TKM

We’re getting a goat!

Not me and my wife—our property isn’t zoned for hooved animals. Probably not horned animals either. Wait, are there any horned animals who don’t have hooves? Horns and paws? Or claws? I know we’re zoned for clawed animals because of the cannibalistic KFC-eating chicken from across the street.

No, we’ll be keeping our goat in Rwanda under the stewardship of my sister Valerie Mukamana, who has made real my 3½-year-old wish to effect positive change in someone’s life through the awesomely powerful gift of livestock.

Those who have read my blog for some length of time may recall posts about my first two Rwandan sisters, here and here. We were matched via Women for Women International, an organization through which I’ve been delighted to discover that, somewhere, my measly monthly contribution of $27 can still be parlayed into something more than three lunches at Baja Fresh.

To recap, on my drive to work one morning in March 2006, I heard an NPR story about a neighborhood association near Rwanda’s capital, Kigali, that functioned as a kind of emotional support and financial aid clinic for women who survived the 1994 genocide. The listener’s window into the story was Nehrama Jambare Alphonsein, who was raped by a machete-wielding Hutu supremacist and contracted HIV as a result. At the time of the NPR story, Nehrama, then 20—she was 9 at the time of the genocide, during which raping prepubescent girls was less a matter of sexual gratification than it was just another weapon of war—was raising three children, all of whom were orphans of the mass slaughter and one of whom was born with HIV.

Compounding those circumstances, many families, including Nehrama’s, mourn openly for sons killed in the genocide yet consider the raping of their daughters a matter of great family shame and therefore a taboo topic, leaving them without healing emotional outlets.

Like many Americans, my primary lens on the genocide was Philip Gourevitch’s We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, and as with many such nonfiction accounts of chilling, seemingly impossible human violence, I felt impotent on finishing it, like I had little recourse but to shudder and move on.

But that morning I heard Nehrama speak of her daily visits to a neighborhood organization, located an hour’s walk from her home, where women with similar experiences shared amongst themselves without fear of judgment or stigma.

And then she spoke of her goats.

She had six of them, all bred from a source goat the neighborhood association had given her to help raise her family’s standard of living beyond the subsistence they were eking out cultivating beans and potatoes on a rented plot of land. Mind you, Nehrama’s family still lived in a mud hut with no electricity or running water, but I was cheered by her success with animal husbandry—in that NPR-listener way made up of equal parts idealism and guilt, leaving us with a powerful need to believe that, however sad, everything we hear about turns out fine in the end—and I was certain that Nehrama’s growing herd would soon turn her fortunes around.

Ha! Get it? Growing herd? Heh.

How much are goats? I wondered. And how could I buy one for a woman like Nehrama?

I didn’t want to ship a goat, of course—that’s just crazy talk—so when I got to work I set about trying to find an association online like the one discussed, and that’s how I found Women for Women International, an organization dedicated to helping women in war and postwar regions rebuild their lives through a scholarship program addressing basic needs, civil rights education, life and work skills, and community leadership roles. Neato! And best of all, I could sponsor a Rwandan woman directly. I would receive a picture and profile at the beginning of our relationship, as well as a report on how she felt her circumstances had improved at the end of our year together, and in the meantime we could swap letters so that I could hear all about her exciting new life raising goats!

Yeah, well, suck it, NPR idealist. Go sell your goats somewhere else. Your Rwandan sisters had crafts to do.

My first two sisters, in exit interviews at the completion of the yearlong scholarship, both said they had gained much from the program: Each were unemployed at the start but were now self-employed. Each said their general housing conditions and health had improved, and that they had gained self-confidence and knowledge of their civil rights. All of which is GREAT. But both, when asked what skills training they had undertaken, said “Knitting.”

There’s nothing wrong with knitting, of course. Some of my best friends knit (well, one of my online friends anyway, and she’s the partner of someone who might read this, and could probably kick my ass, so I want to make sure I cover it). And because I just started to feel like kind of an asshole for being disappointed in my sisters’ knitting pursuits, I Googled Rwandans and knitting and found an organization called, well, Rwanda Knits, which says of itself, “Our program enables [Rwandan women] to increase their incomes through economically sustainable knitting cooperatives, through which they produce garments for their domestic market and export markets.” Right, like I said, knitting was a very sensible and lucrative pursuit on my sisters’ part. Besides, how can you argue with the mad skills of clinic instructor Faina?

Still, faced with a choice between working with yarn and farm animals, well, I was just hoping they would go for a nice dairy goat who would provide milk and cheese and perhaps even precious hours of amusement for the children. Not that I’m trying to tell anyone what to do with their scholarship opportunities. Or maybe I am a little, but I entered the sisterhood with a mission, and a little over $1,100 later we were still goatless. I just did a quick price check at GoatFinder.com (I know!) and discovered that goat kids start at $65—and that’s for a pedigreed, “show quality” goat sold in American dollars. Here’s a nubian kid from my new favorite site ZooBorns:

Spectacular nubian kids named Polka Dot aside, I reckon random goats bought with Rwandan francs cost a lot less.

However disappointed with the intransigence of the knitters (that just reminded me of the Knitters, the country project by members of X and the Blasters, and I wondered whether their 1985 album Poor Little Critter on the Road had ever been issued on CD, and not only has it, I found, but they put out an album in 2005 that I didn’t even know about; free association rocks!), I shouldered on to be matched with a third sister, which is where Valerie Mukamana comes in.

Valerie said in her entrance interview that she had received no schooling and could neither read nor write more than her name—differing from my other sisters, who had both attended primary school. Each of them had sent me cards and letters during our time together, telling me about their children and husbands, asking me about my children and my husband, and asking, if it’s not too much trouble, could I possibly send a picture? (This latter wish has gone unmet; I’ve been uncomfortable with the idea of revealing my sexual orientation to my sisters, fearing emotional rejection—it is the only part of my life in which I am closeted.)

Valerie, who has a husband and five kids and, like Nehrama, said they all live in a hut with no electricity or running water, also rated her family’s general health as poor and said they rarely can access medical treatment. Of all my sisters so far, Valerie seemed in the direst straits, so I was pleased to be matched with her. But I also consciously put aside my goat obsession for another year, thinking that even if she happened to receive livestock, I wouldn’t hear about it given her inability to correspond with me.

But then, earlier this month, I did receive a letter from Valerie. Had she dictated it to someone? Had she been a superstar in the literacy program? She wasn’t telling. Instead she told me that she had started selling bananas and tomatoes at the local market to help generate income and that she hoped her family could soon upgrade from their hut to an iron-sheeted house. She said that they had not been receiving many rains and asked whether we had been receiving any here. And, of course, she wondered about my own family and asked, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could I please send a picture?

She also wrote this: “I am hoping to buy a goat and other domestic animals so that I can fight against poverty.” (!)

I would go to Rwanda right now to help Valerie pick it out, but I just checked Travelocity and it looks like flights to Kigali start at $2,500—that’s with three stops and two plane changes. As much as I’d like to meet Valerie and her new goat, it seems criminal to spend potential seed money for 38 goats to do so.

Plus, my wife just told me that if she’s going to the African continent, there are a couple, three countries, maybe 10, that would be higher on her list of must-visits than Rwanda. Go ahead, try to tell her Botswana can’t possibly be as entertaining as it seems in The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (but, OMG, if you haven’t watched the HBO series, Netflix it now).

So, instead of sending myself, I’m going to have to be content with sending a letter, telling Valerie that we haven’t been receiving many rains in Southern California either. Perhaps I’ll disclose to this third sister that I have no children, but that I gained a wife last year when I married my partner of 14 years; maybe I’ll even enclose a picture of myself, and ask, if it’s not too much trouble, could she possibly send goat pics in return?

As I write this, I’m not in Hawaii or even in a Starbucks but in our home office, a room that shouts every bit of our house’s 1954 vintage with its dark-paneled walls and diamond-paned windows; we’ve paid homage to its build era with the odd Esther Williams movie lobby card and a framed oversized pullout RCA Victor magazine ad announcing the company’s latest line of 17 television sets, several of which are lovingly caressed by ladies in ball gowns. The view through those diamond-paned windows diverges sharply from 1954, when it was reportedly among the first few houses in our neighborhood, an area of the San Fernando Valley then dominated by apricot orchards. It now overlooks a well-traveled thoroughfare bisecting our thoroughly residential neighborhood, and on weekends I can often expect to watch a recent immigrant, perhaps undocumented, fixing his truck. I’m not crazy about car repairs taking place in my front yard, but I know whose side I’m on amid all the current anti-immigrant Republican hysteria, if only to differentiate myself from these folks:

Honk for spelling proficiency!

Let’s play an analogy game!

Recent immigrants are to many U.S. citizens…

as Eleutherodactylus coqui tree frogs are to many _____________.

If you answered “Hawaiians,” put a gold star on your forehead and proceed directly to the lightning round! And if you want to incur the wrath of same, stage a demonstration for “nonnative” species’ rights anywhere islanders gather.

Our first night on the Big Island we kept looking up into the trees trying to identify the bird emitting this relatively high-pitched but sweet co-qui call. The sound was everywhere, but there were curiously few birds in sight. When we tabled the issue the following morning at breakfast, our B&B hosts told us that the owners of the call were not birds at all but rather tree frogs:

The nonnative species has become a scourge across the island due to that tireless co-qui, used by boy frogs much as a male human would use Barry White records: to both repel other males and attract females. And like Barry, who “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe,” the little boy frogs court and impregnate the hyper-fertile ladies all the livelong year. (The males average a tiny 34 millimeters, while females reach an average of 41 millimeters, with the pronounced size difference attributed to the burden of all that reproductive energy expended by males.) So successful are the boy frogs at creating more frogs that their species, introduced accidentally to several Hawaiian islands in the mid 1990s via plant matter, has reached densities in some rain forests of approximately 8,000 specimens per acre. That’s about the same density the little devils have achieved in their native Puerto Rico, the difference being that in Puerto Rico they’re reportedly revered as a beloved native species and a symbol of territorial culture, much as Mexicans, all the rage reportedly in Mexico, are seen as encroachers in Los Angeles, especially when they’re not cleaning your toilets.

Mind you, some of the folks who disparagingly pronounced the coqui a nuisance nonnative species themselves arrived in Hawaii later than the frogs did—much as most “native” Angelenos’ families lazily trickled into California quite some time after the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, when the United States “bought” the Southwest from Mexico for $15 million and a psych! fingers-crossed promise to honor Mexican citizens’ preexisting property rights in the territories. Truly, the guy fixing his car in my yard may have a greater claim on my yard than I do—unless I play my Native American card.

If we could all just agree that the concepts of nativeness and citizenship are wack, we’d probably get along a lot better. But U.S. citizens are an I-me-mine lot, even if their families first immigrated to the United States in the 20th century, glossing entirely the part where their own tired, poor, huddled masses were disparaged as wretched refuse by preexisting 19th-century immigrants, who were in turn looked down on by 18th-century immigrants, who seemed like upstarts to Mayflower importees, of whom my own longest-standing North American forebears, the Peigan Blackfeet tribe, were understandably leery.

My Native American bloodline has since been diluted considerably by breeding with Swedes and Germans, but it’s that eighth-part Blackfoot blood that most captures my imagination, both because of the Ninawaki (“manly hearted woman”) tradition—aberrational tribal members identified by early European settlers as women who, contrary to the submissive Blackfeet feminine “ideal,” dressed and acted like their male counterparts, held tribal ranks, owned horses, told bawdy jokes, and sometimes engaged in warrior roles—and because, I suppose, if anti-immigrant assholes want to distinguish native versus nonnative species on a scale of centuries, I’ll gamely play that Native American card and ask them how many millennia their people have been here and suggest that maybe they should vacate my continent. Also, if the Blackfeet Nation ever exercises its sovereign right to establish large-scale gambling on its Montana reservation, I want a piece of my casino.

The Hawaiian Islands having been formed by volcanic activity, there aren’t really any native Hawaiian species, but by casual observation, the imposed cutoff for native versus nonnative species seems to be around 1950. If you landed or were brought to one or more of the islands before then, congratulations, you’re a Hawaiian species. If not, you’re a nuisance, especially if you make a lot of reproductive noise or mess with the ecosystem of a preexisting species. Take the nene—about which le domestique can tell you much more—a Hawaiian goose that serves as the official state bird (it is found in the wild exclusively on Maui, Kauai, and the Big Island). The nene (pronounced nay-nay) is a threatened species whose numbers declined to near extinction around 1952 thanks to hunters and other mean predators and maybe not the best survival instincts on the nenes’ own part. Through human interventions like captive breeding programs they have bounced back from a paltry 30 birds to between 500 and 3,000 today, but there’s a new recent immigrant in town to fuck with the nenes: the Kalij pheasant, a Himalayan breed disparagingly referred to as “those damn chickens” by many residents.

The Kalij pheasant arrived in 1962, a dozen years too late to be considered native, and thrived like a mofo such that by 1977 it was declared a legal game bird. In other words, “We’re lousy with these guys, so let’s shoot ’em”—an attitude not unlike that of self-appointed border vigilantes, who seemingly never got over their crushing disappointment at being rejected from any real job that would allow them to discharge a firearm in the line of duty. Thanks be to heaven that God recognized the need for the Second Amendment when he wrote our glorious Constitution; otherwise we might question the deep and patriotic need for random people to stockpile weapons at a ratio of 200 million firearms to 300 million Americans, and if we didn’t have all those guns, how would we ever feel secure?

One reason the Kalij pheasant is so successful on Hawaii is that it breeds quite competently in the wild [see also: coqui tree frogs]. Adding to its advantages, the Kalij is an omnivore [see also: humans], so while the nene is all finicky with its diet of leaves and berries, the Kalij krew is sucking down entire plants, from roots to buds, robbing the nenes of current and future crops in a single sitting.

I feel for the poor nenes (to say nothing of honest-to-god, born-here white guys), but should coqui tree frogs, those damn chickens, or even brown people really be faulted for thriving in a new environment? Adaptation is a handy skill that’s otherwise lauded by humans. As an invasive species to Hawaii myself, one of my first acts on arrival was to purchase a basic Hawaiian grammar book, both because I’m a big freakball and because I didn’t want to mangle the names of streets and people and seem too much like a tourist, though I’m guessing that any cred I attained in my prodigious ability to pronounce Queen Lili’uokalani’s name was blown as a result of my visit to the Mauna Loa macadamia nut factory:

Learning about the 12-letter alphabet, including all five vowels plus seven consonants, explained the paucity of hard sounds among all those mellifluous mingling vowels, and picking up some basic rules—like every syllable and every word must end in a vowel sound, no two consonants can occur without a vowel separating them, and the accent almost always falls on the penultimate syllable—helped me adapt to my new environment. Not that Hawaii has much of an adapt-or-die vibe, but failure to adapt can be so ugly. Consider the Bradys.

I wish I could tell you that I didn’t think even once about the three-episode Hawaiian vacation arc of The Brady Bunch while visiting the islands, but that would be a lie. I was reminded of it on our very first day, as we hiked the very first trail at Volcanoes National Park. The Bradys didn’t even go to the Big Island as far as I’m aware, but they trotted gamely alongside as we walked past the steam vents of Kilauea, as I undoubtedly drove le domestique to murderous thoughts by painstakingly describing every bit of trouble various family members encountered as a result of Bobby’s having picked up that infernal tiki idol.

That isn’t to say that my Brady memories weren’t corrupted. For instance, I remembered that Don Ho had made a guest appearance, but I misremembered that it had in fact been he who told Bobby the idol would bring an invasive species like himself nothing but heartache; now that I’ve refreshed my memory at the information gettin’ place called the Internet, I’m reminded that he was warned off the idol by those same random guys who told Greg about the big surfing contest that he should enter—because Greg had clearly and obviously become a championship surfer on the flight over.

Le domestique had to be reminded of these basic plot elements because she [claims she] has maybe never even seen the Bradys’ Hawaii triptych! She is, however, aware that the Bradys had run into similarly stressful situations on their Grand Canyon trip, which led us to speculate on a hike through a stunningly beautiful rain forest that the Bradys simply should not have traveled, because they never encountered such strife when they stuck to their own turf, which happens to be the very San Fernando Valley that we call home, which volleys up another issue: As SFV dwellers accustomed to our soft city life on a piece of land which, however licked lengthwise by the Pacific, is contiguously linked to a whole continent’s worth of infrastructure, are we not just as ill-equipped to meet Pele on her own terms? Le domestique picked up a tiki idol in the Honolulu airport; had she slipped it into her theoretical purse instead of setting it back down—after noting that it was made in China—would we have ended up like the Brady boys, hapless hostages of a late-career Vincent Price in his creepy cave lair?

Which brings us to the Thurston Lava Tube, the product of an approximately 500-year-old lava flow that could easily have served as the set for Price’s cool tiki cave hideout. It seems that as a lava flow cools, the outside can form a solid upper crust even as lava continues to flow through its insulated center, forming a tunnel. It’s kind of like a Twinkie, another potentially 500-year-old product, with its creamy goodness excised. Unlike the Thurston Lava Tube, no Twinkie has yet been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site—but fear not, the little sponge cake can’t be denied its due forever.

VNP has been kind enough to illuminate a section of the TLT that is fairly uniform in width and height such that the average invasive species can amble through it without a flashlight and get the subterranean vibe without need of much courage. But there is kindness also in letting nature stand for itself, and because Hawaii is cool like that, VNP has left a much longer section of the tunnel—a portion less regular in width, height, and depth—dark and craggy and separated from tourists only by a gate and sign warning of its undeveloped nature and the absolute necessity of self-provided light sources beyond that point. Again, I have to hand it to the country of Hawaii for warning tourists of potential pitfalls and then leaving it to us to decide whether we’d like to face the very slight odds that the awesomeness that lies just around the bend could claim a life, perhaps my own.

Happily, le domestique had packed a headlamp, so we surfaced to the rainforest exterior and made our way back to our rental car, then returned to descend its murky maw. As she who is inordinately fond of dark, drippy, and slightly dangerous places, I pronounced the undeveloped part of the TLT an early trip nominee for Coolest Place Ever!

Sharing a single headlamp posed its challenges, but we held hands. Tightly. Tighter still when I noted the similarity in sights and sounds to the very creepy horror flick The Descent, wherein a swell group of nonnative species of the gal variety go spelunking only to encounter subterranean cannibalistic humanoids way scarier than any late-career Vincent Price could ever be. They sound like giggling cockroaches and look like this:

Let’s play an analogy game!

The humanoids in The Descent are to the Sleestaks of Land of the Lost…

as the Thurston Lava Tube is to a ___________.

The dark side of TLT is the kind of place that makes a person feel brave and scared witless all at once—and maybe a little happier for the experience once it’s over, at which time I wanted to do it again. Not unlike riding a roller coaster backward, a terrifying proposition Magic Mountain (now Six Flags) used to occasionally offer up back in the day on its monster wooden coaster Colossus. I was never the bravest kid on the block, but the first rule of hanging out with boys is, Do as they do, and don’t cry about it. So I rode the damn roller coaster backward, never happier than when it finally pulled back into the station. Coming home from Hawaii hasn’t yielded that same sense of bewildered relief, but I know that if I overstayed my welcome there, the stigma of my invasive species status would eventually get me down. I had to return to my “native” soil, because unlike the coqui tree frog, I’m neither willing nor able to replicate myself 10,000-fold to claim my piece of the rain forest, especially when just a one-eighth share is enough to claim sovereign casino gambling rights. I’m waiting, my Blackfeet people.

Speaking of roller coasters, I apologize for any jarring segues, tangents, or abandoned roads you may have noted in the preceding text. My brain is currently laboring under the auspices of Her Royal Highness Mania, which bestows on my thought processes all the fluid melody of free jazz—and makes me think everything I’ve written is fucking brilliant! She’s a fun friend, until she’s not, at which time I may sheepishly delete this post and salt the cyberspace it once occupied.

As I write this, le domestique and I are Hawaii-bound for a twin 40^th-birthday celebration, mine having passed with much blog fanfare in November and hers yet forthcoming in March. She observed just moments ago that this is our first ever flight from Los Angeles without the psych! westbound takeoff–U-turn combo. Departing LAX, planes always take off over the Pacific, after which eastbound flights turn around and head on their merry overland way. This time we brashly continued our westward trajectory, prompting me to observe that this is also our first flight entirely over water and therefore entirely without emergency landing opportunities, which was kind of a weird place for me to go, because I’ve never worried about flying. I blame it on Lost, which films in the country of Hawaii. (Le domestique is trying to fool me into believing that Hawaii is actually part of the United States; she’s funny like that.)

While waiting at the airport for a red eye—the espresso/coffee beverage, not the icky itinerary—I saw a flight attendant lose her grip on her cappuccino only to catch it between her stomach and the wall of the coffee counter without spilling a drop. “Nice save!” I said, to which she merrily replied “Thanks!”

“That seems like a good omen for your flight today,” I added—unwisely, it turned out. She looked at me like I had just licked the foam from her drink, and it was only then that I realized that’s kind of an asshole thing to say to a flight attendant, reminding her that on the slim chance that her flight goes very, very badly, she could soon die screaming. And while unforeseen dangers lurk in every life and career, no one has ever suggested as I’ve left for work that my day might yield life-threatening complications—beyond perhaps a confluence of articles so incompetently written that I pulpify my brain with repeated blows to the skull from my desk dictionary, which, while only slightly less likely than a plane crash, is more self-determinable.

The idea of horrible things that can happen on planes seeped into my brain when we arrived at the airport, simply because LAX was the least busy I’ve seen it since pre-9/11 days. We walked right up to the self-serve kiosk and checked ourselves in, then le domestique noticed that the plane was only about half-full, so we delightedly switched our seats to an empty middle row of three, leaving a vacancy between us so that we can stretch out a bit and, as the need arises, flail our arms about wildly without striking one another. Our luck continued as we delivered our checked baggage directly to a waiting TSA guy and waltzed through security. For several years after 9/11 I was pulled aside at airport security for an in-depth search of my bags and person EVERY TIME I FLEW, lending little credence to officers’ claims that I had been randomly selected. Perhaps I share my name with a person of interest to the United States government—like maybe that bog turtle expert is a fugitive shoe bomber—or it could just be that TSA training highlights the probability of gender-vague troublemakers. Whatever the reason, I’m very glad to have escaped the long arm of the TSA law, because I really dislike having stern people paw around in my undiepants and such.

As a copy editor by trade, I would ordinarily spell out the full name of any organization or government bureau on first reference, with subsequent references given in acronym form, but I’ve forgotten for the moment what TSA stands for, and at 30,000 feet I’m temporarily denied help from the Internet. I’ve heard that some foreign air carriers already provide free in-flight Wi-Fi as a tonic to bored travelers, and while I wish my own country’s airlines would embrace the concept, I understand that those same foreign carriers are allowing in-flight mobile phone use as well, and if it’s a package deal, I’m against it. I guard my sanity too jealously to be forced to listen to Mr. No Inside Voice narrate his journey to his Bluetooth or, worse, drone endlessly to a business associate about how their Cincinnati office is totally on board with the idea to move forward on the plan to introduce their strategic objectives at the next planning meeting of the oversight committee for Strategic Idea Summit 2008: How to Introduce Your Plans for Maximum Forward Movement With Minimum Oversight.

I became absolutely convinced that we had passed through a time-warp portal and entered the Golden Age of Air Travel when a flight attendant handed me a hot breakfast of eggs scrambled with sour cream and chives, potatoes, ham, fruit, and a muffin. Other than your complimentary beverages, not a single four-hour flight I’ve taken in the last decade has resulted in anything but some weird processed “havarti” cheese ’n’ crackers, a cookie, and, when lucky, a smile, so I can only surmise that this five-hour-and-nine-minute estimated flight time is critical to the awarding of victuals.

Le domestique just observed that no amount of mahalos on a form obfuscates the fact that the country of Hawaii makes its visitors fill out a survey disclosing just what it is exactly that we’re up to in their environs and also whether we’ve brought along any live seafood or virus cultures. And our 50-something mainlander flight attendant did not engage in the spirit of aloha when I asked her whether, as domestic partners, we could submit a single “family” declaration form. “Excuse me?” she said.

“We’re domestic partners,” I repeated, indicating le domestique. “Can we fill out a single form?”

“If you’re a family, you only have to fill out one form,” she said, halfway gone before she finished speaking. Her tone excluded the sunny interpretation that she was surprised I would even have to ask such a question since, as we all know, love makes a family.

At any rate, I let le domestique’s form speak for the both of us. But if I had filled out my own form, I would have categorically denied any intended mischief pertaining to crustacean or virus smuggling, and I would have disclosed to Hawaiian officials that I have come to their country for the lava…

 …and the coffee!

“Wouldn’t it be neat if you could go coffee-tasting like you can go wine-tasting!” I enthused to le domestique a week or so ago, after I realized that the Big Island, on which we’ll be spending the lion’s share of our trip, is where the Kona coffee lives! Hey, wouldn’t it be even neater if there were a way you could find out whether such a thing is possible in just 0.31 seconds, which is how long, sans typing, a Google search for “kona coffee tasting” took to return 1,740 results! Six hundred coffee farms have convened along one 25-mile stretch of scenic country roads for my tasting convenience. Whee!

We had actually booked on the Big Island for that other alluring hot liquid. Living as we do in Southern California, we’ve got all the white sandy beaches anyone could ever want or need, but there’s simply nowhere we can go when we want to watch liquid fire devour everything in its path. To me, lava seemed worth the five-hour plane trip almost by itself. I have always been a fan of its lamps. And look-see here how close the country of Hawaii lets tourists get to its fiery blobness:

It’s heartening to know that my intimacy with lava* will be limited only by my own personal stupidity level, and frankly, I think our country could take a lesson from the Hawaiians. Word to the United States, if you don’t allow someone to get eaten by a bear every now and again, all the pot banging in the world will simply fall on deaf ears.

An online friend of mine who lives on Oahu says one can spend her whole week’s vacation at Volcanoes National Park and still not see everything worth seeing there. I would contend that one can spend those same seven days plantation-hopping in Kona and still not taste all the coffee worth tasting. Now, le domestique and I have wine-tasted our way up and down the Californy coast, and even still, what I don’t know about wine could fill a book—while other tasters use their little golf pencils to scribble notes like “ashy” and “aggressive tannins,” I keep mental notes of “like” and “did not like”—but about this coffee beverage I am much more discerning. My therapist encourages me to curb caffeine intake—and she has a point; with the neurotransmitters in my gearbox already capable of making my brain rev like a stock car on race day, taking on excess sugar or caffeine is just tempting fate—so when I told her of my planned coffee tour she wondered aloud whether, like wineries, the Kona tasting rooms might better be equipped with spitting tureens. 

When wine-tasting one is bound to encounter a tour group or three wherein a dozen or so people are carted from winery to winery by limo or van such that they can eschew the spitting and get completely blotto with impunity. Coffee-tasting obviously harbors dangers of a different sort, so tour maps carry a travelers’ advisory suggesting that it is perhaps wise to participate not only in the tasting opportunities but in any tours offered of the plantation, its harvesting and roasting facilities, and any historical exhibits, thus putting a little distance between one’s cups of caffeine. That all seems reasonable to me; half a dozen plantations on I may be in a frame of mind to bring in a harvest or two. Concurrently, le domestique may be in a frame of mind to force-feed me the anti-anxiety meds I didn’t need for the plane trip over. 

*It turns out my intimacy with lava is also limited by its current trajectory, which is veering inconveniently away from the national park’s edges and really inconveniently toward a couple of straggler houses† in a subdivision previously decimated by lava flow. The only way for touristas like us to see it would be by helicopter. I suppose I could have found this out via a simple Web search weeks ago, but that would have spoiled the searing disappointment I felt on finding this out instead my first morning here.

†As homeowners in California, where earthquake coverage is excluded from standard insurance policies and sold as a separate product, we were naturally curious as to whether those poor stragglers were covered for volcanic ire. We learned from a friendly tour operator whose tour we weren’t on but who nevertheless stopped to show us pictures of his own recent lava encounters—because that’s the way Hawaiians roll—that there are three designated lava zones for insurance purposes: He owns a home in zone 2, where he pays approximately double the rate of someone in zone 3, where the danger is most remote; then there’s lava zone 1, in which the doomed subdivision lies, where insurance cannot be had for love or money.

I am posting this on day three of our trip, because that’s how long it took us to stumble across Wi-Fi on the island. Granted, we weren’t trying all that hard, and it’s gratifying to see that there are fewer Starbucks outside the airport than there are inside the airport (three, just in the terminal we came through); on the other hand, we’re in a Starbucks now and are grateful for the Wi-Fi-portunity, so, Mahalo, Starbucks! We are here following a five-hour coffee-tasting marathon (and even I recognize my limits, so I’m currently sipping a green tea lemonade). The tasting experience? There were no spitting tureens. It was awesome. More later! 

I come to you today from Latte Litchfield in South Carolina, where the partner and I vacation with her parents annually. We’re not actually vacationing at the coffee house but at a beach house about a half mile from here, a house that, as it turns out, has Internet access–sadly, that feature wasn’t advertised in the brochure, so we didn’t bring our laptop. Question: Had you a beach house to rent, which features would you highlight in addition to the obvious, i.e. oceanfront beach access, A/C, and the like? For instance, if it had an elevator and wireless Internet, would you gloss those amenities and instead use your precious brochure space to talk up the plantation shutters?

That being said, Internet access is only 10 cents per minute here at Latte Litchfield, and I get to sip a delicious java chip blended mocha as I blog, so all is well. Besides, last year the rental computers were located smack underneath two giant Ten Commandments tablets mounted on the wall. The tablets are still here, but the computers have been moved across the room. Still, I’ll do my best to post morally. What would Jesus write?

While Jesus, with a hard e, is certainly at home here in S.C., Hay-suse is not. Yesterday at the Piggly Wiggly I asked the deli ladies where I could find tortillas. “You mean chips?” asked one of them. “No, tortillas, like for burritos and stuff.” The ladies furrowed their brows and shook their heads at each other, like I had asked for something as rare and unappetizing as cow spit.

We did eventually find a small Mexi-Asian section, the cuisines being very similar, you know, and against our better judgement bought a package of pillowy Old El Paso flour tortillas (the only option available), the kind that are so processed they never really expire, like Twinkies. So anathema to a girl born and raised in Southern California.

On the drive out (we generally fly into the in-laws’ home city then drive to the coast) we once again interacted with the lawmen of Springfield, about 100 miles from the coast, where I was pulled over for speeding last year. This time it was a routine driver’s license checkpoint, which nevertheless resulted in a fair amount of knee-slapping over the fact that we had come all this way to go to the beach. “You took yourselves a wrong turn somewhere!” said one of the officers.

My California license saved me a ticket last year. “California!” the officer who pulled me over exclaimed when I handed it over, then asked, “If I give you a ticket, will you promise to pay it?” That “if I give you a ticket” part made it seem optional to me, so I answered, “Well, officer, I would prefer not to get the ticket.” He slapped my registration and license against his wrist and, to my everlasting surprise, handed it back to me with an admonition to “Take it easy from here on out.” I thought I was all cute, having charmed my way out of a ticket, until my partner told me that the officer was weighing whether to arrest me to ensure payment.

So, no trouble with the law, and the swimsuit is performing like a champ: The mastectomy suit is the single greatest invention since seamless undiepants. Ooh, and we swam with dolphins yesterday! Or rather dolphins passed by roughly 25 feet from where we were swimming. And even I’m not too jaded to squeal with delight when dolphins leap through the ocean within my spitting distance–you know, if I were a whale, with a blow hole in my skull.

Three days passed. Four to go. Hope to check in again soon.

So, my partner and I are on vacation in the South. Actually, right now we’re staying with her parents in the little s south, where the legendary manners and cute accents are at the ready but there are still a few Democrats sprinkled about. Tomorrow morning we head for The South, where there’s at least an outside chance we’ll be burned in effigy. This could be my last blog entry, y’all.

We arrived early for the annual South Carolina family beach trip to attend a banquet last night honoring my partner’s mother, who was named her home state’s 2006 Woman of the Year, or “2006 WOY,” as said the placard at our table. Any outstanding fantasies I had about shuffling nonchalantly around the banquet hall, unnoticed by all but those bearing canapés, were dashed soon after we arrived. Upon our entrance the vigorous shaking of hands commenced, accompanied by enthusiastic affirmations about how very great her mother is and how very proud we all are and how very pleased we were to be there. And not just any hands. Gubernatorial candidates’ hands. State supreme court justices’ hands. Power hands!

It’s notable that measures have never been taken to obscure my relationship with the daughter of the 2006 WOY. I was seated front-and-center at the WOY family table, introduced to all comers as “my daughter’s partner, Teresa.”

Hell, most people didn’t even need an introduction: Dozens of strangers approached me, clasping my hand in their own as they gleefully declared, “You must be Teresa!” Not that playing “Find the Lesbian” was a tough call in last night’s environment, but the very fact that folks in her life know that there is a lesbian and that her name is Teresa indicates an openness I never expected.

Just goes to show you that expectations are only as valuable as the stereotypes that form them. Who would ever suspect it? The churchgoing Southern family with the perilously high community profile welcomes the unbaptized West Coast dyke into their inner sanctum, saying, “Hey, this is the person our daughter loves, everybody, and it’s really OK.”

Oh, sure, my mother-in-law would really, really like to baptize me, but that’s to be expected. Twelve years into our relationship, I think she understands that it probably won’t happen, and that we can even joke about the issue indicates that my stubborn aversion to salvation isn’t a deal-breaker.

So I’d like to take this moment to say that my partner was right when she suggested, in the face of my powerful impulse just weeks ago to shave my head, that maybe I could keep a thatch of hair until after the banquet. ‘Cause when I think sincerely about the strives her mother has made to wrap her head around me and fit me in to her family picture, private and public–not to even mention the vehicle and hotel room upgrades we scammed by casually mentioning our relationship to the WOY–not arriving bald to her crowning seems the very least I can do.

Heh heh, look, a lesbian roasting wieners.

This was the funnest camping trip ever! Funner even than the time a horse dumped me on my head at Girl Scout camp. Funner even than when my whole extended family convinced me that my mother had gone missing in the woods.

Come to think of it, why do I even like camping?

It’s 1976. I’m 9 years old and crying inconsolably in the living room of a rented cabin in Coffee Creek, a wilderness area in Northern California. That afternoon I had been riding shotgun in my uncle Merlyn’s camper when we passed my mom and her two sisters walking along the road. They had been out picking blackberries and were heading back to our cabin. When they saw Merlyn’s camper they jokingly stuck out their thumbs to hitch a ride. Merlyn answered the joke with his own, yelling out the window, “Sorry, ladies, I don’t pick up strangers,” then sped down the road. I laughed along with him because the cabin wasn’t very far down the road, and also because he was the grown-up. It’s best to laugh along with grown-ups.

Hours later my mom and her sisters still haven’t arrived back at the cabin and I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach: I have to remind myself to breathe. As time drags on I can’t believe my father and uncles haven’t gone out to look for them. Instead they drink beer and tell stories about their dingbat wives and their terrible sense of direction. Merlyn says he hopes they haven’t fallen into the river, adding that the current is running strong. Uncle Gordon says he saw a bear not far from the cabin that afternoon.

As they banter back and forth I’m certain that I’ll never see my mother alive again, and I think about how sorry the men will be when they hear the bad news, whether their wives have been eaten alive by animals or kidnapped and killed by terrible men. I know about terrible men. My mother had prepared me for this world by telling me all about serial killers and rapists, “sickos” who get their “jollies” by torturing and murdering innocent girls and women. When she was alive—back before this camping trip—she used to put newspaper articles next my cereal dish, and along with my Honey Nut Cheerios I digested details of the latest local killings—nipples twisted off with locking pliers, desecrated vaginas, faces brutalized beyond recognition.

I angrily put on my jacket and head for the cabin door, not because I feel that I can do anything about my mother’s fate but because I can’t do nothing anymore. Before I reach the door Merlyn, failing to stifle his laughter at my undoubtedly red and pouty face, says, “OK, kiddo, hold on. Your mom’s around back; she’s been there the whole time.” I race out the door and run around to the back of the cabin, where my mother and her sisters are sitting in folding chairs, chatting casually and eating blackberries. I should feel relieved. Instead I feel confused and humiliated. I turn around and walk into the woods, thinking that I might just disappear forever, but I soon get scared and go back.

Years later I’ll recount the experience to my mother as one of the most unsettling moments of my life, but she won’t remember it.

My favorite camping activity is river-walking, stepping from stone to stone—and into the drink when necessary—navigating my way to some far-flung boulder, my own personal island, where I can lose myself amid the white noise of rushing water. River-walking was limited on this trip, in part due to the icy conditions that chilled my feet and made the riverbed feel like a field of broken glass, and not least due to my partner’s pleas for caution. A ranger told us on the way in that a “young girl”—hard to say whether he meant a girl or a woman—had disappeared while swimming in the river a few days earlier. He warned us that the current was particularly strong—late thaw this year—and a Sequoia National Park bulletin appealed to campers to keep an eye out for her body.

I heeded my partner’s concerns and stuck close to shore, though I was hell-bent on finding a silky-smooth river rock for her work desk, a multitasking souvenir to remind her of the trip and maybe pin down a few loose papers all at once. I picked up and rejected rock after rock, staring into the water and trying in vain to train my eyes to flicker at the same frequency as the current so as to bring the riverbed into sharper focus. I finally settled on a couple of candidates. As I climbed up the riverbank I retrieved the rocks from my pockets with a witty reference to Virginia Woolf’s suicide, a bit of gallows humor that maybe didn’t play so well given the missing, presumed-dead girl.

It’s 1979. I’m in the mounted unit of a Girl Scout camp in San Bernardino, Calif., and I’ve acquired the nickname “Noose,” a nod to my singular talent for making them out of the clothesline we were all instructed to bring. Most of the other girls think I’m weird, but they’re curiously drawn to my art: A couple of them ask me to make nooses for them, and I oblige. I’m soon approached by the head counselor, who says that the nooses are inappropriate and that I’m scaring the other girls, and she asks whether I can’t put my energies into something more artistic or productive, like macramé. Sure, I tell her. No problem. Instead I sulk in my bunk, reading some horror novel I had brought along.

The only counselor I really like, a solid woman named Deb who swaggers around camp and winks at me with kind understanding, is taken away by ambulance after a horse falls on her and crushes her leg during our second week. We later hear she’ll be in traction for at least two months. The other counselors won’t tell us which horse had injured her. I decide it must have been my horse, who had reared up and bucked me off just a few days earlier. I can’t help being nervous around him now, no matter how many times the counselors tell me horses can “smell” fear.

I fake sick one morning to get out of the pre-lunch trail ride, and I hike into some nearby woods to make my nooses in peace. I lose track of time and I’m discovered by one of my fellow campers, now back from the morning ride. When I look up she turns and runs back toward camp.

A short time later I trudge back into camp myself, and it quickly becomes clear that the snooper has been telling stories about me to all the other girls. I can smell their fear.

We didn’t find the dead girl. Maybe she’s not dead after all. Maybe she found a nice boulder in the middle of the rushing river and can’t bring herself to abandon it. Or maybe she’s out in the woods, hiding from her family, practicing some dark art the rest of us can’t understand, and wondering how long it will take before someone comes out to find her.

Don’t stop at the Denny’s in Buttonwillow.

Just because you remember a time when Denny’s was the last fork-and-knife sign for about a hundred miles of the most mind-numbingly boring stretch of Interstate 5 between Los Angeles and San Francisco doesn’t mean that will be the case this trip. Remember, you thrive on mystery. Besides, people get killed at Denny’s. Also, Denny’s promotes the covering and smothering of perfectly innocent hash browns, an idea made even more horrifying by the fact that they stole it from the Waffle House. Stealing terrible ideas from other terrible restaurants sullies your cred, Denny’s. You can only coast on your Moons Over My Hammy® laurels for so long.

Just because you’re all proud of yourself for not stopping at Denny’s doesn’t mean you can let your guard down. Resist with all your might the urge to stop at restaurants that make alluring promises on their signs, even if the gambit paid off at Max’s, where many, if not all, of the foods I’ve always wanted to eat were prepared tastefully. (What did “always” ever do to anybody to deserve its lowly uncapped status?)

It’s not fun to eat at Scrambl’z, not even if your tireless copyediting hard drive can spin down long enough to forgive the ambiguous ’z.

It’s not fun at all, and you’ll leave feeling like you may never want to eat again. But then you’ll remember that you bought some saltwater taffy at Casa de Fruta and decide that you may be able to choke down a piece or two.

Always stop at Andersen’s, and don’t order anything but the Hungry Traveler’s Special.

You’ll be tempted to step outside the warm embrace of pea soup, but the pea soup is canon—you’re at Pea Soup Andersen’s, silly—and if the first bowl leaves you wanting, the HTS is all about the refill. My limit is generally one and a half bowls, with practically a whole loaf of unstingily buttered pumpernickel. Mmm. Your HTS comes complete with beverage, and some otherwise sane adults may be tempted to order a milkshake just because they can. However fondly I remember the sweet and savory and altogether creamy delight of vanilla-milkshake-and-pea-soup goodness I enjoyed as I child, I’m cognizant of having failed to recapture that same bliss the last time I ordered a milkshake with my HTS, sometime in my 20s (I mature[d] slowly). If you have a full set of adult teeth, you’ll want to stick with a soda or hot beverage.

Finally, when you make it to San Francisco, go to Citizen Cake, or its little sister Citizen Cupcake, and get the Lovers’ Cake. Oh. My. God.

Ever start writing something about your stupid life and then get so bored with yourself that you can’t imagine why you’re worth writing about or how on earth anyone else could possibly be interested in what you have to say? Yeah, me too.

But since my mother, whenever I call, reliably greets me with, “Oh, we were wondering if you’d died or something!” I thought it would be best to head off that kind of thinking at the pass here. Because I know it’s only natural to think, Golly, she hasn’t written a blog entry in over a week. I wonder if she died.

I haven’t died. My partner and I were in Georgia—the state, not the country—Wednesday through Sunday to visit her parents and catch some of the northern stages of the Tour de Georgia. Road cycling being not such a big deal in the States, folks can get almost close enough to the pro riders at the TdG to lovingly stroke their sculpted calves. My favorite moment—easily besting my first glimpse of a motley contingent of Confederate reenactors standing cheek to jowl in Chickamauga with the cyclists, the soldiers’ dirty gray uniforms revealing almost as much pot belly as the bikers’ colorful Lycra jerseys revealed muscle—happened when we were wandering among the team vehicles after the finish of the Dahlonega stage and a Belgian rider from the Quick Step team stripped out of his cycling kit and stood in the middle of the parking lot just as naked as an eel chatting with his teammates while an assistant massaged his still-twitching muscles.

I wish I had been born in country with a less inhibited culture. I’ll bet Belgian bloggers hardly ever harbor anxiety over the worth of what they have to say—and they never have panic dreams in which they find themselves naked in the middle of a crowd.

Wildflower season has come to Southern California! Botanical types are giving this year’s expected wildflower turnout only a 6 on a scale of 1–10, this because our rainy season delivered too little too late. But while last year’s crop—after a rainy season so relentless that the ceiling in our home office buckled and collapsed—more thoroughly painted the landscape in broad strokes of orange, yellow, and purple, the arrival of the class of ’06 is no less spectacular. Like any other native vegetation, poppy fields rise up amid spring showers, blooming as magically—and damn near as quickly—as a tin of Jiffy Pop. Seriously, does this scene strike you as a 6 out of 10?

A mountainside blanketed in wildflowers is one of a handful of sights—others being coastal Northern California and wine country—that puts me in a frame of mind to understand why people once thought my home state paradise.

My mother, having grown up in Iowa, came to California in 1958 with her family to visit her eldest brother, who had moved west only the year before and had been writing home ever since to exclaim, “You have to come see this place!” The story goes that after a two-week vacation they returned to Iowa long enough only to sell their farm and livestock, then moved to California en masse. Their acclimation was a bit Joad-esque in that my grandfather had lost his livelihood in the bargain and spent the rest of his days at a miserable factory job. And then there were all those sailors trying to pick up my mom and her sister at the Pike, an amusement park near the Port of Long Beach. But such were the trade-offs for our temperate climate and dramatic landscapes—the beaches, mountains, and desert competing so fervently for one’s favor it’s difficult to see a downside.

But this entry isn’t about downsides. It’s very much about upsides, and the California poppy is living proof that land, left to its own devices, produces beauty beyond our most virtuosic attempts to improve upon it. I would scrap my plans for bricking in the cursed strip and instead liberally sprinkle wildflower seeds all about if I thought the delicate blooms would stand a chance against the trample of work boots as men cut across our property to get from their parked trucks to the high-density apartment buildings that flank the nearby boulevard. Wouldn’t it be grand, though, to turn our eyesore into a little slice of heaven?

’Course, though merchants are happy to sell wildflower seeds, I’m not so sure the show-offy little devils thrive in domestic situations. I almost never see them occupying orderly rows and beds—the kinds of defined spaces where marigolds and pansies muster in accordance with gardeners’ orders. I like to think that poppies and their untamed kin resist order, choosing to live chaotically and free, thumbing their stamens at the indignity of planters, serving as no man’s “lawn border.” There’s a reason, they remind us, that “pansy” is another word for wuss.

OK, so my partner tagged me to complete this survey, and while I’m not in the habit of doing everything she asks of me, this seems an easy enough way to please her. Maybe if I do this, she’ll agree to have Thai food this weekend. (She won’t. She dislikes Thai food, so she’ll probably bargain me down to Chinese food, which is what I’m actually gunning for. But had I started with Chinese food, she would have tried to bargain me down to Panda Express, which is far less appealing. For Thai food, I have to wait till she’s out of town, at which time I generally get too inert to leave the house and make myself oatmeal instead. So I seldom actually achieve Thai food. Do you see how difficult it is being me?)

Four jobs I’ve had:
a) Waiter (That’s lead waiter to you, buddy!)
b) Purchasing manager at an independent record store
c) Copywriter
d) Copy editor

Four movies I could watch over and over

This is like asking me to choose four favorites from among my unborn children, or just four kinds of salad dressing (if pressed: blue cheese, bleu cheese, fromage bleu, queso azul). It’s very stressful, because, as regular reader(s) of this blog already know, I have trouble choosing a loaf of bread at the g store. Besides which, there’s a temptation to get all highfalutin and artsy to try and convince people that I’m complicated, and not just in a mental-health kind of way. Fine, whatever, here goes:

a) Sunset Boulevard
b) Quadrophenia
c) What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
d) The Philadelphia Story

Four places I’ve lived

Here’s where my colorful and varied past shines!

a) Long Beach, Calif. (my birthplace)
b) Garden Grove, Calif. (the OC!)
c) West Hollywood, Calif.
d) Van Nuys, Calif.

Four television shows I love

“Oh, I don’t own a television,” she says disdainfully.

Ha! People who say they don’t own televisions are precisely the people who will house-sit for you and soak up your 180 satellite channels like a crack addict on a post-rehab binge. Here are my ever-changing current faves:

a) Project Runway
b) House
c) Intervention
d) Rebuilt: The Human Body Shop (If you haven’t seen this new Discovery Health channel show about the staff and clientele of a high-tech prosthetics lab, check it out. It is at once fascinating and inspiring.)

Four places I’ve vacationed:
a) Yellowstone National Park
b) The Grand Strand, South Carolina (a.k.a. Republican Jesus, S.C.; annual gig with the in-laws)
c) Cornwall
d) Belgium (headquarters of my family’s 1992 Great Bowling Alleys of Europe tour)

Four favorite dishes:
a) Coffee (That’s not a dish?)
b) Spicy string beans
c) Dark chocolate (That’s a dish, right?)
d) A bowl of stuff from Chipotle

Four sites I visit daily:
a) Salon
b) Dooce.com
c) Whatever (on fire)—my partner’s blog
d) The forums at DBSA (Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance)

Four places I’d rather be:
a) At home
b) On my bike
c) Walking barefoot anywhere an ocean licks the shore
d) On a massage table

Four books I love

Again, this is a mean and stress-inducing question:

a) Dreaming: Hard Luck and Good Times in America by Carolyn See (my creative-writing mentor’s memoir)
b) High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
c) Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
d) Cloudstreet by Tim Winton

Four albums I can’t live without

OK, this one was initially “four video games I play,” but I don’t play any, and I was surprised there wasn’t a music question, so I’m having my way with this silly survey:

a) The Walking—Jane Siberrry
b) Quadrophenia—The Who
c) Traffic From Paradise—Rickie Lee Jones
d) Eveningland—Hem

Four bloggers I’m tagging:

Hmm, I don’t really know any bloggers except the one who tagged me, and those she’s already tagged, but wouldn’t it be funny if I tagged her back? Then we could just toss the potato back and forth, and each time we were tagged we’d have to answer the survey differently. Then we could be really self-indulgent, as if blogging isn’t already incredibly self-indulgent, and get all of our favorite movies and books and CDs out of our system, because it’s oh, so important that everyone understands how very diverse and complicated we are. For instance, I didn’t list any jazz CDs, so you don’t know how very much I like jazz and am therefore somehow cooler than people who do not like jazz. And that’s a shame, really, your not knowing that about me.

I do know one would-be blogger I can tag, hoping to spur her to action in her blog-in-potentia, which will be amazing when it evolves from its current zygote state. Grrrly Librarian, you are so tagged!