Rehab in Hawaii

My parents needed rehab.

Relax. Not the Amy Winehouse celebrity- variety. Though, their year would have driven a Puritan to the bottle. Rather, they needed Aloha Rehab~ frivolous distractions in the rainbow state with some of the grandchildren they love more than their own kids.  Blinding sunshine, sandy sheets, and cerullian seas are detox for the stress-damaged. Or at least I prayed it would be so.  However, staying at my "casa de crazy" is generally not a serenity spa retreat unless you are the type of person that falls asleep listening to AC/DC. Wiping bottoms, hualing beach toys and being shadowed by tiny, whiny child-fans doesn't normally follow the couples massage on your all-inclusive getaway.  But, still, it's Hawaii-the stuff of Elvis songs.

When we weren't hiking every mountain like a band of sweaty Von Trappes, we beached our afternoons away, dodging aggressive dogs and kamikaze pigeons.  Fortuantely, we dodged the tourist bullet when we talked  my mom off the "muumuu ledge"- as she was convinced at last to leave hers at the Good Will. And since my mom never actually gets in the ocean, any ocean- the syringe-filled Atlantic or the turquoise Pacific- beach fashion becomes a compelling priority.  Thus her quest for the holy grail of floppy hat beach courture consumed most mornings.  And really- who doesn't want to look like a celebrity halfheartedly avoiding recognition behind a wide-brimmed Derby hat?!  Nicole Kidman and my mom, that's who.

Meanwhile,  I force fed my parents every delicacy I could contrive - like the Italian grandmother with broken English who appreiates the curative powers of gluttony. But, between their evening "constitutionals", Waikiki paddle-boarding, aquacycling and child-wrestling, I think they left with less weight than they brought (if you catch my meaning). Such good sports they were, pretending to delight in my ever needy, omnipresent entourage and the dimunitive, double bed they shared, where they woke to the gawking, glassy-eyed stares of American Girl Dolls. Horror movie or relaxing getaway- you decide. I think they still are.

There was not a day my mom did not photograph to death. Worse than a tourist, she never discriminated between the memorable and the menial, which meant many evenings were devoted to photo enhancing-first, her teeth and then everything else. Sunglasses were required to view the (faux) vibrancy of her photos.  One such immortalized in over-saturated color evenings was at the swanky Kahala resort, to celebrate my mom's birthday with my friends- friends, whom I am convinced are simply using me to get to my fabulous mom. Frankly, I don't blame them. Somehow, Oahu is her home too. . .

Well, my parents have departed our tropical isle and returned for more "hair of the dog that bit them." Hopefully (prayerfully), they left with a lightened burden since as Gary Busey knows, there is nothing more embarrassing than to have to go back to rehab.