I decided to try the menstrual cup. What appealed to me most about the cup was the concept of not much waste. I was living on a bus at the time with the intention of moving onto a boat, and not having to deal with monthly period trash was extremely appealing. 
     The first person to bring up the topic of a menstrual cup was my friend Aimee. For a couple of months, she had been bringing up forfeiting the tampon, convincing me to give this new method a try.
    While at work, my co-worker, Paige, had also begun talking about using this Eco-friendly method. We spent part of our afternoon looking them up on the internet. We learned that "The menstrual cup" comes in multi-colors from yellow to pink to black. There are two different sizes and many different companies. After reading all the reviews, I decided on a size small based on the fact that I have never had children. Big mistake there. Let's face it, I'm not twenty-two anymore, and as many women may know, periods by no means get lighter or more manageable with age. In fact, they seem to get heavier and heavier each year, and in my case, more and more painful. So maybe I've never had kids, but I sure got periods as if I had. Anywho, I picked the ‘Aretha’ cup in a lite green color.
    The cup arrived at perfect timing. I was set to get my monthly flow within days of receiving my package. I eagerly opened a small square box, pulling out a little bag with tiny yellow flowers printed all over it. My face lit up with excitement as I opened the small bag revealing the mini green cup wrapped in plastic. I held the cup up, examining it as if it was a rare diamond, pinching it together and then letting it pop back to its natural form. The top opening was about an inch-plus wide and about two inches in length, with a little tail that hung off the end.

    I placed the cup back inside its little flowery pouch and stuck it in my panty drawer for safekeeping. And there it waited. Reminding me every day of my looming monthly event. As the week continued, my period became late, not an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence, just an annoyance due to my new experiment. My breast began to swell, warning me my time was coming. Then it happened.
     I stumbled out of bed that cool morning, as I usually do. Clinging to the side of the bus, I carefully took a sleepily large step down onto a wooden platform made of pallets. Trudging through the uneven grass, I retrieved a hand full of toilet paper from the outhouse. (Side note: when living with an old-school outhouse, it is wise to separate numbers one and two as best possible. Keeping the two together creates a more potent smell.)
    With toilet paper in hand, I retreated to my usual pee spot behind the bus.
​T. Rex, my beloved orange tabby, followed close behind. I squatted down and took my pee position. T. Rex digs in the dirt, making a small hole next to the short stem of a baby sunflower plant. Following my lead, she also takes her pee position, and together we release our fluids. After I finish, I look down to see a smear of red across the white paper.
    "I knew it!" T. Rex looks up stunned, from her hole burying. I pull my panties up and practically sprint back to the bus. T. Rex leaps out of my way. I quickly run to my underwear drawer and pull it open, revealing the flowery bag stuffed between two pairs of cotton panties. Smiling, I rip off the plastic case and head back to the loo. My excitement was overwhelming. I quietly wash the little rubber cup before closing myself in the outhouse. I stare at the cup for a moment, folding it, unfolding it, and figuring out how best to insert the small chalice. 
    Then I take a deep breath and go for it. It's in. It's comfortable enough; with a bit of worry that I hadn't placed it properly, I stepped out of the sugar shack and continued with my regular activities—soon forgetting about the small cup wedged inside me.
    
   
     Later that afternoon, I met up with Aimee for some happy hour cocktails. So far, so good, no leaking, and I could hardly feel it. Then it happened. A trickle of warmth. I knew it was no longer holding. I excused myself and headed for the bathroom. Luckily, in a one-person washroom, I squatted on the toilet, trying to get the now buried cup out. I could find the tip, pinch, and pull, but it wouldn’t budge. The tip would slip through my fingers. I tried again and again with no luck. Shocked and embarrassed by the amount of time I'd already spent in the bathroom. I washed my blood-soaked fingers and lined my panties in toilet paper.
    My face red with shame, I re-enter the bar, leaving the safety of the bathroom. I slide back onto my bar stool, and the image of the cup wiggling further up my cervix floats in my head. Aimee begins to tell me a story, but all I can think about is the plastic cup wedged in my uterus. I make an excuse to leave, not ready to admit my cup failure, and scurry out of the crowded bar.
    Relieved to see my boyfriend was not home yet, I pull up to the bus and the little Hawaiian homestead we had built. I grab more toilet paper and a bag of wet wipes and hurry to the outhouse, praying my boyfriend takes his time finishing work.
    The cup has retreated further up my uterus. I grab the tip and pull, but it slips, and my hand flies out like a rubber band on a slingshot. Blood coats my fingers. I try again, and this time I am able to grab the end of the cup. I pinch it as hard as I can, and it gives. The cup slides out with a gush of blood. I wash it in our little propane-heated shower. Not ready to throw in the towel, I fold it back into a narrow cylinder, then take a deep breath and slip it back inside myself. This time I let the tip hang out a bit, thinking maybe I had just put it in to far up the first time.

I curled up in bed and quickly pass out.

I recently traveled to Asheville, North Carolina, to help with this delicious pizza restaurant's marketing image. They had suffered a hit after COVID and needed to remind their original customers that they were still open and serving the same mouth-watering cuisine.

People seeing the beauty of this valley will want to stay, and their staying will be the undoing of the beauty. 


~Chief Niwot
​

Niwot's Curse was folklore I learned as a young Boulder Valley student. I find much truth in this curse as I have watched my home town change. My childhood memories rapidly disappearing as million-dollar condos and high-end retail replace quaint coffee shops and quirky small businesses. ​

But the curse was not something Chief Niwot had wished upon this unique town; it was a premonition. He dreamed of a great flood that swallowed the Arapahoe tribe, letting only white man survive. Fearful for his people, the chief tried to make peace with the white man in hopes of saving his people.

But the overflow of gold-seekers continued to swamp the breathtaking valley pushing the peaceful natives out. Later, it is believed, that Chief Niwot died at the hands of the Third Colorado Cavalry in the Sand Creek Massacre. Proving a truth to his premonition. 

Eventually, the money-hungry miners were replaced with the hopeful peace and love of the 1960's hippy movement. Swarms of liberal, peace-loving, environmental progressive humans filled the little mining town. Quickly became a forward-thinking town floating in the state of cowboys and conservative country folks.    

During this time, many local Boulderites worked to protect the open space surrounding the town in hopes of preserving the community as well as the land. Building restrictions where enforced, and Boulder could no longer build up or out. The small-town limits and bleeding liberal population began earning a representation among the state, referred to the town as the People's Republic of Boulder, the Boulder Bubble, or the (liberal) island in the middle of Colorado, which at the time was very much a red state. ​

1992 Cheoy Lee Power Yacht.

My life has been so crazy lately that I haven't had many moments to myself. But today gave me a much needed gift, the gift of rain. With clouds rolling in left and right, sailing didn't seem like much fun. Instead, I spent the day baking, editing, writing, and cooking. 

A much needed day of relaxing, gave me inspiration to do one of my favourite pass times, baking. Our oven is very small, which means I can only bake 6 muffins at a time but I I can't complain since they came out so lovely. 

I found this wonderful recipe on https://www.errenskitchen.com/

In normal fashion, as well as a still broken refrigerator, I had no milk to work with. So I subsituted with a can of coconut milk. This gave them a nice buttery, sweet favor. 
I also made a spicy, vegetarian chilli to go with my mini corn breads. Perfect meal for a rainy day. 

 Prep Time 10 minutes
 Cook Time 15 minutes
 Total Time 25 minutes
 Servings  muffins
 Calories 174 kcal
 Author Erreb @ Erren's Kitchen
Ingredients

• 2 cup all-purpose flour
• 2 cup fine cornmeal
• 6 tablespoons granulated sugar
• 2 tablespoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 4 eggs beaten
• 2 cups milk
• 1 stick salted butter melted and cooled
• 4 tablespoons vegetable oil

US Measurements - Metric MeasurementsInstructions

1. Pre-heat oven to 425 f/ 220c Prepare a muffin pan with 12 muffin liners.
2. Mix dry ingredients in large bowl and form a well into the middle of the mixture.
3. Mix egg, milk, melted butter, and oil in a large mixing bowl. Pour into the well of dry ingredients; mix well.
4. Divide batter into the lined muffin pan, filling them 3/4 of the way. This makes a large muffin. (20 - 24 muffins).
5. Bake for 12-15 minutes, or until light golden brown.

As you may or may not know I took a position with Jonathan Davis doing real estate photography back in January.  It's been an interested six months learning everything there is to know about this business. Jonathan is an extremely talented photographer who knows his client like the back of his hand. 

Let me know what you think and any questions you may have in regards to this home or my new job below in the comment section. Visit PhotoKona.com to take a look at Jonathan's work. Also follow Photokona on Instagram. 

"I just wanna let you know that I'm horrible at having my picture taken," Kirsten tells me as she pulls off the highway next to a poplar tourist attraction, a large lava tube.

"Do you know how often I hear that?" I reply to this common statement.

"No seriously!" Kirsten exclaims, "I'm horrible. I make this weird fake smile. Just wait, you'll see." I roll my eyes and giggle a bit because there is no way someone as beautiful as Kirsten could take a bad photo. 

"Don't worry Kirsten, it's me. I can get a good shot." I reassure her as I jump out of the lifted jeep. Nether of us had ever stopped at the lava tube before so I wasn't completely sure what to expect. You could still see the top of Hualalai in the early morning light, the lava field soaking in the warmth of the sun. 

We started by walking down into the tube, the floor scattered in broken lava.  Light glowing through the end of the tunnel revealing a beautiful sky light where the roof had craved in. As we climbed around the tube we decided to take this adventure outside to use the morning light to our advantage. I followed Kirsten as she throw off her shoes and carefully tip toed about the cracks in the field. 

"Should I climb down?" She asked me as we both starred down into the collapse lava tube.

"Only if you feel comfortable doing so." she nodded.  Picking up her dress and slide down the side of the tube standing on a pile of large boulders I captured her in her pink dress as she told me about her love life and her decision to move off island.