[01.14] - Boy versus Girl

You know them; the jokes, the comments, the sweeping clichés: women drivers running up on the sidewalk on every other street; men tuning out all conversation segments save for those relating to food, beer, or sex. I, for one, am starting to wonder why, with all this gender angst, pairing remains mainstream. If we’re so different, and these differences bother us so, why still bother to get together?

Yes, I know that reason; some delicate soul once put it, the only reason men and women still get together is because the parts fit. Now, that’s an encouraging thought. Adult relationships; Lego for grownups.

I can accept that a certain amount of teasing is understandable. We can write off a percentage of the ‘men are so this’ and ‘all women do that’ chitchat to the same good-natured ribbing we enjoy in those ‘Ya know ya Bahamian when’ (insert string of comments relating to conch, bad driving, and frequency of Miami shopping trips).

But after a while, all these little negative jabs begin to take on a bitter ring. Particularly because we all know that, often, gender relations aren’t easy. They’ve never been.

We all know how women are supposed to have more rights now than ever before, and you’d think that equality might initiate a new, fantastic era in gender relations. No such luck; whether it’s comparing our differences through tedious planetary metaphors or simply spouting off about how unobservant men are and how emotional women get, the two sexes are as different—and, arguably, divided—as ever.

More than one guy has complained to me that he’s sick of femme-dominated shows where every male character is a bully or a lout, tired out from the Lifetime TV mentality where anybody with a dick is to be escaped from, feared, overcome.

On the girl side of things, it still vexes me that I can still be paid less than an equivalent male for the same job, am relegated to silence in many churches, and would be bookmarked forward, fresh, or slutty for levels of sexual openness commonly accepted (at least by some) in men.

I know this topic runs the risk of being hackneyed, tired, and milked so dry its withered teats are begging for peace in their twilight years. I know none of this is new. In fact, that makes me wonder: is the boys-against-girls mentality old enough to be thrown out?

Are the stereotypes, jabs, jokes, and tradition of harping on gender differences at all useful? Even more seriously, do gender differences—beyond the obvious physical variations we all know and love—really exist? And whose relationships do we help by dwelling on them?

-ja**ly

[01.13] - Sip Smart

I remember when our first Starbucks opened; summer 2006, Marina Village. Latte lovers lined up, eyes glazed over with joy at the promise of frothy, caffeinated pleasure.

I viewed the new chain with the sceptical neutrality I reserve for the ever-growing number of American companies that land, expand, burgeon, and thrive with imperial vigour.

Of course, in time, I too could be found snuggled into a cosy armchair, sipping unpronounceable beverages and revelling in the atmosphere and free internet. As Starbucks’ stronghold spreads—right along with the average Bahamian waistline—I can’t help but view the newcomer as simply another chance for consumers to make daft food choices.

Don’t get me wrong. I like what widely available coffee shops have done for society. They’re great for cheap socializing. They offer an enticing atmosphere, and are a pleasant alternative to liquor-fueled meeting places. No other food and beverage establishment is so conducive to reading, studying, or loitering long after you’ve consumed what you paid for.

But the sad fact is that most of us are getting far more out of Starbucks than social pleasures and a much-needed caffeine hit. If we were fat-happy and sugar-hyped on Big Macs and Papa Johns before, last thing any of us needed to add to the mix was unhindered enjoyment of drinks with six-word names and four inches of whipped cream on top.

Now, you all like a treat. I like them, too. Heck, the joneser who tried to bum $5 off my brother for a frappuccino clearly liked to get his. But I’m pretty sure plenty people standing in line for a little something to sip would be better off with bottle of water than a grande Green Tea Latte, replete with its 41 grams (i.e., 10 teaspoons) of sugar.

I’m not saying this to rehash old points. I know we here on Woden's Way have chided and tutted over weighty matters and nasty ingredients before. But I know I was pretty surprised when I found out that what I thought was a fairly virtuous choice—steamed soymilk with hazelnut—was as sweet as the sodas I’ve shunned for years.

Shame on Starbucks? Not really, and certainly not exclusively. Like almost every other chain that’s laid down roots here, it’s out to make money through taste, and taste tends to be passed on through sweet, salt, or fat. But finding that a mocha packs about as much fat as a helping of medium fries raises larger issues about what we welcome into our country and our bodies, and what we might want to consider siphoning off, culturally.

Rich, sweet, cool drinks marched into our field of vision; we, like sheep, it seems, line up at the watering trough and cheerily sip away. More often than not, we’re sipping in addition to whatever we were eating before, so that 15-fat-gram drink isn’t replacing a meal, just washing it down. Another great international company is at our fingertips, and we’re wise enough to choose its unhealthiest offerings to supplement our already abysmal diets.

Is Starbucks going anywhere? I highly doubt it, though I do hope more locally-owned businesses, perhaps with a healthy spin and unique decor, can open up and offer quality and diversity. Even more so, I wish we’d approach our new national fix with a nutritional smarts and we can enjoy the social benefits of such places, without letting them morph into yet another way to spoil what’s left of our health.

-ja**ly

[01.12] - The Good Idea-Bad Idea Guide to taking baths

Time was, a tub full of water was a welcome pleasure for weary body and tense mind. Now, this solitary delight must be weighed against worries of world water crises and cancer risks.

Good Idea?

1. Sanity savers. The tub is one of the few spots where you can escape a spouse’s cooking fumes or sibling’s loud music. Even when you live alone, the tub is a spot for solace; I live in a shoebox-sized studio apartment; when I grow weary of sitting on my futon, the only room I may retreat to is the bathroom. And sitting in the tub is the sweetest smelling cause for a long stay.
   
2. Olfactory pleasures. Skin-softening salts and essential oil elixirs are a fantastic way to indulge the olfactory sense. Often, you can team up on the benefits, combining sweet aromas with body-enhancing brews; lavender can soothe vexed skin, while petigrain boots out a bad mood.
   
3. Water therapy. We all began life this way: curled in a perfectly temperatured enclosed bath replete with instant nourishment supplied 24/7. Retiring to the tub with rum and dark chocolate (and a stack of books) lets us regain this estranged state of bliss.
   
4. Muscle relaxation. Warm water soothes tense muscles and achy parts. Every woman knows how hot water mellows cramps; reclining in a bath duplicates this calming sensation to the power of ten.
   
5. Pore pleasure. As, the average home is not equipped with a sauna, hot baths are a simple way to open pores, releasing toxins.
   

Bad idea?

1. The water bill. Outrageously High Water Bills are not an urban legend. When your parents complained about lights left on or water running, their reasons were just. As I discovered when my first water bill rolled in and washed away the better part of my paltry bank account.
   
2. The global bill. Increasing global water demands make kicking back in your own personal 25-gallon pool tough to justify. And nothing’s less fun than guilty thoughts of Al Gore looking grim in An Inconvenient Truth to ruin your nude relaxation.
   
3. The cancer risk. Chlorinated water supplies make hot soaks (and showers) a cancer risk. That same nice hot water that opens pores makes those open pores ready to absorb chlorine’s carcinogenic treats. A bonus; chlorine also ups incidences of dandruff and eczema. .
   
4. The drowning risk. My mother fears one day, I’ll fall into such a deep sleep in the tub that I won’t not notice my head dipping towards the water, ultimately leading to my sudsy demise. Worse yet, when the coroner shows up, not only will I not be wearing decent underwear, I’ll be wearing nothing at all.
   
5. The interruption risk. In shared homes, the chances of getting away with a long-term soak are directly proportional to the number of toilets available. In a one-toilet home, you’re unlikely to enjoy the tub for more than half an hour without rude (and increasingly urgent) interruptions. Solitary dwellers need not feel so smug; sooner or later you’ll be soaking when your landlord shows up to check that broken window handle. And wouldn’t it suck for someone to use that master key ’cause you took so long to answer it seemed clear you weren’t at home.

Verdict: Interruptions, inconveniences, and ethics aside, I still cherish my tub time—on occasion. Whether the benefits of absorbing that relaxing bathtime lavender and antidepressant rose oil outweigh chlorine’s drawbacks remains to be seen. As far as aligning my preference for tub-based bliss with the need not to waste water, the only answer may be to double up on water usage by sharing the decadence with a friend. But the wisdom of that idea should be saved for another good idea bad idea guide.

—ja**ly

[01.11] - Apropos of Nothing

I’m bad at doing nothing.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not bigging up some imaginary, mad productivity skills. I’m talking about simple relaxation and rest, and how I can’t seem to get it.

I, like many of you, excel in squandering time. I can whittle away a half-hour on Facebook in a flash. TV? With the advent of online episodes, an hour killed is like nothing. I won’t even get into MSN and YouTube.
When it comes to simple downtime where I’m not baking, texting, and e-stalking acquaintances on Google, it’s just not my forte.

Don’t lie; you’re guilty of it too. I’ve seen the midnight postings on forums; I’ve gotten the emails at 2am. I’m not the only one who doesn’t know how to switch off, and that’s too bad. Try meditating for two minutes. I guarantee before 20 seconds are up, you’ll be thinking about someone you have to call back, or what you should make for dinner.

Secret: I try, at times, to cheat my way into an unwind. I lock myself in the bathroom and fill the tub, far from the computer (my distraction of choice), with the phone out of reach and no books at hand...
Guess what usually happens?

Yep. The itis sets in.
Obviously, I need to be getting more sleep—the ultimate fulfilment of the do-nothing doctrine. More than that, though, I believe it’s a sign that I simply don’t know how to be inert.

Maybe part of my inability—and yours—to sit still and give body and mind a break is due to cultural constraints. I’ve heard plenty about how the devil finds work for idle hands. I’ve been warned about the dangers of meditation; it leaves, apparently, the mind open to Evil Forces.
I’m starting to suspect that part of my inability to shut up, shut off, and shut down is due to a need to take in more. I don’t like to watch one show on the computer. I like to watch two or three in my downtime. I’m greedy.

There are, too, I suspect, more malevolent reasons.
The human mind can be a scary thing to face, especially when it’s your own. When I go out, I keep my mp3 player handy to drown out the sound of other people who are talking too loud on their cell phones or, simply, talking crap I just don’t want to hear. When I stay in, it’s appealing to slip into a task that will keep me busy so I don’t have to spend time with my own worries, doubts, and fears.

That’s a shame, since quiet time is as calming for grown folks as it is for overexcited children. Silence makes room for ideas to pop up long enough to be noticed and recorded, and conscious inertia is a wonderful way to refresh and recharge.

So I vote we ditch the demands, the sundry pastimes and time-fillers. Pause the videos, stop the songs. Say ‘screw work, I’m taking five’ (maybe say it sweeter when you tell your boss).
Then try it—even for a few moments. Trust me, whatever distractions and amusements you’re excusing yourself from will be waiting patiently when you return.

— ja**ly

[01.10] - An End to Plastic Bags?

San Francisco banned ’em last March. China ousts them this summer. If you hit up Whole Foods stores stateside, you’ll find them gone as of this spring. So when’s Nassau getting on the anti-bag bandwagon?

Other trends, from Vonage to Macbook Airs, makes it here- sooner or later. So I’m waiting for the local decline of the plastic bag culture. When I go to the foodstore now, so many plastic bags are used per customer that each individual pigeon pea might as well be getting its own personal sachet to ride home in. That’s a waste.

Poke around your cupboards. Look atop your fridge. Check your back trunk and your front yard. More than likely, somewhere, you have a small city’s worth of foodstore sacks, some of which will help transport backyard fruit to friends’ homes, carry potluck goodies from kitchen to car to cookout and back, and most of which will, sooner or ... well, most likely sooner ... end up on someone’s front lawn, in someone’s water, or rotting at the dump.
Except that plastic doesn’t rot. It stays around for a while. How long? Well. If the Arawaks had and used plastic bags, we’d still be finding them when the tide comes in.

Now, I understand that plastic bags serve certain functions when grocery shopping. They help keep the raw chicken from drizzling its questionable juices all over the ice cream. But are they all really necessary?

Plastic bag culture isn’t only about convenience; it’s about shame. A bag provides a curtain of discretion for necessary purchases everybody buys but nobody admits to. They let men pick up Ex-lax and Preparation H in privacy, women stock up on Kotex without anyone ever having to think they bleed, and both get their double-ridged rubbers without being embarrassed when they meet the old high school teacher on the way back to the car.

Say you’re not trying to get some sort of battery-operated pleasure device discreetly home. Say you’re grocery shopping for something as innocuous as broccoli. First, you stick it in a plastic bag to save it from picking up germs in the musty cart; never mind that it’s already wrapped in plastic. At the cashier, the broccoli goes into another two bags—maybe three, just in case the first two bags tear on the harrowing journey home. Then it’s rolled out to the car and lifted into the back trunk, where it awaits its final move from car to kitchen counter.

I respect that some people have distances to go from the foodstore home, without the convenience of a vehicle. But most of us tote our groceries 15 steps, max. Why we need a bag at all is highly in question.

And as for the bagging and double bagging, well. Germs are germs, but come on; this isn’t a matter of preventing AIDS or getting knocked up. The orange will peel. The apple will wash. The cereal’s already in a bag inside a neat cardboard box. We do have soap and water, so endless layers of plastic between food and anything it might touch are more than a little excessive. And in the produce section, those clear plastic bags are necessary for about five items: loose mushrooms, beans, hot peppers, peanuts, and yellow grits.

Some say plastic bag bans are excessive. I’ll grant that certain bans, historically, haven’t set the best track record. There was prohibition; that pretty much wiped out people’s taste for liquor, right? Weed’s illegal status has clearly obliterated its draw. Pirated DVDs? None of those here. None of us can even spell Liemwire.

A tourism-reliant country like ours should leap at the chance to boost and preserve appearances. But unless plastic bags start tumbleweeding through Marina Village, it probably won’t matter much on a national level.

Which is why I’m not waiting for stores to stop issuing complementary plastic souvenirs that’ll be around years after I’m gone, washing up on beaches, festering in wells and adorning lawns. Instead, I’ll be tucking reusable bags in the back trunk or back seat or into my purse. Or maybe—perish the thought—walking out of the store with my purchase tucked under my arm, and my receipt in my hand.

- ja**ly