Sense (and Other Innovations)

[01.20] - Good Intentions

2008-06-25T00:00:00.000-04:00

They say the road to hell is paved with such. By ‘they’ I mean people like me.

At least, I used to. Truth be told, I still do, especially when some sweet soul insists on defending someone’s bad behaviour. I meant to pick you up from the airport: instead I stayed in bed. I meant to tell you about that job opening: instead I hired my incompetent half-cousin. I meant to tell you a mac truck was hurtling towards you. Tell it to the people with the highway spatulas who shovel up the roadkill. Right?

I stand by my original conviction, to an extent. Meaning to do something good doesn’t quite cut it, whether you’re following mainstream Christianity’s claims of the pathway to heaven or you’re explaining to a pissed-off five-year-old why they’re getting half a bottle of Windex for their birthday ’cause you intended to stop by Kelly’s.

Slowly, though, I might be coming around to that other point of view, the one more forgiving folk express when I rattle off my road-to-hell response to a situation. Perhaps intentions, though no substitute for actions, do count for a little something.

There are, for instance, times when, contrary to best efforts, success just can’t be had. Like this morning when, despite leaving home 25 minutes early, I still wound up slightly late for a meeting.

If that well-meant road is indeed so paved, many sad victims would scatter its walks. Lovingly iced birthday cakes that hit the floor on the way out from the kitchen. Documents perfectly drafted to beat a deadline, right before the computer crashes. People who constantly put in effort, but simply aren’t that bright. Expensive trips planned long in advance, then cancelled last-minute when tragedies arise.

We all understood the value of meaning well back in school, when teachers assigned grades for both achievement and effort. Of course, life in the real world tends to cut down the validity of that system; when’s the last time you got a raise for failing, even if you did try hard?

I doubt anyone will be convincing their supervisor that effort without results are worth a promotion. But in other scenarios, appreciating attempts and motivations is still worthwhile.

Say you’re rushing to finish a big project. You need all your attention, and any interruption not only slows you down, it stresses you out. Then someone—friend, relation, would-be Good Samaritan—pops up. Again. And again. And again. You want—actually, need—to be left alone, but still, there they are, a veritable Jack-in-the-box of vexation. Do you want some water? Aren’t you hungry? Could you use a cushion? How about a bagel?

Annoying as it is, Mr. or Mrs. Jack warrants more points than those who wants to slow you down for selfishness or spite. True, when, at the end of an hour or two, you still haven’t accomplished the task you faced, you’ll have to put in more time either way. But if it’s possible to understand and, on some level, appreciate the mindset of the person who means well, it can reveal that they actually do care. Not that they care about annoying you, but that they care about you. That’s a pretty good result in itself.

- ja**ly

[01.19] - Be Scentsible

2008-06-18T00:00:00.003-04:00

I used to think my best friend was crazy. We’d be somewhere and she’d start sniffing the air, then announce “Something smell like Mark.” Well, her boyfriend wasn’t usually around (under the Sports Centre bleachers, lingering around the foil aisle), but something in the air made her think of him.

Only recently have I come to appreciate the power of scent. The more I value this particular sense, the more discerning I become about what aromas I want wafting past my nostrils—and I don’t just mean B.O.

Nearly everything has a scent. Peas soup; freshly poured asphalt; tamarind; a humid day. Even more common (sadly) are things with no need for a fragrance, but whadda ya know, the scent fairy got to ’em and went buck wild.

I think the madness began with scratch-and-sniff stickers (a questionable concept at best). It spread to baby wipes. Tree-shaped car ornaments. Now, you can barely pick up a pack of plastic forks without finding they’re supposed to smell like Iowa daisies.

Amazing smells are everywhere, if you look for—or, I suppose, sniff for—them. Sweet mango sap. Peeled orange. And, if you catch the air right, the surprise smell of sea. Of course, to notice these things, you actually have to make space amongst all the olfactory clutter, and attune your senses to scents more subtle than, say, bleach.

1. Clear out the synthetically fragranced cosmetics.

80% of readers will now have left the computer. For the hangers-on, yes. This means waving bye-bye to just about any mainstream soap, powder, lotion, scrub, dab, daub, mask, gel, wax, cream, spritz, spray, or perfume you can find in a standard drug store, supermarket, or bath and body shop. Check the ingredient list. If it says ‘perfume’ or ‘parfum’ or ‘fragrance’ on there anywhere, then yes, I’m talking about that. Tuck it in a closet, give it to someone you dislike, save it for after you’ve tried this experiment, whatever.

2. Household Goods

Air fresheners, sprays, dish and laundry detergent are as heavily perfumed as personal products, if not more. I never realized how strongly scented most laundry soap is until I began using scent-free brands. If I visit family or friends and do laundry there, I find it hard to wear my clothes because the smell of standard detergents is so strong in the fabric afterwards. Have I given myself an allergy? No. I do think I’ve become more sensitive to scents, and the quality of such. And that’s not a bad thing.

3. Switch to the alternatives that abound

Maybe ‘abound’ is the wrong word to use for any sort of sustainable choice in Nassau, but yes, options do exist. Find a health food store and see what options they offer. At the very least, try a fragrance-free lotion rather than the one that claims to smell like cherries and almonds.

But won’t the world smell bad if tiny plug-in zombies aren’t cranking out puffs of cherry blossom at 15, 30, or 45 minute increments?

Probably not. There are thousands of authentic scents to choose from. You could wash your hair in rosemary-infused shampoo, scent your room with cedarwood, or surround yourself with anything from champa and vetiver to myrrh and oakmoss.

So, I know Nassau isn’t exactly brimming over with aromatherapy stores and essential oils. If you know someone who has a US address, get something shipped to you. North America is packed with aromatherapy suppliers, so quality essential oils aren’t utterly accessible. Worst case scenario, do just what we’ve done for decades with Pampers, toilet paper, and cereal: stock up when ya go stateside.
And take heart, you could easy slip couple tiny oil bottles in ya bag without the Airport Babylon holding it up triumphantly and asking “where da receipt for this? You claimin exemption?”

-ja**ly

[01.18] - T.M.I.

2008-06-04T00:00:00.000-04:00

You know how it is. You’re standing up talking to someone. Maybe an acquaintance. Possibly a complete stranger in the movie seat or church pew beside you, or someone at the gas station line-up. Then suddenly you’re no longer discussing the price of apples and the soaring cost of filling up your jeep. Suddenly someone’s telling you what position they hit last night, giving their Viagra testimonial, or describing the rash on their rear.

Information. It’s great. I know I’m not the only one who’s spent hours Googling everything from the Duck Billed Platypus to pesto recipes, just because I wanted to know, and could. But as much as I love accessing knowledge, there’s certain things I—and you—don’t need to hear about.

Worse yet is the experience of finding one’s mouth open and a dreaded case of the TMI—Too Much Information—pouring out. I’m guilty of it, too. I find a new acquaintance, get lil comfy and bam, I’m sharing sorry tales of heartbreak, treasured family stories—not quite my bank account balance, but, it seems sometimes, everything but. It’s not always incredibly embarrassing or inherently inappropriate information either, but simply a bit too personal for the time, place, and listener.

It’s not so bad when you share a touch too much info with a loved one. If you’ve ever found yourself on the brink of mentioning some personal relationship detail or letting the confession of a lie slip out to a sibling or parent, you’ll know it’s momentarily embarrassing but, ultimately, scant humiliation in comparison to the fact that they’ve seen your bibby-encrusted morning eyes, and perhaps, at some time, wiped your bottom.

But blabbing details to near-strangers who aren’t already so grossly close? Sure, it can be nice to talk and have someone listen (even if they look hugely awkward throughout the conversation). Later, though, the feel turns sour, rather resembling the morning after a one-night-stand with someone you don’t actually like; awkward, sticky, regretful.

Similar is the feeling you get when others share information you don’t want. What can you really say when someone you don’t know too well starts telling you about the last time they had a stomach bug, their latest plastic surgery, or how much their weave is itching? A smile, a nod, perhaps. A question about the weather.

On the other hand, information dispensers have their function. Hearing someone speak loudly about their problems is a great way to feel better about mine.
The girl who sat behind me on the bus and spent fifteen minutes describing her latest ailment (not an STD, but something you get from “having lots and lots of sex,” she told her friend, and everyone else within a half-mile radius) and all its related itches, secretions and scabs sure made me feel happy all I had was a mild headache and an empty social calendar.

TMI-ers are also fantastic for allowing one to put on a judge’s wig and feel a wee bit superior. If you’re lucky enough to sit near a girl like the one referenced above, you can feel both physically and morally superior (I know I sure did). Even in less scandalous situations, you can at least feel happy that your mouth isn’t so damn big.

And people who share widely, wildly, and wantonly create a certain sense of community. I know I’ve encountered many a cranky, stout matron complaining how people just don’t talk any more. TMI-ers are, in their special way, only doing their part to unite alienated Bahamians by launching community conversations—even if the topic does happen to be their displaced thong.

—ja**ly

[01.17] - Biggin'-up Biggity

2008-05-28T00:00:00.000-04:00

A cosy new family restaurant with a kick-ass dish. Spot so fresh the paint still gleamed, the home-photocopied menus still warm from the printer. I’d found it the week before; the food had been great, the fresh-faced waitress accommodating, the bathroom sparkly clean. I returned with three guests, ready to feed.

When the waiter told me my substitution was impossible (though I was willing to pay more) and snappily suggested I just order something on the menu, it didn’t go down well.

I ordered nothing. After a minute’s thought, my guests and I left, though their orders were already being cooked. Shy as I am, I had to share my sorrow with the waiter so he knew his rude approach wasn’t welcoming—and, worse yet, grossly disappointing.

I used to be a quiet soul. I still don’t like to be up in people’s faces. But the more time passes, the older, more bitter, more tired of pushy people, rude people, people who want to share their bad moods with me, the more I find myself finding my tongue.

I’m pretty sure some weeks hence I recommended letting things go, keeping stress down. Hypocrite I may be, but today, I advocate biggityness.

Maybe you know my neighbour, the poster girl for verbal assertion. If Nassau wasn’t so small, I’d call her name, though you’ve probably heard her already where her mouth so big. She talks as fast as a hillbilly auctioneer and can cuss your ass with a surgeon’s precision. Whether she’s chiding her bad chirren for bringing the po-pos by her home, upbraiding her cock-slinger husband for dragging his picky-head bastards up in her house, or damning her slack daughter for them pom-pom shorts, her mouth makes a Mac truck horn sound like a whisper. It doesn’t help that her voice is siren-shrill.

I don’t want to be her. But, increasingly, I believe in speaking up.

Lately, I feel like the law-abiding non-troublemakers feel so disgusted, distressed, and afraid of the levels that some people take assertiveness to that they have to overcompensate. Some people, yes, take aggression to terrible heights. It’s ridiculous to be so biggity you need to blow someone’s head off for borrowing your car.

Taking the other side of the scale, though, is by no means a guaranteed answer to the world’s ills. Confrontation, carefully used, clearly has its place. Witness the joys of Yo Mamma jokes, the Black American tracing tradition or, our own phrase, das ya ma (and all its glorious synonyms).

Equally valuable, equally vital, is the ability to be honest, to tell people how you feel. Sometimes the issues are small: sweetly letting that person who pushes in front of you in line know that actually, you were waiting too, not just standing there for pretty.

The restaurant incident was important to me because it not only involved telling the owner how his behaviour was disappointing and unacceptable, but also because it let me speak up in a way people tend to hear; with cash (or, in that case, the withdrawal of such). Maybe he was just having a bad day; maybe he won’t change his approach to customers. Either way, I can tell you this: I didn’t pay for crappy service and a stank attitude, and that made me feel damn good.

- ja**ly

[01.16] - Will The Real You/Me Please Stand Up?

2008-05-14T00:00:00.001-04:00

If you have a current/former love who fluctuates between passion and psychosis, if you have a talented friend who shows signs of realizing it about thrice a decade, if you think you know yourself well, then suddenly find that your actions don’t match the label, this blog’s for you.

It’s for anyone who wonders if past actions, future goals, and present potential means anything, or if we are defined only by what we do and where we are right now.

The issue of amore seems to crop up too often, but it’s the easiest entry point into this topic, so here we go. Say you date someone wonderful, fantastic, pure carnal perfection. Suddenly they switch; out pop the horns, pitchfork, and spade with which they begin digging their pit of personal damnation. After the meltdown, you vaguely keep in touch, and you (rarely) see a glimmer of the old sweet saint. If you’re like me, you latch onto this redemptive glint and declare it evidence of the former them, the real them.

Finally, my point: The Real You (or Him, or Her). Just what is that? Do other points on the timeline matter at all, or is identity based solely on current actions?

I wonder this in relation to myself, too. I like to think I’m a fairly organized person. Then I glance around my abode. (Newspaper on the floor. Is that my good shirt under the couch? I spy with my little eye, a personal item on the dining table.) Likewise, I claim punctuality (a reputation I fight to maintain while running for the bus, two minutes late). I was these things, once, but moments of embarrassing clarity beg reassessment.

More importantly, more seriously, are deeper identity considerations. For instance, I want to be a writer. Well, obviously I write now, but my goal is to be the kind whose stuff shows up in bookstores, published on something other than dingy newsprint run off on my dusty Samsung printer. I’m reluctant to call myself Writer until a point of significant achievement has arrived. Artists-in-progress and musicians living with their parents way longer than normal may understand where I’m coming from.

I had a breakthrough recently, while chatting with a friend who’d just finished a great role in a play. As we discussed our plans for future fame, we came to an agreement: we’d start referring to ourselves as writer/actor, right then; no waiting for some future point of success.

Though neither of us had tuned recently into a Sunday morning preach-it show, I think we were getting at the same sentiment dancing pastors gasp out between shimmies and kicks; the doctrine of speak-it-into-being.

It’s a concept I’d like to cling to in my view of myself. While I don’t promote every catch-phrase that pours from a slick televangelist’s lips, this idea holds great value in one’s self-view. I know, and support, the ‘if you want to be a writer/actor/singer/inventor of funny hats, write/do your thing’ concept. But there’s something about claiming the future you want while you’re on the road to getting there. There’s similar value in remembering past personal successes; if I did well before, I’ll do well again.

When it comes to other people’s personalities, I’d rather let go of past pleasures and hold back on pre-emptive optimism, letting current actions paint current (though changeable) portraits. For myself, claiming the future me offers a confidence boost most of us could use. And I actually have agency in whether it comes to pass.

-ja**ly

[01.15] - Speak up or Shut up?

2008-05-06T00:00:00.000-04:00

Without even trying, I can think of five people who tell it like it is. Always. Macaroni dry? New lover ugly? Pants cheesing? They’ll let you know. Often loudly.

In part I appreciate this honesty. I always know where I stand with such folk. I never have to ask their opinion on my spiritual beliefs, hairstyle, or the contents of my lunch container. Tactless? Often, yes. But they sure are gifted communicators.

Of course, there are a few benefits to having some sort of filter between brain and mouth. One can avoid arguments, enemies, and missing teeth by keeping certain thoughts to one's self. I wouldn’t tell a gold-toothed boxer that he could actually keep some of his earnings in the bank as cash. If I go on an interview and my potential employer has halitosis, I’m not gonna whip out the Tic Tacs and a gas mask.

But there are times I wish I’d spoken up, suggested a friend rethink a decision, voiced my thoughts about a bad idea at work. So, when should something be said, and when should it be kept inside?
Speak up

When no one else will say it
Whether it’s a problem at work or a gentle mentioning to a family member that socks and sandals are not a winning match for that business suit, there’s a time to step up to the plate and say what no one else wants to. Sure, it’s awkward. But someone has to do it.
When your conscience bothers you
If something nags at you, it probably means you need to spill the beans. Even if it’s not something nice you need to say, look on the bright side: you’re saving yourself stress. Go ahead and utter the necessary awkward words. You can always blame it on your quest to keep your pressure down.
When silence will make something your problem
There’s a fine line one has to walk between supporting friends and their decisions and letting them know their choices are wack.

When other people’s poor choices begin to affect me directly, it’s time to remove the kid gloves. Especially if it’s gonna be my door you’re banging on at 2am when you’re in trouble.

Shut up

When the point’s been made
People often do stupid things. They date idiots. Marry idiots. Start crappy jobs, then embrace them as careers. Once you’ve suggested that something isn’t the best, don’t waste your breath. You can try to nag everyone into making great choices but you’ll probably find yourself very hoarse from constant talking, and probably alone.
When that ship has sailed.
Once, I took a class where the teacher rescheduled our meeting times. I voiced my displeasure, but not very strongly, so the decision passed. I passed an inconvenient year—and never missed a chance to share my annoyance in any way short of a banner, foghorn, and ticker tape parade.
Needless to say, it did little to enhance my grade.
When you need to sort out yourself.
There’s nothing worse than realising, in the middle of spouting advice, that not only are you throwing stones from a large glass house, but you’re doing it in the nude.

That doesn’t mean we should all say nothing for fear of glaring hypocrisy. By all means, encourage others to try for better. Just brace yourself for when they start in on what you’re doing wrong.

-ja**ly

[01.14] - Boy versus Girl

2008-04-30T00:00:00.000-04:00

You know them; the jokes, the comments, the sweeping clichés: women drivers running up on the sidewalk on every other street; men tuning out all conversation segments save for those relating to food, beer, or sex. I, for one, am starting to wonder why, with all this gender angst, pairing remains mainstream. If we’re so different, and these differences bother us so, why still bother to get together?

Yes, I know that reason; some delicate soul once put it, the only reason men and women still get together is because the parts fit. Now, that’s an encouraging thought. Adult relationships; Lego for grownups.

I can accept that a certain amount of teasing is understandable. We can write off a percentage of the ‘men are so this’ and ‘all women do that’ chitchat to the same good-natured ribbing we enjoy in those ‘Ya know ya Bahamian when’ (insert string of comments relating to conch, bad driving, and frequency of Miami shopping trips).

But after a while, all these little negative jabs begin to take on a bitter ring. Particularly because we all know that, often, gender relations aren’t easy. They’ve never been.

We all know how women are supposed to have more rights now than ever before, and you’d think that equality might initiate a new, fantastic era in gender relations. No such luck; whether it’s comparing our differences through tedious planetary metaphors or simply spouting off about how unobservant men are and how emotional women get, the two sexes are as different—and, arguably, divided—as ever.

More than one guy has complained to me that he’s sick of femme-dominated shows where every male character is a bully or a lout, tired out from the Lifetime TV mentality where anybody with a dick is to be escaped from, feared, overcome.

On the girl side of things, it still vexes me that I can still be paid less than an equivalent male for the same job, am relegated to silence in many churches, and would be bookmarked forward, fresh, or slutty for levels of sexual openness commonly accepted (at least by some) in men.

I know this topic runs the risk of being hackneyed, tired, and milked so dry its withered teats are begging for peace in their twilight years. I know none of this is new. In fact, that makes me wonder: is the boys-against-girls mentality old enough to be thrown out?

Are the stereotypes, jabs, jokes, and tradition of harping on gender differences at all useful? Even more seriously, do gender differences—beyond the obvious physical variations we all know and love—really exist? And whose relationships do we help by dwelling on them?

-ja**ly

[01.13] - Sip Smart

2008-04-23T00:00:00.001-04:00

I remember when our first Starbucks opened; summer 2006, Marina Village. Latte lovers lined up, eyes glazed over with joy at the promise of frothy, caffeinated pleasure.

I viewed the new chain with the sceptical neutrality I reserve for the ever-growing number of American companies that land, expand, burgeon, and thrive with imperial vigour.

Of course, in time, I too could be found snuggled into a cosy armchair, sipping unpronounceable beverages and revelling in the atmosphere and free internet. As Starbucks’ stronghold spreads—right along with the average Bahamian waistline—I can’t help but view the newcomer as simply another chance for consumers to make daft food choices.

Don’t get me wrong. I like what widely available coffee shops have done for society. They’re great for cheap socializing. They offer an enticing atmosphere, and are a pleasant alternative to liquor-fueled meeting places. No other food and beverage establishment is so conducive to reading, studying, or loitering long after you’ve consumed what you paid for.

But the sad fact is that most of us are getting far more out of Starbucks than social pleasures and a much-needed caffeine hit. If we were fat-happy and sugar-hyped on Big Macs and Papa Johns before, last thing any of us needed to add to the mix was unhindered enjoyment of drinks with six-word names and four inches of whipped cream on top.

Now, you all like a treat. I like them, too. Heck, the joneser who tried to bum $5 off my brother for a frappuccino clearly liked to get his. But I’m pretty sure plenty people standing in line for a little something to sip would be better off with bottle of water than a grande Green Tea Latte, replete with its 41 grams (i.e., 10 teaspoons) of sugar.

I’m not saying this to rehash old points. I know we here on Woden's Way have chided and tutted over weighty matters and nasty ingredients before. But I know I was pretty surprised when I found out that what I thought was a fairly virtuous choice—steamed soymilk with hazelnut—was as sweet as the sodas I’ve shunned for years.

Shame on Starbucks? Not really, and certainly not exclusively. Like almost every other chain that’s laid down roots here, it’s out to make money through taste, and taste tends to be passed on through sweet, salt, or fat. But finding that a mocha packs about as much fat as a helping of medium fries raises larger issues about what we welcome into our country and our bodies, and what we might want to consider siphoning off, culturally.

Rich, sweet, cool drinks marched into our field of vision; we, like sheep, it seems, line up at the watering trough and cheerily sip away. More often than not, we’re sipping in addition to whatever we were eating before, so that 15-fat-gram drink isn’t replacing a meal, just washing it down. Another great international company is at our fingertips, and we’re wise enough to choose its unhealthiest offerings to supplement our already abysmal diets.

Is Starbucks going anywhere? I highly doubt it, though I do hope more locally-owned businesses, perhaps with a healthy spin and unique decor, can open up and offer quality and diversity. Even more so, I wish we’d approach our new national fix with a nutritional smarts and we can enjoy the social benefits of such places, without letting them morph into yet another way to spoil what’s left of our health.

-ja**ly

[01.12] - The Good Idea-Bad Idea Guide to taking baths

2008-04-16T00:00:00.001-04:00

Time was, a tub full of water was a welcome pleasure for weary body and tense mind. Now, this solitary delight must be weighed against worries of world water crises and cancer risks.

Good Idea?

Sanity savers. The tub is one of the few spots where you can escape a spouse’s cooking fumes or sibling’s loud music. Even when you live alone, the tub is a spot for solace; I live in a shoebox-sized studio apartment; when I grow weary of sitting on my futon, the only room I may retreat to is the bathroom. And sitting in the tub is the sweetest smelling cause for a long stay.

Olfactory pleasures. Skin-softening salts and essential oil elixirs are a fantastic way to indulge the olfactory sense. Often, you can team up on the benefits, combining sweet aromas with body-enhancing brews; lavender can soothe vexed skin, while petigrain boots out a bad mood.
Water therapy. We all began life this way: curled in a perfectly temperatured enclosed bath replete with instant nourishment supplied 24/7. Retiring to the tub with rum and dark chocolate (and a stack of books) lets us regain this estranged state of bliss.
Muscle relaxation. Warm water soothes tense muscles and achy parts. Every woman knows how hot water mellows cramps; reclining in a bath duplicates this calming sensation to the power of ten.
Pore pleasure. As, the average home is not equipped with a sauna, hot baths are a simple way to open pores, releasing toxins.

Bad idea?

The water bill. Outrageously High Water Bills are not an urban legend. When your parents complained about lights left on or water running, their reasons were just. As I discovered when my first water bill rolled in and washed away the better part of my paltry bank account.
The global bill. Increasing global water demands make kicking back in your own personal 25-gallon pool tough to justify. And nothing’s less fun than guilty thoughts of Al Gore looking grim in An Inconvenient Truth to ruin your nude relaxation.
The cancer risk. Chlorinated water supplies make hot soaks (and showers) a cancer risk. That same nice hot water that opens pores makes those open pores ready to absorb chlorine’s carcinogenic treats. A bonus; chlorine also ups incidences of dandruff and eczema. .
The drowning risk. My mother fears one day, I’ll fall into such a deep sleep in the tub that I won’t not notice my head dipping towards the water, ultimately leading to my sudsy demise. Worse yet, when the coroner shows up, not only will I not be wearing decent underwear, I’ll be wearing nothing at all.
The interruption risk. In shared homes, the chances of getting away with a long-term soak are directly proportional to the number of toilets available. In a one-toilet home, you’re unlikely to enjoy the tub for more than half an hour without rude (and increasingly urgent) interruptions. Solitary dwellers need not feel so smug; sooner or later you’ll be soaking when your landlord shows up to check that broken window handle. And wouldn’t it suck for someone to use that master key ’cause you took so long to answer it seemed clear you weren’t at home.

Verdict: Interruptions, inconveniences, and ethics aside, I still cherish my tub time—on occasion. Whether the benefits of absorbing that relaxing bathtime lavender and antidepressant rose oil outweigh chlorine’s drawbacks remains to be seen. As far as aligning my preference for tub-based bliss with the need not to waste water, the only answer may be to double up on water usage by sharing the decadence with a friend. But the wisdom of that idea should be saved for another good idea bad idea guide.

—ja**ly

[01.11] - Apropos of Nothing

2008-04-09T00:00:00.000-04:00

I’m bad at doing nothing.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not bigging up some imaginary, mad productivity skills. I’m talking about simple relaxation and rest, and how I can’t seem to get it.

I, like many of you, excel in squandering time. I can whittle away a half-hour on Facebook in a flash. TV? With the advent of online episodes, an hour killed is like nothing. I won’t even get into MSN and YouTube.
When it comes to simple downtime where I’m not baking, texting, and e-stalking acquaintances on Google, it’s just not my forte.

Don’t lie; you’re guilty of it too. I’ve seen the midnight postings on forums; I’ve gotten the emails at 2am. I’m not the only one who doesn’t know how to switch off, and that’s too bad. Try meditating for two minutes. I guarantee before 20 seconds are up, you’ll be thinking about someone you have to call back, or what you should make for dinner.

Secret: I try, at times, to cheat my way into an unwind. I lock myself in the bathroom and fill the tub, far from the computer (my distraction of choice), with the phone out of reach and no books at hand...
Guess what usually happens?

Yep. The itis sets in.
Obviously, I need to be getting more sleep—the ultimate fulfilment of the do-nothing doctrine. More than that, though, I believe it’s a sign that I simply don’t know how to be inert.

Maybe part of my inability—and yours—to sit still and give body and mind a break is due to cultural constraints. I’ve heard plenty about how the devil finds work for idle hands. I’ve been warned about the dangers of meditation; it leaves, apparently, the mind open to Evil Forces.
I’m starting to suspect that part of my inability to shut up, shut off, and shut down is due to a need to take in more. I don’t like to watch one show on the computer. I like to watch two or three in my downtime. I’m greedy.

There are, too, I suspect, more malevolent reasons.
The human mind can be a scary thing to face, especially when it’s your own. When I go out, I keep my mp3 player handy to drown out the sound of other people who are talking too loud on their cell phones or, simply, talking crap I just don’t want to hear. When I stay in, it’s appealing to slip into a task that will keep me busy so I don’t have to spend time with my own worries, doubts, and fears.

That’s a shame, since quiet time is as calming for grown folks as it is for overexcited children. Silence makes room for ideas to pop up long enough to be noticed and recorded, and conscious inertia is a wonderful way to refresh and recharge.

So I vote we ditch the demands, the sundry pastimes and time-fillers. Pause the videos, stop the songs. Say ‘screw work, I’m taking five’ (maybe say it sweeter when you tell your boss).
Then try it—even for a few moments. Trust me, whatever distractions and amusements you’re excusing yourself from will be waiting patiently when you return.

— ja**ly

[01.10] - An End to Plastic Bags?

2008-04-02T00:00:00.001-04:00

San Francisco banned ’em last March. China ousts them this summer. If you hit up Whole Foods stores stateside, you’ll find them gone as of this spring. So when’s Nassau getting on the anti-bag bandwagon?

Other trends, from Vonage to Macbook Airs, makes it here- sooner or later. So I’m waiting for the local decline of the plastic bag culture. When I go to the foodstore now, so many plastic bags are used per customer that each individual pigeon pea might as well be getting its own personal sachet to ride home in. That’s a waste.

Poke around your cupboards. Look atop your fridge. Check your back trunk and your front yard. More than likely, somewhere, you have a small city’s worth of foodstore sacks, some of which will help transport backyard fruit to friends’ homes, carry potluck goodies from kitchen to car to cookout and back, and most of which will, sooner or ... well, most likely sooner ... end up on someone’s front lawn, in someone’s water, or rotting at the dump.
Except that plastic doesn’t rot. It stays around for a while. How long? Well. If the Arawaks had and used plastic bags, we’d still be finding them when the tide comes in.

Now, I understand that plastic bags serve certain functions when grocery shopping. They help keep the raw chicken from drizzling its questionable juices all over the ice cream. But are they all really necessary?

Plastic bag culture isn’t only about convenience; it’s about shame. A bag provides a curtain of discretion for necessary purchases everybody buys but nobody admits to. They let men pick up Ex-lax and Preparation H in privacy, women stock up on Kotex without anyone ever having to think they bleed, and both get their double-ridged rubbers without being embarrassed when they meet the old high school teacher on the way back to the car.

Say you’re not trying to get some sort of battery-operated pleasure device discreetly home. Say you’re grocery shopping for something as innocuous as broccoli. First, you stick it in a plastic bag to save it from picking up germs in the musty cart; never mind that it’s already wrapped in plastic. At the cashier, the broccoli goes into another two bags—maybe three, just in case the first two bags tear on the harrowing journey home. Then it’s rolled out to the car and lifted into the back trunk, where it awaits its final move from car to kitchen counter.

I respect that some people have distances to go from the foodstore home, without the convenience of a vehicle. But most of us tote our groceries 15 steps, max. Why we need a bag at all is highly in question.

And as for the bagging and double bagging, well. Germs are germs, but come on; this isn’t a matter of preventing AIDS or getting knocked up. The orange will peel. The apple will wash. The cereal’s already in a bag inside a neat cardboard box. We do have soap and water, so endless layers of plastic between food and anything it might touch are more than a little excessive. And in the produce section, those clear plastic bags are necessary for about five items: loose mushrooms, beans, hot peppers, peanuts, and yellow grits.

Some say plastic bag bans are excessive. I’ll grant that certain bans, historically, haven’t set the best track record. There was prohibition; that pretty much wiped out people’s taste for liquor, right? Weed’s illegal status has clearly obliterated its draw. Pirated DVDs? None of those here. None of us can even spell Liemwire.

A tourism-reliant country like ours should leap at the chance to boost and preserve appearances. But unless plastic bags start tumbleweeding through Marina Village, it probably won’t matter much on a national level.

Which is why I’m not waiting for stores to stop issuing complementary plastic souvenirs that’ll be around years after I’m gone, washing up on beaches, festering in wells and adorning lawns. Instead, I’ll be tucking reusable bags in the back trunk or back seat or into my purse. Or maybe—perish the thought—walking out of the store with my purchase tucked under my arm, and my receipt in my hand.

- ja**ly

[01.09] - The Case of Single

2008-03-26T03:00:00.000-04:00

In the last few years, I’ve seen countless peers paired off. I’ve gotten the e-engagement announcements and proposal stories, toasted glowing brides and dashing grooms, visited quaint new homes. What I haven’t gotten to is the stage where separations, divorces, infidelities, and outside children start rolling in.

It’s an awkward time to be single.

Let me defend my apparent bitchiness. I don’t wish failed love on anyone. But while I’ve watched the majority of those in my age bracket hunker down into love, I’ve given dating that old college try and gotten that old failing grade. I’ve attempted to embrace singleness, and, in response, I’ve gotten one resounding message: don’t.

Open-minded as we are, a satisfied single state remains socially unacceptable. Once you’re into adulthood proper and you’re not paired up, folks start to wish. They wish baselessly and blindly. “Oh, you’ll find a nice guy.” “There’s a good woman out there, waiting.” In religious circles, “God has someone special for you.”

These are nice sentiments. Much like Nice biscuits, they sound pleasant but are sadly lacking in substance. What about those wonderful people who don’t find someone special? I know several lovely people—educated, employed, well adjusted—who remain single. I can think of even more for whom God—or the devil, karma, fate, whoever you prefer to blame—has had a nice girl who happens to like sexing other people, or a great guy who can’t hold down a job.

But somehow we forget these failures and, experience to the contrary, continue to perpetuate the myth that each of us will find a match made in heaven or Disney.

Lest I be accused of cynicism, let me assert my belief in true love. I can think of couples (at least three) who are, at least from my external viewpoint, incredibly good to and for each other. I’m happy for their happiness, and I’m happy to know this romantic ideal is possible.

But rest assured, we won’t all end up happily married forever. We aren’t all going to spend blissful twilight years rocker by rocker beside our soul mate. If you don’t believe me, chat with a few old people. Get em drunk to ensure honesty, if you want. Some of them will tell tales of long, lasting love. Others will tell of cheating, hurt hearts, and simple boredom. For those who didn’t live the love dream, look closely—their lives went on. They still had joys, successes, fulfilment.

I’d like to make it clear; I’m not deriding love. But after attending one wedding too many where the preacher praises marriage as the most important decision one will make in life, after sitting at one dinner too many where betrothals (and babies) are the only valuable announcements and other major life accomplishments—education, career, personal commitment, personal growth—are clearly secondary, I’m convinced that we could stand to put less pressure on our rather fragile romances, and acknowledge the value of other accomplishments—and even the possibility of long-term singleness as content, productive human beings.

Do I want to be single forever? Not especially, no—despite the documented fact that as a woman, my life expectancy will decline with matrimony, even as my spouse’s goes up. But I’m trying to remind myself, as a single soul, that there’s more to life than lasting romantic love—and that most people don’t really find it anyway.

- ja**ly

[01.08] - How To Rant

2008-03-19T03:00:00.000-04:00

I’m sure we all like to be upbeat, but there come days when life vexes and you need to get something off your chest. It happens. Is it okay?

Yes. Now, I recognize the need to rant responsibly. We all know those people who turn every flower into an allergy, every sunny day into sweltering heat, rainy day into a flood, and raise into a chance to spend more money on bills.

We also know the anti-sad squad. Its members use the word ‘positive’ with the same trite overzealousness and meaningless frequency that some congregations use ‘amen’. Did your rottweiler pup just trot under the garbage truck’s wheels? Think of the cash you’ll save on neutering. Turn that frown upside down—its carcass is feeding that hungry crow! Oh, the circle of life!

Most of us, I suspect, fall into a healthy middle-ground. Before venting, consider these things to increase the chances that you’ll actually get through your complaint and you won’t find yourself chatting to a concrete wall for want of actual human beings to tolerate those bad days.

1. What do you want?

Do you want advice or do you just want someone to shut up and listen?

I hate to say it, but as a woman, I find guys are not always effective listeners in times of rant. Guys you are dating are worse. I’ve had too many conversations that go something like this:

me: X really pissed me off.
guy: Really? What happened?
me: (whines for five minutes)
guy: Aren’t you being a little hard on X? Have you looked at things from their perspective?
me: Whose side are you on anyway?
guy: I’m just trying to help.

Really, it was my fault for not clarifying that what I wanted was to rant, not to get help. These days, I either hand my potential listener a prepared script to follow, or precede my complaint with a disclaimer: “I do not need or want a solution. Here is your Ipod. Please nod at 30-second intervals to simulate attention and interest.”

2. Know your audience

Complain to the right person about the right thing. There are people who will neither understand what you’re complaining about, nor care.

This is particularly important with gender-specific body matters. I’m not suggesting we return to the days when the word ‘uterus’ could clear a room of testosterone in under two seconds. I am suggesting that if you want someone to listen, and care, sometimes your chances are higher if you talk to someone with the same bits.

That’s right, women. Men (mostly) do not care if you have cramps. Correction: they’re sorry you’ve got ’em, but largely because they have to hear about it.

Also, practice basic tact. If you’ve got a really bad cold, your terminally ill friend may not be the best person to complain to. If you accidentally knocked your girlfriend up, your impotent buddy may not offer the sincere sympathy you seek.

3. Rant unto others...

We all have that one person who always shows up with loud lamentations when their drama kicks in, but when you’ve got stuff going on, they don’t answer on msn, their cell’s low on minutes, and they’ve got to reorganize that wayward sock drawer. Don’t be that friend. It’s bad karma, and it sucks.

And just as ranting should go both ways, so should the information you share. Those long-suffering souls who hear the details of your bad days? When things are going well, don’t forget to share the good news. They deserve to hear it.

- ja**ly

[01.07] - The Anti-truth

2008-03-12T03:00:00.000-04:00

In the secret, we resemble
on the outside, we dissemble

fake—i.e. the Sambo slave
So Cheery
So Joy
So Full of Faith
(the Quaint Native the Happy Housewife Power Suit Strong Man Ever Ready to Save)
So Strong
So Brave

Dissemble—i.e. gangsta rap
Fuk you niggaz
I hard
I tuff
I neva die
Tupac lay down to sleep in dirt
long time Biggie gone dust.

Dissembling, making of a fake,
what makes it?
Anti-bitch motif? (Nobody like a whiner, now
keep that dirty laundry inside, no matter make the kitchen stink,
breed roach an boomboom fly.)
The How Are You? (The 13 times a day
answer you always Good Great Fine.)
These questions these answers they do not come to know
but to solicit and parade
false confidence
false cheer
chipper veneer.

For divorce up ( but everybody marriage fine)
Antidepressants sell like hell sticks in Gehenna (never mind
dem lyin pharmacist statistics
we good an natural happy here).
Men shouldn’t cry no matter what they tell you
shouldn’t cry.

Why I ain seen you for a while?
I was goin through a tuff time (couldn’t see you seeing me that way
broken tru an true)

Bad mood, shouldn’t be around people just for now
bad time, I call you when I better.
Physician now heal thyself
Get better (but on thy own time).

Work face
Church face
Friend face
Fake face
True face you
hard to find
no lie
(but plenty lie).

Shame? Pride?
Why at the funeral even we shadin our wet face, red eye?

Facade. Dissembling. Dis assemble dis resemble
the sorrow nobody need to
see true see through you
to the mirror you

you hide inside.

Chipper veneer haffe chip off some time.
But true we fine
we assemble we Goin Out features just
right just for the show an jus in time,
night done sun stir,
curtain soon up.

- ja**ly

[01.06] - Why Stress is Bad

2008-03-05T03:00:00.000-05:00

I’m first in line to turn at the light. The arrow turns green and, before I can move my foot off the brakes, the driver behind me is beeping like The Rapture is upon us and I’m the only thing standing between them and Gloryland.

I don’t like people stressing me. Neither, I’m sure, do you. It’s not nice to be at work, doing your best, when your supervisor comes along and presses you to do even more.
It’s not nice when your coworkers aren’t pulling their weight, thus slowing you down nor when people behind you in line push, or any of a thousand vexations great and small that get your spirits down and your heart rate up.

If Nassau’s high number of stoplight horn-blowers and impatient line-waiters isn’t enough to convince you that we’ve got a stress problem, take a look at some of our leading health ailments. Cancer. Heart disease. Hypertension. Diabetes. Obesity. What do they all have in common? They’re motivated, at least in part, by stress. So is the soaring murder rate and high incidence of domestic abuse.

I’ll warrant there are plenty of things to get stressed out over. I can understand why someone on the road might have a case of the impatients - it really shouldn’t take almost an hour to get from Sea Breeze to Village Road. Given Nassau’s size, it shouldn’t take more than an hour to get from any one point to another, unless you’re driving at, say, 21 miles an hour the whole way or endlessly circling roundabouts just for fun. But guess what? It does.
It also takes all day to get straight with your passport or visa and far more hours than necessary to accomplish anything at a government office, besides signing in and cussing someone out. You’ll wait at the bank, at the store. You’ll encounter stupid, or incompetent, or lazy people. This will happen. Getting vexed won’t help.

I’m not advocating inertia. I’m all for positive social change. But no one ever improved the world by snapping at the person in front of them, hyperventilating, sucking their teeth at a slow-moving public servant, or blowing the horn before the red glow fades from the traffic light.

Lest I sound self-righteous, let me admit it; I’m guilty of getting stressed, too. With the case of Mr. Can’t-Wait-At-The-Light, I didn’t let it go and calmly drive on. I kept my foot on the brake and blew my horn back, stopping to select and display a choice finger before proceeding slow enough for nearby cerasee vines to start twirling around my tires. It gave me a sort of vengeful tingle. But you know that? It didn’t make me feel calm.

Here’s what I suggest. Take note of things that are worth getting aggravated by, figure out how to change them and then, let potential stress pass. I like taking a deep breath. It provides my brain with fresh oxygen, and alternatives to my initial—sometimes ill-advised—reaction. I keep calming lavender oil on hand and make aromatherapy blends with names like ‘Sanity Saver’ and ‘Anti-Cuss Salve’. I go to my happy place. I take a book, pen, and paper wherever I go to make waiting time more productive and less annoying. I don’t always employ these tension-lowering tactics. But I’m doing what I can to help stress pass, rather than passing it on.

Oh, and one final thought. Those health conditions aggravated and initiated by stress? They’re also improved when tension is lowered. That alone is cause enough for me to keep trying to let vexation go.

- ja**ly

[01.05] - Conscious Consumer

2008-02-27T03:00:00.000-05:00

The words seem disparate, I know; I can already hear the polarized negative associations. Conscious? Patchouli incense, frumpy dashikis. Consumer? Wasteful, greedy purchasers (or, if you’ve seen The Animation Show, the phrase “I am a consumer whore”).

Obscure film references aside, all of us are, to some extent, both conscious and consumers. And yet, often, we’re not.

We’re all consumers—we’re not churning up Jergens in the back room, or growing our own Fruit Loops. Without a doubt, we’re conscious of what we purchase. Those with medical, ethical or spiritual food requirements—Ital, Adventist, diabetic—know about scouring ingredient lists for lingering lard or surprise sugar. Even the less picky diner opts for bread that’s brown, not green and fuzzy, and grapes that aren’t grey. Yet, some mighty strange things are still stashed on foodstore shelves—and, consequently, home cupboards.

Take Lunchables. An average pack of these pint-sized kiddie snacks has more funky ingredients than a pimp has purple suits. Partially hydrogenated soybean oil (more harmful to heart and arteries than saturated fats); monosodium glutamate (can trigger allergic reactions, potential factor in hyperactivity and Attention Deficit Disorder). The best part? Sodium intake—up to 73% of the suggested daily limit, per serving. That percentage, of course, is for an adult diet; these tasty lunchtime treats are geared for children.

Why do such dubious pleasures wind up in our fridges and on our plates?
Is it because we want to fill our children with blood-pressure-raising, allergy-offsetting, attention-dwindling crap? Probably not.
Is it because food manufacturers are demon spawns hell-bent on the destruction of the human race? Plausible. But more likely it’s because they’re shrewd business people and we, often, are not shrewd buyers. We’re literate, but, for many of us, we simply don’t read.

Okay, yes, we do. We read the paper. We read the movie poster. We read books and facebooks and youtube search results and dozens (perhaps hundreds) of emails a week. That’s great. It’s also not enough.
Project Read, if it still exists, could really pull its weight by teaming up with a functional Ministry of Health for a label-reading campaign. I’m pretty sure if everyone read everything that went into or onto their bodies, certain products would start piling up and festering in the store.

Actually, though, literacy starts way before the supermarket stage. You don’t want to be rubbing down your ashy legs with cancer cream, or buying your boopsy toxic cologne; nor are you setting out to grease your head with pore-clogger #3.

This is where pre-purchasing research comes in hella handy, and it’s where the internet shines; sources like cosmeticsdatabase.com demysticize unpronounceable ingredients, explain their function and their possible health risks—or lack thereof.
Thinking that manufacturers will look after our health is outdated and naive. At the end of the day, what we consume has, 99% of the time, been labelled for our knowledge (and to meet legal requirements). If unhealthy products are still being made, it’s because we’re still buying crap, in spite of that information being provided. And sure, some people will still want to chow down on snack-shaped sodium or down endless bottles of liquid sugar.

But we should at least make ourselves aware of the contents and ramifications of what we buy. Then at least we can make educated choices—and maybe even intelligent ones.

- ja**ly

[01.04] - A Fresh Start

2008-02-20T03:00:00.000-05:00

It’s a term with less-than-stellar connotations in my books—mostly based on high school, when it was usually followed by “in a new place”, and applied to naughty boys who fought and sold drugs, or the occasional girl caught freaking in the woodwork shack.

These days, I’m trying to put a positive spin on that Fresh Start concept, and look at people anew. It’s hard.

See, I have a special skill: an elephant-like memory, mammoth both in size and duration. Especially when it comes to people doing stupid things.

Friend who stole my plastic ring when I was six? That biting comment about the faux leather dress I wore in ’95? The girl who shunned me when I was three? All filed neatly away in my brain, with a date, name, and level of displeasure and desired revenge attached.

It’s not good. Yes, there’s a certain benefit to the ‘once bitten, twice shy’ and ‘fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me’ mentality.

There’s also a time to stop giving the second, third, and fourth chances.
Sometimes, contrary to popular tunes, once really is enough. You shouldn’t extend mercy to your psycho girlfriend for hot-gritsing you for bringing home the wrong brand of ketchup, nor give your husband a second try when you catch him merrymaking with your cousin. There’s a sharp divide between “fresh start” and “wilful stupidity.”
Still, it’s worth remembering that we all say, and do, things that are inconsiderate, ill-thought-out, immature. Sometimes, though, people change. And sometimes these are isolated incidents of folly. It’s worth actually taking the time to see who and where a person is at any given moment, rather than hearing their name and gleefully rolling out the old filing cabinet of possibly outdated negative associations.

Of course, old, and now inaccurate, memories can be endearing. Without it, my family would never have enjoyed the poetic irony of the repairman dubbed ‘Skinny’, though he must have, for decades, weighed in well over 250 pounds.
Part of the problem of clinging to old judgments, though, is that it’s lazy. Sure, it’s too much to reassess someone every single time you meet. But sometimes it’s okay—and necessary—to simply let go and move on to getting to know who someone is now.

I’m writing this little forgive-and-forget edict with a bitter taste in my mouth. An acquaintance recently made a tactless, ignorant, and offensive comment. Those three traits are three of my least favourite, and I have to admit, I got the filing cabinet of Sin and Stupidity out.
I’m trying right hard not to whip out a new folder, emblazon their name on it, and slip this incident in right at the front. So I know only too well that letting go is neither simple nor fun.

Still, I’m giving it a try.
I’m attempting to step away from the cabinet and put the foolishness-file down. Hopefully, tomorrow—and the next day, and the next, I’ll be (at least slightly) able to step back from the memory of jackassery, and take the time to take a sincere look at who they are in the moment, now.

-ja**ly

[01.03] - Love, Despite

2008-02-13T03:00:00.000-05:00

Nothing has prepared me for the complexities of adult love. Not childish wedding fantasies, not formulaic romance novels, and surely not the annual parade of neat gift-giving days.

Mother’s Day for mothers. Father’s Day—well, that’s mostly for buying roadside crabs, but sure, if you know who your daddy (or baby’s daddy) is and he actually features in your life, it’s for pops. Valentine’s, of course, is for lovers.
How lucky that society has established days to tell us how, when, and who to love. Perish the thought that we might have sufficient brain power to figure out appropriate times to express our appreciation for those we hold close and high.

Calendar celebrations of love unsettle me.
It’s not just that they epitomise the wasteful and pointless material crap that characterizes our lifestyles: wrapping paper, designed to be torn off and thrown away; red paper hearts put up this week and tossed out next; mass produced greeting cards spouting sappy sentiments you could better say yourself.
It’s that they promote idealized portrayals of love, and that’s not right.

Love, in our society, implies certain things. You eat, go out together and participate in various activities, from co-movie-watching to sundry levels of carnal joy. It implies an ever after, the fuzzy sensation acquired at the end of romantic comedies, the last scene from a fairy tale—the Disney version, that is.
In reality, love’s often closer to Hans Christian Anderson stories, where characters freeze to death while they fantasize contentment and the girl ends as foam on the beach and not as a princess in the hero’s arms. Extreme? Probably. Imperfect? Indeed. Love’s often like that.

As a semi-romantic, I enjoy the Bible’s love chapter: love is patient, love is kind. Its ideals are enticing and sweet, they sum up what many hope to find. Even there, though, a closer look reveals that it’s much more about endurance, suffering, and continuing despite.

Love frequently stinks. It can involve extreme attachment even though someone can’t and won’t stay in your life, intense admiration for someone you’ll never have. It can involve physical distance, emotional distance, distance due to sickness, distance due to duty and devotion to others you may love less but have committed to and, thus, must protect.

To make ourselves feel better, we tell ourselves and each other lies that downgrade the significance of our bitter ventures. “I was just obsessed with him.” “I was only dependant on her.” “It wasn’t really love.” Creating these compartments makes it much easier to distance misfortunes from amore that falls closer to the happy ideal.

I love to see old couples tottering down the street, side by side, arm in arm, propping each other up and moving each other along. I like to imagine all those years together, the children they’ve raised, meals they’ve shared, the home they’ve loved and lived in.

In reality, the children probably include a few fruits of infidelity. Some of those meals were likely seasoned with spite or burned intentionally. The house walls may be dented from where someone aimed a skillet at somebody’s head.
Unless they are reincarnated saints, they’re together in spite of, not because of.

If anything, acknowledging the bitter makes human attachment well-rounded, real and remarkable. Anyone can love surrounded by red satin and white chiffon (with a garland of chubby-legged teddy bears dancing around).
It takes true substance and real heart to persist with love when it’s more like a rabid grizzly tearing at your leg, when it’s more about holding on, despite.

And yet, we do. I think we should celebrate that.

- ja**ly

[01.02] - Better Ways To Love

2008-02-06T03:00:00.000-05:00

Valentine’s Day is around the corner, and so are the romantic trappings; chocolate, candles, perfume—all things sweet. Well, not so much.

We’re living in an odd time. Every time you turn around, some familiar family favourite, some sturdy, respectable, trustworthy object turns out to be bad for you.
First there were those damn mad cows that were eating ground up bits of their brethren.
Then the E.coli spinach incident.
Then there was toxic lead paint turning up in the toys our kids are gnawing on. What can you really trust?

Not much, when it comes to typical Valentine’s Day fare. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Well, ok, it is.
There’s lots bad about the average lover’s day gifts. Much of our chocolate actually comes from cocoa harvested through child labour. There’s also the issue of rainforest loss; cocoa farmers who are paid a pittance (and most are, unless they’re involved in fair-trade initiatives) get higher short-term yields by felling surrounding trees, rather than growing slower-yielding cocoa plants in existing forests, that will continue to bear for more years.

Most of the colognes and perfumes contain synthetic fragrances, which are common allergens, skin irritants and are possibly linked to birth defects.

Candles? Most are made from paraffin, the lowest petroleum by-product. Yep, those ‘Lady and the Tramp’-style dinner candles are lovingly crafted from the crap that’s leftover after motor gas, kerosene, and asphalt have been obtained. When burned, they release carcinogenic substances like those found in such sexy products as nail polish and house paint. Many are also artificially scented.

Now I realize that in the Bahamas, we’re not much into sustainability. We’re small, so global warming’s not our problem. What we do doesn’t make much of a difference, especially since larger countries will continue to impact us, regardless of what changes we make.
But these things are our problem. We’ve imported holidays like Valentine’s Day, and brought in the low-grade products that are marketed along with these festivities. And even if the politics of bigger issues don’t matter, the fact that many of us are getting sicknesses that are obviously related to our lifestyle choices should.

Blah blah blah. No one’s thinking health, ethics, and politics on Feb. 14.

Which is where the good side comes in.
For every poorly made product there is a wise alternative that’s ten times sexier than its crappy counterpart.

Take your typical box of chocolates. Replace it with a bar of organic fair-trade 70% dark chocolate. The percentage reflects how much cocoa (versus sugar, and, depending on the brand you choose, beeswax and other tasty fillers) your bar contains. 70% is the range where chocolate’s antioxidant qualities start to kick in. It also means a more concentrated dose of those famed aphrodisiac qualities. Be sure, though, to keep even the best-quality chocolate away from your herd of potcakes; cocoa contains theobromine levels that are safe for humans, but fatal for dogs.

Beeswax, soy and vegetable oil candles help set a romantic mood while sidestepping the toxic fumes issue.

And when it comes to scents, products—from soaps to massage blends—that contain essential oils not only make things (and people) smell good; they also produce a chemical response. I realize this doesn’t sound sexy so, to put it in more loverly terms, I’ll quote an aromatherapy store employee: “Sandalwood increases blood flow to the penis.” Jasmine, vanilla, rose, and lavender also have various relaxing, uplifting, de-stressing and inhibition-removing qualities.

But what’s best about making better choices is what you’re doing for yourself—and your significant other. If Valentine’s is supposed to be all about love then gifts that reflect care, concern, and consciousness clearly make more sense.

- ja**ly

[01.01] - Paradise Paradox

2008-01-30T03:00:00.000-05:00

Escape. Relax. Tranquil. Pristine. Paradise.

Shoot. Stab. Kill.

Can The Bahamas, resolve its dual identities?
They do exist and they do contradict each other. How else can we describe the fact that the Bahamas is both beautiful and bloody?

It struck me as ironic that in 2005 our country was ranked the 5th happiest place in the world. That year, we had 52 homicides and yet we’re so happy? Huh?

I was abroad when I got news that a friend was stabbed to death in front of her children. So when an acquaintance who’d learned that I’m from the Bahamas cooed, “Oh, you’re so lucky! Isn’t that nice?” I was in no mood to cheerily chime the Ministry Of Tourism-sanctioned, “It’s Better In The Bahamas!” and do a Bahamahost jig.
Nor do I dance the Paradise Polka at 2007’s 79 murders, or of the chances of this year’s total topping that.

I love The Bahamas and not just because it’s home.
I love eating a warm sugar apple off the tree. I love big trees, seagrapes, the smell of night jasmines blooming in sync, the sound of the noisy cicadas when the grass is high and their high-pitched whine scores a July morning, even when it’s a Sunday and I want to sleep in.
I love how guavas smell when they fall off the tree and start to ferment a little, the way when it rains so heavily that a single drop splats and makes eight more drops and how the big rain stings your skin.
I love the fact that mango rum is cheap and mangoes are free, if you can liberate them from the right person’s tree.
As cheesy as it is to resort to the beaches, I love those too. I particularly love how you can fall asleep in the shade on the sand, go in the water year-round, how you can always see the bottom and ride those big waves over on Paradise Island.
I love how the aloes grow big without trying and how you can brew a nasty remedy to knock-out a cold, for free, right from your back yard.

This love isn’t blind though and neither is yours. We know about the traffic. We know that the relaxed, island approach manifests itself as an irritation for anyone actually wanting to get something done. We also know that you can’t drive more than five minutes, most places in Nassau, without passing the scene of some not-too-distant death and that if there was a stone monument put up for everyone murdered in the last eight years, there’d be no room to walk.

Ideally, you pick your times for entertaining. You don’t invite people over when you’re in the midst of renovating your living room, or the night after scandal’s broken loose in your house. Right after a tragedy, you don’t invite people over for dancing and the roasting of a fatted calf.

However, we’re known for tourism and that means no matter how many people were buried for stupidity, we’ll be cranking the doors open and dishing the smiles out. At what point does it become too much sugar-laced salt rubbed into a large, festering wound? How do we resolve this contrast of beauty in the face of ugly?
I’d like to sum it up in a catchy phrase or tell you what my answer to this conundrum is but I don’t have one.

Faking and feigning takes its toll. At some point -if there’s ever to be any change so that Bahamians can honestly and truthfully see the paradises promised in those Promised (Is)Land tourism promotionals- we’re going to have to start being honest about what kind of paradise we’re truly in and take a real, realistic look for ourselves so that when we hear ‘It’s Better In The Bahamas’ we don’t give a little sarcastic snort and think “for whom?”

- ja**ly