The Coconut Chronicles

Hello
again from the Big Blue!

Here’s a
bad combination: two pina coladas, one martini, two glasses of red wine, one
beer, and one glass of port. Yes, I drank all this last night…and I thought my
wacky highschool drinking years were over! To be fair, the beer was an impulse
buy, prompted by biting into a small orange pepper that caused my eyeballs to
burst into flames. Ah, Indonesian food, so…combustible. Shall I backtrack so
some of this makes sense?

Our
friends and neighbours and fellow Canuck ex-pats, Jim and Jo-Ann, who own the
award winning resort Etu Moana, called us up to invite us out for dinner. It
seems the chef at one of the local eateries is Indonesian and agreed to whip up
an authentic home-cooked meal for four. Empathizing with our flavour/variety
deficit, J&J invited us to share with them and we jumped at the chance.
Let’s face it, if they had said, “Hey, we got a guy who’s going to cook us up
some Purina dog chow!” we would have said yes, if only for a change of
food…yes, we are that desperate.

Being
Sunday, Prez and I decided to end our “day off” with a few pina coladas. (On
our “day off”, Prez re-painted the boat while I did laundry, cleaned house, and
did up hut charge sheets for the rest of September. Oh the joys of being your
own boss!) We picked up J&J and headed off to the distant end of the island,
four kilometers away. It was the kind of night you always imagine for the South
Pacific – light wind, palm trees swaying, warm air, full moon reflecting on the
water – and we were all in good spirits. After saying a hello to one of the of cats
who inhabit the restaurant, we settled ourselves at a cozy table and I sipped
my martini.

One of
the true joys of resort management is being able meet up with other resort
managers and bitch about all the things you can’t bitch about in front of the
guests. For example, they shared their story of the stone-faced honeymoon
couple who wandered around all week without cracking so much as a smile,
despite a virtual tidal wave of hospitality engulfing them (trust me, J&J
are the epitome of hospitality). We, in turn, told them of the wacko Kiwi guy
who believed the government controlled the weather, aliens were traveling to
earth via a vortex system, and a neutron bomb was going to destroy the Northern
hemisphere in 2012. Oh yes, he also let his three year old son poo on the beach.
His wife would come along and scoop it up but, honestly, this is not the sort
of behaviour we encourage from guests of any age. (And this is why, when
people email and ask us if we offer discounts for children I double over
laughing).

I think
we get a higher percentage of wackos than J&J do. Maybe we should raise our
rates?

Our
dinner was quickly spread before us. And what a spread! Chicken satay with
peanut sauce, some sort of soup with some sort of meat in it, some sort of egg
things with some sort of sauce on it, a vegetable and curry saucy type thing,
and some dish with beef that reminded us of Calderetta but wasn’t. Yum!! Can
you spontaneously orgasm just by looking at food? I think yes.

Mysteriously,
the martini vanished rather quickly so Jo-Ann kindly shared her red wine with
me. Just as the chef, Jack, (is that a traditional Indonesian name?), arrived
at the table to check on our satisfaction level, Jim bit into a rather potent
pepper. Smoke began to drift from his ears. Prez soon followed suit. Gasping
for air and desperately willing his empty can of cold beer to refill, he cried,
“I thought it was a carrot!” A Chernobyl carrot, maybe; a carrot not of this
earth. Jack apologized. But tell me, is an apology genuine when the person
apologizing is laughing? Well, I was laughing, too. Karma, it’ll get you every
time. Jo-Ann and I were now eyeing the saucy curry vegetable thingy with more
than a little trepidation. “Oh, it’s OK, there were only two peppers in there,”
Jack assured us.

I think
it’s safe to say that Indonesians have a sense of humour.

About
five minutes later, after biting down on a “carrot” of my own, with my eyeballs
in flames and my mind slipping into a mildly hallucinogenic state, I summoned
the waitress to the table with crude sign language. Unable to speak, or see, I
stabbed my finger toward the blur that looked like Prez’s empty beer can.
Thankfully, she was quick on the draw and soon I had a cold can in my hand,
which I proceeded to tip to the side and wrap my lips and tongue around. (I
discovered, a moment too late, that the can had already been opened, when my
right side was drenched in beer. But I didn’t care. A jumbo jet could have
landed two feet away from me and I would have paid it no attention.

Once our
collective fires were doused, and when we could speak in complete sentences
again, we commented on how amazing the meal was. You have to love selective
memory.

To end
the evening, the owner sent us each a complimentary glass of port. (Oh, I think
I missed the bit where I ordered a dish of ice cream with chocolate sauce but I
assumed that you would just take that for granted.) On the drive home I recall
saying, “Man, I’m going to sleep well tonight!”

Perhaps
I might have, if only my alarm clock hadn’t gone off for no reason at
middle-of-the-night o’clock or if my chili-pepper induced dreams – such as the
one where our resident cat, Marmalade, was answering the phone and making
reservations – didn’t keep jolting me awake. I guess all the variety was too
much of a shock to my system.

It is
now Monday morning. My head feels as if it was put in a washing machine and set
on “spin” for a few hours. I can’t stop yawning. And sooner or later that
pepper is going to want out. Yeesh, where’s an alien vortex when you need one??

QUESTION:
Do you know that your fingernails can sweat? Do you?? 

p.s. I
have to give a big, big, big THANK YOU to our friend Jo, who is vying for
Sweetheart of the Year Award. She surprised us, and the kitties, with a package
of goodies from NZ, including licorice and fancy cat food. Thanks Jo!

p.p.s. –
Dad, I keep trying to call you. Do you ever turn your darn phone on???? Love
ya!

Until
next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The
Princess

Hello again from the Big Blue!

The wind blows, the coconuts fall, the cats sleep – this is life lately. A good time for a little housekeeping, both of the figurative and literal variety.

Tiger Lilly on her namesake…"Smart Tiger"

Prez and I have slipped into routine. Island life, that blend of the mundane and absurd, is becoming predictable. Most times, this would be the spark lighting the fire under our butts, prompting us to flee but the South Pacific has a way of smothering the flames of discontent. Perhaps the frangipani is laced with a mild narcotic? It’s possible. Regardless, we are doing the unthinkable, (for us), and committing to a whole ‘nother year on our little hunk of rock.

We have a few reasons for our decision to stay put. The first is financial, as boring as that sounds. We’re hardly raking in mountains of cash but with no rent, no cable bill, no car insurance, no telephone bill, and only a minimum of expenses we actually manage to save a few clams each month. Oh yes, and lest we forget, there is nowhere to spend money here save for the occasional dinner at Ultra Fancy Resort. Funny how much dough one saves when the temptations are removed. (Well, there is my little Amazon.com habit but, please, we have not completely abandoned civilization!) 

Another reason is simplicity. Life is simple here. Simple and slow. Yes, we miss the excitement and variety of city living but it’s all a trade off. As my friend Steve says, “You can have anything you want, you just can’t have everything you want.” We can pick sun-ripened paw paws, passion fruit, starfruit, and mangoes right off the trees/vines, for free. Fresh tuna is provided courtesy of my fishing-god husband. Coconuts fall at our feet. Other resorts we send overflow guests to keep us stocked up on bananas and oranges and the occasional bottle of wine. Clothing needs are minimal. The furthest we ever travel, for anything, is five or six kilometers. We never lock our doors. We don’t even take the keys out of the car when we park (if someone steals it, where are they going to go?) Heck, even the bank here doesn’t have a door separating the customers from the tellers…or the money. No rush hour, no smog, no crime (except of the white collar variety), no TV, no worries. Despite my whining and complaining, it feels good to shed the burden of abundance, at least for awhile. 

Free coconuts anyone?

And last, but certainly not least, is that we’ve made some friends here and we’d like to spend a bit more time playing with them. Our first six months here were a flurry of cleaning and fixing and reorganizing. The ciguatera poisoning didn’t help either, knocking us out for a good month. Now that we have the place running relatively smoothly, and know enough people to have picnics, and camping trips, and dinner parties, we’d like to actually enjoy this island.

Don’t worry though, I’ll still do lots of whining and complaining for your reading pleasure.

This week, for example, I can bitch about the lack of petrol. “Lack of” meaning none. Meaning the island ran out two weeks ago and the monthly supply ship has still not arrived. May not arrive if this blasted wind keeps up! (Oh, look, I found something else to complain about!). Now, you may be wondering, Princess, if the supply ship comes once a month and your island is so very small that no one ever has to drive very far, how on earth would you run out of petrol in two weeks?? You’d be right to wonder this but then I would remind you that forward thinking is not a common Cook Islands trait.

The British television series “Shipwrecked” films on two of the motus here, from September to November, and they need a lot of petrol to fill the tanks of the boats they use to run cast, crew and equipment back and forth from the main island. Naturally, no one thought, when drawing up the contract allowing the show to film here, to add the stipulation that they must arrange for their own fuel or that steps must be taken to ensure the islanders are not deprived of fuel. Oh no, no, no that would be far too logical.

Luckily, as I mentioned above, we now have friends here and were given the inside wink long before the precious fluid dried up. Every tank was filled, as were extra containers. Ironically, however, because of all this wind, we can’t do any snorkel tours and so our boat, even with a full tank of petrol, sits idle.

Oh, and if you think I now say “petrol” instead of “gas” as some sort of affectation, that is not the case – I’m simply re-training myself for practical reasons. Here, gas is propane (used for stoves) and petrol is gas. Prez once had a long, frustrating telephone conversation with the receptionist from another resort as he tried to explain that we couldn’t run any snorkel tours until the supply ship arrived because we were out of gas. (This happened last month when the island ran out of petrol a week before the ship arrived). From the kitchen, I heard him repeating, “we’re out of gas” over and over. Finally, I yelled across the room, “Petrol! We’re out of petrol.” Once he explained that we were out of petrol and not propane, the woman immediately understood. You’d think she would have figured it out but she probably thought maybe it was some weird papa’a tradition that you can’t go out on a boat if you are unable to cook bacon and eggs first, or something.

We are learning to use proper Cook Island/Kiwi names for everything. Hamburger is “mince” unless you are referring to a hamburger, in which case it is just “hamburger”. Beets are “beet root” and beet root is a staple ingredient on hamburgers because Kiwis and Cook Islanders have a conspicuous absence of taste buds. Rent is “hire”. Ketchup is “tomato sauce” – yes, there was a bad pasta incident before we figured this out. Mmmmm, spaghetti and ketchup, yum! Coffee drinks are still a mystery. There are “flat whites” and “long blacks” and all sorts of words that bear no resemblance to what we’re used to. (Point of interest: Italians, we have discovered, find our western coffee habits ridiculous. “It isn’t coffee, it’s all milk!” they told us). Good thing I’m a tea drinker! Candies are “lollies”. Flip flops are “jandals” – don’t you mean sandals? I asked once. No, “sandals” only refer to the Greek style foot wear, you know, the ones with the laces? And, warning to BC visitors, don’t get too excited when you see a sign advertising “pot plant for sale”, as this refers only to potted plants. You can’t get high from hibiscus – misleading, I know.

Let’s see, what other new do I have for you?

Well, it was my daddy’s birthday last week. Happy Birthday Dad!!!! Miss you!!!!! xoxoxoxo

There was a dengue fever outbreak which peaked at about twenty-one cases. According to the government, however, the outbreak has now ended. Good. Ciguatera and Dengue, in one year, would just be too much for this Princess.

We had two more Italians come to stay here, Lorena and Simon, (we love Italians!), and they treated us to some authentic Italian food. (She pauses to wipe the drool from her chin). Two nights in a row, Simon made us pasta, and then on the last night he surprised us with home made pizza. Wow. I think he made nine pizzas! We ate for three hours solid and I woke up with a pizza hangover. Oh, but it was sooooooooooo worth it!

Mama Mia! Now that’s good pizza!!

Oh, and for those who didn’t receive the mass mail out, our friends the Ripsters, of mountain climbing fame, have a video of their Everest expedition entered in a contest. If you follow this link: MEC Sweet Spots Outdoor Video Contest and vote for them I will send you a pair of jandals and a pot plant! *

*Not valid outside of Aitutaki

Well, I’m running out of gas (energy, not propane) so I’d better wrap up.

QUESTION: Are you as confused as I am?

Until next week, (or thereabouts), I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Hello
again from the Big Blue!

I am
reluctantly giving this week’s Scootie award to the chicken-leg-chopping owner
of the Para-Trooper Motel. How could I not? After all, it’s not every day you
see someone with two hands of bananas, (weighing about 40lbs each), hanging off
each side of their scooter and an adult cat (with all four legs intact, I
should add), perched on the handlebars. Congratulations, you freaky little man! 

Once
again, the name of my…will remain a mystery because this is a special Canada Day
Edition of the Coconut Chronicles! On July 1^st, Canada turns one
hundred and forty-one years old, which makes me feel, at 38.92 years old,
positively juvenile. And it’s not just Canada’s birthday, the Ripster flips the
page on another year of life on July one. About this, Prez and I are more than
slightly melancholy. You see, this year’s party, back in Nelson, promises to be
the social event of the century as the Ripster’s friends and family gather, en
mass, to celebrate both his birthday and his successful Everest summit. Oh, we
received an invite – three houses, four BBQ’s, tons o’fun – but Air NZ has yet
to establish a cheap commuter flight from Aitutaki to Nelson, so we’ll have to
send best wishes from afar. Sigh.

And how
does it feel to be a Canuck who spends so little time in Canuckland? Well, it
was once suggested to me, by a friend, that nationalities tend to be at their
most stereotypical when abroad and I think I must agree. I feel most Canadian
when I am not in Canada. Whether this is a subconscious desire to hold onto my
“roots” or if I’m merely more cognizant of my behaviour when compared to other
cultures, is impossible to say. But let’s just say that, last week, when I went
for an underarm wax, and the cap of the super-heated roll-on waxing device came
off, and my poor pit was burned by molten lava wax, and after the “waxident” I
still tipped the esthetician, and said thankyouverymuch, and smiled politely, I
felt more Canadian than I ever have in my life. 

CBC
Radio, last spring, asked listeners what, for them, was most striking about living
in Canada. Interestingly, the answer from fifty years ago when 80% of Canadians
lived in rural areas and 20% urban, was exactly the same as today’s answer,
when those statistics are now reversed: The overwhelming vastness of the land.
But there’s much about being Canadian that nestles into our hearts and minds.
For me, I love our sense of humour and humility…although I acknowledge it is a
sort of backhanded humility as we all secretly harbour superiority complexes.
But I feel my friend Sue, aka “Mompoet”, captured the essence of Canuckism in
her poem, Hey Canada. She has been kind enough to let me reprint it
here, though I must let you know that this poem was commissioned by CBC Radio
for its 2007 Vancouver Poetry Face Off.

There
are many uniquely Canadian references in here, so feel free to ask if you’d
like anything explained! Now, without further ado…

Hey Canada

1967.

I’m lying on a cot in the nurse’s office

At David Oppenheimer Elementary

in Vancouver

where my parents enrolled me in Grade 1

when we came to Canada.

I’m bleeding maple leaf patterns

into a mound of tissue, clutched to my nose.

Up on a wall, the Queen is watching me

otherwise I’m alone

missing another assembly.

It happens every time

we file into the gym, stand to sing the song

racing pulse, sweaty palms, and WOOOOOSHHH!

O CANADA!

I pinch my nose, raise my hand

and Mrs. Forbes takes me to the nurse’s office.

I don’t know how many NFB films and recitations of

“The Cremation of Sam McGee” I’ve missed this year,

but I never miss your song, Canada,

even if it is just the Queen and me

singing it to each other.

At school and at home, I learn to be Canadian:

to celebrate Thanksgiving in October,

to call my french fries “chips”

and to eat them with gravy.

my “sneakers” are “runners”

my “mom” is “mum”.

I learn that zed is a letter and gorp is a food.

I dump Captain Kangaroo for Mr. Dressup

and learn the words of Dennis Lee,

“Alligator pie, alligator pie. If I don’t get some

I think I’m gonna die…”

I grow up proud to be a member of this

hockey-loving, CBC listening

Toyota-driving, draft-dodger-harbouring

wilderness haven of Hinterland Who’s Who.

We’ve got Emily Carr, The Group of Seven

Margaret Atwood,

the NDP, MSP,

Participaction and the Canada Council for the Arts,

Miles for Millions, the Marathon of Hope

both Expos

and those awkward aluminum teapots

at Bino’s restaurant that spill tea on your plate

so nobody will ever steal them.

By the time I finish school, I know you

in more complicated ways, Canada.

Most of the time you’re red and white and green all over

but you’re also shades of grey.

I wonder, Canada, how I’ll explain to my children

that it’s taken a dozen forevers and still

we can’t outgrow

scraped naked landscapes of clear-cut logging

highways that grow wider

as ice floes slip into the sea

how we never managed to truly

open our hearts and share the richness of this land

with each other and the rest of the world.

And I’m hoping I love you enough

that I can help us change our ways

even if I’m not sure how to do that, most days.

But some things are simple and always true

like the way we eat our cake and watermelon on July first

your birthday, Canada.

This year, I’m giving you

a pony, a hockey stick, a Canada flag

a model of the CN tower

a puppy, a medal, socks

a recipe for carbon reduction

a toque, a new Prime Minister, a CD of the Vinyl Café

and a giant croquet set

so everyone in the country can play.

After the croquet game, I’ll take you on a date

just you and me, Canada.

We’ll write a poem in the Bay of Fundy, then

watch the tide sweep it away forever.

We’ll dump a whole bottle of bubble bath

into Niagra Falls

just to see what happens.

We’ll kayak up the coast and marvel

At the mystic beauty that is Haida Gwai.

We’ll walk down to Starbucks

pay 5 bucks for a coffee

and complain about the Americans.

After that we’ll go far from the city, where darkness is

all around. Cradled in your arms, I will breathe in the

grey, green and brown of your mineral soil, and breathe

out blue, purple and gold into a crackling Northern

sky. This I will do for you, Canada, to say thank you for

making me want to learn more about you, for making

me want to stay.

As we gaze at colours and stars all around

you will whisper in my ear,

You are Canadian. You will always be a part of me, and I

will always take care of you, even when you are very old.

O CANADA!

Thanks
so much to Sue for letting me use her wonderful words! Happy Canada Day to the
folks back home, Happy 4^th of July to our American amigos, and lots
of love to everyone else, wherever you call home.

QUESTION:
What does being Canadian mean to you?

Until
next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The
Princess

Hello,
at last, from the Big Blue!

This
week’s Scootie award was going to the two young men proudly driving down the
road, each with a rooster tucked under one arm, until I learned the
Cock-a-doodlers were going to be used in a cock fight. Shame on you fellows!
Instead, it goes to the nice young man carrying a behemoth of a cooler under
one arm, after returning from a day of fishing – I would give him bonus points
if I knew the cooler had a tuna in it.   

My
running regime is progressing nicely. I can now call it running as opposed to
shuffling, and I’m up to 12k now plus I’ve also been doing some hills (we have
only two hills on the island, so when I say I’m doing hills I mean all of
them). Of course, I have Rod to keep me company, he’s a big help. And not only
in the exercise department, Rod also helps with hut cleanings and other chores.
He even assisted me during a particularly grueling day of accounting. I haven’t
yet taken Rod to bed with me but it’s not out of the question. I love Rod.
What? Oh, don’t worry about Prez, he’s been known to use Rod from time to time,
while raking the grounds or some other monotonous chore. I suspect Prez is
almost as fond of Rod as I am.

Rod is
my iPod. Rod the pod. I name everything, it’s a silly habit. Isn’t that right,
Lappy? (She pets her laptop affectionately). 

Anyway,
I had this very long explanation for you about my naming fetish, and names in
general, but then there was the rooster scooter incident, followed by an
interesting discussion between Prez and me that changed my mind. So you will
have to wait until next week to find out what I call my…

In the
kitchen a few nights ago, Prez said to me, “You know I’m ashamed of the men in
this world.” He went on to explain how it seemed, to him, the majority of men
are either murdering bastards or spineless wussies. In other words, where have
all the good men gone? (Yeah, I know, we women have been asking this one for
years). While I know lots of good men, I can see his point. But what does it
mean to be a man? 

In
prehistoric times, a man’s purpose was clearly defined – kill things with a
pointy stick, bring them home for dinner, then create more humans. If Caveman A
could not produce dinner or babies, he didn’t last long and Caveman B would
step in. Brutal but simple.

In this
more civilized age, a man’s role is an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of
expectations. When does a man cross the line between Strong & Self-assured
and Egoistic Macho Pig? I suspect that depends very much on the environment he
finds himself in.  The Cook Islands are
still a very male dominated culture. My friend Moana was told at an Island
Council meeting she attended – she being the only female present – to move to
the back of the room. I’ve not experienced that degree of chauvinism but even
when the more enlightened in the business community get together it is hard for
the piggy among them to hide their true nature. Standing next to Prez, I’m all
but invisible and my words meaningless -not to all men here, but enough to make
it noticeable. 

At the
other end of the spectrum you have the men who John Wayne would slap silly if
he were here, and alive. We had a guest a few months back who certainly wanted
the world to see him as a He-man. Any time of the day, you could see him
strutting about, shirtless, gold chains swinging in the breeze. (It is
considered very rude to venture outside a resort here without a shirt on). In
the basket of laundry he asked me to do, was a large beach towel decorated with
all the signs of the zodiac…in various sexual positions. Ick, ick, ick! So,
imagine my surprise when the bare-chested wonder steps into the office, pale
faced and clearly distressed, to ask me if I would please kill the spider in
the bathroom for him. Yes, some people are afraid of spiders, but even my
friend Martha, who can barely tolerate a photo of one, has been known to tackle
the odd arachnid if she needs to. Men, would you not be even slightly ashamed
to have a woman march past you with a whisk broom to sweep away an insect?

F is an
interesting case study in manliness. He is a kind of guybrid. He is, hands
down, one of the most macho men I’ve ever met. To get him to the doctor for an
injury, I almost have to force him at gunpoint.  

Prez:
“I’m fine, leave me alone.”

Princess:
“Your hand has been cut off.”

Prez:
“I’ll put a bandage on it.”

And yet,
of the two of us, he will be the first to admit that he is the most romantic,
the most cuddly, the most lovey-dovey. He’ll spend hours at a time giving me
“neck rubbies” or “head scratchies”. Softy? 

When I
made the observation that our VHF radio reception on the property is spotty, at
best, and should anything go wrong with the boat or the motor while he’s out
fishing he may not be able to contact me, his response was: “Well, you know
where I am and what time I should be back so wait an hour then get help.
Hopefully someone will figure out which direction I’m drifting in.” If it were
me, on the ocean alone, in a small boat, I’d have a GPS locator and several
flares strapped to my body…and a life raft…scratch that, I wouldn’t be out
there alone.

Yes, he
is a macho macho man…who loves cooking and claims Phenomenon is one of
his favorite movies because it’s such a great love story and tells his wife (on
an almost daily basis) that she is beautiful and he’s so lucky to have her.  

For all
his softer qualities, perhaps because of them, I consider Prez a “real man”.

But
fellows, tell me, where do you draw the distinction between a real man and a
real jerk?  

For me, I
believe it comes down to respect: for one’s self, for others, for the world at
large. While empathy is a quality more prominent in women, respect serves much
the same function in men. Men who respect women would never consider telling
them to move to the back of a room at a public meeting. Men who respect
themselves would put on a shirt when visiting a culture sensitive to nakedness.
Men who respect the world at large wouldn’t make roosters fight each other for
sport. I don’t care how tough you are, if you lack respect you will never be a
man.

Or maybe Rudyard Kipling had a better understanding
of this subject than me? 

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

                                            -Rudyard Kipling

QUESTION: Are you a real man?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess