Pillow Talk of the Sexiest Variety

Me: “Hey, remember when we were in St. John, and I told you about a dream where you were helping me along with some word I was trying to use? But I couldn't remember what word it was?"

Meerkat: “Yeah. I remember.”

Me: “The word just came to me out of nowhere.”

Meerkat: “Okay. And what was it?"

Me: “InexORable.”

Meerkat: “...Um, I think it’s pronounced inEXorable.”

Me: “Shit.”


A notable exchange for three reasons:

A. This marks my second premonitory dream in five years.

B. Usually I am the one correcting other people’s language skills. 

C. Finding his superior vocabulary overwhelmingly aphrodisiacal makes me an official nerd. Which isn't to say that this wasn't already clear.

Another Parking Snafu

I’m running late for work again. But I’m still downtown early enough to nab a free parking spot on Government Hill. A parallel space at the top is free, and with no cars behind me, I decide to make an attempt. I’m encouraged by the easy way I slid in last time I parked here, especially because it’s no easy endeavor. The one lane road is quite narrow, of course, and the spots are on the left. Since I’m used to parking on the right, left-side parallel parking is an extra challenge. On my first try with this spot, my sole success was in bestowing a permanent scrape upon the Corolla’s right front bumper.

Today the space is almost mine, but I scrape the cement wall to my left before backing in completely. I try to straighten out and back in again, but a line of three cars forms behind me, and the thought of making them wait does not appeal. St. Thomians are extreme honkers.

This is making me sweat.

I continue the hunt, checking for angle spots on the downside of the hill. All the good ones at the very bottom are taken. But there are still plenty of ridiculous spaces left.

Foreground = Silly Spots.

Background = Legitimate Spots.

Why are these parking spots ridiculous, you ask?

Well, it is simply impossible to properly park in them. They are far too small, for one thing. I drive a Toyota Corolla of modest size and still have trouble fitting within the painted white line. It doesn't help that the angle of the line is strange and unrealistic, like an empty puzzle space with no pieces to fit.

Does the shape look odd to you? Or is it just me?

But by far the worst thing about these spaces is that if you inch ahead so as to not have your rear bumper sticking into the one lane road, you run a serious risk of having your front tire fall off the ledge.

And this, folks, is exactly what happens to me.

My front left tire drops off the ledge and my rear right tire flies up in the air, and there my car balances like a three-thousand pound sea-saw.

My first reaction is, “Of course this would happen to me. It was only a matter of time.”

I look to my left and see a man and a woman watching. The man—young, serious and lean—

already looks like he’s fixin' to help.

I clumsily manage to get out of the car and greet my witnesses.

“Good Morning,” I say, trying to smile, “this is typical for me.”

The woman looks on and offers friendly, concerned remarks.

The young man gets to work examining the situation.

I start trying to call Mike, who is already at work downtown only a couple blocks away. I don’t know what I think he’ll do to help me, but I’m convinced that I need to reach him. He doesn’t answer. Mike always answers.

One of my regulars (large hot chocolate & warm bottle of water) stops by the scene. She saw the whole thing. She's a stateside girl about my age, and is heading to her legal assistant job in the building next to R&J’s. She looks all cute and professional, per usual. I sometimes feel pangs of envy when she comes into the coffee shop for how cute she looks going to her office job. I used to look cute and professional going to my office job rather than my current peasant uniform of a mocha-stained yellow polo.

Luckily, she is very sweet, and offers to help. I’m hesitant to be behind the wheel while trying to get out of this mess, so she drives while the young man and I push on the rear bumper in an attempt to add a counterweight.

My new friends do their best, but the Corolla only slips further over the ledge.

Fortunately, more helpful people approach—two guys and a woman I recognize from the coffee shop.

They strategize on the best way to return my tires to the pavement. It’s decided that I need traction beneath my dangling tire. What we need are rocks and boards. I’m beginning to think I should keep rocks and boards in my trunk for these instances.

I continue trying to call Mike. I think I mentioned during the telling of the Corolla’s last adventure that I am generally of little use when it comes to problem solving with heavy objects. 

Another regular (16oz mocha with whip) who works in the government building nearest to where my car is “parked” comes out of her office and asks if we want to take a look at the old board behind her building. She holds it up for us to see. One of the guys determines that it will work. And they go about stacking the rocks and board underneath the wheel.

We try backing out again, this time with me steering. (I really need to do something besides try, in futile, to call my boyfriend.) Even with three people pressing down on the elevated back bumper, and one pushing from the front, the car still won’t budge.

More rocks are found and shoved under the board and tire. And, as if sent by Providence, four strapping men walk through the permit lot toward where our group is gathered. They are recruited and all four get positioned to push from the front.

I, sitting impotently in the front seat, have finally gotten Mike on the phone by dialing his assistant’s extension. Just when he gets on the line, we’re ready to roll. I take the moment to ask him stupidly,

“Sorry. Did I interrupt you?”

To which one of the most recently acquired men pushing from the front says to me,

“Sweetheart, this is no time to be talking on the phone.” He sounds irritated, and I can’t blame him. At least he did the Caribbean thing and left the sweetheart part in.

“Gotta go. Nevermind.” I say into the phone and hang up.

Four people push down on the back bumper. Four people push up on the front bumper. I gently push on the accelerator. And the Corolla backs up over the ledge and onto the cement once again.

The crowd quickly scatters; I imagine they’re all late. I’m feeling a bit dazed as I exit the car. By the time I get out, most are gone. Only the first man and woman remain.

“Thank you,” I try calling out after the dispersing crowd. “Good karma points to you all…” My voice trails off as I realize they can’t hear me.

“Thanks,” I say to my first two onlookers.

The young man keeps his head down, going over to inspect something- perhaps the ledge or the rocks we used.

“Hey, let me shake your hand,” I say.

He stops and allows me to shake.

“Come into R&J’s and I will by you breakfast, lunch, whatever you want. Thanks so much.”

He blows it off like it’s no big deal that he spent the last 30 minutes helping me out of my silly parking snafu.

I walk toward work feeling a little stunned and very grateful. Twice now, my fellow islanders have gathered together, with little effort on my part other than doing something stupid in the first place, and have saved me with muscle and ingenuity.

Once again, I am, without a doubt, blessed.

Hasty Update for Those Who Care

Good Night!

I know. You're thinking, "Why would she start a post with that phrase?" It's a West Indian thing. If you want to start off a relationship well with a local, you had better remember to say Good Morning, Good Afternoon, and Good Night, respectively, when greeting them. And Good Night is said upon approach rather than departure. It takes awhile to get used to. I'm not completely there yet.

It's been a week since I posted, mainly because I've been spending most of my time at my apartment with Mom where you have to walk down our steep driveway and sit at a particular spot on the wall that bisects our little road in order to get AT&T Internet and phone service.

As you may imagine, the wall is not a gentle seat for butts to rest upon.

I wish we had those little bleacher cushions.

Since I'm talking about it and even posted a picture, I might as well tell you the wall's history. At one time this was a singular roadway. But then some new people moved into the neighborhood and started to build houses. Apparently, their heavy construction equipment was ruining the road, which had been built and paid for by the current tenants. A disagreement ensued, and it was taken up with the local courts. The judge ruled that a wall be built down the middle of the road. The new neighbors were to use one side, and the old neighbors the other. And that is the history of our communication bench. Mom spends much time on this wall talking to her man in Oklahoma.

Speaking of Mom, she is currently en route to the leaveless land of Minnesota, where she will be treated for her little spot of breast cancer at Mayo. We have no clue how long she'll be there and what sort of treatment she will endure. We will know more by the end of the week. Neither of us have started worrying about it yet. Hopefully we will refrain altogether, as it will not do her any good. So, if you care about Pam, please send positive, healthy vibes her way instead of nervous, negative ones.

She just texted me from the plane and said she's already missing St. Thomas. Who can blame her with a view like this from our porch?

This picture doesn't do the water justice. Too many clouds.

Still, it's no view to scoff at.

And flowers like this growing in our yard?

Aren't those white mini-flowers delightful?

That's about it for news. My new job as a barista is going well. I am meeting a lot of people, and having a purpose with a paycheck helps my outlook and pocketbook significantly. Learning to do things like make croissant sandwhiches, run a register, and mop properly has a way to bust down my ego, which I think is a good thing. And they are all low-stress tasks. I'm definitely enjoying that part of working while it lasts.

I should hopefully post more often during the next couple weeks because I'll be spending more time at the boyf's where I can connect to the Internet without straddling a concrete wall.

Good Night!

PS. For some reason starting and ending this post with Good Night reminds me of Spanish sentence punctuation. Yeah, I know. You want some of what I'm smoking.

Occupational Euphemisms, Ego Dissolvers, and an Hourly Wage

I am finally hired. In the food industry-- a part of it I never before considered, although making coffee is obviously a better fit for me than waitressing or bartending. You’re reading the blog of a new, full-time barista. It has a sexy ring to it, don’t ya think? I’m glad the title "barista" has entered the mainstream, so I have a hip title. I much prefer it to coffee girl.

The position opened up because Johnny (adorable and sweet as can be) has been promoted to lead bartender at the newly renamed Liquor Box (the Drake’s Passage bar, which the boyf’s good friends happen to own. Everyone is connected down here.). Therefore, his full-time barista position at R&J's Island Latte is available. I didn’t consider this option when I first saw it advertised, since I have never before made coffee drinks. But I need a job. Any job. Staying unemployed will drive me to depression.

Thanks to a gentle kick-in-the-ass pep talk from Mom last Tuesday night, I entered Wednesday determined to be employed week's end. I was getting very close to selling jewelry, which I didn't want to do. If I know anything, it's that I'm not a salesperson, even though I come from a line of them. Like I've said before, wiping asses sounds like more fun to me.

We decided to eat at RJ's for lunch on Wednesday. We entered, and a pretty, light-skinned black lady greeted my mom warmly by name. Mom informed me that she is one of they owners and told me for the tenth time that they are very nice. It occured to me for the first time that I might enjoy working here, and we decided to inquire about Johnny's newly open position.

We find out that it has not been filled, but I need a health card before she will interview me. In order to work in the food industry in the USVI, one must have a valid Health ID or Food Handler’s card. In order to acquire said card, a stool sample must be tested to ensure one doesn't have worms. I ask if it takes a long time to get the card and find out that if I’m fast, I can probably get it within the next twenty-four hours.

“It all just depends on your body,” she says smiling, and gesturing with her hands in a downward motion showing the route that food leaves your body as waste.

“I like this woman,” I think to myself.

So, I embark on an adventure that includes a trip to the communitiy clinic at the hospital, meeting a half-mad woman who nonetheless shows me where the privately-owned labratory is located, obtaining a sample jar, and scooping a sample of my poo from the toilet with the serrated spoon attached to the jar lid. The next day, I'm relieved to discover that my poo is ova and parasite free. The people at the hospital give me a card, even though I couldn’t tell the lady my street number. (Mom keeps telling me it doesn’t matter!) 

After an easy and painless interview, I am hired. My normal hours will be 6:45am to 3:15pm, the earliest I’ve ever worked. I figure it will keep me healthy. I can’t go out late if I have to rise around 5am. The job only pays $10/hr, a sum of which I’m almost embarrassed to mention, except for the fact that I'm trying to dissolve the ole ego. And the tips aren’t nearly what they’d be if I bartended or waitressed. I could  also make more selling jewelry...

Unfortunately for me, I wasn't born with the greedy gene, allowing me to work jobs that I dislike because they pay well...I usually have to do something I find palatable, which generally doesn't include asking for people's money...

I’m thinking that the barista job will be virtually stress free.  My head won’t spin all night with work shit, and the anxiety won’t cause me to drag my feet  in the morning. This means I can spend more energy doing what I love, which is to write.

I will probably have to get a 2nd gig. And I have some options. But the whole thing is a pride-swallower, since I’ll be earning half what I did in MN, and will also have no benefits and no 401K.

But then I remind myself that this is an adventure. I am young. And learning to live simply is valuable-- thinking of abundance in a way that has more to do with small daily joys instead of purchasing power.

Plus, they're training me to make all sorts of cool coffee drinks. So, I am learning a new trade. Now, there's a better word for that...we'll call it a craft.