And I laughed!

I am sitting here today prettily very made up (Clinique deserves an award), in very pretty clothes, just in from a recital. It was a recital given by my brother and I, or in better words, my brother and I gave a recital. And we laughed, geeze I haven't laughed this much in months. There was this in-between speech given by a lovely (as in hot) looking man whose English sucked. A lot. Too much. We couldn't believe someone speaking English like a goat ( a hot looking goat please note) actually was brave enough to go and show the world how bad his English was. First we looked at each other and smiled, then we did some sotto voce giggling, then it was a crescendo giggle, and then we laughed and cried and laughed so hard. I know that was rude coming from the Chetcuti twins, but just to lay the guilt off a bit, we were not the only ones who were laughing. And the more we laughed, the more the hot-looking man delivered some of the junkiest English I have ever heard. I really tried not to draw attention to myself, but of course I had to. I always happened. How the hell could I have known I was about to be treated to a pleasurable something of this sort when I took a mint 10 minutes before. I guess I laughed too much, and bang did the mint find its way into my wind pipe. And I coughed, and coughed and laughed some more. And I found myself coughing so badly that a sweet little lady actually turned and offered me a mint, when in actual fact I was already trying to dislodge one mint monster from my wind pipe. And I'm still coughing. But what a scream, I didn't bank on giving a recital, getting paid, and getting such a laugh for free. I'm not too sure I did Elgar any favour after that, but I just hope Ed would understand. He was a nice guy, a perfect Engish gentleman speaking perfect English after all. Oh and by the way, after I laughed so hard that I cried, Clinique is still sitting pretilly on my face with no give-aways.

I shall try

I'm here late today, but that's because Nigel's just been and girls know how it is, with your hair stylist, it's never just hair. And when your hair stylist happens to be your brother-in-law, then it's definitely more than just hair. But it's ok, I like him, and he's got the magic which I never have especially at 8 in the morning. You see I did try today. I went to bed with the firm thought of getting up early enough to prettify myself. I did manage to wake up at 7, but I could not for the life of me open my eyes for more than two seconds. I was opening and shutting much faster than the way celebrity chefs chop an onion. And they're fast. But I was faster. So it was the normal, geeze it's 8 and go, go, go. I don't like this anymore, and I wish I could change, but I am stuck. I know I never take kindly to change, but that is when the change is imposed on me. This isn't, this is just me wanting to at least look human. And just when I made it on time, I see another human being not looking human, a female police officer deciding to lay down the rules of the infamous No Entry sign. I still made it on time, but not feeling very human. And although I like the little people very much, I wish they'd leave me alone till 9, when perhaps my talking side has begun resembling some human form. A bright good morning when I feel like saying a likewise bright good night because I don't feel too well. I am getting so tired sometimes. I know what causes a part of it, and I just have to make do, because of course I know that the world will not wait. Although I am glad it's not psychological this time round. I am also carrying around too much stuff. That's the down side of being a nomad, you never even have a chair to yourself. I am still happy, tired but happy, I just wish I could be not tired but happy. That's all. It is funny though, the way my brain still works perfectly, and it probably is responsible for sending out perfect messages to my hands, feet and whatever to be able to work. Because when I work, I don't just make do. That's shit. I always think, what if it were my little one, what would I like my own to learn? That is a rhetorical one which always works. It make me deliver to the best of my ability. But come 2pm I shut down again which is ok, seeing I only have to drive myself some 10 minutes away or less. I just can't help it, the minute I open my door I will fling my bag in the same way that I used to fling my school satchel, sit down and light up. And make a really strong coffee which at that time works as a sedative. Oh well, at least I try.

Gossip huh?

Sometimes I feel I am an Arab princess married to an Arab prince. No, better than that, I am the Arab Queen married to an Arab King. No, that's not even it, I am the Queen to whom the King is married. There, that's just it. Sometimes I also feel that I am the President of the world. Not because I am becoming narcissistic, or because I am starting to have grandiose ideas. I wish I did sometimes, it would be lovely to think of myself as the best possible form of the human race. But it's not I making myself sick. It's just people trying to ask so many questions about me. And no, I repeat, I am not even getting paranoid. Some people want to know how I am, not really to be pleased with a positive answer. Others are curious. And some others want to know about low-profile me. And yes there have been rumours about my death, my coffin and my grave. It could be sad, but it ain't, because the day I die I will make headlines, Chanel will design a beautiful shiny ebony coffin with diamonds, I will have an open Cavalli casket of course because I'll still be looking good, and my grave will have a Versace epitaph complete with the finest Gucci granite. Oh and people will be queing for weeks just to get a glimpse of my grave. Gross. But that's how it is. I can talk about these things so easily because I have stared at death in the face and I am not scared now, although I am not waiting for a death letter in the post either. I love life now. But all this gossip... about me? It used to upset me at first, now I just smile. No, my time is not up yet, and I've stayed against all the overwhelming odds. But if a tortoise and a hamster have the right to hibernate, don't I have the right to stay dormant? Dormant doesn't hurt anybody. It doesn't hurt me, and it hasn't hurt my neighbour. I have had so much applause, so many bright lights, so much drama, sat on so many red chairs, teased my hair into operatic curls, worn so many evening dresses that I've lost count. And sometimes we need time out. The stage is a tricky thing, you have to be so careful so as not to turn into a performing monkey. And I have learnt to love my low-key profile. I don't need the harsh light anymore to feel fulfilled. Harsh lighting does nothing for a girl's complexion anyway. Stage make-up isn't very good on the skin either. Too many lights can be blinding, and I can sit on any other chair, it needn't be red. And I'm happy on any other chair, under any other kind of lighting, with a squeaky-clean face and without a stage. Yes, I know, all the world's a stage, but my world isn't. But it's one happy world nonetheless. And that's all I care about. So there... now you know.

Praise?

I am a girl with high expectations, but I do not expect anything from anybody. And I have finally got the grasp of being sweet natured, well, at least sometimes. However, I'm not stupid. I may drag myself around as if I were some loony retarded woman. But appearance is not always what it looks like. I have a problem with people who try to put me down, only to praise me the next second. Let's get real, I know I'm good, I do not need praise. Yeah I know this is being terribly big-headed, but I'm not scared of big, and I am just saying it as it really is. And since I know who is reading my blog, who incessantly tries to turn his monitor on which my blog is plastered, away from me the minute I pop up, I'm saying it in here. Informing me that I have a way with little people will not make me stare in wonder and be so grateful that I suddenly turn into an obedient puppy. I know all about that. It doesn't take genius to see that little people like me for some reason or other. But do not try putting me down on something which isn't my fault then praise me as if to put soothing lavender oil on my pretty skin. I don't need the oil, my skin is pretty enough already, I'm 35 and my skin could pass for 25 (that you dad for your genes). Trying to stab someone then put Elastoplast on it is nonsense. And no I will not allow the perpetrator to kiss it better. A kiss? Hell no. You see, a kiss is so personal. A kiss could be so soft to the touch, or sexy to the tongue, or so foul tasting you just want to puke into the other's mouth. It can be that good or that bad. Because although most times I look as if I haven't got at least half a brain to save my life, think again. You don't need to get so excited. Although I can understand that I do not look the part. And I never will. And I don't aspire to look the part, but rather carry out the part nonetheless. And that is confusing. To you. Because you're probably a bad bad kisser.

Rain

Now today's just what I call one dreary day. Rain, rain, rain, please do go away, or else just rain a little bit and quit, go on holiday, go to the London sales, plenty to do there right now. But just don't come ruining my day over here. Poor Nigel takes so much pains to give me spaghetti-straight hair which is ruined by Ms. Rain. Yes rain must be a woman because rain is a terrible spoilsport. Rain is the kind of woman whom I could really drag by the hair. Because she acts in the same terrible way as do spoilt shallow women who know how to kill with one look. Just as you are feeling pretty good because you have a bang new hairstyle, rain is the kind of woman who will look at my hips instead of my face, and pull a nasty grin which could make me react in such a manner that I'd get arrested, although I do not react, and not for fear of getting arrested. Handcuffs can be very sexy. But I think people know by now not to behave in such a manner in my face, because they will not be let off with an easy warning. What women do and say behind my back is totally not my business, that is why I have a big frame, to have space to put it all behind me. And rain is one of these women. One of those women who have nothing to do all day but to look good, rain was also probably born in Sliema and cannot speak decent English or Maltese to save her life. It's a cocktail, and a bad one. Rain is so haughty, it looks down on us Cottonera-born-and-bred people, but we can speak decent English, Maltese and some other languages too. She is one of those women without taste who do not how to accessorize, so instead take to wearing all they have at one go. Oh and Ms. Rain is a slut too. I once (two times actually) went out with a rain-man, seeing that since he was from Sliema then he must have at least slept with Ms. Rain a couple of times. And really, I am thankful it was just twice. It was all so bland. Just as if someone had thrown icy rain at me... but then I guess he hadn't yet got over his relationship with Ms. Rain and I wasn't about to do a save-the-world deed over there. There is just one girl who I can take, who perhaps talks a bit like Ms. Rain, but whose talking I find cute and terribly funny in an intelligent way. Yes, Rob, you know it's you. And I'll forgive you for your accent, because I know you cannot help it, and you make me laugh. And now I know you're also for real. So you needn't go away like Ms. Rain, on the contrary, please stay.

Experience at 25?

So here I go again, my back hurts. The lower part of my back, just where the end of the spinal chord meets my butt. Of course my butt has to be in the picture. It always is. Big (pun not intended) sigh. I have been wondering why I am experiencing the same type of lower back pain which was chronic for some good 14+ years. It came from everyday orchestral playing. But now? And yes I remember, yesterday's Diet Coke's tragedy. I had to change mattresses, and that's tough when you're on your own, so tough that you end up with back pain. Oh well, it'll go away on its own. The real tragedy is I still cannot break the pattern I have fallen into. Up at 8, coffee, cigarette, throw clothes on and go go go. That's about it, not even moisturiser. And I am not like this at all, I was once the synonym of Carnival paint. The only tell tale sign are my nails which of course since they do not need doing up every day are perfect every day. Although I don't actually think that respect comes through powders, shadows, and sticks. But it would help me, it's just for me. A colleague of mine today decided I am an interesting person, or better put, the way I go about my job is interesting and excellent. It felt good and I loved her for it, because yes I love lapping up praise, being a performer, well we like the applause. But very haughtily, and because modesty is not in my vocabulary, I know that. I do something well or not at all. No in-betweens there. The thing which also helps is that I love my job, and I love lighting little people's faces up with excitement. Yes, I haven't changed at all in there, I love the drama. Cannot help it, but I feel that as long as it's an inspiration I guess it's ok. I do not follow notes, and I do not know why it comes so easy to me. I'll be straight about it, I have loads of knowledge, have been in the music entertainment industry for year, I guess I have a lot of the frightening word called experience. It's scary because it indicates years and aging. And I don't like it. Not one bit. But I like the experience because I can answer any question under the sun, and perhaps it's hard to believe, but some little people can ask some very dangerous questions. I don't mind, the more dangerous the better, I am attracted to danger anyway. I have no syllabus, I have had no formal Maltese training (plenty of foreign), and yet I make do. In all honestly more than make do, I like putting in a spark, I remember myself as a little person and what I would have liked to listen to and learn. That is one very good trick, to take your own self some 25 five years ago. That is experience. I used to think 25 was old, now I think I'm just going to be 25 and stay there. It's just a white lie...

The Dark Side

My house is restored to peace and order and a lovely pinky candy perfume all over. It's so nice, it looks like the war is over. That is the state I left my house in this morning, it was like a bomb had hit the kitchen table. Not now, now I discover I actually have a kitchen table. And I am not exaggerating, the few who know me well know it's so very true. I have accidentally stumbled on an old issue of Cosmo which had a whole article about themed parties. And it's made me think. Maybe I could get away with a themed I-do-party. I am just not sure if I can pull a Medusa look, and having ushers with fangs, pageboys looking like bats, and bridesmaids looking like sexy vampires. That would be cool, because I could actually have my black dress. Because it's a themed thing. I once was invited to a themed I-do party which was held on a boat, and which had a mermaid-fishy theme. Of course the mermaid was lovely, I didn't like human lobsters very much. Oh and there were so many pearls and coral. That was nice. And I also loved the way the bride's mermaid dress gave way into a teeny weeny white sequined bikini. But I don't like the sea very much, and I am not ever wearing a teeny weeny bikini like that. A bikini like that for me would cost just as much as a bridal gown, because I think I'd need 300 metres of the stuff. No, I will go black. Or I could go goth, only I'm not so sure that corsets would do me a very good favour either. I'll just have to find a black rose somewhere, or spray-paint it. Yes it's artificial I know. But so are so many I-do parties which have the classic ivory and white and top hats and flower-bud buttons. And a lot will think I'm not very sane, but then I do not care for that either because I don't think I've ever been very sane. Everyone has their dark side, and there is mine. So it would be just perfect. But then again, I do not have the excitement to go with it. I guess I will never be a blushing bride because I am so brazen (according to mummy darling) and shameless seeing that I have been doing the I-do for six years now, without even having bothered to actually do the I-do. And if I do, do I actually have to move to my mum's for the pre-wedding night? Oh God, no. I don't think she'd have me anyway, she'll never agree to my I-doing. And I don't think she will give me the bees-and-the-birds lecture either. She knows I have got a straight A in my Human Biology O'Level....

Brown

I'm not sure that washing machines were invented to wash Diet-Coke soaked bedding. But mine has just done that. It's shameful really, it's been a bedding day, throwing the burnt out, putting on new ones and putting those straight into this wonderful machine whose looks do it no justice. But I believe in diversity, to me, it's beautiful because of course we never should judge the book by its cover, and since it's so obedient, than of course it can have a home. I'm running so late, and I keep coming here just to see that the incoming flight is getting earlier and earlier. And I get stuck here on blogger. It's just too nice to let go. I just have to somehow fit a big duvet into a small bag and I'll be done. I'm not taking the duvet to the cleaners myself, I'd be so ashamed, Diet Coke looks like a lot of things. Ok it's smells like Diet Coke, that's the only redeeming factor, but other than that, it just looks, well, a little brown, maybe too brown for my liking. And I am not going to be the one to hang my head in shame when they inspect it. God knows what they're going to think it is. And I have a hunch my Diet Coke story is not a very good one, although it's a 100% true. I wonder what normal people dirty their duvets with. The obvious, oh God, I'd throw it away, pungent pungent smell. The not so obvious such as dust, that would be grand. But I cannot see myself walk up to the counter and say what happened and watch while the cleaner girl (who actually needs to get her face dry-cleaned in steam and whatever else) asks what happened. Who the hell will believe that my duvet drank a whole Diet Coke bottle? Very few, only the few that know I am catastrophic at these things. It'll be so brown, maybe they will think it's coffee, that would be nice. But what if they think it's something else, a brown something. Then I'll just have to walk the walk of shame and make them think I'm some sort of freak who takes kindly to watersports and scat play... which I really and honestly don't. I like to think I have an open mind but I stil have my reservations. No, I'm not doing it myself, I have to find another way. Or maybe throw it all away.

Beds and Clutter

The waiting days are almost up. Of course I'd planned on dressing up to the nines and giving my newly-bought make up a try. Yeah right. I think I'm a very bad version of Mafalda trying to look good, which is never, because even Mafalda looks pretty good next to me right now. I woke up thanks to me ruining my bedsheets, not that I care much about bedlinen. But geeze I could have burnt the house down. I do not recall lighting a cigarette and going to sleep. But I must have, it's only me in here, and my cats are good non-smoking citizens. I also could have burnt myself, as has happened many a time, being woken up by the excruciating pain of the burning. As it is I got lucky, it was just the sheets. And sheets can be replaced in a snap, not like the very ugly burn I got last year, which I tried to pass off as an allergy but was so bad it was obvious I was lying through my teeth. The thing is, I could have said the truth, but one woman actually thought I was getting battered by the Mister!!!! My Mister actually battering something is inconceivable, he's such a big old softy. Henceforth (lovely word), so as not to draw attention to 179, 151, and Caritas, I decided I'd change the lie and say it was a big boil, which was an even sillier lie because it really looked what is was, a burn bang on my cleavage. I thought my cleavage, out of all things, would be scarred for life, but noooooo God sometimes makes things right and there isn't even a hint out of what once was a really ugly and painful burn. So I say yes to burning the sheets instead of my lovely self. But this has got to stop, perhaps I'll just take the ashtray away from the bedroom, but then I cannot sleep if I don't cigarette myself to sleep. Yes odd, but I'm odd and I cannot do anything about it. Anyway, had a really full day and decided to sleep off the afternoon... till 8pm. Cool, I woke up feeling really refreshed, and suddenly too refreshed. There I go again, I managed to spill a whole Diet Coke bottle on my sheets, duvet, right down to the mattress. Perfect. I really must have a thing for beds today. So off went everything, thankfully I have a spare duvet, and a spare mattress (yes I don't throw anything away). But this is delirious, how can a woman be so mad. It's a what's Diet Coke doing on my bed? I don't know, it just happened to be there, maybe I opened it in my sleep. So now there is now way I'll be dolled up by the flight arrival. What can I do about it... nothing. I do so want to clean up my act and have a magazine style bedroom without clutter, and have a clutterless kitchen, a clutterless bathrom. Clutter sort of sticks to me, it has one powerful adhesive. I must be the Clutter Queen, really I'd win a contest like that hands down. Now come tomorrow when my help will be in the house, she will transform my house into a glossy looking house. Then I'll be having my phone on repeat dial because I'll be so lost and everything will be so lost to me. I guess I have to keep trying. I have to, because one day I'll be 70 and in an old people's home, and I will be risking getting thrown on the streets if I take my clutter to Dar l-Anzjani li ghadhom jidhru zghar....

In-betweens

I'm just sitting here and listening to Mariah Carey's "My All" which is heart wrenching on a good day. This isn't the usual me. I love listening to come-on-cry music, which may cross the times from Bach and Beethoven, to Bartok... and Mariah Carey. I think I could break my life into stages just by the music I listened to during all stages, including the old ancient ages. But this is either good or not good. I could never make my mind up. It felt safe. Not now. I think my mind is made up. To do or not to do? I have resisted the I-doi-ng thing for so long, most people have given up on me. But since I'm never single I do not even qualify for a shelf. I think I'm an in-between. In a lot of spheres. My shoe size is an in-between, I will not even comment about my clothing size, the way I think is an in-between, the music I love is also an in-between. And my love life... oh God that's been a hell of a lot of in-betweens. An in-between engagements, an in-between-almost weddings which I run away from just in time, in-between illicit affairs (no use hiding it), in-between a brother and a brother in-law, and in-between daughter (at least my mum thinks I am a part-time daughter, so that makes me qualify), in-between everything. Perhaps now it's time I made the move I'm so scared about. Living as an in-between is safe. I am a girlfriend, a fiancee, sitting-very-prettily, but not a wife. Because the W word is scary; wife, weddings, witness. And the in-between is safe. But I guess it's time now. Should I finally kick the fear away and make an honest woman of myself? One condition.... I want a black dress...for many in-between reasons.

Dior, Clinique et Estee Lauder

It's a totally-on-my-own situation here. I'm the queen of my castle, whatever I say goes. Well, in that respect, it's not very different than usual, whatever I say always goes anyhow. Oh dear, I must be very bossy in here, no wonder my cats sometimes shoot me a wicked look. It's not as if they have anything to complain about, they always come first anyway.

So seeing that 9am was no time to get back into bed, I decided I might as well take myself out to the only shops opening on a Sunday, and that's Baystreet. And oh I loved splurging on Dior, and Clinique. There are three cosmetic brands which have me in awe, that's these two and Estee Lauder. Maybe I have something for blue. Clinique is all flowery packaged, while Dior And Estee Lauder come in a deep dark shiny blue which I can never resist. I also never say no to free gifts and as it is I came out having had a very good deal for my money; free eyeshadow in the shade I wear, free lipstick in the shade I wear, free foundation in the shade I wear and a free eye pencil also in the shade I wear. Oh and... instructions!! As if a 35 year old non-single female needs make up instructions. Come on, at 35, I've tried everything and anything which hits the market for a good 23 years. And after 23 years of trial and error, but mostly succeeding, I really do not need a tiny glossy card, the size of a post-it note, to instruct me on how to do it. Or how to put it on. But who am I to argue, free is free, I'll just put the instruction card away, no harm done. Oh and I bought skin care too, and I loved it when a girl directed me to the 'my age' skincare range which was a 25 to 30 years old. Hurray I could have kissed her and of course I couldn't disappoint her so I just browsed there, waited for her attention to go somewhere else and silently crept up to the my-actual-age skincare range. I don't get skin this good for nothing, but I am just not ready to let on. At least for now. So I'm writing in here with all my new possessions put into army, soldier-like positions for me to be able to look at. Because if I am paying for the beautiful packaging, then I might as well watch.

Variety

I broke my sleepy record again today. I got to see dawn break, I wonder why they call it breaking, dawn doesn't really break anything, dusk is the one which breaks the light, dawn is more innocent, it just sheds a lot of light that's all. Or perhaps the one who decided to adverb it as breaking was someone like me who loved the dark, and since dawn gets rid of the dark then it's breaking our kind of darkness. I don't know if that even makes sense. It's way too early for me to be functioning, and too early to be writing in here, but this is what has to keep me going for almost three days now. Another thing which will keep me going will be a visit to Baystreet's Franks; I need some Forever Dior, the stuff is addictive, very good and at least I will have something to look at, that is my face plastered with Dior. I had an extremely spaghetti-style blow dry till 5am this morning, when I braved the wind and rain. Poor Nigel, he takes so much pains in doing my extra long hair, just for it to last a day. I'm not going anywhere near the guy for now, he really doesn't deserve it. I wonder what's happening right now on KM 0100. Probably my Mister will be sleeping the whole flight off. It's amazing how this man can suddenly switch off and sleep even in uncomfortable situations. It would take me some three dozens of hypnotics to get me to snooze. My twin half is another one who will fall asleep in a snap, of course he just *has* to be my opposite in that too. And just to be my opposite he wakes up in another snap, while I drag myself, not very successfully sometimes, he'll be up and about like a sparrow. Which is what he is going to be like if he continues his mad diet craze... a sparrow. I like sparrows, they hop nibbling discarded food, I've liked watching them forever, they're cuties. But men sparrows? Oh no, I once went out with a man like that, and it was once, just the once, I could not take the tiny wrists. And he had no six pack to compensate, at least my twin has that. I will never forget this sparrow-like man, not because he was sparrow-like but because he was so mean, he talked in such an evil manner and had a grudge against the world. Really strange guy, one no girl would be safe with. I just couldn't wait to get away, he was giving out all the wrong vibes, no thank you, I've been in enough scrapes, and if he was spellbound by my face, well I was spellbound because I had never met anybody so full of hatred. Seriously. Yeah I know, not all sparrow-like people are mean, but of course I had to bag the one. Probably even Birdlife would have turned a blind eye at him during the hunting period. But I suppose variety is what makes the world goes round. I am thankful that not all men like sparrow-like women, although a woman with tiny wrists looks fine, she'll look fragile and be perfect to appeal to a man's sense of wanting to protect her, if she manages to find a man like that. But there are men out there who like big girls, and I'm not talking about gay men. Beautiful gay men adore big girls but love men. Because gay men are like a B & B, they adore the Breasts and the Booty but love six packs and abs. However some straight men go completely nuts for us big girls. Do not ask me why because I don't even want to know why, I just lap up all the attention. What I see as physical flaws, they will adore. Maybe they are very short-sighted but I am not about to direct them to an oculist. And while I will try to hide, they want to see and sigh in wonder. Perhaps they are totally psychotic, but they truly believe that big hips and butts are sexy. They are confused by the fact that we big girls do not flaunt our thighs, perhaps because their brain is stuck in Malta's Goddess of Fertility stone age period. And I let them be. They can stay there, no need to move into 2009.

3 days

I am dreading the next three days. I usually don't mind being alone, and I like to think that after having survived aloneness like a hermit for years then I can survive anything. And of course I will survive three days. I am just not looking forward to being home alone that's all. This is the girl who survived more than 3 years of home alone. And yet I'm not going to like the next 3 days. I'm afraid that they will stretch out like 3 decades. I will be busy. Taking care of so many pets is hard work, but I still am not looking forward to coming to an empty house. Well ok I always come home to an empty house but come 5pm, it's not empty anymore. And I know it is so very silly, but I cannot help it. I guess I've settled in in my ways somehow. And it comes to me as a shock too.

Daddy's Girl

I am up. Of course today is one of the days I do not drag myself out of bed, because it's Saturday and since I can afford a late start on a Saturday then my body clock decides it's ok to get up early. Shit. But I am seeing a pattern, if I had to start working at 9am I think I'd be all right. Because that is what my body clock has been used to doing for 16+ years. And my body just cannot shake that half hour. Well, I'll keep trying, I always manage somehow, but I wish I didn't just manage but make it easily. I can only console myself that I am not perfect and this is something which seems to be a family thing inherited from my dad's side. I've inherited everything from my dad's side of the family. And it seems I'm the only one, I'm going through cousins and cousin offsprings, and lo and behold I'm the only one. People think my twin looks like my dad, but they are so wrong. My twin has just copied his mannerisms, that's all. I will never need a DNA test to see if my dad is really my biological dad. We have the same teeth, the same hair, our nails grow in exactly the same way, we share the same nail bed, we will start eating from exactly the same thing placed on a plate in front of us, we sleep in the same position with the same hand under our head hugging the duvet in exactly the same way. And yes dad was also big. I have faint memories of this man who would crawl with us on the floor, playing horsey, and we would get on his back and urge him on. Oh dear, if I tried doing that now it would be devastating for him. But I remember the man who spoilt me rotten, a man who would caress my curls and call me his little princess. And he was so comfy, so soft. Not so now. It's hard to imagine my super-slim dad with a 50 inch waist. But that's where it is all coming from. I also wonder how I came about, I mean, I'm talking about a big man with a 50inch waist and a woman with a 22 inch waist. And that didn't crush her to death hmmmm. Tiny mum who has always been tiny. But I'll always be my dad's girl somehow. I'm not sure as to why. I suppose that face that I was the first-born girls in five generations somehow helped... and I'll always be glad that they never had another little girl, or boy.

White

Good day today. Not as in the weather stakes of course. I actually have yet to discover why the village of Zejtun is so cold, again as in temperature. I really don't know, but the cold hits you to the bone. Oh well, the characteristic warmth of the people more than makes up for it. It's not as I had very quiet people today. But if I were a little person, I too would get excited. As it is I'm not a little girl, and yet I also got excited. I have discovered, that if you take any subject in the world and put it across as story telling, you will have all the little people's undivided attention, as well as excitement. And of course excitement does not come in quite packages. I don't mind, as long as I get the message across. And excited little people wanting to ask a million questions is a good sign. It means I haven't been rambling on and on for nothing. But one adult person today hit me straight below the belt. And I didn't react because she is usually a nice adult person, and I'm almost sure she meant no harm at all. It seems I have no problem with the actual thing I am employed to do, and that is deliver information, inspire, excite and give little people a clear picture of what the music world is about. And other things such as standing up to bullying, embracing diversity. That all comes so easy. But I think I have to spice up my act, which means I'm going to have to forfeit an hour of my already little sleep. Sleep never comes easy, sometimes the dreaded clock hits 4am before I get a hint of sleepiness. Then I drag myself up at 7.30am, which means I have no time to do all the works. Oh dear, if the people I work with had to see me in the evening I think I'd shock them because then I have time to do all the works, and I look like a different person. Yes I wear heels, I am a dab hand at make up, I wear jewellery and fine perfume. Just not in the morning. Then I wear precious Nikes, sensible woolen pants, and woolen tops. It's just too cold for anything else. And not a trace of make up, which probably makes me look a little bit ill. I'm not ill, I'm just a white female, so my skin is white and the cold is making it whiter than white. I do not get to sit down for 6 hours, so heels for me would be so insensible. But my female colleague, who really means well, thinks I look deathly pale and as if about to be struck by some sort of illness. But I'm fine, I just am not a morning person, and prefer to sleep than to spend some half hour deciding which kind of shoes will go with which bag. I do not carry Chanel to school, it's another thing which is so impractical, I have my big Nike bags in which I probably carry half of my life's belongings around. I have everything in there, whiteboard markers, CDs, wet wipes to wipe any knee which just got bruised, tissues to wipe away tears if necessary, stickers and other little things to brighten up the day of a little person who has come far, but no make up bag in there. I would love to be able to get up earlier, but I can't. And although I know that looking nice is nice for nice little people, after all I am employed to care about little people. My white skin doesn't feature in my list of duties.

Weights

It's almost time for me to finally wake up, 10 pm is soon. I usually look so much forward to a time like this, it's when I start to function and think clearly. Not today, it's as if I am drowned in some form of haze. I'm finding it difficult to write again, not because I can't, but because sometimes I just want to retire into a corner. Although that would be another problem since all the corners of my house are taken with some sort of junk or non-junk. And I'm watching Arani Issa, although I know the contents beforehand of course, but sometimes I forget it's on, but today I haven't. And I'm glad I remembered because I remembered the little man who came to us a broken boy, in distress about his weight. And because bullying was a big part of it too. And it's all very nice now that he has managed to reduce his size, it's good health wise, etc etc. But what, for Christ's sake is the matter with us? Why have we become so obsessed that our little people now are wanting Barbie waists, and if they don't have them they will secretly dispose of their food? Secretly, not very secretly because I've seen it happening. And it makes me sad, even more sad because I am really not the one to walk up and say it's bad, because perhaps I'm scared I'll get a sneering-look. Oh shit, can't we just live and let live? It's my skin and I cry if I want to, we big people are not imbeciles and yes we've been delivered plenty of lectures, and yes I am smart enough to know this and that. If anybody in the world decides it's bullying time for me, they'll regret it for the rest of their lives. Yes I will make them feel sorry they were ever born. If anyone tries to do that to a little man in my presence, the same goes. And I don't think I am God, I cannot protect every little man in the world. But I will stand up for the ones who cross my path. Because I'm afraid of no bully, they are just insecure scared people themselves. I have seen how this kind of bullying can be subtle or downright in your face, just because someone doesn't conform to what today's standards are. It can crush little people just as big people. There is no way to go about it sometimes, and if weight is a problem, then seeing I score points in the weight competition, I will do the most natural thing in the world. I'll throw my weight around. Seriously. Because what people do not understand is that three-quarters of my weight is all intellect! So there you go...

Empty bottles?

As happens once every week or so, I have been running around the house with a black big garbage bag and throwing junk into it. Every week I go on this mad throwing useless stuff away, because the next day the help is coming. I also make sure that the laundry I have is piled neatly and have the whites brighter than whites sort of thing. Which is extremely mad again since this is my house and I can choose to do what I like. Come tomorrow, this house will look like a house which has popped straight out of a magazine, then I ruin it in a week. And when I sat ruin, I really mean over-ruin. I don't know why, probably it's laziness, but I prefer to think it's because I don't know how to do things properly, which is also very true. Yeah yeah I have to try, but it takes me an hour to do one square metre, and then it doesn't make much difference. I'm used to it by now anyway. I just don't throw anything away, including empty Diet Coke bottles (plenty of those), empty bottles of water (more plenty of those), and just stuff. Perhaps if I took one day out of this blog, I could do better, but I won't. Because a blog is so much more interesting than empty plastic bottles.

Experience

Experience is a fantastic teacher, but it does not come cheap. It is what makes us realise we are mistaken for the second, third, fourth time. And time is another expensive thing. Time together with experience then become even more expensive; we take the exam first oblivious of the lesson which comes in its aftermath. Sometimes I would love to be inexperienced, I would probably make less mistakes, because my experience probably does not serve me the lesson very much. Because I tend to look the other way, because I don't believe in cold heartless teaching. That is another thing which experience is all about, it is one of the most brutal of teachers... the trouble is that you should learn from it. But I am against cold heartless teaching, and I believe that a teacher should not just explain, not just demonstrate, not just give homework, but be able to inspire learners. I may be wrong. But that is my opinion to which I am entitled. It is through imparting knowledge and instilling the joy for learning. Because teaching should be perceived as a valuable exciting gift and not a hard day of labour. And I cannot for the life of me think why I am saying all this. I just am; no reason. I know that sometimes I talk about little people as if they were angels. They're not, in the same way that we adults are not. All of us can be spiteful and cruel, sadly even little people. But I'd much rather have to deal with a spiteful little person than a big one. Not because they are any different. But an adult will be set in his ways, and unless he wants to, will not change. A little person, on the other hand, can be moulded in some way or another, and yes I know, it's hard work. But people never change. Not even the little people. Mankind can only be directed towards developing themselves into a better human beings; into righteous men and women. And if that happens, when it happens, then I could die a happy woman... with experience.

Cat loo?

I love my cats. I love them to bits. But the amount of swearing I've done in the past five minutes is enough for a sailor to stare open-mouthed. Yes, there I go again being a pastaza. But I'm seething. If you're a girl, who bought a fabulous white fur coat then left it lying there in plastic for something like a month only to find that one or more of the cats thought it was a great new loo... wouldn't you lose it? I did. Thankfully it was well wrapped up in plastic, hurray for plastic, I love plastic, it's just stooped me from having my new fur coat ruined. I would give a medal to the person who invented plastic right now. As for the cats? Well, well, well, what would I do if I had a naughty child? I'd still love him wouldn't I? And the same goes for my cats, I still love them, I wish they'd never thought of doing something like this. But they have, and I love them anyway. Even if they'd ruined my coat. I'd just have cursed some more, been disappointed, lighted up a cigarette and calmed down. Because cat love is more important than any coat in the world.

Mind your business

Sometimes I wonder why so many people are into so many other people's business. I think I'm almost safe from all of this. One reason could be because I am odd and do not know how to socialise very much. So the few who do know me are completely trustworthy, the rest probably see me as this queer girl who stares into space quite a lot. And that raises eyebrows together with questions. I don't mind, in a very rude terminology which I rarely use, and which would make my mother call me a big pastaza, my butt isn't big for nothing. Plenty of space there for the ones who would love to go into my business. And if that's not enough, they could also try my hips which are not small for the same reason. Sorry mum, but sometimes I just can't help remembering the professional musician jargon I experienced in more than 16 years. And although it's rude, perhaps the fact that it was so crude sometimes is the only way to go and it goes through my mind in a flash. I could get even, I've seen professional people snipping away at their bangs in their class, drinking wine previously poured into an innocent iced tea bottle, doing their nails. Then they look haughtily at my Diet Coke. Maybe they want the Diet Coke man, I wouldn't know. And I've heard them laugh about their previous night of lovemaking, about how their spouse doesn't do it for them, how clumsy he is in bed, how they don't even grin and bear it but close their eyes and wait for it to be over because Valentine's Day is looming and they'd just love their husbands, whose dignity they've torn to shreds, to give them the Dior watch they've had their eyes on, and about how they'd just love to get an orgasm once in a while. And they will try to look at my Dior watch through the corner of their eye and talk some more. And they will wear excruciatingly tight pants while they look haughtily at my cleavage. Silly people. But I've never said anything, and never will because it's not my style. I give out a 'Leave me alone vibe' so I leave other people alone too. But getting even is not on, for one because I have nothing to get even about. And even if I had, I wouldn't. It's just so silly, look at her, look at him. Where would that take me anyway? Nowhere interesting. I have a life, although people who behave in such a manner must have a very feeble life if any at all. And that is when I am so sure that we could all learn so much from the little people we have around us. The same people who were on a gossip marathon suddenly decide to shout at a little person who is talking, they decide to show they're the boss because a little person is thirsty and wants to drink. They suddenly clean forget about the previous 15 minutes and become commander in chief. Oh dear, talk about double standards. I could never do that, it's not very self-righteous. And talk about double, I may have double their butt, but I also have double their cleavage, and that is one to die for... so there! (that's my catty side peeping out a little bit), but I like to think I have double their sense. Women shredding their husbands to bits with a five seconder head laugh now and then are disgusting. Some things are private and everybody has the right to his dignity. And all of this is professional... so please mind your professional business won't you?

Sorrow

There is a type of sorrow which nobody will understand, or the very few. Perhaps it's our fault because we have tried a million times to explain and been cut short or even sniggered at. So we quit trying to explain and embrace it all. A sorrow shared, a sorrow halved? Pardon? What a sic cliche`. Nobody wants to listen about sorrow let alone share. I thought the world would stop and listen one day years ago, but nobody stopped let alone listened. And it's the kind of sorrow that hits us hard below the belt, or specifically high above the belt to the left. And it sends us reeling into the shock of the once upon a long time ago. It suddenly jumps into action and depletes us of even walking a few steps. It's that bad. It makes us cry, a shaking kind of crying not because we're cry-babies, but because we discover how very fragile it made us, and still makes us. It's so horrible. But we have no choice except to brave it by hiding behind large designer sunglasses, because quite ironically this type of sorrow is also designer sorrow. And such are we drained from energy that we really are not sure if we can make it to the car. But we do. Somehow. And it can get so bad that we forget that nobody ever understood and think we can explain. Oh dear how wrong. We cannot explain, because people cannot understand. And to be fair, even the most understanding of people cannot understand. I cannot hold it against them because it's not their fault. They don't know, the learned people are so unlearned in this type of sorrow. It hurts, but I'm glad for them, because as I didn't deserve it, so do they. Sometimes when I get so angry, the beast in me makes them wish they could at least feel some of it. But that's the beast, we all have one. Realistically, my heart thinks otherwise. And although it would help so much if they understood, we chosen ones have to learn and relearn that it's no use. The special sorrow stops with us. We don't have to continue, but we do. We just put it on hold in a special place, go on robot remote, make it back to the car, back home, and then finally embrace the sorrow. Because it's just no use, and the world will not wait. There are a million things which guarantee empathy, just not this one. We're on our own.

Big meets small

I've just kept thinking about Mr. Big. I hope he's safely somewhere away from the rain and the staring, and although I know I should heed my own advice, I wish he'd try and do something about himself. With that weight, medical complications run high, risks run even higher. I am nobody to tell anybody something, least of all big me advising another big man. I just would like to maybe see him somewhere again, at his rate, I think he's like a time bomb. But of course I know the million reasons which make us big. It includes food of course (do not believe anybody who says food isn't part of it), it also could include an under active thyroid, steroids and many other things. But mostly it's because we get to a 100 kg (which isn't that bad at all) and suddenly we're so ashamed of ourselves that we self harm ourselves through food. We don't like the mirror anymore and people do not understand, so we eat some more, and more, and the weight just piles up. Then we go on so many diets but keep none of them, or as I do, go on a diet, half the weight only to double it up all again. It's a difficult thing this weight problem. And no it's not because we're lazy people who like to sit on our ever growing butt all day long. But suddenly we start becoming restricted to physical things like stairs, hills, and the mountains put right at our feet by some asshole. What is even worse is, that through my biggy experience it seems that small people (in size and weight) think they have the damn right to lecture us when they are strangers. Most of us do not hate smaller people, but quite a lot smaller people hate us and would holocaust us without a second thought. Please do not say it's in my imagination, I've lived it, and it's just what happens. Perhaps we big ones give out a vibe of some sort, it doesn't happen so much now, if I get a stare, I stare back, and the initial starer turns red and flees the scene. It takes a lot of hard work to arrive at this stage, to stop apologising for yourself. But every time I see a sad act of someone bullying a big person just because they're big, I always, always, without fail remember someone else; someone who is definitely not big by body weight but so big in everything else. Walking into a new school only to find a superior three times less my size wasn't a very easy thing. I was taken aback, I really thought I was going to be in for a lot of weight-related jokes, because this man wasn't big in size. So I didn't like it much, not that I didn't like the man, but I felt so much bigger next to him. I felt thrown into the world named Uncomfortable, created just for me for the occasion. I couldn't have been more wrong. For the whole year I was treated with the utmost respect, he didn't stare, didn't laugh, he thought my opinions were valid, he became my mentor, and an extremely good example of today's Homo Sapiens. Of course I liked feeling comfortable in my own skin, and when he decided to move onto another school, I didn't like it much. Then I heard through the teacher grapevine he would be posted at another school which I attend and the minute I showed that I was pleased, the grapevine said I was such a fool, the man was one of those who would be nice and then back stab later. And me the fool almost believed it, until I actually took myself to the other school, and my other big thing; my mouth, just told it like it was. I'm glad I did. The grapevine had it all wrong, probably not for a good cause. Today I still enjoy the same respect of last year, only at another school. It took someone small in size (and I do not say it in any disrespectful way), to make Big Me feel comfortable. It took a small man, big in politeness and kindness as well as intellect to make me feel 'normal'. I hope this man will be awarded a medal for silently going out of his way to make me at ease, both professionally and physically. And if I'd had it my way, his epitaph would read, 'Here lies a man who was not big in physique but so big in everything else, the small who made Big feel good.' And I will always be grateful for his professional yet friendly and thoughtful way who tackled big old me. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, trim waists and not-so-trim waists needn't be at war. Because sometimes diversity works, if you work at it.

When Big got bigger

Today something made me mad.. then sad. I will always be an avid supporter against animal cruelty, but perhaps some society should be formed against human cruelty. I absolutely adore my cats and dogs and yes, sometimes I think they could be human. I treat them with the same respect that I will treat any other human being. My pets eat the top pet food on the market, drink bottled water, have couches to sleep on, have a big house to run up and down when they want to, have their toys, they also watch TV, sleep on the bed; in a few words they have the same treatment as anybody staying with me would get. And it's only fair. They didn't ask to come to me, so since I got them I have to give them the best. Just like kids. And yes we're on the constant look-out for anybody ill-treating little people. And that's a good thing. But what about big people, big as in grown up and as in body weight too? What I saw today was downright disgusting. And no it didn't just stop at the watching. A big man came up on the bus (today had to be the one day in the year when I was on a bus), paid his ticket, found a seat and sat down. True, I'm talking about a big, big man who probably triples my weight or more. And just in case anybody wants to know, getting up on a bus is as big a deal as the people when they're big. I discover I can make it, but go bigger than me, and you won't. My guess is this man must have weighed, through my experience in interviewing overweight candidates for Arani Issa, something like a 250 kg, no joke. We've seen bigger than that and the poor people cannot lead a very normal life. But is a big man boarding a bus something to make another man's bus ride the joke of the century? That is not just rude, but downright inhuman. The man had to push himself hard to do it, and ended up flushed and out of breath. My heart just went out. But I've been taught not to look, not to stare because that hurts. I actually get stares myself, but I've grown quite a thick crocodile skin by now, and I have not been unlucky enough to grow that massively big. But why stare? Sure, something which you don't see everyday will surprise you, but that's it, one look and please look the other way. It is so cruel to keep staring, I perhaps know a little bit of what this man felt, and that is downright embarrassing. I used to feel that way until the alligator skin grew. That on its own is disgusting. But talk about rubbing salt into the would, another man started saying that the big man was ugly, that someone should kick his ass, that he was interested in roasting him because he would be able to feed 'il-klandestini kollha ghal sena'. He was laughing his head off. And then I decided to stare at the man, geeze, I've never seen ugly boarding a bus, I thought ugly was an adjective, but this was a personified noun. No teeth, receding hair, scruffy clothes, oh God this man was also something out of the ordinary, so i decided, that I might as well stare. And stare I did, until he became uncomfortable himself. If Mr Big had not yet grown the reptile skin, than I'd just have to do it for him. That's the thing between big people, we have unspoken friendship, we somehow become comrades at first glance, and it's all big. So I just silently hoped my mum would forgive me if she had been there, and became a pastaza. I stared harder, until I got the reaction I hoped for... X'qed thares? Yessssss there it was, the arena was open. Well I just said I was looking at him wasn't it obvious, because I'd never seen someone like him. He swore some, swore some more, and I still stared. Then sent me to a lot of places I've never been near, like my family's private parts. By now the whole attention had gone from Mr. big to this man (oh dear I just love these commotions), so I said I was going to stare for the same amount of time that he stared at somebody else, and I also said that probably swearing in buses wasn't allowed, and that I don't like sharing a bus with an ugly cruel man like him. I couldn't stop myself, I know it could have got uglier, but he just walked the walk of shame, called me a word which means someone being a prostitute for 'il-klandestini' and went down the bus. I could have jumped for joy, but I'd probably have rocked the bus. The people on the bus decided it was time for cheer. Then it was Mr. Big's turn to stare.. at me. I just gave him a knowing smile and he mouthed a thank you and then ... he cried. Oh man, I didn't want him to cry. So I just winked and said, 'It's ok, it really could have been me.', to which we suddenly laughed. Because we all have been down that road. It's a cruel road which can get ugly, but a road which I have every right to walk on. Big matters, and sometimes it's unhealthy. But there really is no reason to make me a circus. The days when that would make me miserable are over, and they are over all thanks to the little people who do not see me as a clown. The little people who comfortably hug my extra kilos, the ones who try and make their hands meet around my waist although physically impossible. But they try. I am the one responsible for little people to learn. But they have taught me so much. And yes perhaps I am addicted to little people, but hey.. I will always help a Mr. Big in distress.... even if it's not a Sex and the City Mr. Big. But then, he doesn't need help... sigh...

S is for Sleeping...not for Sex

So, owing to the fact that whatever I'm writing here is touring the world quite a bit, I have to clarify. I don't actually have to, but it's best I do. Here it is... no I am not against sex, or allergic, or have a bad reaction to it. Nor am I a man hater, a lesbian, a woman who has been cheated on and now has taken to make men beg. I am none of those. I just think that there are so many other things in the world, and one of those is sleeping. Sleep doesn't come easy to me, and when something is hard to get, you seem to want it more. There are a million of other times when sex would be appropriate, but that is not during sleeping time. Some people think beds are made for sex. And that's awful because it means they have no imagination or creativity to carry it onto something else, and past the bedroom. If that were true, then advertising bedrooms would be made illegal because they'd be bordering on porn. And again, if that were true, then I, for one, wouldn't have happily ordered my master bedroom without a red face to go with it. And I know it's called a Master bedroom, but it still does it for the Mistress. And sex doesn't have to be scheduled, it's supposed to be spontaneous... within legal boundaries. I will never understand why so many young people actually do it in the car, and why so many young girls accept it. Hey girls, if we're going to do something creative then we need the luxury to go with it; satin sheets, not a car buckle seat, high ceilings to be able to move about, a tiger rug (although that is so retro), air conditioning so as not to freeze to death. The man who thinks that sex is a time when one should be cuttin down on Enemalta bills could just about trawl the streets of Gzira, although they're pulling that down soon too. Stingy men are selfish and will not wait for you, anywhere, and not during the what you call it. Be clever girl and make the time the time to evaluate if the man is actually worth keeping or not. There is also something called bedside manners. You see, I'm not anti-men at all. At 35 I am more choosy. And I will not be impressed if a man so much as tries to interfere with my sleep for a sexual reason. So let sleeping dogs lie. Because Lorena was far from stupid.

The Axe

I finally went to bed extra late yesterday, and woke up spankingly early. Now I know how my other colleagues are always all dolled up. If they manage to wake up at 7am every day, then they have a whole hour to prettify themselves. The thing it, I was once like that too, worse than that. I'd be wearing a whole mask. I did this for years. Until one day my cat was ill so I had to rush it to the vet and then go to work afterwards. And one colleague of that time actually was flabbergasted at the difference, he had the audacity to ask where my lips had gone!!! I just told him the tooth fairy had rubbed them off. He didn't take the joke, he was so concerned, so sure that my lips were once collagen based and that the collagen had gone off overnight. Oh dear, how wrong. There is never collagen, it just takes some artistry to create what's not there and to make it look natural. But it takes time, and although I could seriously open shop with the amount of sealed cosmetics I have, I don't seem to have the time in the morning. Evenings would be a better time but then it's not as if I'm out partying every day. And since my cats do not see any difference, as does my PC monitor, well, I couldn't be bothered. Of course there's the man of the house, but really, is it at all feasible to waste an hour dolling up just because there is a man in the house? An old colleague of mine would be just in sweats and pants, that is until the clock turned four. And since hubby would be back from work at half five, then she'd take a shower (nothing wrong with that) and paint a face that would put any Indian to shame. Why? Because hubby was coming. I could and can never understand her concept. Does her hubby never see her sleep, has he never seen her get our of bed with unruly hair, or does she sleep as in magazines, perfectly made up, with the perfect pout? I wonder what her pillowcases must look like, probably very colourful with some Salvador Dali artistry. Another friend of mine took to wearing blue contact lenses every day. Until she bagged a boyfriend, and still wore the blue contacts every day right up to their wedding night. The trouble is she married an Englishmen and all English husbands want to toast to their beautiful new wife. And she was really beautiful (still is). But I nearly choked when he said, 'waking up to those beautiful blue eyes for the rest of my life bla bla bla'. Waking up to blue eyes? Sorry to disappoint you, but try the bathroom mirror first. They've been married for ten solid years, and i think it's a good marriage, and hubby has learnt that blue eyes aren't everything, he now thinks that hazel eyes are just as beautiful seeing that their children have all taken after their mother in the ophthalmic department. I will never understand why some girls seem not to want equality; they want the strong macho husband who decides everything for them. One friend of mine went so far as to like being woken up during the night by her husband to take his wicked ways. She'd actually brag about it so much, that every time I saw them together I could only imagine one thing... that of him waking her up. At first she'd get woken up four times, then three, then two, then one, then nothing... and then she had a panic attack. If any man tried so much as to stir me from my sleep for a silly reason like sex, I'd axe him in half. It takes long enough for me to go to sleep and I'm not waking up unless it's a medical emergency. I have woken up when the Mister was very very sick and had to be hospitalised. I wasn't very happy about it, but I couldn't be angry either. Had it been me, he'd have got up in a snap. But needing emergency medical attention is not a silly excuse. If I were woken up by one of my cats being sick, I wouldn't be angry either but rather cry and rush it to the emergency vet. If anybody called for help, I'd do whatever I could, including getting up from bed. But sex? Sex is no emergency. If any man thinks its an emergency, then he'd better walk himself into the bathroom and stay there. But then I'd never be with a man like that. Waking wives up for their wicked ways is so damn rude. Just place an axe under the bed. That'll stop him in his tracks... and his wicked ways.

Flowers and Candles

I am back and yes it works, whatever the bottle says it's true. I have classic magazine hair. No I'm not telling which brand this is, because I'm a selfish spoilt brat and I don't share. I'm not sharing my hair treatment, which would only be available by copious amounts of products in a very expensive hair salon. I got this for a tiny amount out of the bottle which only costs a little less than 5 Euro. Look for it yourself. I've been through products like water, and at 35 I discover that it needn't cost the earth. I wish I'd known before, I would have been able to pay my car licence easily by now. But what can I do, I wouldn't be very good at being a financial controller although at the same time I make the economy boom. Oh and the smell, it's heavenly, I smell just as if I've spent a week in the Caribbean sipping the sun and non alcoholic cocktails all day. And I still got change out of a 5 Euro note. It's making me feel so smug. But then again, I remember, it's a little bit than an hour to go, and I'll be safely out of territorial sadness waters. Come one second after midnight I'll be all right. I know, I know one second shouldn't make that big a difference, but alas, it does. So here I am, with red carpet-style hair, an old sweater and jogger pants. I have just an hour to ramble on some more. Sometimes we experience big events in life. We get married, we have babies, all big turning points because they turn our lives around. I suppose, in a happy way. I don't know, I wouldn't know. And very very rarely we experience other 'event's in life which are breath-taking, life changing and not in a happy way. And we live the experience because we have no choice. It's happened to me, and I've always wondered, why me? Do I need feng shui, is it karma, is it me being very stupid, and is it me thinking that love changed everything? That much is true, love changes everything, sometimes not in a good way. It's not about cheating partners, that is so easy to face. It's not like the first kiss turned wrong because I absolutely had no idea how to do it right (I know now). It's not as if a love of my life being brazen enough to go off with my best friend. That is nothing. It's about a big big love, a happy happy life, joyful joyful years, when suddenly something or someone presses Delete with massive vengeance. And suddenly it's gone all dark and not because Enemalta has done some silly trick. So you try the cell phone a million times because the only way to hear that big love is through his answering machine which is not even there anymore after a few days. And it's about carefully sealing his pillow in plastic for his smell not to go away. And about looking at his possessions in dismay, about sifting through his clothes and throwing them all away. And about poignantly looking at the freshly laundered clothes which will be worn no more. About not being able to breathe anymore because you don't think you can go on. And about flowers, because the only way to say something is to really say it with flowers. So many flowers arranged in an array of all sorts. And about lighting candles. Until finally it's time to buy yourself an orchid and light a candle for yourself. And there's no more cold marble, because the sun is finally out and you owe it to yourself to slowly go back to the amazing thing called life. And you find that flowers are suddenly pretty, and candles do not flicker anymore, but instead start glowing. And the sun is warm, and suddenly life is beckoning once more. And everything becomes alive. Because life is for living.

Hairy

I come here looking like some sort of Indian with a huge turban. I've decided that pampering never broke anybody's bones so I've just treated my hair to a beautiful smelling treatment, which, if what it says on the bottle is true, will get me shiny hair. So while I wait for this potion to work overtime, I've come here to do some more talking. Now I know why mankind invented perfume and scent, and why just a 30ml costs the earth, and why no matter how much it costs I'll always go for the 100ml thank you very much (big hint). My mood of the day seems to have a lot to do with my olfactory nerves. I shy away from sweet, overpowering scents like Dior's Poison, but then I love Dior's J'Adore. At the same time I will kill for what is to me the best perfume ever concocted, Issey Myake Eau D'Issey. Beautifullllll. As is Clinique Happy but not Happy to be. All right I guess I've dropped enough hints now. Back to the hair. I think hair is a fab thing to have. I don't know what I'd do if some horrible witch came in the middle of the night and chopped it off. I'd track her down and burn her at the stake with no qualms about it. I like hair because it grows effortlessly long into a mane which hides my imperfections. There is one downside; it takes ages to wash waist-long hair and ages to dry it. But since I've met Nigel, it's been simpler. He does the whole works in record time. What takes a whole hour for me takes half of that for him. I've always had a thing for hair, better still we've always had a thing for hair, that's me and my twin. I remember the tears when he cut off his beautiful long hair because it wasn't very appropriate for court purposes. I still have that hair, stacked away into a beautiful box. But I don't tell him that, otherwise he'd be knocking on the door every free moment he had. My twin is one man who will not be taking gracefully to a receding hairline, although it's about to start any minute now. Poor Joseph. My Mister, on the other hand is so over the moon that he has no hair to worry about. Talk about opposites. And I? Well it's time up for my treatment, hopefully I'll be back with luxurious locks.

They said I would smile...

I have 5 hours more to go. And then it will be really over. It's been a quiet day today, although I'm not sure that that has helped. I have gone over a lot of my writings during the 8th year ago. 8 years ago today I was reeling in shock. And I was acting so sensibly as if I'd just had fallen (as usual) and grazed my knee a little bit. Or as if I just had a mild headache. Or perhaps as if I were nursing a cold. Or perhaps again as if I'd just had had my foot amputated. Amputation meant nothing back then in comparison. The truth was I'd had my heart ripped, my brain smashed, and my very existence taken apart with a bomb. And at that moment, I just plodded on as if nothing happened. I just wasn't ready to face what I had seen. Very few people see what I have, and I'm glad. I wish nobody would see it anymore because it rocks you to the core. And I thought my life was in pieces, which it was. But I thought life would never be the same again, which it hasn't. It's ok now, not the same, but still ok although very different. And although I had always dutifully payed my taxes, there was no help for me. There must have been every kind of help, except for me. There still is every kind of help except for people like me. It's the reason why I get so sad when I hear about something like that. And people can be so insensitively morbid that they actually smile.

So there was I, a broken person screaming for help inside. A broken little girl who suddenly became very frightened and would retire to the corner with a cushion instead of a teddy; still a frightened little girl nonetheless. And I'd surf the Internet for help. And it's a good thing I did, because out there were people like me. Victims of a horrible thing, but victims turned survivors. And they said I would smile again, laugh again, which seemed mad. There was no way laughter would ever be part of my normal everyday life, because back then my life didn't look as if it were about to return to normal any day soon. I called 179, and I could feel their sympathy together with their helplessness. I was so at my wit's end that I even turned to priests who were as unhelpful as they could get, shame on them. I turned to books, it was also useless. I went to psychologists who got afraid of me, I did the tour-de-shrinks who seemed to know nothing, they said I was ok, I didn't need help, I was so eloquent, I would make it. As if that helped. I knew I was never sick in the mind, I just wanted someone to hold my hand and say it was so normal. So I turned back to the Internet, and surfed and browsed. And since it was made clear that I was on my own, I did the only thing which I could do. I starting writing, writing and writing. And I think I wrote volumes by all the stuff in my computer. And I have read them again and now see hope coming in a little bit each day, although back then it was all so black. But I needed to talk, even if it were to myself. I needed to talk, talk, talk to get close to acceptance and let the healing start. And I was so angry, at God, at the system, at the whole blue marble. And I cried, cried, cried, I cried so much that my eyes finally hurt and there were no more tears. There is such a physical state where your eyes sting a lot and the tear-tank is exhausted. And finally came acceptance and I started making baby steps toward the road to recovery. Do not feel sorry for me, I have felt sorry enough. Do not be afraid, I did nothing wrong except walk onto something horrific. But the people on the Internet said I would smile again. And although I thought they were mad, I really have smiled again, a million smiles, a million laughs. The past is the past and it will always be with me, but I chose not to drown myself and stall, I chose to bounce back to life. I worked my butt off (even if it doesn't seem like it), but I did, and today I smile again. Real smiles.

Car Licence Shock

Ok that was my parents not understanding at all today. Because I got pissed off at the my car licence which has tripled. Nice one flimkien kollox possibbli, of course it's possible if the government keeps raiding my bank account like this. Enemalta bill, now car licence. And it'll be something else very soon I suppose. This cannot go on, but of course it's my fault. That is what my dad thinks; Because I shouldn't have gone out during the sales. Next thing, I'm going housebound, but then housebound also has its toll on my utility bills. Oh God I can never win this situation. One good thing, I shot a dirty look at my mum and told her today just wasn't the day to pick at me for giving the sales a shot. I think she got it. My dad, on the other hand, still thinks that flimkien kollox possibbli, so I just closed my ears. I don't need lectures about how good the government is. I have had enough of this shit. I pay some 500 Euro each month in tax, then when I need something out of the public funds I get nothing. This is just shit. I waited for four hours at Mater Dei just for an X-ray of my miserable foot, and I could see temperatures rising. And I don't blame them. The average wait is 7 hours. And if it's an average then it means it could be longer. Come on. I didn't wait long in Tunisia, I was out in less than an hour. So that'll be another 200 Euro in car licence. Then they're warning us about scams all over the place, while we're getting scammed in home sweet home.

8 years

I've gone easy on myself today. Because somehow if I turn it into a very sordid way, it's an 8th birthday. And birthdays are for fun. And joy. But there is a fine line between the opposites of everything. A fine line between joy and agony, between sadness and happiness. And although I'm sure that going to my parents' house today is not a very good idea, I'm standing up proud and going anyway. It's not my fault that it's an 8th. birthday. It's not my fault that they do not understand. And it's not my fault that I have a baggage which consists of an 8th. birthday. They're perfect, well, somewhere along the genetic stupidity I came out to be not perfect. I could never stop the things happening in the world, in the same manner as I couldn't stop things happening in my immediate world. I have been made to feel sorry, but now that my mind has cleared I realise I shouldn't have been sorry. That was cruel. Just an added burden on pain-stricken me. That wasn't very fair. But perhaps it made me grow super-fast. Not in physical size. Although perhaps it has too, but that doesn't matter right now, it didn't then. I remember thinking, weight loss was such an imbecile issue, everything was an imbecile issue next to anything. Sometimes fate is bitter. And sometimes babies come into the world with a black cloud over them perhaps, although the black cloud isn't seen because of the joy of a new little thing into the world. Perhaps if I'd come with instructions, they'd have flushed me away. Although I'm not so sure that my parents, with all their not understanding would have done that. But perhaps when you push nature, then fate takes over. Although that's not a very fair statement either, because it shows a little of the bitterness there still is in me. And I don't like it. And now I also suddenly realise why I keep the extremely low-profile, why I avoid people as much as possible. And no I'm not mad, nor depressed. Just a wee bit sad, and I hope that I have a right to feel that way. True it's been 8 years now, and so much has changed. I'm not the scared little girl anymore. I guess I'm still a little-bit-scared-woman now. I have a whole new life now, and life is good. I never would have believed that somehow I'd carve out another life, but I have. And I guess that is something, 8 years down the line.

Dates

Washing floors is not in my style. Washing anything is not in my style. except for laundry, but then I don't wash anything then, I just shove things into a clever machine which washed them for me. The rest is just not my style. And I'm not trying to be sassy about anything. I know, I know, I've left my mum's house years ago and so I guess I should have learnt a thing or two. But I haven't. There are so many machines to do it. And I just found out two days ago that I didn't even know how to turn the oven on. Bad I know, but I fail miserably in the housekeeping exam. And perhaps I would have tried washing something if I was at least average in doing it. But I'm not, I cannot for life's sake understand how to wash floors. I'd just shove all the water on the floor and my Bluthner Boudoir would be ruined. It's a thing for experts, not for yours truly. And as long as I have someone to do it, I'll be ok. It's nice coming in and seeing everything so clean, so everything in its proper place. I don't know how to do that, and anyway it would take ages and it's just not worth the while. But on a Saturday night my cats have decided it's water and food play time and messed the place up. And my help can only make it on Thursday, so it's had to be DIY. Funnily enough it didn't make me swear under or above my breath. I just had to do it. It's done now and I don't think the floor shines but as long as it's clean what the hell. And now I remember, I was doing exactly the same thing this time 8 years ago, for a very different reason. Yes I remember well. It's not that I am some Einstein historian who remember things so specifically. But I remember this. Not for a happy reason, but then I can't do anything about it. I remember the night leading on to eight years ago come tomorrow. It is etched in my brain, as are etched eight years ago tomorrow. Some years I am not really aware of the date looming up and yet I start feeling uneasy. It's happened this time, I have spent all week trying to figure out why I wasn't feeling very pleased at myself and at life. Until a very innocent, what-date-is-today brought it all on as if someone suddenly threw a bucket of ice at me. Then I knew. Then I knew why the block, why the lurching of my stomach, why I suddenly just wasn't interested in food anymore (no, not even chocolate), why I suddenly felt so immune and aloof as regards everything. Please do not tell me that a date is just a date, and that a number is just a number. Try telling a 100 year old that. Back then, a number was really just a number. Today, just let me be with myself. It will be over soon.

Stupid people

And I'm up again. Yes, yes, yes I've slept the afternoon away. It's what I always do on a Saturday. And no it's not harmful, quite the contrary, people who are sleep deprived do not behave very nicely, and I, too, start playing up. Now beautifully rested, the evening starts looking differently. It's dark so the night-owl in me pushes the play button. I'm not sure I want to play though. It's the eve. And although it goes way back, it's still the eve. I've never liked January very much, and life hasn't helped change that. Nobody will understand, because as the very stupid psychologist in Xarabank yesterday said, time heals. I could have punched her through the TV, but since my financial situation is not the top of tops at the moment (damn sales), I am not about to put a TV on the blink just because of a stupid woman wearing designer specs. Specs don't make a person. I know, I wear them, I have something like 30 pairs because I change them according to what I wear, or depending on the mood, and all of this of course depends if I have got myself out of bed in time, which is nearly never. Time heals, said she. A woman gone to University just to have learnt nothing. And a woman who is supposed to be helping people. Nice one. No, it's ugly. Time is nothing. People heal for a variety of reasons, none of which is time. They heal because they have support, or perhaps because they have turned to the right people for help, sometimes they heal because they are lucky, and because they are strong enough to get up, brush the dust and try again. Most people do not heal. That is statistics. And stupid people will also tell you, don't cry, be strong. Yeah right. How about reversing the situations. I'd say, cry, cry, cry until there are no more tears to cry. That's being strong. Take your time. If you need to stay inside, away from it all, then do just that. But the stupid people will say, go out, go out as much as possible. It's all so wrong. They will say don't talk about it anymore because it's worse. And I say, talk, talk, talk until you exhaust it from your system. To all stupid people, the least you can do is just shut up. Let the victims turn themselves into survivors who will live to tell the tale. They will also live to be able to help those who, like them, are wounded. Because, although unfathomable at the time, the deep gash will heal slowly into a scar. And it's the wounded who make the best of therapists. Oh, and they usually come forward themselves, without expecting anything in return.

Rocks

Apologies to all those who are closely following my blog. And thank you for all the concerned emails, but I'm fine. Ok perhaps I'm not fine, but I'm ok. I'm just stuck, I will try and do better today, but I can give no guarantees. One good thing, my broken fingernail is restored to perfection so I can type deliriously if I want. Or if I can that is. I'm just stuck, it feels as if I'm wedged between something and something else. I know what it is. The closest to me know what it is but are pretending they don't know. They know well enough, but acknowledging the fact that they know is difficult for them. I understand. But it's not making it any easier for me. And no, it's not my foot. It still hurts but I'm thinking of something else. No worries, I'm not going back there, I can't do that anyway. But it's the things which have healed into perfect scars. And sometimes the scars become alive. According to a lot of 'brainy' (as in people working in brain related matters) people, it's normal. So it makes me at least normal. Yesterday I was looking at the TV, but it was more of an I was looking at myself years ago. And I thought that the girl on TV was strong, which in turn made me realise that then I must be strong too. Strength doesn't mean we feel anything less than other people. It means we are rocks, but even rocks are eaten away at sometimes by rough seas and horribly weather. And that is how it is in life. Nature is such a good example of life. If only we realised it before. It would save us so much sad agony. But we don't so we have to work our way through the hard way. Then they call us strong. And they mean well. But it is no compliment. I'd much rather be called not strong and have had a simple agony-less life. And because we are strong, we inherently put it all in one capsule and swallow it down. And although it's in a capsule it still tastes bitter. And all the sugar in the world, enough to turn anybody diabetic overnight, will not make it any sweeter. Because we are rocks.