Along the beach, where all the bars and restaurants and fancy hotels are, there was a parking lot-ish area cluttered with little food vendors and clothing stands, loose-fitting dresses billowing in the wind. I wanted a dress but feigned interest, didn’t want to bargain or barter until my peripheral vision captured just what I was looking for.
A tiny Bajan woman with extraordinarily small features asked if I was “a’browsin.” I liked the way she said that and replied “yes.”
The dress was mid-calf length, asymmetrically cut, brown with purple tie-die on the front and green on the sides, at the hem. The woman said the dress was perfect for me because I’m tall and then she flexed her arms like body builders do.
“Oh yeah?” I said, amused, “because I’m a big girl, you mean?”
She laughed and nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes!” she exclaimed, “The men will call you a STRONG woman!”
I liked the way she said that too, and I bought the dress.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Conch
There is a thing about conch – hah, as if there is only one – and into one long sentence I shall express the thing about conch. In just a moment. First there are some shorter sentences.
A conch is a shell. You can blow or hum on this shell and make a sound. There is a thing that lives in that shell on the ocean floor. That thing is also called a conch.
I am not crazy about shellfish or things that suck dirt for sustenance, to which the conch is classified, but I recently ate an oyster with my occasionally charming ex-boyfriend and I even more recently had a sex dream about said ex-boyfriend, and so when I saw the conch on the menu – the laminated sheet of paper stapled to the front of a shack on the beach – it seemed karmic that I should eat the conch. The conch reminded me of oyster, which reminded me of ex-boyfriend, which reminded me of that sex dream, which made my mouth water. I did take notice – though not enough – that the conch was listed between the oxtail and the goat leg.
The conch comes fried or curried. I asked for the fried conch but the waitress (also the chef and cashier) said something in French which I of course cannot understand but which was a clear expression of preference for the curried conch. And so, I asked for the curried conch. For future reference, when ordering curried conch on a Caribbean island, you should consider that “curried” does not necessarily mean “cooked.” In fact, sometimes, “curried” means “pull it out of the shell, chop it up, and sprinkle it with ox juice.” Sometimes.
It came on a huge plate, piled high with salad, rice, beans, potatoes, plantains, and (drum roll) so, so, so much conch. The waitress / chef / cashier hovered by our folding plastic table, smiling and wringing her hands, waiting for my conch review. Mom watched. An
d giggled. I had to eat the conch. And, I had to enjoy the conch.
Conch does not taste so bad. Especially with spoonfuls of the flavorful rice and beans, or chunks of the buttery potatoes. But the consistency is weird…all tentacle. Conch is tough, probably because it’s designed for sucking shit off the ocean floor, and when you eat conch, it sticks in your teeth – strands of muscle to flavor your palate long after the plate is cleared. Its texture has a weirdness that also sticks with you, like the shit in your teeth. It is a weirdness so profound that, when you try to describe it the following day while sipping coffee on the deck of a beautiful yacht, the memory and lingering flavor will gross you out so thoroughly and completely that you won’t be able to deliver the promised long sentence about conch, that you will be completely lamely not able to converse with the handsome tattooed shirtless older gentleman you would normally be drooling over, that you will run away from the table to dry-heave over the railing, that you will wonder whether you fucked up your sexual karma due to the perceived connection between oyster, ex-boyfriend, and now-sickening conch, that you will feel clammy and conchy and shaky and sweaty and run back to the railing for a second dry-heave and wind up delivering the long sentence after all.
Nothing personal against the conch. It was a beautiful presentation.
A conch is a shell. You can blow or hum on this shell and make a sound. There is a thing that lives in that shell on the ocean floor. That thing is also called a conch.
I am not crazy about shellfish or things that suck dirt for sustenance, to which the conch is classified, but I recently ate an oyster with my occasionally charming ex-boyfriend and I even more recently had a sex dream about said ex-boyfriend, and so when I saw the conch on the menu – the laminated sheet of paper stapled to the front of a shack on the beach – it seemed karmic that I should eat the conch. The conch reminded me of oyster, which reminded me of ex-boyfriend, which reminded me of that sex dream, which made my mouth water. I did take notice – though not enough – that the conch was listed between the oxtail and the goat leg.
The conch comes fried or curried. I asked for the fried conch but the waitress (also the chef and cashier) said something in French which I of course cannot understand but which was a clear expression of preference for the curried conch. And so, I asked for the curried conch. For future reference, when ordering curried conch on a Caribbean island, you should consider that “curried” does not necessarily mean “cooked.” In fact, sometimes, “curried” means “pull it out of the shell, chop it up, and sprinkle it with ox juice.” Sometimes.
It came on a huge plate, piled high with salad, rice, beans, potatoes, plantains, and (drum roll) so, so, so much conch. The waitress / chef / cashier hovered by our folding plastic table, smiling and wringing her hands, waiting for my conch review. Mom watched. An
d giggled. I had to eat the conch. And, I had to enjoy the conch.Conch does not taste so bad. Especially with spoonfuls of the flavorful rice and beans, or chunks of the buttery potatoes. But the consistency is weird…all tentacle. Conch is tough, probably because it’s designed for sucking shit off the ocean floor, and when you eat conch, it sticks in your teeth – strands of muscle to flavor your palate long after the plate is cleared. Its texture has a weirdness that also sticks with you, like the shit in your teeth. It is a weirdness so profound that, when you try to describe it the following day while sipping coffee on the deck of a beautiful yacht, the memory and lingering flavor will gross you out so thoroughly and completely that you won’t be able to deliver the promised long sentence about conch, that you will be completely lamely not able to converse with the handsome tattooed shirtless older gentleman you would normally be drooling over, that you will run away from the table to dry-heave over the railing, that you will wonder whether you fucked up your sexual karma due to the perceived connection between oyster, ex-boyfriend, and now-sickening conch, that you will feel clammy and conchy and shaky and sweaty and run back to the railing for a second dry-heave and wind up delivering the long sentence after all.
Nothing personal against the conch. It was a beautiful presentation.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Library. You know, the one with all the books.
I went in for Tom Robbins - Jitterbug Perfume, Wild Ducks Flying Backwards, Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas - that sort of thing.
The way things actually turned out - Deliverance - yes, the real 1970 James Dickey thing.
Something about the forces of the universe is working out today...because as much as I thought I needed me some Tom Robbins, I'm lovin me some Deliverance.
Mm mm dirty nasty creepiness.
The way things actually turned out - Deliverance - yes, the real 1970 James Dickey thing.
Something about the forces of the universe is working out today...because as much as I thought I needed me some Tom Robbins, I'm lovin me some Deliverance.
Mm mm dirty nasty creepiness.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Ballsy and Confused
A couple of nights ago I went to the Paseo Camarillo Theater and watched the movie “Black Swan.” It wasn’t exactly what I had expected, but I’m not sure what I had expected in the first place and I left the theater feeling quite not sure, in general.
No – correction – I left the theater with an overwhelming sense of Ballsy and Confused. In general.
I sat in my car in the parking lot for a minute and thought about what kind of music I would like to listen to on the way home, but I couldn’t choose any one particular artist or album or song and just revved the engine instead. That sounded perfect in an angels-couldn’t-make-a-more-appealing-sound sort of way, and so I did it again. I considered going out to a bar, maybe see some live music, have a couple beers, meet some new people, that sort of thing. But I wasn’t quite sure whether I was ready to take my Ballsy and Confused out in public, so we went home instead.
My Ballsy and Confused marched straight into my bedroom and dragged the box of Itty Bitty Things out from under my bed and pulled out a string bikini that I haven’t dared to play with in quite a long time. Jeans and hoodie stripped off, String Bikini tied on, towel over shoulder, wine glass in hand, out the door I went. Marched. Whatever. But it was very cold out and I’m technically not supposed to have real wine glasses at the spa, being a breaker and all, so I turned around, marched back inside, pulled Hoodie over String Bikini, and transferred wine from Real Glass to Red Plastic Cup. A lot more wine fits in Red Plastic Cup than in Real Glass so then I poured a lot more wine into Red Plastic Cup and marched back outside. Take Two.
In order to get to the spa in our complex, you have to walk through glass doors into the fancy clubhouse, down the flight of stairs, through the gym, and out the glass doors to the pool deck. I think they built it that way so the riff-raff won’t invade the recreational facilities, but, here we are.
The security guard sits in an office on the top floor of the fancy clubhouse and when he’s ready to go home he comes downstairs and asks anyone who’s still there to leave. Then he locks the doors and goes home. I like the security guard because he doesn’t seem to mind having to kick me out of the spa almost every time I go down there, and because I don’t think he really pays attention to anything except what time he gets to go home. And because I like the security guard, last night when I went out to the spa I imagined that he wouldn’t mind if I turned off the lights in the gym so that the spa area would be dark so that I could see the stars. And so I turned the lights off and the spa area was dark and the security guard didn’t seem to notice at all and the stars were brilliant.
It was very cold out and I had walked barefoot all the way from the condo and my toes were pretty numb. Like, actually freezing cold frozen toes. And the spa was very hot and when I stepped into the water my toes burned like they were on fire. It was extremely uncomfortable, the burning toes thing, and I would have retreated but my nipples got really hard, which String Bikini made quite evident, and I got distracted wondering whether it was the cold or the pain that made my nipples hard. Then the rest of me got cold and I sat straight down in the hot water and the nipples were very, very hard.
So it was really dark out there in the spa, with the gym lights off and the security guard not paying attention and everything, and my Ballsy and Confused put String Bikini in a pile on the deck and that felt really good so I leaned back against the jets and rested my head on the edge and let my hair fall in the water and stared up at the sky and everything was perfect.
That’s where my relationship with Ballsy and Confused took a turn for the worse. The thing about String Bikini being on the deck with the lights off and the security guard not paying attention is that the lights can be turned back on and the security guard can start paying attention, but String Bikini will still be on the deck and Ballsy and Confused will still be staring at the stars. I’m not sure if the security guard noticed how brilliant the stars were, but he certainly noticed String Bikini on the deck.
I had to break up with my Ballsy and Confused. You can’t just start a fun little adventure and then disappear when things get dodgy. And so, I think the moral of this rambling story is that Ballsy and Confused is only in it for the laughs; if you’re looking for an attitude that’s got your back, you probably want to stay away from the Crazy Ballerina movie.
No – correction – I left the theater with an overwhelming sense of Ballsy and Confused. In general.
I sat in my car in the parking lot for a minute and thought about what kind of music I would like to listen to on the way home, but I couldn’t choose any one particular artist or album or song and just revved the engine instead. That sounded perfect in an angels-couldn’t-make-a-more-appealing-sound sort of way, and so I did it again. I considered going out to a bar, maybe see some live music, have a couple beers, meet some new people, that sort of thing. But I wasn’t quite sure whether I was ready to take my Ballsy and Confused out in public, so we went home instead.
My Ballsy and Confused marched straight into my bedroom and dragged the box of Itty Bitty Things out from under my bed and pulled out a string bikini that I haven’t dared to play with in quite a long time. Jeans and hoodie stripped off, String Bikini tied on, towel over shoulder, wine glass in hand, out the door I went. Marched. Whatever. But it was very cold out and I’m technically not supposed to have real wine glasses at the spa, being a breaker and all, so I turned around, marched back inside, pulled Hoodie over String Bikini, and transferred wine from Real Glass to Red Plastic Cup. A lot more wine fits in Red Plastic Cup than in Real Glass so then I poured a lot more wine into Red Plastic Cup and marched back outside. Take Two.
In order to get to the spa in our complex, you have to walk through glass doors into the fancy clubhouse, down the flight of stairs, through the gym, and out the glass doors to the pool deck. I think they built it that way so the riff-raff won’t invade the recreational facilities, but, here we are.
The security guard sits in an office on the top floor of the fancy clubhouse and when he’s ready to go home he comes downstairs and asks anyone who’s still there to leave. Then he locks the doors and goes home. I like the security guard because he doesn’t seem to mind having to kick me out of the spa almost every time I go down there, and because I don’t think he really pays attention to anything except what time he gets to go home. And because I like the security guard, last night when I went out to the spa I imagined that he wouldn’t mind if I turned off the lights in the gym so that the spa area would be dark so that I could see the stars. And so I turned the lights off and the spa area was dark and the security guard didn’t seem to notice at all and the stars were brilliant.
It was very cold out and I had walked barefoot all the way from the condo and my toes were pretty numb. Like, actually freezing cold frozen toes. And the spa was very hot and when I stepped into the water my toes burned like they were on fire. It was extremely uncomfortable, the burning toes thing, and I would have retreated but my nipples got really hard, which String Bikini made quite evident, and I got distracted wondering whether it was the cold or the pain that made my nipples hard. Then the rest of me got cold and I sat straight down in the hot water and the nipples were very, very hard.
So it was really dark out there in the spa, with the gym lights off and the security guard not paying attention and everything, and my Ballsy and Confused put String Bikini in a pile on the deck and that felt really good so I leaned back against the jets and rested my head on the edge and let my hair fall in the water and stared up at the sky and everything was perfect.
That’s where my relationship with Ballsy and Confused took a turn for the worse. The thing about String Bikini being on the deck with the lights off and the security guard not paying attention is that the lights can be turned back on and the security guard can start paying attention, but String Bikini will still be on the deck and Ballsy and Confused will still be staring at the stars. I’m not sure if the security guard noticed how brilliant the stars were, but he certainly noticed String Bikini on the deck.
I had to break up with my Ballsy and Confused. You can’t just start a fun little adventure and then disappear when things get dodgy. And so, I think the moral of this rambling story is that Ballsy and Confused is only in it for the laughs; if you’re looking for an attitude that’s got your back, you probably want to stay away from the Crazy Ballerina movie.
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