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

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…

Tipping Off...

So, I remember reading the newspaper the other day, and came across a letter to the editor where a couple from overseas griped about the fact that as they were settling their bill at a local restaurant, the waiter had bellowed: “Would you like your change?”

In their estimation, this equated to a form of extortion as the waiter was effectively demanding an additional tip on top of the 15% gratuity included in their bill. And, the waiter (the bastard!) had the audacity to shout this across the restaurant (gasp!), and placed the complaining couple into a very embarrassing and uncomfortable position.

Now, apparently the complaining couple, who had been visiting the Cayman Islands often throughout the years, was so negatively affected by this transgression that they went back to their North American abode, and decided to write a letter to bitch about it. They viewed this as the ultimate sign of the denigration of our fair isles, and (gasp!) had the potential to affect them to a point where they may never return!

I know that I would not be shame to shout “Hell yes. Gi’mme me change,” to the waiter across the restaurant and make a graceful exit, so I really cannot understand how this could have been their biggest irritation point. Not the murders, traffic, the road deaths, or the burglaries which feature so prominently in the Caymanian press nowadays. Or, even if they had bitched about the flicking forced 15% gratuity included in the bill, I would stand up and say ‘hallelujah!’ I mean, why is a restaurant forcing me to pay gratuity, especially if the service is crappy??? Now that pisses me off. I can clearly remember quibbling with the waiter and management of a local restaurant once after I had decided to deduct the 15% grats, because the service was crap. Talk about a close encounter. By the time our…ahem…”debate” was finished, they wanted to call the police, and I wanted to call the restaurant association. I had never been back to the establishment since, and would like to think that I played an active part when it closed down. I dunno if that is the case, but it does my heart and ego good to think so.

All I know is, by the time I finished reading the stoopid letter, I just rolled my eyes in disgust. So many other things they could have griped about the islands which is evident to the nekkid eye, and they goin’ bitch ‘bout this little ditty. I mean, why not say something to the waiter? Management? Instead, you’re going home and write about it…what a load of crap. Get a grip and get your priorities straight.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Toodles...

The True Joy of Motherhood

So, after spending a bag of money to recreate my Sonny’s baby pics that I had lost during Hurricane Ivan (the Rat Bastard!!), I stumbled across this little gem, and decided to share.

Having this picture in my posession once again evoked so many powerful emotions, as I looked at my Sonny-Wonny, engaged in peacful slumber.....

Tears welled up in my eyes as I became nostalgic, and marveled at the way that my baby has grown into a long, and lanky little dude. I felt such a sense of loss, as my baby is now becoming a man. I felt a deep sense of yearning, as I wished that he was back from Barbados, and mulling about the house so that I could harass him. I felt a sense of wonder, as to how such a seemingly sweet little cherub, has evolved into such a lippy and obnoxious little twit! But, more importantly, as I dealt with the sappy, sissy emotions and mopped up the tears, I had a deep rooted sense of satisfaction as I looked at my baby, and realized that I was an evil and scheming mother, in spite of all the sappified emotions. I then gloried in the wonder of this feeling!

I had always taken pictures of my Sonny to catalog the ‘wonder years’, but also, with an innate sense of amusement and scheming for things to come. I mean, there is the so-called glory of parenthood (in addition to the paranoia), but is it so wrong of me to want to derive something else from the entire process? Something with which to torture the child when he gets older, maybe as a form of vengeance meted out for the stretch marks, and stress that he has (and will!!) put me through? I don’t think that this is asking too much!

So, therefore and hence, I have taken the obligatory photos of my Sonny on the faux bear skin rug, with his hair in plaits; Sonny wearing the lederhosen Viking suit, complete with the helmet; Sonny in the superman costume and the viking helmet (my "Nordic Superman"). The passport photo of Sonny in the ‘bunny rabbit suit’, complete with the carrot decal; I have taken the bathtub photos and the preschool photos. I have been as relentless as the Paparazzi stalking their prey, all with a view to collate seemingly scandalous and cutesie photos with which to torture the child with embarrassment, later in life.

I can so clearly envision the 16th birthday party, when I break out the projector for the slide show. I can envision the small ad that I will run in the newspaper for the day that he goes off to college (or jail, God forbid!!). Every milestone in his life will have a photo accompaniment in the Compass, as his ever loving mother celebrates his life, her love for him, and her morbid sense of amusement at his expense. I can’t wait for the day that some brave wench knocks on my door with a view to courting my Sonny, and I get to break out the photo album!

I can so recall once chasing Sonny down in Wal-Mart, holding a set of Teletubby underpants aloft, and loudly pleading with him to try them on. He was ten years old at the time. Having had enough, he looked at me in aggravation and stated: “YOU, are THE most embarrassing Mom, EVER!” Sigh. It was one of my proudest moments.

Tee hee….He ain’t seen nuttin yet! Sigh, sometimes in life, we may not have much to look forward to, but it’s the little things that are going to get us through every time. This is one of mine.

All ya goin’ call Social Services on me?

On that note, I shall now exit.

Rat Race

Running, spinning, panting, and wheezing actively, “Who Moved My Cheese?” they also ponder haltingly, Unaware that rabid insecurity oft impedes their journeys. Daily rigors, attended to so very righteously, Ostentatious rituals imposed to relieve societal scrutiny, Fucking Mrs. Material to attain a sense of normalcy, (Mercurial, adulterous wench, with no sense of common decency). Monitoring ascension of stocks and bonds appreciatively, Whilst disregarding moral values that decline decisively. Plague infested vermin abounding numerously, Traversing life’s often perilous roads confidently, Whilst donning professional attire so becomingly: Life’s bulletproof vest, engulfing protectively, Wielding briefcase in hand so symbolically, Essential tools for the arrogant promotion of the “scholarly”, (Unaware of their own hallowed interiors - assuredly). Immersed in the deceptive trap of life -unknowingly, Needing to subjugate and to dominate economically, Uncaring of the spinning wheel churning repetitively, Sniffing, nibbling, scurrying and breeding so very selfishly; Institutions programming and churning out constantly, Experimental clones fabricated to benefit politically, Valedictorians speaking to the masses assertively, Glass ceilings to be shattered by those of the sorority, Subdued, patronized and harassed by members of the fraternity, All stretching beyond nine to five, at the sacrifice of family; Experimental maze: wrenching and destroying emotionally, Needing spiritual pesticides to evoke forms of emotional stability.

***

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Fro

Stuck On A Rock And A Hard Place

So, having given them the benefit of the doubt time and time again, I had finally given up on Air Jamaica. I flipped them the proverbial finger, and verbally told the airline to kiss kitty’s left nut. The straw that bruk my back occurred when I boarded my flight, en route to Grand Cayman, after a long and harrowing day of traveling. I stored my luggage in the overhead compartment; buckled up; shook off my slippers; took out my novel and eased back, well prepared for my flight to depart. Then, the announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, this flight has been cancelled”. No explanations, no apologies, and I was stuck in Montego Bay for seven hours, as the airline worked to get their shit in order. Despite having the more convenient flights for my travels in and out of Barbados, I decided that I would now deal exclusively with Caribbean Airlines and Cayman Airways. I would show them! Having now implemented my self imposed boycott for my recent journey, I was relatively pleased with the Cayman-Jamaica-Barbados leg of my trip, and am able to praise the level of service that I received with Caribbean Airlines. ‘Twas not perfect, as there is always room for improvement, but I found them to be efficient, pleasant, and apologies were rendered if and when a hic-cup occurred. Sometimes, as the recipient of customer service, all that is required is a simple explanation and acknowledgement of things gone wrong, and a ‘thank you’ for our patience and perseverance. It all comes down to manners and common sense. Then, I encountered the Cayman Airways check in counter in Jamaica. In all my years, never have I encountered such a customer service travesty! I was frothing at the mouth, and eventually resorted to the common denominator by flinging a few bad-wuds in the general direction of the Customer Service Agents, accompanied by the relevant explanatory hand gestures. This seemed to be the only language that they could understand, as rational behavior and reasoning obviously eluded them. Now, I ain’t proud, but I ain’t shame either. I am just VEX! It is a fact of life that not everyone is suitable for customer facing jobs, having regard to a person’s disposition. Having said that, I cannot begin to fathom which end of a jackass’s backside Cayman Airways dug those cretins up from! It appears as if they outsourced the management of the Cayman Airways desk to another agency, and even if this is the case, someone must be accountable. The agents were rude, unapologetic, dismissive and uncaring of the passengers' feelings and / or comfort. For example, a matter was elevated by a passenger to the supervisor on duty, and the supervisor’s body language said it all. She rolled her eyes, and sighed in disgust and frustration at the bother, all evident for the passenger to see. It was obvious from the outset that she would in no way empathise nor sympathise with the passenger’s issue. She, and her subordinates as a whole, entertained and supported disorder, and offered no customer focused solutions to problems that were created, but for aggression and agitation. As I fumed in the line, staring daggers, bullets, and fecal matter at a particular screw-faced agent’s head, face, neck and general arteries, I also looked yearningly at the Air Jamaica ticket counter and remembered my self imposed boycott. I then sighed with disgust, as I am now left to wonder: am I truly stuck on the Island? Must I resort to chartering a boat or building a raft to get to the Eastern Caribbean? Should I not support my Caribbean airlines and resort to the more expensive North American carriers? Is there no possible recourse for me? Those agents acted as if I was forced to take their level of service, or leave it, and there could be nor would be no possible repercussions for their actions and / or inaction! I will be sure to elevate my level of complaint to the Minister or Tourism if necessary, for this is plainly unacceptable! I am a paying passenger, and I will not be dismissed! As of this morning, I have contacted the airline providing them with a synopsis of my issue. I will wait to see if I they return my call and advise you of the outcome. This will assess if this is an isolated incident, or reflective of the airline as a whole. I want to sit in on the meeting whereby those flicking cretins lose their jobs if necessary. Be careful of who you piss off, for one day it may come back to bite you in the arse! On that pissed off note, I shall now exit.

'Fro