Jump up 'n wave!

Happy Caribana, folks!

Have a good, safe time and we'll have to exchange blogs next week.

Enjoy!

Love, Island Style

This one is for you Solitaire! I know you’ve been asking me about this for a couple of years…

**************************************************

The sky was already dark when Winston pulled up to Beverly’s parents’ home. He turned off the ignition and got out of the car and she instantly remembered how she felt the first time they meet.

“How yuh doin’, Bev?” he asked. She was sitting on the front porch in a t-shirt and shorts.

“I’m alright. I heard from Pablo this afternoon. He emailed me – he’s coming back next week.” Winston cringed slightly when Beverly mentioned his brother’s name.

“Next week, huh?” He sat beside her. “Boy, you, I’se surprised he remembered to say anything to you—“

“He just gave me his flight information,” she said sadly. Pablo and Beverly’s relationship had changed so drastically from when he proposed to when he got on the plane and headed off to New York last month for business. He used to buy her gifts, take her on day trips to St. Lucia or just go to the movies.

Now, if he wasn’t too busy with his job at the bank, they may go out for dinner.

“Winston, I don’t know if this is right,” Beverly said gently. She caressed his hand. “I don’t know what Pablo would say if he knew I was with you.”

“Let’s tell him, then!” Winston said. “Beverly, we can’t go on like this. I want to be with you, but we’re here running around and hiding. Man, Pablo ain’t even minding us!”

He got up and walked to the front gate. Flowers climbed the trellis that decorated the wrought fence. A soft breeze blew his white linen shirt, exposing his hard stomach. She could tell that he was frustrated with the situation. He knew the lies that Pablo had told -- all the young women he had picked up at the Boatyard and After Dark. But he couldn't bring himself to use that to get Beverly to commit to him. He wanted to tell her, but he knew that would hurt her too badly.

“We have to talk about this, but this is not the place.” Beverly joined him, her dark hair swirling seductively around her face. Winston grabbed her hand.

“I love you. That’s all I know… that’s all I care about.” He kissed her under the starry Bajan sky.

“Winston!” Beverly exclaimed, her breath coming in short pants. “I can’t believe you would do that! Suppose Hyacinth or my mother was nearby? My mother would cut my tail!”

“I know, I know.” He grinned and caressed her cheek. “So, when can we talk?”

“Tomorrow at two. I’ve got ta go into town tomorrow, so meet me in front of Cave Shepherd.”

“OK.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you all the way into St. Philip,” she said.

"Man, don't worry about da' dey." He kissed her forehead. "I'm goin' by Ricky to watch some cricket. He's just down the gap from you. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He opened the gate, jumped into his Mitsubishi, honked the horn and left.

"Beverly! Who was dat?" Her mother asked through the window.

"Just Winston. I told him that Pablo was coming back," she said, returning to her seat on the verandah.

"OK. You doan stay out dere too long. The centipedes out and biting hard."

"Yes, Mummy." Beverly didn't know how to handle this situation. While she loved Pablo, she tired with his foolishness -- she knew about the women at the clubs near town. Pamela had seen a lot and reported a lot back to Beverly. He thought she was some silly, naive country girl because she was out in St. Philip, but that was certainly not the case.

Beverly was not silly at all -- just too trusting at times. She had recently finished her studies in England and landed a job as an accountant at a top financial company in St. Michael. She had bought a piece of land and was planning to build her own home – until Pablo proposed last year.

Her mother, Ms. Brathwaite, was so excited that her daughter was marrying the Forde’s oldest son that she practically pushed them together.

Then Winston came back from Florida. He had been a quarterback during his studies at the University of Florida. He came back to Barbados, muscular and more handsome with an Engineering degree.

She reminisced about the night they first met. Just before Christmas, Pablo's mother, Ms. Forde, had decided to have a holiday get together at the house. The food and drinks were flowing and Beverly had just finished helping in the kitchen when Winston walked into the room. She stopped in her tracks and ran her hand through the drop curls she had painstakingly created in her hot bathroom.

“Ooh goosh!” her Trinidadian friend, Pamela, said. “Is that Pablo?”

“No, girl, dat’s not him.” Winston looked in her direction and smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth.

“Well, move aside, ‘cause he’s liking what he sees and I’m a single girl.” Beverly smiled back at the good-looking man in the red dress shirt and black pants and wondered who he was.

Winston immediately needed to know who the woman with the ringlets was. She looked like an angel in the white dress she was wearing.

“Man, you mudda know some good-looking women, man,” said his buddy, Ricky.

“Fuh troot, looka dat one in de white dress. Boy, you!” Winston said. “American girls look good, but nobody doan fill out a dress like a Bajan woman.”

“Fuh troot.”

The evening went on with Winston and Beverly checking each other out, but not speaking. Beverly looked at her watch – it was minutes to ten and Pablo still hadn’t arrived. Why did the blasted man invite me to this ting to not even show up? she thought. This was happening more and more and Beverly was getting more frustrated and annoyed by it. She picked up a piece of sweetbread and began to nibble at it.

“Beverly, sweetheart, I want ta introduce you to Pablo’s little brother,” Ms. Forde said. Beverly turned around to see the same young man in the red shirt. “Bev, this is Winston.”

“Hi Winston.” She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Millicent! Dem boys out front drinking Banks and carrying on foolish!” An older woman yelled from the front.
“You two get to know each other and I’ll be right back. These blasted thrilden does make me sick, I tell you.” She sucked her teeth and went outside to chastise her two youngest children.

“So, you’re the girl my brother’s been telling me about,” he said. Boy, Pablo does know how to pick ‘em, he thought.

“I guess so,” Beverly said shyly. “Why haven’t I met you before?”

“I was away at school, but now I’ve finished and I’m back home. At least for the summer – I don’t know what my plans are just yet,” he said.

“What did you study?”

“I’m an electrical engineer, so, man, the sky’s the limit. I can stay here and work for the government or I can go back to Florida. What about you? I know my brother isn't dating a sweet woman!" They laughed.

"I'm an accountant for Ernst & Young. I just started a couple of months ago."

"Do you like it?"

"I do." She began to describe her job and Winston seemed interested. He asked her questions and wanted to find out more. Beverly was in shock -- Pablo never seemed to care too much about what she was doing. As long as she looked nice for his company events and got along with his parents he was happy.

"Man! So, yuh finally meet de wife!" Pablo bellowed walking towards them with Pamela.

"Wife? Bosie, I don't see neither a ring, so she 'pon de market!" Winston said, hugging his brother. "And iffen you doan hurry up and marry ta she, I gwine tek she off yuh hands." Both were very attractive men, but total opposites. Winston took after his mother with skin that looked like it was covered in chocolate, while Pablo was his father's child -- a golden complection with light brown eyes.

"How you, sweetie?" Pablo kissed Beverly on the cheek. "Sorry I'm late. Tings at the office ran late."

Beverly smiled. "No problem." The group chatted for a while as the party started to thin out. Pamela yawned and stretch out of the chesterfield.

"Pam! Sleep catchin' up to yuh?" asked Pablo.

"I'm tired. You Bajans can fete--" she began.

"I know you, a Trini, ein sayin' nuffin' about Bajans and feteing," said Winston, laughing.

"Come, Pam, I'll take you home." Beverly checked her watch, 1:03 am. The men walked Beverly and Pam out to Beverly's small red hatchback. They were saying goodbye when Pablo's cellphone started ringing. He looked at the screen.

"Business calls. I'll talk to you later, Bev." And he headed back into the house.

"Business, my ass," said Pamela getting into the passenger's seat.

"So, Ms. Brathwaite," said Winston leaning into the car window. "I know I'll be seeing you again real soon."

"It was nice meeting you," she said as she turned on the car's ignition.

"Nice meeting you too. You take care, alright? Bye, bye, bye!"

Pamela was grumbling as they shot down the road. "You know dat was no business call, right?"

"I know. I know." But Beverly didn't want to talk. She had Winston on the mind. Beverly Brathwaite! You are a disgusted woman for thinking about your boyfriend's brother! But Winston was all the things Pablo certainly wasn't. She sighed and drove quietly through the roads of Barbados.

Today, though, Beverly was not chastising herself about Winston. She went inside the house and heard her parents bickering over some trivial thing. That's what she wanted in 30 years -- just to squabble over painting the cabinets. She didn't want to worry about whose bed Pablo's shoes were under.

What was she going to do? Pablo was coming back next week. She looked at the one-carat diamond engagement ring on her finger and she began to weep.

What will happen next? Will Beverly declare her love for Winston? Will she stay with Pablo? Look for the next installment of Love, Island Style.

More women delaying motherhood until 30s

I certainly didn’t need Statistics Canada to tell me this.

I’m almost – scratch that, just call me 30, ‘cause my birthday’s around the corner.

When I was younger, I totally expected to be married by 25 and a mother sometime after that.

I’m a little late.

I’m not married and I have no children. The majority of women I know are in the same place.

It only makes sense in today’s society to wait to have children. If you want a career, you need a post-secondary education, so that’s another three or four years just for a bachelor’s degree.

After the degree, you wanna start the career. My first job in journalism was a contract that paid minimum wage. I was the working poor. How in the name of peace was I going to support a baby if I could barely afford to buy subway tokens?

Really.

When I was about 25 or so, a study came out saying that the optimal age for childbearing was 21 and after that age women were going to find it harder to conceive and have healthy, normal children.

I could hear the weeping in the streets by all the professional women who want kids, but needed to start their careers first in order to support said children. Factor in finding a decent man, 'cause it's pretty easy to have children with a worthless man, a little more difficult to have a child with someone who will help you support the baby.

At 21, I was in a university lecture hall, not a birthing centre. I was in no way ready to have a child. And who was I having this child with? If I wasn’t ready to have a baby at 21, the young men I knew would have been taken away by Children’s Services.

And even the women who weren't in university, they have reasons for not having a child at 21. For those of you who did have kids early, that's great and you're probably better women than me, 'cause I don't know if I was even emotionally ready then to sacrifice myself for a child... but that's another blog.

So, now, Statistics Canada – and all these media outlets – are telling me that women are waiting until their 30s to have children.

Duh.

Tell me something I don’t know.

Tagged again…

MarloGirl tagged me on this one. Here goes:

Ten years ago, I had finished my first year of Concordia University and I was tired. That was about it for 10 years ago. Met Mr. Heartbreak, who swept me off my feet, literally only to drop me on my tail, figuratively, a year later. Eight years ago was much more interesting…

Eight years ago, I was going into my last year of university. I started my first summer job ever (the Quebec economy was no joke and jobs were hard to come by) at Mr. Rapps’ factory in St. Laurent, Quebec. Suffice it to say, Mr. Rapps was a disgusting, mean brute who, if slavery hadn’t been abolished, would have chained me to a table and forced me to stuff athletic knapsacks with hard brown paper.

Wretch.

That year, I cut off all my hard and rocked a short, Halle Berry style for the first time. I asked my friend, who accompanied me to the salon, “so, how does it look?”

“It looks good, girl! I love it!” she said. I was on a happy high with my freshly shaved and shaped hair until I waltzed into my parents’ house.

My father was horrified. “I had two girls! Not a girl and a boy! You had good hair, why did you cut it off? Then you’re going to want to put someone else’s hair in your head!”

A few months later, when I reached the uncomfortable ‘in-between’ stage (and I was well too poor to go back to the salon bi-weekly to get it shaped and cut again), I was wearing someone else’s hair. Braids.

Saw Mr. Heartbreak again and while I still was smitten with him, I didn’t let him know how I felt. If he wanted to be with me, as an acquaintance named Tracey told me, he would be with me. He flirted, I smiled. He left with his girlfriend, I left with my pride.

Five years ago, I was working at the Toronto Star and I had a love/hate affair with the place. I loved the fact that I had the opportunity to report for the largest paper in Canada, but I hated the fact that for all the talk of diversity and giving young people a chance, the only young people getting chances were the ones who didn’t look like me.

I had been offered, verbally, a job in the Life department earlier that summer. My contract was almost up and it would have been an amazing experience to work in the Life department. Some of my best stories had been printed front page, I had gotten plenty of positive reader feedback and commendations from veteran reporters who liked what I was doing.

Well, ain’t nothing set until it’s in writing. When I approached the then Life editor about her offer of a job, she sat me down.

“I was meaning to talk to you about this,” she said as she sat at her desk. “Ummm, this is very hard to do.”

“What’s going on?” I squeaked out. I hadn’t even tried to look for a job because I thought I had this in the bag. I started to get nervous.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t give you the job. We (the editors) have had discussions and we offered the position to [INSERT NAME].”

Well, ain’t that a *bleep*?

Mr. Man who was offered the job to didn’t like to come in to work at all. He would use the taxi coupons they gave us to run around the city while reporting to carry his drunk tail home after a night of drinking. He would give in about one feature a month, if they were so lucky. I had numerous stories on the go with a bunch in my head that I hadn’t started on.

Boy, success isn’t about merit, is it?

I got up, trying to be professional and I walked out of her office. I got my purse, and, although it was only about 11 o’clock in the morning, I was done for the day. I called my mother and cried. Then I headed over to my friend’s apartment and proceeded to bawl.

I learned a lesson that summer, if you haven’t signed the contract, the job is NOT yours.

One year ago, life was good. I was dating a nice blockheaded boy and enjoying hanging with my friends. The job was kicking my tail, but I started taking a writer’s course at University of Toronto and I realized how much I missed putting my thoughts down on paper. So, I picked my manuscript back up and started writing again… and finished my book earlier this year. The end of the year was hard, RIP auntie.

Yesterday, big sis and I went shopping for her birthday accoutrements and some stuff for Pops. We went home and watched an interesting ABC News documentary series, Hooking Up, which followed 11 women who were searching for love online. There are some… unique people out there.

Today, I’m at work. It’s pretty quiet here this week, so I can entertain y’all with a blog.
Later today, the boyfriend and I are doing some shopping for a baby shower and we’re going to watch some movies and eat pizza. Yum.

Tomorrow, it’s the birthday of big sis. We’re gon’ celebrate in style, crack some jokes, get our hair did, go out for dinner and be merry.

*********************

Five snacks I enjoy

• Summer ripened cherries
• Strawberries
• Chocolate truffles
• Starbursts
• Baby carrots

Five bands/singers that I know the lyrics for MOST of their songs
(I’ve only got two for you…)

• Mary J. Blige
• Fred Hammond – I know a lot, most would be stretching it.

Five things I would do with $100,000,000

• Give most of it to charity – what the heck am I going to do with all that cash? I can’t possibly spend it. Some good upstanding children’s charities, the Humane society, the Canadian Cancer Society and the Heart and Stroke Foundation would get most of it.
• Pay off all my debts, my mortgage, the mortgages of all my family. Start college funds for all my under-aged cousins.
• Take all my friends – the friends I have right now – and do an all-expenses paid 14-day cruise.
• Travel – touch every Caribbean island, go to Africa, South America, parts of Europe. Heck, I’d go anywhere I wanted to.
• Buy a house in Barbados, a condo in Miami, a townhouse in Toronto and a bungalow in Montreal and decorate!

Five locations I’d like to runaway to

• South Beach, Miami
• Puerto Plata, DR
• Tahiti
• Bahia or Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
• My own little island that I'd buy with some of the $100,000,000

Five bad habits I have

• Cracking my joints
• Sucking my teeth at everything (especially at work)
• Not returning phone calls
• Not realizing that it’s not always about me
• Shopping when I know I shouldn’t (and the Lord has chastised me about that, so I’m on a shopping embargo. Sniff. And STC is having sidewalk sales.)

Five things I like doing

• Writing
• Reading
• Hanging out with friends and family
• Being outside in the summer
• Doing new things, like the chocolate course I took last Saturday. Fun!

Five things I would never wear

• A fur bikini top. Laugh, but I saw someone wearing a pink one at Warner’s Denim event two weeks ago. It’s just not right.
• Clear heels. Need I say more?
• Booty shorts.
• Any pair of pants/shorts that have ‘juicy, booticilious, sexy, hot mama, cherry’ or anything of that ilk on them.
• Navy blue. Just not a fan of the colour.

Five TV shows I like

• America's Next Top Model
• Law & Order: SVU
• The Apprentice
• Girlfriends
• American Idol

Five movies I like

• Malcolm X
• The Best Man
• The Harder They Come
• Bram Stoker’s Dracula
• Dancehall Queen

Five famous people I’d like to meet
(This one’s hard too, ‘cause I really don’t love off any celebrity to the point that I want to meet them.)

• Oprah. She’s cool and I’d beg her to feature my book in her book club.
• E. Lynn Harris and Omar Tyree. I wanna pick their brains about writing and publishing.
• LL Cool J. He’s hot and he’s got staying power.
• Michael Jackson. I wanna slap some sense into him.
• Alicia Keys. She just seems like a cool young woman.

Five biggest joys

• Summertime
• Knowing that Jesus has my back
• My parents and family
• Writing
• Knowing that I have people around me who love me

Five favourite toys
(I only have three…)

• MP3 player
• DVD player
• A pad and a pen

Five people I’m tagging
(I can only think of four - KJ and MG tagged the rest ;))

• SepiaDreams
• Campfyah
• Lady Abena
• Letetia Nicole

Romantic Realism - Bag lady

Man, I haven’t done one of these in a minute. Let me dust off my mic and clear my throat. Welcome to the Urban Sista Show!

I love reading other Black women’s blogs.

I guess getting a glimpse of what people are thinking, doing, living is kinda cool. And knowing that these sisters span the globe, one in Venezuela, one in Atlanta another in New York…

It’s global, but our issues, drama and joys are so much the same.

Today, I was reading a young woman’s blog – she had been at the Sugar Water Festival with Erykah Badu, Floetry, Jill Scott and some others in her home cit. Ms. Badu must have done her Bag Lady song because this person was commenting on her own baggage.

We all have baggage and it’s so similar: the person who broke your heart when you were young and vulnerable… or old and vulnerable. I remember the day my outlook on love changed… and the day that I saw how I could be treated and how I should be treated.

When he broke my heart I was young and impressionable. I didn’t know what real love was. I mean, I had watched enough Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place, read countless romantic fiction novels and listened to enough R&B love jams to think I knew what love was about.

When I met said dude who drove a stake through my heart, I thought it would be all sunshine and roses.

It wasn’t.

And I carried that pain around for years. He was young, just like I was and I don’t think he truly realized how his actions would have hurt me. I mean, he didn’t know me or what I was going through emotionally. I sure as heck didn’t know him (a few conversations and being carried to a car does not a soulmate make).

So, instead of thinking, he’s just not that into me, I internalized all that mess and became bitter and depressed. I only know realized that I was going through some serious changes and probably should have spoken to a professional.

For a few years after that, I dealt with some questionable characters. No one too shady, but I was looking for love without loving myself and all that Oprah, self-help stuff that gets to be corny after a while.

But it was true.

Baggage? I had some Samsonite and Louis Vuitton cases up in the mix.

The biggest one? Are you talking about the big, red, steamer trunk over in the corner? That was my self-hatred. And if I couldn’t love myself, which decent guy was going to want to love me? I was going to continue attracting the losers until I realized what I was worth and unpacked that luggage.

So, now, I’m not baggage free, but I've only got some carry-on luggage.

I opened every piece of baggage and took everything out, piece by piece, examined it and gave it to Goodwill, ‘cause I had no more uses for it.

It’s hard to cart that baggage around and it’s hard to meet someone who wants to deal with the stuff you’ve got strapped to your back.

Two weekends ago, I saw Mr. Heartbreak at a Warner event I went to. I was kinda shocked to see him there; I didn’t know that was his thing. When he saw me, his lips folded into a smile and he hugged me.

And you know what?

I didn’t feel a damn thing: no anger, no excitement, no sadness. It was like running into someone I used to work with.

“You look amazing, as always,” he said, turning on that same disarming charm that worked on me before.

“Thanks,” I said. I knew I looked good, tell me something I don't know.

We chitchatted for a couple of minutes and my girlfriends and I decided to make moves to another part of the venue.

“OK, well, I’ll see you,” he said, still smiling. I smiled back and walked off with the girls.

And left that piece of luggage right by the bar.

Spicy and hot are two very different things

This afternoon, I went looking for lunch at Scarborough Town Centre. I didn’t feel like Bourbon Grill or Mrs. Vannelli’s. I wanted something different… something homecooked… something… yum, West Indian.

I hurried over to Calypso Island Grill.

Usually, the most I buy from this restaurant is some fried plantains, but today I felt like some good West Indian grub.

So, I got some chow mein, Calypso chicken (spicy) and plantain. I should have turned the other way when I saw ‘calypso’ in front of the chicken. The last time I dined on ‘calypso’ chicken was years ago on an Air Canada flight to Barbados. The so-called calypso chicken was stewed chicken with pineapple and almonds.

Now, really, any West Indian reading this would know that we don’t use pineapples in cooking unless we’re making a sweet and sour chicken dish or pineapple upside down cake. And almonds? Unless you’re making a marzipan for your black cake, almonds are snacks, not ingredients for a meat dish.

But I digress.

Anyway, I began to eat the chicken and slowly the heat began to blaze in my mouth.

Lawd’a’mercy! De fire burnin’ troo my mouth! Lawd call de fire brigade!!! Dear Lord, my taste buds are exploding one by one from the intense heat!

Now, I’m not one who is scared for a little heat, but I understand West Indian cuisine to be flavourful, not just plain hot.

Scratch that, it wasn’t even hot; it was causing first degree burns on my tongue, lips and down my throat.

I leave that foolishness to the folks who make hot sauce with skull and crossbones on it. I don’t deal with that mess. I like food that has flavour, not food that’s blistering your tongue with scotch bonnet peppers.

So, when I read spicy, I’m thinking of some yummy West Indian seasoning – you know, the green stuff your mom/grandmother/auntie keeps in a glass jar in the fridge. It’s onions, thyme, garlic, salt, pepper – a dash of pepper, not an entire set of hot peppers – and slathered on everything from red snapper and flying fish to roast pork and fried chicken.

It’s what makes West Indian food ‘spicy’ as opposed to people who jook a big set of pepper in the food and try to pass it off as West Indian cuisine.

I’m vex, ‘cause I’m sitting here with $8 (yes, $8, chupse) of food that I’m scared to eat for fear long tears start to roll down my face because the heat is too much for my poor belly. It burn me going in and I pray it doesn't burn me coming out.

From now on, I will stick with my plantain and leave all that so-called ‘spicy’ meat to those with flame-retardant tongues.

I only wish I could get my so-and-so money back.

Chupse.

Every action has a reaction

My sister burst into my bedroom this morning asking me if I heard what happened in London.

Half-asleep, I said, “what? Something happened?” I checked my alarm clock, 7:38 am. Yes, I like to sleep to the very last second before getting up for work.

“Turn on the news,” she said as she hustled out.

I flipped to CNN to see pure confusion in London. Bloodied people, a double-decker bus that looked like King Kong ripped it in two to see inside. I saw images of commuters covered in soot who were trapped underground in the subways.

And I said to myself: Damn. What the heck is going on?

What is the world coming to?

I sound like my mother, but you would think sometimes there is no safe haven. Everyone’s on edge ‘cause you don’t know when it’ll be your country’s turn for some terrorist action and you’ll be running from a burning building or trapped on an exploding subway train.

Someone on BlackPlanet said something very interesting… and very truthful: every action has a reaction. For years, countries of the Western world have invaded other nations and killed hundreds of thousands of innocent people. Now, we’re seeing what it’s like on the receiving end.

But we’re dealing with a different type of terrorist/soldier – ‘cause, remember, after the U.S. blows up a small village in Iraq, those folks think that Bush and Co. and every fresh faced soldier in that platoon are terrorists. So who’s a terrorist depends on whether or not you’re standing in the rubble.

When you’re dealing with people who aren’t afraid to die, you’ve got a problem. If Prime Minister Blair can find and prosecute the people who bombed London today, great! He can arrest them and throw them in jail…

Unfortunately, there will be about a thousand or more people waiting to take over and be the next suicide bomber. Our countries need to think differently about why people – these “Islamic extremists” – believe that bombing innocents is the only way to incite change.

And why we think invading sovereign nations is OK, while bullies like North Korea's Kim Jong Il – who is plotting to put a nuclear bomb in Bush’s backside – run free.