And hopefully, wherever you are you, the magic of the season finds you and gives you a little kiss.

Merry Christmas and God bless us, everyone.

Can’t say I’m terribly surprised.

Not that I’m in charge of the world or anything, but I couldn’t really wrap my brain around how it was all supposed to “end,” and I have a general sense that if I can’t imagine it, it probably won’t come true.

I suppose there’s always the chance we’ll be nuked by an asteroid or solar flared into Kingdom Come, but I hope not. I need more time to recover from this latest blow and find my happily ever after.

So here’s hoping for at least another decade or two.

In conclusion – for tonight anyway – and in the words of Patty Griffin,
“May you dream you are dreaming, in a warm soft bed
And may the voices inside you that fill you with dread
Make the sound of thousands of angels instead
Tonight where you might be laying your head.”

I wish you well.