[01.20] - Good Intentions

They say the road to hell is paved with such. By ‘they’ I mean people like me.

At least, I used to. Truth be told, I still do, especially when some sweet soul insists on defending someone’s bad behaviour. I meant to pick you up from the airport: instead I stayed in bed. I meant to tell you about that job opening: instead I hired my incompetent half-cousin. I meant to tell you a mac truck was hurtling towards you. Tell it to the people with the highway spatulas who shovel up the roadkill. Right?

I stand by my original conviction, to an extent. Meaning to do something good doesn’t quite cut it, whether you’re following mainstream Christianity’s claims of the pathway to heaven or you’re explaining to a pissed-off five-year-old why they’re getting half a bottle of Windex for their birthday ’cause you intended to stop by Kelly’s.

Slowly, though, I might be coming around to that other point of view, the one more forgiving folk express when I rattle off my road-to-hell response to a situation. Perhaps intentions, though no substitute for actions, do count for a little something.

There are, for instance, times when, contrary to best efforts, success just can’t be had. Like this morning when, despite leaving home 25 minutes early, I still wound up slightly late for a meeting.

If that well-meant road is indeed so paved, many sad victims would scatter its walks. Lovingly iced birthday cakes that hit the floor on the way out from the kitchen. Documents perfectly drafted to beat a deadline, right before the computer crashes. People who constantly put in effort, but simply aren’t that bright. Expensive trips planned long in advance, then cancelled last-minute when tragedies arise.

We all understood the value of meaning well back in school, when teachers assigned grades for both achievement and effort. Of course, life in the real world tends to cut down the validity of that system; when’s the last time you got a raise for failing, even if you did try hard?

I doubt anyone will be convincing their supervisor that effort without results are worth a promotion. But in other scenarios, appreciating attempts and motivations is still worthwhile.

Say you’re rushing to finish a big project. You need all your attention, and any interruption not only slows you down, it stresses you out. Then someone—friend, relation, would-be Good Samaritan—pops up. Again. And again. And again. You want—actually, need—to be left alone, but still, there they are, a veritable Jack-in-the-box of vexation. Do you want some water? Aren’t you hungry? Could you use a cushion? How about a bagel?

Annoying as it is, Mr. or Mrs. Jack warrants more points than those who wants to slow you down for selfishness or spite. True, when, at the end of an hour or two, you still haven’t accomplished the task you faced, you’ll have to put in more time either way. But if it’s possible to understand and, on some level, appreciate the mindset of the person who means well, it can reveal that they actually do care. Not that they care about annoying you, but that they care about you. That’s a pretty good result in itself.


- ja**ly

[01.19] - Be Scentsible

I used to think my best friend was crazy. We’d be somewhere and she’d start sniffing the air, then announce “Something smell like Mark.” Well, her boyfriend wasn’t usually around (under the Sports Centre bleachers, lingering around the foil aisle), but something in the air made her think of him.

Only recently have I come to appreciate the power of scent. The more I value this particular sense, the more discerning I become about what aromas I want wafting past my nostrils—and I don’t just mean B.O.

Nearly everything has a scent. Peas soup; freshly poured asphalt; tamarind; a humid day. Even more common (sadly) are things with no need for a fragrance, but whadda ya know, the scent fairy got to ’em and went buck wild.

I think the madness began with scratch-and-sniff stickers (a questionable concept at best). It spread to baby wipes. Tree-shaped car ornaments. Now, you can barely pick up a pack of plastic forks without finding they’re supposed to smell like Iowa daisies.

Amazing smells are everywhere, if you look for—or, I suppose, sniff for—them. Sweet mango sap. Peeled orange. And, if you catch the air right, the surprise smell of sea. Of course, to notice these things, you actually have to make space amongst all the olfactory clutter, and attune your senses to scents more subtle than, say, bleach.

1. Clear out the synthetically fragranced cosmetics.

80% of readers will now have left the computer. For the hangers-on, yes. This means waving bye-bye to just about any mainstream soap, powder, lotion, scrub, dab, daub, mask, gel, wax, cream, spritz, spray, or perfume you can find in a standard drug store, supermarket, or bath and body shop. Check the ingredient list. If it says ‘perfume’ or ‘parfum’ or ‘fragrance’ on there anywhere, then yes, I’m talking about that. Tuck it in a closet, give it to someone you dislike, save it for after you’ve tried this experiment, whatever.

2. Household Goods

Air fresheners, sprays, dish and laundry detergent are as heavily perfumed as personal products, if not more. I never realized how strongly scented most laundry soap is until I began using scent-free brands. If I visit family or friends and do laundry there, I find it hard to wear my clothes because the smell of standard detergents is so strong in the fabric afterwards. Have I given myself an allergy? No. I do think I’ve become more sensitive to scents, and the quality of such. And that’s not a bad thing.

3. Switch to the alternatives that abound

Maybe ‘abound’ is the wrong word to use for any sort of sustainable choice in Nassau, but yes, options do exist. Find a health food store and see what options they offer. At the very least, try a fragrance-free lotion rather than the one that claims to smell like cherries and almonds.

But won’t the world smell bad if tiny plug-in zombies aren’t cranking out puffs of cherry blossom at 15, 30, or 45 minute increments?

Probably not. There are thousands of authentic scents to choose from. You could wash your hair in rosemary-infused shampoo, scent your room with cedarwood, or surround yourself with anything from champa and vetiver to myrrh and oakmoss.

So, I know Nassau isn’t exactly brimming over with aromatherapy stores and essential oils. If you know someone who has a US address, get something shipped to you. North America is packed with aromatherapy suppliers, so quality essential oils aren’t utterly accessible. Worst case scenario, do just what we’ve done for decades with Pampers, toilet paper, and cereal: stock up when ya go stateside.
And take heart, you could easy slip couple tiny oil bottles in ya bag without the Airport Babylon holding it up triumphantly and asking “where da receipt for this? You claimin exemption?”


-ja**ly

[01.18] - T.M.I.

You know how it is. You’re standing up talking to someone. Maybe an acquaintance. Possibly a complete stranger in the movie seat or church pew beside you, or someone at the gas station line-up. Then suddenly you’re no longer discussing the price of apples and the soaring cost of filling up your jeep. Suddenly someone’s telling you what position they hit last night, giving their Viagra testimonial, or describing the rash on their rear.

Information. It’s great. I know I’m not the only one who’s spent hours Googling everything from the Duck Billed Platypus to pesto recipes, just because I wanted to know, and could. But as much as I love accessing knowledge, there’s certain things I—and you—don’t need to hear about.

Worse yet is the experience of finding one’s mouth open and a dreaded case of the TMI—Too Much Information—pouring out. I’m guilty of it, too. I find a new acquaintance, get lil comfy and bam, I’m sharing sorry tales of heartbreak, treasured family stories—not quite my bank account balance, but, it seems sometimes, everything but. It’s not always incredibly embarrassing or inherently inappropriate information either, but simply a bit too personal for the time, place, and listener.

It’s not so bad when you share a touch too much info with a loved one. If you’ve ever found yourself on the brink of mentioning some personal relationship detail or letting the confession of a lie slip out to a sibling or parent, you’ll know it’s momentarily embarrassing but, ultimately, scant humiliation in comparison to the fact that they’ve seen your bibby-encrusted morning eyes, and perhaps, at some time, wiped your bottom.

But blabbing details to near-strangers who aren’t already so grossly close? Sure, it can be nice to talk and have someone listen (even if they look hugely awkward throughout the conversation). Later, though, the feel turns sour, rather resembling the morning after a one-night-stand with someone you don’t actually like; awkward, sticky, regretful.

Similar is the feeling you get when others share information you don’t want. What can you really say when someone you don’t know too well starts telling you about the last time they had a stomach bug, their latest plastic surgery, or how much their weave is itching? A smile, a nod, perhaps. A question about the weather.

On the other hand, information dispensers have their function. Hearing someone speak loudly about their problems is a great way to feel better about mine.
The girl who sat behind me on the bus and spent fifteen minutes describing her latest ailment (not an STD, but something you get from “having lots and lots of sex,” she told her friend, and everyone else within a half-mile radius) and all its related itches, secretions and scabs sure made me feel happy all I had was a mild headache and an empty social calendar.

TMI-ers are also fantastic for allowing one to put on a judge’s wig and feel a wee bit superior. If you’re lucky enough to sit near a girl like the one referenced above, you can feel both physically and morally superior (I know I sure did). Even in less scandalous situations, you can at least feel happy that your mouth isn’t so damn big.

And people who share widely, wildly, and wantonly create a certain sense of community. I know I’ve encountered many a cranky, stout matron complaining how people just don’t talk any more. TMI-ers are, in their special way, only doing their part to unite alienated Bahamians by launching community conversations—even if the topic does happen to be their displaced thong.


—ja**ly