B-day Post.

“You must be so happy that today’s your birthday!” Man I hate it when people tell me that. What reason do I have to be particularly happy about the anniversary of my birth? I suppose that with our present crime shituation, the fact that I have lived to see another year of life is an accomplishment in its own right, but other than that I really fail to understand the general hullabaloo that is made about birthdays. We essentially get older as each nano-second goes by, so why the big deal about this one particular day?

I have never had a birthday party. My parents chose to place importance upon academic achievements (fat lot of good that did me) so events like birthdays, Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day passed by with only the barest minimum of acknowledgement; besides I wasn’t the kind of child who sought social interaction.

Some years ago I got depressed when none of my admittedly few friends called to wish me good tidings, or any tidings for that matter, on the day of my birth. This year I turned my cell phone off. I think I would have gotten depressed if anyone had called to wish me many happy returns.

I don’t know if I’m getting any wiser with age. I do know that I am becoming even more jaded as I get older. I honestly didn’t think that was possible. A psychologist once advised me to find something positive about Triniland and her people everyday in order to develop a healthier outlook. She quit her job two weeks later and migrated to her boyfriend’s homeland of the U.S. of A.

At this point in time, the first day of my 27th year is officially over. In spite of my morose mumblings, I actually did have a fun time, the details of which are insignificant and quite boring to those with active social lives. Here’s to hoping the rest of my lifespan follows in the same vein. That’s the closest I can bring myself to wishing me a happy birthday.

It’s Hard Out There for a Shrew.

Today I realised three things:
1. All the time I spend at the gym should really be dedicated to increasing my upper body strength,
2. Jesus put me on this earth to be His personal jester and,
3. banditry is damned hard in spite of what the general law abiding population may think.

Now before y’all get all excited and start dialling Crimestoppers to tip them off about that damn tief Shrew who you did always know was a blasted a bandit, (who de hell does call deyself a shrew? And wha de arse is a shrew anyway? Is a kinda fly or something?) allow me to expatiate upon the seeming illegality of my as yet undocumented actions. Today, not only did I have to jump my wall in order to gain access to my property, I also had to jimmy open a window to gain access to my house.

Of course it’s not the first time I’ve found myself in such a situation, but once you pass the age of twenty and sober up, it loses its glamour. For one thing, scaling a wall is no easy matter, but scaling a Trini wall is damn near impossible without the proper training. Sure, from the comfort of your couch the Black and Latino guys hired to play criminals make it look easy, but c’mon man, how can you trust a guy who plays pretend for a living? Besides it’s only when you notice the details of a trini wall do you realise how daunting the task truly is.

The average wall in Triniland has many purposes. Its main use is of course, to designate the boundaries of the property it encloses. It is also used as a landmark (Yeah drive! By de yellow wall dey!), a urinal, a deterrent to unsavoury neighbourhood characters such as pipers, cats and children (hence the toppings of broken bottles, iron spikes and razor wire), and a liming spot. Add to that: unplastered cement bricks, globs of mortar left by untidy masons and the mossy build up of neglect and you have yourself an obstacle course worthy of its own American Gladiators segment.

Some time ago I did a post on my various irrational fears (if I didn’t, I had the intention), one of which was getting the heel of my shoe stuck in a crack in the middle of the Priority Bus Route while an oncoming bus with a clueless driver bears down on me. The first Sunday of 2009, while crossing said Bus Route during my once per year pilgrimage to Mass, the strap which kept my four inch stiletto heeled shoes attached to my foot snapped. Hobbled, although the most apt word, still cannot describe my frenzied movements to the relative safety of the pavement. There are those who will say Satan was putting obstacles in my way, but I know the other dude was responsible for that. So when I was in front of chez Shrew and discovered that the keys I knew I had put in my bag weren’t there, there was no other place to look but up.

I mean, what else could explain the sudden proliferation of activity on the previously empty street? As soon as I placed my hands on my wall in preparation for ‘the hoist’, half the neighbourhood suddenly decided that they had to pass in front of my house at that particular moment. For the record, it’s bloody hard to look innocently interested in perusing the minutiae of cement bonded bricks while a gaggle of children play bicycle tag in the street behind you. Thankfully after about 15 minutes or eight years (I’m not really sure how much time passed), they decided to take their inane game somewhere else. I say thankfully because by then I was dangerously close to becoming permanently cross-eyed.

Finally the street regained its quietude; time to make my move. It was then reality bitch-slapped me – I am freaking heavy. I swear, on my first try, my spindly arms cursed me. The second time they threatened to sue, and on my third and a half attempt (I got stuck halfway over), they announced that they were divorcing me and wanted custody of my torso.

Getting into the house was even worse. Imagine balancing precariously on an unwieldy barrel to pry open a window while a 100lb dog tries to mate with your leg. I don’t remember having all this trouble back in the day. The people who do this stuff willingly for a living are truly not normal.

Someone once told me that I should learn from all my experiences, therefore I must say I have learnt that I am not Houdini and so the next time I find myself in this predicament, I’ll rely on the professionals; I’m going to find a bandit and pay him or her (I’m equal opportunity) to break into my house for me.