The Vagina Monologues

"Can I talk to you now?" He asked facetiously, a smirk emblazoned across his face. "After all, it’s been more than three years."

"No!" I responded firmly, glaring at him through the hills created by my stirruped legs. "Look Star, just get on with it!"

That is an extract from a snarly conversation that I had with my gynecologist today.

Though I had given him my explicit rules when we initiated our relationship more than three years ago, I cannot begin to fathom why he would erroneously conclude that time would mellow my requirements as to how he is to administer my check up. I figured that he is getting complacent as our relationship has progressed, and as such, he had to be set firmly in his place. I also wanted to launch a well placed kick from the confines of a stirrup, when I realized that my response did not faze him one bit, as he had emitted an unrepentant chuckle.

The man seems to find some source of amusement at my discomfort, as evidenced by his ridiculous whistling as he pokes and prods. I just want to slap him. And then, he has the nerve to initiate conversation today! Two slaps!

Call it my own brand of insecurity (though I call it plain common sense), but why the heck would I want to engage in casual banter with the man as he delves between my nether regions with metallic weapons of crotch destruction, and nary a bit of pleasure am I to get from it?

There layeth I: legs hoisted in metallic stirrups, gazing resignedly at the ceiling, working to find my Zen-like happy place through the mechanism of counting the moldy ceiling tiles as I ponder: is mine like everyone else’s? Is it too big? Too small? Well maintained? Has he seen better or worst? Has he ever been blown away by its extraordinary quality? Is there a significant improvement from last year? Does his wife benefit sexually from his medical expertise? Is one just like the other?

Prior to each visit, paranoia, pride and insecurity will always drive me to ensure that it is well groomed. I even try to refrain from peeing before he has a chance to look at it, for I don’t know the impact that my pee and required wiping may have on its aesthetics.

I was in the supermarket the other day, contemplating the purchase of fresh vegetables which will eventually rot in the confines of my refrigerator, when I looked up, and his and mine eyes made four. I paled, panicked, and fled.

There was I, dressed and feeling all prissy and dainty, and this man who had and will see me nekkid every year; he who has assessed the inner workings of my unmentionables; he who knows the ins and outs of my cycle; he who felt and knew of the sensitivities of my boobs, and asked questions that not even my significant other would be privy to, could never engage me in casual conversation or even a greeting over fresh broccoli. Oh, hell no!

And on that decidedly prudish note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

Our Loss, Heaven's Gain...

We always try to employ all forms of reasoning in an often futile attempt to understand the travesties that we as human beings can mete out on one another, as means of coping with loss.

Some immerse themselves in the realm of television and other forms of escapism, trying to find that happy ending where ever they can, cynically knowing that the odds are stacked against them in the true drama that is real life. Those peaceful periods of time, fraught with "happily ever afters", where notions of eternal love reign supreme, and final credits roll to the tune of whimsical theme songs; us leaving theatres with happy sighs and smiles, when all mysteries are solved to our satisfaction, and the nefarious villain ultimately named. "Who", "why", "what", "where" and "when", all rolled together into a neat little package.

Here I sit, knowing that there will never be "happily ever after", as I ponder our islands’ recent loss, feeling somewhat numb; thinking about her family, and we that will forever be affected by a tragic void that can never be filled. Knowing that the semblance of peace and idealism that has been an integral aspect of our small island lifestyle, has forever been shatterd, as we alter our thinking to look at our neighbours with wary suspicion, and speculation reigns supreme, as we attempt to rationalise these events, as a means of bringing about closure.

Coupled with my own sense of loss, and whilst the saying “…there, but for the grace of god, goes I…” resounds in my head, I remain ever so proud of her. She who has left an indelible legacy for one so young, making her mark via the mechanisms of her activism; her effervescent personality; her spirit, and through those that she loved, and we who in turn loved her.

Though her murderer(s) took her life, they can never take that away from her, or from us. Never one to take a spiritual bent on things, I thought the title of this post most appropriate. I need to feel that she is in a better place as my own personal coping mechanism.

I don't even know what note to exit on.

'Fro.

And The Lamb Shall Lead Them...

My big sis, the newly baptised lamb, has never forgiven me for what she deems my 'irrepressible behaviour' at one of the most important occasions of her life. Yes, she used the word 'irrepressible'. Is so she does talk.

It all started when she was insistent that her hair had to be done two days before the momentous occasion, which I still don't unn'erstand, for she was getting baptised. Why she goin' spend money to wash, curl, and blow dry hair, when the holy waters would jus' mess it up? Illogical.

But for the youngest and eldest of my siblings (the “mutants”), I and the remaining members of my family are all vertically challenged. The pas’on must not have realised that The Lamb was the shortest of his flock as he led them to the baptismal waters, for the 6 ft tall pastor inadvertently took her out too deep. She made an almost inaudible bleat of protest.

I, being the loving a caring sister, watched in snickered apprehension as he led her out further and further, and as alarm gradually entered the Lamb's eyes. But for the bleat, the little trooper uttered nary a word of protest, and docilely followed the pastor to the slau...err...out into the water.

I did indeed ponder if her gradual realisation and potential panic would interfere with her spiritual buzz at that point, as she mentally assessed how to swim in her spiritual robes. I surmised that the pa'son was prob'ly goin' kill her before he saved her.

The pa’son dipped The Lamb’s co-baptisees in a synchronized assembly line, I watching in pseudo-amusement as they all did the ‘Dip and Fall Back’. But, alas, when the diminutive Lamb stepped up to the plate (and gurgled a mouth full of water), she could not do the Dip and Fall Back like the rest of the flock, or she wudda drown.

So, the pa'son improvised, and lifted her off'a her feet 'til she was floating, and we could all see her chipped pedicure. I am still convinced that is only her forehead that got wet, but I have no tangible evidence with which to demonstrate the fact that the spiritual dip had indeed been botched.

The Lamb exited the baptismal waters, wearing her glow of accomplishment (who was I to disillusion her at this point?), walked towards me, looked furtively around, and asked me in panicked undertones: "Lawd, did my hair dye run?"

I nearly dead. This was the final crescendo leading into my ‘irrepressible behaviour’.

I would think that forgiveness would be high on The Lamb’s agenda since taking on her 'new personality', but she is still carrying a grudge. Evidence indeed that the pa'son never dipped her properly.

On that irreverent note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

Evel Knievel Needs a Spanking!

I watched the spry, diminutive daredevil, as he zipped fearlessly in and out of traffic on his little pre-school sized BMX bicycle, barefooted and dirty….

He rode his little bike with a form of street savvy that I envied…and somewhat feared. Where was he going? Where was he coming from? Was he accountable to someone?

He stopped at the traffic light ahead of me with a dirty little foot well placed on the ground for balance, impatiently awaiting his turn to join the free flowing traffic, when apparently, frustrated by the wait and feeling that he was not subject to traffic laws, he darted across the road, arrogantly popping a wheelie as he joined the flow of cars.

He executed the wheelie with daring precision, and I could not help but admire its longevity and the seeming casualness of his cycling maneuvers, which indicated that he was a veteran of the streets. He owned the road. All vehicles were subject to his will.

Then, as one disgruntled driver sat aggressively on his horn, having had to swerve in order to miss hitting little Evel Knievel, I watched in awe as he raised a grubby little middle figure in the general direction of the driver, all executed with a sneer of the upper lip.

My first inclination on seeing this act of defiance was to snicker...and then, I wanted to cry…What is to become of our children?

On that depressed note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

Oedipus Complex...?

So, there was I, hot stepping it around the National Gallery, viewing the lovely and equally rancid artwork with my own brand of inept criticism, when I was approached by a young gentleman:

He: Pardon me, I am terribly sorry to interrupt you…
Me: [Looking suspicious, politely distant] Ahhh…sure…Yes...?
He: Well...I just wanted to tell you that…I love your hair.
Me: [Looks suspicious; cameras? squints eye; weirdo?] 'Scuse me…?
He: Your hair, I love the way that you wear your hair.....
Me: [Assesses sincerity; preens] Really? Well…ahh…thanks. Appreciate that.
He: No really, don’t ever change it. It is great!
Me: [Eyes twinkle; kicks dirt; pats hair] Well…, shucks, you are too kind.
He: [Sighs; reminisces] My mother used to wear her hair like that.
Me: [Wilts; jaw drops; ] Your mother…??? Well…errr… [Ego deflates]

End scene.

A body just cannot make this stuff up.

On that weirded out, disgruntled note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

Turn off the lights, and light a candle...!

Turn off the lights, and light a candle…

Teddy knew what he was talking about when he was setting up his romantic scenario, though I now believe that not only was Teddy being the romantic, crooning, baritoned Lothario…, but Teddy must have also just been dyam cheap, and was actually conserving his water and electricity bills.

This is now the direction that I am heading. Fire hazard notwithstanding, I am going to start lighting my fancy-schmancy-decorative scented candles and place them strategically around the house. I just hope that this does not back-fire on me if inquisitive neighbours call the police to report I am working obeah in my living room.

See, my electric bills averages CI$200.00 per month, and have only ever increased to a maximum of CI$400.00 in the summer months when I run the air conditioner. With central air in the bedrooms only, and my AC being on a timer, I just cannot the understand the more than 100% increases in my bills during the summer months, and of course, my vociferous protests have gone ignored for the most part, but for the other consumers feeling my pain.

Today, being the ever efficient (and reluctant!) bill payer that I am, I went to pay my electricity bill, which was in excess of CI$600.00 for July’s usage. I, knowing about (and being a part of) the recent hue and (out)cries from the anti-CUC Caymanian John Q. Public, and, knowing that I had no particular choice, went to pay the flicking bill, well equipped with my screw-face and disgruntled mumblings. Then, to further my general pissed-offedness, the customer service representative (hereafter referred to as “the Gyal”) tells me that my usage for August is in excess of CI$700.00!

Now, this is enough to make a body launch all kind’a cuss words and what not, for I want to know how my flicking electricity bill goin’ now equate to car, house and land payment!

Then, when I ask the Gyal for an explanation of the charges, she started a dialogue fraught with all kinds of impressive “kilowatt”, “megahertz” and pocket-hertz spiel intricately interwoven, and proceeded to look irritated when I interrupted, and tell her to start speaking English, for I don’t talk ‘lectricity.

The only thing that I unnerstand from what she say, is that CI$500.00 from the new bill, is for fuel charges! They want me to spend CI$500.00 for gas! And, would this then mean that only CI$200.00 from this new bill was actually going to line CUC’s coffers?

So, reasonable person that I am, after interrupting the Gyal’s programmed ‘lectricity rhetoric, I asked her to provide me with an explanation as to the kind of fuel that was being purchased and the purchase locale. If I am paying for it, I want to know what I am buying, and to have a better understanding as to what I am paying for.

Does CUC buy this high-class fuel from Texaco or Esso? Regular or unleaded? Can diesel work? Is it jet or rocket fuel? Can't they just add water? Did they comparison shop? Can I buy the gas from my favourite gas station and tell them to use that instead? I mean, I can get a coupon from the gas station, so this is actually my preference. My money can then work for me!

Then, because I interrupted her programmed customer service rhetoric with my thought provoking enquiries, the Gyal starts to st…st…stutter….and tell me that she can’t answer my questions. Everyone has to pay these charges across the board.

Well, I am fed up. As I now realize that I have the potential to turn into my father, walking irately throughout the house, turning off lights and bellowing “Lawd…’un’nu min’ de light bill!”, I need to take preemptive action.

Should I run a swamp-esque lake through my backyard, and harness water and wind energy? What about rigging up my own kind of solar energy thingy, for I sure as hell cannot afford for anyone to come and install any solar powered thingamabobs in my house. Maybe I should build my own personal wind mill in the back yard, or get back to the ol’ kerosene lamp days.

I am fed up with the CUC monopoly. We need to heighten the call for competition. Maybe then, as it was with Cable and Wireless, we can get all forms of energy-usage plans: residential, corporate and small business; maybe implement frequent kilowatt usage miles? What about energy usage circles like Sprint has? Maybe dole out bonus kilo wattage points to ‘loyal’ customers who stay with CUC’s draconian services at the introduction of competition. Implement fridge plug-in wattage discounts? Free CUC shares for excess usage, with the application of the dividends to outstanding bills?

I hope their marketing people are taking notes!

All this to alleviate my having to take some of the corned beef from my hurricane supplies, because my grocery money now has to pay the ‘lectric bill.

On that pissed off note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Sonny Von Gogh?

So, remember the en plein aire event that I had told you about? Well again, this was a joint fundraising venture to raise funds for the purchase of Miss Lassie’s house by our fair isle’s grand cultural quartet.

The fundraising premise involved extending invites to all calibers of artists, to sit in various degrees of dress and / or undress, all with a view to paint, draw, mold or etch-a-sketch, their rendition of Miss Lassie’s house, after which, the artistic renditions would be donated to the National Gallery and subsequently auctioned. The funds would then be used for the ultimate purchase and restoration of the house.

This being a wonderful and noble cause, I dragged Sonny out of bed at 8:00 on a Saturday morning, for us to go and lend our artistry to this endeavor, and it is to my chagrin that I admit that Sonny’s work was actually quite palat-able, for I could actually see the house and all of its offerings in his work. It quite irritated me when the obnoxious little snot proceeded to brag and preen as to the nature of his so-called artistry, and laughed and jeered at my humble attempts. My art was just misunderstood, and was very abstract in nature.

That being said, today I have received an invitation to an Art Outreach Exhibit at the National Gallery, all with a view to see if Sonny’s work will be featured, and possibly sold, or sits in a moldy closet somewhere.

Just know, if his work is indeed featured and auctioned for a bag of money, call Social Services right away.

To hell wid puttin’ the chil’ through school. I goin’ lock him up into a dark, dank, dungen-esque room with a strict directive to “Paint, chil’! Paint!” Even if he has to sever an ear for the realization of his artistic expression, all with a view to support his ever loving Mudda, and maintain her in a manner to which she is unaccustomed.

I done know seh the chil’ will never be the sporting superstar, and so I am still searching for alternate methods by which he can support me in my octogenarian years. He is my grand retirement plan.

And on that optimistic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

The Yard

If it is one thing that I detest with a passion, it is rubberneckers. Those who slow down an’ crane their necks to take in accidents or anything that could possibly resemble forms of suss.

Yet, when it comes to this particular yard, I am a hypocrite.

I slow down and crane my neck to unnatural angles just to get a good look at The Yard’s happenings, for there are always all kinds of excitement going on in The Yard.

See, it all started years ago, when I was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on my way to work. I took an idle glance at The Yard, and noticed several occupants engaged in a raucous game of dominoes - at 8:30 in the morning.

There was I, stuck, bitter and depressed at the fact that I had to drag my sleep deprived body to work, and they seemed so …happy; so…relaxed; so….unemployed. And there was pathetic I…adhering to society’s regimented requirement that I go to work to pay bills.

Since then, I have been conducting my own sociological study of The Yard, surreptitiously observing the comings and goings of the ever changing occupants at the domino table. Pondering if truant officers ever went to roun’ up the little pickneys, who always seem to increase in number whenever I pass, and are always scampering around in their bare, calloused feet, irrespective of the season. I, observing the pregnant mamas cantering flirtatiously around The Yard, unimpeded by their big bellies, eventually noticing when svelte figures would reappear, and newborn babies then given to the care of she whom I deem to be The Yard’s Matriarch, who always has an infant snuggled against her voluptuous bosom.

The Matriarch is always sporting her worn house dress and curlers, with breasts hanging to her knees. She is the ruler of all she surveys, as she sits regally in her strategically positioned chair, observing The Yard’s happenings, and doling out a slap now and again to a recalcitrant urchin as they pass her by. The newborns seem to grow up overnight, to join the herd of pickneys that are always romping in The Yard, all of whom are absolutely fearless, some even darting into traffic as they play daring games of catch, or on the way to the store to run an errand for the Matriarch. Woe is onto he or she who should ever hit one of those little daredevils!

Today, I watched in bemusement as Two Foot Tall urchin violently expressed his vexation at his five foot tall counterpart. They punched, bit, and flung expletives at each other, all whilst being cheered and jeered by the other occupants of The Yard. Mr. Two Foot was uncaring as to the size differential between he and his rival, though eventually, after being subdued by a WWF headlock, he escaped to eventually return and pelt a rock-stone and run. Sigh…a man after my own heart.

Need I mention that he pelt the rock-stone in the direction of traffic and nearly broke my car window? I took it as a sign from the Lord to mind my own business.

Needless to say, had Mr. Two Foot’s act of defiance broken my car window, one has to choose their battles very wisely. This is not the kind of Yard where I could act out in righteous indignation and demand financial restitution and / or repairs from the relevant parties. Matriarch and her gang of pickneys, would pro'ly jump up and kick my backside, right there in the middle of town. The shame would’a kill me more than the beating.

And on that cowardly note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Gustav: From The Battle Trenches!

Well, so far all is well, in my neck of the woods.

I am currently tuned in to my faithful radio station, Radio Cayman, for which I must also confess that I only listen Radio Cayman in times of a hurricane crises. Lawd, they were irreplaceable during the passage of Hurricane Ivan!

Just now, I listened and snickerd as a lady called in to the radio to relate the fact that at 250 pounds, the wind almost lift her up and carry her away. That is a strong breeze indeed, and gives new meaning to the concept of flying debris!

Gussy has now been upgraded to a Category 2 hurricane, and is currently pounding Grand Cayman and the Sister Islands. I am bored as hell, for I have been cooped up in my trench, armed and ready, from the time that we completed our hurricane preparations. As such, I think that I am suffering from cabin fever. I have poked my head out on the porch tentatively a couple of times just to watch a few trees blow, and was surprised to note that there was hardly any rainfall.

At this point, I have decided to stop watching the weather channel, especially after they reported that the entire Cayman Islands were without power. Had a good laugh at that bit of irony. Further, though they report that Gustav is battering the Cayman Islands, this apparently does not count as ‘landfall’. Landfall only counts when it hits the US.

Well, ol' ghastly Gussy does not have a visa, and as such, the jerk will soon be rolled over.

On that note, I shall now exit, in the hopes that I do not lose power and water.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Life In The Tropics...June to November...

“The boards were hung by the windows with care, in the hopes that Gustav, would never be here…!”

So, have prepared as far as I can, lifting, lugging, cussin’, fighting and fussin’ at home, the hardware store, the grocery store, all with eagle eyes and ears pressed to the weather channel, praying for Gussing Gus to shift, even at the risk of his tormenting some other plot of land. Don’t come in my backyard, I say. Mek him go and torment someone else!

But, as we sit with abated breath, enjoying the last remnants of the electricity, water, and basic amenities, praying for the best, but prepared for the worst…Gussin’ Gus makes his way forward, anxiety and uncertainty preceding his unwanted visit, and all I can say is…well shit! I am flicking fed up of this hurricane business. My back can’t take much more.

And on that irritated now, I shall now exit.

Shit!

'Fro.

If You Live In An Old House...

As a spry youth, I was raised in an old Caymanian House that embarrassed me to no end. No, not the one pictured!

Made of wattle and daub, the house stood on wooden stilts, that gave us access to her seedy underbelly, providing us with wonderful hiding places when I, my brothers and sisters would play rendless games of hide and go seek, as well as to provide a wonderful nesting ground for the births of numerous kittens and puppies from the menagerie of dogs, cats and one goat that called her yard home.

The house had an attic that we would access by scaling well placed furniture and doors. The attic was a treasure trove of historical wonders for us to explore, but not appreciate. We perfected the art of scaling up to the attic like monkeys, and have nary a broken bone to speak of.

I really hated that house. The house affected my ‘cool’ factor. No kiddie parties complete with clowns and ponies could be hosted for me in that old house. It was not a modern, cement house like my friends’ had. There were no beautifully landscaped lawns, as the breadfruit, mango, plum and papaya trees’ leaves would fall on a gravel and dirt ground that us chillun had to take turns raking every Sunday. I never did understand why we had to rake gravel and dirt, but when my mother placed us on leaf patrol, she loved to see the rake marks in the yard. She felt it made the yard look neat. What a weirdo.

I really hated that house. Whilst I was relegated to rake duty every Sunday, my sissified sisters were given polish duty. They were responsible for getting the coconut husks and polishing the cherry wood flooring to a ridiculous shine, using specific hand motions just like Daniel-san: Wax on…wax off.

I really hated Sundays. Sundays were full of cupboards noisily banging in the kitchen, an indication that us chillun were to wake up and start the house chores, whether we liked it or not. There was no use faking debilitating illnesses, for Mom could read right through it, and would whip out the vile castor oil as her cure all. She was a wicked ‘oman.

Some Saturday’s ago, Sonny and I participated in the ‘en plein air’ painting and drawing session, as an initiative to save Miss Lassie’s House (pictured), an old Caymanian wattle and daub house, which is over one hundred years old. This house has stood the test of time through tropical storms and vicious hurricanes, including the Rat Bastard, Ivan.

Conversely, the house also sits on a prime piece of beach front real estate, at the junction of South Church Street and Walker’s Road, and was for sale to the tune of US$1.6 million dollars. It is only logical to presume that the house would have been immediately razed on completion of the sale, to make room for a modern, elaborate mansion, and again, we would have lost a valuable piece of history. So, the National Gallery, National Museum, Cayman National Cultural Foundation and the National Trust, have all joined forces like the Super Friends, in an initiative to purchase the house, and to eventually restore it to its former glory.

Now, after having the pleasure of sitting in Miss Lassie’s yard on a beautiful Saturday morning, expressing my artistic vision, I became nostalgic for that old house that I hated so much, and which my Dad eventually converted into a modern structure. I miss the old structure, as it stood regally on its high heeled-stilts, and played a wonderful tune when rain would fall on her zinc roof. To this day, there is no more soothing sound, than that of the rain falling on a zinc roof. I miss the teeming fruit trees in the yard; me polishing floors, and raking the yard on a Sunday morning.

Of course, growing up and having been through my ordeals with my mother, I miss the fact that I can never do the same for my Sonny, that is, vexedly banging cupboards and waking him up on a Sunday morning, so that he could get his backside outside, to rake the yard. That legacy is gone, and Sonny will not be exposed to that house’s history, quaintness, and plethora of memories.

On that nostalgic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Birthday Diva: The Aftermath

Scene: My yaad, somewhere in the Cayman Islands. Morning time. Sun bright. Birds chirping…

’Fro awakes…Opens blurry, red rimmed eyes and screeches…

‘Fro: Oh Lawd Gad! I am dying! [Nudges DV] DV!! I am dying! Oh, dear Lord!
DV: [Grunts, rolls over, snuffles…resumes sleep]
‘Fro: [Hissing] Star, I am deadin’! My head is going to explode.

DV: Hush.

'Fro: Call an ambulance. I ain't know what is wrong with me!
DV: It’s called a hangover honey. Go back to sleep.

Sigh…the dangers of excess.

And on that philosophical note, I shall now exit.

Toodles....

'Fro.

Birthday Diva

So, today’s my birthday, as I turn 35 years young.

Hmmm…I no longer hyperventilate when I think about that number, or commit it to paper.

That being said, you may now sing songs in my praise; write poetic odes, and create detailed dissertations in my honour. Gifts are optional, though highly suggested.

And on the note, I shall now exit.

Toodles....

'Fro.

Kiss Mi Neck...!!

So, sometimes when the mood or an alcoholic beverage hits me, I can engage in provoking shit talk with the best of them, primarily with a view to harassing a body, or putting something in the works to cause some form of dissension or strife. Is jus' so me stay.

On one particular psuedo inebriated occasion, in the midst of harassing DV, I engaged a perfect stranger to assist me in my endeavors. She seemed to be a cool gyal, and the sort who would join in for a good laugh. Nothing about she got my instincts buzzing at the time, and after that particular occasion, she became my big fren’. Whenever we would periodically cross paths after the fact, we would greet each other with huge grins and a hug like we were long lost sistrens. To this day, I ain’t know she name or nuttin'. Is jus’ so mi stay.

But, as time went on, I noticed that DV was not included in her vociferous greetings, and something about the gyal made me start to dress back and to reassess. I expressed my concerns and observations to DV, telling him that something ‘bout she was mekkin’ me nervous. DV would only grin and smirk, which made me even more nervous, for DV is a man that does know nuff t’ings, but rarely does he choose to share. What did he know? What was he holding back? Why was he smirking? Did I miss a joke? It started to make me extremely paranoid. To make matters worse, every time that we went out, should he be the first to see her, he would enthusiastically point her out to me, smirk well emblazoned across his face. Something was just not right.

And then, it happened.

One night as we were out celebrating some irrelevant occasion, I buck up the gyal. She come over, gave me a hug in greeting (not paying DV any mind), and asked me if I wanted a drink (invitation not extended to DV). I refused, after which, she hugged me as she departed, and…gave me a kiss on my neck. To backside. The gyal kiss mi neck. Is then I realize seh de gyal did a give off a courting vibe, and she did a look pan mi wid a twinkle in she y’eye.

Needless to say, for all mi big chat and what not, I was scared shitless. Did she just...?? Was she...?? Did she think...? Gasp!!

Mi ain’t know wha’ fi do, so, I ran. I hot foot it over to DV so fast, I aint care who mi lick down. Then, proceeded to wrap up and rub up pan the man like a hussy for the duration of the night, proclaiming my hetero status to one and all, and as a deterrent for she who may have possibly just hit on me. If it wudda work, I would even have told him to piss on me to mark me as his territory, but luckily, it did not come to that. I became vigilant for the duration of the night. My eyes remained peeled to my surroundings like a warrior. Never again would she invade my three feet of personal space.

To make matters worse, DV laff me to scorn. He cudda warn a body.

Now, I does see she all the time, and needless to say, no more shit talk fi me. She is relegated to a big wave from across the room, after which, I make sure that I hot step it ‘bout my business. Yes, I run like a t’ief. I ain’t shame. She effectively kissed me goodbye.

And on the note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Bend It Like Mommy

So, I am a failure as a mother. Yep. There are no redeeming qualities in my attempt to adequately fulfill this very important role, and I don’t know if I should call social services at this point and just concede. Mek them come and tek the chil’ from me now.

This morning, as Sonny was getting ready to go to camp, I was at the end of my rope. He did absolutely nothing that he was supposed to do, and made me shout, snap, snarl, and repeat myself continually, as his procrastination was making me late for work. Albeit, I am late for work every morning but on my own volition, and it frustrated me to no end that this young upstart was interfering with my morning schedule.

Then, horrors of horrors, after tossing a particularly acerbic reprimand in his general direction, accompanied by a particularly heinous threat, he stalked off, and my keen sense of hearing picked up the following muttered words “Old peoples’ home…so miserable…”.

Now, I have no idea what the intermittent phrases were and the rage and smoke coming out of my ears hindered all other audible measures. My gasp of outrage must have given him some clue as to the clear and present danger, for the obnoxious little twit turned around swiftly, with a look of panicked astonishment on his face, and took off.

I now recollect the entire episode in slow motion. As I moved, he disappeared in a cloud of panic. The expensive high heeled shoe somehow appeared in my hand, as he bent the corner, and I released after taking angered aim at his head. I then stood back in smug expectation and waited…and waited…and watched in stunned awe as my shoe hit the wall, and fell lifelessly to the floor. Nothing. My jaw dropped, and from then on, my entire day was shot. I almost keeled over on the floor in tears, as a dry wail built up within my throat, begging for release. Sonny’s smug little snicker at having escaped did not help matters any.

See, as a chil’, I can remember many an episode when mi mudda would launch a projectile at me, my bruddas or sisters, her aim and rage to such an extent that the projectiles would bend corners. We were slippery little buggers, yet, my brothers still bears scars on the back of their heads, and let’s not mention the time that one stopped smugly around the corner to gloat, and the shoe subsequently followed to chop him in his forehead. As a bratty younger sister, I still recall that episode in gleeful satisfaction.

As a mother, I have perfected the required parenting phrases:

“…Because I said so!”
“Don’t let me come up there!”
“Shut up you mouth and eat your food!”

Many of the above have been bawled to my chagrin, as subsequently I realized that I was turning into mi mudda, sans the menopause and gray hairs. At least, not yet.

And now, this essential rite of passage for the Caribbean mother…the proverbial “Bend It Like Mummy” and I have failed miserably. I am such a loser! How can my Sonny recount the episodes to his own kin about the times that his Mudda shoe bent the corner to lace him good and proper?

I mean, my grandparents and parents alike have all passed down these sagas that are legendary to their respective tribes, and now, I have nothing. The one grandchild in my family, and I have essentially killed a critical family skill. My son will have no bend-corner-pop-head stories to relay. And don’t tell me that I should try again. I am scarred.

And on that pathetic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Perceptions

I would pass her in the halls as we traversed the hallowed walkways of life, me doling out the rudimentary courtesy nods of acknowledgement time after time. She, paying me not a mind, which made me start to rethink my continued acts of blessing her with my nods or pseudo smiles of acknowledgement. Stinkin’ rude heifer!

The first fifty times of non-acknowledgement on her part, I surmised that maybe (i) she did not see me (ii) she was unaware of the requirements for courteous interaction, and so I would persevere with a view to teaching her this rudimentary concept, that I called manners.

Now, do not get me wrong, for I am by no means a nice person. I hoped to shame her into courteous behavior, with my sarcastic smiles, and somewhat terse hellos. I was sure to always speak to her directly, elucidating my words with clarity on the off-chance that she was hearing impaired. Yet, she would still pay me no mind at all. Stinkin’ heifer.

Then, there is the matter of her hubby. That nice, unassuming man who was always sure to give me a bright smile accompanied by his enthusiastic wave. I wondered how a nice man like him could end up with such a horrid, rude and bitter individual such as she. He could do so much better.

Eventually, I gave up. She was not worthy of my acknowledgements, and I categorised her as non-existent in my grand scheme of things. When we rarely did cross paths, I would not even bother to fart in her general direction. No more. She won. I was done. Stinkin’ heifer!

Then, she showed up with her black and blue eye, and became the talk of the town.

Turns out, Ms. Ma’am is a very sad individual, whose hubby (the “nice man”), will often take issue with the natural shape and color of her eyes, and would periodically decorate them with his fists. This was well known to everyone but me. Her paychecks are handed over to him with no regard for her hard work and dedication, to be doled out to the licensed establishments and wenches that he should choose to share them with. She is then cast aside to take comfort in prayer, and the comfort of her children. I now understand the cloud of sadness and depression that hangs gloomily over her head.

Well, I am back at it again. Doling out my regal, courtesy nods, and have even gone as far as to attempt painful small talk. You have no idea how much I hate small talk. She still ain’t paying me no mind, but, that’s all right.

Though she is still rude in my estimation, its all right. I am not giving up on her.

And on that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

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