Superfly Flat!
You guys. I just bought the shit out of these.

In college, I date a man who has a beautiful son. I give the toddler a bath before bedtime, and then read to him as he falls asleep. There are a few pages in the middle of Where the Wild Things Are that have no words, just illustrations of wild things cavorting about with their terrible claws and terrible teeth. James is half asleep when we get to this part, but he lifts his head a few inches and points at the monster jumping and growling beneath the moon. He taps the drawing and whispers, “He try to get the moon.”

Do you have a favorite Maurice Sendak memory?

“So here is what this Mighty List has taught me about the Life List concept. It’s okay if you put things on the list that you’re maybe not going to get to. In fact, that’s part of the whole idea.” Read more…

Trip lead: “Do you want me to sign you up for the surf lesson?”

My brain: “Uhhhhhhhh. I burn pretty easily and doesn’t the reef have a billion kinds of bacteria that will kill you if it cuts you plus I had knee surgery so it sometimes hurts to stand from a kneeling position that’s what she said and what if I don’t know the surfing etiquette and I smack into someone from a prominent family and a surfer kid from the wrong side of the reef defends me and I’m accidentally the catalyst for bloodshed which sharks can smell in the water from like 100 miles away?”

My mouth: “Sure.”

My brain: “… Bring to me all of the rum.”

There are three hours between the decision to surf and the actual surfing, so I order a Mai Tai with my burger. And then they bring me another one. Probably because I ask for it. When the trip lead comes to get us, I order a glass of wine and drink it like it’s a beer can with two holes punched in the bottom.

By the time we make it down to the lesson, I am not drunk per se. I am illuminated. I am prepared to be at one with the hungry sea. I am no longer considering faking a seizure to get out of this. Because that would be wrong.

On land, each of us tries our surfing stance in turn.

OK, this is going fine. I am a land surfing champion. Maybe this will be okay.

While paddling I resist the impulse to lay down on the board and take a nap. So far so good.

This! This is working out! I am on my feet on my first try! The ocean and I are at one!

Whoa. The hell, Ocean? You’re kind of being a dick.

But whatever. I almost stood up! I roll off into the waves feeling okay about it, and I’m relieved to find that surfacing is no big deal. That is until the board cracks into my nose and throws a handful of glitter across my vision.

OW! Et tu, Surfboard? Ow.

Well, now that I’m insta-sober, let’s try this again.

Oof. Again the ocean betrays me; the surfboard greets my nose with enthusiasm a second time. And then a third.

Finally, I tell the instructor that I’m getting clobbered and he says, “Whoa. Really? That almost never happens. Wait for your cord to get taut so you know the board isn’t near you, and then surface with your hands above your head.”

This absolutely works. I wait for the cord around my ankle to go taut, then give a kick… and bash my foot into the reef. Mothra! Fockra! It’s like stubbing your toe against shards of glass.

As I injudiciously paddle out for a fifth wave, the booze completely clears my system. My foot and face throb with every heartbeat. I decide to paddle in, passing a four-year-old local and her dad on their way out. “Oh!” I say. “She’s so awesome!” “Thanks!” her dad says. But the girl just paddles toward me scowling with concentration. As she passes, I hear her yell back at me, “PADDLE! PADDLEPADDLEPADDLEPADDLE!!”

Right. Thanks, kid.

(Thanks also to the Hans Hedemann Surf School at Turtle Bay Resort for the mortifying photos. No really, you guys. Mahalo.)

So last year the Jamaican Tourism Board sent me an email asking if I wanted to come to Jamaica, which I naturally assumed was a Nigerian prince scheme. Remember?

A few weeks ago, the same thing happened with Hawaii. The Polynesian Cultural Center was like, “Want to come to Hawaii for free?” and I was like, “Do I have to carry a suitcase, the contents of which is unknown to me?” and they were like “No.” So I was like, “Are you a human trafficker who traffics in the sale of humans?” and they were like, “No.” So I was like, “Do I have to pay you in sexual favors?” and they were like, “No, thanks.” So I was all, “Aloha!”

Apparently, Mario Lopez and Danica McKellar work at the Polynesian Cultural Center now. I asked Danica to do some quadratic equations for us after she finished dancing, as a kind of intellectual finale, but she ignored me. Rude.

Now you may be asking yourself, “Will Maggie just get on a plane any time a random stranger requests her presence in a tropical location?” And the answer is yes. Yes I will. Call me.

Is this a racial thing? -via MaggieMason on Instagram

This particular trip was a press junket, where they fly you out in hopes that you’ll talk about the trip (which, durr), and then you allow them to control your life for the duration. It’s sort of like vacationing with your manic uncle who cannot tolerate the idea of missing a single activity or historical marker. So you stumble around after him as he books a kayaking trip on top of a surf lesson after you learn to Hula.

Except! He’s paying for the whole thing, so all you have to do is show up and say, “I have always wanted to go hang gliding in a grass skirt. I will have this Mai Tai in a go-cup, please! I will have two!”

I made a lei, then learned to hula. In a coconut bra. Holding a Mai Tai. -via MaggieMason on Instagram

This is sort of how I wound up inebriated on a surfboard a few days ago. For the record, inebriated is the only way I’d end up on a surfboard, because I am terrified of surfing. Well, not surfing in particular, more the sharks who wait under surfboards trying to decide whether you look enough like a seal to eat one of your limbs. I’m also afraid of old-timey sailor sea-zombies pulling me to a watery grave. (I feel like we’ve discussed this.)

Revelatory breakfast. I have been eating terrible papaya my whole life. -via MaggieMason on Instagram

Anyway, pro tip? Tipsy is not the best approach to surfing. Unless you feel like making out with the reef. And maybe I did feel like it. Did you ever think of that?

-via MaggieMason on Instagram

Let’s meet back here tomorrow to discuss why my nose hurts.

I’ve been writing online for twelve years now, and I’ve learned that emotional topics don’t always go over well. Divorce has affected so many of us, it’s a cultural raw spot. It can be easy to confuse the pain of someone touching an open wound with the pain of someone inflicting a fresh one. I expected some hurt, and even rage, to pepper the support here. In fact, I thought it was inevitable. So I braced myself before I hit post, and walked away for a few hours. The kindness I returned to was humbling.

All of us have seen people offload pain onto someone else online, or simply fail to consider the weight of their words. I so appreciate that no one here did that. Perhaps you had to hold your tongue, and if you did, I’d buy you a beer if I could. Your restraint saved me some downtime. To those of you who offered condolences, thank you again for your kindness.

I’m writing this because our divorce was recently finalized. Until the papers came, I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath, though I know it’s been obvious to some of you. What do you write about when most of what you’re thinking isn’t meant for public consumption?

That said, I’ve learned so much through this period, and I’ve spent a lot of time in crash position. (Growth. Ow.) Some of you have said you’re going through your own divorces right now, and oh kid, I know it’s awful. I wish I could wrap you up.

In the coming weeks, I’d like to talk about the helpful things people have said to you, some of the realizations you’ve had about the divorce or break-up process, and the coping mechanisms you’ve found useful. I think it’s good to have that information out there, and I trust you guys to keep it sane.

I also have good news to share. I’ve been snorzeling my kid (who is doing well, to my profound relief), and traveling, and making lists as usual. This has been the most difficult period of my life, but some time has passed, and the bad stuff is always mixed in with the good.

Through all of it, your grace as a community has been a comfort and a source of pride. Thank you again, everyone. You lend me honor.

Glowing Man HD from Jacob Sutton on Vimeo.

(via @boltron)

(via bb-blog)

Upon passing a beauty shop:

Girl 1: I know what a Brazilian wax is, but what do you guys think a Brazilian Manicure is?
Girl 2: Maybe they have you strip naked, throw your legs up behind your ears, and then paint your fingernails?
Girl 3: Actually, I’m preeetty sure they paint your anus.
Girl 2: Is this the new vaginal bleaching?
Girl 1: You can get designs!
Girl 3: “I’d just like a circle of arrows, please? Pointing inward? Thanks.”
Girl 2: That’s nice! Like a little directional aid. Maybe it also says, “Enter here!”
Girl 1: I want mine to say entre vous! Because if it’s French, it’s classy.
Girl 3: Right. Keep it classy.

Dear Pepino Melon,

I got you at Eataly in New York, and you are not very good. You’re like a cucumber-flavored honeydew, but not sweet. No, thanks.

Love,
Maggie

Today I snapped a spring of lilac
For your buttonhole.
I chose it for its delicate tint
And because of its exquisite grace.
But you had no buttonhole
So you carried it for an hour
Sniffing it now and then
(Its perfume is intoxicating)
Until we had to go home
And since it had wilted
You dropped it on the ground.

Tomorrow I will give you
A bright green inedible fruit
And see what you do with it.

–Deborah Pease