I love days off from work for a lot of reasons, but one of the best things about them is the time I get to spend with my mom, a.k.a. Mama a.k.a. Mags. For those of you who know me, this might sound silly because she lives with me and I’m always talking about her so you might think there’d be an “enough already” factor here, but no. She’s incredible–not just because she’s battled 2 cancers, a stroke and the subsequent upheavals those things caused in her life; not because she birthed me and my sister on the same day exactly nine years apart; not because she packs my breakfast and lunch daily and waves to me from the window as I zoom away to work; not because she also makes my dinner and irons my clothes; but because she is a hipster.

Exhibit A. The hip pose.

Mags puttin’ the hip in hipster.

I’ve had my suspicions, but everything was confirmed today as I watched her blitzkrieg through Comcast’s arsenal of channels.

• She nodded along thoughtfully to Tavis Smiley’s interview with T.I., and as the episode concluded she remarked how impressed she was by his demeanor and some of the things she said; however, she still doesn’t understand why he’s a “grown man wearin’ his pants hangin’ down off his behind.” She also said he does a pretty good job in his role on “Boss” to which I replied, “Wait, he’s on TV, too?” “He’s a brand, Danita.”

O_o

• That was followed by equal doses of political coverage on Fox News and MSNBC because “you gotta know what both sides are thinkin’, ’cause everybody’s up to something.”

There’s a LOT of channel flipping. So much that the up/down button on the remote recused itself from her thumb war, so now she just rain mans the number pad. This means that one second (not minute, but second) you’re watching P. Allen Smith in his garden and the next you’re watching “Later … with Jools Holland” when you’ll then hear things like this:

“Oh I’ve already seen this. Somebody’s lost jacket was on here hollerin’ about something.”

“A jacket was what?”

“Somethin’ about some jacket, and this big hairy boy was singin’ something. Don’t ask me what it was.”

“Ohhhh, you mean ‘My Morning Jacket’!”

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I said.”

At some point my sister called and Mags unleashed her latest pleasure, putting folks on speaker phone. This somehow makes her hollering into the phone in her “phone voice” less jarring to me. Please know that her “phone voice” is only one decibel lower than the voice she used to call me home at dusk when I played outside as a kid … from a quarter of a mile away.

My sister asks us whether we watched Steel Magnolias on Lifetime last night. Mags reacts like someone has just accused her of choosing to drink PBR to look cool. She also sucks her teeth louder than a sea of dismayed Jamaicans. Sis goes on to ask us if we’ve seen the Tyler Perry movie, The Family That Preys. Even though we have seen it (because, remember, we like to see things from all sides), Mags drops the phone like she was Sexual Chocolate with a fresh Jheri curl.

In.

Dig.

Nants.

I’m cracking up because we watched both, and I’m incredibly tickled at the fact that our Mama is pretending like she. would. never.

Just like she would never leave the house in a housecoat with her hair in rollers while wearing bedroom shoes. Which, as she’ll point out, she still has never done … at least not all at the same time.

The aphasia that frustrates her–the tricky, word fumbling hiccup that blocks and muddles the words between her mind and tongue–isn’t as terrible as she would have you believe. I think it’s added the most wonderful nuance to her comedic timing, and it is the one factor that will make me and my sister act right quicker than one of her old-school backhands across our behinds. She will, and has, put both of us on Front Street without warning and with utmost candor. Like a stealth bomber she is, once those words break through.

“Danita went on a date,” she blasted as I sat down with family members on an otherwise normal day. “And woo wee was he uggggg-laaaaaaaaaaay! I swear!”

And it’s not so much the timing she chooses to blast us, but it’s the raucous, almost fiendish laughter that erupts as soon as she launches the torpedo of tell-all. Hyenas are docile; Vincent Price’s cackle simmers down to a tame chortle. It’s extremely unnerving … and hilarious because, being someone who will opt for the joke 95% of the time, I  have to respect the woman’s verve. She also still hits harder than I do.

She also apparently listens to better music than I do, too. After we finished checkin’ in with Sis, we got back to the business at hand–me blinking seventeen thousand times per minute as she flip-booked all of our channel options. Who needs drugs when you can have televised hallucinations at 2:30 in the afternoon? I have NO idea how she evaluates programs so quickly and so decisively, but it’s ridiculously annoying trying to keep my contacts in place with all that blinking. I was just getting used to the idea of a Perry Mason viewing (I know, right? It’s like I’m 64 and she’s 32) when the Palladia icon blinked into view.

Now I enjoy me some Palladia and admit to being rather tickled when Mags mentioned Jools in passing, but it turns out they’re practically BFFs … because she mentions his name in passing. Like they meet up and hang out at the same time every week, because wait. That is exactly what they’re doing, and that’s exactly why she dropped the remote and walked out of the room leaving me trying to figure out if it was safe for me to reach for the Precious and stalk Mr. Mason’s clues to solve the murder.

It’s extraordinary how long I sat there staring at the remote trying to figure out if claiming it was worth the temporary victory in an endlessly futile war, but then I went for it. I had barely paged down twice, via the guide since I have no idea what any of those jacked up comcasty numbers mean, when she waltzed back into the room with one more bag of chips I’d never taste (the woman is a chip MONGER) and said, “Nuh unh. Turn it back.”

“But … I don’t even know who’s on there singing. I’ve never seen them before.”

She pads the numbers into the Precious as she sits down crunching her chips satisfactorily.

“Oh this Young the Giant. They’re good. Listen.”

“Young Giants?”

I’ll admit that in the early months and years after her stroke, I did a lot of guessing and speaking up on her behalf. The words would jumble and I’d use all of my post-Soul Train scramble board logic to de-jumble them. So now I’ve gotten into the terrible habit of beating her to words that I suspect will be hers, but increasingly they are not and I just sound obstinate and hard-headed and very much like someone who’s no match for a person who has 31 more years of life experience on their side.

“No. I said Young THE Giant. And just listen. The lead singer’s got himself a nice voice and the music is good, too.”

Let me just tell you that the feeling of teenage angst–that cringing grrr of oh-my-godness, why-is-she-such-a-know-it-allness–that feeling of her being right never goes away. It just gets worse.

“Humph. They do sound good actually.”

“Actually? Whatchu mean, actually? Like I don’t know what sounds good.”

“I didn’t even say any of that.”

“You think I don’t understand your tone? I’m your mother. I know all about you.”

“I have to pee.”

I settle back in moments later and she is watching Young the Giant intently, like with the same gaze I imagine she watched Ed Sullivan’s show.

“Ma. How’d you find out about Young the Giant though?”

“Research.”

“Research? For what?”

“For you, duh. At the rate we’re headed, we’ve gotta broaden our search if you’re gonna ever find somebody. Look at the lead singer. He’s kinda cute.”

“Did you put something in my tea?”

“Look at him. Your babies could have some good hair. He’s got that Indian hair, too. Lord help you if your kids get all that hair you got. Your Daddy’s naps.”

“This is hilarious.”

“Don’t ignore me. He’s better than half these Osama-bearded flim-flam Negroes runnin’ around this town. I pray to God you don’t wind up with one of those. You better not even try it. I’ll slather you in all the bacon grease I can find, I swear I will.”

“How did we get to any of this? I’m just enjoying my day off. Is he singing about cough syrup?”

“That’s the name of the song. Look at him again. I think he’s cute. And he’s got big feet, too.”

I mean, the scariest and yet the best thing about life and the people who join you in it is that you never really do know someone, do you? I’m learning to enjoy my mother’s endless stream of surprising character traits–her reserve and resilience, how she makes old things (brooches, recipes, swing coats and bouffant-y hairdos) new again, how nonchalant she is about being in the know about everything from CNN to GMA to BBC to TMZ.

She’ll be mortified to discover I’ve cataloged so much of her online. She will definitely hate that I’ve posted that picture, because as every hipster will knowingly side-eye you, the being of hip is denying one’s hipness all while looking totally bothered and thus, hip.

I’m not even sure where or how I should begin other than to tell you that if you haven’t already been, stop playing and go. I went with my friend, CO. Here are some starter reasons why you should:

B is for beaches.

They’re plentiful, public and clean. You can catch some waves if you wanna, or you can wade, relax and set adrift on memory bliss. It’s an island; they’re everywhere and they’re not ridiculously crowded. From Bridgetown to Bathsheba, you’re guaranteed to find a beach that’s just waiting for your bum.

Also, do I need to tell you that the water is beyond beautiful to behold?!

Me on the shores of Bathsheba.

A is for the al-al-al-al, uh alcohol.

There are no blames to be placed. Y’all knew I was not even fidna go to the alleged birthplace of rum and not relieve myself of every thirst I’ve ever had. Mount Gay. You can sip it or  you can shoot it, but you best drank it. Preferably in the ubiquitous, but oh-so-worth-upholding-the-cliché rum punch.

NOTE: If’n you find yourself buying rum punch that’s sold in a regular looking 2-liter bottle, please buy some kind of fruit juice to accompany it as it is certifiable, a-roe-ho-ho jet fuel. I ain’t even gonna play you. I don’t recall what its name is (stop laughing), but it looks non-descript and slightly sketch. It’s safe to imbibe and all, but you will need both Octavia Spencer and Viola Davis to help you if’n you drank that stuff by itself. At the very least, getcho self some ice. Otherwise, feel free to repeat after me: You is druuuuunk. You feel hiiiiiiiigh. Shit is potent.

As always when it comes to beverages, double fists are optional. I’d advise against it here though, mainly because you need to leave a limb available to get down with the grub (see the subheading that starts with the letter D below).

Resort life rocks.

There are no shortages of places to stay, but if you want to feel like you’re at home, and all of your neighbors are super helpful, chill, fun-loving, non-judgmental and cool, then you should stay at the Ocean Two. It’s at the very end of St. Lawrence Gap, which is where everybody and their grandaddy will tell you you need to go if you’re looking to party. You can hit the crowds if you want to, but you’re more inclined to find me up in any one of these places:

Skraight chillin’.

Where do you go when this ol’ world starts getting you down?

The staff. I know they’re in the hospitality business, and I know Bajans have the (rightful) reputation of being some of the friendliest folks on Earth, but Khadijah, Candice, Jeffrey, Curtis, oh-my-god-I-feel-like-I’m-giving-an-awards-acceptance-speech-and-forgot-everyone’s-names-I’m-so-sorry! and the whole glorious crew throw you the kitchen sink of welcomes. Charming, helpful, polite, patient and professional, they anticipated all of our whims, and booked us super fun excursions, delicious, low-key meals and access to fun and sincere and sincerely fun locals.

Don’t worry, Ocean Two is not close enough to engage any of the Gap’s ruckus directly; it’s a leisurely stroll to the party scene. But the location cannot be beat–you’re a short walk from a market where you can stock up on necessities and snacks … snacks that you can then enjoy or whip up into something substantial in the fully-equipped, lovely kitchen that lives in your suite for instance. I’m sure plenty of other places equip their kitchens;  it’s just that the blender and convection oven were really fine touches. Especially when I think about us being budget friendly travelers.

Fully stocked, y’all.

You’re also a short stroll from any public transportation options, although the front desk folks will happily call the ever-ready and courteous Dee’s Taxi Service for you, or trusty Winston in the white Toyota wagon. CO and I did a good mix of walking, public transporting and taxi-riding. The currency rate was $2 BBD to $1 USD, but we still opted for public transportation whenever possible–not just to cut costs, but also to get a better sense of the everyday Bajans going about their business. (I will warn you now that if you get on a bus going towards Sam Lord’s Castle, and your driver looks like Aaron Hall with a P. Diddy toothpick in his mouth, you are in for a ride. Like Harry Potter & The Prisoner of Azkaban’s night bus kind of ride–bompy and puh-lenty of brakes.)

I miss you, lounger, and a bittersweet sorrowful sigh to that view.

Bajans are benevolent people.

During the crazy, way crowded, very bompy bus ride, we witnessed an event that, for me, really sealed my affection for the island. A blind man–bless his heart I don’t know how he could tell where we were traveling at those stop-and-blitz speeds–called out to Sir Leadfoot that his stop was coming up. He told him the color of the house, and the bus driver missed it, so everybody on the bus called out to tell him to stop. Then everyone made way by either moving to the back of the bus, or getting off entirely, so the blind man could exit. One man took his arm and led him down the steps and then, in a sight you will be hard-pressed to see in Philly, this stranger walked that man to his front door … and the bus driver waited, seemingly taking a break from his semi-flummoxed attitude. We all waited. No one looked around with WTF eyeballs, or sighed out loud, or fussed in the slightest. In fact we all watched the old man feel his porch posts with assurance as he strode to the door, took out his key and waved goodbye, undoubtedly happy to be home (or at least on non-screeching ground).

Sure it looks like paradise almost every day, so it’d be relatively easy to say that’s why everyone’s so friendly, but the pace of life there and their commitment to maintain that pace made me feel so comfortable almost instantly. They converse, gaze and live in a Golden Rule kind of way; putting good things out into the world and relishing the abundance of returns.

I tried to bring that back home. Honest I did, but it only took less that 12 hours for some stank, triflin’, loud-talkin’ woman to verbally assail me through my car window, and I really had to wonder what the hell I needed to do to get some Bajan citizenship. I could sell coconuts. I know I could.

Also, everywhere you go, ladies, someone will tell you that you’re beautiful. I’mma tell you that it does something mighty to your ego to be called beautiful errywhere you go … all the time. And it wasn’t the irksome, nasty, seedy sounding “Hey beautiful shawty” either. It was downright cheery and courtly. Even if he looked like a ragamuffin and you side-eyed him into oblivion, the men kept it respectful and nice. I spent the first week back here looking at dudes like they’d lost their minds and lines of sight, like, how you just gonna walk past me and not recognize all this beauty? It’s a free offering, yo. Sheesh. Free yo’ mindz!

Align yourself with the people.

So I already told you about the beauty of taking buses and cabs and welcoming recommendations from the friendly, knowledgeable staff. I’m also going to advise you about taking an Island Safari tour. You definitely should try to do that so you gain a sense of the lay of the land. It’s a small enough island to make a grand sweep so I hope you wind up in the jeep with Aaron as your guide. I hope I spelled his name correctly, but if I didn’t, you’ll know him because he’s the most popular guide. All the other guides gather around Aaron at each of the stops, and while you’re on the road, he proves to be the funniest and the most insightful. He also gives you flowers … and rum punch.

So now I’m going to tell you that you’ll be on vacation, so you can do whatever you want, but many, if not all, people are going to tell you that you have to go to Oistins if it’s Friday night. All the websites say so. The locals will say it so often, you’ll never doubt it’s a good time; they’ll say it so often, you’ll probably start to wonder if they’re lying to you. I have no idea if they are or not, because I didn’t go.

Unclasp the gasps from your mouths, because I know. Bad tourist.

CO and I didn’t make it to Oistins for a couple of reasons. One, everyone who’d told us to go to the Gap on Thursday night became instant suspects after we dolled ourselves up and then found ourselves surrounded by teens and techno beats. These same people told us about Oistins, and my too-old-to-go-out-wearing-K-Swiss-and-Daisy-Dukes self could not be bothered. The other reason was the swim-up pool … and Jeffrey … and the rum punch.

And if you’re thinking this was a let-down, you’re wrong. I’m sure Oistins was bangin’. When I go back to Barbados, I’ll be sure to check it out because I love a block party and street food. Plus, the locals really do go there and the tourists follow and everything is easy breezy. But while I recognize myself as a tourist, I don’t always aspire to be the textbook tourist. I like a little unscripted adventure. I’m also nosy and wanted to know where people who were not going to Oistins were headed, so I found out.

I also drank two glasses of the jet fuel prior to finding out, so I’mma go Congressional on you–instead of confessional–and let you know that I don’t readily or rightly recall what all had happened was, but you understand me when I tell you I’m trying to go back, right?

Okay then.

Dig into the delicious food!

As in Mr. Delicious, that is.

Mr. Delicious is an aptly named establishment on Miami Beach.

Yo. The flying fish is the fish of choice when you’re in Barbados. It comes any way you want it, but the most popular version is the fried fish sammich, or the cutter. I sampled me some cutter everywhere I could, and Mr. Delicious wins. Do I also need to tell you that he sells rum punch?

See why I told you not to double fist the punch? Grub ‘n chug friends, grub ‘n chug.

Mr. Delicious is located on Miami Beach, the vice-free location. This beach is also a short stroll from the other place I recommend you stay, Little Arches. CO, being a travel agent and all, secured us a delightful tour. Quaint and intimate, I tried to move in immediately. Like, I love Ocean Two; I felt like I could stay there forever, but I honestly thought I could live at Little Arches. Only 10 rooms, you feel like you’re in a super secluded, quiet nook that was built just to relax and nourish you. They also have a roof-top restaurant. If you don’t know me by now you needs to know I love me some rooftop/roofdeck atmosphere. Period.

Oh my gyah, do these people love them some karaoke!

They love it so much that I wanna see them in a sing off with Japan. Apparently Simon Cowell has a lovely property on the island. I am sensing that it is far, far away from the karaoke establishments I visited and/or walked past. Actually, I’m genuinely stunned he could live on an island where this kind of unbridled, possibly rum-infected enthusiasm can course its way through an amplifier. Hilarious to hear, sober or otherwise, it’s amazing to witness someone give Englebert Humperdink their very all. Add it to your bucket list.

Stop playing, contact my girl CO at Travel Fanatics Vacations and just go!

You can thank me in rum punch.