Dingolay - writing with abandon

One angry black woman ...

2012-01-31T18:46:00.000-08:00

... can either save your life or make it hell. I truly believe that. Am I romanticising the stereotype for my own selfish, short-sighted ends? Possibly. But bear with me.

I recently read an article where Michelle Obama had to defend herself against a malicious book that said that she regularly had tiffs with her husband's staff. Pause for a moment while I roll my eyes, then try to get them unstuck from the back of my head. So, for Hilary Clinton, she's a politician in her own right who is trying to positively affect change. But for Michelle, any interaction and/or disagreement with the President's staff is all about her being an angry black woman, huh? Big long, wet steups. You hear me ... kiss meh teet!

Damn right she should be angry. You look at this calm, beautiful, confident, sophisticated black woman and because she ALLEGEDLY disagreed with some white men, you dismiss her as 'angry' 'black' and female? If I had that racist, sexist, apeshit thinking around me 24/7, I would be angry too. I getting angry just writing about it. She denied all these allegations by the way. She eh angry; she's a better woman than I am.

I've heard people say that black women have a right to be angry, and we do. But we also have a right to be HAPPY: smart and confident, healthy and proud of it, in love with a loving, ambitious, smart and dedicated husband and father of our children, a caring mother ... WE HAVE A RIGHT TO BE ALL THAT AND A BAG OF CHIPS!. And anybody who sees that happiness and goes looking for discord just to make a book sell is unhappy and will remain so until they get a clue:

"I've just gotten in the habit of not reading other people's impressions of people. There will always be people who don't like me. You don’t worry about the people who don’t like you." - Michelle Obama. Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2085106/Michelle-Obama-tired-painted-angry-black-woman.html#ixzz1l5z0Jy8f

It is well

2011-12-20T19:42:00.000-08:00

I've been really unfocused over these last few weeks. De Chile and I are sick, and have been for three weeks. Apart from the cough, stuffy/runny nose, headaches, body aches and general malaise, I can't seem to concentrate on anything. My attention span has never been super long, but now it's like non-existent. I have certain writing projects due, but I've just been busy trying to prepare for my new job (starts in January, more on that later), keep the house and myself together, rest. De Chile has been going to daycare for nearly one month now. She's comfortable, she greets her caretakers with joy in the morning, she seems happy and contented. So that is settled.

But I still feel weird. It's almost like I feel like I've been cut off. It's a good thing in that I'm free, weightless. I feel like no negativity or drama can stick to me. I recently met up with someone who I really cared for as a friend and who blew me off because we had a difference of opinion. She felt I'd betrayed her; I felt that she was ruining her life. She acted like she didn't see me. The old Des would have been angry, hurt. This Des confronted her with a calm and pleasant greeting, enjoyed her meal and left happy. I even forgot to say goodbye. The old self-consciousness that has plagued me for much of my life is falling away n I'm more sure of who I am and what I want/like/need. And I'm no longer shy about asking for that.

But feeling cut off is also bad in that I feel adrift; so many things have changed in the last two years that I'm not sure that my emotions have been able to keep up. I have made friends, lost friends. My life goals have had to change. My priorities have shifted big time. I've been walking around with no money in my purse for a week and a half and not panicking at all. If you knew me at all you would know how huge a change that is for me.

I know that when I start my 9 to 5, I will probably fall to earth with a bump and get caught up in the hustle and bustle of daily life. But being 'cut off' also means that I really enjoy my daughter's uninhibited smile; I appreciate what a great husband I have. I pray for my parents. I spend some time with my siblings like we haven't done since we all were children. I'm looking at life in HD (I apologise for the cliche). And I thank God because it is good.

Miss Miles: refocused

2011-11-29T17:12:00.000-08:00

I once took one of Tony Hall's short drama courses on the Jouvay Popular Theatre Process. I never finished writing my own play, didn't even go to the final classes. But I was and still am fascinated and inspired by his assertion that we artists all are connected to Carnival archetypal figures and must learn to find, embrace and embody them to find our true creative power.

In his new play Miss Miles: Woman of the World, Gene Miles (Cecilia Salazar) is resurrected onstage to tell her story, taking charge of her own legend. The angle is just like what Hall has done with other disenfranchised women we've seen only through the eyes of a patriarchal lens; for example, his Jean and Dinah play. Miles outgrows her strict Roman Catholic upbringing to embody shades of several Carnival 'characters': the chantuelle, the bad behaviour sailor and something of the fancy sailor in her ever-stylish dresses, killer heels and beehive hairdos.

"Cecilia Salazar was magnificent," a client told me while we discussed the play. It took me another month to go see the play myself, but I must say that I disagree. Woman of the world Gene Miles was the magnificent one; Salazar was just her vessel. Of course I'm just being dramatic: Salazar WAS magnificent as Miles. It is a rare actress/actor who can make you forget that this is a play and they are acting. But Salazar wore Mile's skin like her own, from precocious ingenue to vivacious socialite to broken woman. It's a one-woman play, which is an exhausting task I'd never want to take on, but Salazar made it look easy, switching between Miles and impersonating other 'characters' like Justice Keith Lecock: "Let justice be done, whatever the cost."

As a playwright, I think Hall's use of music is rib-ticklingly spot on (I know that's not a word); there are Gregorian chants for Miles' early religious seriousness, Nina Simone's haunting, cracked vocals for the awkwardness of youth and frustrated suffering of her later life. Miles keeps interspersing her soliloquies with snippets of 40s, 50 and 60s calypso and begins the play in a sparkling red dress, belting out Calypso Rose's Fire In Me Wire. This musical thread snakes its way throughout the play, a foreshadowing of Mile's tragic life:

"It always struck me that that song is a kind of a warning ... to help your neighbour out the fire," she mused thoughtfully. "But sometimes it might be best to let the fire burn."

In an odd twist of fate, Miles happens upon documents that indicate a deliberate squeezing out of small gas dealers to create a monopoly on gas by a powerful syndicate, just like her accountant father exposed misappropriation of funds in the 'Caura Dam Racket' in the 1940s. She becomes critical of the very political party that she campaigned for and was so proud of when it ushered in an independent T&T in 1962. By that time Miles was a woman grown, but perhaps still possessing some of the naivete of her youth when she decided to testify about what she knows. But her honesty and her gender are used to destroy her.

She was victimised, pushed out of her job in the public service, dismissed as a crazy woman of loose morals (due to her former relationship with one of the kingpins of the syndicate, called 'O'Honey' in the play) and became socially untouchable. In helping to 'out' the fire, Miles was the one who is torched. Her descent into anger and frustration is palpable in Hall's imagery of crucifixion and references to Joan of Arc, another brave, strongly moral and naive woman caught in the intrigues of a vicious old boys club and burnt at the stake. "It's a jumbie jamboree," Miles sings at the start of the second half; an amusing tweak of Harry Belafonte's Zombie Jamboree and chilling comment on the moral 'death' of the government that protects corrupt men and let Miles be crushed out of existence.

I'd just begun reflecting on how similar Miles' T&T looks to our country today when Salazar began dropping sharp little references to more recent political bohbohl: who could miss 'hot spots'? Or the 'Hart' of the matter? States of emergency and Advantage left us snickering, but also a bit chilled by the fact that what happened to Gene Miles could happen again today, woman PM or no. Life imitating art? I'd like to think so.

Photo taken from Miss Miles: Woman of the World Facebook page. Not used with permission but hopefully I will not get sued since I credited them and I gave them a good review :D.

P.S. How could I forget the stage? Stark, mostly black, with white and red higlights. Purity and tragedy on corruption, perhaps? Definitely makes me think that morality, no matter how pure, can be more black than white.

Things I am learning about myself through the interviewing process

2011-11-17T11:39:00.001-08:00

1. I carry around too much junk in my purse.
(Hello random ATM receipts and bills! Thanks for fluttering out and making me look like a bag lady while I'm trying to hand a potential boss a pen.)

2. I like being early.
("Yes, I know that it's 10 and the interview isn't until 10:30. I'll just sit here and wait, no problem.")

3. I tend to come across as assertive/slightly pushy.
(NO idea where that came from ... and you should probably not wear that colour again. It makes you look a bit pasty.)

4. I get cranky when my feet hurt.
(What? You want me to walk up two flights of stairs carrying my purse, several samples of my work, plus all the paperwork you aasked me to fill out before I got here? NO PROBLEM!)

5. My arms have doubled in size.
(Bye bye favourite shirt ...)

6. My daughter is more important to me than anything.
(Oh, so it's not a child-friendly environment? I see ...)

7. I need new shoes
(Chef: So do you have gray pumps to go with that skirt? Me: Nope. Gonna wear the same black ones I wore yesterday. Chef: -_-.)

8. Pearls make me feel sexy AND work appropriate!
(Nothing says 'HIRE ME!' like pink pearls and lip gloss.)

9. I prefer shirts and blouses to jackets.
(Sweating your makeup off is SO not cool).

10. I should smile more.
(Interviewer: Are you ok? You look sick. Me: Oh no, I'm fine. Just admiring how that sickly grey paint over your head matches your face ...)

I promise that this will be the last Mommy post for a while ...

2011-11-15T17:57:00.000-08:00

I have no intentions of turning into a mommy blogger. Not that there's anything wrong with being a mommy and a blogger. I just don't intend for my entire life to revolve around De Chile.

But I've been reminiscing lately on what a good effect being a mother has had on my discipline. Suddenly I'm getting up early, washing clothes weekly, eating and finishing projects on time. My mother even told me that she's proud of how responsible I am, which is something she NEVER would have said three years ago. I wasn't a slob or a low life or anything. But I guess I just wasn't very disciplined. Why get up before 7 or 8 am if you didn't have to? Especially when you stayed up until 3 am finishing some work/chatting with Chef on the phone/liming at a wine bar with friends. My life really didn't HAVE to have any structure. I could get by with doing things completely differently every day. I tried to implement some, but wasn't always very successful, hence my parents thinking that I was in need of some maturing.

But now that I have De Chile to take care of, I have to be structured. And I've found that it really isn't that bad. I don't mind getting up early most of the time; it helps me to get stuff done without forgetting things or getting flustered just before I have to leave the house. Plus it's so great to walk into her room and sing, 'Good morning!' and get a big grin and hands lifted up to come to Mommy. We have a bath, we put on fresh clothes, have a feed and play before she goes off to daycare. And I love my mornings with her; they're priceless to me.

AND I end up getting plenty things done during the day ... more than when I used to procrastinate and put off until the last possible minute. I can't do that anymore. There is a certain amount of time I have to get things done before she comes home tired and screams for food or attention, so I've got to maximise it. Plus, since I'm going to be working soon, I won't have all day with her anymore. The hours that she's awake and with me should be spent with her, not on a overdue project.

I am not trying to push a baby on you, though, so all you childless folk, don't feel like this is the only way you can structure your life. I'm just saying that it is a very pleasant and unexpected side effect. And I'm grateful that my little girl has already taught me something so valuable.

I'm still blaming the pregnancy hormones ...

2011-10-19T11:03:00.000-07:00

How do you freak out? Do you go into a quiet corner by yourself and have a good (silent) cry? Are you the type that starts pacing up and dawn, muttering to yourself (Chef does this). Or are you like me: you appear to be working but you're really silently working yourself into a frenzy. Then all of a sudden you have a brief, full-scale melt-down, and wake up the next day "most normal". *smh*

I've been panicking a little recently because I've reached a transition point. As you parent know, a child takes up not only a lot of energy but a LOT of money. So for Chef and I to get back on track with certain things that need to be done (roof repair, masters degree, new car, do-it-yourself sushi kit), I need a full-time job. As much as I have enjoyed freelancing over the past couple of years, I wouldn't mind a different challenge.

BUT! What to do? Where to go? I can handle an 9 to 5 grind; I guess that my primary concern is my daughter. I'm really, really having a struggle wrapping my mind around the idea of daycare. My mom won't be able to take full-time care of Ca'ia much longer. Or should I just bite the bullet, say bye-bye to the masters and to extras like KFC, wine and gel polish and stay home with her until pre-school? I'm truly conflicted. Chef told me to pray about it, and the answer will come. He's probably right ... but I didn't tell him that.

I think we all reach points where you have to decide whether you want to sacrifice to get where you want to go in your career or to get needed income, or sacrifice your career (temporarily) for something else, like the well-being of your family. One of my favourite bloggers, Penelope Trunk, says that no matter what you do as a woman, your career will suffer once you have children. You know what? I can accept that. But what I can't accept is if I entrust my little girl to someone who won't take great care of her and she has to suffer the consequences of my poor decision. Chef really had to calm me down last night because I'd reached an emotional wall: had two great interviews within the last couple of weeks and both of the positions sound really exciting. But if I can't settle my daughter, I won't be able to settle myself. That's on the agenda for next week.

I know that ultimately, I have to be SUPER happy with what I decide before I can be comfortable. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Waiting to exhale ... and speak.

2011-09-17T18:41:00.000-07:00

I feel like I haven't spoken in ages. Not just spoken to you, here, on this blog. But just spoken in general. Of course that's ridiculous. I talk everyday to my husband, my daughter, my parents and siblings, clients and co-workers, friends. I chat with peeps on Facebook, tweet, write emails, leave voice messages, write articles. I even have a great new idea for a book project that I am going to work on as soon as I get over being paralysed with fear. Yet I still feel like my voice has been somewhat hushed.

I feel ... speechless.

It's like I'm waiting for the right thing to say in the right context ... I'm waiting for a moment, a sentence or phrase. A word that will give me an epiphany.

Has this ever happened to you?

(photo courtesy http://lacedwithgrace.com)

Wondering ...

2011-09-03T07:56:00.000-07:00

... if other mothers weary of changing diapers deal with it the same way I do: singing 'Stinky Poo' as a soca chant worthy of Road march status.

"Stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky poo, stinky stinky stinky stinky stinky BABY!"

Think Iwer george's "Han han han han han han han han han ..." as a reference point.

Dude ...

2011-08-25T08:20:00.000-07:00

I, Chef and De Chile settling down. Or should I say the parents settling and she gearing up. She's four months plus and I'm seeing a very determined and definite little personality emerging. She like wha she like and wha she nuh like, nuh bother wid. Currently she's chewing on whichever of my knuckles she can grab. Who knew that gums could hurt?

Ranting ... Unnecessarily ....

2011-07-02T14:42:00.000-07:00

I swear on all that is sacred, my hormones have not been this out of whack since I was 13 and filled with manufactured angst.

Some days, I'm super Des. I clean, I cook (Yes! I have begun to cook of my own free will! Remind me to tell you about my slamming alfredo sauce). I look after De Chile and Chef. I shop, I exercise, I remember to eat all my meals, drink all my water and take all my vitamins. I write fiendishly, meeting deadlines left, right and centre. I read non-fiction.

And then there are the days (thankfully fewer) where I bathe neither myself or De Chile. Ok you can stop throwing rocks, it only happened twice. Days when I am tired and overwhelmed by work, by caring for a baby, by being awake. Chef tries to help, but he just started a new and very demanding job. It's a stressful time for us both.

I always try to be honest with you, so I will not stop that now. My pregnancy was not planned. In fact, it came as a shock. And please, keep all the cute comments about, "Don't you know how babies are made?" to yourself. We are not the first (bright, educated) couple that this has happened to and we won't be the last. And we love our daughter to death. But these things do take getting used to, so I'm still adjusting to the idea of being a mother. It comes easier now; still, there are moments of doubt and panic and fear to deal with and push aside in the momentum of living.

But generally, I'm ok. I have a beautiful, healthy, basically easy to please baby, a husband who is even easier to please, a supportive family and a brand new 8 foot book case to put all my books in. Have you ever lived with most of your library in boxes for a year? You'd be ecstatic too. I thank God. I try to count my blessings, even on the bad days. I try to keep writing, no matter what. Sometimes writing is my prayer, my cry out, my way of finding my Centre. And to survive, I need to hold on to that, if nothing else.

Things that a new mother/father worries about

2011-06-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

Is the fact that she wants to look at everything all at once indicative of early onset ADHD?

If I let her bear weight on her legs this young, will she turn out bowlegged?

I can't see her neck; does she even have a neck? Or will she turn out to be one of those weird, no-necked people?

What the hell is that rash?

Why is she licking me? Does she have pica?

She's not interested in toys; why not?

Is the arm waving normal?

She consistently tries to put her foot in her own poop; should I be concerned?

Why is she sneezing? Why is she coughing? If she starts to choke, what do I do?

She doesn't look anything like either of us. Did we pick up the wrong baby?

Why is she crying?

Why is she crying now?

No really, are you sure she isn't hungry? Cuz she's crying again.

Shouldn't she be sleeping longer?

Why is she sleeping so long?

And how come she smiles and coos so much? Should I be concerned?

Oh wow ...

2011-06-10T18:05:00.000-07:00

... so forgive me, will you? I have neglected you for nearly four months. Four months. A lot has happened. My beautiful baby girl, Ca'ia, is here and she's two months old already. Laughing and cooing and screaming and full of life. Love her to bits.

Didn't have the birth experience that I wanted. But more on that in another post.

I'd like to think that the whole pregnancy and having-a-baby experience - although unplanned - has made me a better person. I am different; I had a burst of creative energy after she was born that hasn't disappeared yet, unlike my other 'bursts'. I am surer of my own capabilities. I'm finding it slightly easier to believe in my talents and in my God.

Birth is a painful experience and many times we scare people by focusing on the pain of birth ... the birth of anything. A child, a new business, a talent being refined. But the pain is 'inna timing' - temporary. The new life that it brings you lasts a lot longer. In retrospect, I wasn't ready, but this is what I needed. New life.

2011-02-14T14:40:00.000-08:00

I'm still pregnant.

Seven and a half months gone, to be precise. Again, I haven't written for two months. For no reason other than I've just lost interest in blogging a lot of the time, like I've lost interest in photography, and maintaining friendships, and cleaning, and watching movies ... in fact pretty much everything that doesn't involve eating and sleeping/lying down, I've lost interest in. Oh and Facebook. Who could lose interest in maccoing?

No, I'm not depressed.

I still like spending time with Chef, (whom we shall now call alternately 'de Baby Daddy') once he's not in a cleaning mood. I'm still working. I seem to be taking a great interest in imagining myself telling other people how stupid they are and why they should fix their sad little lives. And I have developed an obsession with juice, even though my mid-wife has banned it from my diet. I am now a juice connoisseur. I know all the tiny companies here in Trinidad that make the freshest-tasting fruit juice - portugal, sorrel, grapefruit. I love them all. I must have juice. But I digress.

I have decided to blame everything on the pregnancy. Feeling tired/emotional/aggressive/frisky/hungry enough to eat a brace of ducks? It's the pregnancy. Can't remember to pay the mortgage or the cable bill? The baby made me do it. Have an unreasonably violent reaction to some innocent comment that de Baby Daddy makes to you? I am raging with child-making hormones ... although, in my defense, you don't tell a hungry pregnant woman who has just described in painful detail to you how hungry she is to "eat ah bake" and expect to get away scot-free. You're a chef, for goodness sake. Make me a sandwich.

There are other, funner things to blame on the baby too. Like sudden and horrific body acne breakouts. I have never had body acne ... didn't even have a good bout of face acne unless I was eating chocolate every day for a week. And now my once smooth, unblemished shoulders and bathing suit-ready back are ruined ... RUINED I tell you. The chicken pox skipped me but what miss you eh pass you. Constant heartburn and flatulence. Balance issues. Forgetfulness. Pregnancy rhinitis. Swollen limbs. Stretch marks. Vision problems. Dizzy spells. Moments when you gasp for breath after walking faster than a crippled slug. Weird pains in weirder places. Young grasshopper, these are the things that you have to look forward to. When you see the photos of unbelievably happy pregnant women smiling and glowing with health, just remember what my great-grandmother said and it'll bring you back to the reality of this thing: "A pregnant woman has one foot in the grave." It's not that we're not happy, but this thing is dangerous to your health.

And there are moles. Yes, moles growing everywhere. On my face, neck, torso, bottom ... Chef is of the opinion that they're not moles but skin tags. Maybe he's right, since about three of them that grew to disgustingly gargantuan proportions dropped off this week. But I still think of them as insidious, deceptive moles whose presence I shall point out to my first-born whenever s/he dares to cross me, saying, "These are what happened to me while I was growing you inside my body. Don't mess with me, or I'll kill you now just like I could have back then."

Then there are the leg cramps, the fact that it takes me five minutes to get up from a chair or bed (thank God for pre-natal pilates or I'd never move anywhere again), the campaign against wearing anything but skirts and dresses, needing to live in an air-conditioned room, the pain it causes me to pick up things I've dropped, the vivid and very strange dreams based on whatever show I watched that night ... I believe I said this before, but I'll say it again. Pregnancy is not for the faint-hearted.

You may be thinking horrified thoughts of police and social workers at this point; others will be searching through Rolodexes or library for a good counsellor or a book on pre-postpartum depression to refer me too. Have no fear; I love my little baby already. I'm just violently opposed to letting he or she rule my life, even from inside the womb. Yes, they clearly have the edge in this round, since the only glow my ashy, darkened skin is getting is from a vigorous weekly regimen of facials and daily deluges of Vitamin E oil. But Mommy will bounce back. And when she does, not only will my body not feel like it's the host of an alien life form (which it is, technically), it'll be perfectly clear who's the boss in this relationship, and it ain't Chef Junior.

And I actually like myself in this incarnation. No, this is not the person I'm used to being: more tired, more cranky, more juice-obsessed than ever before. I definitely don't feel pretty 80 per cent of the time. My nose is expanding like a pancake, my skin takes a lot more work to maintain than ever before and it's hard to find cute shoes if you don't want to walk through the mall to the shoes store. But mentally and emotionally, I feel freer than I ever have. Like I can really say what I like, cause this is me, my nigga (apologies to those offended by the word 'nigga'). I feel a little more secure in who I am right now. Cars stop to let me cross roads. Random strangers tell me where the bathroom is. I'm offered cake regularly. And there's a little personality that I'm just kinda getting to know now and I am excited to meet in person. Will s/he be stubborn and strong-willed (like both parents), or constantly hungry (like both parents)? Will they have Chef's sharp shins or my nose ... or both? Will s/he like juice?

Pregnancy Fun Fact #2271

2011-01-20T14:15:00.000-08:00

So no, I am no kind of authority on anything, but I do want to share with you some of my pregnancy experiences. I am sure that it will be like a cake walk compared to actually having the child here, but hey. This is my reality and my blog and I will backtrack when the time comes.

One of the more interesting physical aspects of pregnancy has been the dizzy spells. Forget not being able to buckle shoes or put on pants without help from my smirking husband; these dizzy spells take the cake. Not content to sit and play quietly in amniotic fluid (should I take this as a sign of things to come?) my unborn child does something that s/he probably thinks is funny. While Mommy is walking, she'll feel a gradually increasing pressure, as if said child is slowly pressing itself deep into her groin. The pressure itself is manageable. The problem is that circulation is cut off from a pretty important vein or artery in my left leg. I can literally feel my life draining away. Very shortly afterward, I feel all the veins and arteries in my body screaming for sustenance. My limbs burn; my eyes begin to blur; I pant for breath, seriously. It's the closest I have ever come to fainting. Picture a pregnant woman staggering along the road then leaning up on a telephone pole, gasping. Scary, isn't it? That was me on my way home today.

The other thing that interests me is the belly. I have never been the one to walk up to random pregnant women and ask to feel de belly. So I never know how a pregnant belly feel until I grew one. Now, touching about seven months, it's truly a wonder of the world: nearly turgid at times, slanting at whatever angle the child decides to lie in, with an amazing feature: the disappearing belly button. And sometimes you can see the baby kick so hard that the imprint of a small fist or foot is briefly visible. Alien vs. Predator was my first thought. The next one was, "Why are you kicking me?"

Chef is enjoying the pregnancy, mostly because I am providing him with barrels of laughter. Ever had your very skinny husband walk next to you at the mall and randomly decide to imitate your waddle, lingay arms and legs flying about? How about gentle nudges onto the bed because he knows that your centre of gravity is totally whacked out? Watching me try to sit on a low seat also generates peals of laughter, although he does make up for it by pulling me up whenever I need it. I find myself believing that doorways should be made wide enough so that pregnant women can roll off off chairs and right through the door. The momentum is bound to get us standing upright eventually.

I don't know where I'm going with this post, so I'll end the rambling by saying that although this is hard, there's something new to look forward to everyday. Exploding toes, here I come.

Is it wrong?

2010-12-20T17:35:00.001-08:00

Is it wrong that every time I see a Pillsbury Dough Boy commercial where they tickle Pillsbury Dough Boy's belly, I want to blow a finger-sized hole right into his tum-tum with a gun? And wonder if he would still laugh?

Is it wrong to bring my husband into every conversation I have? I never did that when we were courting/dating ...

Is it wrong to go to a Christmas party, eat, then digs out? Especially when I put on a dress and some form of makeup?

Is it wrong to tell my unborn child: "Relax. It have no need to you to stretch in there. You could do all yuh stretching when you reach out here"?

Is it wrong not to care when I know somebody thinks I don't like them, and not only do I not like them, I REALLY don't like them?

Is it wrong to never, ever, ever be serious on Facebook?

Is it wrong to be afraid to join Twitter?

Is it wrong to laugh at some of the atrocities my students have committed in the name of assignments?

Is it wrong to want to tell my nosy neighbour to mind her own Kool aid and speak to either me or Chef instead of intimidating the people who come to do work on our place?

Is it wrong to be completely unsociable and out of touch for at least one day per week?

Is it wrong to be up by 7 am and want to go back to sleep at 8:30 am?

Is it wrong to be asking you all these questions when I should know my own damn mind?

Yumminess ...

2010-12-13T09:14:00.000-08:00

So I've been slacking off on the photography these days, but decided to take a photo of today's lunch before I ate it. Had Chef make a shrimp salad for a work get-together yesterday, and it turned out really well. Very simple, went exceptionally well with the croutons.

For the veggies we used romaine lettuce, snow peas, red onions, and cherry tomatoes. You have to poach the snow peas in boiling hot water for like 15 seconds, but that's about all the cooking that the veggies got. We poached the shrimp in water as well, flavoured with a little curry powder, the ends of the red onion and a couple cloves of garlic. And he made a yummy dressing with strawberries, low-fat mayo, shadon beni, thyme, sugar and olive oil. The croutons are easy; a French baguette sliced, toasted and drizzled with olive oil, salt and black pepper.

I think it's a nice Christmassy type dish, very fresh and flavourful, just enough crunch and punch with the dressing. Try it yourself and see.

Back ... not necessarily by popular demand ...

2010-11-26T09:04:00.000-08:00

Clearly, I haven't blogged for months. Since September, to be perfectly exact. We are now nearly at the end of November. But I have a great excuse.

I'm pregnant. Yay!

When morning sickness sneaks up on you and kicks your behind flat onto a bed (or bathroom floor), you tend to lose perspective. Life tilts. Sitting in front of anything except an air conditioning unit loses its appeal, drastically. You become paranoid beyond belief, thinking that your husband has started an affair and your mother may want you dead. And more than anything, ANYTHING else, I hated not being able to eat what I wanted. During the first three weeks, the thought of eating or drinking anything, including water, was anathema to me. Let me say it again: I COULD NOT DRINK WATER WITHOUT THROWING UP. Things like pizza, barbeque ... in fact, meat on the whole revolted me. Bread nauseated me. I reviled tea, dry crackers, wet crackers, fruits, cup soup, coconut water, sweets, eggs, geera chicken, yogurt, grass, everything edible was off limits and would find its way back out in much the same condition it got in. Or so my body said. And demonstrated quite aptly by triggering the most terrifying, God-awful regurgitational spasms. Walk too quickly, like faster than an African snail? Throw up. Sit up at desk for more than 15 minutes at a time? Throw up. Think about food? Throw up, gag and heave bile into the toilet boil.

Chef offered to teach me how to throw up properly, since in his misspent youth he has some drunken escapades that apparently taught him the science of vomiting without getting the stuff all over the floor and on yourself. I declined and suffered the consequences. A lot of clothes got washed during that period and the bathroom reeked of bleach. Chef was not great at emotional support during this time.

Gradually, gradually, I began to keep liquids down, once I took them in at a rate of about one sip per hour. Hot tea was MOST welcome, if you understand what I mean. Then I could eat bread and cheese, which I did for about two weeks straight. Then began my love affair with Suppligen Sea moss; it became breakfast lunch and dinner, and it had to be ice cold for me to drink it. It was a long slow process, during which (I must admit) I did not comb my hair and bathing daily was not a huge priority; I did brush my teeth after every single vomit session. But I came back to the land of the living. And I have so much more gross stuff to share with you, but that is for another day.

Pregnancy is not for the faint-hearted.

Cover it up, girls ...

2010-09-03T08:12:00.001-07:00

I've been meaning to post about this for a while, but I never seem to get around to it. After all, its actually kind of embarrassing. But God uses all kinds of stuff to bring home His truth, eh.

If you're an evangelical, or close to evangelicals, then you know that one of the hottest topics of debate around is the issue of dress. Not just anybody's dress; FEMALE dress. Whoo boy; the amount ah bacchanal that does cause in church is no joke, nuh. People does get asked to leave the front row, given sheets to wrap around themselves ... let we say that it not pretty sometimes.

Now as a girl growing up in evangelical Christendom, you are VERY aware of all the unspoken rules and regulations. And if you aren't, the second you step out of line, you get a 'gentle' reminder. As a Christian, I believe that we Christian women shouldn't dress like dance hall queens. However, I did try to push the envelope while growing up, as my ever-vigilant father will tell you freely. My friends and I would say stuff like, "Well the guys need to pray more, cause even if we wearing something revealing, they have to take responsibility for their own eyes." Stellar logic, I know. I went on to read more about causing your brother to sin and also to understand more about the male psyche (X RAY VISION, OK!) and so, I reluctantly, resentfully tried to tone it down. In front of my mother. UWI was a whole 'nother story.

However, I was seriously convicted about this issue nearly a year ago. How did it happen? A fiery sermon? A heart to heart with a counselor? Lix? No. I felt convicted because I had a conversation with a devoted Muslim woman about wearing the hijab.

It was someone I'd gone to school with; at that time she didn't wear the hijab. But she popped up on FB when I joined, and I noticed it. And went, "Hmmmm." Had the opportunity to interview her about it, cause everyone is always curious about what would make you voluntarily wear yards of cloth around your head and neck in Trinidad weather. And this pleasant, sweet person told me honestly about what she believed; that her unclothed body is for her husband's benefit alone. Allah said it, she believes it. Everybody else can suck it. Of course I am paraphrasing. But her CONVICTION is what stuck with me, despite the fact that it wasn't a popular decision, even among some members of her own family. She believed that, and she was rocking her hijab, with cute little fringes, and sparkly crystals and embroidery. Seriously, some of the hijabs I've seen recently making me want to start wearing them.

So I went home and spent some quiet time thinking about what I believed. Did I really care enough about my male brethren who, no matter what I say, will be drawn by revealing or tight clothing that I wear? Do I really care about younger Christian girls who are looking at me for what to do, how to act and how to dress? And lastly, what is my purpose for wearing deliberately revealing clothes? Is it to glorify my God, or glorify my nice shape? Hard question to ask myself, but the Holy Spirit and I worked it out.

I have toned down the way that I dress since then. Looking for looser tops, better underwear and shape wear, opting these days for skirts and tunic tops with tights rather than hipsters. And modesty was one of the major considerations when I chose a wedding gown. I've seen people look modest in strapless gowns, but I'm a little more blessed in certain areas so it woulda turn out like a peep show basically. I loved my little bolero top cause it completed my vintage look, and made me feel comfortable at the center of attention all day without worrying about what body part would make a guest appearance and when. But at the end of the day, what I do AND what I wear has to reflect who my Daddy is. And if God was your Father, I don't think He might take too kindly to you leaving the house in that crop top, Missy. But He wouldn't force you; He'll probably point it out to you just as quietly as He did to me.

On acceptance of being a fat black woman ...

2010-08-14T16:29:00.001-07:00

... it hasn't happened. Will it ever happen? Probably. But I need to go through a mental process that ain't done yet.

I was always the skinny one in my family growing up. In fact someone from my former church and a UWI classmate both told me that I looked like I was adopted. They meant this is a good way, mind you. And although I was insulted on behalf of my family, part of me was smug. I was skinny. All fat people could just suck it.

But then, I took three years to gain the infamous freshman 15, and after that, everything spiraled out of control. I'm now 30 to 35 pounds heavier than I have ever been in my life. Yick. I used to eat everything in sight and not gain a pound; that was when I had strenuous weekly dance rehearsals and did Tae-Bo every other day. Now, I'm lazier. Self-control is difficult. I shouldn't eat white bread, or drink soft drinks. But what the heck. We only live once *gnawing on greasy chicken wing*.

The downside here is that I am not comfortable at this place. I will never look like I did at 19; I was a vegetarian, had just gotten over a dengue attack, did not drink alcohol and ate beans like crazy. But I want to look like a version of myself that I am comfortable with. I am actually ok with being curvier and softer; being hard-bodied is not all its cracked up to be and I like having some 'shape'. I want to not rip skirts, bulge out of pants and tops and look like I'm pregnant in maxi dresses. I want to find clothes that fit, God help me. I want to not look in the mirror and see a double chin. I would love to dispense with shape wear because my fluffy flesh is also firm.

In addition to that, lethargy and inactivity depress me. When I exercise, even if I'm not losing anything, I feel better about myself. Guess those endorphins really do work.

I love Grace Nichols' collection entitled The Fat Black Woman's Poems; they are her reclamation of the negative stereotypes that have followed fat black women since slavery. But I got depressed again because most of the fat I gained is around my mid-section, not my behind. Score one for my non-black heritage.

So now everyone is thinking, well just go exercise, nuggle head!

Yeah. Exercise.

My sis and I went to the gym regularly for six months. I lost no weight and one inch off my waist. To fit into my wedding dress, I stopped eating bread almost entirely, eschewed cake, pies, and all sweet things, exercised regularly. And I only began to lose inches off my waist (again, I lost no poundage) when I started taking a supplement called Molkosan. I may sound like a crazy Trevor Sayers infomercial, but it's true. Molkosan helps to boost your metabolism, so I'm hoping that's why it worked for me. And it's been proven that women are at more of a disadvantage to losing weight than men are because our hormones interfere with metabolism. It's also been said that your metabolism takes a dip at age 25. And I'm realising the truth of all this now, before being able to blame it on pregnancy weight and being busy with the kids.

All of that to say ... the diet is back on, in less vicious force, but back on. I won't ever just be able to eat what I want again and not have to deal with consequences. It's kind of like the discipline of writing. I can't just spit out poems or features in a cliched format, without any self-editing or craft, and expect rave reviews. It ain't gonna happen. Sigh.

Anybody have any bottled self-discipline I can buy?

Wedding + Career = EARTHQUAKE!

2010-07-28T11:23:00.000-07:00

So it's time for me to tell you what marriage is really like, give you an unvarnished view into the dynamics of two people with totally different points of view living/showering/sleeping/farting together in the same house. The truth.

IT'S TOTALLY RAD!!!

Ok, enough mushy stuff. I did, however, underestimate the effect that all this new radness would have on my career. Now, Chef and I are not scrunting, but we is no where near wealthy. I am counting pennies as I type. So getting that cheque from that job I did two months ago has become a little bit more serious than when my mother was feeding me (oh I contributed, but let's be real about how far my contribution went at the grocery - cheese, bread and yogurt. And a Kiss Cake).

I also have to have a lot more self-control. Chef works nights, so he gets up really late. I, on the other hand, am usually awake by 7 or 7:30 am and buzzing away, BBing/e-mailing/writing and asking him if he heard that weird noise outside. He hates this. Apparently I have single-handedly caused the death of sleep and cuddling.

But most of all, a new marriage means that your priorities shift. You have to factor a whole other person into not just your personal but your work life too, which hitherto only contained your needs ... and maybe some of your mother's. And that is taking some adjusting to.

If I want to switch clients, or go back to school, or start a new business, I have to discuss it and spend hours poring over 'the budget' with Chef to see if it makes sense for US. Will we still be able to travel, pay rent, pay bills? And the same goes for him, although I am more likely to register the emotional impact of potential decisions and avoid the budget like a plague of lice. If I don't work, it's entirely possible that we won't eat. It's kinda scary.

About two months before my wedding, a colleague said this to me about his marriage: "It's been real." And when I remembered that statement last week, I was like, "Whoa. And getting realer by the minute."

Scratching away ...

2010-07-23T18:31:00.000-07:00

So I was retreating, but still managing my business from Toco. Chef Boyardee, bless him, insisted that I get a BB. And while I still hold a secret passion for Apple products, I have to admit that the BB ROCKS! Except for that annoying pinging sound.

I received and sent e-mails, made appointments, apologised for not getting around to do several (not work-related things) before I left, reviewed a contract I'm about to sign, and was able to jump on top of a huge opportunity for exposure, all from the BB. This in addition to the strenuous work shopping exercises, writing, reading and discussing that I was actually in Toco to do. And on top of getting the cold. Sniff.

In the midst of this melee, a fellow freelancer from Barbados asked me what I tell people who think that because we work from home, we sit around scratching our metaphorical balls all day. At the time, I was like, "Girl, please ignore him." But it's been hovering on the edge of my consciousness since then and I have to speak up on behalf of my work-from-home peeps.

Working for a company is a finite thing; in exchange for a reliable source of income, you get to work late, sneak past the boss, make tea while the computer boots up, actually start working around 9 (you got there at 8:15), take several breaks for more tea, hold small clandestine limes with co-workers, take long lunches, leave at 3:45 and your life is your own again. Challenges are few and far in between; you have to do stuff that you don't like, that not in your job spec. You plot ways to kill that annoying co-worker to pass hours of boredom. You get fat on junk food. You brood over lost lunches in the communal fridge. All well and good.

Freelancing, however, is not quite so predictable. I can predict that just on the day that I want to sleep in an extra hour, I'll get a phone call or an e-mail I really need to answer right away. I can predict that for many, many days in the future I will roll out of bed and go directly to my desk, without passing GO or collecting any breakfast. I can predict that deadlines will always loom, my bank account will experience malnutrition time and again, and that I will spend many midnights working on some story due yesterday.

However.

I could not have predicted two years ago when I started this journey, where it would take me. I've written for publications I've idolised since childhood and earned some measure of respect for the quality of work I've produced. I've also learned how to spot a dead-end project, and the types of people who I can't work with.

I've learned how to say 'No thanks.'

I have aced challenges that I would NEVER have been able to take up if I were working an 8 to 4, making copious cups of tea just to stay warm and fend off boredom. I have become a much better writer. I read more. I've built a web of contacts who I learn from every single day, and I've made good friends.

I have nap times in the middle of the day. Who doesn't? I saw you with your head down on that desk last week.

I do have down times with nothing to do, but they occur much less often than when I started off. But I'm doing work that I love to do most of the time. I'm more confident, more sure of myself and what I can do. I feel better. I don't want to commit homicide several times a week. I don't eat junk food. I avoid traffic.

So if that seems like I'm scratching afore-mentioned balls to you, just picture me with my hand down the front of my pants, since it makes you happy. Cause this is how I work, baby.

Don't tell anybody ...

2010-07-08T11:26:00.000-07:00

Right now, I'm at an exclusive retreat for writers of poetry and prose. It's something people don't generally understand when I tell them about it; it's kind of on the same level as telling them that I'm a freelance journalist. You see them register the word journalist, but the freelance part doesn't really fit into any paradigm that they know of, and they don't want to ask. Telling them that I work from home makes it all worse.

But this workshop is providing me with a lot of what I don't have once I'm at home, freelancing: time. I miss my husband, but if he's around, he IS a distraction. Wouldn't you rather stroke your boo's head (either one) than write, if you had the choice? So he's not here, and he can't come either. We have TV and access to the internet, but I've never been a big TV person and I'm keeping my access to the net at a minimum. The BB is flung far, far away from me for most of the day. Most of my energy is focused on work shopping and writing; two very exhausting processes.

Am I out of my depth? Yes. Am I uncomfortable most of the time? Yes. Is it working to help me write some damn poetry? Hell yes.

Leave Michael Jackson in the ground, please ...

2010-06-28T09:17:00.000-07:00

...PLEASE??!! It's been one year since he died, ok. Tribute, blah blah blah. Tremendous talent, brilliant, musical genius, yada, yada, yada. I agree. But that isn't the whole story, is it?

Accusations of child molestation aside, MJ died primarily because he was ADDICTED TO DRUGS. The person that people are weeping over, and screaming over (because of the dance moves, not because he was a tragic caricature of a human being) was a broken, insecure, emotionally and physically unhealthy 50-year-old man who craved approval to the point where he put his health, his fortune, his career and his children at risk. He is not a figure to be held up as anyone's role model. Ever.

MJ was as good as he was on stage because he had no childhood; his father broke all the child labour laws written by making his underage son WORK for a living to support the family. And MJ spent the rest of his adult life trying to make up for that in the most unhealthy ways imaginable. Is that worth the fame and glory? Is that worth the billions of albums sold?

Ironically, the dude revived his career by dying, but he's not here to hear all the wonderful things people are (now) saying about him. He was here to be the butt of jokes worldwide tho; MJ and OJ are standard in any black comedian's repertoire. He was here for the speculation; he was here to hear people saying his career would never be the same again after the trials. He was here to hear people laugh at his bleached skin, without once considering the brokenness and the abuse that drove him (AND THE REST OF HIS BROTHERS AND SISTERS) to alter their appearance to suit someone's view of how they should look.

I am sick of the hypocrisy. Hold these black men up to a standard. Make them accountable for their actions. People make mistakes; mistakes have consequences. Tell your children that MJ was talented, and if he had gotten help for his issues and avoided drugs, we would all still be enjoying his music.

www.dingolay-des.blogspot.com

Why me?

2010-06-26T20:40:00.000-07:00

These days, I keep wondering about dogs like Lassie, Ole Yeller, Scooby Doo. Dogs that do what their owners tell them to do. Dogs that seem to have the ability to make logical conclusions: "If I went there both yesterday and five minutes ago and got hurt, it stands to reason that if I go back now, I will get hurt again." Dogs that don't walk into danger and then look at you accusingly, big brown eyes welling up.

Yeah, I don't have a dog like that.

Totally random rant, I assure you ...

2010-06-25T21:15:00.000-07:00

What is it with Trinis and accidents?

I spent half an hour last night crawling along a stretch that I normally take ten seconds to pass in the car. Why? There was an accident on the highway. Some poor schmuck wrapped his car around a pole; he had to have been both speeding and drunk, cause that wrap was better than most gyros are done.

Anyhoo, I didn't know that until I actually passed the accident. So for a whole half hour, I thought the police were carrying on some sort of breathalyser exercise since people kept parking on the side of the highway and walking back. Silly me. They just fas'.

Don't give me that bs about wanting to see if is your family or your friend. If it was somebody close to you, yuh woulda get a phone call by now, ok? CLEARLY, even if you know the person, y'all wasn't dat close.

And if you do know the person and y'all was close, do you really want to see them broken and bloody and wrapped around a pole? Do you want that image emblazoned on your mind for all time? I wouldn't.

To all you accident watchers out there - seriously, get a hobby.

Captain Knuckles

2010-06-16T02:37:00.000-07:00

So we were not even properly churched and we had a child.

(I hear gasps echoing across the land...)

Fake out - we got a puppy about two months ago.

We got the puppy when he was four weeks old; too young to leave his Mommy really, but she wasn't feeding them anymore. I can't blame her; those puppies looked like four weeks old when they were newborns.

Anyhoo, so Chef Boyardee takes the puppy home and names him Captain Knuckles (from the cartoon Chowder). He's Knuckles' primary guardian; I still think of myself as the absentee parent. And my my, does that little puppy love his primary guardian. He starts to whine or bark (yip, yip!) as soon as he hears Chef's voice. When he was teeny, he climbed up all over him and licked his face, bit his ears and generally made a nuisance of himself. Now he positions himself in the yard wherever Chef is. Is Che in the bedroom? Knuckles is in the back yard. Is he in the living room? Knuckles is sitting in a small shady spot, staring soulfully into the living room window.

Me, I usually get a cursory lick ('thanks for the milk') and then Knuckles amuses himself by trying to bite off the hem of my jeans. Great for teething, denim, which I intend to keep in mind for my own litter.

But to see Captain Knuckles grow from a snippet that could fit in my palm to a 12 pound gangly toddler with a mind of his own has been both rewarding and scary. He won't always be so sweet, so energetic, so goofily opinionated with his barks. He will grow up and be a big dog, take on a more serious mien, cease to fling his bowl around and maybe take on a mortgage.

I'm exaggerating clearly, but I'm realising how fleeting youth is. I can't stretch as easily as I did at 16, nor can I fit into the same clothes. Thirty six will probably see me with stretch marks and slightly droopier boobs. Forty six? Fifty six? I can't see that far ahead. But its nice to look at someone who thinks the world is new and exciting and filled with adventure and watch them enjoy it, especially since I have so much work to do and can only stare wistfully out the window.

As the dust settles ...

2010-06-15T16:38:00.000-07:00

Married woman. That's my title now. I don't FEEL married a lot of the time. It feels like Chef Boyardee and I have run away and are living a secret life. Of course, the fact that he has to go back to work this week may dampen that dream somewhat. Or when reality bites for me (tomorrow at noon when my stories are due), the fantasy may also die a little death.

But for now, we're newlyweds; grinning and groping for no reason, making silly jokes and saying things like, "We CAN face anything ... TOGETHER!"

I thought I'd be apprehensive, scared, worried ... something like that. But I feel absolutely no negative emotion (except when Chef gets on my back about bathing before I lie down on his clean sheets. I swear sometimes the man is more of a girl than me.) I am radiantly happy, satisfied to sit for days in a house with just him: talking, watching TV, washing the car, squabbling, the aforementioned groping and doing stuff that married people do :).

Even though we have no furniture, a fridge as our only appliance, a three-month-old terror for a puppy that eats more than I do, a mortagage, bills, a car that needs work ... I stare at him and have no regrets. For this, I am very, very thankful.

Wax on, wax off ...

2010-05-24T10:23:00.000-07:00

Ow. And sniff sniff. That's how I feel. I just had my very first and possibly very only Brazilian wax, in preparation for the honeymoon. Even before the earth even shivers in anticipation, I can tell you that this is soooooooooooooooo not worth it. Someone needs to invent a better numbing spray. Please. Now.

Half the time that I was having hair removed from my vajay-jay (Oprah's word, not mine) with BOILING HOT WAX, I was trying not to cry in front of the technician. The other half of the time, I was trying to suppress the urge to run for the door.

So, right now I'm bruised and traumatised and in no mood to talk. Yes, I would like some chocolate please. No, I don't love Chef Boyardee this much. Yes, I may still cry.

Them vs Us vs We

2010-05-23T16:16:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I feel chilled. No, it's not because of the rain. I'd promised myself that this time around I wasn't going to say anything about politics or the traumatic time we've all had with elections due tomorrow. But I have to say something.

Why am I looking around Facebook and the internet and just everyday life and seeing polarised division based on race? I naively thought that Basdeo Panday was the last of the Mohicans where race politics is concerned. I was wrong. From the nail techs to the entrepreneurs, people on both sides are not only voting race but being very open with their racist philosophies, Facebook statuses et al.

There are a great many people voting for the People's Partnership not because of the many salient points in their manifesto, but because in their opinion, its time for people of the same the race of its political leader to 'rise up' and 'take over'. There are a great many people voting for the PNM not because they believe that they are being taken care of, but because in their opinion having 'those Indians in power' is second only to death by firing squad. I am appalled and sickened by both these schools of thought. And I feel, as Walcott said so well, divided to the vein.

Why is it always them against us? We have to live here, together, come Tuesday May 28. Why can't it, for once, be about we?

Politricking activism

2010-05-17T11:04:00.000-07:00

If you know me, you know that I am vociferous in my opinions on social issues but not much of a politics fans. Chef Boyardee calls me an activist. Bleh.

Anyhoo, this activist was feeling very ambivalent about voting in this month's election. By ambivalent I mean I wasn't going to vote. At all. I was going to pretend that there was no election and go to the spa, since the actual wedding date is mere days away from the election date. My priorities were set; wedding before government. One is 'till death do us part; the other, 'till I feel to call chaos into yuh life so I could haul my cheatin' *%#@ from yuh parliament.

Sigh. Until Minister Neil Parsanlal decided to do a walkabout in hi constituency. My constituency. Now, Neil did a pretty ok job. He was very visible over the last two years, did what he said he would do etc etc. My mother likes Neil a lot. So much so that on his walkabout last time she went outside to tell him that. THIS time she suggested I go with her, since I had a little bit of a beef with Neil's reaction to media after Patos went and buff up the radio announcers in Boom. The radio announcers was wrong, and he was wronger to walk in there and deal with it personally. Neil was wronger still to go and blaze media people, I felt, and his government had done nothing to help media training so they doh make silly mistakes like that.

So I goes out there, reluctantly, and says Neil boy I have a bone to pick with you. And he says, A bone to pick with me? Now let me hear about this bone. I explains the bone to him and he tells me my premise is wrong. You see, I believed that the government, instead of media bashing, should push for more media training. The misrepresentation, misquoting, no knowing how to ask a simple question, bashing of PMs during the news cast ... I believe all this could be avoided through training.

I don't know if Neil believes that. But he did say that he has tried to give the 'relevant bodies' all the information they need to push media training. But the government cannot be seen to be 'buying the media' so he cannot, as Information Minister, openly push media training. Now I know there's a fine line between government influencing the media and government pushing for media training. But I don't thing that Mr. Minister's hands were as tied as he was tryna make out. Correct me if I am wrong, please.

Still, made me realise that although I couldn't find any government scholarships when I tried to go study media, I never saw any media associations or media houses at any career fairs either (and I went to A LOT of career fairs in my day). So while I was hating on poor Neil (snicker) the reality is that the media itself isn't looking to training or improvement anymore than the government is. Hey, if it ain't broke, why break it?

So I am going to vote, just like (after de wedding) I am going to join a local media association and try to help pressure media houses to TRAIN their damn people. Activism is not based in any political party's camp. It's about knowing the issues that need to be solved and partnering with people who want to help you solve them. I think we should all get off the party bandwagons for a minute and think like activists instead. Then instead of blaming it on the government when things go wrong, we'd realise that WE can change the world, once we willing to work, we have a plan and we are committed.

However, it's ok to blame the government captain on things like Udecott, and NAPA and the Lighthouse project because clearly, the captain is into some very piratical steering. And I not kinky like that.

Yes, yes the bride coming ...

2010-05-04T21:38:00.000-07:00

In all the busyness and tiredness and papers to mark and people to talk to and stuff to schedule, stuff to store and stuff to pay for ... other things have been slipping through the cracks. Now, people look at me like I'm crazy when I say this, but I need a certain quota of alone time to function at optimum levels. I don't mean time watching TV or listening to music or 'alone' time with Chef Boyardee (tee hee). I mean alone alone ... in my room on my bed, thinking or writing ... AAALLLLOOOOONNNNEE. In silence.

But it feels like I haven't done that in years (months really). Every time there is a 'spare' moment, there is something to do. Today alone I met with my photographer, had a looooooonnnnggggggg talk with my decorator, viewed, discussed and then ordered a boatload of table linens, bought champagne flutes for toasting and arranged for them to be engraved, worried about where the head table would go, called someone to arrange centre pieces and took my mom out for a pre-Mother's Day breakfast. Oh and I fed our puppy, which is a Broadway production in itself. Yes we have a puppy, whom I shall introduce you to at a later date. Then I took a nap (which does not count as alone time since weird people keep making guest appearances - isn't it terrible when someone you haven't seen in five years pops up in a dream to feed you pancakes?)

So I'm feeling a little drained, a little fatigued, a little overwhelmed. People are asking me things I'd never thought I would have to comment on (What type of arch would you like, dear? Have you chosen your cake song? Are you having a veil?) And I never knew about any of this stuff until now. And I have determined that not only should I share this with the world, I should find some way to warn all potential brides-to-be about how planning a wedding has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with budgeting, planning, wheedling money from various sources and a lot of driving around and giving your opinion. So this is my top five list of things not to do when planning a wedding:

5. Do not invite people you haven't seen in ten years and expect them not to come. They will most likely either feel guilty for not seeing you or they will want to see you really badly and they wouldn't miss this event for the world.

4. Do not ignore what your fiance is saying. I think we brides have a tendency to listen to everyone else's opinion except the man we marrying when planning the wedding. And now, with two weeks to go, I wish I had done what he told me to do (invite only 25 people and have it in St. Lucia).

3. Don't underestimate your own pampering. You need a facial, mani-pedi and a scrub. Possibly a head massage and hot stone treatment. YOU NEED IT!!! Don't say that the money would be better spent somewhere else. Cut back on the flowers, leave your primary school teacher off the guest list and RUN to the spa. Do it now, minion.

2. Don't underestimate how many things you are expected to do/have at the wedding. And choose wisely what to ignore. Like opting out of buying $500 crystal champagne flutes (and you still have to pay $100 for engraving) for nice, classy-looking glass flutes (6 for $100) that you can get engraved for $70. Which may or may not be broken by one or all of your children. Unless you are my mother and can put the fear of God into said children by behaving like a mad woman if they even LOOK like they're THINKING of opening the cabinet where those glasses are stored.

And do you know they sell pens for you to sign the register with? And that these pens can cost upwards of $200? Someone somewhere is living the high life in Monaco because of pens like those and silly brides who buy them.

1. DO NOT ignore the fact that you need to rest, relax and recuperate. I think that the major reason I haven't had a bride breakdown moment yet, and am hoping not to have one, is because I am pacing myself. I cannot get everything done today. I can't get everything done tomorrow. But I do what I can get done and plan well for everything else to be done in time for the wedding day. And when I need to sleep I sleep. When I need to eat, I eat. When I want to treat myself, I get some white chocolate, munch slowly and enjoy that five minutes of yumminess. I am the bride, after all.

Likkle Likkle Jamaica

2010-04-23T19:25:00.000-07:00

I get my best post ideas when I'm not in front of the computer. The problem is, I usually have nowhere to write them down (either that or I'm driving and its not advisable to lean over the passenger's seat to take a pen and pad out your purse while going 100 km/h right alongside a container truck). But I actually remembered one today. And it's about food (oh boy!)

Likkle Likkle Jamaica

A friend told me about it a couple weeks ago. Located just opposite Long Circular Mall (I am NOT good with street names) this place is new. I was excited about eating escovitch fish again so I'd dragged my mom and sis away from the mall food court. It looks new: nice wood floors with not enough furniture. Bad sign: when we walked in, no one else was there. Still, I bravely went up to the counter (sparsely populated). The lady behind the counter was typically Jamaican: bold, brash, aggressively selling. A little desperate, really. Hmmm. We finally decided on the fish for me, curried goat for Mom and Baby Sis and potato salad and festivals all round.

Small lunches came up to $25 or $35 so it was reasonably priced. But I was disappointed by their rendering of the fish. The beauty of escovitch is not in the preparation. It IS normal fried fish, after all. The onions, scotch bonnet pepper and other seasoning veggies pickled in hot vinegar that you liberally dash over the fried fish - THAT'S what makes escovitch fish sing. Unfortunately, they were really stingy with the pickled stuff and I couldn't taste that familiar vinegary snap while eating the fish. SO basically it was fried fish with stewed fish sauce on it. Hmmm.

The food was also cold, including the festival, which really tastes best hot and freshly prepared. The whole place felt stale, somehow, despite the bright red, green and gold paint and Berris Hammond on the radio. Some Jamaican men came in a bit later and sat calmly eating their rice and peas, and the curried goat had a nice flavour. But unless they tap into the tastes of Trinis (we like it hot, we like it fresh and we love when it has pepper) I predict that Likkle Likkle Jamaica will close in about six months. Probably less.

Refresh

2010-04-21T19:51:00.000-07:00

These past few weeks, I've been rediscovering my love for writing journalistic pieces. They were starting to get to me, let me tell you. Boredom can be corrosive. I began to ask myself, 'What is the point? Everyone has the same story, gives the same type of quotes, says that God inspired them and hey presto, there's my story.' I didn't believe that everybody was interesting, like I used to. Lost my curiosity with my innocence and gained some very weighty cynicism to go along with my glasses.

What changed? Nothing but my perspective. For the last couple months I've been teaching a class in journalistic writing. My students handed in their first assignment a couple weeks ago. Some were done very well, some were badly done. But they all had decent story ideas. Things I'd not thought of; to tell the truth, I haven't come up with story ideas for myself in a couple of months. I feel like I'm stagnating. But seeing actual stories, without a hidden agenda, come from these student who're new to journalism kinda put some pep in my step. Made me start thinking about fresh story ideas, things that interest me and that I can write passionately about. Things that refresh my soul AND put money in my pocket.

So since last week I've been writing not just from my head but from my creative center ... like my heart, dude. You artsy people know what I mean. The technical and the creative have melded and are working in sync. This is when I produce work that I'm most proud of. This is one of those times when I'm proud to be a writer.

P.S. The marriage counselling ting going good. Like, why was I so freaked, dudes?

Dun dun da-dun, dun dun DA-duuuuuunn ...

2010-04-10T19:59:00.000-07:00

So I'm getting married. To Chef Boyardee. But you know this already.

I was gonna pontificate about how marriage is such noble calling (which it is), about how its a calling and a ministry in itself (which it is) and all that stuff. But my first marriage counselling session is tomorrow. So all pontificating has flown outta my head to be replaced by, "What if the counselor dude tells me not to marry this guy? Maybe I shouldn't marry this guy? Why AM I marrying this guy?"

I'm a wee bit freaked out. And I was the one pushing the whole counseling thing.

In theory and in real life, counseling has proven to help newlyweds to adjust to married life more easily. Counselors deal with family backgrounds, expectations, sex, communication all in an effort to help the engaged couple have a more realistic view of what their getting into in lieu of the "OMG! Free sex 4ever!" thoughts running around their brains... I'm sorry, was that just me?

Counseling is a good thing. So why am I nervous? Should I be nervous? Why AM I marrying this guy?

Don't all stone me at once now. I do know why I'm marrying the guy, and I have a bunch of really substantial reasons, like the fact that he can cook and paint a wall in under 15 minutes. Ok, MORE substantial than that. I'm just not sure that in the hallowed office of the hallowed pastor of a very hallowed church, I'll be able to articulate those reasons clearly and succinctly enough for him not to ask me, "Why ARE you marrying this guy?"

Help.

Dos Banditos ...

2010-04-03T10:05:00.000-07:00

If you're reading the title (and feeling confused) you should know that you have to say 'Dos Banditos' in a very husky, Antonio-Banderas-does-Zorro type voice ... ¡Dos Banditos! That's better.

So, last year, two days before Christmas, my fiancee and I were robbed. Yes, again. Yes, twice in one year ... well, for me, not him. THIS time, it was worse monetarily. ¡Dos Banditos! got quite a bit of cash, his wallet, his car, both our phones and goodly chunks of self-respect and pride. Pulled the gold chain right off Chef's neck. It was also worse in terms of location. Note to self: do not stand outside own house liming at 11 pm.

On the other hand, they didn't hurt us at all. In fact, they were almost polite. They patted Chef Boyardee down to make sure he didn't have anything else they could steal and plucked my phone very gently from my hand. Or was it gingerly. Hey they could have 'patted' me down too, so I am grateful for small mercies.

However, ¡Dos Banditos! were quite cocky. When Chef Boyardee asked them to take everything else but leave the car (I wonder if that included me?) one of them replied, "Yeah we leaving it down the road. But we hadda leave, cause you goin' an call de police. Ent is yuh duty to call de police?" Bright. No, they didn't leave the car down the road.

And they should be cocky. They've got away clean with almost $75,000 in money and valuables. The police came pretty quickly, probably because I still had the squad captain's cell number, took our details etc. But they were a lot more concerned with the four murders and two house breaks that had happened the same night, all 10-15 minutes drive away from my house. A little stolen car etc. didn't rate as high on their priority scale as human lives, and it shouldn't.

But it makes you wonder. Christmas time, when everyone is cooking, baking, visiting, smiling, just enjoying the season, ¡Dos Banditos! et al decided that they'd bring home some bacon too. Except it wasn't their bacon. Chef and I do the right thing, have legal jobs, work for what we have. These guys got a gun and took it away. Just like that. According to Chef, poof! *waves hands around doing spirit fingers*.

It kinda taught me a lesson though. I haven't bought another phone yet; been using a beat up old Samsung that a relative had lying around. Tend to carry less valuables around with me. I always scope out an area before I park, especially where I live. And although Chef and I will get new stuff, I'm rethinking getting the iPhone I used to crave and I've started to wear really cheap jewelry. Maybe it's the conspicuous consumption of wealth that's driving this crime thing. I'm not saying that those who can afford nice stuff shouldn't have it. But if we don't NEED it, why do we have it? More importantly, who exactly are we flaunting it to?

If you can afford a nice car, then great. But what's with the rims, and spoilers and fog lights? THAT's the beauty of the car? And then there's the Blackberry/iPhone thing. It's convenient, they're stylish, they're in. But does everybody need them? Are we all in jobs where we need to be e-mailing folk in the car?

I do plan to buy a new phone (possibly a BB since I actually do need to e-mail people in the car :p) and I do have other stuff that people will want to steal. But I'm being a little more careful about how and where I display it. And by the way, if any potential ¡Dos Banditos! are reading this, if you can afford a gun and you're smart enough to know who to target and when to do it, you're smart enough to start a business and have enough money to pay some overhead. Please don't take my phone again.

Sushi update

2010-04-02T17:29:00.000-07:00

Finally, FINALLY went to the Hyatt and tried out their sushi bar. Menu: simple, classy, very authentic-looking (not that I would know anyway). Ambiance: quiet, mellow, nice for an evening out (wasn't busy at all that night). Sushi: the dragon roll was surprisingly sweet, almost like eating boiled plantain. Dunno if that was the eel or the crab or the Japanese mayo. But I have to say that I prefer the spring onion/tuna/shrimp/ o0f the Trinidad roll. Yummy and spicy and all that good sushi should be - minus an interesting texture. But what's with the skimping on roll size? From looking at the menu, the prices are comparable to any of the other sushi houses in Trinidad. But whereas Benihana and More Vino and Hanami give you six or eight pieces in your roll, I only got four at Hyatt. I'm not quite sure what else I was paying for (yes I did pay therefore I can criticise). Thumbs down on value for money, international hotel chain.

Down with censorship

2010-03-27T19:25:00.000-07:00

Been watching MTV's hit cartoon series Daria for the last week or so. It was a highlight of my adolescence, however sad you may think that. Daria is a morbid, sarcastic teenager who (of course) is a social out cast at school. She has one friend Jane, and she has a crush on Jane's older brother, Trent. Her younger sister Quinn is a shallow, self-absorbed annoying little girl who runs with the popular crowd, none of whom quite 'get' Daria. Their parents are clueless, but helpful at the right times. The writing is quite good, and the jokes are hilarious. But that's not why I identify with Daria.

One recurring theme in the show is the fact that Daria doesn't like the labels that society has given her (geek, brain, uncool, unpopular). But she doesn't necessarily want to lose them either. She's still figuring out who she is, and right now it's comfortable to accept those labels and live up to them. She's afraid to act out what she really wants, or who she really wants to be.

Have you even censored yourself? I find myself doing that. Sometimes, it's for a good cause. A friend isn't ready to hear the unvarnished truth about herself yet. The boss doesn't need to know that you're trying to recover from period pains as you type. But sometimes it becomes unhealthy because we forget who we are and what we want. We push our own desires and needs into a little box, hide it, and go around pretending to be whatever that spectator expects at that point.

When do we shed the box? When is it ok to ask for what you want? When is it ok to believe that you can have what you want just because you asked for it? If Quinn doesn't get a compliment from a guy in under five minutes of conversation, she asks for one. I think Daria and I could learn from that.

Something takes a part of me ...

2010-03-14T20:01:00.000-07:00

"Sometimes I cannot take this place
Sometimes it's my life I can't taste
Sometimes I cannot feel my face
You'll never see me fall from grace"
Freak on a leash - Korn

Weird song to pick. Been feeling distinctly head-banger-ish these days. Not depressed; just meditative. And strangely, rock helps me meditate.

I just checked up on a band that I loved from ever long, dc Talk. As all their fans know, the boys have been on hiatus since 2000, doing solo projects. Just wanted to find out what they've all been up to, ya know? To my surprise, Kevin Max seems to have taken a sharp left, to the point where his music isn't overtly recognisable as Christian. I'm not of the school of thought that all music has to have the words "God" "Jesus Christ" and "Jerusalem" to be considered Christian. But the disciples of Christ are known by our fruit, right? In my short perusal of his website, saw the opposite of fruit. Which is so disheartening. This was a band whose music rocked with Jesus. They were always fresh, cutting edge and Christ-centred. To see Kevin spin so far away makes think that it could happen to anybody; anybody who professes to be a Christian, who stands up for Christ and proclaims that He is Lord, could become as Paul said, "a castaway."

Freak on a leash is a song about when a relationship goes so horribly wrong that it hurts instead of healing. I never want to reach that point with God.

Happiness is ...

2010-02-24T06:02:00.000-08:00

I just want to write and write and write these days. Just bubbling over with opinions and facts and links and helpful hints. For those creative people who are blocked out there, let me put in a plug again for The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. Get this book. Really. I am not kidding.

Back to me and writing. I have written/finished more blog posts since this weekend than I have in any individual month since I started blogging. Poems kind of explode from me now, sometimes in little bits and pieces, but they're coming. And let me just say that I never thought I could do fashion photography but ... look at that photo. It's one of the best I've ever done. (T&T Miss World 2009 Ashanna Arthur).

But what I like best of all is that I LET myself write now; I let my imagination go wild when I want to do a good photo. I used to stifle this creativity. I told myself that I was too busy at work to writing poetry, or start a blog. Too busy to craft better features or try some better photography lighting methods. But now that I take a little time to do those things that are more like play than work for me, work is going better. I can focus longer, have more clarity when I wake up. I have more bright ideas mored often, can deal with crises without feeling like a failure before I start. I can breathe. I'm actually happier. All because of a little creative play.

I know I sound like I'm selling you a product, but you should try it. You go like it.

Haiti, I'm sorry is just not cutting it for me

2010-02-22T13:16:00.000-08:00

In the wake of the Haiti earthquake, I was totally silent. I gave no opinions, no thoughts, no Haiti I'm sorrys. I dedicated maybe one Facebook status to the disaster and that was to highlight Is There Not A Cause (ITNAC), an organistion that has been on the ground in Haiti for years before this particular misfortune.

I've listened to reports of aid not getting through, of dead bodies piling up by the thousands, of young girls without any sanitary napkins or intimate wipes. I have shaken my head at the stupidity of buffoons who call themselves Christian, spouting unsubstantiated rumours about pacts with the devil. I've read reports that condemn survivors trying to get food and water as 'looters' and seen some truly horrifying photographs. And I have stayed silent.

I'm ready to speak now.

Please do not mistake aid for help. Do not mistake fundraising for assistance. Do not mistake those who spend their time on a stage singing instead of giving quietly behind the scenes for the real heroes of this tragedy. Please, please do not mistake the ones who talk the loudest as those you should listen to.

And think very very carefully about what would happen if you were the one the world was saying "I'm sorry" to.

ITNAC - 868-624-4162

I forgive you

2010-02-21T11:46:00.000-08:00

I have a problem forgiving people. When I'm wronged, I usually nurture some righteous indignation, bursting out at inappropriate moments about how utterly inane/ungodly/downright evil the transgressor is. I sound witty and morbid and bitter. I sound bitter. And I don't even have that coffee-like aroma to go along with it.

So Jesus and I are dealing with this forgiveness thing. I'll spout off a bunch of crap and the Holy Spirit will give me that little nudge. That small guilty feeling. After all, I don't know why that person answered me with an attitude. Maybe I was bothering them and I should apologise. I don't FEEL great apologising, especially if the person to whom you're apologising still acts like a dummy. But it helps me let go.

For bigger things, like that time I was just standing there minding my own beeswax and someone ran me over with a truck (God forbid), or when someone really violates me emotionally, it's a little more difficult than that. Remembering the incident is like feeling the hurt all over again. I walk around for hours in a state of hyper-sensitivity, ready for combat with anyone. My family hides in corners; the dog runs away from me. No one is safe.

I think we all harbour a little unforgiveness from time to time. That woman at Subway who told you there were no more meatballs; next thing she's dishing it out for someone else behind you. The ex-friend who spread rumours about your alleged promiscuity. That teacher who punished you unfairly. Your parents. Your siblings. Your husband or wife. Your dog. It never stays at 'a little' unforgiveness. It grows and grows into a monster and it takes over your life. You become bitter and misanthropic. Rage becomes a dear friend, because you get angry about everything. People begin to avoid you, or worse, they catch your spirit of bitterness and start to grow their own. If it goes on too long, your body starts to suffer: unexplained pains, anxiety attacks, heart problems. Death.

Forgiveness is healthy. For Christians, it's a must.

But it's also a conscious choice. Most of us need some help. God gives grace, yes, but you have make the decision to forgive and the decision to stop nurturing the hurt into a flourishing plant. Some of us even have to work at it, repeating the words over and over internally until it sticks. I'm still working on it.

Purpose

2010-02-21T09:11:00.000-08:00

I'm no longer a traditional evangelical Christian. I mean, I believe in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, the blood of Jesus and everything that traditional evangelicals do. But I no longer attend a traditional church. I do meet weekly with a group of believers in a simple church - basically where we meet at someone's house and the 'service' is not formalised. We wear casual clothes, there is no preaching, no song service, no ushering. We share some food afterward. And I felt more fed and empowered to live a Christian life in a month of attending these 'services' than I have in a year of attending traditional church.

I don't do devotions by a Daily Word either. The Holy Spirit leads me to a book of the Bible and we go through it about six to eight verses at a time. Sometimes I spend a week on one passage. But I remember much more of what I read now, I can tell you that. I've also been practising lectio divina as a way of hearing God through His word, but that's another post for another time.

I'm a Christian, but I drink alcohol socially. I believe that the Bible speaks against addiction, and at one point in my life addiction to things other than alcohol threatened to become a problem. So the Holy Spirit has been working very hard in my life so that I do not become an addict. I don't listen to Christian radio. I have gay friends as well as Christian friends as well as friends that struggle to believe in God. I struggle with cursing. I am a Christian but I have problems and I'm attempting to be open about that, not pretending that I'm just too blessed to be stressed. This will be a problem for some. I may regret this post one day. I may regret this blog one day.

The fact of the matter is that if I'd known someone like me when I was 19, I'd have said that I was a heretic. Looney. Clearly not hearing from God AT ALL. Probably possessed. And I'm sure that some of my acquaintances think that. People who've never met me will think that.

So, I'm no longer traditional.

Although I have been struggling with these new steps I've taken, I believe at my very core that they are right. I'm not telling everybody to abandon traditional church and throw out your devotional. I am telling you that Christianity is a process, a sometimes difficult one and it takes time for you to become more Christ-like instead of just Sinful-Being-Cowering-In-Pew. That knowing Jesus is all about discipleship, not playing in the church band. That real 'ministry' involves ministering to real needs, not to the church board's opinion of aesthetics. That the Bible is our first reference when it comes to God's will, not somebody else's book, sermon or opinion.

I may sound bitter and angry here, but there is something wrong when our entire Christian world revolves around a building. People leave that building, and leave their Christianity behind because the Christianity they've been taught doesn't fit in real life.

At the core of Christianity, along with salvation, is purpose. God wove salvation into the Plan for a specific reason: to save mankind. And each person also has a specific purpose in the Plan. Some threads are woven together throughout the pattern; some touch at points but spend and equal amount of space apart. Some never go in the same direction. My thread, for whatever reason, is heading in a direction that's totally new and scary for me. It involves getting married, something I never planned to do. It involves friendship with very specific people who may not be Christians. It involves getting back into serious intercessory prayer. It involves a different type of congregation than what I'm used to. It involves hearing from God rather than listening to people's opinions. It involves this blog.

Lenten inspiration

2010-02-19T18:02:00.000-08:00

So, I've been very touchy-feely and deep recently *... chirping crickets ...* and I feel like I need to shake it off for a bit and go back to being irreverent and slightly sarcastic.

I don't celebrate Lent, really. But an acquaintance of mine is doing something really interesting for the season. Everyday she writes a list of ten things she is grateful for and posts it up on Facebook. The first time she did it, I'd had a particularly harrowing day full of computer glitches, lost information and stomach pain. And it passed, as all harrowing days do. But I'd forgotten to be grateful for what went right. She reminded me of that.

So here's my gratitude list, spanning over the last week. Keep in mind that what I may be grateful for, you may find slightly disturbing.

1. Not having to leave the house since Tuesday. Solitude is the bomb for creativity.
2. Getting to the bathroom on time when I needed to throw up.
3. That the flood in my room really wasn't that bad, and took only a day to clean up (think Katrina, people. That didn't take a day.)
4. Being able to hear from God.
5. That even though I have no money presently, there are cheques in offices with my name on them.
6. That my brother and sister think I'm cool and want to lime with me.
7. That my computer's glitches could be fixed with a optimised defrag and an hour of rest (I never turn it off).
8. That I am learning how to shed the baggage and let go of people's opinions.
9. That I can talk to my exs and don't feel no way for them anymore. Particularly helpful now that I'm marrying someone else.
10. That I am getting better at writing, at photography, at relationships and at life.

Words

2010-02-18T21:10:00.000-08:00

I'm too sensitive. Sometimes someone says or writes something to me and it cuts right to the quick of my spirit. Other times, a positive word or a compliment can give me a boost for days, months: like the time I wrote a piece, put my heart and soul into it, and my liaison at the publication told me, "That piece was soooo well-written, Desiree." Still warms me, makes me remember that I am where I'm supposed to be.

I spend a lot of time (too much time) thinking about words and what they mean. That makes sense; words are part of my profession. But I also think a lot about words that are said or writen in conversation, words that were meant to shame rather than encourage, to hurt rather than heal. I hate those words. And it takes me some effort and time to forgive the persons who spoke/wrote them.

Now I am by no means innocent of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. But as I get older, I'm learning to speak less and maintain silence more. I'm developing a healthy fear of wounding someone else like I have been wounded many, many, may times before. And if someone who I have hurt with words is reading this, I'm sorry. Maybe I meant what I said, but I probably could have found a better way to say it to you.

Shalom

Musings while composing a wedding guest list

2010-02-12T19:11:00.000-08:00

I find myself musing on family these days. Not just the family you were born with, although Lord knows that they can push your buttons. But the process of becoming someone's family, either by going through a tough situation together, by marriage or by long years of complacent friendship. In all three cases, which I've experienced (or am about to) it's a messy process. Now me, I'm accustomed to messy. In my mind, messy is sometimes good, cause you get negative vibes out of the way. But some people avoid messy. Take Chef Boyardee, for instance; he HATES messy. In fact, he hates anything remotely out of place, never mind messy. Move his pen from point A to point B and he'll probably move it back. But I digress.

Family relationships are messy. Things never fit neatly into place. Your children (real or adopted) will not do everything you think they should do, even if you have the same values. Should you try to force/guilt/harangue them into doing what you think they should do? No, but its a good bet that you're gonna do it anyway. When I was younger I used to complain about that all the time, but now it's like, what are you gonna do? That's how Mom/Dad/Uncle/Granny is. Let's just deal.

I grew up without a lot of involved extended family around, something my mother has apologised for several times. I didn't care really; didn't have it, couldn't miss it. So the scenes that unfolded when I planned to go to Guyana alone weirded me out NO END. First of all, my mother felt the need to inform ALL her relatives (living in the WI and abroad) about my plans, including the fact that I wanted to write a story about the experience. So everybody went and got personally invested in the quality of this story that wasn't even written yet or sure to be published; from my darling uncle who arranged travel buddies for me and cautioned me about the crime situation to an opinionated but lovable great-aunt who privately arranged someone to take me and my mom along the Essequibo coast, then asked our approval afterward.

At the time, it seemed intrusive, messy. I quarreled with Mommy under my breath several times, asking her WHY she had to tell everybody everything I was doing. She looked at me bewildered and said, "Why not? They're family." And after the trip was over, I realised that I wouldn't have been able to do it without them. I thought that I could waltz into Guyana and handle myself, but several experiences showed me that I was *eh hem* less than prepared. And that at the end of the day, I didn't really want to be alone. Thank God for intrusive, messy family.

Shalom

2010-02-01T08:53:00.000-08:00

So one of the three books I'm reading right now is called Sacred Rhythms. In it, the author introduces the idea of a breath prayer. You find it in the practice of silent prayer, where you allow the presence of God to invade your space and let your own soul respond to His presence with your deepest desires. The breath prayer is a word or phrase that comes to mind that you can pray in their rhythm of your own breathing. Sounded intriguing. I tried it out yesterday, and the first thing that came to light in that space between God and me was my desire for peace. Specifically for shalom.

The Hebrew word shalom isn't just about experiencing an external quiet or a mere cessation of activity. The verb shalom means to be complete, perfect, full, whole, restful, existing in an absence of discord. It also describes the ministry of the Messiah, Jesus Christ. So I was surprised that my soul would be so specific with it's request. It wasn't too concerned with the fact that one of my clients hasn't paid me two months after the work was finished, or with my desire to lose weight. It's craving wholeness, completion, fullness. Peace. Shalom.

Wow.

Silencio

2010-01-31T16:41:00.000-08:00

I am practising being silent. Taking in rather than giving out. Being still rather than screaming over the crowd. I'm tired, and a month of the flu has drained me more than I thought possible. But both those things are good in that they have brought me again to the place where I need to be still and know, rather than try to accomplish through a flurry of activity.

I know that I sound particularly scary and esoteric tonight so let me try to break it down: I'm attempting to spend a lot more time in quiet spaces, reading, thinking, praying, writing, than I do on the computer, watching TV, eating, DOING ... because I keep distracting myself from myself with doing. How did I run my resistance down so low that I've spent the last month coughing and blowing my nose? Not listening to my body. Why do i take so long to write/edit poems after i have one good piece? I'm afraid that I have no more good poems left in me, so I shut down my creativity before it abandons me. But silence forces me to confront my uncomfortable feelings, my vulnerability and fear, and struggle through it to find God's peace.

No pat endings this time. Just silence.

I want to be a foodie when I grow up

2010-01-14T10:23:00.000-08:00

I have kept it secret long enough: I am a closet foodie. So closeted in fact, that I myself didn't consciously acknowledge it until about two years ago. I know, I know ... despite my obsessive ramblings about food on this blog, the photos of food I post, you never guessed.

I've always been fascinated by what people can do with food; by the colours, smells, ingredients, by food writing and especially by food photography. Initially, I think my interest was peaked by Enid Blyton's The Children of Cherry Tree Farm and other tomes of that ilk. Somebody was always sitting down to obscenely decadent teas with buttered scones, fresh bread and marmalade, various and sundry cuts of meat, both cold and hot, always dripping with fat and the ever present sponge cake. I couldn't read those books without having one or two (or five) snacks.

Also spent many a pleasant and hungry hour poring over the pics and recipes in MACO or Island Life. My favourite photos always featured seafood: glazed shrimp or sweet mussels or crab meat and lobster swimming in some rich herbed sauce. Irresistible temptations. Hadn't a hope in hell of finding 3/4 of the ingredients in my mother's kitchen (she's a very, very conservative cook) but I could dream, right? Now there's Google for all unknown ingredients. I hoarded stacks and stacks of colourful magazines, all because of the recipes that I'd never get to try out hidden at the back. The sophisticated home decor that I could never afford didn't hurt the cause either.

But the course of true love never did run smooth. My mother and I have many epic battles to choose from when we want to tell a funny story, but one of the more memorable involved my sister's irrational need for white space, a stack of dog-eared Island Life magazines and me threatening to throw out all my books along with the offending magazines, since she clearly didn't want me to increase my knowledge. Why read at all, I argued. I did win that battle, though. I think the magazines are still where I left them, even though I don't live in that room anymore.

God knows I had no desire to parlay this food love into becoming a chef. No, no, heavens to Betsy no. I enjoy cooking, but only when I really feel like it. Which isn't very often. I much prefer eating, or maybe just staring at a really good plating, trying to figure out how they constructed that tower, or how they carved those cucumbers into bowls. I like tasting elusive flavours and knowing what herbs they used, or how they softened the shadows around the plate for that amazing close up.

So why has it taken me so long to uncover the inner foodie? Simple answer - it was never an option in my before. Even though I had the passion, I never believed that anything would come of my secret food love except dog-eared magazines. I kind of got dampened by the secondary school system that told me all I could do with an A in A level English was teach English. Whoo hoo. No one ever presented other options to me: no one said, "hey, you don't need to be an overworked news reporter to write for a living! You can write about food and women's issues and beauty and fashion too."

Thank God I was determined to find a way to do something I loved, otherwise I'd probably be in some airless, chalk-dusty secondary school classroom torturing the students because of my own frustrated dreams. But what happens to those in school now who are presented with the same limited options, who follow the crowd when their classmates talk about doing masters, LLBs and Phds and all they want to do is write about food? I hope that the Food Network and Travel Channel have sufficiently softened up parents toward the industry, and toward creative industries on a whole. Not everybody is going to dive headfirst into (shudder) law, or medicine. Not everybody is meant to get a Phd in Biochemical Engineering and spend our days in a lab. Moms, dads ... some of us just want to sing, or act, or paint, or write. And eat.

Times Online 50 of the world's best food blogs
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/real_food/article5561425.ece

Finally ready to write about it

2009-12-30T17:44:00.000-08:00

I was robbed again last week Tuesday, December 23. I wasn't alone this time, which made it both better and worse. Chef Boyardee and I were liming outside my house. Two guys held us up at gunpoint and very politely took his car keys, wallet, phone and my phone. My poor darling is now traveling to work in POS from Chaguanas, sometimes after 10 pm.

I am not feeling traumatised, but I know I must be. I'm numb really. I kept asking myself, 'Again?' I asked God, 'Again?' I tell people that this is the second time this year I've been held up at gunpoint and I feel like a fool. Like its my fault. Maybe I didn't pray enough, or do enough good deeds. Maybe I haven't been to church three times a week this year. Maybe I should stay inside more often.

It was a struggle to leave the house, so I deliberately scheduled stuff to do this week. One thing everyday. On Monday, I couldn't wait to finish the interview and get back home; felt exhausted. On Tuesday, I was able to wander around the mall for a little bit before I felt like I was about to suffocate. Today, I went out on assignment, ate, came home, went back out to collect a cheque and had a small talk with a friend. Then I came home. Progress, incremental, but its there.

I have no moral, no words of wisdom today. I thank God I'm alive and that He has kept me and Chef Boyardee and will continue to keep us.

"For I consider that the sufferings of this present time (this present life) are not worth being compared with the glory that is about to be revealed to us and in us and [a]for us and [b]conferred on us!" Romans 8:18, AMP

I ended up painting alone ...

2009-12-17T19:09:00.000-08:00

WARNING: This post is quite late, having been written last year around November, but I thought I'd share it all the same ....

I dismantled scaffolding. By myself.

Ok no, not really. I dismantled 1/3 of the scaffolding by myself. Then the (male, Indian, way shorter than me) owner came, took one look at me and refused to let me do anymore, saying, "It's ok, I'll take care of it." I was sweating like a pig and very smelly, so I wasn't at all perturbed to stop dismantling and go outside. And breathe really deeply for a really long time.

Can we talk about blisters? Never had one before but spend a day with a roller in hand and what do you know?

Starting at the beginning: wanted a room painted in my new (to me) house so that I could FINALLY FINALLY move in. But the walls are really high, over 12 feet in some places, so my lil sis and I painted three walls as far as we could reach. It took us about two to three hours. Chef Boyardee came during the afternoon and did the last wall and a second coat on all four. He took roughly 45 minutes to do this, looking quite sexy all the while. I was a mess of paint and bad hair and pathetically unfit panting. No justice.

The second day of painting, everyone else was busy. So once the scaffolding was set up, I had to paint the second (top) half of the room by myself. Alone. I painted, sweated and stank, dragged the scaffold across the room a couple times, for about four hours, but I got it done. The room is now a blindingly beautiful mystic white.

That's where the dismantling comes in. If you are at all familiar with scaffolds, they are not rocket science. It's basically a huge 20-piece steel puzzle. Now my problem with dismantling the scaffolding was not the simplicity of taking it apart. It was the weight of the pieces ... and the tricky skill of moving them without (a) putting a huge gash into my newly painted wall and (b) not hurting myself. However, (a) was a priority over (b). So you know what happened. Pulled a muscle in my leg. Almost bust my toe. Hit my head so that I had a headache for a couple days (concussion anyone?). But I was getting it done, in between breaks. This is not to say that I wasn't happy the guy came and took over. I just wanted you to know that it was getting done, ok?

Would I do this again? Certainly! Not. I think it would cause me less grief to hire my brother and cousin and let them dismantle scaffolding.

Why I love him ...

2009-12-17T18:51:00.000-08:00

I was talking to Chef Boyardee about SOMETHING important (can't remember what it is now) and made reference to Bandit Man. As in, "that thing was in the purse that Bandit Man took."

Chef didn't ask me about the thing I lost, nor did he give my hand a reassuring squeeze in remembrance of my ordeal with Bandit Man. He instead asked me, "Why do you have to be so gender-specific?"

More about food ...

2009-12-16T11:24:00.001-08:00

Doesn't it just look scrummy? It's a vegetable stuffed chicken breast by Chef Sabrina Rosales of Executive Caterers. To the professional photogs out there, yes I know that there's a really harsh shadow under the food. I'm sorry. I will do better.

Ok enough advertising. We know I like eating food, but I also like photographing it. I'm still a relatively amateur photog, but I know I don't like event photography, not that into sports (although you can get some nice action shots) and there's only so much you can do with portraiture in a studio. But there's a million and one ways to plate a good-looking dish.

I grew up poring over magazine with recipes in them. The stories - yeah the stories were great, but when I hit the back section of Island Life where there were full page food spreads, I was in love. There's something about fine dining platings and presentations that appeal to me on a deep almost spiritual level. I wanted to know how the photographer produced that photo.

Years later and I'm still learning, still saving money to buy more equipment, although Rufus and Betsy (the camera and the flash) are serving me just fine right now. But I've been holding myself back from really pursuing food photography. I have no formal training in photo-take-outing. I only know a few chefs, I have no big name in the media business, no impressive set up - just me and mi camera and my ideas.

I take baby steps: suggest an idea to my editor here, brainstorm another idea there. Take my heart into my hands and walk a little further, expecting to get shot down and rejected or laughed at. And so far, I've gotten only help and acceptance. God has been good.

Tonight I'm going for sushi at Benihana with a friend. And I'm gonna be brave enough to take Rufus and Betsy along with me and see what we could rustle up. If you see a big rainbow roll in some magazine wit my name on it, doh be surprise, yes.

Let's all exercise

2009-12-15T14:31:00.000-08:00

I started jogging again a couple weeks ago ... well, to be truthful, I started walking briskly again a couple weeks ago. You see, I love food (is it any wonder that I'm in love with a chef?) and that love was getting out of control. When my portion sizes start to look like my 21-year-old brother's, I had to worry. In addition to the extra inches around my waist and the appearance of back fat. Yes, back fat at age 25. The horror.

So, hence forth eating the plain yogurt with fruit, very little bread, NO CAKE, lots and lots of water and fruit and exercise. What a time to start dieting. Christmas is traditionally a time of overeating for me; the only time of year that I used to truly pig out. So it's going to be a test of self control. I was whining the other day that I had more self control when I was 17 than I do now, but that's not strictly true.

When I was 17, I believed that I could change the world. I was young, energetic, hopeful. By my not eating meat, I could cause the entire exploitative chicken and beef industries to collapse within months. If I read Eric Williams' From Columbus to Castro cover to cover, the Caribbean History examiners wouldn't notice that I never got past page 5 of the actual course text book. If I exercised every single day, I could get through the hell that was sixth form without killing someone. Well, exercise and a daily cup of French vanilla coffee.

Now I'm not so convinced of my power. These days, I'm a lot more cynical. What's another twenty slices of cake going to do, huh? Even though I know that soft drinks give me the female equivalent of a beer gut, what's another Coke? What's another plastic bag at the grocery going to do to the environment? Why not drive to POS when it would be more cost effective to travel? I ask myself 'why not?' a lot more these days. And the back fat answered, 'THIS is why not.'

So I've been lazy...

2009-11-27T16:36:00.000-08:00

... and tired, and drained of ideas and generally unwilling to write. I have LOTS of stuff to write about. The problem is always where to begin: do I write about Guyana? Or do I talk about my ever-continuing struggle to write poetry in a disciplined way? How about the fact that I'm staring to panic about not having enough money to get married with? Or about having glimpses of a truth that hurts: being a full-time writer in Trinidad gets as much respect as being a full-time vagrant. But let us not digress into depressing subjects.

We're in the middle of the CHOGM, and I have a perspective I never thought I'd get: not smack dab in the centre, but definitely on the fringes (when is the media ever not on the fringes?), craning my neck to see the important stuff and the important people. I attended the first gala dinner on one of the cruise liners. I was not in a good mood; I'd just waited TWO HOURS to get my accreditation pass, then another half hour to get on the dratted boat because my name wasn't on the list and I had to call someone, who had to call someone else, who had to make another call, to get me in. Sigh.

SO anyway, I'm sitting in this opulent ballroom, surrounded by glitterati and not-so-glittering people (I don't think T&T media people know how to dress for a gala dinner), steaming and ready to leave before I got there. But slowly, slowly, I began to unwind. Because even though they stuck us at the back, we had a server who made me feel like there was hope for customer service. His name was Omar. He looked like he wanted to be there. He INTRODUCED himself WITH A SMILE. A revolutionary concept.

He then gave us recommendations from the menu (oh my God, no one does that here). Our food didn't come on time; before we were finished eating, they were ready to take our plates away and bring the next course. He and his assistant (oh didn't I mention that we had two servers waiting on us hand and foot?) hovered nearby ALL night. Every time my water glass got less than half full, it was miraculously refilled. He asked if we were alright, if we needed anything else, if he could spoon feed us our meals himself ... so I'm getting carried away now.

But because of Omar, I realised three things. One, this CHOGM is a good thing, if only to show T&T that our standards - in business, customer service, journalism - are sorely lacking and we need to step up our game to compete internationally. I went to a press conference where two local and three international journalists asked questions: the most important statements the PM made came after the questions from the foreign journalists. I would be mortified, but really, what did I expect? I certainly couldn't do any better at the time.

And two, that most of us, even those close to the proceedings, are not going to get what we really need to get from this conference. We're still caught up with the class structure, with the see-and-be-seen culture, with making ourselves LOOK good rather than acquiring genuine class. Some spit and polish and some street smarts. I work in media and I can tell you that during this whole proceeding, I feel like I don't belong there. Like I don't have a place or a voice at this conference that concerns me. Everybody who is supposed to be there is in touch with the issues, and has important stuff to contribute, important questions to ask. It feels like no one thinks that I, or anyone like me, is important. I'm just a black girl in a suit. That could just be my pet paranoia popping up, but it's something to consider.

And three (although this is not my own insight but something that I now see is true), the grassroots doesn't understand what the hell we're all doing wining and dining the Queen etc. in the cruise ship, or at Presidents' House or the Hyatt. All they know is that there's a party going on that costs a lot of money (their money included) and they not invited. And they are, understandable, quite upset about that: upset and ignorant, but whose fault is that? In the bank line today, the woman behind me said, "They coulda take all that money and give everybody two, three thousand dollars for Christmas. I coulda do with a two thousand." Have I made my point?

I'm baaaack....

2009-11-14T18:19:00.000-08:00

Short post: went to Guyana for a week, enjoyed it and hated it. Ate a WHOLE lot of fruits - mangoes, bananas, sapodilla, pineapple, melon ... Didn't miss the internet too much, actually. Got to see spectacular stuff many people will never see in their lifetimes. Witnessed some things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Also, got a wedding ring for Chef Boyardee (don't tell him, it's a surprise - and no, he doesn't read this blog). Tired, going to bed, will write again soon.

Relationships take work

2009-10-27T08:17:00.000-07:00

Relationships in business are a lot like romantic relationships.

There's the introduction where you either make a great first impression or the other person comes away remembering you for the spinach in your teeth or the fact that you didn't seem sure about the objectives of your proposal.

Once you get past that, there's a courtship period, where you find out the good, the bad and the ugly, and you decide if you can work with/live with this person. You ask yourself questions as you go along. Do you fit into where my life/my business is going? Are you reliable? Can I trust you? Will you be a support or a drain on my life/business? Does he have any taste in clothes, and if not, can I live with the Hawaiian shirt collection?

Then you start to notice the really annoying, nit picky stuff. She picks her nose constantly. He can't make a decision in under a week. She never has time to discuss the proposal because she's always very very busy mismanaging her time. He delegates and never gets involved in the nitty gritty work until the project fails because nobody knew what anyone else was doing and did everything twice. And you start to fight. And you fight again. And again. It doesn't matter if you whisper a few pithily vicious sentences or have a ring down shout-out in the car park. You will fight. A lot.

The last similarity on my list is commitment. Don't think it gets enough airplay, and it really is foundational in a relationship. If so many women can stay (wrongly) in an abusive situation, convinced that the man loves them, you can stick it out and learn to communicate better. Or to shut up with the out-of-timing comments. Or just to do what the boss says, or to at least listen to your employees' ideas on how to make the business better. Everything that can go wrong will, but your commitment can make a huge difference in how you approach the relationship. When you have no other options, you find a way to make it work. Make it work ... capiche?

Can you really communicate?

2009-10-20T19:17:00.000-07:00

The red band maxi screeched up beside me. I hopped in and asked the driver, "You going stright down to Port of Spain?"

"Well, it's not really straight, you know. I think it have a curve after Curepe, and I think it have one after Aranguez. So try it again, nuh? After three ... two ... three!"

"You going down to Port of Spain?"

"Well, Port of Spain isn't really down from us, you know..."

"Are you going to Port of Spain?"

"Yes! You finally get it right." We lapse into silence for the remainder of the drive.

The moral of the story? Communication is back-breakingly hard mental work. And if you do it right, you'll be exhausted.

Shameless self-promotion

2009-10-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

Never been a fan of shameless self-promotion. Most women aren't. We've been schooled to be nice, play fair and all will work out in the end. To say that you are good at so-and-so, or that you've achieved such-and-such and be openly proud of it isn't seemly. It seems so ... so ... shameless! But men do it, constantly and without compunction. I've discussed this with male friends and often, the reason they do what they do at work is to GET AHEAD, not because it's the nice thing to do. And they get ahead faster than we do. We haven't even begun to crack the glass ceiling, ladies.

I'm not the first to talk about this. Nearly 50 per cent of Penelope Trunk's blog deals with the benefits of self-promotion, especially through blogging. Simply put, it's good for your career. And in the short time I've been blogging, I've proved her right. I post a link to my blog on my Facebook page every time I publish. And its amazing to me that people actually read what I write. Furthermore, that they like what I write. I was stuck in the misguided belief that people would learn that I'm a good writer through my articles in a daily newspaper. And yes, I've had persons notice my work there and comment. But it's nowhere near the amount of interest and feedback I've had from this blog. And for a writer, having people know your name is equally, if not more important, than money. Because the more people know you, the greater the chance you'll be assigned scoops, get steady writing work and cushy editing gigs.

Lest you think that I'm a glory hog, let me clarify that while I'd love some fame and glory (who wouldn't?) one of my most elusive motivations for writing is feedback. I actually want to hear what other people think, get their opinions, inform myself about what's the real deal. I can say anything I want to in this space, but it doesn't mean that it's absolutely accurate. Or that I've covered all perspectives, although I try. It doesn't mean that I have found the best way to say something. But someone else may. And if I can tap into their creativity, it sparks my own.

Being educated and talking constantly with others is one of the things that will make me a better writer. All my knowledge comes to bear on what I produce, and the more I know and the better I can express that knowledge, the better I'll be at what I do. And hopefully, that translates into more publicity, more work and more money. I told you this post was about shameless self-promotion. But I'm ok with it now, strangely. The other day I remembered something Undine Guissepui, a great writer, English teacher and local legend once said, "Don't be afraid to blow your own trumpet, since no one else will blow it for you." Let's all take a deep breath and blow, shall we?

Discipline, Tolerance and Production

2009-10-15T21:57:00.001-07:00

I've decided to get more serious with this blog, although it's not in my nature to be completely serious about anything. Maybe a better way to put it would be this: I'm moving purposefully in a new direction, with this blog and with my life. For months now, I've had to make some pretty big decisions, and I've been waffling. Waffling. And a recent series of (not always unfortunate) events led me to an epiphany of sorts. And I've made up my mind. I am going to go live by myself, even though I'm afraid of the dark. I am going to continue freelancing for another year. And I'm going to give this blog a central subject: my life/struggle as a black female media worker/entrepreneur.

When I write it like that, it sounds boring and pointless. But a friend and I were talking today about the addiction to mediocrity in T&T media. Discipline, production and tolerance are our national watchwords, so we strive for that and no better. Certainly not excellence in writing, or in photography. And talking with her made me realise that I'm not alone in my wanting to do better, to be world-class right here in T&T. But to be world-class requires persistent discipline, consistent production (of quality) and deep wells of tolerance - for the constant closed doors, rejections, seductive pools of self-pity which I am prone to falling into. It requires vision, determination, ambition. All of which have been conspicuously absent from my life this year.

As I said before, I've been waffling. Since the incident with Bandit Man, I've been waffling more. I'm not blaming my procrastination on PTSD or anything, but I will say that my focus became even more fragmented. I'm finding it more difficult to function now. It's not as easy to haul ass when you become unsure about when something terrible will happen to you.

But I'm sure that I will never, never succeed at the level that I want to succeed if I do not push myself out into the deep. If I don't stop waffling and decide. I've committed to this life. I'm an entrepreneur in an economy that's not so hot right now. I'm a working female adult, which means I've got to face things like taxes, mortgages, bills and cleaning house instead of pretending that someone else will take care of these details. My fears are never far from me though; now, more than ever, they threaten to cripple my walk, silence my speech, blind me to what needs to be done. This is my commitment to fight them, to face them down. To survive.

Sushi!

2009-10-10T09:23:00.000-07:00

The first time my then-good friend, now-fiance (today we will call him Chef Boyardee) suggested we go out and try some sushi, I told him (snootily), "I don't eat raw fish." My mother would have been proud.

But then we got into a relationship, and you know that things are different when you're in a relationship. So, nose still firmly into the air, I agreed to try at least one piece of sushi. Since then, I've been eating most of the sushi we buy. And done most of the suggesting that we go for sushi.

The texture and taste of raw fish have seduced me. Salmon and shrimp, cream cheese, avocado and rou, shredded crab, tuna. Every time I go out to lime with a friend, I suggest sushi before they can blink and press its virtues upon them. I assure them that they won't be disappointed, I promise to foot the bill. I have had more sushi over the past two months than I've had pelau or doubles. And its almost as easy to get in Trinidad, surprisingly.

It's like we had a sushi boom over the past two years. Benihana's in Trincity mall does a very decent rainbow roll and their other stuff isn't too bad. Shamefully, I've tried nearly everything on their sushi roll menu. Have yet to try their signature sushi roll though. My Antiguan friend Nikisha, who has had sushi in London mind you, pronounced one of their rolls exceptionally good. I forget which it was, but there was salmon skin in there. Crunchy.

Hanami's near Movietowne's Fiesta Plaza is pretty good too. I give them extra points for presentation; the rolls came out on these really cool boat platters. And somehow, their wasabi seemed more potent, even though Chef Boyardee and I usually mix it into the soy sauce so that we still have throats after sushi binges.

But my all-time favourite (right now) is the Iron Chef roll at More Vino. Getting sushi at More Vino, mind you, is an Olympic event. If you don't get there by 6 pm, you probably ain't getting no sushi until 10, maybe not at all. Another friend of mine and I got there at 9, and they'd run out of rice. But Chef Boyardee and I tried out the Iron Chef roll on a lunch time - salmon, flying fish rou, crab meat, other yummy stuff. I popped one into my mouth and nearly fell off the chair. What was surprising is that the same thing happened to him (I'm very easy to please when it comes to food; as a chef, he's slightly more discriminating). That was about three weeks ago. Can you tell I'm pining for another taste?

My goal is to have tasted every single roll on every sushi menu in Trinidad and Tobago. And then to go back for seconds.

Love and marriage

2009-10-05T21:45:00.000-07:00

From small, I never intended to marry. I saw my future self in a penthouse suite, looking out over some city, small dog in my lap, enjoying life as a successful businesswoman/writer/something very important. I was a rabid feminist suffering from penis envy before I turned ten. Boys got to do all the exciting stuff. That's why I had more guy friends than girlfriends at one point. Boys got cool privileges, they gave better put-downs, made better paper airplanes, they were stronger and faster. They didn't get hurt and feel like crying like girls did. Girls were stupid, always trying to get some dumb boy's attention, always giving and never getting back. I remember seeing a girl kneel in front of a boy in primary school. He'd blackmailed her into begging him for something. And the rage that swelled I couldn't express verbally, so I leapt three feet into the air to stamp both feet on the ground. He laughed at me. Safe to say I thought men disgusting and inferior to me for a while. And I vowed never to be in a position of vulnerability to one of the evil creatures.

So it comes as more than a little bit of a shock here at 25 to realise that I've promised to marry someone. I have come a long, long, long way since primary school, but sometimes, I still don't see myself as a wife. Or as someone who admits to needing someone else, especially a stupid boy ;). But if I'm totally honest, I do need him. When he's not around, like now, I miss him terribly, terribly. He hates talking on the telephone but I make him do it because I want that connection everyday. I, once the personification of independence, who never liked being tied down in relationships before, actually want to have this person around ... like a lot. Like, all the time. And it's a scary feeling, even though I know he feels the same way. I'm vulnerable to him, and worse, he knows it. He knows exactly how to hurt me. To me, this is the equivalent of putting a claustrophobic person into a coffin alive.

I'm writing this because some women will think that I'm so lucky to be engaged now. Some women are thinking that this is the dream, the goal. The best thing that could ever happen to you. And there's nothing wrong with them thinking that and I accept all congratulations graciously; it's just that I was never one of those women. I planned to be alone, to have a series of monogamous relationships that always ended when I ended them. To adopt a child at age 30 and have my father be his or her primary male influence. And on the off chance that I did get married, the groom would have to love me way more than I loved him. So this relationship, even though I thank God for it, is not my dream come true. I didn't dream big enough to challenge myself to face one of my biggest fears; who would? It is part of God's plan for my life, but it's one of those parts I always had problems agreeing to. Here I am, agreeing. And it took work for me; it was hard to accept. I'm still accepting it. But every time I think about it, even when he makes me so mad I could stab something or somebody, he's still very very worth it. I love him. And that what makes this miraculous.

Make up your mind.

2009-10-02T08:12:00.000-07:00

It seems to be experiencing a resurgence in press, as it always does. It's always topical; the fight to legalise the termination of pregnancy (abortion).

On one hand, eminent member of the Jamaican academia Carolyn Cooper recently wrote an article that, in her usual spitfire style, consigns all those who disagree with legalising abortion to a a patriarchal hellfire. She begins her article by quoting, "If men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament." This is bullshit; men will never be able to get pregnant, so that 'point' is moot. Still, Carolyn continues her very pointed tirade, using the infanticide common in slavery and an anti-abortion law passed years after slavery was abolished to pontificate on how abortion is just another way to keep the black woman down. You can see how much love I have for Carolyn's style of expression.

On the other hand, one of my favourite bloggers Penelope Trunk twittered about a miscarriage she had at work, and said, "Thank goodness, because there's a fucked-up 3-week hoop-jump to have an abortion in Wisconsin." This post has caused a hoopla; what's more interesting, a hoopla in the country that fights tooth and nail to keep abortion legal not only on its own soil, but in the two-thirds world as well.

I don't agree with her views on abortion, but isn't this the height of hypocrisy? God help me if I should say publicly that abortion should not be legal, but I'm be put through the media mill for publicly admitting that I was considering one? Pro-choicers are up in arms! Why? She was too flippant! Is there such a thing as being too flippant in the USA? A country that glorifies flippant and sarcastic expression in books and blogs, news and essays and ads and everything else between? They invented the coolness of flippancy and then have the balls to shoot one of their own for practicing it. God bless America, but He blessed me more cause I wasn't born there.

http://www.jamaica-gleaner.com/gleaner/20090927/cleisure/cleisure5.html
http://twitter.com/penelopetrunk/status/4147262767

Ramblings..

2009-09-30T21:34:00.000-07:00

I haven't written is a while for many reasons. I've been emotionally exhausted, and that usually makes me physically tired. And when I get tired, I turn into a hermit who does not want to see/hear/smell people around me, including my own family sometimes. I also eat way too much cake, but that's a discussion for another time, when I don't feel so guilty for eating my weight in sugar over the past two days.

So ... I'm tired. Things aren't going as well as I would like in my career or in my personal life. I'm realising that I'm not as wonderful of a person as I always thought, and that I really do hurt the ones that I love by being selfish and own-way. I have very little actual money right now, even though there's money on the way. And to have my first smile of the day yesterday I drank a Smirnoff in less than two minutes. Just needed the buzz. And I got it. Now its gone.

And I ask myself, what is the point of your life? Why are you even here if you can't be bothered to be superwoman, clean your room and wash some clothes already while worrying that you don't have enough money to pay your bills or enough time to deal with the red tape of adulthood? And then I watched Rachel Price's most recent vlog on the crime in T&T. It brought home the truth; that there is a strong possibility that I could have been dead today. Not just because of Bandit Man and his gun. But I've almost drowned in a pool twice. I've been in two car accidents (yes I was driving both times). I've had unprotected sex with someone whose sexual history I was not sure about. So there are many, many, many things that God has kept me through and from to bring me to this place of absolute suckiness in my life, wher(yet again) I feel like I'm failing. Holding on to the fact that "all things work together for good for them that LOVE GOD and are CALLED ACCORDING TO HIS PURPOSE" is all that's keeping me from staying in bed all day tomorrow. And ordering out for alcohol.

Mother knows best

2009-09-17T07:04:00.000-07:00

I went to the licensing office today to get a duplicate of my drivers permit (stolen by Bandit Man in an earlier episode). Woke up pissed, having to go down the road pissed me off more, thinking of everything I had to do today put another layer on. The fact that my fiance was off work yesterday and didn't even text me is icing. My mom, who is home now, sees me pissed and refuses to let me go anywhere before I have breakfast. She fixed me ginger tea and warmed up some banana bread and sat me down AT THE TABLE. And I ate. And I felt like I could tackle life again. The end.

The reason I love freelancing

2009-09-16T14:22:00.000-07:00

It's been one of those sucky days, the kind of days that start off bad and move on to terrible within two hours, eventually ending up at what I like to call 'the toilet bowl of days.' I've had very little sleep since Sunday. I was late to EVERY SINGLE MEETING I had today. I nearly had to beg on my knees to get a photo shoot done; I did have to wait an hour before I could be accommodated. I canceled two appointments because I was behind schedule. I finished off my day in the rain, with wet pants cuffs, running to meet someone an hour behind our agreed time, hungry, tired and freaked out that someone was gonna try to grab my camera. But I'm home now, and I can curl up in my bed right now and not even think about tomorrow, because my boss just decided that I eh going nowheres.

Now open for viewing: Beyonce's crotch

2009-09-12T17:40:00.001-07:00

I was gonna write about my new hobby of eating raw fish, but I now have bigger fish to fry. I (was forced) to watch the MTV VMA awards last night and became waaaaaay too intimately acquainted with the width, colour, shape and size of Beyonce's crotch area. Now I'm all for the single ladies putting their hands up, but really? Did we have to go there with Beyonce? My girl walked to the edge of the stage and did a butterfly move that would make any dancehall queen proud, showing off a very well done Brazilian. And now not only is that moment recorded in the MTV archives, but it is permanently imprinted on my brain. And I don't want it there.

Wondering why this is such a big deal for me? Well, if you wonder that, I wonder why it's not a big deal for you. If that were your wife/mother/daughter/girlfriend/sister/cousin/you, no matter how talented you are vocally, does anything justify skinning your vagina wide open for public viewing on INTERNATIONAL television? Beyonce can create a buzz just by walking on the stage; I thought that that move and that outfit was just as much of a publicity stunt as Lady Gaga's bird's nest headgear and acceptance speech: "This is for God and the gays!" Only difference was, Beyonce was using her considerable sexuality instead of some feathers and political/moral issues. Because she gets paid thousands instead of hundreds or less, does that make what she did any different from what strippers do every night in dark bars near poles? I suspect that the strippers would say no.

All props to Beyonce for her talent, for her business sense, for becoming "the hardest working woman in show business," before age 30 abd for the sweet and gracious way she handled the Taylor Swift issue. But I contend that she could be all that and a side of corn WITHOUT flashing areas of her body best reserved for Jay-z's private viewing.

PS. What on earth is up with Lady Gaga? The next Madonna my big toe!

And the healing continues ...

2009-09-02T14:57:00.000-07:00

I've always been afraid of putting my poetry, my heart out there for someone to take a nasty bite out of. I read a lot at poetry reading in university, but never my own work. Guess what? You're getting a taste today:

Healing

To reject stronger opinions, well-honed argument.

To see brighter and better and be content with bright and good.

To love in immaculately flawed selfishness.

To question, to contradict, to argue without feeling sanity slipping away.

To sleep deep and long without guilt because I am tired.

To be alone and love it.

To allow myself to write the words I once would not say.

To know that there is a God. And that He loves me.

Transformed

Opening that gypsum ply door to be transformed into another life,

my other life.

Spectre of oversized spiders and dust linger,

waiting among the roof beams, warning me away from action, from falling,

from turning a key in that rotted lock.

When in opening this same door You have fed me the sweetness of sacrifice,

even as I am cradled by a fingertip.

A new language of rhythmic breath, of tidal consistency.

You feed me, clothe me with peace and shelter me with

a whispered promise that echoes.

How to spell love? With bite of tree bark into careless knees,

Or the satin kiss of a Julie mango? With silence so profuse,

my eyes overflow?

Simplicity, isolation, silence –all are gifts, media to transmit

the truth.

Your strength is seamless, soundless and unbreakable. And it is love.

abandoned...

2009-09-02T06:38:00.001-07:00

I haven't written since the robbery; I'm not sorry, just wasn't ready. It's hard admitting to myself that I was/am traumatised by that event. I have to remind myself of it every two days when I get angry at some trivial thing, or I feel like crying, inexplicably. I cried yesterday during devotions; woke up feeling heavy and depressed. Like a failure. Voices asking me if I really though I was going to be successful. If I really can keep doing what I'm doing and survive, financially and emotionally.

The facts are totally different to what I'm feeling; I am surviving quite well. I have work to do every week, so much so that its sometimes difficult to take a day off. But my spirit wasn't having any of that. Tried to shake it off, couldn't. I believe that God allows those feelings and moments of feeling absolutely crushed to drive us to Him, to the reality of His Son's provision for us. Jesus' death didn't just give us blessing to make money; there's provision, help for those who battle depression on a regular.

Realistically, if I feel like I can handle my life, that I could direct my own path successfully, I wouldn't feel like praying, or praising, or writing my morning pages. I would never acknowledge that Jesus is my source, because that sounds really kooky and fanatical. It's because I'm empty that I can be filled. And if nothing forces me to acknowledge how empty I am, I will pretend that I never need to be filled.

So I prayed, went onto youtube and listened to Donnie McClurkin sing Stand. And I cried. Because that's how I feel; like I've done all I can and its still not enough; not enough for me, my employers, my family, my boyfriend. Like I've poured myself out into sand and no one noticed. So the reassurance that He is standing with/beside/behind me was what I needed to hear. And the crying released a lot of nervous tension and bitterness. I'm not myself yet, but we're getting there.

(NB. Yes my devotions sometime include multimedia ;) check out these two videos. Their my favourites and always remind me who I am and Who is behind me.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dFWyCLNwgA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4KiGN1j1No

I've been reading the book of Acts. I started for ulterior motives; to find biblical proof that what we know as the Church today is fake and flawed at the heart. And I did find that the early Church was more open, more genuine, more in touch with the Spirit of God than we seem to be now. But it also brought home to me that they accessed God, reached out to Him, while fighting for their lives. They lived in a place that was hostile to them, their Way. Everytime the disciples tried to preach somewhere new, people tried to kill them, to run them out of town. And I've had to ask myself if I'm ready to walk the true Way?

The Church we know now is acceptable, palatable to most tastes. Those Christians worship in their churches on Sunday and are not easily recognisable during the week, unless they pipe up during work with a 'praise God.' But the early Christians went out into their communities. Yeah, they went to church when they were allowed to and they held plenty prayer meetings. But they were out of the church, being influences on their community most of the time. I don't know if I'm prepared to do that, to be that in my world. I'm not prepared to pay the price of losing credibility as a journalist, losing friends and alienating people, possibly opening myself to actual physical violence when I feel persecuted by just stumping my toe .

Reading Acts really stripped away what I thought the Church was and replaced it with a reality; it was like God saying to me, "this is what it means to follow Christ. It's dangerous, it's painful, but ultimately it's more important that your own life." And given the fact that I was considering doing the same thing for a lifestyle that I now believe was detrimental to my mental, physical, emotional and spiritual health and would have ended in suicide, why shouldn't I commit now to the Truth?

I Was Robbed!!

2009-08-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

Crime hit my doorstep on Sunday gone, so to speak. I got robbed ... at gun point. I think I look homeless most of the time, so I don't know what the bandit was hoping to get.

It happened actually two minutes walk away from my house. This dude coming pounding up behind me, shouting at me to stop and give him my bag and all my stuff. After I told the guy no, (I have no idea why I said that and I'm aware that that's kinda crazy) he pulled the handbag away from me. The strap broke and most of my stuff spilled out. And I have A LOT of stuff in my handbags. He turned away to pick up my phone (one cheap old mf motorola) and I stooped down real quick to pick up my (empty of any money) wallet. I just wanted to keep my cards. He walked off with the bag, which only had my DP, diary, some wet wipes, $15 and a book. The police found my keys in the middle of the road lower down. Nothing big, nothing worth dying over.

As he was walking off, some guys came driving from the other direction, saw him with my bag and saw him pull off his mask (yes he was wearing a mask). So they slowed down to look at him. He shouted something at them then shot at them to scare them off. THAT's when I realise 'wait the gun real' and I take off like Flo Jo in the direction of home. It's a good thing I had on sneakers. Fell down on my way there, bawling like a cow. The same guys picked me up and took me the rest of the way. One of the bullets hit a car parked on the street and the owner called the police. And nearly everybody in my neighbourhood heard me scream ;). I cried for about an hour. No joke.

The good thing is that the police came really quickly and took my statement. Its not the first time someone has been robbed near there, but I never took the stories seriously. I've lived here all my life, walked up and down COUNTLESS times. To be honest with you, I don't know if I'll do it again. But I tried to work this week like normal, even though I didn't feel human a lot of the time.

The most important thing is even though it happened, I'm not asking God why me. It really doesn't matter in the grand scheme. Plenty other people, richer and poorer than me get robbed and killed everyday. But His hand covered me and I got away without a scratch; that's a miracle when I consider the fate of a maxi driver who, when held up, reached for his money and was shot needlessly, senselessly.

I also want to say that despite our differences and the things I wish I could change, I LOVE MY MOMMY! While running home, she was the first person I wanted to see to comfort me. She held me, drove me back to go get my spilled cosmetics, and made sure I ate and bathed that night and the following day when I was still in shock. In an earlier post I was angry and what I wrote reflects that. I'm not taking it back, but when you judge me, remember that the scales are balanced in my mind. Come hell or high water, my mom is for me and I am for her.

Meditation 2

2009-08-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

Isn't it great to have friends? Like real friends, who you can be authentic with? I needed to talk today, so I called up a pal of mine and she came over and we gabbed for about an hour, maybe more. we don't do the usual girl talk stuff, although we do talk about men etc. She and I talk a lot about our process as artists and as Christians. In many spheres, putting those two words together ('artist' 'Christian') is an oxymoron, so we've had to navigate a new space for ourselves, one that does not exist in Christendom, nor outside of it. How do you become a successful Christian poet or novelist? Pioneering over here...

Anyway, I was rattling off about a million miles a minute about my problem with church these days; the doing, doing, doing without admitting to ourselves where we are in our lives and in our relationships with God. If you're always "too blessed to be stressed" you're not being authentic. ALL relationships have rough patches and dry spells and parts where you're spitting mad because of something the other person has done. Why is our relationship with God different? True love doesn't feel good all the time, true love COMMITS. But I digress.

I cannot be in ministry right now; I am doing so much mental excavation, so much mental and emotional work toward becoming a more (successfully) creative person/writer, that I don't have the energy to be the head of a church ministry. But honestly? That's all I know. That's all I remember seeing from my parents. In fact, the year that my father stopped going to church (ostensibly because he was growing his new business, but I know that something deeper was going on) I was shattered emotionally and spiritually. It was simultaneously damaging and (later on) liberating to realise that one of my parents was HUMAN. That he was hurt by something that happened an pulled away from it, even something that's supposed to be good for you, like church.

We talked about a bunch of other things too; she critiqued some new poems I've done etc etc. But the thing that stuck with me most was our examination of an authentic life: where to find it, how to get it and who to tell about it! Part of my authentication is writing honestly, without self-censorship. Being true to the way that I experience life, to my real emotions, not the watered down versions for public conmsuption; to my dialogues with God, and getting very honest with God as well. I think He wants our honesty; He doesn't mind when we disagree, when we criticise. Because when we do that, it opens our minds to see the truth. And He is truth, just like He is creativity and He is life.

So I'm angry ... so what?

2009-08-10T19:44:00.001-07:00

My mother is one of the reasons why I self-censor when i write, speak, THINK ... Now I love my mom, probably more than anyone else in this world right now, but there are things about her that I l have great hatred for. Like her inability to see reality, to see that I am human and I am making mistakes and I am thinking saying things that may not be right, but should not be brushed aside as if they don't exist.

No, Mom, I was not 'heated' when I was 14; normal adolescent girls have hormones. I wish you'd taught me how to control them, rather than induce fear and humiliation regarding those feelings. I subsequently suppressed them only to have them break free at university. Yes, mom, I lost my virginity at university, and a lot of my innocence. But I can't talk to you about that because you don't want to hear it. Yes, mom, I really have a problem dealing with my brother and I frequently get angry at him and/or feel like you still treat him as if he's five when he's 21. No, I'm not talking to him. I'm sorry that this upsets you; it's not a fete day for me either. Yes, mom, I sent in a resignation letter to the church we've all attended most of my life. No, I'm not turning my back on God. Yes, mom, I'm moving out of your house while still unmarried, getting a dog and living alone. If you have a problem with this, I strongly suggest that you deal with it internally, because I need another of your guilt trips like I need an STI.

Mom, talk to me.

Why am I writing this here? Aren't I afraid that this will get back to her and she'll be hurt? Right now, I wish that she would read it. I want to hurt her with this reality. Maybe then she will finally see me, instead of the sad, irresponsible, dimwitted, soiled dove she thinks she has for a daughter.

Should I worry...

2009-08-10T15:46:00.000-07:00

... if my boyfriend reminds me of both my parents? I think I should.

Meditation

2009-08-08T11:23:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to read a book called The Artist's Way, by Julia Cameron. A friend kept mentioning it in conversation (like she was tryna drop me a hint nah) so I say lemme buy the book and read it. Started off in cynical mode because the woman sound like the epitome of artsy-fartsy: "Art is a spiritual transaction" and "I am here because 'art' brought me here. Obedient, I came." Real cuckoo stuff, right?

Turns out that the woman talking directly to me, peeps. Two of the most constant things I remember in my life are the overwhelming desires to read and to write. I am a freelance journalist, so I do write for a living. Problem solved! Nope. Because my creative writing, the writing of my heart, which is poetry, just wasn't happening. I gave up on becoming published, on ever writing any good free verse at all. I resigned myself to pounding out two to four features a week for the rest of my life. And anyone in media can tell you, that gets tedious REAL fast.

So in the middle of my annual mental burnout, I read the first chapter. And this women, who I was mentally mocking, start to minister to me, dread. I not lying, it started to get spiritual! Yeah, I is a Pentecostal Christian and all, but I never expected to have an encounter with God when reading about removing my mental block toward writing. But Cameron has convinced me that being creative is allowing yourself to become a channel for God. For those who don't share my theological beliefs, she calls it another name. But the idea is that there is Someone bigger than ourselves that inspires our own creativity. And that we artists: writers, painters, photographers, chefs, musicians, anyone who wants to be more creative but suffers a block, need to go through a process of creative recovery.

I know I sound like a maniac right now. But hear this: within the first week of doing the book's exercises, I had written two poems. Within three week, I'd written five. I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING OF WORTH IN ABOUT EIGHTEEN MONTHS! So, I'm sticking to the book, yes.

Po Em Tree

2009-08-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

Still in draft, but anyway...

A Funeral in Chaguanas

Shades of white, white lightly smudged across from my catholic chair, facing

three camps of sorrow, thick and purple around throats, held tightly

in tense fingers

The calm pale priest, trying to soften stone-held grief

with a forgiveness cooling.

His friend’s unvarnished true-grain of a eulogy:

“Dexter didn’t deserve to die like that,” and everybody nod.

Later, we mourners stand helplessly

and comfort each other by picking apart the weft of his life,

selecting memorial strands to hold as our personal tombstone.

Goodbyes need not be said at graveside.

I own a knife

2009-08-07T18:31:00.000-07:00

It's not a large knife. It has a pretty blue and purple handle. I bought it in an adult toy store.

When I introduced a couple of friends to 'the knife' (I haven't named him/her yet) they raised eyebrows to the sky and said faintly, 'Oh wow' and 'Uh huh' and stuff like that. When I told them where I bought it, one went, 'I don't need to know anymore.' But I just want YOU to know (even though she didn't let me tell her), it was all innocent. The adult toy store people knew that I just came to get a knife and nothing else - yet.

Why did I buy the knife? I don't have a car, I use public transport a lot here in Trinidad. And a good bit of crime happens in taxis here. A family friend was shot and killed while driving a maxi; totally senseless. Wanted to feel safer as a woman alone, traveling. Do I know how to use it? Not really. But the thought counts, right?