Don't cry because it's over.... smile because it happened

Portia

2012-01-15T07:23:00.003+01:00

Allow me to introduce you to Portia, the youngest of my troop. It may be rather late in the day seeing Portia's now been around for nine months, but better late than never. I have been having different reactions to the fact that I named this kitten Portia, but the real explanation is that I'd always wanted a little girl to name Portia, and seeing no human girl came along then a feline one was close enough.

I'd like to say I nursed Portia from day one, but that's not very close to the truth. I bottled-fed her for one day and felt like a real mummy until my illness tore us apart. She was so tiny she could fit onto the palm of my hand, six weeks later, and many bottlefeedings by Mr. Boyfriend later, she had suddenly grown into a little tiger. I love cats, they are such perfect creatures and had been over the moon to be able to have one I could feed myself. In that way, I thought, both our needs would have been satisfied, mine to behave like a mummy, and hers to be nursed as a proper baby should. But time was limited so I missed out on her growing up such a lot. I'd daydream about her while I was in that ugly buildings which has blue doors opening and shutting and the same ugly building where lights are never switched off.Pity they don't allow four legged visitors in there, I really missed my little girl. But here is what really makes me guilty; out from the ugly building, I just couldn't bring myself to bond with this tiny creature. And bless her, she did try as hard as she could. I thought she was being a pest, I'm bad, I know, but I console myself with the fact that I was not behaving normally. I still feel guilty although she had a lot of her daddy's love. I wonder what she must have thought seeing that mummy had left her just after one day, and her daddy was constantly coming and going to and from the ugly building. Yes they do have feelings just as we do. Her daddy brought me plenty of Portia-videos to watch, it was just as far as he could go. Now when I look at her, I feel this surge of love and pester her to play. I just stare at her and wonder how one earth couldn't I bond with this very special cat with her very special name. I just hope she's forgiven all the bad feelings I had, but cats are better than human beings and they not just forgive but also completely forget.

Crocodiles

2012-01-15T06:49:00.004+01:00

Everything in life takes it's own toll, but we become accustomed to the way it is now? Well I suppose a lot of people do, not I. I'm just plain scared. Not even holding a hand grenade would make me so scared. It's all to do with change, and I hate change of any sort. Move just one item out of my make up boxes and I'll flip. It's not because I keep anything need and tidy; it's just because since I left it there, then it's got to be left there. Do not even move a chair out of its place because I'll cry. Sounds like a control freak down to a T. Yet I don't consider myself one. I just need my own very basic comforts, and any sense, taste, smell, touch is related to some history which I have not ever grown out of yet. It's just like the smell of baby talc making me soft all inside, the touching of my leather sofa, and the taste of kid pink bubble gum. All of these go with something else. So that makes me think that everything should smell, taste as they should. And I so easily forget that it's not the case. Take crocodile. Eat crocodile. What should they smell like? What should they taste like? Well seeing that they spend their better half of their life in and out of water they should be something of an amphibian. But they have this fishy taste (which is ok) together with a beefy texture (which is not ok). To me crocodile is a paradox. To me it is also unsettling, because I can't really accept how two different things could go together like that. And yet life does that. And it picks up all the whiffs and scents of the world and puts them together just to make me know that it's really all right to be different. But is it really? Crocs are ugly creatures, I don't want to sound, smell, or feel like one.

Memories of an angel...

2012-01-11T19:59:00.002+01:00

I'm not sure what I remember, or if remember anything at all. It's been too long now, so sometimes the memory is hazy and can play the dirtiest trick on the mind. But I do remember that I was in a place so clean and sterilized; one which I wanted to go out of. That wasn't going happening in a hurry. How can a person who is so close to death be oblivious of that fact? And yet here was I having a chin wag with death without really knowing it. Either that, or if by any remote chance I knew that death was so close, I have no recollection of fear. Illness is an ugly thing. But I do not know about the fear of death. I have been spared that. And yes of course people who have had near death experiences speak about the tunnel and the light. All of that is true. The thing is I saw the tunnel, and although it was not pitch dark, there was no glorious deity bathed in gold. It was a nice cosy atmosphere in there, but not enough to want to stay there. I don't know, it wasn't a place called home, but then neither was it too uncomfortable. For once in my life I knew that I didn't have to take a decision, someone else was going to make one for me. I'm not very sure I wanted to go back to the clinical sterile environments with blue doors and where the lights are never switched off. But that is exactly what happened. And extraordinarily, seven months later I type my story here. And that for me is a milestone, I couldn't even sit and watch a monitor for more that a couple of minutes. Now I can, and I can also write.And I will always keep asking for someone to fill me in on the details which till now I can remember. What I really remember is a very kind man who came to sit and stay with me for as long as it took. And no, I didn't imagine that and even if that isn't true, the fact there is some guardian angel looking out for you when you're just about to land elsewhere is kind of comforting. And of course it was a good looking angel, with such kind eyes, and more importantly with Strong gentle hands. And as I write this I am off meds s...

Back again?

2011-08-04T12:20:00.003+02:00

Back again. I need to be here again. After all this time, I need to tell my story. So much has happened, I've been to hell and back, I've been at death's door and back. I've been to so many places it seems, yet I've bounced back. I do not know for what reason, maybe life will give me an answer. It hasn't been rosy, nor flowery. It's been a hard painstaking journey. But I'm back. And I keep looking for the whys and the whats and the hows. I don't remember much, I remember enough to know I've been through an ordeal. That's it. And I need to write, but I don't even have the words to do so.

One week and one day...

2010-12-03T10:39:00.002+01:00

It's been one week and a day, and no Lady. And it sucks. No, worse than that, it's so sad. I've lost my baby girl and there will be no replacement. Funny how people react to this. Some people who swear they care so much and have my phone ringing for just about anything choose not to say a word. It's as if it hasn't happened. Then again, other people who have been just another face have suddenly come round, sympathised and empathised and gone out of their way. It's so strange. But then maybe it's not strange and I am just a very bad judge of character. Either way, nothing's bringing my girl back, but it's been interesting to find out that my Lady was actually an alpha female!!!! I never knew that, Lady, with her classy walk yet so playful, who didn't realise her own weight could be a painful issue when she decided to clobber me with her big paws.. an alpha? And her companion, the ever so fierce Fluke, even bigger and with a temperament to match Dom Mintoff's... a follower. Crazy, but true. And it makes me smile. Fluke who scares the living daylights even out of very experienced veterinarians had to go by Lady's rules. She was my girl all right, I taught her well, I taught her to be a feminist... yeay yeay that's my girl. One thing though, dogs are beautiful. Fluke might scare and be mad at everybody else, but not at us. He's just our little boy, well a very big and now old little boy at that, but he's just a pup at heart... with us. With Fluke it's a don't mess with me attitude. I pity the vets who have to see him, they too are shit scared, and it makes me laugh. Experienced vets... Fluke pins them to the wall. Not Lady, Lady was always a good patient poor soul. And I am here smiling, not because I don't have a heavy heart, but because I will not let myself remember the end. I choose to remember her life, and sit here and remember some more antics and smile some more. Perhaps it's denial. But then that's the first stage of grief.... I can't blame myself for that.

Lady

2010-11-27T20:14:00.001+01:00

It’s been a while since I’ve been here. One reason for that would be my being bone idle I guess, another being so many happy things happening. And yet it’s not a happy reason which brings me here. It’s a very sad one. Lady. My Lady, the little girl I never had which came in the shape of a ball of fur. She didn’t stay that way for much, my girl grew and grew, which is natural in this house, and also natural for her. My very own Alaskan Malamute, although I could have cared less if she was a mongrel. Happy Lady who walked just like a Lady, head held high, with her wriggling butt which was so cute. I’d never had a dog before, so this was my first time… I spoilt her rotten. I loved her sleeping next to me just like a human, I loved covering her up with a blanket just like a human, and oh God I loved the way she would put her paw on my shoulder and sleep as if to say, hey I’m here and I love you. I loved her too. With her priceless facial expression, she chewed on my shoes… and yet I never scolded her. I guess it doesn’t say much for my parenting skills, but as long as she was happy; I was. I’m writing in the past because of course this happened over six years ago. I wish I could now write in the present and give details of what Lady is up to now. But I can’t. I’d give anything for it. But it still wouldn’t change anything. Lady is gone, she’s crossed over to Rainbow Bridge or so I want to think. I don’t care if there is no Rainbow Bridge; I want to believe that there is. I need to think that one day when my time is up, I will find my Lady again and meet her again. She is free from pain now. I’m the one who is in pain, and it’ll be quite some time till acceptance settles in. Six years really isn’t a lot, but that was all the time I had with my little girl. Then she got sick, so sick she was at death’s door overnight. It’s useless beating myself about it. I couldn’t have known, but I tried to make her stay. Still, after a major op, when things started looking up, it was all too much for my poor girl and she grew cold. That was the worst feeling of all, watching my girl, now cold. The same girl who really could be such a lovely pest, full of energy…lifeless. And I prayed to God because I thought God knew I couldn’t take this. Very selfish I know, but then I am a human being and not a dog. Dogs are selfless, well Lady was. I wonder why God never listens to me when I am on the verge of losing someone, I might as well get used to the idea that He just doesn’t. I don’t care if, in His opinion, there are plenty more things to do than to listen to me begging Him to save my Lady. He’s let me down one other time. But I hope he hasn’t let Lady down and that she is now roaming the best gardens and meadows of Heaven. Till we meet again sweetheart, you will forever be etched in my heart.

Older now

2010-07-31T02:21:00.003+02:00

Here I am again, it's been so long up until I realised that there is no way I am spending my Euro for hours on the couch. I might as well spend them on jewellery and therapy myself here. I'm a year older but feel younger. I'm supposed to be a year wiser but feel really stupid. Stupid in the fact that I keep yearning for the acceptance of my rights. Rights and AnnMaries do not go together, at least not with this one. There's been no birthday bash this year. Just a very sorry excuse for an 'outing' which actually involved having to forfeit my birthday to do a favour for someone who is my brother's friend. Oh, and he's also an eye surgeon, or ophthalmic something, whatever they're called' I was going to do it quite gladly actually, a small recital for a good man. Until I was written off the programme, and until the good man ignored me completely... then I wasn't too glad. I admit I am not the man of 'Arani Issa' fame, with a well cut body and sexy butt, but the thing is I am the woman behind the 'Arani Issa' man, and that speaks volumes. And that man cannot perform through a whole recital without me. That's the truth. But then of course, with doctors come nurses, and nurses will always be the wanna-be docs. They thrive on power, and power they have. Why is another mystery. That means no more corrective laser eye surgery for me because I don't talk to my own twin with puppy eyes, behind my forever specs and neither do I grind my groin against his groin. I'm almost, just almost sorry for the nurse because I know that no amount of eyelash batting or grinding will take her anywhere. Perhaps a sex change...
As for me... I'm disappointed, I feel cheated and lost. And they say I need help. Yeah right, I just need to kick a couple of people's heads in and dump them like a bad habit. Then... I'll be just fine.

Silicone

2009-12-30T02:25:00.002+01:00

Xmas is over, but not the end of year festivities. Fine. I'm not a fan of new beginnings, because new beginnings mean change and I hate change. If I even switch something as insignificant as a chair to another place I get apprehensive. Had I to change house, I'd be hit scared. I like things the way I want them. Yet I have been toying with the idea of changing the shape of my lips. I suddenly discovered silicone and have been thinking that it must have been man's best invention ever. Until I got a very rude wake-up call, a woman's lips so disfigured by silicone that I immediately felt so sad. And I asked... done by the same surgeon I was planning to give my lips to. Now I think that same surgeon should be given to the hounds of the Baskervilles and ripped to pieces. He's made this woman's face look wickedly sick. Not even Jessica Rabbit at her worst would have looked like that. And there is no reversing it. Lesson learned, just in time. No silicone, I prefer my own lips thank you. And it seems it was a lesson of learning today. I also saw a young woman, otherwise so beautiful, unable to walk straight. And that too made her look kind of warped. So of course since I had no clue as to a surgeon I might blame, I asked the why-God? question. I still don't have an answer, and never will have. But it sure made me feel like crap. Here was I worrying about silicone, and here was this young lady having lots more to worry about. Again, here was I worrying about my extra kilos, and this young lady having to worry with something so much more real. I'm 36 and have been tested by life to the limit, and I still haven't learned anything at all. When will I learn? Tomorrow perhaps? I really don't know. But I know that silicone is out for good.

My little man

2009-12-11T01:42:00.003+01:00

I'm not quite sure how to go about tackling this Christmas. It's going to mark an anniversary, and anniversaries are sometimes very hard to deal with. Or perhaps I am way too sentimental and that makes it hard for me. Some people seem to be able to manage it with the minimal of damage. I wish I could. And it's at times like these when the tough bitch aura suddenly dissolves into the soft woman who fell in love with a little man one year ago. I wonder what that little man is doing now. I hope he's safe, and sound asleep in a cosy bedroom. If hopes were anything to go by then I'd be ok and could go to sleep in a snap. But hopes and wishes do not always come true. That's where my dad went wrong, he made me think that all good things are possible. It was an untruth I would discover on my own, for my very self and find that it tasted very bitter in the process. Fact 1 - I love men. Fact 2 - I love older men. Fact 3 - I love little men. Fact 4 - I love one little man with a love so fierce that it hurts. And I don't mind that hurting me as long as he's safe. But is he? I don't know, I don't have a clue. And the not knowing is hard to deal with. But he promised me he'd grow up to be a good man and come and find me ... that's four more years to go. Oh God I so love my little man!

Oh pleaseeeeee!

2009-12-10T12:36:00.004+01:00

Sometimes someone walks into your life without even asking. I guess that's ok. It's not ok when a someone walks into your life without even asking and on a mission to make you miserable. Thing is... not so fast. When you've been miserable enough to have cried until you've exhausted all your tears and slowly bounced back to life and the joy of living, well, there's not too much anybody can do to make you miserable again. So.... not so fast woman. Especially when someone with clear eyes proves my theory correct again. What is it with these people? Do they think they are a rare breed, just because colour has eluded their eyes? Why is there always a green-eyed monster lurking in there? What's their problem about my attire, my deportment? Do I look flashy? Well then sorry but I'm not sorry, I AM flashy. If bling bling is too much for these people to handle, they can just look the other way. Because I am me, and will not change for any man, or any woman for that matter. Do I dress indecently, well it depends. If I decide to step into the shower then I guess the same birthday suit would not be very appropriate elsewhere. But then I wouldn't wear my birthday suit to a whole number of places. So please, give me a break and shut up will you? And get a life while you're at it, although my guess is you don't get much action and that is your problem, not mine.

Back again

2009-12-09T02:29:00.004+01:00

Blogspot is just like the place my mum always told me to return to when in distress, i.e. back to the nest. It's been weeks of exciting things happening, and I've really not been of much use over here. But I feel that strange feeling making its way towards me, and of course, selfishly I've come to have a psychological dump over here. Just when I thought I'd seen it all, life intervenes nicely. Problem is that no nicety on earth can be nice when you've finally taken the decision you've been struggling to take for ages. What happens now? I'm off to bed. Talk more tomorrow.

The 4 C's

2009-11-17T19:55:00.003+01:00

It seems that jewellery is problem. Not for me of course. I love anything and everything shiny, and I'm no crow. I know the sparkles like the back of my hand. And it's not even my profession. I have four daughters and I call them Cut, Clarity, Colour and Carat. And I shouldn't be made ashamed to wear them, because they are my own flesh and blood. I have worked hard all my life, and pushed during labour. No I have never robbed a bank. I wouldn't be here writing this if I had. And I'm no gold digger, far from it. There never has been such a thing as a freebie for me. People can come to the conclusions they want simply because they'd love them to be true. But it ain't. Not a word of it. So I have a reputation because I like older guys. Geeze that's no sinning against humanity, I ain't corrupting people who could pass as my dad, although my dad looks 40 years younger than them. Older men are more interesting, they know what they want, and it's not as if I'm picking them p at St. Vincent de Paule's. They are free to come, and free to go. That's the only free thing about it all. Otherwise, it ain't my fault. It takes two, sometimes three, sometimes more. But that should not be of anybody's concern. I'm committing no crime. I choose my life, or rather it chooses me. And the intrinsic need to see my hands, my ears and my neck, among other areas, sparkle has been with me for as long as I can remember. It still is. And I'm not sorry. If you can hear me before you see me, well, then you might as well turn deaf if you don't like it. And if you just cannot appreciate the beauty in it, then it's sour grapes. And it doesn't concern me.

Betty

2009-11-03T20:57:00.002+01:00

Seriously I am losing hope. Also seriously, the black hole is changing colour. And also, patience is a virtue I do not possess. Oh yes I can just see you nodding your head, but then again I get confused between virtuous and virtual. And I'm neither. And it's a monologue, and it's ok. I think Betty Boop is all about monologue. She's not like Barbie with her on and off Jim boyfriend. She's on her own, provocative and kinky. She needs a man. And no, as much as I love her I'm not giving her mine, she can find her own. I don't share. I need the glucose, the lactose, the everything-ose, but never the overdose. Not now, not anymore. I try to run away from a rehab which could be virtual but isn't. We'll see. I have Betty on my side, a man on my side and no the two ain't going to be getting it on. Over my dead body.

'If....

2009-11-01T23:09:00.003+01:00

''If you're alone, I'll be your shadow. If you want to cry, I'll be your shoulder. If you want a hug, I'll be your pillow. If you need to be happy, I'll be your smile. But anytime you need love, I'll just be me.''
That is what has been given to me today, written in the worst handwriting ever, and on a really uncouth scrap of paper bearing a logo I don't even want to hear about anymore. But to bling bling me, it means the world. It means the little big three words which I love hearing... I love you. It also means that maybe it's time to utter the four big little words which I am not used to saying.. I love you too. It means that someone has noticed the fear and the jumpiness coming out of the sleep-induced haze. Sleep which is so unsmooth, bumpier than all the potholes of the island put together. I know it is a phase. Yet that doesn't make it easier. But the paper also means that Big Brother is watching, if he's a brother at all. Which makes it sweeter. People might not be connected to each other by blood, yet the connection is as powerful. It's all the thing called love, not the physical, the emotional. And while I might resist and resist it, it's been there all along. It's time to give in and admit that the bitch is in love, has been for a long time now. It's the transition from bitch to babe. Just have to get better somehow. It's a rocky path. But love makes things happen. And they're finally happening. It's the power of love, corny I know, terribly sentimental, but all happening just the same.

O.B.?

2009-10-30T12:47:00.004+01:00

More talk about netherland. And this time it's not my fault. Have been to Frank's perfumery. Always a mistake. Every time I swear I'll never ever take my custom into any of their branches, but this was an emergency. So the bitch wears (am not even sure if that verb is correct) tampons, as do millions of other women during menstruation. The bitch, however, wants her O.B. brand, which seems to have disappeared off all shelves. So Frank's was the last outlet to try. Being desperate makes you do funny things. Instore, the atmosphere was as foreboding as ever. What is it about Frank's that makes me feel as if I am about to shoplift, when the only thing I ever do there is spend copious amounts of money on things which I don't even use? So I was determined, it would just be the O.B.'s and out of there. Yeah right, I kept looking and looking for them. There weren't any. Finally snooty assistant who probably has a brain the size of a peanut, asks me what I'm looking for. I tell her. She says they don't have any, but they have Tampax. Grrrrr I do not want Tampax thank you, I have been o.b.-ing ever since I was 16, I am a faithful and loyal consumer. She also tells me if I want a Shiseido lip liner because they are more prestigious the the Prestige line. What the hell does that have to do with O.B. ? I know that Shiseido does a neat gel eyeliner because I have that, but Prestige's lip liners are also neat, so don't kid me with the talk. She also asks if I want to try out Hypnotic Poison. No I don't because my dear 'sis' just got a whole 50ml just for me. Then again, poison, do I look suicidal or what? I just buy something I don't need so I can make it past the cash register. Sorry Frank's, you had one solid customer in me. But things change, you don't have that nice manager anymore. And that's a big loss. Jooooo come to my rescue dear.

Sexy synonyms?

2009-10-29T12:57:00.004+01:00

The human race never fails to surprise me. It comes up with so many different words for the same thing. And more often than not it is about, yes, the reproductive system. Yes the reproductive system as in copulation as in mating as in breeding. There you go, that's four words for the same thing. Is that necessary? I'm not so sure. Why have four words describing the same thing when it could have been used to describe something else? Perhaps it makes for a rich language, but then there are even more words to describe this 'thing', coupling, pairing, conjugation, union. Oh and making love, which case I have a hard time understanding. How do you 'make' love? Love is such an intangible thing, does mating make love? Or does love make mating? But that's the furthest nice girls go, they go to all these words to describe something summed up so easily as 'sex'. So easy, yet somehow, somewhere, someone has gone to great lengths to come up with such a variety of words. Perhaps they were prudish; it really seems like it. So what do these nice girls say, oh honey let's make love? That sounds like something out of Browning's and Keats' poetry. Let's have sex? No that sounds rude by nice girls' standards. So what is it nice girls say? Maybe they don't say anything or whip out their thermometer to see just how fertile they are. Oh God what a spoilsport. At the rate the world seems to be going, sexual intercourse could be deemed as a violation of privacy, worse, a true tangible invasion. And I thought girls had it rough, it's worse for men. Thankfully I'm no nice girl, I don't own a fertility thermometer, rubbers taste foul no matter the flavouring. Do I want to actually taste strawberry milkshake at that point? No, and forget about coitus interruptus. And that's because it's a killjoy, and I like joyful. So just getting down to it, going down on it, works fine for me. Because the dictionary might have plenty of words for the 'it'. But I have more. Makes me word-richer. Take the bitch's word for it.

Blogville

2009-10-28T20:33:00.004+01:00

Ok so let's go. Here is where I feel safe right now. Farmville ain't safe, I could get swallowed up by some elephant. Elephants on a farm, now that makes a great deal of sense. Dragville ain't safe either, I could get my 10 cm heel stuck in someone's booty. And that makes a great deal of sense, you cannot go to Dragville sans des talons aguilles, no flats there. So Blogville it is, where I can go up and about to my heart's content. Blogs are a horrible thing when you don't have a life. As it is, i get mine read exactly because of the opposite; I have a life. Oh yes, a complicated life with its twists, but a life just the same. So I don't spend ages trying to come up with the most difficult and cryptic of language. I write as it comes, because it's me. I need not shout to the world about my intellect, because perhaps I don't have one. I don't need to prove anything to myself either. I just write, in my own name too. Because my Blog is safe, I make it safe. And perhaps it's because my blog happens to be on the rock. It's the rock where we do things our way. We do not need outsiders to tell us how much we should be selling our houses. If someone asks for a price, we expect to sell at that price and not be made an offer. We might have il-Monti, but property selling is no Monti. That is our territory there and we don't like being pushed, although we sure deal with it in a more polite and understandable way. Fine we don't sell, we're ok with it. We just live in it, pas problemes. Mintoff is over and done with. I do not admire anybody who thinks that pounding on someone's car just because he was once Prime Minister is a terribly good idea. It could have been the Pope for all I care. I do not have one fond memory of the Mintoff era either. That's because his people were skinning rabbits on my mother's roof, and I can still hear those poor rabbits. And yes rabbits are important, otherwise they wouldn't be sent as gifts on Farmville would they? I don't even need an answer for that because it's my blog and I write as I want to, when I want to. And, cats do not hit on us. They hit on other cats, because that is the law of nature. And that much, this bitch understands.

Drag-ville

2009-10-28T14:40:00.002+01:00

This is my blog and I say whatever pleases me at whatever time pleases me. Today it's about my fascination with drag. On a day like today when I'd sign myself in for gender change surgery at the drop of a hat or less, I remember my feather boas very fondly. Correction I have actually taken them all out just to be able to see them. There are quite a lot. I don't know what I was trying to prove when I bought them seeing I'm as straight as they come. But they are so luxurious to the touch, so warm and give you the va-va-voom you need once in a while. And I wish I wear a man so I'd be able to go around in drag. As it is, I still do, only difference is that it's a woman inside so that makes it look pretty convincing. If only facebook could come up with something like Dragville where you'd have to shop in designer outlets to create the exact image. Oh I'd be such a loyal customer then. Because instead of milking the cows I'd be milking the leather, the fur, the feathers the heels. So much more stylish. And since there is no virtual Dragville, I'm making my own. And it's all real life.

Farmville!!!!!

2009-10-28T12:46:00.003+01:00

There is a new trend on Facebook which isn't that new or trendy. It's about building a farm. In 2009. I would hate to be a real life farmer. Imagine out and about, 'so what is it you do for a living? ... I'm a farmer!' I'd hate that, probably because I'm snooty and also a snob, and my idea of living isn't in dirty dungarees getting my manicured nails filthy and hiding my perfectly polished toes in rubber wellies. No, I just would never do that. And yet this virtual farm seems to be all the rage right now. It's the in-thing on Facebook. And I also have one, which is shameful, perfect to waste time with. But not something to get addicted to. Buying sheep and harvesting corn isn't my kind of thing. But it's the perfect type of people watching. You get to know a lot by a person's farm. Most have white fencing. Most have animals so orderly that they make me feel sorry for them. They cannot even move. And the ploughing plots are really something. They could be measured by an engineer's callipers and would be deemed as having been placed perfectly one by the other. No waste of space. What is that? Virtual OCD-ing? And as if that weren't enough, what about the obsessive need to check if cows need milking? Would I keep checking a cow's udders in real life? Oh noooooo. The thought itself is harrowing, and no do not kid me into saying it's relaxing. Relaxing is in some Bedouin drinking hot chocolate, smoking with a significant someone else. Relaxing is throwing all my newly acquired shopping possessions onto the carpet and making love to them in my own kind of voyeuristic way. But the best (and worst) thing which has come up lately is the hedging. There are hedges all over the place. Which spells, what exactly? If a virtual farm is on show for all to see, why bother with the hedging? Has Farmville become the 'accepted' place to air out our control issues or what? Then again, must be something I'm missing.

Boundaries

2009-10-28T11:24:00.002+01:00

I am told I do not understand the word. Probably because I do not have any left, and a big part of my life is about pushing my boundaries to the extent that I don't have any left. And that's ok. I don't get mad. I don't get even either. Perhaps I do not understand the word because boundaries in maps show up in red. In life they are colourless, as transparent as you can get. Boundaries are like territory, they bring war to my mind and with war the endless senseless suffering and deaths. A country, a city, a state. You see on the rock I live we do not have those on the map either. We have villages as opposed to cities, and states are something we can only imagine. Some of us take off to see what they're like. Some of us stay here and do not know what it's like. And for the we who stay on the rock, the we do not turn to legal jargon unless we're in the law business. Sorry because this time it's our turn to put up frontiers and we do things our way as much as other people might hate it. Just because we're on the rock doesn't mean we have a pea sized brain. Nobody got suddenly blessed with a MENSA I.Q. just because they flew to see the queen. Or because they flew to the Big Apple for that. And while boundaries is a word in its own right, it just doesn't sound very inviting. I guess it's the way it's supposed to sound. Just a nicer word than a clear off. Fine. But then I have another word. Attitude. And that doesn't conjure up thoughts of war, or red lined maps. It's my word this time.

Kohl

2009-10-27T21:50:00.002+01:00

Tuesday night is Joe Demicoli night, and I know the guy is brilliant, but sometimes things just aren't right. The worst part is that I cannot put my finger on it. I just don't know. But I have a choice. I can cry myself to sleep and that won't happen. And I can put a spanking brand new smile on my face, and that way it easier because I will not have to explain to the eyes who scrutinise my every move. I have questioned myself, what am I missing? And I don't even know that. I've tried my best, and if someone thinks my best is not good enough, then so be it. I was not born a prodigy and I did not grow up to be a genius either. I am normal, I guess I can allow myself that word. I do not want to be made sick on words such as leverage, harassment, money, currencies even. It's all a bunch of crap. I choose to make myself sick on piercings and in your face kind of behaviour. If someone chooses to power trip just because I care, then they can have the longest trip in history. The odd thing is that they cared and I am eternally grateful for that. Sure it hurts, but it's like piercings. They hurt, they make me sick, and so what? I'll just get the antidote for that. It all boils down to kohl really. Some more kohl this evening solves it. Some extra more kohl tomorrow morning will solve it. And yes I've got waterproof, of course I do. I'm a waterproof kind of gal. I was flooded once, never again. And the next time I hear the word prodigy, I'm going the other way. I just don't understand them I guess. Pass the kohl again will you?

Falsies

2009-10-27T12:34:00.004+01:00

Sometimes I kid myself that I am on some journey in search of the truth. I wish that journey didn't have to stop as much as it does. Sometimes it's for refuelling, sometimes it's a chartered flight, sometimes it's one hell of a big stop over. It always hits the pause button somehow, and as much as I would love it to be over, I keep getting jet-lagged. And also as much as I try to think of it as my journey to the truth, I wonder why I am in love with so many false things. I love my gel nails which of course are not natural. They go from red to black and blue in one day. I wasn't born with painted nails. I also wasn't born with a plastic looking face, I just got wise and know what I should use. And no, of course I'm not telling. I love my false eyelashes, also an altered truth. I love purple hair dye, and of course that's not true, I wasn't born with purple hair. I wasn't even born with the blue eyes I wear on weekdays or the green ones on weekends. Then sometimes I get the urge to delete the truth. I give my eyebrows a solid all over wax, and that's not natural either because I was born with a pretty set which I keep over-waxing to nothingness. And people might think it's not very pretty, but through my own perspective it is beautiful although I keep thinking that I might as well belong to the snake family. But then, do not even try and kid me with a fake Chanel, I will spot it from a mile away. I want the flawless diamond, because one flaw and it is unacceptable. I will wear no flawed diamond. Nothing but the best will do. Tal Lira shops are hot, that is if someone is burning them all down. They are unacceptable to the human race, well at least to my kind of race which I have yet to produce. And yet I keep looking for the truth. Yeah right!

The hike

2009-10-25T19:10:00.002+01:00

Life is no hike. Or perhaps it really is a hike, only the hiking takes place very much uphill. And I'm not very good at hills, because I'm no hilly billy. What would pacify me right now, is hot chocolate, a good cigar, and a Demicoli show. Of course anybody can join, but only from a distance. I am quite possessive about hot chocolate, cigars, and yes, even Demicoli. Do not laugh at Demicoli in my presence, but rather, laugh with him. That's ok. And it's the very little luxury I have right now. Try living with an ex very nice man who has turned as moody as I get when experiencing PMS. Impossible. So I just don't. I listen to Demicoli instead. Yes it's called running away from the hike. But I've hiked enough. I have tried to understand, to be sweet and nice too (yeah there is a nice in me), I have been exasperated and angry and let down. And nothing changes. It gets worse. And there grows fear, not the x-rated fear perhaps, but still fear. The fear of not knowing how it will be like in the next 5 minutes. And I'm safe, physically safe. But the torment of not knowing, of expecting the worst is not easy. So I just drown in hot chocolate and get dizzy on cigars, and get excited on Demicoli. I think I deserve that. I know it's still a hike. But it doesn't hurt anybody. And it gets me up the hills.

Crying

2009-10-20T21:31:00.004+02:00

So I cried. And I'm not sure why. Funerals have never been my scene at all. There was a time when I went off them altogether. And I apologise to the ones I didn't pay my respects to. But I reasoned, why get myself in a state, when they were in a different state anyway? But then there was *the* one I had to go to, and it was surreal. I was at the funeral watching everything and blocking everything. I saw people cry and thought, so what? I've cried enough, I'm sorry but let them cry if they want to. I thought I'd become the seasoned warrior, never afraid of battle. I couldn't have been more wrong. Today was just like any other day, I cannot say I was looking forward to a funeral. Who does anyway? But it was ok, I didn't even know the man. I didn't even know if it was a man or a woman. I just don't know what happened. Somehow something somewhere there was an energy, perhaps a spirit. And it drained me and all my energies out. So I did the girly thing, and cried. I cried for the past. And I cried for the future. But not for the present. And no, although I've thought about it, it wasn't just an excuse to have a good old cry. I could have done that with my cats, they seem to think that when I cry they have to give me a lot of attention. As it was I hid behind my sunglasses. Coward.

Facial Hair

2009-10-14T08:42:00.002+02:00

I've woken up so early. It's been months since I've seen this time of day, and now I wish I hadn't. I don't like this weather, it's as if the Gods are just merry-go-rounding in Splash and Fun while knowing very well that it's not my type of fine. I am no sun worshipper, but this? and oh yes I know how great grey, rainy weather is for staying in bed with loads of hot chocolate, but how much chocolate am I going to drink without getting sick? And sure I know what bad weather could be good for, a something else in bed. The trouble is that it's a week-day and men work, and right now they seem to prefer tables in stainless steel. Not my idea of fun, especially when I am nursing my poor back. And that sounds terrible, housewifey, because I work to, and so do plenty of women. The only difference will be that I will constantly be dodging the rain because of my hair. Men are lucky in that respect, well at least a lot of them are. Some even give their moustache a blow-dry, a practice which could easily be adopted by some women too. Well, ok that's catty, but since they want to strut around with a Godzilla kind of upper lip, then why not make a feature out of it and take it to a top hairstylist. The possibilities are endless, you could get a curly shocking upper lip, you could even crimp it for a retro eighties look. I still don't think it would be pretty, but if that gives a little bit of style, and the waxing pot is just not on, then why not? It's just like home-improving and designing, they pile on so many different colours and textures and make a feature out of a bad point stand out high and mighty. I know not how they do it, but somehow it works. All this would at the very least give me an excuse to stare, I don't know what it is with me and other people's facial hair. True it's wicked, I have been blessed in the hairless department, but somehow I start scanning a face and my eyes rest on the damn facial (which can go down to the neck) hair. I try not to look, but I just can't. I try to look elsewhere, but I still cannot help it. I must be something like the waxing parlour's dream. I even like waxing hairless skin, I think I like that best because it doesn't even hurt, not even that little bit. Oh and the eyebrows! I went as far as waxing them off entirely in my teenage years, and I thought it was such a good idea... until the next morning when I thought that the person looking back at me from the mirror resembled a reptile. And no, I'm not fond of reptiles. And I still waxed them all off in my twenties, thinking that I was then grown up and they would suit me better. They didn't. But I still suffer the consequences from all the heavy eyebrow waxing in my mid-thirties. I don't have much left, although one would never think so. Thanks to them I have had to become an artist in my own right. Facial hair, I'm not too fond of it, no, even if it happens to be a man. Why cover a face in hair, what are they hiding? Ok just a little bit, but no to overgrown. They must be hiding something. And I wonder why I never thought about it before.

French Letters?

2009-10-13T11:28:00.003+02:00

I have to smile, this French letter thing never fails to make me smile, just as if I were a 15 year old boy feeling really smug about his first shag avec the french letter. And yet I have never even handled a French letter, let alone given it a trial. Too messy. Yet again some of the most beautiful things in love are messy. Birth is messy, at least that is how it looks on the Discovery Channel. The only birth I have seen is when my cat produced four beautiful kittens, and no it wasn't at all messy. But then cats are clean creatures. Another messy thing, making love, that is if you're not doing it with a clean freak, with whom I wouldn't even bother anyway. How can you really feel the earth tremor if you're more concerned with being totally clean, as in tyring to clear up the tell-tale signs immediately? And I smile some more. I was educated in Convent School, and with that comes them nuns. I wonder why one specific nun was intent of reading all the letters of St. Paul (?) in French. So intent was she, that she told us students too, only thing was she announced that she was reading French letters. And I wonder why she didn't figure out why we 15 year olds, mostly all already deflowered, were grinning like the silliest cartoon character you can find. Or maybe she was just playing stupid. Stupide in her case. While a lot of us actually had the French letters in their schoolbag wallet. Why does a girl take french letters to school with her? To show them around like a trophy? Well maybe. The thing with French letters is the less you have, the more of a trophy it is. Or pour nous who didn't even bother and risked a lot, the trophy actually was that we never even had them. Ze messier Ze better.

Dads

2009-10-11T21:28:00.002+02:00

How do dads always know what's wrong? How does my dad diagnose my perfectly, although of course I brush it off and tell him he's wrong? How can he take one look and say... hey my girl, you're sad.. when it's true? My dad is not a therapist. He's a dad and a good one. But what do I tell him? A pack of lies. Because I cannot come out with the honest truth, I want to enjoy him for several more years, and it's best that he thinks that his daughter being sad is a possibility rather then a definite one. But how does he know? I don't know. Perhaps it's because dads just know. Mine does.

Amnesia?

2009-10-10T12:22:00.002+02:00

It's a little bit funny how short people's memories can get. Shorter than a fuse. They just forget, poor things, it's a tot of amnesia, nothing much to worry about. I wish I could forget too. And I forget plenty to things, tell me one thousand times where I've put my keys and I'll still forget. The location of my keys is in fact one of the many things which makes me realise that my forgetting isn't worse than other people's. Is there really a time and a place to kick up a fuss just because no I cannot find my BettyBoop/Dolce e Gabbana/Cavalli key chain, together with the keys. I wonder why it's such a big bunch of keys I have. Who am I kidding? Do I want to look as if I have the key to everything? Or do people think that I have the key to everything? Well, dear other people, you're in for a disappointment, because I only have the key to my heart, and even then, I seem to keep misplacing it. Do you really need to drag me down just because my hand will not support my glass and I find it's dragged itself crashing down onto the floor. Am I the same as a glass? Am I being pompous in thinking that I have more worth than a glass? Don't you realise that the same woman who held your hand through thick and thin, the one who bulldozed her way through the thorny bush, the one who lifted you up each time you fell up the rocky path is the same woman who is just retiring into a black corner alone? The one who doesn't even look up because she is exhausted? Have you forgotten? And is patience too much too ask for? It is the same woman inside. Only, this time I am not asking. I will not beg in vain. Because that is just the way I am. Is it pride? Not really. And I may forget my keys all the time, but I will forever remember the hurt, just as I will forever remember the priceless hand given to me in the name of friendship. Am I mad? No, just sad.

What's happening

2009-10-08T12:19:00.003+02:00

Having plenty of coffee at the Sliema front is a good thing to start the morning with. If only there weren't so many people jogging. And a bit later then that, the world suddenly seems intent on showing off their baby strollers too, checking the label. As my good friend tells me, even strollers have their own designer labels. I wouldn't know, I don't want to know, and I wonder how my friend knows. It's a he, and a he is never a mummy. The thing is while I am on my seventh coffee and probably my 14th cigarette, I do not know what I look what, I have made the effort, what with it being Sliema and what with my always impeccably dressed friend. But I have a feeling that I am not oozing beauty right now. Oh well the sight of my Cavalli sunglasses are beautiful, that much I know. But it's only that much I know. I feel like a woman in disguise. Only, I'm not and that makes all the difference. True I am not a morning person, but some things are done in natural lighting, and that includes a coffee drinking marathon in one of the chic chic chic places of Sliema while watching plenty of people stuck in traffic jams on their way to work. It's like giving them the finger silently. It's like a la la la here we are in relax mode while all you others have got to go to the office. The office, what a horrible word, I'd never survive in one of those. And no I've never been and I know I wouldn't survive, it's instinct. Although perhaps an office fling would be nice to put on my terrible-enough love CV. I mean it would stand out, because all the others take place elsewhere. And out of nowhere comes the private eye. I call her (yes it's a female eye) THE private eye because there is nobody on this planet in her right mind who does a private investigator's job for free, just for the satisfaction of telling on me. What a woman, she makes you hate her instantly, what with that passe` lipstick on her horrible teeth. And oh the breath, you'd think she was blowing pigs the night before. And my friend, dear dear sweetheart, thinks she might have! And that makes me smile, for the first time this morning. THE private eye doing swine, oh God that's why she's immune to the flu. So that's why she tries to give out vibes of being proper, because she's been in the mud all night? Hilarious. So I brace myself, embrace my friend who gladly gives out his hand anyway, but all the more so just because THE private eye will see that. Ok private eye, you've seen us, now go away. The whole world can see us, we don't care. Thinking of that, a lot of people take a good look at us. At first I thought it was because I was ugly, there's no way my friend is ugly. But the more I covered myself the more it happened. And sitting here almost completely hidden in an Audrey Hepburn hair wrap, people still look. I think we're a good looking couple, just very diverse in occupation but not as in sensitivity. Take our cigarette cases, mine is a cute Betty Boop (yes the child is still inside), his is a sleek gold one with engraved initials which would make you think he could be the Prime Minister. And we talk, incessantly, we talk about boys, about girls, about everything excluding baby strollers. And we've been here for four hours and coffee is going to turn to lunch. I am ignoring my cell phone which is on silent. I am ignoring the urgent texts summoning me to lunch. For today, I've lost my hearing, I'm suddenly very short-sighted. I'm staying put. Here. With my friend. Oh and writer's block is over too.

Stranger still

2009-10-08T11:21:00.003+02:00

Another dream. I was back in High School, which, when that means convent school, is nothing very interesting. But this time, I made sure that my comeback to school would be more interesting. I still wore a uniform, how I hated my school uniform. It was a girl's uniform while at the time I already had the body of a woman. This time round though, I my cleavage was very tastily on show, with just a hint of that french lace bra showing. It had the most tasteful Monroe-type skirt. Oh and I wore red heels. A white uniform with red heels. And I sat for lessons feeling on top of the world, because I knew everything already. And somehow we were allowed boyfriends in class, we were allowed to hold hands. And I didn't have one. I had a lot. A very ego-boosting kind of dream. And I kept holding and letting go of all of the boyfriends one by one. Until I had just three left. But two hands. One would have to go. The problem was which one? So I first started judging by intelligence. Then by looks. Then by the love I felt for them. And the love they showed me. And I dumped two. Suddenly two more appeared and I dumped those two. Yes two more, and I ditched those other two. And somehow the nuns were watching looking very pleased at my behaviour. Finally three were left and I couldn't chose. Because one was my dad, one was my twin, the other.... I just had to find another hand somehow to hold them all. In the white uniform, in red heels. Oh and in pillar-box red lipstick, all at a convent school.

Strange

2009-10-08T10:56:00.003+02:00

I'm not sure my head is trying to tell me something. But I have been having strange dreams, really strange ones, not associated to the past, or present, and I hope not the future. I remember one dream I had two days ago. Strange dream this. I was in a prison cell, a funny prison cell, not a 10x10, even the cell was strange. It was arched and would have made a nice looking cell were it not for the flaking stone, which meant I was in Malta all right. It didn't feel like it, in the dream I was sure I was living during the French revolution, I even had a basque and petticoat to prove it. So surreal, but then if a dream isn't surreal, what is?! Back to the dream, I kept trying to look out of this barred tiny window but couldn't because it was too high. I was also getting irritated because I was wearing way too much clothes to be able to get out of something which only a cat could get out of. And I remembered my cats in the dream. Yes even they suddenly were living in France and during the revolution. And I thought of stripping down to my undies in a bid to be able to get out of the little window. After all there wasn't anybody about, and the only light came from a candle about to expire. But something held me back. I was too scared that someone might come and find me in my petticoats and kill my cats as punishment. Not kill me, but my cats. Which made it worse. And yet I was in no panic. I just lived in it and quite happily realised that if I kept all my garments on, then I'd be safe. So I just sat down in the arched sell, clad in French costume, with my six cats, and went to sleep. I didn't wake up in a cold sweat. I just woke up lazily checking to see if my cats were still next to me. They weren't. And yet I wasn't in panic. Then I just jumped up, oh God if this was the French revolution there was no Rothmans cigarettes. So I checked, this time in panic. And I found them, had a smoke and woke up the other half not intentionally...... I'm still not sure if he likes such wake up calls...

So not gentle

2009-10-07T11:46:00.005+02:00

It's a big hand which cries out, 'Manicure needed asap'. That will of course go unheeded. There's also a hint of a thin gold bracelet hanging from the wrist. I'm not sure I like it, but I'm thankful it's not a thick one. Those hands which act before they think, but then I'm not sure brains are embedded in hands. And I keep closing my eyes very time they get too close for comfort. And I keep mouthing 'why' without ever being brave enough to ask. Because I might not like the answer. Because I don't know how to find him, I don't know how to read him, but he is under my skin. The menacing looks which I hold as in defiance, when I know that defiance means trouble. And he never once blinks through that gaze, it'll have to be me to look away and accept that he's won yet another time. And that's when the hands go into it, they seem to love leather too much sometimes. And it's when I turn away that I know I've fallen into his disturbed embrace. The hands which turn into fists too quickly, the fists which rain too quickly.... And this time I know that public or private makes a whole difference. And yet I know that there is a man in there who can be gentle. The one who instantly nurses my injuries. But decides otherwise. I keep hearing you in the wind. And I have nothing to explain.

Professions and fear

2009-10-06T19:53:00.002+02:00

I've always known trumpeters to walk with a swagger. It's their trademark. Give me a thousand people, let me see them walk and I will pick up the only trumpeter. I can also smell a woman who thinks her life revolves around her concert mistress' chair from 20 miles off. She lives for the chair, and she'll die in that chair. Sopranos? They're the easiest. Prima donna behaviour, the walk, the talk, then they don't even sing in a general rehearsal because, as they say, they're saving it for the grand night. It's all bullshit actually, but very much accepted behaviour. Teachers? Oh good Lord, I smell them three thousand miles off. They always think they know better, their profession is one big power trip. And yes I teach too, but I'm not like that. Really, honestly. I actually have not yet decided what my profession is, and it's about time I do. My purpose in life. I don't even know that. So what makes me stay. Well, it's a twin brother who makes me stay. A twin brother who doesn't cope very well with sadness. It's my cats, my dogs who (not which no) would be very disturbed if mummy wasn't there. They eat from nobody's hands, not even if they're ravenous. It's got to be mummy and nobody else. But other professions? They're as diverse as daisies. Only daisies are somewhat pretty. Maybe I should have stuck to the daisies, but I guess I got too bored. I wanted more, and just went straight into the jungle. Strangely enough I was fearless then. Not now. Now the fear is as real as this laptop I'm typing into. One look sends me reeling into the fear ball. There's no daisies. I get jumpy and jerky. And I'm 36, I should know better. But I don't.

So gentle

2009-10-06T13:05:00.003+02:00

I am losing track of the days of the week. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Yesterday I thought it was Saturday. Now I discover today is Tuesday. Which isn't such a bad thing seeing that I seem to have skipped Sunday, the most boring day of the week. It does feel like I'm carrying the weight of the whole world plus several planets', as if I wasn't carrying enough weight already. I wonder what would happen if I fell, probably get drawn to the centre of the world where it's so hot that it resembles hell. I think that's why a certain thinker has his own way of reminding me about the soaring temperatures down there. Or maybe he's been there already, which is plausible given what he seems to think he knows a lot about. And I'm exhausted. I must look like something the cat dragged in, only my cats don't drag anything in because they're too scared of the outdoors and since they're given plenty of TLC they won't bother. So why am I in the outdoors writing this? There must be a reason. Coffee? Nahhh have plenty at home. Hot Chocolate? Got that too at home. It's good company in the great outdoors, while being sprayed at by the tiny stretch of sea I have before me. It is like a little ocean to me. That's the thing about perception. We see what we want to see and that includes the sea. Smells so nice too. Even better than usual, because I've got one of the bestest kind of company in the world. There is nothing better for a girl to have someone hold her hand in a brilliant display of affection, yet so intimate. And although one hand is gently holding my hand reassuringly, the other is in a fist. Sign of anger, I've seen it way too many times. But I'm not scared of this fist, I know it is anger not directed at me, and I know that this fist will do me not harm. Not because it's in the public. It could be happening in the most remote part of the country where my screams would go unheard. Still, that fist would leave me unharmed. Or perhaps it would finally unfold itself slowly and become gentle too. He says he sees the fear in my eyes, which I thought were very well disguised under a mountain of black paint, I see a lot of kindness in his, which are neatly rimmed by a just a little amount of kohl. To look at us from afar we have absolutely nothing in common. Up close, there is still nothing in common that meets the eye. Just because hearts are embedded deep within, it doesn't mean they're not active. True they will not show up on camera, but they're there anyway. The amount of weight they can support is amazing. And I'm not petite. Yet this heart is still up to it. It's the heart of a very gentle-man too. I guess I'm lucky.

The Gays

2009-10-05T19:19:00.002+02:00

No I don't call them in that manner. I call them friends. And yes they're guys all right, guys who are very much in tune with their sensitive side. And I don't care one hoot if they ask to borrow my shoes either. Or anything else. And to a rough, rugged man, it will be always a mystery as to, how can I go ga-ga over men whose object of affection are men? In truth what is affection? Well it's certainly not sex. It's most certainly love. It's an emotion, a feeling and a sentiment, a growing fondness, a friendship over and above reason. It's love all over. Who says love has got to have sex going on? OK I know who does, but he's quite wrong. We (well not I) love our kids affectionately and dear God I hope that does not include sex. I love my pets affectionately and of course there is no sex involved although plenty of hugs to go around. It's the same between a gay man and a straight gal. We kiss, we hug, we hold hands, we do each other's hair, we talk about the latest cosmetics, we talk about our amorous lives or lack of them. We can sleep in the same bed cuddling and go to sleep without anyone of us demanding the sex. I think I could even get married to a gay man. It would be fun, we'd just have our own bedroom boundaries that's all. But imagine being dumped by the love of your life and instead of heading home alone, you know that your someone is going to be there to make tea, to listen, to puff up your hair and call you the most beautiful woman in the world. The gays? Yes I'll always love them. And if I had to start all over again, maybe I'd be on the lookout for one. One who would call me sweetheart and babe and behave as tough he meant it. Now isn't that reason enough for loving them? Yes, it sure is.

NO!

2009-10-04T04:35:00.002+02:00

Such a tiny word which speaks a lot. My mother says it was the third word I actually spoke, after the gold word and the shoes word, most naturally. Third time it was a no. No mum I didn't want to eat although you seemed to think that I had to eat eat eat, although now you seem to have changed idea about it. No mum I didn't want to wear pants, I wanted a full skirt because you told me I was a girl. Or because it was ingrained in me. No mum I never wanted to cut my hair, not even when you begged me. No No No. I've said the word a lot. It does tend to be a big part of your vocabulary when you're headstrong and want to do it your way. I think somewhere along the course of life I got tired of saying no because I wasn't getting any attention. So I started saying yes, and found it made extremely popular especially with the opposite sex. I had guys. All it took was a yes. Ok maybe a little bit more than that, but there was always a yes. And then one day I realised that 'yes dear' was on its way out too. For the first time in my life I was on my own, and I couldn't say yes to anyone else anymore. I didn't want to. So I starting 'yes dear'-ing myself. Oh I love the red strappy sandals, should I... yes dear, because you have been through too much so you deserve it. Guys were in much the same situation as the strappy heels. I never again said a yes to them, only to myself if I felt like it. Did I feel like it... yes dear. Did I feel like it... oh no, clear off. That's how it was. And I believed in women's rights, and I can understand the bra burning of my ancestors. Thing is, I still believe in women's rights, although I love pretty balconettes. But something isn't quite right. I have become an expert at saying no in a variety of shades. No thank you, would you mind if we didn't, no please, I can't, so many versions of no. And while most people would stop and think and at least accept the no even if they didn't agree, the world still contains a man who thinks that no means yes and yes... means yes. And he really believes it. He will still want his twice a morning and his twice a night, even if I said no. And I've said it so many times that I've learnt not to argue anymore. Because if I say no, a yes will happen together with a flare of temper, loads of threatening, and what nots. So I might as well say yes and get it on. It's easier. But it shouldn't be like this. My no should mean just that. NO!

Babies and no babies

2009-10-03T12:31:00.002+02:00

No wonder I say I hate grocery shopping. Now I am hating it even more. I think once I'm in such a store I become invisible. Really. And I think the reason, or one of the reasons, must be that I do not carry a diaper bag, stroller, pushchair, screaming baby. Why does one woman who buys a total of 2Euro get a carrier bag to go with it? While me and a grander total of 45.66 Euro gets nothing? What am I supposed to carry them in? My latest Versace bag? It's too small for that. And I'd never risk all that weight in it either. So what is wrong with me? The fact that I don't say, 2 kilos apples, shut the fuck up Shania I'm gonna kill you when we get home? The fact that I say 2 kilos of this, 3 of this, 1 of this please full stop? The fact that my only visible and audible interruption would be my mobile phone? I'm still a paying customer, just without the physical baggage. And please all you women who have tiny tots, would you do everybody a favour and leave them at home, dump them somewhere? What's the baby's daddy for? Just to ejaculate during the ovulation season or what? Worse still, maybe there is no 'official' baby's daddy and this one is in the store buying stuff off my taxes. How not nice. And she still lives with the baby's daddy of course, and everybody knows that, but on paper, it's father unknown, that way she can get away with murder. Or at least with the Euro taken from my earnings. No I don't hate kids. They are not to blame. I don't hate mummies and daddies either, but hey, they lay down together so now they might as well do what is needed. I am childless not because, ' il-Bambin ma hasibx fija'. I don't know where the Bambin is during sexual intercourse. I don't even know where the bambin is once two people of the opposite sex have had the sex according to the law of the Church. And my guess is that sometimes it wasn't even that, but an accident in the heat of the moment. Well I've controlled my heat of the moment. That doesn't mean I shouldn't get a carrier bag. And please would all mummies and daddies stop giving these innocent kids horrible names which they have to bear till they are 80. One year old Shania is not the same as Nanna Shania.

Unmarried

2009-10-02T23:58:00.002+02:00

I have the key to the question I'm always being asked... 'Why haven't you ever married?' Before, it used to make me embarrassed, as if my peers had won the prize which I'd never even thought about. Now, I know why. It's a religious answer, of all things. The answer is, that I have come so close to getting married plenty of times, but God, the real God up sitting on the clouds has been kind enough to grab me by my long hair and take me out. I used to be mad at Him for this. Not anymore. I am so thankful. If I had got married once, I would probably be through with my third marriage by now. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing, but then I'd probably have kids too by now. Which perhaps wouldn't be such a bad thing either. But Oh dear am I thankful for not having gone through with an itchy thing such a divorce. Perhaps I have commitment problems, and perhaps that stems from something else, and perhaps a million years on the couch will never solve the why. But somehow cohabitation feels safer, as long as the common law marriage doesn't happen. And no I'm no trying to be silly, I am just seeing my friends distraught over dead marriages which they still live in because they have no place to go. Because once they said their marriage vows, the rest of their earnings wasn't all theirs. Half and half. Not even if their husband or wife decided to go on a screwing rampage and parade it in their face. They have to stay. Otherwise they will suffer for it. And the thing is they are suffering for it already. And I think that somehow I understand. Everybody seems to get married till 25, and that's it. But we grow, our mind grows and what is satisfaction at 25 suddenly becomes a boring old chore at 35. Because really, how can we know what we want for the rest of our life at 25? We don't. Me at 25 and myself now. My tastes are different now. I will not settle for less than Chanel, and I've even taken a liking to fine bone china. I thought that would never happen. It did. But china is easy. I could throw away all the contents in my cupboards and start again. With marriage, it's not that easy. Or I guess it's not. Few people really don't care a hoot. The majority cannot do anything about it. So they become slaves to something which is dead boring. I'm sorry for them, I really am. But thankful that I'm left on the shelf.

Slavery?

2009-10-01T19:23:00.002+02:00

No I do not go around in chains and collars. Well maybe I do and will, but that depends on fashion and on nothing else. It also depends on designers' trends for the season. And oh yes I've got bags to match. And shoes. Plenty of those. To think all about them. I could kick so many people by just the shoes. But I don't. Because although I will kick ass, it stays in the metaphor, and never becomes physical. Does anybody kick my ass? Oh yes, plenty have done so. Plenty of others have tried to do so. And I've waited for my time, and kicked them harder and faster than the force of gravity. But slavery? What causes a woman so ready to kick ass to change so drastically? I'm not sure I know. All I know is that it was present in my early childhood, and no I was never hit or kicked around. But I loved the Japanese cartoons, the volleyball ones where young girls used to get all bruised by their running all over their volleyball court. I'm not saying it's the same it's not. They practised a sport. I have my own lifestyle. Love does funny thing to us. Lust does even funnier things. I wish I could explain, but I really cannot.

Demicoli's I Will Survive

2009-10-01T12:05:00.004+02:00

I will survive. Oh dear, we who remember the eighties know this as the song to dance to till we drop, especially after some son of a bitch has stood us up. I remember this song so very well. It was like a revengeful exciting dance reminiscent of some cannibal tribe licking their lips, about to put a human being into a cauldron of boiling water, so hot that it would steam up my specs in less than an instant. But then cannibals never have specs, at least they don't in cartoons. But it was the 80's and we were quite civilised. We didn't go around with spears to kill the object of our 5 minutes before affection. So we did the next less civilised thing... dance with the pole and to whatever male attention we got. Breakup time makes you do that. And it's the damn specs again, we wore contacts of course, but my vision wasn't as clear. Toric contact lenses weren't very well developed in the 80's. Perhaps that was the reason for picking up all the wrong men. Not that it's changed very much in 2009. I have good contacts now, but I've got hips, so I keep bumping into the wrong men anyway. I have no 'beware' sensors whatsoever. And since I'm heavier now well I probably cannot dance till I drop to I will survive. I do the next best thing though. I put on Demicoli's version of I Will Survive, sit on my computer chair making sure I'm in perfect physical equilibrium, make full use of Dolby and sing sing sing. Oh and I can really sing. And I know how to share, what's the use of having a damn good sound system if you don't treat the neighbours to it? Yet I play Demicoli ad nauseum, and it's not because some boy has left me for a blond this time. I don't know why really. I just know hat it makes me feel so powerful. I also will never tire of Demicoli's lyrics. They are Ssssppppllleeennnnddddiiiddd! I wonder how he can write like that. God it's so funny, so real, so slapstick, the nurse with the sexy outfit which should be passe` and yet isn't. Demicoli makes me do a lot of things. He makes me laugh, he makes me feel 15 again, he makes me feel powerful, he is better than any SSRI. And I'm thankful for him. And the first thing I will always suggest to any person who feels under the weather is... no, not therapy, but to go buy all Demicoli CD's. I think it would actually work out cheaper also. So...thanks Joe.

A female soulmate

2009-09-29T23:54:00.004+02:00

I think I'm back to normal now. At least writing this doesn't mean I have to type with one hand because the other hand is occupied by grabbing at stomach pains. I feel ok I think, but there is something I've completely let myself in for. It's stuff of the heart, as is usual. But this is different. I am not one to be able to boast of having had many friends in my life, although I seem to know countless people as well as quite some of their dirty linen. Not my fault, they air it in public, and I am part of the public. No I do not happen to know everybody, although I am liking the fact that I am getting to know all the people who are generous enough to leave their comments after each of my blog entries. If only I had a clue as to who was writing, but then you cannot have everything in the world. And I am content. Very much so. It's nice to know that someone out there thinks I'm a fairy! It's nice to know that someone thinks I have a good heart. So Thank you all very much for that. But I've got a problem here. The world talks about soulmates, and that there is a soulmate out there for everyone. The usual question is... how do you go about finding that soulmate? Which is plausible. And somehow we get the message that that soulmate will be of the opposite sex. That's what straight people think. Gay people of course think they will find a soulmate of their same sex. And it's ok. What about a straight woman who finds another straight female soulmate? What happens then? Well what is happening is that some people are not liking it one bit. And they are the same people who professed their undying friendship in the not too distant past. I do not have to have a Harvard degree to understand what is happening. It's possessiveness which is giving way to envy. For a reason I have yet to discover. I can hardly understand the basic concept of faithfulness in marriage let alone this. Because faithful does not include being locked up in the tower like Sleeping Beauty. Neither is it being chained to this and that. I want my freedom, away from the other 'friend's who have almost had a heart attack. The next thing I know I'm going to have a private eye on me, to see just how man times I meet my soulmate. And it makes me feel as if I'm doing something bad. The thing is, do I have a right to have a friend? Yes, most definitely

Anonymous

2009-09-28T12:39:00.003+02:00

My blog seems to be buzzing with activity. And it makes me, well, smile. There seems to be quite some intelligent people writing in there, if only they didn't stay anonymous. If only they could put an initial, a nickname, something, anything. I'm not well, just writing this is a feat. Abdominal pains, stomach pains. And I'm scared because I have a hunch it's going to mean being examined. That spells doctors, and I don't like doctors very much. They prod you here and there and then take a guess. But I just can't sit or stand ... be back later. Oh and I love all my anonymous commenters xxxx

China

2009-09-27T19:22:00.002+02:00

A very dear friend of mine ,who also happens to blow my brains here and there very often has also often spoken about her love of china. China as in real bone china. It's never made much sense to me. I must be the most undomesticated animal God ever made. But somehow it's rubbed off quite a bit, and I'm suddenly finding myself staring at pictures of beautiful fine bone china. This should never have happened. I usually stare at Versace and Chanel and feel dizzy. Dior and Cartier, oh God talk about really needing someone to hold you or you're going to hit the ground. The bags, the shoes, the bling bling, and now... china, of all things. And it's really taking my breath away, it's so damn pretty. Perhaps my aversion to china had something to do with plates, and cups, and dishes... and I love cuisine as long as it's someone else making it. But mugs... I can do that. And they are so awesome, it's going to feel like I'm having tea with the queen or something like that. Although I'd probably prefer a Mr. Big to the Queen. I can just see Mr. Big having china in his house with his red bedroom. Maybe I shouldn't be living here but in NYC on the look out for Mr. Big and not very far away from my dear friend. But then, NYC is not il-Hamrun!

Lost Love

2009-09-25T11:37:00.002+02:00

Love again. This love thing sometimes drives me nuts. Because most people immediately think of romantic love, between a man and a woman, between people of the same sex. Still romantic. And yes it's a powerful feeling. But how are we supposed to stop loving when things fail to remain the same? Or worse still, when the object of our affection is suddenly out of reach? In basic English, what about broken love? Because while love grows slowly inch by inch (no I don't think there is something as love at first sight, but lust at first sight), we are expected to pull out the plug on love. As if it never happened. And that's tough. How is that even possible? You are suddenly thrown into the downward spiral of trying to understand what went wrong, how it went wrong. And it comes accompanied by a deep sense of feeling lost. Because you want to try to understand. The truth is, there will be no understanding. Not when someone breaks your faith after many years. There is no magic potion to mend a broken heart. And you miss the laugh, the smiles, the voice, the empty space in your bed. The bed. That's a whole other thing. Beds are made to lie in, to close your eyes in, to dream in. They spell trouble, because it makes the realisation all the more poignant. And there are different ways to lose a love. But only one way to make it through. Let them go, let them fly.
P.S. No I haven't lost a love just now. But I have loved and lost too. So I know, I really do.

Baby don't cry

2009-09-24T22:13:00.002+02:00

Tears. I think it's the body's way of saying... sorry but I cannot cope anymore. Those little tear ducts act like a fuse, just so you don't blow the fuse. But sometimes we still blow the fuse, and it's ok. No need to get mad at ourselves for crying. Getting mad doesn't solve anything. That's why tears are basically salty water, there is a purpose for that. Water means we can go with the flow. It's our flow, and it's ok. Because if tear ducts are present in every human being, then they were made for a purpose. And I know all this, yet I don't want people to cry. They can cry as much as they like if they are crying with laughter. But we don't tend to cry all day with happiness. On the contrary, we cry all day because we're in pain, sad, broken hearted. And then, that is what soul mates were created for. Soul mates can do everything together, but they cannot cry together. Because when one is crying, the other is responsible for wiping away the tears, again, and again, and yet again, as long as it's necessary. I do not like to see my soul mate crying, because it means she is hurting. But I have to step up to the role of gathering all the tears and blowing them away. For as long as it takes. I've done my own crying. I've cried so hard that I couldn't open my eyes anymore. And although I would love to have magic Kleenex, that isn't possible. So I do the next best thing. I hold her hand, promise to be there and wait till all the salty tears evaporate and there are tears no more. And I'm doing nothing special, because she would do the same for me and more. Of course it hurts me to see her hurt. It makes me want to cry too. But I cannot allow myself that. Because soul mates do not cry at the same time. They cry together. And one day the same sun will shine on both of them.

The Brazilian

2009-09-24T12:35:00.003+02:00

I realise we women go to great lengths in the quest for beauty. And we kid ourselves into thinking that it's for ourselves. I don't think it really is... for us. It's probably for our men, although whether they appreciate it is an entirely different matter. I cannot speak for them all though. I know a man who immediately notices any subtle change, the flash of a new shade of lipstick. And he's appreciative. For that man, I guess I should be thankful. But more often than not, we like the bad boys, the rogues, who make our life difficult, yet interesting. So there I plucked (pun not intended) up my courage and went for a Brazilian. Funny how Brazilians were a regular in my twenties and I could behave and take the pain like a big girl. Somehow it feels different once you hit thirty, the pain triples, and you cannot help your eyes water. Yet, no pain, no gain, that's how the beauty industry works. And with each hair that gets ripped out, follicle and all, you just want to kick the beauty therapist, I mean, kick her hard, knock her out. I've always wondered why they're called beauty therapists. Therapists, therapeutic, therapy, they make me think of this big tent in the aboriginal where pregnant women go there and just sit and be worshipped. So, a beauty sadist would probably be more appropriate. But, it's my choice, our choice, so if we let ourselves in for it, then just like childbirth, we must put up with the labour pains. And my guess is they also don't call them labour for nothing. So, Brazilian over. Kind of looks cute. Thought I'd get a lot of male appreciation for all my hard labour. I didn't. I got the exact opposite. One look of thunder and ok I know that somehow I've blown it. With this type of man it works like this... it's one look and you somehow can hear the thunder and pray to God he'll have mercy. Reasons... because it looks clinical, because it looks childish! Childish?? And there was I thinking it was dead sexy. Perhaps I'll live to tell another tale.

Rainbow bridge

2009-09-21T19:37:00.005+02:00

The 21st. of September is always a fragile day for me. It's been three years now. It marks the anniversary of Figaro passing on to Rainbow Bridge. Do not argue, that is where pets go. And that is where Figaro, my fur baby is. He has a website all for himself, a website where I put flowers, and angels and balls for him to play with. You see, he passed on before I did. And I find comfort in knowing that the Creator would never allow the unconditional love he shared with me just to be taken away for ever. Each baby's life has meaning and purpose and the love we shared is sacred; a bond of love too strong to be ever broken, even when the physical body leaves us, the spirit remains. And I try to hold on to my Figaro's love and spirit and use that special love for the good of my other babies. Grief is never measured in time, but when the heart is dry of tears and the mind comes to acceptance, only then will you begin to heal. Meanwhile, I just know my baby is up there on Rainbow Bridge, free from suffering, and always loving. Guess I will love him forever too, because it's not just humans who touch our hearts forever. Sleep tight my dearest.
http://rainbowsbridge.com/residents/FIGAR005/Resident.htm

Butterflies

2009-09-20T06:11:00.003+02:00

Evening has turned into night which has turned into early morning. I'm never awake at this time. I haven't seen the world at such a time for years. But butterflies have. Butterflies are beautiful creatures, colourful creatures who fill me with so much hope and love in my heart. I just don't think anymore when butterflies are around, it's when the heart overtakes the mind completely. I can close my eyes and dream of butterflies everywhere, and it's such a picturesque dream. But there is one butterfly who is fragile right now. It does not have the standard... Fragile, this way up, handle with care. Yet I know. I hope that butterfly is asleep today. And I want to catch that butterfly and hold her close, yet I cannot be the mistress of her freedom. Because butterflies are not meant to live in cages but to fly up, high up. They soar beautifully above all things material... until you get a butterfly with tired wings, the fragile one, which is the most colourful of all. And that is the one who needs the special TLC. Love is strange, especially when platonic. It can be just as fierce as any other love, and oh God do I love this butterfly, with all my might, with all my mind, with all my heart. And I think this butterfly might just love me too. And there is nothing more beautiful in the world than loving and being loved in return. Especially when it's a butterfly in question. Because love is not measured by time, and butterflies are timeless.

Broken vow

2009-09-18T12:22:00.002+02:00

Sometimes I'm just flitting along YouTube and hearing random songs. Then once in a blue moon I'm hit with the sweetest melody which makes me stop in my tracks. And I listen, and go on a listening marathon. Broken vow. All about love gone wrong, betrayal, and poignant forgiveness. Or perhaps the forgiveness that comes out of helplessness. There must be a million love songs out there and I must have listened to half of that million on Saturday nights when I was recovering from yet another failed love story. Sometimes I think that if I had to do it all again I'd do it all so different. I would never fall in love. In lust, in cheeky lust, plenty of that. But no love. It's something of the same thing happening in Pretty Woman, where Julia Roberts can get down and dirty but does not kiss. Because kissing is probably the precursor of love. I thought it so strange back then. Now I understand. I'm not much of a kisser and I'm being very truthful. Perhaps because once you've seen Pretty Woman you're never the same again. Perhaps without even knowing all the bumps and knocks made me realise that kissing is way too dangerous. I still cringe if someone comes too close, except for very few exceptions. I can kiss my brother tightly and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. I can kiss my adoptive sister tightly and it also feels natural. I think that's about it. Of course I do not snog them, please don't get any ideas. This is not a sexy post, it's about love, yes, but not of the sexy kind. Sex and love do not go together, at least in the vast majority of my relationships with other people. Perhaps it's the fear of betrayal, maybe I'm done with asking why, there really is more to love than bitterness and lies... and I'm letting go... finally.

The Priest Fetish

2009-09-17T11:46:00.004+02:00

Fetishes. We all have them. I crave chocolate. I crave sugary foods and carbs. I go for men who dress well (well most of the time), talk well, eat well. I also go for older men. I have a shoe fetish which is a very expensive one, I am a make up junky, a fragrance junky, a bling bling junky. But I'm a girl and that's to be expected. There are men who enjoy my same fetishes and that's ok too because they're men and it's to be expected. Because both genders are human. But one of the strangest fetishes of all (at least it is very strange to me), is the priest fetish. I know of one man who has taken to going to mass every day just to watch the object of his affection. Yet the latter doesn't know about this man's crush, so it's also ok. This man is just getting to hear a lot of bible readings, if he can concentrate on the readings at all. But, no harm done there. What I will never understand is why a woman would take to a priest. Of all people. There are so many men in the world, why a priest? Take one woman, she sees the priest, goes completely ga ga, then joins the church choir, then wants to help around with church chores, then she is 'animating' mass. I write animating, because that's what it's called, although I think someone could have found a better word. On to the woman with the priest fetish, she starts going to confession too often, she bats her eyelashes when 'her' priest is around. And priests aren't stupid. They know about human behaviour. When confronted with this type of behaviour, some stick to their chastity vows. Some don't. Because it's there on a plate for the taking, and take they do. They're human. I do not blame the priests, after all they are men who have been created as men, with all their desires and instincts. So have women. But priests are men who walk around in robes for heaven's sake. And if they don't, well, it's kind of like this; they are God's chosen ones, they belong to God. And I would never ever mess with God's property, not even if George Clooney took to priesthood. Yet, some women seem to think that the fact that God is in the picture, then He is an aphrodisiac. Now I believe in a loving God, but this is pushing it. And yet, some women cannot help themselves. And their mis/behaviour is a sight for sore eyes. It includes getting all sexed up in different places of the church, in places and on solid thing that would scare me to bits. No I'd never do it. I'm not displeasing God like that. Yet such women can get so caught up in the heat of it, that they even forget their red wonderbra behind them.... I wonder what the sexton thought of it. Maybe he's not called a sexton for nothing.

Sisters?

2009-09-14T20:11:00.003+02:00

I've never wanted a sister in life. I was so content being the only girl in five generations. I had a brother and that was ok. Well it had to be ok, because I had no say in it anyway. He had to be conceived first for me to come about so I couldn't exactly complain. But there was no way on earth my parents were reproducing again, and as a child, a very weird kind of child, I would pray to God so he wouldn't send my parents other children. I didn't know the facts of life at 5 years old. I actually wasn't quite so sure at 15. I thought people got married, then prayed to God for kids. But in that weird 5 year old +7months of a brain I thought that maybe some people didn't pray hard enough to God and that was the reason he didn't send them any angels from above. Or monsters from below. How very naive. But I was 5 so I can let myself off the hook. I was just an innocent child, nothing wrong with that. But every time someone in my class announced their mother was about to pop again, I'd be filled with dread. I think I prayed more than hard enough. God listened to that innocent child, and sent no more. And let's say I could have coped with another brother, but I would not have coped with another sister. I was the only daughter, only niece, only granddaughter, and that's the way it was going to stay. Period. And the reflection of that is that throughout my adult life I haven't really had close female friends. Acquaintances yes, but not friends, the one who you can talk all about your nitty gritty too. And suddenly life throws me, not a friend, but a sister, on the hottest summer night of the year. Dear Lord or life, I suddenly get a sister at 36. And although I lack the experience of sisterhood, this comes as the most natural thing in the world. And in less time than you can say Amen it's more solid than the freeze in my freezer. How? I cannot talk about that, because I don't know. It's something like Freddie Mercury's ' And it's finally happened, happened, happened'. And I'm not complaining. It's so good to know that you have another other half out there. Sometimes life knows exactly what to do.

Religious jibber jabber

2009-09-14T11:59:00.003+02:00

I've opened Face Book again to yet more religious s and M. How not nice for a breakfast at 11am. And talking of food, it seems that the big issue has translated itself into religious dogma now. Two girls are responsible for this, two totally unrelated girls, well, related by one thing... extra weight. And no it's not me this time. And I won't be following suit. Because this has begun to look like a fetish now. And while I might be into a lot of them (the fetishes), this is one which really doesn't take my fancy. So let's talk about the girls. One who had a marriage fetish, and finally after 40 years of looking (you see all of you who hold the marriage fetish, never despair) and being hooked up, she's become a saint. She now dismisses all her sex stunts as 'the silly sins of our youth'. Now if I had to do that, I'd be going straight to heaven with wings which would support me. Silly sins of our youth, she's not talking about fibbing to mum at 16, lying and saying that the bus stopped somewhere, hence the being late. That is a silly sin. I'm not sure if getting it on with a priest can be deemed as a silly sin, but as I write it now becomes very clear.. the clergy, hence religious, hence God loving. So marriage made her obsessed with God, and it's not an I wonder why at all. That means it becomes we can eat ourselves to death and be merry because God loves us anyway. And who is hubby to complain with God's wishes? Nobody of course. Now I understand, although it's complex, but I still understand.
Then there's the other one, another God preacher who, by the preachings she posts, seems to have a lot of enemies, and thinks that the world is a war zone. But she says she is blessed. Of course she is if you see it in her perspective. What did she want for? Kids. And she's got two. Black kids, that's what she wanted, and that is what she got. Perfectly healthy kids. Why shouldn't she feel blessed? And she didn't even go to the trouble of getting married. Yet if she's as religious as she proclaims herself to be, going on and on about being blessed because her kids are her life, and thank you God for the kids, and you see she feels blessed by God now. Can't she spare a thought for other people who have not had it that easy in the baby stakes? What would a woman desperately trying for a baby feel when reading all of that? Well, despair would be one. Because it's fine saying to never lose faith in God, but when statistics show you otherwise what do you do? Say thank you God for not giving me the baby I would love? Come on, it doesn't work that way. And it doesn't work that way not because we are sinners, but because we are humans. And human beings... are humans after all.

Tolerance

2009-09-13T23:36:00.002+02:00

I have been told to watch out because my ideas lack tolerance. Tolerance and allowance. They're almost the same. Do I lack tolerance? It is something which actually hits home extremely well, it rings a deafening bell. For four years I was subjected to useless suffering just because someone's idea of tolerance was... kill the bitch, make her die. And I could do nothing about it. Then again I should not have been tolerated, because I wasn't doing anything to harm anybody either. I was just being, in a size 16. And if a size 16 offended someone, then it was his problem. Not so fast. It was his problem, but he made it mine. The intolerance turned to persecution, something very far from the meaning of the word tolerance. And perhaps that changed me quite a bit. Life played a part also. If you could spend 24 hours in my shoes, Manolo shoes may I add, then you'd see life very differently. I may look stupid, and I wish I were stupid sometimes, but I'm far from stupid. And nobody tolerates it, not even the media does. Why then should I start tolerating people who try to shove religious fairy tales up my arse? Fairytale is Norwegian Rybak. That's it. I do not want to hear about martyrs and how we should follow in their footsteps, because if that is so, then why don't the preachers really follow in their footsteps, skin themselves alive, make themselves into a Sunday roast, crucify themselves upside down... the list is endless. Those were perhaps special people who decided to die for God. And yet, God gave us life to take care of it, so that leaves me where? I do not admire saints who decided to lash at themselves with a whip, or to self torture. That, today has a name. It's called s and M, bondage, humiliation... and it's a sexy lifestyle. Did they really think that God loved them more just because they caused welts on their back? Should God love me less because I don't do the Santa Chiara thing and shave my hair off? Why don't nuns wax their hairy upper lips and put on some make up? Would that be sinning against God? So, is it really me who lacks tolerance? Or is it someone else? We are brought up thinking that 'our' Roman Catholic Faith is the most tolerant. Then you get the Bee Pope who is homophobic. Why doesn't he just go back to his German roots, not really famous for tolerance? What's wrong with gay people? Why can't they get married like the rest of us? Why can't they adopt kids? What's wrong with that? Plenty of gay men have come out of straight households, so the reasoning that a gay couple would produce a gay child doesn't hold. Even so, so what? Xenophobia? On to the infamous klandestini. Of course all man was made in the image of God. I have a hard time believing that. And yes it sounds as if I'm being very intolerant. But come and live at my house for a day and a night. One of the reasons I bought my house was because of it's then quiet and safe neighbourhood? Did I have a right to that? Of course I did. Not so know, when more than 100 klandestini given refugee status inhabit the block of flats opposite me. Sure they are people like you and I. But people like you and I do not hold street parties at 3am, do not litter my front entrance with take-away left-overs and wine bottles, we don't holler in the middle of the night, and we do not have sex standing up against my faccata either. People like you and I do not pee or shit on someone's doorstep either. Next thing I'm having a mobile toilet set up in my parapett, and then again I doubt if they'd use it. And oh, do I have the right to step out of my front door? I do, but I can't because they're all sleeping there in the morning and I'm scared to wake them up lest they bite me in the same way they bite each other when they fight. Tolerance? It doesn't exist anymore. It's all one big joke.

Delusional Face Book

2009-09-13T20:04:00.003+02:00

I either have to drag myself off Face book, or go and book yet more therapy. This time around, I think it's the former. Why have some people suddenly become so religious that it hurts my insides and makes me want to throw up? And yes I have queried, in the most polite way, ermmmm what happened to you? When I really want to shout at them, you're going slightly madder by each passing day and I care so go see a shrink asap. No, not Joe Demicoli this time. Joe Demicoli is anyone's best bet when they're in the black hole. These are on some imaginary cloud, with imaginary wings and keep posting thoughts from some imaginary saints. It's not going down very well with me. And with a few others either. Why don't they just go and get a science book and find out fact, instead of bombarding me with their delusional thoughts? God is my shepherd bla bla bla. Since when did we become lambs? Is it the same thing as Baa Baa Black Sheep now? And oh dear the quotes by St. Teresa of Avila, the saint which gets under my skin big time. And she's dead and she still gets under my skin. She talked about her delusional visions of God and the ecstasy is brought to her. Just like the big Oh Yesssss! And no, I'm no heathen, I pray to God because I still think he can move heaven and earth. But enough is enough. So please stop shoving your delusional thoughts down my face book throat and go see a shrink. And if it means you'll stop, I'll gladly foot the bill too.

Karl

2009-09-12T12:07:00.003+02:00

Teenagers today get so much bad press. I get to hear that they are good for nothing junkies, they are violent and can be deadly. I don't have much contact with teens, and I kind of tend to stay away from them anyway. What the perfect body projection of nowadays... I'm better off away. But I had such a pleasant surprise yesterday. It filled my heart just like a cell phone's top up card. Better than that. Maybe I should have known. Because a sweetheart can only produce... another sweetheart. So I am at my friend's house, and her 15 year old son suddenly saunters in. Me.. I freeze and expect the worst. He's a good-looking guy with a smile to melt anybody's heart, now he'll start sniggering. Not so. He does smile, but it's such a heartwarming smile I am taken aback. He's just 15 and he hugs his mum and calls her his beauty. So strange. He makes himself a drink and asks me in an I-really-want-to-give-you-a-drink, if I want anything. And he means it, somehow I know he does. And he sits down with us old hags (sorry Jo), and talks to us. He talks to me as if I were his friend. No this isn't happening. But hello, it is. And he makes me laugh with his boyish looks, and the way he keeps touching his hair. And he talks about his life, about his hobby, his education in the most natural way. He's outgoing, but polite. Not stuffily polite. He tells me about the girls! And I find myself laughing. Me? laughing with a 15 year old I've just known for 15 minutes. And I find myself feeling so comfortable, it's as if I've known him all my life. But then the same thing happened when I met his mother, who looks like his sister. This is intriguing, his mother kept badgering him to go take a shower. I just loved talking to him so much, good thing he didn't obey her on the spot (sorry Jo). And I watched him go about, he took empty glasses from the table and put them in the sink, he made himself a sandwich and cleaned up all the crumbs. He also promised his mother he would take down the clothes from the washing line. A 15 year old? And he told me about his friends, his female friends who scream when they realise that his mother is on TV. He asked me about myself, not just in a how-are-you and I don't expect an answer way. This young guy is the man of tomorrow. Such an impish smile for girls to fall in love with too. You've done a brilliant job Jo. Now if only I had a 15 year old daughter....

Of saints and madness

2009-09-12T11:47:00.003+02:00

I am on a weekend break of being bombarded by a man talking nonsense about holy saints. Totally my fault. Every year the Zabbar festa comes up, and ever year I swear not to go and give my musical expertise in the Zabbar church. Every year I fail to keep my promise. Perhaps it's through nostalgia of my childhood, perhaps because it makes me remember the festa with my nannu and makes me feel so young again. Perhaps it's because somehow the Zabbar saint is female and known to give favours, and I could do with one or two. This year it hasn't been any different. I've accepted, so now I have to do it. It's a job, and well I have to do it. Well, maybe it's not a job, and although I grumble about the stifling heat in the church, the smelly people who need an acid bath, the other people who think they can sing and deafen me with monotone 'singing', I think I'd miss it. And it makes my mum happy because I get to listen to a lot of 'quddies', although really I'm fumbling with my mobile and giving detailed accounts what's on. This year, the Zabbar priests have really overdone it. They have invited this Father Antoine to make a lot of speeches, probably better known as sermons. Now this Father Antoine is not more than 45, and seems to be physically fit, but I think he could do with the shrink 24/7. He is mad and they are letting him preach his madness to the spectators, better known as the congregation.
He is standing there talking to the microphone, making big crescendos every two minutes, and saying that 'our mind should be obsessed with God.' That is the exact translation although it sounds worse in Maltese. He is also adamant that we should have this intimate relationship, more intimate than sexual, according to him. That to me spells La Senza, and I cannot see a God in garters and stockings, or underwiring or padding. That was yesterday. Today he outdid himself. Yesterday it was Saint Padre Pio, today it was Saint Maximilian Colbe, someone whom I thought was a nice guy. I'm not too sure anymore. This priest has told me and some two hundred people that Saint Colbe liked to make himself suffer all to praise the Lord. The exact words were, 'we must make our body suffer'. What the hell? Do I tie myself up in chains and whip my back until it's raw or what? Catholic s and M? My body suffer? Do I just bin all the creams and serums and lotions all for the praise of the Lord? Will the Lord love me any less just because I think eye cream is a must? What can the Lord have against body lotion? Is this a new kind of Catholic fashion? Because if it is my Catholic days are over. There is absolutely no way I am parting with my beauty things. God created all things beautiful and I praise the Lord in my own way, with plenty of bling bling thank you very much. And I won't make God wear La Senza, I'll wear it myself. Burn Father Antoine at the stake I plead, he'll probably love it, and it would do me a favour.

The Tales

2009-09-11T12:06:00.002+02:00

A dear friend of mine thinks I have enough stories to tell to hold a talk show. And he's a dear friend whose opinions are as dear to me, but I'm not quite so sure. I don't call them stories, I call it experience. Because when you're old as the hills or as I am, well you've been round several blocks. What makes a girl have a past so rich as to keep a blog going day in, day out? Life, and it's experiences. And middle age too of course, although I like to call it the prime of life. I am aware I haven't had an exactly boring life. Curiosity kills the cat and it nearly killed me too in the process. But I've lived to tell all the tales... perhaps that's what my friend means about stories, the tales. Oh God I have so many, but I forget about them, then something suddenly jogs my memory and I remember it all, in colour too. And it almost always involves men, perhaps because I've never really had female friends close enough to party with. Or to talk to. So I just went for the only other gender available... men. Some tales are downright funny, others so sad that they become funny, others hilarious. I could start recounting most of them but I'm scared that blogspot would kick me out and that a lot of my followers would start reading my blog in the middle of the night when their kids are sleeping, including the husbands and the wives. Can I really tell the tale of the American who was so extremely well endowed that it made me cry? Can I really tell the tale about the Swedish guy who made me feel I'd died and gone to heaven? My petty thefts, the thefts of men who were supposed to be committed but thought they had gone suddenly single just because a 20 year old can lure in a 50 year old in a snap? I could, but I'd risk getting kicked outta here. Then again, I guess I could go around it in circles. I'll think about it.

Joe Demicoli... the best medicine

2009-09-08T21:37:00.005+02:00

I am going to be brazen and tell someone what to do. And the target of the day is.. Demicoli. Yes, it's Joe Demicoli time again. There I was, really heartbroken, so sad and helpless that I actually forgot about my Tuesday evening ritual, which is, tuning in to his radio programme. Until a good friend called to tell me she was having a blast listening to him. And I was the one who had told her about it in the first place. Sorry Joe, I didn't feel like tuning in, but I did. And I'm so glad I did. My tears have dried up, I'm smiling now, and I dare say I've also had a few laughs. Good laughs. So here is why I think Joe should change profession. He's brilliant at his act, but my guess is that comedians do not get a fat pay check. Shrinks do. And he's done the same job for me, the same job a shrink would have done, only, probably a shrink wouldn't have succeeded in making me laugh so successfully. Talk about mood disorders being rectified in five minutes. He has been my saving grace tonight. And he hasn't even prescribed me any meds, or presented me with the bill. Demicoli has been the best medicine after all. So I'd suggest, and hoping he won't take offence, that he kits himself with a doctor's bag (just to look the part), grow himself a beard (also just to look the part), eat a little bit more (also to look the part), and set up his front room as a clinic. It would pay more, and still be satisfying. I thought that nothing would stop my tears tonight. But Joe Demicoli just did. And watching a sad person being transformed into a happy one in five minute is more than a shrink could hope for. Perhaps you could prescribe me something for the pain... the pain that comes with hilarious laughter, the side-splitting pain, the kind of when you think your heart is about to stop with pleasure. Go for it Joe. You'd get the pool too. And oh, thank you so very much. I owe you one.

Love ... beware

2009-09-08T19:20:00.002+02:00

I am not sure if it's actually worth having experienced love or not at all. Love is beautiful, love of any kind, and in any form is a feeling worth having lived for. The problem is when the object of your love suddenly ups and leaves. And no I'm not talking about the love affairs which end as swiftly as they come. So, having thought about that, perhaps it's better to be alone in the world. Because you will not miss what you've never known. Shitty example, I never missed Cavalli or Gucci at 5 years old. Now I want them with a vengeance. The first time I set my eyes on Versace's Medusa trademark, it made me feel dizzy with a sudden want, no need to get my polished hands on it. Before that, I didn't know, so I did not suffer from the dizziness. Same in love. Perhaps it's not such a good idea being a twin after all. True the bond is a dogmatic bond, but then, what happens when one of the two just leaves? Horrible thought this. And as in the man loves woman stakes what happens when the object of your desire also leaves and there is no way you can text heaven or hell or even limbo? That I can talk about through experience. What happens is you are suddenly thrown a ball of grief to deal with on your own. Life suddenly becomes a dark uphill rocky path with plenty of Malta's potholes just popping up suddenly for the sake of making you land flat on your face. And the saddest part of it is that it's called life. I know a little about this kind of life and it's not very pretty. And perhaps I wish I weren't human but E.T. instead. Yet even E.T. wanted to phone home. That means he had feelings, that cute little weirdo who won so many hearts in his time. And suddenly all the daily things I worry about vanish into oblivion, and I don't care about my Enemalta bill anymore, I don't care what I look like anymore. I just care about the ones I love and that includes my army of cats and dogs. And I'm not sure I feel lucky to be loved. Perhaps it's best that you're left all alone in the world. That way you'll be saving and scrimping on a lot of tears. But then I'd rather regret having done something then not having done it at all. And that also includes love. It just should come with a warning like the one on my cigarette packet... beware love can seriously damage you for life. But then, I don't even head the warning on my cigarette packet. I don't think I'd head the one on the love package either.

Goodbyes?

2009-09-08T12:37:00.002+02:00

There I was talking about the queen of queens. Right now I feel just like a queen too, this time, the queen of cowards. And I've had the most restless night to prove it. Perhaps I can't face goodbyes. Or, most likely, I cannot face pain, so I run away. I should have been at a funeral today, but I wasn't. I just couldn't do it. For once, I thought, what's the use of going, crying like a baby, and undoing all that therapy? The sad reality is that although I didn't go, I still cried like a baby, and probably still undid all that therapy. I just thought on the lines of, this time I'm going to think of me. The dead are dead and one less at their funeral won't matter. I'm sorry Yvette, but I just couldn't, and given your forgiving nature, it'll be ok from your side. And it'll be ok with her, but I have just embarked on a massive guilt trip. Yvette may forgive, I don't. I don't even forgive myself. So I woke up about 10 times this night, and now have a cough to prove it. I always know when I am in distress because my lungs cough it up. They are probably my worst organs giving the 20 years of feeding them nicotine. They are also probably my smartest organs, they give me the warning sign. It's like an SOS, help needed, now, immediately. And suddenly I'm off food, which is crazy. Yet another SOS. I thought I'd just sleep it off. I didn't. And it's all so sad. Sometimes life is way too ugly to understand. Or maybe my brain's just had enough of trying to deal with untimely goodbyes.

Queen?

2009-09-07T21:59:00.005+02:00

I know one man who has an extremely good philosophy. He sucks at a lot of things, but his way of thinking in this matter is quite remarkable. Because he doesn't just think, he believes what he thinks. Perhaps sometimes falling in love with yourself just because you've seen your reflection is a good idea after all. And this man really doesn't care one bit what other people think. He doesn't even shrug it off because it doesn't even get to him in the first place. Not me. I scan and scrutinise everything and everyone, and the littlest look I will interpret in my own way, which is almost not a very good way. And I will keep thinking and thinking and make myself sick. But I do it in private, because sometimes it makes me cry. And a bitch never cries. I have to keep up appearances. Which is completely the wrong thing to say but I've said it anyway. I really feel I'm in a time warp. I should be living in the days when the thrones of queens were built wider than those of kings. Or maybe I should be living in prehistoric times when a woman like me was so adored and looked up to that people actually made a real goddess out of her. I like seeing her at tourist souvenir sites. She makes my day. Because for a moment my imagination can take me back in time, and I suddenly find a buddy in a clay memento. And yet I cry. And although I've tried to adopt this man's philosophy of not caring one bit about what people think and say, I do not succeed. Yet somehow the same man thinks I am awesome, and I guess I've been lucky there. He actually thinks I am beautiful, and as in many other things, he believes what he says. And I don't argue. He is never embarrassed, not one bit, on the contrary he thinks he's won the best prize in the world. And I don't argue with that one either. And yet I want to cry, although I know that would make him angry, and an angry him is not a pretty sight. His temper is really something. And as from today I am going out an armed woman. Do not get in my way because I've had enough. Careful, if you comment on whatever you see, you might just go blind. And it will have been all your fault. And no I won't be sorry, I won't even do time for you, because I have a right to live too. So, leave me alone. Because if the man with the good philosophy thinks and believes he is the king of kings, then that makes me the queen of queens.

Men again

2009-09-07T12:32:00.003+02:00

Men. Again. They're so simple. Even the ones with the Dr. title, the ones with so many letters after their family name. Letters don't mean very much. Perhaps they mean a lot in the job stakes, or as these men like to be called, in the 'profession' stakes. Otherwise, they don't really matter. Although I must admit I prefer a lettered-guy than the gardener. Because being the gardener's lover is not exactly going to get you into the Cosmo gossip column. I don't think it really is for status reasons, but more for the fact that guys who have exercised their brain quite a bit are more interesting. They have more imagination, they are more gullible, they are more open to mind screwing before progressing onto anything else. And when you've dangerously dabbled with a man's mind successfully, then he's yours for keeps. No matter the ties. Not even if he has a harem and twenty-six kids. If a man really wants a woman... he'll have her. Or she'll have him. One man actually gave up the throne to be with the woman he wanted. That's one big lesson. And he's not the only one. When you're a young girl it's easy to lure in the bait. You're young and that is just what lettered man want... youth, their youth. So since they cannot turn back their clock they try living off your youth. When you get to thirty-something, then you put your brain to work. You learn to shock them, coax them, in a very dirty way. But all's fair in love and war. So you learn to rub their ego instead of their something else because this time round you're classier. You learn, and you learn fast. And you blow their minds, make them feel important, trick them into letting them have all the power and control they want. And they will never look back again, or sideways, or north, south, east and west. It's always been a girl's world out there, we just let men think otherwise. And it's so good. Doctors are so easily doctored, and the multi lettering transformed into primitiveness.

Inheritance?

2009-09-06T10:51:00.002+02:00

I wonder if people ever change. I guess they don't. People don't change, they develop. I believe that all characteristics of a human being are present at the moment of conception. Yes, good and bad and evil even. If the fate of the colour and texture of my hair were sealed the minute I was made, then what was there not to seal the fate of good or evil. Nothing. And if I have inherited hair from my mum's, fingernails from my dad's, a non-outgoing character from my mum's, and a love for all things creative from my dad's, have I inherited memory too? And if I have inherited the exact face of my great grandmother, have I inherited her hips, her butt even? I think so. How did I come about? I didn't even exist 37 years ago, yet now I'm a citizen with duties and rights. And is the pattern of the people we fall in love with also inherited? If that is so, who was it responsible for my erratic male pick ups? I guess I will not find the answer to that, because back in the day my ancestors were way too Church indoctrinated, or perhaps they did it on the sly and were good at it. Somehow I must have come from somewhere. Have I really inherited memory? If that is so, my ongoing search for all the why's can come to a halt. Have I inherited survivor guilt, have I inherited the love someone more than your own self? It makes so much sense. And it suddenly becomes so very easy, finally I can point a finger and blame someone even if they've been six feet under for many years. Or is each person a bingo kind of mixture, and you never know what you're going to get? It's getting way too difficult for my thinking. I want to think of little things that make you happy. Things like shoes. It's a lot easier.

Ave Maria?

2009-09-05T21:51:00.006+02:00

There sometimes comes a time when I just need silence. There also sometimes comes a time when I need my mum, no not my actual biological mum. I guess she has good intentions, she tries to help, but immediately starts blocking my pleas for help because they are too controversial for her. In reality it's just a normal girl wanting her mum. But I cannot have my mum. So I steal someone else's. During this time the bitch in me locks itself up for a good while. Because I'm a thief enough, stealing someone's mother makes me a grander old thief. I do not just want any other mother. I want Jesus' mother. I don't know why, but she is probably the only mum who gives me solace. Somehow through all that Church indoctrination, she is the one who has stuck with me. And in panic, it's her I turn to. No other saint, perhaps not even her son, or her father in law. It's her I want. I figure she's a woman, and I'm a woman so we can have a tete-a-tete. And of course I don't care if she's a virgin or not. I don't size women up by if they have known men or not. That doesn't make them less or more of a woman. And perhaps this Madonna doesn't have my taste in shoes, perhaps she doesn't lust after diamonds. Yet she's still a woman. And everytime life makes me feel like a stranger in my own world, I turn to her. Because she can hear me. Of that I'm convinced. I think she must know what it means to have her loved one taken away because it was in God's horrible plan. I think she must know what it is like to cry for days on end till you cannot even open your eyes properly. And no I don't go about it kneeling. Girly chats are never held kneeling. And I know that she will protect me from all the evil, the misery, the madness. Because she knows, she must know. And yes I am fully aware that she is a saint and I'm just a fool. And yet somewhere inside, I think she really likes me. She sees past all the paint, the drag queen aura and is willing to keep me, to adopt me even. And she's always been my last recourse. Call me mad, but I like this woman although she's had enough of the blue veil and probably now wants an upbeat Cavalli veil with shoes to match. She keeps me close to her heart, and I close to mine. And she might have millions of people talking to her. She also might be more than 2000 years old. But I think she just might understand my stealing, my lack of kneeling, my very little knowledge of praying. And she's protecting me right through all of it. What a woman.

Yvette

2009-09-05T21:36:00.004+02:00

I am not about to forget today in a hurry. There I was in the middle of sleep and consciousness and I decide to check my emails. No more sleep, I was wide awake in a second. Message said... It is hard to write this but our dear colleague Yvette has passed away. Yvette has done what? Of all the things she could have done, she just passed on? It's a Saturday, couldn't she have gone shopping instead? To the beach instead? But no, Yvette has passed on. I'm not sure how old she was but my guess is she was 26. Too young damn it, way too young. I had no clue that something was wrong. She was bubbly, a sweet face, strawberry blond hair, and so so polite. So caring. And we would grumble about our daily load, and laugh at the same time. Not anymore. No more loads now. And Yvette once again chooses to open my wound again. It's death. And it's not very nice when you're the one left behind. And I kind of wonder, Yvette will aways be 26, while I get older still.. at least as to date. It's not yet time up for me. God bless Yvette. A` bientot.

Moving

2009-09-05T12:53:00.002+02:00

Tis a day of moving. Not moving house, not moving furniture. Moving people... perhaps. But everything's moving fast, maybe too fast for me to handle. But I guess I'm a big girl and I can handle the moving. What I cannot handle are ultimatums. Nobody ultimatums me. Ultimatums are not very good carriers of love. You have to choose, and there are times when a girl does not want to choose. Why choose ice cream over chocolate when you can have both? Why choose shoes over boots when you can have them both also? Ultimatums mean you've got to make a decision. And I suck at making any decision. I can never even decide what colour to paint my nails. Enough said. Back later. More moving...

Home Improvements?

2009-09-04T11:38:00.003+02:00

What a night. Thought I would be able to sleep like a log. And I did. Only, I think it was a very disastrous log. So many dreams, too many. People who are in this world got to join people who have passed already. And it was so sensual I think I passed out when I was already passed out. And it actually made sense. But then I woke up with a painful throat and an ugly fever. And no it's no swine flu. I guess I have met so many human pigs in my life that I'm now immune. But I had to cancel an appointment which I didn't want to cancel. Shit, maybe I can reschedule. What started it was my house being hit by a home improvement earthquake. The next time it happens, I'm going to book myself into a hotel and come back when it's all finished. But then I cannot take my cats into a hotel, and my cats turn out to be super sensitive. They too don't like home improvements and get scared then start doing their business anywhere. And I'm never cross because I know how it feels. When I moved house some of them actually got a rash, called tension rash, because the move for them was too much. I understand. I don't get a rash, I just start acting weird, get very cranky, then very tired, then exhausted. Then I get strange dreams and wake up with a fever. Well, perhaps it's because my house has become closer still to a towering inferno. If a feng-shui expert came in here he;d have a heart attack. I've got a burgundy sitting room, red curtains all over, now I have a red room. Red as in cherry red, hot red, pillar box red. And I love it. I don't know why I love, no, need red so much. It gives me a boost. The few times I've tried painting my nails pink it only lasted for a day... back to red. I love the colour. Dom Mintoff would be proud. I could never live in a white house (yes I could live in *the* Whitehouse) with cream furnishings. It would kill my spirit. Cream is such a bland colour, and yet it looks good in magazines. Cream is safe, red spells danger. I guess I'm addicted to that also.

Memory

2009-09-02T21:15:00.002+02:00

My house is in turmoil. And I don't like it. I can live with the clutter, but this is outrageous. I so do not like home improvements, not because I do any myself, but because I have to remove my precious clutter for a while, then I will forget where I stacked them, then I get irritated, I start acting horrible and piss myself off. But I cleared the last piece of evidence there ever was. I didn't even know I had evidence. Funny, this brain of mine doesn't work very well sometimes. Somehow the part storing my memory plays funny tricks. Perhaps it's stored too many things and the fuse has been blown off or something. I guess I need to go to memory classes. I simply forget. But I remember my childhood in every detail, in colour too. I remember dreams, especially the scary ones. I remember all the things I learnt about life, especially the not so nice ones, but I forget about the good ones. And I forget what I store. Which is sad, because even a chipmunk remembers where it's stored it's food. I wonder what this is called, early Alzheimer's? Sometimes I think that perhaps I am one of the best contributors to the retail business. I buy something, forget all about it, see it again, buy it again, forget again and buy it all over again. Seriously, I do just that. Maybe I just need a transplant.

Brother time

2009-08-31T20:06:00.003+02:00

It's nice to be loved. It's very nice to be loved by a brother. Take it from me, it's beautiful. We might be both 36 but we might as well be 6 years old. Because although life has given us the inevitable knocks, it hasn't changed us one bit. Some people say it's not too healthy. I say it's extremely healthy and that the some people cannot even try and understand what it's like to be a twin and brought up like we were. My mum always said... take care of him. Now, the tables have turned somewhat, he does a lot of care taking. But tell me, can you really help not loving a brother who has found himself in Heathrow's Duty Free section and is in total panic because he has already probably bought half a suitcase for me, and yet wants to buy me something else? So he calls and gives me a tour of what's pretty over the phone. Incredible. And we are 36. And I can relay off anything I want, as expensive as it might be. Because he's not going to scrimp on me. Funny this twin bond. I write about it from time to time. And I rewind back to when I was less than 10 years old. If I was invited to a party, then I would politely and brazenly ask if he could come along. I always got a yes, but if I got a no, then that would have meant no party. He did the same. But I remember him going off somewhere one day. He brought me an ice-cream back with him. A very melted ice cream, but an ice-cream just the same. We had a fab nannu who would take us on long walks and tell us countless of stories, a nannu who always stopped to buy us a treat. One day brother darling had a cough, so nannu reasoned, an ice-cream for me, and sweets for my other half. But wait nannu, no thank you, because since Joseph couldn't have ice-cream then I would have the same as him. I didn't want him to stare longingly at my ice-cream. Such wisdom at perhaps 6 years old. Where did this all come from? Well I guess our upbringing was a big part of it. I remember my mum saying God put us together to watch out for each other. As hard as it might be to believe now, brother darling was quite mentally challenged. So it was always a 'hold his hand, take care of him, watch out for him' kind of thing. And I did. Very fiercely too. Now that he's far from being mentally-challenged, he's held my hand, he's watched out for me. He has done countless things for his sister. But it's not just the upbringing which clinched it. As far as I can remember it was always double. Double trouble, double love. Few people understand it. But I do, and so does he. And so should other people who think they are great at thinking and analyzing. It's so nice having a mate from the word go. It's even nicer still having that mate at 36. Nothing has really changed, we're still the two kids who ran off together. We couldn't be more different, that's the sense of humour of life and it's ok. Because we're still glued to each other. And I can only thank nature, God, for freaking us out. We might be freaks, but freaks can be very loving too.

Farmers

2009-08-31T12:49:00.004+02:00

I keep remembering Sex and the City's Charlotte. Charlotte, married to a doctor, having done quite well for herself... lusting after the gardener with whom she shares a passionate kiss. Then I remember Samantha, with her men as diverse as a tonne of Smarties. Yet she too saw a farmer and grabbed him there and then. And as with both women, with plenty of bling bling, I wonder... what did they see in a gardener/farmer? True all muscled up with six packs to throw Farsons into depression, yet all sweaty, grubby, dirty? How did well dressed women like Charlotte and Samantha even go with reach of such people? I never understand this. But I know plenty of women with immaculate houses (because they have a live-in maid), and immaculate nails who lust after the handyman who is wearing a t-shirt with an I Love Malta plastered on it. I can understand that they would probably look better after a good shower, but no, they want them in their sweat. They want them dirty. But in real life these women look all spruced up, carefully made up, wearing tasteful jewellery and shoes, with bags to match. So for them it must be just a fantasy, and it's a bonus when they get to act on their fantasy. But if a fantasy is something like a dream, something which you think about once in a while, an imagined or conjured up sequence perhaps fulfilling a psychological need, then once that is fulfilled, what happens? Do these women start day-dreaming of something else? And what is it about the rugged men that is so responsible for these dreams? If it's the sweat, then I think Dove should kick up its campaign. How can any woman make out with a man having his smelly armpits shoved in her face? And yet it seems some like it. Some must also like the misconception that a farmer will not be highly intellectual so they just want the no strings attached, the wham bham thank you ma'am. Perhaps under all that bra burning, some women still want to be treated like a toy... in the bedroom, on the kitchen table, next to the cow on the farm, on the hay next to the donkey. But, what do you do when you get an intellectual farmer, one smelling nice, without the donkey and the hay but behaving like a pig sometimes? Is it all about animals? Because intellectual farmers sometimes behave like roosters and peacocks. And if that is true, then what am I, the farmer's bitch? I don't think so!

Tschüs, tschüs zu den zwei Scheiße

2009-08-30T21:38:00.003+02:00

No I am not trying to impress with my knowledge of the German language. I couldn't because the only phrases I know in German are chat-up lines and I cannot post them here because perhaps little people are reading. You never know who's reading these days, I seem to have tonnes of followers and I'm grateful to them all. They make my day. So I actually had to look the title up. It was just what I was looking for. Translated into the English language, a language which I can safely boast of understanding, it comes to 'Bye bye bulshitters'. And I love it, I love the sound of my sudden pronunciation of German. The next think I know I'll be looking at my reflection in a puddle. But I won't drown in it. Because I've just been fished up, and I'm gloating in the glory. These bullshitters. There were actually four of them. One just loved handkerchiefs, probably to wipe off the imaginary spunk. Because he thought that he was having a hell of a sexy influence on the ladies. Not on me. And that's not because I'm not a lady, but because some bullshitter's spunk tastes, well, I don't know what it tastes like but I sure know that it smells like bullshit. He had this really cheesy bodyguard too. As bodyguards go, I could have swiped at him and transformed him into dust on the ground. But he was keen on in-the-middle-of-the-night parties too, especially when on tour. His train of thought was sad, he actually thought that a girl like me would be enticed by a packet of crisps. How sad. But it was a whole quartet, 2 men, 2 women. One specific woman would glare at me, but then I was never sure where her eyes where looking. They seemed to roll around on their own axis in a funny kind of orbit. Last but not least, the woman left too seemed to look funny at people, but I think, no, I'm sure, the alcohol was at the bottom of it. She could have been Bacchus' and Dionysus' illegitimate daughter, brought about by a Godly gay incestuous relationship by her fast way of downing the booze. We *are* talking about booze here, and with that come bottles, and if you want to believe me then you should just take a trip to Mater Dei's casualty to find out how many people resort to solo bottle-loving. And now the crap's gone. Because the bulls have been kicked out. They were just horny bulls without the horns. They were evil. They tried to kick my ass, but never could because they never had the horns. I wonder what they're doing now. I know they're not very pleased. And I'm ok with that, because every bitch has her day. Bye bye bull-shitters. The bitch is back.

Parasites

2009-08-30T20:50:00.002+02:00

It seems that my in-law woes have sparked a lot of interest. Everybody's siding with me, and I love that of course. Except for one guy who thinks I should go a little bit easy on them. But that's because he has his own selfish reasons.... because if I had to have my way and wipe them off the face of the earth, then his pocket would suffer. Or perhaps he's genuinely concerned. I don't know, and I don't care either. But someone has been very generous in offering me a whole family of silverfish. I am speechless, I didn't expect this kind of kindness. But I guess someone out there really knows what I mean. I need parasites. Because it will take parasites to wipe out more parasites. And some silverfish wouldn't go amiss. Although a nasty thought is coming to me right now, silverfish eat their way through books, through paper. And Euro is in paper form, well at least the type of Euro that interests me. And since I want to live long enough to inherit those Euro, well, maybe I might give a miss on the silverfish. Yes again I think all the Euro are 'taht il-maduma' and I don't think that silverfish can eat their way through tiles. Or maybe they could work their way through a crevice? Hmmm, it could happen. So I guess I have to say thanks but no thanks to the one who offered me the silverfish. I need more parasites.....

Woodworm

2009-08-30T10:42:00.005+02:00

There I was shutting out the mother in law completely... she ruins my Sunday sleep-in. Well truth be told, I have a sleep-in Monday, a sleep-in Tuesday. That still doesn't let her off the hook, which is what I should have done with my phone... put it off the hook. But I can't just switch myself off to the outside world because of a brat like her. Thing is, she's singing a new kind of tune now. What about 200 Euro? 200 Euro? That will barely cover the cost of my foundation, tampons and pantie liners for a month. Because, it so happens that the brat still starts thinking that 200 Euro is very similar to LM200... whenever it suits her of course. Sometimes, and at all times with people like this one, you have to try and think as greedy as they do. I see her antiques which she thinks she's taking with her on to the next world. And I'd love to kick them in. But something else has done the thing for me. Woodworm. I used to hate woodworm, we string players fear them like nothing else. But a whole family of them at my kunjata's has been doing the job silently yet as deadly as I'd have liked it to be. It must have been a whole incestuous family of woodworm too, nothing could have eaten away so silently at a couple of prized antiques. It was the only time I laughed when the brat called to give me the news. I punched the air in joy and could not contain myself. I laughed, oh how I laughed. And I wanted to see for myself, so I took a trip down to her house (which almost never happens) to see the worm bites. Terrific woodworm. And I didn't even have to lift a finger. Classy, chic woodworm, all probably wearing Chanel peep-toes. And all having the appetite of a bull. So now I'm taking yet another trip... and perhaps planting a whole new family of woodworm. Only problem is... where do I find such a family?

The Marriage Change

2009-08-29T20:17:00.004+02:00

I keep logging onto Face Book and getting surprises. Some ex-friends (ex because I don't see them anymore), have suddenly got married and turned into saints. They are the same friends who were quite cocky (pun intended). One such friend once was almost responsible for my choking to death from laughter. We were in church, not through any saintly beliefs, but because my then friend was a singer who had been booked to sing at a wedding. And just as the priest was handling the host (I do not know the exact name for the behaviour), she decided to tell me all about her love for organs... and she wasn't referring to the one I was playing on. It was all about male organs. And the church was dead silent, save for me coughing all my lungs up thanks to her. Yet another friend was a sex pro. A real pro. It was her who taught me all about the joys of sex, and everything that comes along with it. Yet another was a sexually deviant friend who would try anything at least once, then like it and try it again. Next to them I was a saint. Now, the tables seem to have turned. They have got married and turned into virgins again. And there was I thinking that a part of marriage consisted in actually having blessed sex and getting de-virgined. Now, I'm not so sure. They talk about God and Jesus all the time. Which isn't a bad thing. But they're pushing it way too far. The friend who loved male organs is now posting...''Strive for Virtue--- Resolve never to give up praying and striving for virtue, no matter how many times you fall''. My guess is that she's falling all the time and has struck a deal with Elastoplast. Another friend who has always liked black men for obvious reasons, is saying...''Even if you are in the darkest (dark probably meaning black) hour and you think there is no way out, reach for God's hand who is always there to lift you up.'' I only hope God is either a very very strong being, or that heaven has a white crane complete with white pearls, as lifting this friend up is worse than anybody trying to lift me up. Yet another friend who used to live the life of a female sailor says...''Spiritual Fruit... The fruits are the last things to appear on a tree, so it will take you time to develop these as you grow in the spiritual life.'' I really don't know what to make of it, now she's talking about fruit and trees, has she married a farmer or does she have an orchard in her matrimonial home? Yet another friend is now a Mrs and says...''Every day through Face Book I am going to start a more powerful journey to bless others.'' For God's sake she is a Mrs. not the Pope. Where have my friends all gone? Why has marriage turned and twisted them into saintly devout boring people? And there was I thinking that sex was actually something of a duty in marriage. But they don't talk about it anymore. But they have kids so they must be doing it. Do they have a special room as one child once told me? A special room, according to the child, which belongs to mummy and daddy and is home to the Holy Ghost. What Ghost? Has marriage now become a threesome or what? It's a probably very well endowed ghost to have earned all this special treatment too.

In laws no more

2009-08-28T19:54:00.003+02:00

Ok that's it. I officially disown all in laws from today. Actually I have never ever owned them, but just in case anybody wants to come up with an ' oh that's your xxxxx in law', be warned, I can kick and punch and bite. What a disaster. The 'woman' who likes to wear her yellowing transparent nightie decided she needed money (and oh God she really doesn't!), so she took a trip to Social Services, probably also in her nightie, to go and ask for a job. Yes it's true I'm not making this up one bit. She went there to ask for a job and probably made all the people working there laugh enough for a lifetime. And if this isn't crazy enough, it gets even crazier. She actually told them she would like a job in an old people's home serving food. What the fuck? At 65. If there were such a job, it wouldn't be going to a crazy nightie-crazy 65 year old. And she probably told them her life story too. What entertainment. For free. She must have told them about her son's penis size, her strange three nippled daughter. I only hope she left me out. And I'm angry, very angry. And I'm taking the bull, actually this mad woman by the horns (yes she is the devil come to life) and kicking her ass. I need to do it. I need to tell her exactly what I think about her. I've tried plenty of times but she goes deaf when I start swearing at her whole family tree. She needs to forget my cell phone number because it's taking its toll on the battery. No more, that's enough now. She's really done it, and yes I am a snob and I don't want anybody to even remotely connect me to her. I got class, and not much to do, but I'm too busy for stupid people like her. She's out completely.

Aaaajjjjuuuutttt!

2009-08-27T21:25:00.002+02:00

What a word. What an endearing word too. No, I don't need help. Well I need plenty of help around the house but calling 'Ajjut' doesn't help. But I sure love saying the word. It's funny how it's got into my dictionary with a va va voom, in the same way as the person who taught me it got straight into my heart with a 'gas mal-pjanca' type of speed. Because I don't just have one dictionary. It depends. I have a dictionary according to the person I talk to. Although it usually takes a long time to make up a dictionary, this one has surprised even me. This dictionary I've compiled in five seconds flat. And it feels so good too. So what makes me say Ajjut? Well firstly you have to say the word dragging all its syllables. Otherwise it doesn't make sense. Secondly, I think you've got to be on heat, as in designer bling bling heat. Still heat, but we're a classy couple you see. Then you've got to laugh which is easy, you can't help but laugh. If I were a dog, no make that a bitch, I'd be rolling around in ecstasy. After that comes the really juicy part. A heated (as in biological, ovulation-type of heat) flurry of words which I'd love to write down here but can't because blogspot would kick me out. Then the heated individual will start describing the screams, also of ecstasy of course. The come two words... ten times. After that, another Ajjut for good measure. It's just like making up a minestra in an ok let's see what I'm going to throw in kind of thing. But no, you don't even stop to think what you're going to throw in. That's the beauty of it all. It's spontaneous improvisation, a very classy one. And it sounds something like... Ajjuutttt, screams, ten times... AJJJJUUUTTTT! That's my girl!

Designer?

2009-08-27T20:24:00.002+02:00

I am wondering why there's designer bags, designer jewellery, designer furniture, designer houses, designer fabric, designer perfume, designer this and that. But when it comes to laundry... is there something like a designer fabric conditioner? Is there anything like a designer laundry detergent? I don't think so. But I'd love that. Imagine having a Cavalli fabric conditioner! Now wouldn't that be something. I'd probably buy so many to last me till the last time I would be able to wash my own pantyhose. Because you really don't expect someone to wash your pantyhose in an old people's home. They will probably leave you without just to save and scrimp on the washing. I hope I will be able to stand on a stick so I can beat people up when the time come for me to retire gracefully in a home. I'll be this really scary old woman. And if I won't have a stick, then I'll just buy a broom from Tal-Lira which sells everything at 2 Euro. And it keeps calling itself tal-Lira. Funny people, maybe they want to make people laugh and make them forget about the credit crunch. Come to think of it, I think tal-Lira sells pantyhose, but not designer pantyhose. I think I've just tapped into an empty market. There really are no designer detergents. I've never seen any. Not in Milan, not in Paris, not even in Malta. But then, shopping is not exactly all about detergents. Or maybe it's just me.

Funny in-laws

2009-08-27T11:34:00.004+02:00

It so seems that entries about my in-laws are making people laugh. I'm glad. Because at least someone is getting pleasure out of it. I don't laugh because I think they are pathetic. And yes I know we should treat old people with respect, but make it all the old people in the world except for them. Trust me to bag the strangest in-laws ever. They are so tragic that the wheel has turned full circle and now they have become comic. Now I know the in-law subject is the subject of jokes, but these are one big circus. Not even Joe Demicoli has heard of something like this. Screening if good. Going away on a private island would be even better, and I'm certain my in-laws have the money for it, but of course they're so poor jahasra. Poor my ass, my bank account is that of a church mouse compared to theirs, but they still insist they're so bloody poor. Which makes my blood boil. Why are my parents so different? I am so glad that the don't talk to my in-laws, if that ever had to happen... no it's not happening, not if I can help it. True, there is one whole age gap difference between them, but I remember my grandparents very well, and they were nothing of the sort either. They were sweet people who wore their hearts on their sleeve, and it's not because 'chi muore diventa santo'. Not one bit. It's a something which Shakespeare would have lapped up in one minute and turned it into another famous tragedy... or comedy. Their kids aren't very different. Their three-nippled daughter with the famous mole on her upper lip sprouting hair as fast as rabbits copulate is a nasty piece of work. She is stupid, no other word for it. But she suddenly turns into a fully-fledged account when she likes. And I know that having more than three nipples can go into the diversity diagram, but tell me, if you had three nipples, wouldn't you do something about that? And tell me again, if you had a nasty hair mole on your upper lip, wouldn't you go to Estetika or Arani Issa and get it removed? I would, faster than the speed of light. If you knew your mother was talking about the size of your manhood, wouldn't you just put a plastic bag over her head and suffocate her? Or at least duct-tape her mouth, doing her the favour of waxing her upper lip, which badly needs a thorough waxing anyway, in the process? What about the daddy? Good for nothing useless asshole who is scared of dogs, ceiling fans and open windows, who is the most selfish of the lot? He's scared of doing anything with his bazwa, so he keeps it and treasures it as if it were the treasured possessions he has 'taht il-maduma'. It's so strange that their other son is so different to them. You'd think he was brought up in a regal family, with his good manners, his intellect, his kindness also. Probably because he was unplanned, so the genes started working in all opposite directions. Or maybe, he's not their son... someone else's. But of course pure mother in law in her transparent nightdress would never admit to that.

The wife

2009-08-26T21:27:00.004+02:00

I have been so many things in life. But I've never been 'the wife'. And I hope I'll never be 'the wife'. Because once a girl becomes 'the wife', then it means opening the door to a lot. I think it's rude of a man to call his wife 'the wife' for starters. She should be his partner, the one he shares his life with, the one he'll grow old with. Yeah right. That's what should be. Reality is sometimes very different. And of course I know that there must be such couples like that out there. But I don't think I've ever met them. I think they must have grown so very old that they've died now. Because there must be a reason why so many married men have never said, well, no. Or perhaps I've just met the sad married population of man. But then again perhaps I am a wife. Sharing your life with a man makes you a wife. Or does it? The problem is when it becomes official. Everything is a problem when it becomes official. You're 15 and desperate to be 16. Then suddenly you're 16 and that's a problem because you so desperately want to be 18. Then you're desperate to be seen as an adult. And yet again suddenly you want to be young again. Because once you're officially 36, you start fibbing the little white lies. You're in kindergarten and so desperately want to be in Junior school. Then you want to be in Senior School. Then you live for the day when you can burn your uniform. And yet you still stay in school because now it's an option. Same as in status. Marriage, we call that a status. That's in every application, even when you're applying to be a witch with a magic broom. And when you come to tick the little boxes, marriage is always on top. I don't know why. Perhaps because marriage is a lot about being on top? When I was younger I used to tick the single box and want to scream. Now I tick the single box and smile. Because when you're not 'the wife' you know exactly what your man is up to. You're called 'a lover'. And that's such a more attractive word than 'the wife' innit? You get to be taken out all the time. You do not have to have dinner ready. You don't even have to do the laundry. You get to enjoy long lazy nights of this and that. You get to enjoy dinners and outings. Because sometimes men are tired of being married to women on top. So they go for the single one, they tick the bottom box. It doesn't mean that you're beneath them. It just means we're not 'the wife'. We're the ones 'on the side'. Oh dear, how wrong that is. Because we're never at the side, just so very much at the centre, and dare I say, we're the ones on top too.

Screening

2009-08-26T18:27:00.003+02:00

I keep screening the phone and not picking up. Thank God for caller-id stuff. It's saving me the hassle of having to talk to my mother in law. And I hate talking to her because it'll be a rant and a rave of what a sorry state she's in, and how she cannot stand her husband of almost 50 years. And she wants me to sympathize. I don't. She married him in less than a year on the pretext that she wanted children when still young. Serves her right. She doesn't even bother who she's hurting with her words. So now she made the wrong choice 50 years ago... then she should either up and leave or shut up and lump it. The same woman is always in a sorry state, she always has to insist she's very poor, she forgets that I've seen all the antiques in there and that it doesn't take a genius to figure out that anybody having a 5 bedroomed house cannot be poor. She also has a bad effect on me, she makes me angry. I do not smile at her over the phone (if that is a thing that could exist), many times I've sent her f***ing. But she pretends she hasn't heard anything. I've told her plenty of times that once a parent, always a parent, but that she never hears also. And she angers me in a way few can. So I've stopped answering the phone. Before I used to think that perhaps she might need help, I mean she's no youngster. Now, I don't care, I think of myself first. Because after hearing her voice, it's me who needs help in the form of either going there and shaking her hard, or needing anger management classes. So she can sit by the phone in her transparent nightie and try and call. I will not pick up. If she needs help then she can call 911 or whatever that translates to in Malta. Although it's a good think she hasn't discovered that yet. I pity the people taking her call. She really could call just to tell them about her minestra gone bad, or about her husband's bazwa. She would be able even to call them for Catholic confession. Nothing surprises me about this woman. And yet she goes about life singing praises about her very good daughter in law. The same daughter in law who tells her a 'mur hudu f'*******' quite often. Crafty woman. I'd be going round singing praises to a mother in law who took all responsibility too. She's even gone to mental health professionals just to talk about me and says I'm a saint. The woman blabs too much and is a criminal danger once she has a phone in her hand. She will blab about everything, including her kid's private parts. Really. she's told me about the size of her son's (not my boyfriend's) privates. No kidding. She's even told me about her 78 year old husband's badgering for sex. It's disgusting. She wants to tell me if she's constipated and she wants to tell me how the doctor relieved her. I never tell her anything, and yet she still manages to go on the bloody Radju Maria on the pretext of praying for her daughter in law who is suffering from this and that. Incredible. I want to kill her, but I'm not doing time for such an idiot. I will not even tolerate her. On the very odd moments that I do pick up because the sun is glaring at my phone screen and I've not seen the number very well, she'll ask me why I don't ever go there. And I tell her why. It's because I don't want to go 500 years back in time. It's because I'm done with her need for attention. She can go and find it elsewhere. I do not need to know about her son's privates, or her daughter's strange breasts. I've better things to do. And hey I'm classy. So, I screen.

Three sisters

2009-08-26T11:33:00.003+02:00

I never wanted a sister in my life. I would tell my mother so. And she says I would say it with authority at 5 years old. I guess I was happy with a brother present from day one. No sisters, thank you very much. I don't think I even wanted another brother either, but I never thought about that. The sister thing was enough. And yet now I've got three of them. It happened very quickly, and no they're not quadruplets, and I didn't even go looking for them. Funny thing is, they all have boy's names too. I have an Adrian, a Josef and a Nigel. And they proclaim themselves to be my sisters. And now, and only now, I accept gracefully. They know about Chanel and Louis Vitton. They know all about makeup and shoes. They know about Cavalli, and can make up a skirt in five minutes. Honestly. They can also upstyle my hair in less than that. They wear skirts sometimes, when the last time I wore a skirt was probably 15 years ago and I haven't got a skirt to save my life. They have one thing in common with me though; they all love men, although they seem to go for younger ones. They have a hysterical laugh, hell they are more feminine than I am. And that makes them sisters, only they think that the abbreviation for sisters is sissies. Strange thing this.

Anger

2009-08-25T11:57:00.003+02:00

I want to write about life and the pleasures of living. I want to write about La Dolce Vita and La Bella Vita, when you don't have a care in the world. Not today. Because I've just woken up from a restless night, I actually thought I wasn't getting any sleep, but doctors are good at helping you sleep, even if it is for a couple of hours. And I have woken up to hear the sad news that a friend of a number of friends, including my brother, has died. At 36. He didn't choose it. It happened. Brain hemorrhage something. And that's terribly sad. 36 is too young for the time up card. Which suddenly makes me angry and now I remember why the restless sleep. Anger, it's an emotion so hard to deal with. I thought being heartbroken was the worst of them all, until I discover anger, rage almost. The kind where you want to kick someone head, make it into a ball and fire it from some canon, just like La Vallette did. I used to think he was morbid, firing a human head from a canon, now I understand. He must have been very very angry. It still doesn't let him off the morbid hook, and I still cannot see myself doing the same, but somehow I understand. The thing is, Malta in 2009 boasts of cannons which are just something tourists take pictures of, they don't work anymore. I'd make international headlines... crazy girl fires human head from a canon? Oh God no, I think that's crime.. And anyway, I don't have a head to fire, not because it's sitting prettily on someone's shoulders, but because it's probably deteriorated beyond recognition. I cannot wake up the dead. I certainly cannot wake up the dead to fire their heads from canons. I used to think I was so much in love, now it's like a bad dream, surreal, the love is all gone. And I've put the anger on hold for way too long. Anger management, I don't know how to go about that. Because you can swear at a lover, you can curse him a million times. It still doesn't solve anything if he's not around to listen. I thought I was angry at life, now I realise I'm not. It's not life. It's people who choose to go. Selfish bastards. I'm done with all the romantic keepsakes, I've thrown them all away. And I have the anger to do away with now. I'm not sure the Local Council's bulky refuse service could cope with that.

My friend

2009-08-24T21:00:00.003+02:00

This is my blog. Sometimes I talk to people through my entries. Sometimes I'm mad at them. Sometimes I feel they are pathetic. But on days like today I need to talk to my dear dear friend. No names of course, but she'll know. I know she'll know because I just know. And I want to tell her that she's worth such a lot. She's worth the sun, the moon and the stars. It's not everyday that you come across a woman of substance, such a worthy friend who doesn't know her worth. Because she's good, you don't get any more good (yes I know it should be better), than her. How can I show her the way to go without threatening her. I know she's scared, that's because she's in pain, and pain feels so much like fear. I know she's at the crossroads called... how am I going to make it? And I want to take her hand and tell her, that it'll be tough for a little time. But it's tough anyway right now. I want to tell her that I will be there every step of the way. I will cry with her, curse with her. Because I've also laughed with her. And she with me. I wish I could make the pain all go away, but we're going to have to work through it. And I want her to know that I don't think she's a failure just because she thinks she never learns. Being good inside is not a flaw. It makes you cry sometimes, I know. But what about sharing the tears? I'm willing, every step of the way. And I mean it dear. Let's half this fear. Please.

Bunnies and Jugs

2009-08-24T18:21:00.003+02:00

I'm cooking. Yes, cooking for the first time in 2009. Well, actually I am just watching potatoes swirling around in boiling water. But there is a hob, and heat, so I think I'm cooking. Not that I am very proud of myself. I don't like housewifely things. I certainly do not want to be nominated for 'Housewife of the Year'. And it's a good thing too, because I'm never going to be nominated anyway. Well it's not as if I would put it in my C.V. either. I don't think that a 36 year old who can be a splendid housewife is really an achievement. Or perhaps I've convinced myself so well so that I don't have to worry about my skills, or lack of, again. I will never understand why there are so many cooking magazines at stationers. Why bother, when you can get Vogue, or Cosmo instead? And no I'm not even interested in the magazines on the topmost shelf. Playboy? Now why would anybody want to be a a bunny for goodness sake? A bunny, as cute as it may be, is a rodent after all. Rodents do nothing but breed all the time. They live in colonies and then when you get rodently old, they kick you out. Oh no. I really don't need the mags. I have imagination and real life as a substitute. Books with pictures were only interesting when I was one year old. Older than that, and I want my own imagination to work. And do I really need to see 'Jugs' when just the word makes me go pale? Is 'Jugs' really a good name for breasts? Come on, men can do better than that. How can a word like 'jugs' make anybody horny when it spells milk and demure tea parties? I wonder why women accept to get photographed in such magazines. I guess it's nice showing off your stuff, but not on something which is called like that. Jugs have a handle, breasts don't. They have been well crafted so as to have the ability to be handled by whoever. Jugs and bunnies are two things we can live without. I have lived without a jug for 36 years, and I've never had a bunny in my life. And I've not really suffered for going without. And yet there is a whole mansion of bunnies somewhere in the States. They like dressing up with ears and even a fluffy tail. And that's supposed to be sexy. Oh dear.

No revenge

2009-08-24T12:58:00.003+02:00

I am told I am being cryptic. So I'm going to write in plain English. How can someone who made you happy suddenly make you sad? How can someone you give your heart to break it into one million pieces? How can someone who is your world just flush it away? That is what I cannot understand, although it's in the distant past now. And intense love can change. You just want to kick the son of a bitch to the kerb. Because he really was the son of a bitch anyway. But another question pops up. If someone says they love you, then how can they make the worst and most dramatic of exits? Why? For God's sake I might not be perfect, but I know of less perfect girls and they make do. And all along I though it was my fault, my fault because when it comes to men, reason just flies out of the window and suddenly comes through the back door. And now it comes to, how can I be so angry at someone I loved? How can I be so livid as to call him a bastard? Because that's the way it is. I cannot even get revenge. Revenge is sweet, yes that's probably not what contributes to diabetes though. Because I've never got my revenge. I'll just have to let go. It's already late in the day, but I'll try. Let go, forget, and move on. For my own sake.

Rational?

2009-08-24T12:26:00.003+02:00

Just when I thought I have been living on the moon and loving it, I am brought down to Earth with a bang. Someone thinks I rationalise too much. Two someones think the same. And I don't like it one bit. I have never seen myself a woman of reason, and I've got proof. If I'd gone with the reasoning, I'd probably have saved myself quite a few scrapes, and knocks and scuffs too. Where is the rational within me? Probably nowhere. I cannot even rationalise about shoes. I think that 500 shoes are not too much. And yet when that subject comes up, it makes people laugh because they don't think it's very rational. Perhaps where a couple of people are concerned I am no very bright. And that's ok because mentally-challenged me should have the right to live.. and to love. But it is exhausting trying to cope with the brainies. And perhaps I suddenly understand what it is all about. I was once in love with love. Not very rational. But that suddenly all changed. And although I still have my house on the moon, perhaps it's time I bought a one-way to Earth. That is difficult, and I like to blame it on the credit-crunch.

Love you too?

2009-08-23T11:40:00.003+02:00

It's funny when at 15 all I wanted was to hear the three little words, I-love-you. It's funnier still that 20 years later I think I still like hearing those little three words, although they throw me into panic and suddenly fill me full of doubt which translates into sarcasm. At 15 I was woman enough to retort back with three other words, love-you-too. And I meant them. It was just like playing the grown-up game, and somehow it felt good. Now, when I don't have to play the part of a grown up, because the years have caught up on me, I guess I don't want to be a grown-up anymore. And that includes the I-love-you's. Ok I cannot go without hearing them, because I cannot exactly put people's tongues on remote control. But why throw me into blind panic? Just three words? Perhaps because it's expected, as part of the courtship in human behaviour, to say something back. I-love-you might come as a statement, but it really is a question and one expects an answer. It is the hardest of statements crafted so craftily that it's got to have an answer. It's not as if I cannot say the three words back, I say plenty of I-love-you's to my cats, and I really love them. They answer me in their own feline way, and such a precious way too. It is so easier to respond to an I-want-to-make-love-to-you, because it stands on a statement on its own, doesn't need a reply, and many times it is not even said. Body language takes care of that. Screams also rate the truth behind that. And it's not as if I'm not sure about an I-Love-you too. But somehow, the devil catches my tongue and I am speechless. So I have tried to go about it in a roundabout way. Smiling. It's one step better than sarcasm. Maybe it's time I went to Kindergarten again. They have their I-love-you, you-love-me Barney song in there too. Perhaps if it's set to music, it will make it easier. Love you too honey.

Smoking scream

2009-08-23T11:21:00.003+02:00

I was just talking about screams in the bedroom. The ecstatic kind. Now I discover there are other kinds of screams, like the one I was doing in the early morning. Alas, I have to give it to Him, smoking and bedrooms do not go together. I have kept my ground for years, on the theory of, sorry, I'm a smoker, I smoke everywhere and anywhere, if you don't like it well..... And I've smoked in bed, because somehow a smoke is the perfect thing to make me go to sleep. The problem is that of course then my cigarette pack lies on the nightstand, and since I have not yet mastered the art of sleeping all through the night, I get up to smoke. I thought it was strange but if it helped me drift off again, then a smoke was a small thing to do. Not anymore. I have burnt so much bedding, duvets, pillows, and myself in the process. Now I've really done it and burnt the mattress, and I only got to know when the burning hole burnt me in the process. Pain is a big wake up call. I must have drifted off sooner rather than later. It's also a good thing I was hit with the pain, or I could have burnt the whole room up. Mattresses can be replaced, rooms even, but people? And I screamed, a very different kind of scream as to what I was talking about. It was a scream of oh shit something's painful, then the scream of oh God the bed's on fire, until I doused it with Diet Coke. And now I have to put up with all the I told you so's. And it also makes me want to scream, because He was right after all. Never smoke lying down. It could kill you, and not because of the tar.

Screams

2009-08-22T19:09:00.003+02:00

Human beings come with a set of vocal chords. They are present at birth, that's the first thing a newborn does, after being slapped on the butt. It's a disgusting practice and one which Sedqa and Appogg have not yet caught up on. I don't care if that is what a new born needs, I do not see myself slapping such a tiny creature. Poor baby. Maybe that's what happened to my butt, they spanked it too hard..... devious creatures. But as we go along in life we realise that screaming gets us a whole lot of attention. My mum says my twin screamed for his bottle. He was the wiser twin at 6 months old, I didn't scream so I would have to wait until his excellency to be tended to first; meaning my intestines grew accustomed to waiting. Funny, they don't wait now, perhaps because the tables have turned and now I'm the wiser twin? Could be. Or perhaps I already had class at six months old and thought that screaming wasn't very classy. My mum says I was an excellent baby, then something changed, according to her. Of course I changed, I don't weigh 2.2lb anymore for starters, I don't need feeding because I can do it on my own (which perhaps is not such a good thing), I don't wear diapers anymore so I don't need changing or burping. So I might still have that little bit of class left. And yet I like to scream. All righty, what does this have to do with the baby talk? Nothing and plenty. Because perhaps I discovered my vocal chords rather late in life. And once I did, I never looked back. However, it takes a something else for the screams. I'm not mad, I don't just say to myself ' Oh I feel like screaming so let me scream for fun'. I don't even sing in the shower. I think bathing is a relaxing quiet time, so if the phone rings while I'm in the shower tray, I'm not about to try go and get it while risking breaking a leg and an arm, and my neck in the whole process. I just curse the phone and will it to die die die a horrible death. Funny thing is, at 36, screams happen in the bedroom, where it's also supposed to be a relaxing place. Bed-rooms, the word says it all, bedrooms are meant for sleeping. And I need perfect silence to be able to sleep. And yet, for many women it suddenly becomes a room where to practise their vocal skills. Woman to woman, we know exactly what it means when we go in bleary-eyed to work and say in a tete-a-tete manner, 'I screamed last night'. Sometimes the tired eyes can do overtime and produce a wink. It's a knowing wink. Because screams are a good way to judge men. If a man can make a woman scream, then we bag him, we do our best to keep him. A woman doesn't just scream at her man because he's forgotten something off the shopping list. It's the way we give a judgement, a percentage, a rating. Screams are something so hard to produce. Yet if a man is responsible for the screams... then he's for keeps.

The toy-boys and the old-boys

2009-08-21T21:15:00.003+02:00

I am going to try my best at understanding women who think that young boys are awesome. I am not one of them, but I'm going to try and figure out what' behind the aura of a 22-something. Me... I go along with the aura of the Karta Anzjan.. well almost. But it's still about boys, because boys are boys even at 70. And the more I think I about it, the more I get close to cracking the code. Younger boys and older boys spell excitement, the former because they're so physically horny, the older ones because they're mentally horny. You do get the odd young boy with a very wise head on his sexy shoulders though, the one who has a degree called, 'How to reel a smart woman in'. They know how to say all the right things and the right moment. At 20 something, they are well balanced, and so is their ego. They do not need status, money, or a Corum watch to stride as if they didn't have a care in the world. They just take one look at a smart older woman, they also have a degree in 'Self ophthalmic behaviour', and they know it makes their target weak at the knees. That is probably how the jungle works. The one in perfect physical condition bags the best female. And he'll use the female for all his wants and desires, with the female basking in the glory of the ten times a night practice. When it comes to older men, then the sex takes a trip from below the belt right up to the brain. They too know exactly what to do and say, of course they do, they've been around the block, and it will take a very stupid man with a Karta Anzjan to not have the 'How to reel smart women in' degree. Suddenly a girl does not care if he has wrinkles at the edge of his eyes, she suddenly sees intellect, and what an old boy cannot do with his eyes, he'll do with his hands. The sense of touch is electrifying. It might be no ten times a night thing, more like a three if you're lucky, but it sure seems like it. Because an old boy will thrive on the sense of power, he will have the Corum watch, he will stride as if he's God's better half. He will love a young female because it's the horniest thing that could happen to him. It rubs his ego and his something else and makes him hard. Same as happens in the jungle. This time, it's the wise old lion who looks amused at the younger one because in his twilight years, he too will bring back a smart conquest in. Perhaps there is just one little difference. Both young boys and old boys will have women lusting after them. But older boys will make sure that their conquest is theirs, and be so happy about it that they will look after it/her. Young boys will play around. Perhaps that's why they are called TOY-boys. They're players.

La Battaglia del...

2009-08-21T11:17:00.002+02:00

There was a time when I really thought that being married was the be all and end all. Now I realise it might not be really the be all, but more like the end all, since divorce is still plenty of steps away. I was subjected to plenty of marriage peer pressure. I used to hate weddings because there would always be the aunt of the aunt of the aunt of this or that asking... well, when is it going to be you? I would get embarrassed, and just flee. Not anymore, now I like weddings because I drink plenty of Diet Coke. I'm one cheap date. Nobody dares ask anymore, may because they think I sit very prettily as I am, or because they have lost hope. Before my to-be-wed friends thought I was envious, now they're envious of me. Most of my married friends complain about their husbands' bedside manners. I don't, because I still sleep with my dollies you see. But then I get the odd friend who can laugh about her husbands' bedside manners and call it 'la battaglia del russare e de fare i peti'. True to the word, it sounds like petards. And I wonder why so many people are complaining against the festa fireworks, when they have a constant petarding right next to them in their bed. And it seems that men suddenly become snorers once they have said their 'I do'. Marriage suddenly begins to interfere with their intestines too and they seem to start farting their way obliviously through their sleep. I'm not sure what kind of farting it is, whether it's just gas, or something else. Since they're sound asleep, their inhibitions are asleep too so perhaps there's not just one man shitting his pants while in battle and waking up with skid marks. And who does the laundry? Silly question. So, I think, why isn't all of this included in the marriage vows? True it would be gross, to hold and to cherish, to snore and to fart, til death do us part. But it even rhymes effortlessly. We've got to be real. Marriage is a hell of a contract, because it's hellish when you want to get out of it. You might not want to get out of a marriage, but I can understand that a woman would love to get rid of all that high decibel sound while she's trying to get her beauty sleep. That is abuse in the form of sound, and perhaps damage to the olfactory organs too. I have not experienced any of this, not because the fourth finger on my left hand likes naked. On the contrary, it's overloaded. But I still haven't said my 'I do', and my dollies are very polite. They look so pretty too. I think I'm sticking to the dollies.

Make up bonding

2009-08-20T15:54:00.006+02:00

Sometimes things really happen when you least expect them to. It's a cliche` I know and I do not like cliches but I have to bow to this. It's becoming increasingly rare to find a friend. A good friend. It's even harder to find a good female friend. And just after having behaved like a true masochist by placing myself in the sweltering heat of one summer night, just after having had enough and begun dreaming of airconditioning, just after having had too much Diet Coke... bang, I find a friend. I wasn't even looking for one. Maybe Santa Maria had other ideas. I mean I think she must be a good saint after all, she raised Jesus to be a righteous man which is more than many mothers can do nowadays. A friend introduced to me by another friend who looked at me normally. I was more than grateful for that. But no, this friend goes all the way. Suddenly I'd found a stranger and I was talking to her as if I had known her for a hundred years. Funny. But sometimes funny things happening are good things, perhaps it's the circle of life which throws people together. Sometimes it gets it right. It sure got it this time. And my new friend even more than kept her promise. I really wanted her stuff, not her own I mean, the stuff she sells. I kept badgering her for it too. Now I feel somewhat shy. Because I didn't expect all of that. For free. In 2009, nothing comes for free not even bread and butter. I just was grateful enough she was bringing me my so desired make-up, the least I could have done was pay her and say thank you. But no, she was having none of it, none of the money, because as she put it ' I offered, I told you I would come, I obliged, and you owe me nothing.' I'm not sure I behaved very well because I really wasn't expecting that kind of answer at all. Not from the oldest of friends, and certainly not from a new friend. Of course I love love love love the makeup, I have placed them all around me like new toys to play with. I actually will be playing with them as soon as I write this. But the thing is, someone today took some time off her time to come to me. Another thing is that someone came to me with plenty of pots of colour; it was like my birthday all over again; a Happy Birthday AnnMarie all over again. Too kind. Because she also gave me her smile. And that was the best of them all. Make up now has a new meaning to me. Sorry boys, but this time you won't understand. If you do then you're gay and that's ok.

Broody

2009-08-20T12:16:00.002+02:00

I just suddenly decided to listen to 'Happy Birthday Jesus'. And it's summer, a long long way from Christmas. I confess I am a Christmas freak. If I could get away with having the tree up all the year round, I would. If having a Christmas wreath at my door wouldn't arouse speculation, then that's what I'd do. I love the carols, the bells, the lights, the tinsel, the stars, the presents of course. And I am in love with the feeling of Christmas love. Even though it's August. There is something I'm not liking though. Before, I could listen to this 'Happy Birthday Jesus' a million times and feel euphoric, whatever day or month it was, even if it was at that time of the month. This time round though, something has changed. It's making me almost sad, almost. Not terribly sad, but just a little bit, that little bit which is slamming my body down. I'm totally out of order, unable to do anything except listen and write and cry. And a new feeling is sweeping over me. I'm broody, not just a little bit but plenty of little bits. And plenty of little bits joined together make one big broody me. Perhaps it's because it's throwing me back to last Christmas' bid to have a little man of my own. I tried, I tried my best. God knows I did. But Sedqa and Appogg know it better. They think they know it all. They also broke my heart but that's not as important as the fact that they broke a little man's heart. So perhaps I have to turn to my own thing. Yes, it's coming, the sex. But really this time I have no choice, if I want a little man or a little woman then procreation is the only way. And procreation is a very uppa' class word for ... having sex, making out, doing it. You get to lie down, then the male partner lies on top of you. Or the male lies down and you lie down on top of him. Or maybe you find yourself kneeling and your male partner is right behind you. Yet another possibility is using bricks and mortar, i.e. doing it up against the wall.. if I had less kilos. Or perhaps both sit on top of each other. Loads of possibilities. And this time, just this time, no electrical device is going to do it. But then I think since it's something I'm wanting... can't it be selfish? I mean nobody asked me if I wanted to grace the world. And I'm not sure I would have accepted the proposal. So who am I to go forth and multiply since I cannot ask the little would be in question the question? And then, after all, perhaps I'm already too old for it. The baby thing, not the other thing, mind you. I have risked it happening plenty of times, perhaps because I like risking, or perhaps the subconscious was playing funny tricks. My biological clock is ticking fast, but is it a good enough reason to go forth and work out the multiplication as yet? What if I get it wrong, and do I need to use a special kind of calculator?

Specs

2009-08-20T00:01:00.003+02:00

Someone here thinks that hot dogs at 1am is a cool idea. Trouble is so do I. But in every dietary plan it says not to eat anything after 8pm. This doesn't tally. Or maybe 1 am is the start of the day so the 8pm rule doesn't work there. It's not fair. Because someone here wants me as company every day. I mean, company as in eating out every day. When the hell is my diet going to start? It's always tomorrow, then the day after, and then the day after that. And I do protest but I get oh honey come on you're fine as you are. Suddenly it becomes, oh honey I want you with me because I lurrvvvee you. Hmmm Not sure whether it's the love for me or for the hot dogs, or even of having someone to talk to and listening to his voice a the same time. Men are so complicated. Or maybe I bag the complicated ones. Or maybe even it's the complicated ones which bag my interest precisely because they are complicated. Then that makes me complicated squared. Or perhaps a simpleton. Some men really need glasses,, these long-sighted men are rather blind I sometimes think. Or maybe they're using reading glasses instead of myopic ones. Hint at the reading... old old old. There I just typed it in. With a real vengeance, because revenge is sweet, even if it comes through the hot-dogs. But it's sure nice to be looked at through rose-trimmed specs. That's why honey doesn't argue. Honey is nice, of course. Very very nice.

Walk-in closet

2009-08-19T22:46:00.004+02:00

I've just remembered what I did 6 years ago. And I'm not proud. I still feel guilty, but then guilt is guilt when you've purposely done something to harm someone else. As it was, I swear I never did it on purpose. I just wanted a walk-in closet. Too many clothes, too many shoes. My wardrobes were splitting at their seams. There was only one thing for it, to create a room which would actually house all of my apparel. And the word, or bi-word walk-in closet sounded tres tres chic. My nice Mister offered to help too. Ahh it was at the beginning of the relationship, he was so quick to please. He still is, but had I to mention a walk-in something again he'd walk out. Of that I'm certain. And I don't blame him one bit. So my walk-in closet was looking all so nice and pretty, I had red curtains made especially for the occasion. The trouble was that I wanted to hang a rod high up, almost next to the ceiling. So Mister obliged, and it was ready, just one more bolt for completion. I decided I was going to get a Diet Coke. That was when I heard a thud so loud I thought my floor had finally caved in. It hadn't, but my Mister was nowhere to be seen. Where the fuck was he? I mean he's a big man, why couldn't I see him? Worse, how the hell couldn't I hear him? Then I saw him lying down in the dust, and he wasn't moving. I just shook him, and madonna tal-hniena his shoulder was just swinging this way and that. It was obvious, he was also in pain. He just said, call someone, my shoulder, it hurts. Of course it hurt, it was dislocated. Me being me, I thought I'd just had a great idea so I said... oh honey why don't you go have a shower before, I mean you're full of dust'. His answer went *********************! Ok got it, no shower he was going to have to go to hospital as dusty as he was. I didn't yet know his brother-in-law was demented, so I figured, him being a nurse, I'd call him. He came in 5 minutes flat, together with his then wife, also a nurse. And they asked me for a scarf. Ok I could do that. So I took out a silk scarf and produced it. They took one look at it and said... don't you have anything which isn't silk? No I hadn't. What decent girl buys scarves if they're not silk? I'd given them my Versace scarf for God's sake. So they just wrapped up his arm and whisked him away to hospital. Two hours later they were back, with Mister and shoulder back in place. Apparently once in hospital, Mister thought he had become a celebrity. Everybody was looking at him. He also loved the fact that his brother had to push him uphill while in a wheelchair, he'd just got his own back on his brother by making him sweat. And it was an injured man thinking this.... He was so happy, until I realised that it was my Versace scarf which was getting the attention...Then began two weeks of Mister lapping up the attention. Since his shoulder was sore he couldn't do much. Also since he'd had a fall he'd injured his leg badly so he couldn't walk unaided. He was the perfect patient, meaning he was perfect at being injured. He couldn't even shower on his own, and my guess is that this was what he loved best of all. We laugh about it now, but there are still tell-tale signs on his leg and arm. My poor Mister, come to me qalbi... try that on any man, you'll be a big success.

The in-laws

2009-08-19T21:23:00.004+02:00

Now I know, this is a touchy subject enough. Who in the hell can boast about getting on perfectly well with their in-laws? Probably plenty of people. Liars, all of them. Because with 'my' men have come plenty of in-laws, and they've all sucked. Out of all the dozens of mother in laws, I've never found the right one. Perhaps there just isn't a right one after all. I've missed out on father in laws simply because when you like dating older men, then their father has passed on. One less thing to worry about. And no I'm not being a bitch, I haven't killed any father in law, they've just been dead. Dead is ok, dead is good sometimes. It's definitely good if it relieves you of what could have been yet another lose-lose situation. So I'm just being realistic that's all. So let's talk about in-laws. Mine have ranged from stupid to greedy, to pathetic, to weird, to vile, to throwing-up material. Not one decent in-law. I remember one in-law who was fascinated by my derriere, at the time a thousand times smaller, and who would try to accidentally-on-purpose stroke it. And he was ugly, and a millionaire. Unfortunately, not like his brother whom I was dating. The mother in law was downright stupid, but morbidly interested in the Maltese Lira, it's fluctuations and all. Her son, whom I dated was actually a good for nothing son of a bitch, but try telling a 15 year old who is in love for the first time that. I finally came to my senses at 20 and decided it was time to try a good boy out. He was a good boy, with an amazing grandmother whom I loved to bits. Unfortunately the package came with the mother in law who always left her wallet at home. I think she must have suffered from some kind of amnesia or something of the sort. She also had a boyfriend my age, and (I swear this is true, cross my heart), boyfriend and I would be subjected to listening them coupling in the next room. Probably because she didn't need a wallet for that since she had her pouch. Yes her pouch, because she whined like a kangaroo in labour. More in-laws. This time, it was different, because I didn't want boys anymore. I wanted men! So I went for the fifty-somethings. And life was good, terribly good because I thought I wouldn't have to deal with in-laws then, since most would have been dead, and seeing that the fifty-somethings would all have a wife, then I would have to be kept in secret. A splendid way of doing away with the in-laws completely. Not so. Because frigging Malta is rife with gossip and I didn't remain a secret for long. So then the in-laws, whom I had never even met, started calling the Kappillan of my parish to tell my mum that her daughter was a home-wrecker. The real truth was that the same in-laws were probably also bored shit of their marriage, but sibling rivalry was settling in. And I was no home-wrecker. I never wrecked my home. If the married fifty-somethings decided to wreck their own, then that was their problem. But it also threw me into relationships with daughters-in-laws and sons-in-laws who were older than me. That was tricky. Terribly tricky. And once it got too tricky, I'd suddenly move on, again not because I was a bitch, but because it was a way out of the in-law thing. I was even an in-law nanna for God's sake, if that is something that exists anymore. Yet more in-laws. I even had a priest as an in-law. A totally mad one too, who would go off with his philosophical sermons as if he were the anti-Christ. A Catholic priest whose views about everything made me pale. Including his views about sex, free, as in totally very free twisted kinds of sex. Now I do not think of myself as a missionary-style-loving-sex kind of girl but wow this was more than my insides could take. It didn't help that he was always very intrigued with my toes especially when he was so even more infatuated about mutilation. I swear it's true, I'm not making it up, cross my heart. Yet more in-laws. A mother-in-law who is far from a pretty sight, seeing she like to go out and about, yes even outside, in her nightdress with her breasts dangling dangerously down to her waist. I call them breasts for want of a better world, because they actually look more like wasted watermelons which she likes to hold and caress. She also likes to go hysterical whenever it suits her, likes banging her head against a particular kitchen cupboard because she thinks I will care. I don't. And she comes back from hysterical state very fast. Her husband isn't much better. He doesn't hear when it suits him. His teeth have long been gone and buried except for one, he wears tent shaped panties with his balls hanging out. I've always thought that the reason he doesn't wear normal panties or boxers is because he farts with every step he makes and I guess he has to have an outlet for all his gas or he'd blow himself up. Not a bad idea. But oh can he multi task! He can laugh, cough, sneeze, pee and fart at the same time. He also thinks that air conditioning will kill him, he will sleep in a tiny stuffy room in this heat without even opening a window and thinks that had he to switch on a fan he'd get very sick and get taken into Mater Dei's Intensive Care Unit. Not such a bad idea either. He thinks he knows all about the world, and he's afraid of boarding the Gozo Ferry. All he knows about is San Lawrenz, a topic which doesn't interest me in the least. I know I horrified him because I didn't know and still don't know what killed the saint. But there's more. A brother in-law who is a nurse, and who has instilled in me the fear of nurses. Because if all nurses are remotely similar, then no thank you, I will put the dressing on myself, I'll inject myself with whatever. And it gets worse. A stupid, mentally challenged, hysterical, psychotic, sister-in-law with all personality disorders rolled into one. Probably with a fat bank account too. Greedy bitch. She also has a mole on her upper lip, the kind of mole which hairs stick out from, and the first time I saw her I got obsessed with this damn mole, I couldn't take my eyes off it. Not because it as pretty but because I would have loved to rip it out sans anaesthetic. Sigh. I have finally learnt to keep away from all this in-law shit. The way I see it, life's short enough. I have better things to do than visit the kunjati. It's not as if I'm gaining anything from it, definitely not in any kind of monetary gain. But wait, they sent me 5Euro for my birthday... and that just about says it all.

Men and sex

2009-08-18T21:58:00.004+02:00

Sometimes comes a day when I seriously question why I love men so much. And I come up empty handed. Today's been one such day. Why in my life, have I even ever considered pairing up with a man when I am so self sufficient? I make my own living, own my own home, I can rewire an electric plug, I can drive and change flat tyres, a screwdriver doesn't scare me. Nor does a hammer, men please take note, you might want to run. So what is it in me that has made me think that having a man is a hell of a good idea? Truth be told, I was brought up in a world without Internet, when batteries were a novelty... yes you know where I'm getting at, and when sex toys were something you tried to push past the nothing to declare, among your dirty socks and underwear and pray you wouldn't be stopped. Because if you did get stopped, you were going to have to pay for it by being humiliated by a couple of men dressed up as Customs Officials who would think it very funny that a girl was tending to her own devices with a battery operated device. Still, Duracell was also a novelty, so there was the frustrating thing of nearing the big Oh Yes and cumming so close and zilch, the damn device would have used up all the battery energy. We could have turned to something else I suppose, but somehow my five a day were always served on a plate, and I took them in with a fork. But it's not supposed to be all about down there. A woman can share a lot of other thing with a man, things like feelings, emotions. And man accept that because emotion spells sex, feelings spells sex, a kiss spells sex, a hug spells sex. Even the most intelligent of men only has enough blood flow to control either his mind or his below the belt, not simultaneously. And that should mean that we can throw all our battery operated devices. Alas, not so. Because the men of my era were also primitive, they thought that Colpo Grosso was porn. I remember them at work carrying parcels wrapped up in newspapers which held what they called blue films, with an accent on the blooooooo and me wondering if they had at least washed their hands before trading them. And yet few were the ones who really knew the way around a woman's body. Too few. Fast forward to 2009. Now I really wonder why the hell I still think that coupling is a good idea. Because now we even have access to waterproof devices. We have sperm banks, for those who think that having babies is a good idea. We can look up in the Yellow Pages if we need handymen. So just what is it? Is it an intrinsic need, a want, or a luxury we reward ourselves with when we're PMS-ing? Or maybe, just maybe, we still want the thrill of being chased, the thrill of being wanted, and the irreplaceable macho hands we use as foreplay? Then again, what about the brains? And are we in 2009, so old fashioned that beneath all our independent glory all we want is just to be taken and shagged? Are we really that primitive?

Housework

2009-08-18T00:43:00.003+02:00

I am still in awe of today's clean sweep. My own house's clean sweep. That's all I can do about it, be in awe, stay in awe. I do sweep, it's a different kind of sweeping; I just sweep the room with a glance. That's as close as I get. And although winter will come and I will instantly wish I were a housewife when my seven alarms go off in the morning and my duvet suddenly starts looking like the biggest diamond in the world, perhaps one good reason to go to my job is to avoid any kind of housework. I just wonder how a woman who oozes perfect housework could have given birth to me. She is a natural, I, on the other hand cannot even try. I do try. I stand up, I put one hand on my hips, because I need the other to scratch my head with. That's it, I light up a cigarette and ponder until I smoke it. And sit down again. And yet with all my housework limitations, I have never had a problem with relationships. With the many men, oh God how bad that sounds, but I have to write the truth and nothing but the truth. I'm 36 and a spinster, so one would expect a spinster to have been around the block a few times, or many times. The thing is, I really think that a spotless house is either the sign of a very good maid, or that of a very boring person. I'm not even as pretty as Cinderella, so that's a good excuse not to scrub floors. And yet, with my unscrubbed floors I still haven't had a problem. So I don't cook. I don't clean. No man will ever want to make love to you just because you've polished the glass windows. I cannot see it happening. Honey, oh god, how clean the windows are, you turn me on? Nahhh. Or a honey, you're so great, the floor is spotless, now lie down you hot bitch? Perhaps it's the reason why I stay unmarried. I am not marriage material, and it seems men know it. They have sussed out that they will never walk into a squeaky or not squeaky clean house ever. I will not have been slaving over a stove either. So that makes me the hot bitch lying down. Take it from me, lying down is so much less of an effort.

Beards

2009-08-17T21:02:00.003+02:00

Something has caught my attention. A bald penguin has been fitted with a wetsuit made out of a human wetsuit to protect him from the sun. Cheers to whoever thought of it, whoever made it, and whoever dressed Ralph the penguin up. Now Ralph can enjoy the sun without the risk of getting sunburn. Because as opposed as what normally happens to penguins, consisting of new feathers growing and forcing the old ones out, somehow poor Ralph lost all of his in one day. And the other penguins got curious seeing their mate looking 'different' but soon recognised him and now accept him as him. Big lesson to humankind. But I'm not here to lecture today. It's something else which is making me think. Something which has puzzled me for a long time might now be making that little bit of sense. It used to be senseless, now I'm thinking twice. So perhaps men with facial Freudian hair had got it all figured out before I did. I don't like that, but then I'm a woman blessed with being so not hirsute. The only thing I know about is the hair on my head and it's my crowning glory. I wonder what happens with men and their facial hair. Do they want to have natural protection (as in natural family planning kind of thing) from the sun? Does new hair grow and push the old hairs out? If that is so, does that mean that they're losing facial hair all the time? And where does it go? On the floor, gone with the wind fertilizing flowers and shrubs, in their drink? In my, heavens forbid, in my own drink? In my own food? Am I being subjected to teeth flossing without my own knowledge? Because if penguins undergo a complete moult every year, does it happen to men with facial hair too? And isn't that unhealthy, unhygienic, nasty even? How did Freud, someone who wasn't exactly stupid, never think of this? Or did he know and was evilly shedding his facial hair onto his patients in the same way priests shed holy water onto people they like to call possessed? And as if the shedding of facial hair weren't enough, why, oh why, do they have to stroke their beards as if it were their penis extension? Or perhaps it's really a penis extension by the look of things. Man = penis = ego. Then Man = beard = ego too. And do beard brushes exist? I mean, when I brush my hair, the loose hairs get stuck into the brush. Would that happen to beards too? It's unnerving when I think that my Diet Coke might not be as neat as I like to think it is.

Embarrassing?

2009-08-17T20:29:00.002+02:00

I am now living in what is probably the cleanest house in Malta. How my friend does it, I've no clue. She's like a hurricane, she just does her thing and hey presto my house is bling bling material. Honestly you could eat off the damn floors. And my mum is pissed because she thinks that I should never let anybody see the clutter (as in enormous, huge, gigantic) I accumulate in one week. The thing is I'm not even embarrassed about it. My kitchen table doubles up as a very big make up parlour. My sitting room is home to all jewellery. I have a room just for shoes. Is that so embarrassing? Well, sometimes. Sometimes I find myself closing the kitchen door so that nobody can see inside, which is silly since my kitchen door has glass panelling. But I have never understood how anybody can apply proper make up in bathrooms, the only rooms without airconditioning. I'd have make up running off my face and into the sink in no time at all. It's so comfortable in the kitchen with a x10 magnifying mirror and air conditioning directly on my face. So I do whatever works for me. Should I be embarrassed about it? Perhaps, but I ain't. It's not as if I've got rubbers strewn all over. The only thing made of rubber in my house are rubber elastic hairbands, not really something to gt embarrassed about. Plenty of women with long hair will understand. Plenty of men won't, but then what the hell. They say your house is your castle. Well, mine is too, except that right now it's a very clean castle. And somehow that's odd because castles are meant to have cobwebs and dust. Roll on next week.