Economic Downturn

I was waiting patiently for the arrival of my food at a local restaurant, when two ladies entered and proceeded to vociferously greet each other.

I initially marveled at their sense of sisterhood, then proceeded to eavesdrop shamelessly on their somewhat bawdy (and shamelessy loud) conversation.

Sissy, is weh yu' did deh?

Misses…recession lick me!

Yu' lie! Wha’pen to Peetah?

Bloodclaat….‘im lose ‘im wuk and gaan back a ‘im wife, an' fi ‘ar pum-pum nah sweet like fi mi!

Lawd, sah. A wah yu a go do now?

[Sighs] Mi nevah ‘affi do nuttin’ wen ‘im did deh-deh, now, cho! mi nah know sah!

Yu a go look wuk?

[Heaves in righteous indignation] No sah! Mi affi go fin’ nadda boops! Dat deh wuk a' fi mi wuk!

[Bawdy laughter. Back slapping. Gold teeth and tonsils flash from both parties]

It ruff sah…but wid fi yu sweet pum-pum, it nah go tek long!

[Laughter continues...parties exit...crickets chirp as restaurant occupants recover from the dialogue]

I was scintillated. So many questions: What was the yard stick used for Sissy’s measurement of the sweetness of her pum-pum, and how did her friend know to be able to comment on said sweetness? Is the sweetness a well known fact, or was she just being a supportive friend? Did Sissy have a set methodology to find a new boops? Was her pum-pum her CV? Would she register as unemployed with the Employment Relations Office? What were Sissy's boops benefits and for what period were they terminated? Was she on a work permit? Why would Peetah’s wife take him back? Could Petah's wife now effectively be called his ‘boops’ as he in turn recovered from the economic downturn???

The wenches shamelessly tossed out little scintillating facts, and jus’ leave people hanging!

An on that disgruntled note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Ironic Ire

One hand hung from the car window, clutching a glowing cigarette, periodically bringing it to her blood red lips to take a desperate puff. Her other had clutched the cell phone desperately to her ear as she laughed raucously during her conversation, to the detriment of the other drivers on the road.

I vaguely admired her ability to multi-task, though her distraction was potentially to my detriment.

See, but for my driver’s license that has been expired for the past four years, I am a law abiding citizen. I really could not bear the potential embarrassment or the potential pain and inconvenience of being involved in a traffic accident during rush hour traffic. Of course, I would have to get into stuttered explanations to the police during the accident inquest as to my aversion to going to the Department of Motor Vehicles, and the fact that I would not be returning to pay the government license tax until they developed a drive through service. Something tells me that they would not understand my little boycott, and I was not prepared to deal with their unreasonableness and lack of understanding, all of which would be due to this dyam woman’s distraction by her cigarette and cell phone. I worked out the entire scene in my mind.

As her car continued to veer to my side of the road, I delicately honked my horn to advise her of the pending dire straights, whilst grumbling to myself that the heifer really should concentrate on the road.

To my consternation another hand appeared from the inner recesses of her body to flip me the bird (her nail was blood red like her lips), all with a sneer of her moustached upper lip, which I must say was quite unattractive, and very unladylike (her behaviour and the moustache). Then, as our vehicles crossed paths, she lowered the cell phone and the cigarette, sneered, “Stupid Bitch!”, and drove off in a huff, leaving me to inhale the fumes from the toxic vehicle carrying the toxic personality. My gasp of outrage sputtered and died a dismal death in her wake.

Interrupting my conversation, I flung down my cell phone, prepared to bellow an indignant response, but realized that it would indeed be futile. She was gone. She had won. The stinkin’ heifer! Where were the cops when you needed them???

I then picked up my cell phone, and resumed my conversation, getting into a passionate diatribe on how drivers no longer concentrated on the road. People are so easily distracted!

And on that ironic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Froggle Rock

I hot-stepped it out of the house at 9:00 AM, rushing to make it to work for 8:30 AM, feeling absolutely fabulous and groovy. My car was nice and shiny from the wash and polish the day before, and I took a moment to admire the sheen before I opened the door, and plopped by backside on the seat before distractedly closing the car door.

Then, I felt it. A splat of moisture running across my face, down my clothes, as I looked around in puzzlement wondering what the hell had just happened. Then, my peripheral vision caught a movement from the corner of the car door.

There was now a pair of slimy, scrawny, Kermit-esque amphibian legs protruding from the door, squished to a pulp during my distracted morning musings. I had slammed a frog to its death with the door.

Now, mind you, I have always been a vocal and passionate advocate for the death and dismemberment of all things amphibian, but never in the general proximity of my person whereby the blood spatter (my CSI term) and what may have been frog piss could catch me in its cross hairs. I am after all, an innocent victim in this war that I have declared against their kind.

My body eventually summarized what my mind was now telling me, as my fight or flee instincts went into overdrive. Having dived headfirst across the centre console, cutting a great gaping hole in my neck with my still fastened seatbelt (for I am a law abiding citizen), managing to open the passenger door to crawl hands first, bawling as if the frogs of hell were chasing me as I made the escape from Kermit’s dead relative, I now look back on the entire episode with a great sense of ‘ick’, general nastiness, disgust and other like synonyms. I am now convinced that the sons of bitches are stalking me and want to see me dead.

I relive the scene every morning, noon or night that I should close my car door. Never again will I have that naïve feeling of fabulousness, distracted and lost in my morning musings. I now have a sense of hatred and disgust for my car, who aided and abetted my trauma. Doors are now cautiously opened every morning, I now petrified of what I may find waiting for me.

There was a morning when there was a family of four nesting comfortably within the inner recesses of the door jamb, ready to wreak their havoc on my nerves, as my brother was summarily summoned to dispatch them with vicious haste.

He and I almost resorted to fisticuffs when my bellowed demands from the house that he “Kill the [*expletive*] rat bastards!” were ignominiously ignored, he choosing to release them into the ‘wild’ for they were ‘just babies’ and ‘would not do me anything’. He looking on in embarrassed resignation as I took bleach from the house and splashed it indiscriminately into the general vicinity of the area where he released the sons of bitches; I killing the surrounding flora in the hopes of capturing a certain kind of fauna within the widely cast net of my killing spree, all whilst cussin’ him for his [*expletive*] PETA antics, and tellin’ him that West Indian people don’t behave so, and how he does be watching too much North American TV, for he obviously don’t remember how the spider did come back for the man in Arachnophobia, and how he was being a friggin’ namby pamby wimp, and how I don’t ask him to do nuttin’ fi me but to kill four measly frogs, and not even that he cudda do propa!

Anyhow, I digress.

Now, I am relegated to spraying the door jamb of the car with bleach each night before I retire. Car advocates have advised that this will ‘ruin the paint’, as they obviously give no care to the fact that should a frog jump on me whilst I am driving, that may ruin mine or another persons life, for I would surely crash and dead, if not from the accident, then from the trauma. They never seem to see my point when I break it down for them so. And I know that the stinkin’ amphibian would just hop away from the stinkin’ scene to go forth and create more flickin’ tadpoles, and seek to ruin someone else’s life.

Death to them all, I say. Screw that circle of life bullshit!

And on that anti-ecological note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

She's Royal

He made his approach and I automatically resigned myself for a potential confrontation. He looked shifty, and obviously careless in the way that he had put himself together, walking with a cocky strut that screamed to one and all that he owned the sidewalk.

I clutched my illegal mace tighter in my hand, eyes surreptitiously surveying the darkened walkway, and wondered if I should casually saunter across the parking lot, out of his general purview. Would this potentially irritate him further? Should my pride come before my safety?

I resigned myself to standing my ground as I trudged along the sidewalk, facing my potential doom, as my imagination covered his face with a Jason-esque hockey mask, and knowing full well that there was a knife in his pocket, waiting to plunge betwixt my heaving bosom, or even worse, a thorny disease ridden penis waiting to thrust callously between my protesting legs.

Sweat dripped from my armpits as we drew closer. I stared aggressively ahead, brows furrowed aggressively as I made eye contact, aptly demonstrating that I was not the prey. I was indeed the predator. My finger tightened on the trigger as I mentally calibrated the wind direction and sheer, prepared to angle my body in the most advantageous position, prepared to attack, or to launch my defense.

His beady eyes and mine made four, as he nodded his head casually, and said, “My Queen,” walking along his merry way. Poor thing was unaware of his near miss. He almost received a savage beat-down from my contraband canister, as supplemented by my hands of steel (as I don a Bruce Lee pose).

I listened carefully to his retreating footsteps, as I hastened along to my car, puzzled and somehow let down from the abrupt surge of adrenaline.

Ever since she was murdered, my entire sense of security has been messed up as we all learned that we can no longer dwell in naïve complacency on our little rock.

But, I felt terrible. Horribly guilty. Here was a man expressing his admiration for my Queen-dom (as well he should), and I had him automatically pegged as a vicious killer. I mean, what if I had maced the man and beat him down good and proper as I launched my defensive offensive?

Yet, could it have been my steely predatory glare that stayed his hand? After all, even a Queen can be assassinated…

And on that regal note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Bitchy Interlude...

I gave a grumpy internal sigh when I realized that our paths were about to cross.

I spotted him from twenty feet away as he made his approach, my inner demon giving an inaudible snicker coupled with a sigh of pleasure as I took his measure and realized that the years had not been good to him. He was now a stubby looking fellow, sporting an unseemly gait, all coupled with a hairline that was aggressively racing to the back of his head. I somehow felt vindicated, though I pondered, would that be the extent of the punishment that fate would mete out to the rat bastard?

I could tell when he realized that it was me.

He stuttered in his steps, and looked around with obvious panic for a quick escape. The wimp. But alas, there was no escape in sight. No supermarket aisle for a quick u-turn, no hedge to dive into. Other than turning around and retracing his steps, he would have to bite the bullet, man up, and walk right by me. He took a deep fortifying breath (nearly popping a button), as he stepped up to face the music, all whilst I strutted along, maintaining an impassive look on my face, sunglasses hiding the general direction of my eyes.

I decided to change the tactics that I had employed for the past fourteen years.

“Hello, D.E,” I said, slowing to look at him with conversational expectation as we were shoulder to shoulder. He braked to an awkward stop, and whipped around to look at me in shock, then peered around to see if I was talking to him.
“Err...Ahh…Hi! Ahmmm…how are you!”
“Why, I am great thanks. How’s the family?” He started to sweat profusely.
“They are great! Thank you! And yours!” For some reason, he spoke in explanation marks.
“They are all terrific. I will be sure to give them your regards.” My face hurt from the force of maintaining my implacable pseudo-genuine-interested smile.
“You look terrific!” He exclaimed, taking my measure. Smarmy bastard stopped for a millisecond at my boobs.
“Why thank you. Have you been ill?”
“Why, no! Why do you ask!”
“No reason,” I donned a fake look of consternation. “Well, you take care now, okay?” I made a regal exit, feeling the pressure of his puzzled gaze piercing into my back.

As I bent the corner, he was still standing there, gazing into my wake, a look of stupefaction on his face. It was then that my demonic smile made its presence known, and I placed a quirky spring into my step.

My day was now complete. I couldn’t wait until our paths would cross again, as I planned the method with which I would leave him hanging in embarrassment as his expectant and confident greeting would be met with stony disdain, and a sneer of my upper lip. I shivered with devious glee.

A body has to take their entertainment as it comes.

On that spiteful note, I shall now exit.

'Fro.

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.