I Dream of California King

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When I first came to GC, one of the things I mentioned is that I was looking to make a move out from the parental home.  Well y’all, as my American cousins would say, this thing called apartment hunting in this island just plain sucks!

First of all, everyone is asking for rent in US dollars.

What de A-double snakes is that! I live on an island and work for island dollars.

US dollars you say?  Where do I begin?

I guess from the beginning.

I hooked up with a real estate friend of mine.  She is a sweet thing; a mother of two grown kids who still live with her, so she is confused as to why I want to rent.  After I explained my need to have my own space, turn my own key and have my own kitchen (my most fervent desire), she nodded and we opened the conversation and the search for Island Girl’s new ‘Island’.

When I told her my budget, she almost fainted from laughter, but said she would try and find some decent places. I have a few demands. One or two bedrooms, clean, safe, preferably furnished, preferably northwest. So my informal ‘real estate’ agent got together a few properties and our month-long adventure began. We saw about eight places. Four stood out to me.  Indulge me.

Property One:

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Before we viewed, she let me know that property one was not all to spec – a fixer-upper of sorts. I followed her to Prop One. Jesus Christ!  The moment I saw the warped kitchen counters I wanted to cry. Iron furniture that clearly dated back to that time devoid of some style, aka the seventies, was styling in the kitchen. The cupboards needed a lot of work.  I could hear the termites planning the three-course dinner.

As we moved to the cubbyhole, sorry, the bedroom, I was ready to run. The bathroom…there is nothing to say but hell no!  Anyone who knows me can tell you my face is an open book.  You can read my hurt, my anger, my joy and my disgust! She read the latter.  She quickly ushered me out of the apartment and we were off again. It was in my budget though.  My heart sank.

Property Four:

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Properties Two and Three were okay, locations sucked though. She called to tell me Prop Four was a bit beyond the budget, but it was negotiable.  Beautiful view, access to a swimming pool, new furnishings, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a garden, a gated community. Can we say excited? I watched the clock tick that day at work and at four on the dot – I was out the door.

The drive up was full of promise and hope. It did not disappoint, initially. Beautiful. well-appointed rooms, stainless steel appliances, granite countertops; from heaven. The master bedroom – can we say  –  a view of the pool. I could not ask for more.  I was frothing from the mouth by the time I saw the bathroom, all white and shiny! And then, the rug was pulled out from under me.  Negotiable price out the door.  A lot of people are looking at this and are willing to pay more! The tears were in my eyes as I was led out from what could have possibly been my dream apartment.

Property Six:

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Property Five was okay, but the bug ambling along the kitchen counter caught my attention before the owner could sweep him away.  I made a tack back to the car while my lady dealt with the owner.  So Property Six came along.  A guy working in New York was renting and he had it in the newspaper.  I decided to contact him.

Sounded decent, one bedroom studio in the right area. He sounded excited too! Told me he would have his uncle take pictures so I could see it and then I could come up and take a closer look.  Sure! Fine! Great! Oh boy.

What came to me was, well to put it nicely, was, well… not what I was looking for.  Dark panelling facing a wall painted with a mermaid – yes that is what I said. A bathroom that looked like a relic of the seventies (what is it with seventies?) It was just not what I was looking for.

So I kindly noted to the owner that it was much more masculine than I had anticipated and wished him luck in finding a tenant.  What happened next was surprising.  The man sent me an email, in caps, telling me essentially why did I bother to waste his time,

” …A LOT OF PEOPLE ARE INTERESTED IN THE PLACE!”

“Excuse me!” I wanted to write back, but I just lost his email and thought, okay, classifieds, not for me!

Property Eight:

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Property Seven was interesting. Drove along the longest road ever, looking for the apartments.  Saw a lot of young men hanging out at the corner, pants below bottom, CKs out, and the requisite gold teeth.  The smell of reefer hit me like a whammy! Hell no.

My lady told me that Property Eight was well out of my budget, but she wanted me to see it.  Boy did I see it. Gorgeous, beautiful. Rent quoted in US of course. Kitchen out of Home and Gardens. I was drooling, touching the appliances with a reverence one usually reserves for Saints. She told me to lay on the California King bed.  Oh God! I was in having a mini org by that time. Real estate heaven!  The owners were in Azerbijan or Uzbekistan or one of those. The pool glistening, the birds in the garden singing. I saw me and ‘my guy’ having breakfast in the nook. I saw us swimming in the pool, enjoying the pleasures of a sunken bubble bath together.

The boom of thunder awakened me. No way! Not right now! My lady telling me I needed to get a man to pay for all this.  Why does it always have to come back to that! I left depressed on a rainy Sunday.

Will I ever be able to move?  Will I find anything? People are telling me get a starter. It does not have to be a dream. I know, logically I know this.  But that dream I had of awakening on a Sunday morning and rolling on my California King and connecting with a warm body; breakfast in the nook, nookie in the nook…I am so frustrated! I should have never gone to that apartment.

But my lady continues.   She has a new crop of things for me to see come November. So I take my California King fantasy with a dose of reality and will begin the search again.

Real estate is a ridiculous business.  I am hearing things are going to go down soon.  Crossing fingers, toes, eyes and hairs!  I know I have to move out.  And I know there is some place out there for me. I guess I just have to keep searching.

But for now….on to other things!

Puma Was Here

It’s funny how things happen.  A good friend of mine was chatting with a group of us about her liaisons with a younger man. Married and going through tough times, she was contemplating ‘going the distance’ with a much younger guy who she met at a party some months before.

Apparently everyone in the group was having a younger man experience. All of us, in our thirties, were suddenly the objects of desire for men born in the eighties. After the cougar jokes were made, we looked at Halle, Demi, Bo and their relationships, the pros and cons of adultery, the ‘wondering what these guys would be like under the cover of darkness,  and we all wanted to know:

Can this phenomenon of older woman/younger man work?

Thus came an informal Island Girl survey.

I asked some other friends the question: can an older woman and a younger man work, or is it doomed to be just a hot and heavy, non-committal type of interaction that eventually ends with the older woman in therapy and reverting to an insecure “22-year old” behaviour and the younger man hooking his hands in his belt loops screaming, “Scored!”?

Answers thus far:

“Man just like woman. Age is just a number. I don’t think it matters, once the sex good.” (Man)

“Well, at first, I think women will start off in control because the younger men usually give them the reins. And then somewhere they hand it to the younger men because it would have gone beyond sex by that time for the women. And men do not like commitment, no matter the age. So no, I do not think it will last.” (Woman who was with someone 8 years younger)

“Older women are more confident and they know what they want. That’s hot!” (Man)

“Depends where the woman is. If she knows what she wants and is in control of the situation, great. If she is a mess, it can’t work. If he is a mess, then look out –drama!” (Woman)

So everyone has his/ her opinion.  I have a very good friend who is married to an older woman.  They worked together, in the same organisation, separate departments, and dated quietly. Their relationship never interfered with their work, and they just had their first baby.    The secret of their success is simple: “no drama and most excellent sex!” I laughed when he told me that.  With men it is so simple.

On the flip side, another friend is dating a younger man. He is definitely fun, active and energetic and adores her from what I see.  Sex according to her is ridiculously good. “But,” she whispers, “he is so moody!  Like a child! Sometimes I just want to lick him down! But then he smiles and kisses me and I melt!”

I ask this question because I am interested in whether this situation could work for me.  After the fur settled from the dog (Brian)/cat (Mimi, Camz, etc.) fight, I contemplated a lot of things.  Am I limiting myself based on my 999 parameters for the ‘perfect’ man for Island Girl? Should I widen the search, incorporating those who have less money than me (so that is probably a vagrant); who have less education, and who were probably born in the eighties? Yikes!

I can’t lie.  Younger men are fun-loving and more active! They have better bodies, well at least those who have been presented to me.  I celebrated a birthday recently at a club.  Met three guys…cute, bodies rocking. Ages: 22, 25 and 26! I’m laughing loudly as I write this, because the conversation, combined with alcohol and loud music?… Choke!

All were quite complimentary – “You smell good”. “You have great legs” . “You have a pretty smile”. Because everyone around me kept screaming Happy Birthday, the inevitable question was asked.  When I answered no one seemed fazed. One of them even tried to cop a feel of my butt. Cheeky bugger. Yuck, but points for confidence (and hey, I almost got play for my b-day!).

My interest is sheer curiosity at this point.  I have seen the flip to older man/younger woman growing in popularity, not just internationally, but locally as well.  I like the idea of a guy who is up to, and I use the term to refer to all activities, anything and everything. Most literature cites that the energy between an older woman and younger man comes sans the commitment. It is raw, honest and most of all, fun for both partners. But…

My friend started out that way.

Her reasons for seeing him were purely primal. The hubby just was not doing it for her in that department. Golf and portfolio are his obsessions, so she began the liaison with the ‘smallie’ as he is referred to in ladies’ company.  They both got to be together, but also to do their own thing. Then, suddenly, what was sexual connection and passion, turned into a deep, emotional bond between them.  She, who is of the “my-biological-clock-is-ticking” club, felt that a non-commitment, a purely physical relationship, would decrease her chances of producing progeny (of course, complicated by the married part).

Midnight bbms between friends about whether she should nip it in the bud, should she just wait for the proverbial axe to fall etc., were the norm. She wanted to be with him all the time.  He, though saying that he was in love, was not ready for the commitment of spawn. They are trying to work out a compromise. How does one compromise adultery, childbirth and parenthood…hmmm. I wait with bated breath.

I did psychology. This growing phenomenon was initially frowned upon because it seemed to cement the Freudian theory that older women were mother substitutes to younger men, and they, the women, were robbing the cradle. I think it’s garbage. Today, it is more socially acceptable – it is now a trend and will soon become a norm.

These days it seems that I am surrounded by younger men –at work, at after work limes, at the gym. Maybe it is a sign! So what would happen to Island Girl if she decided to venture down this path?

I am not one for the biological clock. It has not hit me, and I seriously doubt it will.

Am I in the market for great sex with no commitment? Not sure about that either.

I do know I want to have fun, feel special and just enjoy life! It seems to be a few of the benefits of this kind of relationship according to all the literature and testimonials. Is it one of those things that would burn brightly then fade out faster than you can say…well, anything really? I am less rooted in convention but would it be a waste of time for both ‘smallie’ and me? I believe that the correlation between age and maturity is negligible. Anyone can be attracted to one another regardless of race, religion, sex or age.  What I think that may make this a workable situation is the mental bond. So I think age does not really matter.

What do you think?  Should I open myself to any possible experience with a ‘smallie’?

For now, on to other things.

What’s an Island Girl to do?

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I am in the market for both an apartment and for Mr. Right.  Sounds pathetic, desperate and clichéd, but you know what?  It is my Island Girl reality.  In my search, some Mr. Hell-No-You-Are-So-Wrongs have made brief, amusing, and sometimes ridiculous appearances. Case in point:

Scenario 1:

I am rushing to get the car out of the garage, because I am trying to beat the morning traffic. The sanitation engineers (garbage men) come along to collect the trash.  As I close the gate so the two vicious Rottweilers don’t get at one of their favourite snacks, (the other being the postman),  one of them says to me:

“Baby, you, me, a bottle of Correia’s Hard Wine and Richie’s!”

Now Richie’s is a local bar where you have to duck to get in the door. It is pitch black, crowded with men with gold teeth, and your shoes stick to the floor. Let’s put it this way, my father would return from the sea, in which his ashes were scattered, and kick my assets from here to eternity. I politely thank him for the invite and wish him a great day, lest he leaves my rubbish to pile up. High.

Scenario 2:

I have parked at the mall. Rushing to get to the store, I encounter one of the security guards, who is sporting a wicked grill in his mouth and he says to me,

“Psst! Psst! Family! What I will do to you family!”

Then he does something that involves his hand, his, um, nether region. I threw up in my mouth, I swear; This so wrong on so many levels.  Firstly, you, who have been entrusted with my security, are sexually harassing me. Secondly, you would do that to a member of your family? Ew! Beast face on as I brush past him, and a quick prayer to the Almighty that my car is not keyed, the tires will still be inflated and Security Slime is not waiting out there when I return.

Scenario 3:

Party jamming.  Music playing. Drinks flowing. Nice man everywhere. My dress is hot – short and tight in a totally Kim Kardashian, non-prostitute way, legs waxed and gleaming. Nice man everywhere. Who approaches? Expatriate, probably working with one of the oil and gas companies, about 250 pounds of fat, an annoying Texas accent and smelling of bourbon.

“Can I buy you a drink honey? I have been waiting here all night for you to walk in the door.”

I look around. I shake my head. I look in the mirrored wall at our reflections and think:

**He for real? He and his cowboy boots for real?” **

I politely refuse; show him I can well afford to get my own drink, and spend the rest of the night ducking George Bush, as he was nicknamed after that night.

This is but a sample of the sad state of affairs.  Now, I am sure these guys are perfectly lovely, but as they say,

This stale bread is looking for another type of mouldy cheese.

I have been scarred by these experiences, vacillating between periods of lower-than-the–line-in-the-road self esteem, to an over-inflated ego that makes me think,

**Wait, he see me?! He CANNOT be serious.**

My other friends also have had the same experiences.  It is an island phenomenon.

What can we do? What are we putting out there that attracts these lovely gentlemen?

Well, the theory is that they know they can’t get through so they put it out there anyway.  If it a PG kind of thing, they get a smile and a laugh and it makes these guys’ days. It if it a rated R to X, they get a what-the-A-double-snakes and all other kinds of strong language.

Why is it so hard to get a guy? My friend Damon, who I love to bits and my mother maintains was the man for me, has told me in frank, simple language when I complained about the no man situation:

“You intimidate men.”

Eh? What’s that? Me? Apparently I do.

When Damon said it, apparently all other men in my life decided to come out of the closet with that one.

My brothers:

“You too aggressive! And do not tell men you could fix a toilet!”

My closest male friend at the time said:

“You don’t ask anyone for advice. You just charge ahead!”

He has since been relegated to bottom of the barrel after I told him stick to engineering and I’ll will do the PR – I mean do I tell him how to build a bridge? – Another story.

A work colleague:

“Girl, when you walk, you do not look right or left. You look powerful, purposeful.  You look like you do not need a man!”

A married friend, who bought an Audi for his wife:

“You drive a convertible, an European car. Man looking at you and saying they can’t afford you, either that or you pretty much can buy it on your own!”

Eeek! What?

So in other words, being self-sufficient, having a strong opinion, walking with your head up with one foot in front of the other, opening doors for myself, and paying back a loan for a car makes me unattractive to men who I would like to approach me?

So, in typical human fashion, I will blame everybody else for my present woes. I went to an all-girl high school, where opinions were encouraged (radical for a Presbyterian school). My mother sent me to learn to walk when my classmates entered me in our high school’s version of Miss Universe. My job in PR has made me accept that I open doors, and lift boxes and chairs. My divorced mother, who we fondly refer to as Macgyver, can make a seven-course meal using dental floss, crazy glue and day old spaghetti. And my car? I could not resist the Pug. A drain on my resources, yes, but I Iove her! Oprah – I also blame Oprah.

And, for entertainment sake, just  what will make me more attractive to the men I find fit? All those silly books – you know the ones that tell you as a woman how to act, because the guy lives in a different solar system to yours – they don’t help.  They may be better fit for the London or NYC girls, but those rules do not apply in the islands. Apparently, I have to simper and sigh, walk with my head hanging below my neckline, complain about the possibility of having to replace a cracked toilet seat, bring in the goats and maybe even swoon. I feel sick already.

So the question is:

Is this really my issue? Or does this fall on the guys this time?

Why should a man be intimidated by someone who needs them, not for money or fix-its, but for companionship, love and emotional and spiritual bonding.  Okay, I may have just answered my own question.

Island Men still feel they have to swoop in. Their insane need to be practical, logical beings is clearly challenged by a woman who also wants to be practical and logical. They’re still looking for wife, mother of their children and needy soul, maybe not equal partner.

What’s an Island Girl to do I ask? Compromise? Eschew the learnings and teachings of parents, instructors, Oprah, and self-help manuals? How the hell I am I supposed to find Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now if they are basically afraid of me?

Advice please.

But for now, on to other things.

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My Room. My Island.

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I am an Island Girl. In my part of the world, I would also be referred to as a Caribbean or West Indian woman.

I live on a piece of land surrounded by water and I love it. The sun shines most every day, and when it rains, it pours.  There is the beach, Carnival, Christmas, fetes and limes – both of the tree and social gathering varieties. We have religious freedom and a multitude of creeds and races that make it one of the most special places on Earth.

But who is this Island Girl? Well, I am 30-something years old to start with, though I freely admit that I do not feel a day over 22 and they tell me I look like 25, so lets go with that shall we? My CV reads normal for the most part – single, working girl, who doesn’t necessarily like her job. Loves shoes, bags, MAC makeup, her Ipod, and connected on a deep and spiritual level to her Blackberry. Looking for Mr. Right, but in the interim would settle for Mr. Right Now.

One difference I may have with my fellow London or New York 30-something year olds is that I live at home.  Yes, that’s what I said – I live at home with my mother, my two, over-30-something, brothers and two dogs. If you think reading it is depressing, try writing it!

Why? You ask after you have picked yourself off the floor either from laughter, or fainting with shock and horror? I will freely admit to never seeking it out –  That’s why.

Become me for a moment, and imagine this.

You have just emerged from earning a Master’s degree. In the islands, this makes you a freaking star.  You are the apple of your parents’ eyes. Red carpets are rolled out for you. Your favourite foods are prepared in your honour. You are a family legend!

You jump at the first job you get – a government gig of course.  You work for less than the cost of a Birkin bag, but you enjoy it.  Your parents do not ask for rent –

“If you want you can contribute!”

Famous last words.  No, I do not want to contribute, and so the pittance is spent on drinks, reasonably-priced clothes and birth control. Oh, and  of course gas for the second-hand car your father purchased for you.

One year rolls into two, and two into three.  Alcohol prices increase, but you do not care. You go to family planning to get subsidised pills, because it leaves more money for drinks! Your boyfriend (sorry, in my case, the man I was sleeping with exclusively – will get to him in another blog), lives in his mother’s house, so really, life is perfect.

And then year three rolls into four, five, six, seven.  You have changed jobs, earn a better pay, work closer to home so you burn/ buy less gas.  New car beckons and not an ordinary car – It’s a two-door, convertible, black and hot.  Your hair goes from its natural brown to spiced coffee with gladiator gold highlights. Your suits are all black. You are cool. For all these things and the fact you are still required not to pay rent, or even a telephone bill, even though you are calling Germany every other day cause your ‘exclusive man’ is on a two-year engineering job there.

You immerse yourself again and realise along the way, somehow, your mother saw through the veneer of a Master’s degree.  Phone bill – check. Help put your brothers through school by helping with a re-mortgage payment – check! Continue paying car loan – check! Take loan for some other thing you do not even remember – check, check! Moral of this story – money done; and so paying rent is not an option.

Suddenly, you are the loafer child, who is not saving any money. In short, you kind of scrunting.

Your employment bonus comes. Trust me, you will need a new pair (or four) of shoes. You don’t learn. You are still in the bubble, until Mr. Exclusive returns from Germany, purchases and moves into a posh townhouse, one hour’s drive from his mother’s (and your mother’s) house. Yes, the island is that small. He did not ask you to go with him. You are shocked.  Then one day, you try to close a bedroom door and get a lecture about locking doors in ‘my house’ – veneer torn down!

And then the thirties hit and you emerge from your bubble for a breath. This breath coincides with a housing boom, an industrial boom and an increase in rents.  No joke.  A one bedroom in this island paradise will run you a cool US$1500.  And that’s the next thing, rent is now quoted in yankee dollars. Your goose is cooked.

Have I horrified you enough?

Here I am, in a room I have occupied since I was four years old. The furniture has changed to accommodate my growth spurts. There is now a television, phone line, book shelf, larger cupboards – do not get me wrong,  I thank my mother for these things.

But my need to ‘turn my own key’, to borrow my friend Mimi’s husband phrase, is my biological clock.  And surprisingly, a lot of my friends, both male and female, are in my position.  That’s an island thing, do not ask me for statistics. This is the islands, we do not measure those things.

So my quest is to find a lot of things within the next year – a house, a new job that can pay the rent, and a decent enough guy, who will at least put the toilet seat down and install a wicked sound system in *ahem* my apartment.

I love being an island girl, but my room cannot be my island.

On to other things.

Island Girl

Team GC | Introducing “Island Girl”

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Introducing the newest member of Team GC, Island Girl, who will be sharing her views on the trials of life as a single girl, living at home with her parents, in the beautiful Caribbean island of Trinidad & Tobago. The myopia of it all – surviving on limited resources, dealing with an over-active partying scene, overcoming the trials of dating in a box, all while trying to some how, some way move ‘on to other things’.

Island Girl, is a tried, tested and true ‘island girl’.  A 30+plus years native of Trinidad and Tobago, she holds a degree in Sociology from UWI, St. Augustine, Trinidad  and a Master’s in Environmental Management from UWI, Cave Hill , Barbados.

A love of creative writing led her to jobs as a journalist at the Trinidad Guardian, Information Officer at the Institute of Marine Affairs and currently, a Communications Officer at the country’s National Gas Company where her portfolios have ranged from project communications, leadership development and internal communications.  This has also led to an expansion of her responsibilities including event planning.

Island Girl is currently single.  She lives at home with her retired mother, two brothers, one an upcoming dentist who should have been a DJ and the other a graphics whizz and two rather complicated dogs – one thinks he is human and the other thinks he is still a puppy. You will be sure to hear more about them!

A Libra, she continually seeks to balance self and life. She also loves music, reading and travelling. She adores the finer things of life and is diplomatic until you cross her.

Emerging from what she describes as a comatose state, and trying to regain a sense of self she felt she has lost along her life journey, Island Girl will share her experiences with you – work, home, trying to find a place to live, relationships, friendships, Carnival –spiced with a bit of fact, humour and sarcasm.  All trying to, as she puts it, go ‘on to other things’.

A big GC welcome, Island Girl!

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