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”), Facebook). I find myself affixed in observation, as well as guilty, of such destructive, voyeuristic behavior, unable to step away from what seems like More gazing at peculiar mortals interacting with each other through strange messages and monitoring devices (