Discarded Divas

So, I went to a wedding the other day, and I watched as the geriatric father of the bride pranced around with his sullen, young second wife, whilst the still single, fabulous looking mother of the bride, pranced around with her best friend, no male escort in sight. She was a beautiful, tall, stately woman, obviously in her prime. I could recount the story of how Pops left her years ago for the young hussy, but, I will not bother. You get the gist.

This then got me to thinking about the number of women that are in the Diva's particular position. Women, who have built lives with men like Pops from the ground up, elevate these men to their current status, and at the end of the day, are cast aside when they get a little bit of rust on their mufflers. My mother also falls into what I call the “Discarded Diva” category.

This adds a new element to the so-called dating scene in the Cayman Islands, for, if you break down the dynamics, men of the same age and stature as the Discarded Divas are either related, married; separated; divorcing, or are just like Pops, and looking for a newer rust-free model. The men that are 'available' may also come with a cargo load of baggage that no sane human should ever claim. Should a Discarded Diva turn a blind eye to these matters, strictly to find someone with whom to grow old, regardless of the stress and strife that they may bring into the Diva's life? Me thinkest not!

Another option for the Discarded Divas would be to pull a Demi / Ashton scenario, but, alas, exactly how is this conceivable? Personally, I, my brothers and sisters would have a fit should some young stalwart stallion attempt to court our fabulous matriarch. Visions of disease, money grubbing and other Lifetime network movie-ending nefarious scenarios would soil any romanticised notions of a happily n-ever after.

And then, there is the social scene for these Divas, or lack thereof. I, personally, have lamented in the past about feeling old in the club, and the Islands' social scene in general, so exactly how would the Discarded Divas feel? It is just not feasible for a Discarded Diva to prance around in the club, going down low-low-low and showing her “Apple Bottom Jeans”. The whole club would be looking at her all right, then I would be barraged with hundreds of text messages regaling me with how mi mudda brukkin' out in the club. Lawd, mi heart jus' doh beat right when mi t'ink 'bout the notion. That just nah right, on any level.

Previous attempts on the island to establish ‘mature’ clubs have been unsuccessful, for the Discarded Divas do not stay out until all hours, nor do they drink themselves into the ground in order to allow a club owner to make a profit, and to keep their establishments thriving. Eventually, profitability being the key, the age requirement is always lifted to grant entrance to the young, nubile ‘gents’ and ‘ladies’.

Not everything has a happy ending, like the First Wives Club, so, I ponder, where exactly does this leave the Discarded Divas? To stay home and mull about as my Discarded Diva currently does?

On that contemplative note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Sex, Lies, Videotape...and Email

So, I received a scandalous and scintillating email the other day, which contained pictures of a loving group of people, possibly resident on Island, engaged in lewd and licentious acts that are illegal in most countries.

The pics featured girl on girl action; guy on girls; guy on girl; girls on girls, and randomly sprawled body parts prominently featured as head-liners for the circus presentation (pun intended!).

I viewed the pics with curious objectivity whilst trying to get an accurate account of the parties involved in the ménage-ten, as well as to try to figure out the hows and whereforths of the camera operation. Who took the pics? Did they draw straws? Did each volunteer to take a turn as photographer out of a sense of fair play? Kudos to them! What team spirit!

I eventually gave up, for the time and effort that it was taking to figure out the fornicating human puzzle was actually making me cross eyed.

An acquaintance of mine was recently caught up in this new sex-pic hoopla, when she and she fellow decided to take some pics to commemorate a sexual interlude. Turns out that she was a good girl who made very poor decisions in her choice of men and artistic medium, for the fellow then turn ‘round and uploaded the pics to the internet in a fit of spite. Reminds me of that age old adage: “…when your friends become your foe, out into the world your secrets go…”

When she and I now cross paths, the conversation is…awkward. She thinking: “Does she know?” Me thinking: “Yeah, I know. Do I acknowledge, and say that it’s okay?” Feet scuffling awkwardly, smiles and conversation stilted, we are both very glad to part ways.

This entire trend has gots me pondering as to why in this technological and scandalous age, people involved in bedroom peccadilloes feel the need to document the process. Scintillating thrill? Not only must this require a great deal of trust (or stupidity), but are there not other factors to consider, such as a lost or stolen phone, camera or computer? Circumstances could allow strangers to be all up in your business, circulating intimate pics, intended to be private.

Lawd, suppose you dead and gone, and yu’ fambily sorting out yu belongings, and come across yu scandalous sex pics? I can see it now, Sonny looking at his mommy nekkid, and getting a bird’s eye view as to how he was possibly conceived. Lawd, I would be responsible for pushin’ mi pickney into an early grave, whilst turnin’ over in mine!

That being said, due to the proliferation of this particular trend, I have done some research, and collated the following tips (in no particular order) for anyone who should decide to engage:

One: Do not show your face

Two: Do not show any distinguishing features, or marks, such as tattoos, scars, tooth decay, piercings, moles… remember, the mole issue worked out in R. Kelly’s favour.

Three: After the scintillating thrill has passed, whilst ruminating in post-coital bliss, sit together and delete the photos. Delete the SIM card if necessary. Mash up the phone/camera as well, if this will give you further comfort. I could even take this further to suggest death and dismemberment, but, I will leave this here.

Four: Make sure that the picture-taking is reciprocal. He and she, not just of 'she' or vice versa. (If the parties involved are 'he and he', or 'she and she', that’s all ya' business, but, you get the gist.)

Five: Women, further to point four, in the event that he does betray you, please note that you are now in a position to air brush the pics in your possession, diminishing his girth and width, and forwarding to relevant parties as desired, with the title “Pee Wee”. You could even superimpose a sheep or other farm animal into the picture if need be. (Please note that this is just a suggestion. The author does not condone such behaviour.)

Six: In the event that you should get caught up with the bedroom paparazzo, and chose to discard points 1 through 5, please ensure that you suck in your stomach, and that your ‘sex face’ does not look like Leona Helmsley or Tammy Fay Baker. This would not photograph well. In the event that your sex pics does circulate whether by accident or design, you do not want to be made to look like a laughing stock.

On that very helpful note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Curvaceous

So, throughout my relatively short life, I have always been a cell phone fanatic, switching my cell phones to accessorize my outfits, and to reflect my mercurial moods.

I would always gravitate to the small, delicate, cutesy l’il phones, for I somehow felt that they would compensate for my huge personality. I switched phones every day of the week, and the telecoms' marketing geniuses, who made them more colorful, smaller and with more options, were always guaranteed a sale from this shallow little wench.

…Until, DV gave me a Blackberry Curve for my birthday last year.

My life has never been the same since! Through all of my birthdays of birthdays (and again, there has not been that much!), this has been one of the most functional, and well used gifts ever! I am incomplete without my Curve, and I rue the day, if I should ever have to part with it!

I have not even had an inclination to yearn for the smaller Blackberry Pearl, which, in my estimation, is too small to be functional, and the tiny little keys affect the response times for my frequent instant messages, emails and my text messages. I feel so popular, now that I have consolidated all of my communications on this one magnificent device, even when I am left to delete a spam message from my inbox in aggravation. A message is a message when it hits my Curve! No one else has to know!

On leaving the house, it is guaranteed that I will always have my car keys, my wallet and my Curve. It has never failed me yet! Draft poems, and draft blog posts are jotted in the little note book thingy, and transferred to my computer at a later date. The camera phone is clear and easy to use, and I can snap photos at a moments notice. In the midst of an argument on some irrelevant fact, Google is on hand through my internet connection to resolve the dispute at a moments notice, me crowing with glee when I am right, and lying through my teeth when and if I am wrong.

My Curve has born witness to mine and DV’s arguments and reconciliations (always his fault, I might add!). My trusty Curve forwards my hotmail and yahoo emails to my immediate attention, to the point that I neglect to check my email from my ‘puta anymore!

Back in the day, I used to frown and scowl if my cell phone was too popular, always wanting to have one of a kind. Now, my eagle eyes are always on the look out for Blackberry cohorts, me wanting and fiending to add new Blackberry contacts to my Curve’s instant message contact list. Not that I actually contact them, but it’s the principle of the thing! I just love to see the long list.

So, join me as I now pay homage to my Curve, the bestest and longest cell phone that I have ever possessed, as we approach our one year anniversary together.

On that note, I must now exit. Gotta check my messages.

Ta ta…

'Fro.

Floetry

So, last night DV and I packed up we’selves (me enthusiastically, he reluctantly) and went to a poetry session called “Floetry”, hosted by a local bookshop.

Now, I did nearly piss me’ self with glee when I heard about the session, for I don’t get this kinda thing often on my island rock, and maybe I did work myself up to thinking it would be like the performances on HBO’s Def Poetry with people aggressively spitting words of political and revolutionary poetic rhetoric into a mike, but, alas, it turned out to be a much tamer poetic night.

During the readings, it was just as interesting to gauge the audience’s reactions to the poems, as it was to listen to the poems themselves.

I watched the face of a perplexed young lady whom I deemed to be an ‘expat’, when Big J (fully adorned in camouflage) read his piece alluding to the island being raped by foreigners. She did not appear to be impressed by Big J’s topic of choice, and had a constipated expression on her face. Regardless, for such a controversial political piece, Big J did not deliver with passion and confidence, and was distracted by the obvious discomfort from the audience, who obviously had mixed emotions about his message, and maybe, the appropriateness of the subject matter.

Then, there was the dub poet who spit a piece that was fraught with sexual innuendo so cleverly guised, as he recited with passionate vigor and a twinkle in his eye. To me, he was the best of the night. He recited from memory; he was energetic and captivating, and he worked the audience well. At least, those who could understand Jamaican Dub poetry.

And then, there were the class of poems that I personally call, the “Lifetime Network” poems. You know those kinda poems that talk about the transition from love to hate, self-fulfillment and growth after a broken heart and what not? Yeah, those. Nice to read now and again, but, can’t say that they are fantastic to sit down and listen to without wanting to slit your wrists. But, that is just the cynical inner me talking.

Loved the poems. Loved the sharing. Loved the bravery of the poets who gallantly stood up and shared their worked, while I remained seated on my backside.

When I read about the event, I searched through my anthology of poems for an appropriate poem to spit, and realized with shock and dismay, that I am indeed potty mouthed poet.

All of my ‘spoken word’ or performance poems are fraught with cuss words, deliberately injected for dramatic effect or shock value, and I could not amend them to a PG rating in time for the event.

I hate the fact that I have to edit them at all, for does this not affect my poetic artistic expression???

Oh well. Oh well, next time.

Therefore, Books and Books, my kudos to you for hosting such a wonderful event, and for acknowledging poetry’s literary artistry. I don’t like the layout and format of your bookstore, but this is indeed a wonderful marketing gimmick to gather more susceptible people into your store’s monstrous space.

And on that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Urban = Ghetto

So, with the fro well tamed, feeling fabulous and quite diva-esque, I stepped into a licensed establishment, and proceeded to take a seat to await the arrival of my friends.

Our eyes met across the bar.

I watched in resignation and trepidation as he shored up his courage, took a deep breath, and tottered his way over. He would never have done it under normal circumstances, but I feel that the alcohol had given him some Dutch courage.

His introduction was shady, and though my annoyance and dismissive attitude was very clear, Dude persevered, until eventually, he engaged me in a manner that I just could not ignore.

Dude: You know, you have always worn your hair very urban.

‘Fro: [Eyebrow raised enquiringly] Urban? And what, pray tell do you mean by “urban”?

Dude: You know, urban; kinda…ghetto.

‘Fro: [Taking a deep breath, and deciding to engage] You know, in all my years, you are the first person to have ever referred to me as ghetto.

Dude: Oh, no, nah you, nah you! I doh mean you, I just mean…you wear your hair very urban.

‘Fro: And your definition of urban is ‘ghetto’? Have you ran this by Webster or Oxford, before you go about using words that you don’t know the meaning of?

Dude: [Scratching his head] No man, you doh understand wha’ I mean;

‘Fro: So, riddle me this, Batman, as a black woman, wearing my hair au natural, that automatically makes me ghetto?

Dude: [Shifting from foot to foot] Dah nah wha' I mean, and urban nah'a bad t’ing you know.

‘Fro: I see. So, if I should relax my hair, or get a weave down to my backside, what would that make me?

Dude: [Shifting nervously, and thinking] Errr….Suburban?

Now fair gentlepeople, this is where ya’ll have to give me props. I never told said dude about his ass; I remained calm, cool and collected, and frankly, I gave him up as a lost cause.

Some people just can’t be edumacated, and I don’t believe in wasting my time and energy on lost causes anymore.

This entire conversation was disturbing on so many levels, starting with Dude’s basic lack of common sense, which more and more I have realised, is indeed not common.

And on that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Remote (Un)Controlled

So, I have realized that I have lost all control of my remote control.

I mean, I have heard about women fussing and griping about this malady from the year of one, and arrogant me, never thought that there would come the day when I would fall victim, cast among the desolate remoteless ranks.

I sat back in resignation the other day, and watched as DV stepped into my abode, made himself comfortable, and picked up my remote control and automatically changed the channel to ESPN. I mean, he did not even give it a thought. He was just an automaton with a glazed TV-viewing look in his eyes, the testosterone actively pulling his stings, as apparently, he could not have been comfortable in the vicinity of a television, and not have the remote in his hand.

Has anyone given this some form of scientific study? Is there a cure that I should attempt to find to appease the women of the world, and give them some say as to the channel rendezvous points? I know that there is a bag of money to be made should a cure be discovered.

In attempting to garner some control of my control, I have tried reason: “Why don’t you find something that we both can watch?” Painfully guising my impatience, and clenched teeth.

I have tried cajoling: “Pllleeeaaasee! I was watching that!” Painfully gnashing my clenched teeth.

I have tried the feminine wiles: “You don’t wanna watch this ol’ thing, now do you, Pumpkin?” Struttin’ and sauntering in front of the TV, deceptive alluring smile guising clenched teeth and fists.

I have tried tactless fact: “Star, this is my TV!” Parting my lips and emitting intimidating growls, displaying my clenched teeth, getting even more incensed at his raucous dismissive laughter.

I have tried violence: “Gimme the flicking thing or I goin’ t’ump you!” Then, would unclench my teeth and fists, jump on him, and start to t’ump him and bite him; getting even more irate as he snickers and holds the remote above his head, well out of my reach.

I have tried theft. But, learned the hard way that when I stole the remote and ran out of the room crowing with victory, that I needed to be in the room for it to work. Eventually, I would have to go back in and face the music. Crap.

And of course, I would mix and match: cajoling and violence; feminine wiles, reason, cajoling and violence; violence in isolation; tactless fact and violence, etc.

Now, I just give up and pray that he falls asleep so that I can change the channel, but, as fate would have it, I am always the first to sleep. I just accredit this to the fact that ESPN bores me to death. I have sat through football season, and prayed for the end of the torture with the Super bowl. Then, I had to suffer through basketball season, where I learned about well placed screens, and flagrant fouls. Go Celtics.

Now, it scares me that throughout all of my suffering and newfound resignation that I would never again sit and watch a program of my choice, somehow, something has been sinking in. Crap. I am being programmed subliminally.

His revolution is indeed televised. Dyam remote hog!

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Iguana-Gate

I tried to ignore it. Pay it no mind. Turn mi head, chill, and walk the other day…to no avail. The blasted thing keeps slapping me in the face, to the point that it done leave hand prints all over my flicking face, with the blasted thumb now jukkin’ me in the eye.

From a previous post, I have made my blatant disdain for all things reptilian and amphibian quite clear, and it is with no regret that I tell all ya that I rolled my eyes and moved right along after reading about the wanton ‘murder’ of the Blue Iguanas. Shame on the alleged perpetrators. But at the end of the day, those lizards don’t affect me one way or the other, for they don’t pay my bills.

I read the editorials, the letters and the general societal outrage that was launched after Iguana-gate, which even spilled down to the school children. What a way to get the society involved!

Posters circulated via email with the dead carcasses (shock value?), proudly listing the increasing amounts of the reward for information leading to the capture of the demonic perpetrators. On seeing the reward, I even contemplated framing a friend or family member to collect the money, but alas, I refrained. One outraged member of the community called the travesty the “worst crime to happen on Cayman shores”. Now, I aint know which ‘shore’ they does be talking ‘bout, because nuff nuff things happen on this little rock that I deem to be worst that some ol’ lizards getting killed, and I am sure that there is more yet to come.

After the ‘murders’, a co-worker came around with hat in hand, begging for donations to supplement the lizard reward. I nearly tell she ‘bout she parts. Here I am, struggling to find gas; pay bills, and just live like the high maintenance Diva that I am, and I going be stupid enough to donate money for blasted lizard reward??? I don’t think so! Especially since a stupid green lizard had crept into my house previously to terrorize me. I spray that sucker with bleach, and nearly tear down the house to kill the monster. Nearly flicking well killed myself in the process.

Now, I feel like kicking rocks when I see all of the good natured organizations coming out of the woodworks to raise funds for the dead lizards and the breeding program, the likes of which was never seen when Brian Rankin-Carter was murdered, and his naked body callously discarded.

I read with trepidation the recent story of Boy, 14, who is walking a fine line of future criminality, and the prosecutors’ suggestion to send him off to Tranquility Bay, in Jamaica, because Cayman's Eagle House does not suit his needs. I now wonder if organizations will step up to the plate to help this human chil’. Maybe the unclaimed CI$11,000.00 can go toward the upkeep and maintenance of this young man and others like him, and maybe stave off the possibility that one day, they too might engage in a wanton act of murder of the human kind. Everyone came up with the lizard money real quick, so it would be nice to see donation emails circulating for this chil’ as well, and others just like him. Talk about flicking priorities.

But, it is obvious that I am biased. The dyam lizards look like dinosaurs. The nasty green ones are bad enough, much less the blue. Prettier notional colour, but still a repugnant reptile. And, when you pelt them, they don’t run from you either (not that I am confessing to anything)! Dyam reptiles! Yuck!! If only immigration could roll them over!

Like the adoption of the Chinese babies when there are also a whole heap of nappy haired African babies mullin’ ‘bout the place, Iguana-gate is now the ‘in’ cause. Ironically, in my not so humble opinion, these 'murders' may have been the best thing to ever happen to the breeding program.

On that laconic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Once A (Wo)Man...Twice a Child...

So, my sister and her mate are currently faced with the issue of dealing with an octogenarian god-mother, who is apparently senile, with traces of what I can only conclude is undiagnosed Alzheimer’s disease.

Love, appreciation, (guilt?) and respect for the Lady has made them reluctant to admit her to a senior care facility, but the alternative is to deal with issues which could possibly have far reaching repercussions on their relationship, social life, and finances.

Having witnessed their situation, it just makes me….sad, as it is very depressing. Lady has now reverted to the mental faculties of a child. She is prone to depression, fits of crying, which I deem to be her frustration manifesting itself; and has to be scolded for actions that are possibly detrimental to her health, and the health and welfare of those around her. She wears adult diapers that must be monitored and changed She wants to engage in her regular day to day activities, and after over seventy years of cooking, how do you tell the home maker within her that she can no longer operate the stove, for fear that she will cause a fire? Or the fact that she no longer knows how to dress herself properly, and could possibly walk out of the house wearing only a hat?

I just find it…awkward. It is strange to be in a position to scold a grown woman and knowing that the she will not learn from the lessons imparted, tapered with the need to maintain that level of respect for the socialite, and loving mother figure that she once was….

Which leaves one to wonder…what of the required care for my parents when they in turn must revert to their childhood? Recently, I can see the gradual effects of age, wearing on my parent’s – new ailments, mellower dispositions, and the need to defer to the children for important decisions that will impact the family as a whole. But, alas, plans will have to be put in place for the folks when their second childhood approaches, and as I get older, and the old bones creak from wear and tear, it is a topic that seems to hit me in the face constantly.

In my regard, I need to start working on my Sonny, to make sure that he will in turn care for his dear ol’ Mama when plastic surgery and medical miracles can no longer disguise the effects of her age. I just hope that he and his wife (the harlot!) will love me enough to change my Depends.

On that depressing note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta…