Happiest of Mondays to you. It is with great pleasure I've whipped up a scrub that makes me want to run to the bathroom after a long day of work. Like right now I want to use it, but I thought I'd tell you about it first. I've thrown scrubs together before, primarily the one cup of brown sugar with half a cup of any oil of my choice and "accessories", but the one that was exotic to me was adding the contents of a tea bag to the sugar scrub. This is my second try. The last time I used one chamomile tea bag. Now, I am using four to five bags of green tea. (Please understand that I am referring to the organic tea bags where the content is only one ingredient.)
To tell you the truth, I don't remember the last time I bought bread; I mean a whole loaf to stuff with butters or vegetables. I did buy a sandwich this past Wednesday because my morning began so late, it sabotaged my eating habits that day, (I take full responsibility) but in truth, I haven't perused the bakery section of supermarkets in a long while, but I have worn down the tiles in the baking aisle in my constant search for flour.
As far away as Ace, I saw the red tomatoes down the road on the counter in their lazy pile and locked my mental GPS on them. Things after Hurricane Gonzalo were getting back to normal, so normal one of my go-to roadside markets was open and flaunting oranges, cucumbers, sweet plantains and eggplants. I turned off the road and for once realized how portable most of them are and how I can truly miss them when they pack up for sometime.
This afternoon, I went swimming in size S dresses at Promod in Marigot. The store has a generous selection of clothing on sale up to 70% off. I didn't mosey down there for the sale. In fact, I had no clue it was going on and had a good laugh at myself because I was trying not to break into gymnastics taking a selfie in the dressing room. That I need to work on. This dress was 60% off, a size small and sweeps the floor. I practically raked through nearly every piece of clothing there trying to find XS as the price tag hinted that it did exist. Either petites are the minority or they bum-rush the XS new arrivals like termites and sweep the store clean of their existence.
I was minding my own business, which is everything that was going on in the Travel agency, awaiting a friend. Behind the counter, an agent sported a low teeny weenie afro. The place was definitely natural-friendly, I thought. It was a late afternoon and once more, I stumbled upon a head of hair that got my attention. She came in, smooth dark-skinned and with a mix of gold and autumn locs. Too thick to be sisterlocks, they swept her shoulders and framed her face.
You know what I just realize (and have lived without for quite sometime)? I don't have rain gear although I live in the heart of the hurricane zone and have countless times laughed at the fact that our seasons are simply dry and wet. I think it may be denial because rain has always meant just throw something over your head or wait and soon it will be gone. It's like we carry sunshine under our umbrellas because we wear sandals and flip-flops instead of boots and shoes to protect our feet from "only-God-knows-what" is in the water.
Experiencing Gonzalo was like getting the following news: four hungry relatives will be crashing at your place for dinner when you had already decided to put off grocery shopping for the next day. Oh boy. You manage to scrap together five decent plates of "something"and when you thought that was it, well, twelve more showed up a few minutes later.
Yep. Tropical storm initially meant put away pots, and tiles and mops that might end up in the neighbor's yard and be a nuisance. At least that's what I thought, having a little bit of Hurricane Luis in '95 rusting in my memory. Tropical storm? What is that compared to a monster almost nearing category five with winds 130-156 mph, but Gonzalo turned out to be so much more. After this, my memory is quite refreshed.
My kitchen garden is small, but the day before Tropical Storm Gonzalo show his whirling shape, I hired an green thumb expert to get my transplanting done. I recruited my mother; she has the ammunition, fertile St. Martin soil and like I said, a five-star green thumb. My job was easy, bore holes at bottom of the pots, watch, take pictures and ask question unrelated to the process. It was glorious.
Like Mother's Day, one day is not enough to express one's gratitude to the men and women, who have forgiven the stubbornness and worked in very interesting conditions, often pulling rabbits out of hats to get the job done. Teachers deserve their day in the sun, but you have to do it right.
Within a week, I met two women, who with smiles and a peaceful vibe about them, told me, directly and indirectly, their cancer surviving stories. I had not ask them nor was it yet October. I, upon meeting them for the first time, took note of a scarred wrist or the soft fluff of regrowing hair as we talked about their children.