Florrie Nightingale

It's been ages since I blogged, but at least I've got a good reason. Both kids AND their dad have been sick with gastroenteritis all week,and I don't need to tell you what THAT entails. Been slaving away cleaning up gallons of projectile spew and baby shit. And it's exhausting, because a sick child is a demanding child. but, thank God, They seem to be over the worst, because Riley is once again yelling at me, Mummy do this, Mummy do that, and Megan is dancing and singing to herself again. So that's good.

But they're so thin. The only thing that's still big on Megan is her bubble butt, and it would take a famine to diminish that! As for Riley, well, he was never exactly a big boy. At the age of 3, he normally weighs about 27 pounds. Try to imagine what he looks like with 5 less.

Poor kids.

Proud to be Red, White, and Black

Well, our Soca Warriors lost to England in the World Cup today, but damn, they put up a good fight. We, the smallest country ever to play in the World Cup finals, held one of the world’s greatest teams – including “Bend It” Beckham, and trust me, he can bend me anytime – at bay for 82 minutes. It hurt, badly, to see us lose a game that was so critical to the hopes of this country.

But you know, I’m proud of them. They’ve won the respect of the world, who thought we’d be pushovers, a nothing side, a guaranteed win, especially after we held a team like Sweden to a Nil-Nil draw last week. The world has sat up and taken notice. And not just of the courage of our players, but the character of Trinidad and Tobago’s people, both here and abroad. Our supporters have been met with nothing but warm, open arms by the Germans, and everyone else we’ve met.

I went to see the match in the cinema today, we had a live feed on a huge screen. What a way to watch a match! And again, my people made me proud. We were all so full of expectations, so happy, all wearing our national colors, red, white and black, all leaping to our feet to sing along with the national anthem when it played on that football field thousands of miles away. And in the Cinema lobby, a true Trini party was going on. Faces being painted in our national colors, T&T flags waving, and, most of all, an “Engine Room”, what we call a percussion musical group, who beat out rhythms while we danced. It was beautiful. And even though we lost today, the way my people conducted themselves made me very proud to be a Trinidadian.

And as I was driving home, reflecting on how important it is for us to keep up the self-esteem of our people, and make sure that whatever we did, we did well in the eyes of the world, I wished I was athletic, so that I could find myself somewhere on the world stage, doing something that would make my country proud of me. And then I thought. . . oh, you know what? I don’t have to be an athlete to do that. I write! I work damn hard, and I am a multi-published author, and I write about my country for people to see, and sit up, and take notice. That’s good enough, isn’t it?

Jamaica, me soon come!

My Jamaican patois might be lousy, but I've got a good excuse: I haven't been to Jamtown in donkey's years. Not since I was 18, as a matter of fact, and believe me, you don't want to know how long ago that was. I've got a whole bunch of hazy but happy recollections of it. I remember walking barefoot up Dunn's River Falls, and finding a Jamaican dollar bill floating there. I remember standing at the side of the road somewhere on the North Coast with my girlfriend Monique, waiting for a minibus, eating a whole, warm, sweet pineapple with a penknife, and then finally catching the minibus and being so crammed in that Monique had to sit on my lap...and she wasn't a tiny girl.
I remember a midnight hike to the top of the Blue Mountain Range, and because of the altitude it was so cold we found peaches and strawberries growing near the summit - on a Caribbean island! I remember trying to see how many boys I could kiss over the course of a 2-week vacation, but that's another story for another time.
Well, I'll be retracing my steps at the end of June. Hooray! I've been invited to conduct a workshop on short story writing at something called the Coconut Festival near Montego Bay. Mo'Bay, one of my favorite places! And a Coconut Festival, of all things. Everything there will be about coconuts: coconut races, coconut craft, coconut cooking, and, yes, all the short stories will be about coconuts. That will be something to experience. I'll also be doing a reading of some of my work, so I'd better get that voice in gear.
I'll definitely be blogging - and Plogging on Amazon - from there, so stay tuned!

The incredible elasticity of time

Anybody who thinks time is fixed and linear needs a clonk on the head. Let me tell you something; time is more elastic than my drawers. Time can be stretched at will. Ask any doctor, dentist, radiologist or OB/GYN. These guys have the secret to fitting 5 or 6 patients into every hour, and still give them appointments in 15 minute increments.

That’s how I managed to turn up at 2:01 for a 2:00 p.m. mammogram, which is supposed to take, maybe 10 minutes, and left at 4:30. I was greeted by a waiting room full of other people, who obviously had also been given 2 o’clock appointments in another dimension of time. Then the technicians gaily surfed the great wormholes in time and serviced us all, simultaneously. Because, God forbid they confine themselves to this plane of existence and only schedule 4 15-minute appointments in one hour, and miss out of all that wasted income.

I swear to you, “Appointments 101 – How to Fill Your Waiting Room Beyond all Reasonable Levels of Practicality” is a compulsory course in Med school. It’s strictly a Pass/Fail course and you need it to get your degree.

As for time’s ability to contract, how else do you explain how I wake up around 5 a.m., breastfeed, pack school bag, lunches, blah blah blah, shower, dress, get two toddlers dressed, skate out of the house like a mad cow, only to realize that although physically I have only lived through about 35 minutes of real time, the clock has leaped ahead almost 4 hours and I am heinously late for work?

How else do you explain the fact that, just a few weeks ago, I was holding a pale, scrawny, docile newborn in my arms, and the next moment I am trying to keep a boisterous, talkative, demanding one year old from hurling herself down the stairs?

Einstein, please, a little help?

Love's labour well worth it

Unbeleivable! One year ago, today, I was lyng in bed in a labour ward, bawling, screaming, shitting, throwing up, forgetting every second of my Lamaze classes, and swearing that I would NEVER do this again. Yep, my daughter, Megan, is one year old today. I can no longer count her age in months. Feels good. She's got a little less hair than I'd have expected, given her momma's genes, but she's a wonderful baby... and it was all worth it.

But of course, I will be true to my word. I will NEVER do that again!

Got a real fun blow-by-blow commentary about a typical dayin my life, on my website here. Drop by if you feel like a laugh.