June |joōn|

"June is Bustin' Out All Over!" is a rousing song from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical "Carousel."


It could also be the totally uncalled for remarks of a very pregnant woman's heel of a husband.  If the woman's name were June, of course.  That was a real stretch, I know, but it's the kind of stretch I LIKE to make, the kind of stretch that leaves stretch marks.  If you'd like to know how FAR I can stretch something, ask me about the French-Chinese version of the old horror movie "The Blob."

In the state of Michigan, the month of June does seem to bust out--all over the place.  All the botanical brilliance that has been hibernating through 6 months of winter comes rushing out into visibility.  Every child's teacher is just itching to schedule a concert, or display all that the kids have been working on throughout the school year.  June is busy and harried--and wonderful for our family.


Below is a photographic definition of June. . . in Midland, Michigan. . . for us.***

It's entitled "June is . . . . "

June is academic advancement assemblies for each child.  This is Scarlett's.

Talk about BUSTIN' OUT ALL OVER!  This tree in the Larsen's front yard is a riot of gorgeous pink blossoms.

June is playing outside--without shoes or coats.  Here's George with his best friend.

June is sunlight on blossoms.  photo by Scarlett

Here's Ethel as Emma Smith for her school's "wax museum."

June is the time for special events which require special hairdos.  Here's Ethel's band concert "up do."

June is Abner singing a solo in the middle school play "Schoolhouse Rock."  Due to inept photography, this picture is of Abner's FRIEND singing a solo.  He was great, too!  We didn't get a good photo of our OWN son.  That's June, too!

June is handsome Abner dressing in a very smart red shirt and black tie (school colors) to play percussion in his band concert.

June is the END of school. It's Pearl's LAST day of public school, and Scarlett's last day before exams begin.  One of them is happy, and one in a state of exhaustion and dread.  You can tell which is which just by looking.

June is Dow High choosing its drum majors for next year--and you're looking at her!  Scarlett is practicing her conducting skills in preparation for her audition.  June is also a friend of your little brother in the background.

June is Lola home from college.

June is SO green it seems impossible.

June is parades in the hot sun.  Scarlett is somewhere in the 3rd line from the left, holding her mellophone.

June is sunburn weather.  Sometimes Michiganders (or their Moms) forget that sunscreen is necessary.  Poor Lewis!!

June is more academic advancement ceremonies.  We're so proud of Abner!

June is a graduation party for 7 awesome young people.

June is high school graduates elatedly singing "I'm a Believer" to a live band at their party. 

June is line dancing to the music of the band at the party.

June is Ethel hanging out with the chickens, giving them a treat of fresh corn.

June is our awesome PEARL--graduating from Dow High with honors!

June is proud parents with their graduate.

June is a fancy graduation dress bought for you by your big sis, and a gorgeous flower lei from your Auntie Nikki.

June is starting off happily on a half marathon with the kindest people in the world accompanying you and cheering you on!

June is Charles's birthday dinner--always the same:  fried chicken, biscuits, salad, corn and chocolate silk pie.

June is Charles getting a practical gift--this time it's a cordless drill.

June is "heavy heavy hangs over" and some cufflinks from Lola.

June is Charles's birthday sign.  

June is so relaxed that you do silly things like pose with the statues in the park.

June is a time for reflection--or at least a picture of your shadow in the river.

June is warm enough to play at the spray park with friends, but so cool that you need to lie down on the sun-heated cement to warm up.  

June is a road trip to Youth Conference at Kirtland, Ohio where Charles served his mission. . . .

. . . and a stop along the shores of Lake Erie.

June is saying goodbye to a good missionary--and houseguests that you wish you could adopt!

June is a friend visiting, and becoming an expert bow-fisherman. 

June is also time to hang out on the dock, fishing pole in hand.

June is a Quidditch match in the backyard.

June is two friends becoming, together, a mean goal-scoring machine!

June is. . . so often the best time of year in Michigan, and we're LOVING it!

***Some of the events pictured may technically have taken place at the end of May.

egotist |ēˈ●gə●tist|

"Are you an egotist?!"

The man barking the words at Charles looked to be nearly 90.  He had sparse wisps of white hair not really covering his scalp.  They were supposed to form a combover, but the wind had blown them loose and they did not conceal the top of his head which was so transparent it couldn't hide large numbers of bulging blue veins.  He was wearing loose-fitting wool slacks, a red cardigan and old-man athletic shoes:  sturdy, earth-toned and with very substantial soles.  He drove a clean and new-looking mini-SUV type car.  It was safe and stylish, but modestly conservative.

We had just pulled up to a gas pump outside of Costco.  Charles had gotten in line behind one set of pumps when he noticed another pump that was free, so he quickly maneuvered our little Honda into place next to the open pump.  The whole time he was doing so, we could hear a car approaching with its horn blaring.  The driver had lain on the horn at the entrance to the gas station, and the sound continued almost until he pulled up next to us, at another just-vacated pump.  The older man had apparently spotted OUR newly available pump at about the same moment we did, and had had his eye on it from 100 feet away.  He was yelling at Charles with the window down as he approached.  Charles was already out of the car swiping our cards in the process of filling our tank when the older man pulled up.  I was sitting in the passenger seat of the car and I could see the faces of all the other customers and the attendant.  They had been startled and bothered by the sound of the horn, were watching the hostile old man make his approach, were watching Charles fill our tank, and were nervously wondering if they were about to witness an ugly confrontation. They had their heads mostly down, but they were peering up through their eyelashes, furtively, too embarrassed to look straight on but unable to look away.

The man didn't hear Charles's first words because he was still hollering out his window.  Charles had said, "Sorry about that.  You having a bad day?"

I didn't hear the old man's response, but I heard the attendant say quietly to Charles, "You're a way nicer man than I am."

Out of his car now, he continued to holler angrily, "You're not 18!  Stop driving so impulsively!  You're dangerous!"  The old man was not softening a bit, even though Charles, dressed in his suit--fresh from a visit to the temple, approached him with apologetic words, spoken in a soft voice.

Charles  in his suit.

Charles noticed a tag on his shirt that said something about "oncology" as he talked to the man, and he figured it indicated that he was in cancer treatment, or that perhaps someone he loved was in treatment.

I still couldn't hear anything Charles said, but I watched the other drivers shaking their heads at the behavior of the man.  They finished their transactions and drove off, sensing that there wasn't going to be an altercation.

We finished pumping our gas, joked with the attendant about quittin' time, and headed home.  The older gentleman was still there, filling his tank and muttering under his breath.  As we neared the exit, I noticed a woman driving toward us who had been ahead of us at the pump.  She had exited the parking lot and decided to do a 180 and pull back in.  She was rolling her window down and slowing as she approached.  Charles rolled our window down to hear what she had to say.

"I just wanted to say thank you for how you handled that.  That was so nice of you.  People just don't do that anymore.  Really."

Charles said, "I'll probably be just like that in a few years.  I hope people will be nice to me!"

As we rehashed the incident on the way home, Charles asked, "What's an egotist?"

"I have a guess," I said, "but I've only heard that word used in black and white movies, so I'm not positive.  Let's look it up when we get home!"

It turns out that an egotist is someone who talks and thinks about himself excessively because of an undue sense of self-importance.

Is Charles an egotist?  I'll answer that.

No.

I'm so proud of him.

unctuous (ˈəng(k)choōəs)

My daughter Lola recommended that I write a new post, and I requested that she provide a WFTD (Word For The Day, remember?)  for me to blog about.  She couldn't think of one, but in that same facebook conversation a friend suggested the word "unctuous."  I committed to blogging about it, so here we are.  I've looked it up, and unctuousness is not a good thing.  I truly hope that my facebook friend did not suggest the word as a way to inform me about one of my many faults. 

 (I don't think that's the case, though, because this friend of mine is too astoundingly, amazingly nice to do that.  If you needed it, he'd give you the shirt off his back, and then get another shirt on so he could offer to give you THAT shirt, too!  He's so amazing that I think they should give him the Medal of Honor for general niceness, or the Nobel Peace Prize.  Actually, I bet he's already won those awards.)

Unctuous means excessively or ingratiatingly flattering; oily. I really hope I don't come across that way to my friends and family.

(Of course, my friends and family are so a-MAZE-ing, that I know they wouldn't ever think that of me, even if it were true.  They are so incredibly and awesomely fantastic that if I needed money, they would ask how much I needed and then give me THREE TIMES that amount!)
My hope is that I come across as someone who is brave and smart--willing to take a stand for important things. Unfortunately,  in actuality I'm more of the 'Fraidy-cat type.  Not only am I too passive to take a stand in important matters, but I'm also too scared to let my voice be heard in UNimportant matters.  Case in point:  I have a secret desire to be a vandal.  I don't really want to destroy property, I want to improve it--bring a little sunshine to others like myself who spend hours each day in their cars, and who are forced to look at the same signage around town over and over again.  I have wanted, for years, to sneak out in the night, "creatively alter" the signs in my neighborhood, and unleash my worldview on the whole town . . . . but I can't!  

  

These signs are all over the place.  I want to spray paint an angry "GRRRRRRR!" sort of face on each one to show how frustrated these signs are that they have NO OUTLET --for their creativity, their passion, their talents, their opinions!  They are totally oppressed!!  

I'm too chicken, and I have legitimate reasons for being so.  Allow me to tell a background story.  When I was 17 years old, a few friends wanted to go toilet papering and they wanted to include me.  It shouldn't have been a big deal!  Toilet papering is not really even mean-spirited; it's just youthful hilarity.  However, I told them that they shouldn't invite me along because (I swear I actually said this) if I went, we would all get busted.  Well, well, well, wouldn't you know we DID get busted!  A sharp-eyed young man (with a crush on the girl whose house we were TP-ing) saw us and called the "police" in our town.  In the process of the shakedown, one of my friends actually got belted across the face by one of the "officers" who thought my friend was being a smart aleck. 
(Now, of course, the handsome, astute and swarthy young security officer was doing his duty--a man of nobility and grace, to be sure!)
It was an ugly situation, and it illustrates why I am such a goody-goody.  If I ever attempt to step off the straight and narrow, something seems to scream out to the powers that be, "LOOK AT ME!  I'M DOING SOMETHING NAUGHTY!  COME CATCH ME IN THE ACT AND INFLICT PUNISHMENT UPON ME!"
Indulge me, please, as I give one more brief background story.  It involves someone very close to me who will probably wish to remain anonymous.  So, for the sake of preserving her dignity, I'll call her "Mom."

I would love to climb up on this billboard, paint a Groucho Marx schnozz on the man and change the last word from "HONOR" to "HUMOR."  The sign would then read, "Dedicated to a sense OF HUMOR."  Honor and humor are not mutually exclusive! Every soldier I know is hilarious, making the statement so true!  ***see disclaimer, below

I was probably 10 or 11 years old and was sitting in my living room watching TV one evening.  "Mom" came into the room and told me to turn off the TV and go to bed.  For some reason, that command was the straw that broke the camel's back.  In that moment, the injustice of my life rose up inside me and I was filled with a fearful rage against the force that had compelled me, every night for as long as I could remember, to stop doing what I wanted to be doing and go to bed. With a fury I could scarcely control, I turned to "Mom" and said these words:  "Who put YOU in charge?  Why do YOU always get  to BOSS EVERYONE AROUND!"  
It was interesting, because the wrath that had seemed so unstoppable just split seconds before had already left me by the time I finished my sentence.  It left me, and jumped very quickly into "Mom."  As I watched the rage contort her face (all this in 2-3 seconds, mind you) I wished with all my quivering heart that I could grab those words out of the air and shove them back in my mouth.  Such was not to be.  Instead, "Mom" marched straight towards me, stood me up by my hair, dragged me down the hall and deposited me in my bedroom.  All the while I'm screaming,
 "I'msorry! I'msorry! I'msorry! I takeitback! I takeitbaaaaaaaack!!
I was absolutely pathetic at civil disobedience, and I have remained so to this day.
(This Mom character, though, she's GREAT at civil disobedience!  She's great at everything and I mean everything.  There's not a thing you could name that she isn't great at.  She could seriously win awards in every single kind of category there is.  Especially forgiveness of her children when they tell unflattering tales.  She's fantastic at that!)
I'm telling you all this "background" so you'll know why the signs in my town have nothing to fear from me.  Though I wish, every single time I see them, that I could deface them in my own uplifting way, it will never happen. 

Someone has already done the dirty work for me, here.  Each day I drive past four cars in this used car lot, each with one letter of the word "SALE' in its open mouth.  I always want to ask to test drive one of those specific cars, just to make it  say "ALE" or "SAL" for an hour or two. 

Now that I've read over this post, I realize that I haven't blogged about the word unctuous at ALL, really.  I apologize from the bottom of my heart.

 ( But knowing the kind of blog-readers you are--sophisticated,  intelligent, insightful, charismatic, beautiful and just all-around excellent in every way, much like how I imagine royalty would be--I'm sure you'll be good enough to overlook that little fact.)

*** my desire to vandalize the military recruitment billboard has everything to do with how easily the words "sense of honor" could be changed into the phrase "sense of humor" and does not in any way indicate disrespect for the honorable servicemen and women of our country.

paean |ˈpēən|

A paean is defined as a thing that expresses enthusiastic praise.  I am currently still resisting the challenge  to punnify this word.   It's requiring all the self-restraint I possess.  (A-peein'?  get it?)

Okay, moving on: 

Here’s my expression of praise for our Christmas vacation:

What a wonderful holiday we had!  Last week, January 3^rd, at Family Home Evening, we made a poster of favorite memories from the end of 2010.  We filled the entire poster paper and could have kept going!  As you look at the picture, ignore the part about GOALS.  Notice that that whole section is crossed out.  We were using paper which did not technically belong to us—it was a “recycled” piece of poster paper from an earlier Girls Camp meeting—thus the commentary about spiritual experiences, knowledge and social growth.  You now know about our goals for Girls Camp 2011.  We don’t set goals for the holidays (believe it or not : ).

Rudolph leads the way on the sleigh and in this paean.

I’ve posted the picture of the chart so that even the things I haven’t written about will get a shout out.  With so much felicity we got very tired and we all gained weight from over eating and unhealthy eating, but WE HAD SO MUCH FUN!

Our poster

Let me begin with our beloved house guests:

I don’t know if Lola counts, literally, as a house guest, but we could not have been happy without her here.  She arrived on the 18^th.  She drove, shopped, helped out, played games, laughed, sang, danced, cooked, and was loving to all of us while she was home.  We miss her so much. 

Ben was next to arrive.  He was anxious and it took him awhile to settle in, but as usual, we have the most unique, fun and amazing memories of our times with Ben.  Besides being quirky and sleepy during the day, he is perceptive, generous and fun and we can’t wait for him to come visit again!

“The cousins” arrived on the 23^rd.  These cousins are the Andersons:  Eric’s sister Nichole and her kids Sydney, Ryan, Claire, Faith and Joshua.  We always enjoy their visits.  They are easy-going people, easy to please, undemanding and also very fun.

Lining up to go upstairs and see what Santa brought.

We played games over the holiday:  we got Farkle for Christmas (the kids thought it was from G-ma, confusing Freddie Ferkle candy from Germany with Farkle—thanks G-ma!) and played it at home and in the car whenever we could.  The kids also enjoyed playing Chess with each other, since we got another set of games which includes checkers, chess and several others in one neat little kit.  We played Whompum with our cousins in the basement.  It’s a game where each player has a “bat” made of rolled up newspaper.  The object is to try to grab the beanbag from between two lines on the floor without getting “whomped” by the other player.  It’s a great aggression-reduction exercise.  Another great indoor time was had by all as we played Just Dance 2, which the cousins got for Christmas.  It is fun to participate in and even funner to watch.  What a kick!  It turned out to be great preparation for Sarsie’s wedding reception, where we very literally danced the night away and made great memories.  We went to the church gym on the 23^rd and played lightning and family basketball.  The Anderson cousins and our dear friends the Larsens met us there.  We had a great time together, due in large part to Ben’s light-hearted and generous sportsmanship.  He never took a shot he intended to make—instead passing the ball to little kids, or big sisters or brothers in law.  He is so good at that!  Everyone had fun AND improved their basketball skills.  We only hope Ben had fun as well.

This is how we keep from doing dishes constantly when the house is full.  Everyone gets their own disposable cup with their own name on it in Sharpie.

We spent a lot of time, as usual, staring at glowing screens.  We watched Youtube videos (expanding our vocabularies and cultural understanding about bacon, Steve Nash and the joys of working with people), bowl games (none of the good ones, though) and watched Christmas movies.  The kids played Wii ALMOST to their hearts’ content.  The Monday after Christmas, we went as a HUGE group to see “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” in the theater.  The ticket to see this movie had been a Christmas present.  We also enjoyed gazing at our computer screens as we skyped with Zach and Annie and Sloanie in Peru, and skyped with G-ma from her mission in Germany on Christmas morning and on the day of Sarsie’s wedding.

We weren’t inside all the time, however.  We also had a great time tobogganing behind a borrowed 4-wheeler, sledding, and ice skating on the pond.  We skated with cousins and Larsens on Christmas Eve and that may have helped the kids get some of their Christmas Eve energy out.  It was a sunny warmish day and we basked in it.

Ouch!  I'm still learning to ice skate.

so is Uncle Benny!

George and Ben Larsen.  Ready, Set, Go!

Don't know if kids or Dad had more fun!

There was music, too!  A few days before Christmas we had the privilege of eating a lovely supper at the Larsen home and hearing the story of Santa Lucia, the patron saint of Sweden (??) who was known for generously sharing food with poor and needy people.  We went caroling to members of our ward and brought homemade rolls to share with them, hopefully in the spirit of Santa Lucia.  We LOVED that evening!  In addition to caroling, music filled our home as Sydney and Ben learned to play the ukulele.  Ben asked me to teach him how to play and Sydney also expressed an interest.  I taught them everything I know.  Either they are both quick learners, or I don’t know very much, or both.  There’s nothing quite like the strum of an ukulele to induce relaxation and a feeling of warmth.  We cherished both of those this cold holiday.  In addition, any time the ukulele was not playing, the sweet voices of Pearl and Ethel could be heard rehearsing Schubert’s Ave Maria to prepare to sing at Sarsie’s wedding.  They were nervous, but ended up performing REALLY beautifully.  When they sang at the wedding rehearsal, there were tons of tears and afterwards, many compliments.

Caroling for Santa Lucia

I guess Lola brushed up on her strumming, too!

Our road trip to South Carolina was so memorable.  As I’ve written before, such a drive is not for everyone.   We love it, even as we acknowledge the discomfort and stress that comes with it.  We piled 10 of us into the car and began our 32 hour round-trip drive—for 48 hours of visit.  The drive/relax ratio on that trip is a little ridiculous, we know, but when you’re going to a major family event in a warm and beautiful place, it’s worth it!  We ate tons of snack food, listened to music and spiritual discourses and comic routines via ipod internet access, watched movies on Charles’s ipad, played games and talked and laughed.  We stopped as often as we felt was prudent, stretching our legs and hitting the restrooms.  The people in Carolina were amazing.  Not only did we spend precious time with Uncle Dan and our other cousins, the Maycocks, but Sarsie’s in-laws are the most gracious people!  We found that even employees at the hotels and restaurants we visited were well-mannered and courteous.  We know why people live in the South!

All the Workmans  at Aunt Sara and Uncle Ryan's wedding (except Scarlett--she took the picture)

Me, Lola, Sarsie and Pearl mastering a line dance.  Left foot STOMP!

We have each been grumpy and out-of-sorts with our return to reality.  We had so quickly become accustomed to late nights and late mornings, junk food, constant entertainment and immediate access to loved ones.  Just about the time we start really “digging” the new normal, ACTUAL normalcy returns with the turning of the year--to our collective dismay. 

Me in the space formerly occupied by the Christmas tree.  I am supposed to be looking bereft over the end of Christmas.

The cousins left first, heading home on December 28^th.  Lola left next, on the dangerously icy, snowy morning of January 4^th.  Ben flew out that afternoon.  After a day of deep depression, we did manage to pick ourselves up off the floor and re-engage in school, work and church responsibilities.  Still, there’s some holiday left in us:  we play games like Farkle, Ruckus and Chess much more than we would have pre-Christmas, Abner showed some SWEET basketball skills last Friday evening at his community center league game, swishing a 3 pointer for his team, and Scarlett and Pearl “electric slided” next to and WITH their old Mama at the stake dance last night.  HOORAY!   In the words of Ebeneezer Scrooge’s nephew, “I believe that [Christmas] has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

exuberance eg•zo͡o ́•ber ənts

I woke up this morning to the sound of my doorbell ringing.

It's Sunday morning, it's blizzarding outside, and I am not dressed or hygienically prepared to entertain.

Nevertheless, I reasoned, since my doorbell is ringing (it has rung twice now in quick succession) under these strange circumstances, it's got to be serious. Someone must have a real need to contact me face to face. So, I roll out of my toasty covers, throw on  a mu'u mu'u (honestly!) and stagger towards the front door.

The view from inside. . . where it's warm!

Before I can get quite get there, I see my visitor has already made his way into my living room.  He is a little boy, MY little boy, already dressed from head to toe to fingertips in his "play in the snow" clothes.  I hadn't known my boys were even awake, and yet they have dressed themselves thoroughly and independently in everything they need to keep warm as they frolic in the first big snow of the season.  George was unable to work the front doorknob with his gloved hands, so has rung the doorbell for help.  He has come inside to find Lewis, who is already snowboarding down the hill in the backyard, rolling snowballs with mittened hands and then either eating them or throwing them.

George and Lewis, snow lovers.

These are the two of my boys that were "Made in Michigan"--and it shows today, as does their youthful exuberance.  Watching them, I feel some of that exuberance spread to my heart, too,  and I remember that the world being transformed overnight from brown/grey to perfect crystalline white should always be regarded as miraculous.

Thanks, boys!

Slippahs

Living the vida local, or, "What 'rubbah slippahs' means to me."

A family friend recently mentioned "rubbah slippahs" on her facebook status.  She was disappointed to hear them called "flip-flops" on the new Hawaii 5-0 TV show,  bummed because anyone who calls Hawaii home does not refer to them as flip-flops.  I think her respect for the authenticity of the show sort of plummeted.

My guess is that the actors and writers of the show may have known that, to be authentically Hawaiian, they should call flip-flops "slippers," or, more accurately, "slippahs."  I bet that they also knew that if they called them by that authentic name, people from the other 49 states and parts of Canada would be really confused, and might mentally lose track of the plot while they were trying to figure out what crime was committed in fleece-lined bedroom footwear.  If you have grown up in the continental United States, you most likely think that's what slippers are.  You might even think a slipper is a fancy dress shoe, like Cinderella's glass slipper.  And, if majority rules, then you are right.  I recognize that comparatively few people define slippers the way us Hawaii folks do.

Not rubbah, but still slippahs.

I must tell you firstly why I think the term flip-flop isn't used in Hawaii.  When worn properly, slippahs are not onomatopoetic (see my post on onomatopoeia from August 9th, 2010) in that way.  Flip-flop is the cutesie, perky sound that slippers make when people who are not comfortable in them, who are not used to them, wear them.  It happens when people use the toe-scrunch method to keep slippers on their feet.  When people do this, it is exhausting to the feet, and entirely against the point of wearing such easy footwear.  It causes an uptight little "flip" sound as the toes scrunch and bring the bottom of the slipper snapping up into the heel.  It is a hallmark of discomfort.  A truly experienced wearer of rubbah slippahs knows that the best way to keep them on is to use the force of friction provided by dragging them against the ground each time you take a step forward.  This is the lazy-foot method.  As I've lived in many places on the U.S. mainland, once in a while I see people who look like they could be from Hawaii.  I'm often tempted to say "Howzit?" or "Aloooha!" but I resist until I have watched them walk in their slippers.  If the person exhibits proper slippah wearing technique, I can both see it and hear it, and know without a doubt that my shaka will be reciprocated.

Having spent the majority of my life in warm Hawaii, and the last few years in cold Michigan, I have noticed that there is an underappreciation of the rubbah slippah here in the midwest.  I would like to speak out boldly about the beauty, utility and symbolism of this footwear.  As you read what I write, you will probably think I am joking.  I won't be!  I'm nothing if not earnest in my love for all that the rubbah slippah represents. As I tell you what "rubbah slippahs" mean to me, don't be surprised if you sense my tears falling, for winter is coming to Michigan and as wonderful as they are, my rubbah slippahs don't keep the snow off my feet and thus will be relegated to back/bottom of the closet until next May.

Rubbah slippahs are the minutemen of footwear.  If you need to go outside, it takes less than a second to slide your feet into the pair closest to you, and you are ready for your trip to the store, the school, the garage, the garden, the neighbors' house, the church building, wherever!  I wore slippahs to a friend's party the other night, and when we had to leave in a hurry to get home to the kids,  I was ready to go in no time.  My hubby, on the other hand, had worn his shoelaced dress shoes.  I stood there for a good 2-3 minutes in the doorway of our friends' home, as Charles did the whole Mr. Rogers routine to get his fancy shoes on, and our hosts felt obligated to stand and watch and make small talk until we were actually out the door.  In case of emergency there's just nothing better.  If a loved one is in trouble, you can slip your slippahs on and be at the ER, the police station, the bus stop, wherever, without wasting a single second on finding socks, deciding which shoes to wear and putting them on.

Rubbah slippahs are smart.  Some people think that such casual footwear is slipshod and lazy.  I have to disagree.  It's so much more efficient to spend less time in shoe putting-on, so that you can actually spend more time doing important work.  And they're so practical!  If your shoes-and-socks shoes are wet, they're going to stay wet for a good long time and may cause you some real problems.  If your closed-toe shoes get a rock in them, you have to stop (the whole group if you're with one), sit down, untie your shoe, dump the rock out, put the shoe back on and tie it up before you can continue.  A wet slippah dries within seconds of continuous wear in dry conditions.  And a rock in your slippah?  It flopped out of the shoe in the very second you noticed you had stepped on it.  I recently read an article about how bare feet are the best athletic shoe.  They did studies and everything.  Guess what?  Rubbah slippahs are the next best thing to bare feet!  Your feet may actually feel better with less molly-coddling instead of more.

Happy Feet!

Rubbah slippahs are clean.  Yes, clean!  I know that feet in slippahs may be exposed to more dirt than feet in shoes and socks.  First of all, this is much less true if slippahs are used correctly.  When you use the toe-scrunch method I advised against, you actually tend to scoop dirt up and fling it towards your body.  When you use the lazy foot method, you keep dirt in its place.  Secondly, there's dirt, and then there's dirt.  Slippah-clad feet may be more dusty, it's true, but feet asphyxiated in shoes and socks for any length of time have their own kind of nastiness.  It's that warm, dark environment of the inside of the shoe that invites bacterial growth and odor.

Rubbah slippahs are versatile.  I have seen slippahs on mountain hikes, on motorcycle footrests, on beaches, in stores and other places of business, in church and everywhere else.  Sometimes a slippah will make it to several of these places in a single day.   Slippahs go with shorts, pants, swimsuits, dresses--everything but the ultra formal and ultra fancy.

Rubbah slippahs are humble.  I love this most of all!  If you are wearing them, everyone who encounters you knows that you are not hung up on impressing them, and they can therefore worry not a bit over whether or not they are sartorially up to snuff.  A person wearing rubbah slippahs will never be judging you on the basis of the cost or brand of your clothing or outward appearance, and you can therefore relax in their presence and just be you.  Powerful stuff, right?  And there's more:  Feet are not pretty things, generally speaking.  If you wear slippers, you expose your feet publicly.  It is a great exercise in vanity reduction.  Some people have lovely feet, some people's feet are not as nice to look at.  So?  You learn by being part of a slippah-wearing community that those piddling little details don't matter a bit.   And slippahs are a great equalizer.  The cost difference between the cheapest pair of slippahs and the most expensive pair is very small.  We are all humble when we wear slippahs.  In my current place of residence, there are people who think slippah wearing is disrespectful, but it's exactly the opposite.

Rubbah slippahs symbolize the qualities I love most about life in Hawaii.  They are the same characteristics that are so lovely to encounter in people: being down to earth, unphased by the unimportant,  at ease, warm, open, breathable.

And that's what rubbah slippahs means to me!

Feet on vacation.  Can you count the number of rubbah slippahs in this photo?