I was raised by a career woman who taught her three daughters that men were “luxuries, not necessities”. Hence, I neither witnessed the archetypical “Leave It to Beaver” matriarch bedecked in “kitchen couture”, cooking over a hot stove, hurriedly preparing to have dinner ready before the “King of the Hill” came home nor aspired to become that image. Do you think my mentor would’ve been happy if I had? HELL NO… back in the day, when child labor laws weren’t recognized and people got “thumbs-up” for beating their children, when necessary, my mother had her spawns running a tight ship to get things done… including calling our names (with a heavy, Trinidadian accent) from across the house to come and change the channel on the TV in her room, before remote controls were en vogue (yeah, that long ago.) Straying from tradition, now, would be unacceptable.
I suppose, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that the only boy in the household, my older brother, Shurland, though spoiled for -being- the only male offspring was quite well-versed in all things domestic. I can easily say, (as I roll my eyes) that he did a better job of cooking, cleaning, AND ironing than we girls; Even more annoying… he was the first to get married with the proper nuclear unit, equipped with “the family van” and all (nausea), leaving the three, single, -female- misfits, his sisters, with the duty of watching the constant look of disappointment in our mother’s eyes for 20 years. This curse only ended (me thinks) after I, “the Shrew”, was “tamed” (oh, puhleeez) and carried off to a miraculous and magical 10/10/10 wedding.
But I digress…
One would think that ten years of experience in a corporate setting, as a “world-class” (yeah, right), multi-tasker, during my days as a TV news video editor and coordinator for live, prime-time newscasts would translate into efficiency in the home… particularly, after wedded bliss… WRONG.
Since leaving the hustle and bustle of typical “movers and shakers” to retrieve my organic, bohemian ways, I seem to have fallen into a time-warp; Everything outside of my private bubble appears as a video-still as I float by, in slow motion (to the soundtrack of “Barbarella”), gazing at peculiar mortals interacting with each other through strange messages and monitoring devices (Facebook). I find myself affixed in observation, as well as guilty, of such destructive, voyeuristic behavior, unable to step away from what seems like only a few minutes of innocent “window browsing” that turns into hours of decadent shopping sprees. As a result, all of my genuine intentions to complete important projects at hand, like mailing out packages, donating bags of clothes and household items, are gently shoved a few inches farther away from my natural reach, and shamefully placed in my “to do” pile for another day.
My self-diagnosed A.D.D. (Attention Deficit Disorder) or possible chemical imbalance that may screw up my ability to focus on and complete a chore, before heading off to “LaLa Land”, I tenderly (though without concrete evidence) attribute to my oldest sister, Joanne, who has often, cheerfully recounted the time(s) that while baby sitting, she so responsibly spiked my baby bottle(s) of milk with her favorite panacea, RUM, in order to get me to sleep faster… such loving care (but hey, at least, she wasn’t Casey).
Subsequently, my behavior in life of succumbing to flower-child hazes, while being entranced by alluring, ethereal melodies, like a space cadet would be appropriate for pole-dancing… where stepping out of one’s element into a world without gravity is praised and encouraged. There is such freedom in running and jumping, like an eight year-old, onto a long, metal staff that let’s one twirl around like a ~firefly~ (the actual name of a trick at Sheila Kelley’s “S-Factor”, a school for pole-dancing and striptease).
On my second attempt of conquering the pole (get out of the gutter, freaks), after a failed try at a fitness center, I was vindicated of all charges that claimed me a hopeless flop of a mess, while accompanied by a friend who completed the other half of our awkward, “duncey-duo”, similar to a scene out of “Laverne and Shirley”. In contrast, I showed skill, finesse, power and kick-ass, upper-body strength that exuded CONFIDENCE… and later, almost had me in virtual ~traction~ for a week after my great feat. Thankfully, I discovered a holistic approach to cure such ailments… several shots of Jack Daniel’s (blame my sister for my habit.)
If only I were as driven to line kitchen cabinets, tenderize and season frozen steak for my fella (albeit against my values as a vegetarian), and feather-dust the furniture. My husband, however, seems quite content with the consolation prize of my sprawling across our living room chair instead while performing “Flashdance-like”, strip choreography by ~DivaDance~ Company to Usher’s “OMG” and other “bump-n-grind” songs.
As in every healthy relationship, he’s decided to choose his battles… wisely. 😉
© 2010-2011 Heidi Rodney-Nakanishi and ChocolateGeisha Spills the Sake! All images are copyrighted by their respective authors.