The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off. – Gloria Steinem
I’m having a hard time relaxing these days. Especially since I came back from vacation. And especially since I’m starting to think it’s time to leave Maui.
The boyfriend took it well, at first. He was sad but supportive, saying he understood and wanted me to take advantage of opportunities to further my career. He was very encouraging and positive.
Until he wasn’t.
It was understandable, of course. But that was when I realized giving a three-month advance notice might turn out to be an energy-draining, guilt-ridden, heartbreaking emotional rollercoaster. And so began the negotiations.
We finally settled on splitting custody of the house for the next month—he’d get it on weekends since that’s when he has his kids. And I’d take the time to finish up side projects and visit with friends and subsequently, their couches and futons. It was an amicable agreement, and enabled us both to get used to the idea of my possible departure without all the dramatic flourishes.
But then his pops passed away.
You might be wondering at this point in the column: 1) Where is the humor? And 2) When is Holoholo Girl gonna get shit-faced on tequila and encourage her comrades to take off their tops at various bars around the island?
Yes, when and where indeed, my friends.
With boyfriend off to the Big Island to join the family in mourning, I dove into some freelance work, which just so happened to involve cocktail research.
No really, I’m serious.
So I found myself at my longtime friend and favorite curly red(-ish)-haired girl Sarah’s bar at the Tiki Lounge. Only she was too busy fending off stalkers and pouring liquor into cauldron-sized glass tiki mugs so I ended up talking to a Bosnian construction dude from Idaho. Or was it Iowa. Anyway, he was a nice chap. And though he hadn’t yet decided if Maui would be a good relocation choice for him, his obsession with Heineken and surf videos led me to believe he’d fit right in.
Another guy friend came in and talked to me about a chick he’s currently digging on. With that first flush and glazed look of lust/like in his eyes, he wondered aloud if it was time to have the exclusivity talk. You know the one—it’s where the desired result is both parties saying, “I don’t want to be with anybody else but you,” although if one of you doesn’t say this, then it’s all awkward and gross? Either way, everything changes forever after this point.
I warned him against it.
“Just enjoy what you guys have now—this is the good part,” I said. “It’ll all end tragically soon enough.”
Done with doling out bad advice for the lovelorn, at least for the evening, I went home to an empty house and plotted out the rest of my weekend. For fun, I decided to make it more like a spa retreat. There would be a massage at the school down the street. There would later be some bubble bathing and candles. And of course, much, much solitude and contemplation.
So the first thing I did the next morning was stock up on supplies. I wanted to get healthy type stuff so naturally—ha—I went to the health food store, and loaded my basket with such colon pleasers as lettuce, legumes, green tea, high-fiber organic cereal, apples, yogurt and a mango.
Cost of one small, semi-ripe mango at health food store: $4.49.
Cost of three beatifically ripe, large mangoes dropped from the tree across the street at Kim’s house in Lahaina that were the perfect accompaniment to the vodka sodas we had at the Sly Mongoose after I got bored Day Two of aforementioned spa retreat: Priceless.
Yes, that means free.
Feel free to drop me a line or send me a dirty picture at www.myspace.com/holohologirl.
Samantha Campos comes from the prestigious Mexican family of habanero chile roasters, Las Camposeriosas, who shortened their name to “Campos” upon arrival in the great American desert swampland of Samantha’s birthplace, Bakersfield, California. MTW