Resolutions

I am going to try and do a lot of things. I am going to try and get a new life, in a lot of ways. One way will be, I shall try and be more assertive. I let too many things go by. But then sometimes it isn't very much worth it. Another, I shall try and wake up at a decent hour. I cannot say I will go to sleep at a decent hour since sleep is never easy and I have to wait for it to perhaps give me hints on its arrival. I shall try not to hide anymore, because although I try to hide I don't think I'm doing a great job at it, and I can think of nothing as big as to hide under or behind or on top of it. I shall try and burn more calories, ideally by less food at 11pm because that when my love affair with food goes horribly wrong. My colleagues bring so much food to work, I don't. I give food a miss until 11pm when I really am awake. There is no point in eating when you're sleepy during the day and not hungry. But come 11pm, oh that is when the food door is open. Food and me. It's such a strange relationship. It's exactly as if I have an ongoing affair, I wait for 11pm, that would be the time a lover can get away from the wife and come to the mistress. And that is when food says viola` and starts looking inviting and then I suddenly want more, although I don't take food to bed because I love my bed too much and I'm certainly not filling it with crumbs which would then disable the sleep. So I shall try and look people in the eye and say what I think of them, because the result would be that I'd be burning calories in heated arguments. I shall try and not smoke as much, the problem is that I enjoy smoking too much. But I know it's filling my lungs with dreadful things which I'd rather not talk about. So I shall try and enjoy the rest of my 'single' life living a less harmful pattern. I don't have much time.

The girl

So let me put all the sadness apart. I've remembered something which really is getting under my skin. A girl. No, not a girl as in little people girl. A girl, perhaps 16, who behaves just as a one year old child with potential criminal behaviour. She is also the bossiest female I've ever encountered. Now I do not think that degrees and doctorates give anybody permission to boss anybody about, but someone who cannot spell the word circular correctly has no right to be bossy either. And they smile, a smile with flushed cheeks. It is outrageously disgusting and makes me want to slap the cheeks silly so that perhaps they can wake up and smell the disgust. I do not think that proper schooling is what makes or breaks a person, but I do think that proper behaviour clinches the deal. Calling little people, and I quote, 'Satan's crosses', (and there I always thought Satan was an opponent to the Cross) is something which made me shudder in the chair I was sitting on. My ears (and yes my listening is very finely tuned although they are small little ears) informed my brain that something was wrong. My eyes (and yes I can still see properly enough through my specs) informed my brain that this girl just needed a good old hiding. And yes I have complained, I still stand up to be spoken, I will not complain while smiling cheesily behind another's back. And my complaints have produced and even cheesier answer, oh because she's so young miskina. Miskina? Is being 16 an excuse to behave like Eva Brown, is being 16 a good excuse for being stupid, is being 16 another excuse for not being able to write the word circular? Hell, no. And if 16 is an excuse for being childish, then how about being childlike and not childish? Sorry but I see no miskina. I see someone who makes me seethe, someone who thinks that she is actually Eva Brown. And while Ms. Brown might have been a miskina because of her disastrous mental health, this girl is no miskina. And yet she makes the men flush, and me want to throw up. She makes the men give a head laugh and me want to throw up. some more. She makes the men talk to her gingerly and me want to throw up even more. And no, she isn't even a pretty 16 year old at that. She's a 16 year old who waves her pantie line about though. But I'm certain it's not about the pantie line for the men. If they have one saving grace, then it's not that their brains have gone fuzzy over a pantie line. Because they are good fair men, who just bow to the girl's controlling, loud-mouthed ways because they do not know how to stand up to her. The idea of one day behaving just like her to see what reaction I get is tempting. But I am an educated girl who will never call little people Satan's possessions. I will never puff and heave at the sight of a little one just having been injured at the playground. I will never have a VPL either. And I do not need to see men getting all flushed and clumsy at the sight of me. But one day, and one day soon, I am going to have my say. She will not call me, 'aw x'jismek'. If the men are fine with that, then I'm not. Because I have once been 16 and younger and was all alone in the world and had to survive. And that was not the way I went about it. No, no miskina. Maybe I'll just start by asking her how the hell she doesn't know how to spell the word circular... better still I'll ask her about her ability to spell the word 'circular' in three different ways; all incorrect of course.

Lions

Owing to the fact that I feel some sort of duty to be here, as well as owing to the fact that I know hiding will not do any good, I'm here again. And I'm thinking about lions, I'm a Leo as in zodiac stars, so I guess that makes me close enough. Lions do not sleep when faced with adversity. They protect their families and although they can feel the fear (which has somehow been measured by an anonymous someone who seems to be very respected on National Geographic), they do not walk away. Lions stay at the foremost of their pack and roar. They roar straight in the face of the enemy. Perhaps it's about time I behaved more like the lion that I am. But it's not an enemy that I'm faced with. I'm faced with adversity which is a lovely way because it explains a lot and yet doesn't give everything away. I'm also faced with PMS but that doesn't really qualify as adversity. And I haven't roared in a long time. It's time I started practising my roar too. I wonder what lionesses do. They probably hide behind their male mate, but I'm an independent girl. And I cannot hide behind my mate, because my mate is powerless in a situation like the one I have on my hands. So am I and so is everybody else. I just have to pray although I know that no amount of praying will change what has to be. And I'll try to behave like the lion.

Orphaned?

I'm not feeling great tonight. I'm sad. I have been toying with this blog for a couple of hours, mostly staring and smoking and not being able to life a finger to type a decent sentence. I thought something would happen, it's a heavy (on the inside) feeling I've dragged with me all through the day. I smiled at little people, not the usual bright smiles, just feeble smiles so as to reciprocate their cheery hallos. Inside it felt all wrong. I just wanted to be left on my own so I could draw the shutters on everybody else. But I didn't do that, and each word, each step became so heavier that I couldn't bear it. It's not the fault of little people or of the buildings which house them through the morning. It wasn't anybody's fault, just me and this feeling of dread. And I did get the answer, one which rocked my internal being. The fucking death issue. People getting sick and the fear they might die. And the reality that I might be yet another orphan. I don't want to be an orphan, I'm not grown up enough to be one as yet. I don't want the dynamics of life to change, not for another 40 years in fact. Perhaps I could cope with life changing by a tiny little addition in the form of a bundle of joy, but this is nothing like it. And I am in total shock. And at a time when I should be a rock, I am just a measly mud pie. I should be the shoulder to cry on, and yet I have bawled my eyes out. I thought that I'd stared enough at death so the next time it struck I would be a pro at handling it. Wrong, very wrong. I am one big baby who is so scared that her coping skills are suddenly reduced to a zero and just goes onto instinct, the crying. People say I'm strong? Me? I feel exhausted. So I did what I always do... hide and sleep and hope that it will go away. It hasn't, but there is hope. And I still cry, probably a little for myself too, and I just want to sleep. Because no, I'm not ready to be an orphan.

It makes me cry...

And so the articles are ready. Finally. How I've come to hate writing about Arani Issa. I don't hate the candidates. I am not so sure what I feel for them, but it certainly isn't hate. But today, while I was on a high because I'd finally managed to write two articles decent enough for publishing, I set my PC on Arani Issa. And there it was staring at me in the face again; the battle of the bulge. And it was all about this young man whom I've met about a year ago. Good Lord, the transformation. The man lost half his weight, a 104kg to be exact. And it's made me cry. Out of happiness because it will now change his life. And it's also made me cry because of this constant sadness I feel. I'm ok I guess, I come here and vent the bad feelings off. Sometimes I just remember and remember and since I can remember a whole lot I also remember what was happening in my time. And then I cry some more again for things cherished and lost and for things not cherished and gained. And then the sadness goes straight to my brain, tightening my neck, making me gasp for air and making me feel so terribly unwell. And I look for something to console me. And I find there isn't. Just the looks, the whispers, and the constant cat fights back at my mother's home. The constant putting down in everything. And I try to convince that it's ok because I have my own house and family where there are cats but no cat-fights, where nobody looks at me in disgust and puts me down for a reason which is not entirely my fault. Sometimes it works, most times it doesn't. So I then turn to my cats, because they know and they don't stare or whisper. And I go back again to today's Arani Issa and remember the loving mum who thought the world of her son at a 202kg. Which makes me go back to my mum, a loving mum in her own obsessive way, who could learn a lesson or two when it comes to the unconditional. I can never understand, I suppose, what it feels like to be a mum. I can only get close and know what I feel towards my cats. If one of them had a problem, then I'd help it, nurse it back to life. I'd never say I-told-you-so. And I'd never blame it on having left the mummy home. I do not deserve to be looked at in disdain just because I knew I had to make an exit from my mum's home in order to survive. Survival is not just about finding dinner ready. And I think that now I just want to call her and lash out and show her all the things she's been bad at. But I know it's useless because I do it a lot and it never works. Everything is just because I left home without the blessing to be wed and screwed. I left anyway and I'm not sorry. And there she goes thinking all would be well if only I'd go back. Go back? No, because I do not sign death warrants, least of all my own. And I'm not about to be controlled by another woman anymore, it doesn't matter f she happens to be my mum. And that also makes me cry.

ASAP

I come here today with a total writer's block. A blog is not the best place in the world to come to if you're suffering from a writing-jam like mine. But I still come here for inspiration. I have to, need to, must write a couple of articles for dear old Arani Issa, and it has to happen asap. It was already and asap job at 3pm. I couldn't write then, and it's not any better now. Pleasing the press, the public, my dear old twin is difficult. Pleasing just me is also difficult, but no as in blog wise. I keep thinking about my female anonymous, how she mentioned the Bible, Jesus and the rest of the things. Then I remember what I usually write about in here, sex, affairs, bondage. And suddenly I'm shy although not ashamed. I behave in an ashamed manner enough during the day, and it's not because of the sex or the affairs or the bondage. It's because of another thing called me, which I shouldn't be ashamed of, and yet I am. And here I go, no writer's block at all. It's so safe here, but the minute I'll open a new word document I'm going to be screaming in frustration. I wish someone would help me out but I've got no writer friends. I'll just have to do it asap. And I'm stretching the asap as far as I can.

Re : Death

Someone who stays anonymous has just commented on my blog entry entitled Death. I think it's a woman, it's got to be the brain of a woman who is thinking in such a manner. So let's call her a she. She has said that I should not think of death as six feet under because while the frail decomposing body lies there, there is afterlife and we are all responsible for whether it goes good of bad in this afterlife. And this makes me tick. I do not want to think about my decomposing body. I go to great lengths to preserve my body, that's what Dior and Estee Lauder are piled up not very neatly on my kitchen table. Yes, I know they are not kitchen things but then I'm no kitchen girl either. I also have a morbid fear of roaches and I have seen them all over the place at the cemetery, and that was six feet above. Imagine what's going on six feet under, it'll be like the Roach Kingdom. One roach didn't stop me visiting the grave of the one I loved, but one other day it was a whole colony. That didn't stop me either, but on my next visit I found Comtec, so I was right to think there was a roach infestation. And that stopped me in my tracks, putting flowers for roaches to party on wasn't my idea of why I kept going to the grave, and that was it, I never stepped in there again. And not going there actually made me heal faster. Perhaps coffins and graves give closure, but I'm not sure it did me any good anyway. As for afterlife. I like to believe that there is afterlife, if only to go there and kick my dead lover in the butt and ask him the rhetorical why. Yes, I know, there is still some anger lying underneath, but I've come a long way. I like to believe I'm going to some perfect place, with a perfect body. That would mean in some Bahamas haven wearing a white bikini on a perfect body in total contentment. I don't think I'm going to qualify for the white wings and the white baby doll outfits. And I like to think that I really believe in a good afterlife, and that we are just on a journey towards it. But I have no proof. Perhaps it's the end there and then. The anonymous she who has left her comments says that Death is not a punishment. Cool, why do we go to all lengths to avoid it then? Why does it make me cry? How the hell can anybody expect a mother to rejoice of her dead son? How come it made me cry for three years, why didn't I just make myself up, wear a feather in my imaginary cap and go out to party? Better still, why didn't I just hold a massive party because death struck in the most vulgar of ways? Death can be so rude, it's language is dirty, and I am not talking about the occasional Z-word here. It's a creepy hitman who strikes when you never are expecting it. My anonymous she has also said that 'by dying we are born to eternal life'. If that were the case we should party around the coffins and dance on the graves. I have no proof of eternal life and yet I like to think it's true. Which makes me a total moron. A silly girl relishing her stupidity?

Punishment?

I've just been out on my balcony for five seconds. That's the maximum amount of time my body was comfortable with. And I see a sight for sore eyes. If I had timed it I wouldn't have got so lucky. I have just seen something very mad. Mad in a bad mad way. It's a 6 degrees outside, and in the same outside are two men with sleeveless vests and shorts. That's mad. I can understand the good things about keeping a svelte figure, but at 6 degrees? Oh come on, that's pushing it too much. Haven't these guys heard of gyms where they could enrol and keep their figure at room temperature? I think some men (and probably women too) have a masochist streak. Are they running in the cold almost naked, just for health reasons? Because at any rate they're going to screw up their health in another way, and that is pneumonia. Or do they like being punished? Hmm. Punishment and men and naked and cold and ... it's almost a dungeon description. Unfortunately I do not own a dungeon. I wish I did because my dark side would absolutely love it. I'd mask it and call it a wine cellar in front of my mum. But it would still be a dungeon. And it would be a place where all these male masochists could come to exercise their body in a different way. What the hell, exertion is exertion, I would make sure they'd have sweat dripping off their faces, perhaps for a different reason than running around in the cold. It would be a place for men who love punishment to hang out at. Oh I can just see it, candles all the way, the dim light, the gore. And of course the stocks, the cross (no black magic here), the shackles, the chains, the cuffs. Which would then give way to the sticks and stones and whips and paddles and crops. And then I'd need just one thing. A bitch to deliver all of these. A real bitch to dominate whoever it is into submission. So I'd need to employ a bitch, though I wonder, perhaps I'd be good at yet another form of D.I.Y.? OK, now I have to have a dungeon, because it's a need and not a want. And some black patent leather to look the part. It'll all be just like a gym, my kind of gym.

Hair hair hair

I know it's so cold outside, but it's so comfy in here. And I fee a restored woman. Nails in place, hair in super place, Nigel's been. I love Nigel. I hope he will always be there even when I'm an old an wrinkly woman in my 80's. He would then be in his 70's so he will not be dementiated like I will be. I have discovered a new way to make cash, a new way which isn't for me. Since hair extensions are all the rage, hair stylists are on the look out for clients with waist-long hair like me. They want to convince me to sell my hair. And Nigel has told me to beware. And I will be very aware. There is no way I'm selling my natural beauty away, if it doesn't get me 1 million of course. And even then, I would have to think it over. I have done the unthinkable once, and let a stylist cut one whole foot out of my hair. But it made sense then since it was going to a child with leukemia, as apparently one foot of hair makes a whole wig of natural hair for a child. And I still had long hair anyway. I didn't do it because I'm a good girl, but because if I were a little girl suffering baldness because of leukemia treatment I would desperately want someone to give me their natural hair. But doing without my hair for some dumb model to walk on a catwalk with? Or for some housewife who wants an immediate new look to excite the husband when he comes home seeing she is in urgent need of a sexual makeover? No. They can do with artificial hair or look elsewhere. That's not good enough a cause. And now I'm suddenly thinking, what if the sorry spies needed hair for a good medical reason? Would I oblige? Hmmm... no, of course not. Because I'm not donating my crowning glory to anyone who has tried to damage the spokes in my wheel of life. You see I'm not a good girl. They can get their own. I may have been slapped once, but I'm not about to turn the other cheek and pose for another slap. Worse still, I might as well get even. Because I've seen the spies on Face book, and Hola`, Hurray, they have horrible hair. And they're so full of sass oh dear. I could safely say it's because they have no Nigel, but I'd rather jump up and down in glee and say they have been robbed of this kind of crowning beauty. Because nature sometimes has a way of getting back at things itself, without me even lifting a manicured finger.

Why, oh Why?

I keep wondering why this blog is having such massive potential. It started out just as a tiny diary, and perhaps an outlet because I needed to write. I could have written on an innocent Word document, but somehow all the pink in the Blog is inspirational. I like pink, nice innocent pink usually reserved for baby girls and good adult girls. But I'm no baby girl of course, it doesn't take eyeglasses to see that. I didn't even have one pink outfit as a baby, it was always white. That's what the pictures always show, blue for the boy, white for the girl. Perhaps mum thought that by donning me in white she would preserve my innocence and virginity all in one and all in white. And I will not be the judge on whether I'm innocent or not. But a 35 year old virgin, well if that were the case it would worry me sick. That wouldn't be normal. And I'm not about to play the game and say that I'm still saving myself and haven't tired myself out waiting, as a friend of mine does, when she's just been as bad as I have been. But I'm digressing, back to the blog. I can understand that some people have stumbled here accidentally, by pure coincidence. And I can also understand that some others have found their way here accidentally on purpose. And that means that they've done a massive Google search, a Yahoo search, a something else search on the world wide web. And I really ask a big why? I don't mind one bit, it's so much naughtier because sometimes I write and ramble on innocently while I'm actually targeting a person in mind. And since I know I have an audience, then, me being a performer at heart, only facilitates my writing. It also keeps me out of trouble. If someone dares so much as tread on my Diva toes I can control myself from slapping them because I know I'll get even later on in my blog. And as much as I try to keep low profile in the world, it seems that I am somehow soliciting, provoking, arousing interest. Is it that I look so funny that people actually have to Google me to see if I'm for real? Is it that I'm so way over the top that people Google me to see if I really exist? Or is it because there is a big diva oozing all out of me that I am effortlessly raising the bushy eyebrows which I would love to wax myself so that I can tear at the wax strip as violently as I think the candidate deserves? I really wonder why. And I've racked my diva brains for a long time and still can come up with no answer. It's funny sometimes, I meet perfect strangers who make references to my blog. What is funnier is that they always smile. So is this blog making me a laughing stock now? Is it a comic relief? I am not talking about the spies, I've known about the spies all along. They read becoming all the more seethingly uncomfortable with every word they read. And it makes me so glad that I also smile in the process. The spies, oh the sorry spies. Did they think I'd just lay down and die? Oh dear me, no way, I have diva fighting spirit, and I know I've disappointed the spies. And no, I'm not paranoid. No apologies. But then the vast majority of people logging onto my blog are not spies, they bear no malice, I think they're just curious. I do not ask why they keep coming here, I know why with a big grand diva smile. I just ask, how the hell did they come here in the first place? I wish they'd answer me, but I never even ask because I might embarrass them, because they might not tell the truth and because perhaps I might not like the answer. I guess it's going to be rhetorical for as long as I live. Because once you're here, you'll be back again and again and again and again. That much I'm sure. Take it from me because I'm the Diva.

www.englishmaltesedictionary.com

I have got to know a certain Mr. Ian Vella. I have never seen nor heard him, but he sounds like a plucky chap who has gone to a great deal of trouble in making certain that we have our own Maltese say on the world wide web. Ever had trouble with finding the right word? I have. And sometimes I use the only thing that has been available for now, that is a normal English Internet dictionary. It still doesn't give me the right word, but it has got to do. Well, not anymore. We now have our own English to Maltese dictionary, and it's free, online, 24/7. You just have to type www.englishmaltesedictionary.com into your browser and there you are. I've typed quite some words in there to see if it really works. And believe you me, Mr. Ian Vella has gone to a hell of a lot of trouble in creating something as vast as a dictionary. And me being me, I've also typed in some naughty words, and they're in there! The slut word is there as are all the other female body words as well as their male counterparts. And sometimes, the dictionary doesn't just give you one, but two words for safekeeping, try putting in the word breast....Yes I know, it's about time I grew up from the teenage graffiti on the toilet doors, although I swear I have never ever vandalised toilet doors, not even by writing anything on them. This dictionary is going to be God's greatest gift to people who are slowly learning Maltese, as well as to us who can talk and breathe Maltese as the most natural gift in the world. This man really set me thinking. Why go to such hellish trouble of creating a dictionary? I mean there are volumes and volumes of words. But then Mr. Vella must not be a lazy creature like me, and has his patriotic side finely tuned. If I were the President, I'd award a big round medal to a man who has gone to so much trouble in making sure we're on the web too. We might be small, but there are people like Mr. Vella who are speaking volumes through a national dictionary. www.englishmaltesedictionary.com I suggest you bookmark it, even for it's melitensia potential. Well done Mr. Vella.

Death

I am still keeping up with all the Jade Goody news. And each time the headlines stand out, "Dying Goody this, and Dying Jade that." She's dying. And I wonder how on earth she can take all the limelight. Then again I can understand that the limelight would perhaps give her positive things to think about. And now she's using a book about a dying badger to explain it to her kids. Death. Something a lot of people never want to think about. But death happens all the time. And it's scary because we do not know what there is on the other side. I make myself believe in the Christian afterlife because that gives me solace. I am not scared of death, although I am not waiting for it in the post. I have stared at death in the face and it's ugly. I have tried to beat death only for death to beat me in the death race by a couple of minutes. It is the moment when I suddenly thought of the Bible, when it says, "It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour. The sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was torn in two." It wasn't the sixth hour, but that is how it felt, and how I saw everything around me. I am by no means a Bible fanatic, and yet that is where my mind wandered. I wish I could have been prepared by the book about the dying badger. But I wasn't that lucky. And although all the experience should have made me tough about death and the dying, it hasn't. I am not scared about my own death; I don't want to die, but it still doesn't scare me. My fear of death is if it had to strike the people I love. It's morbid, but I sometimes think who of us twins will go first, and since I cannot bring myself to live a life without my twin, I try to convince myself that I will go first. Call it selfish, but that's the way it is. Death gave me a very hard time, and I never got used to it. And I guess I never will. And for now I will keep reading about Jade whose death will make me cry. I cannot help it.

This thing called life

I'm just about to switch off for the day. And I know it's been all about being a bad girl today. I'll rephrase that, today was all about the bad girl I once was. I like to think I'm a better girlie now, perhaps not entirely good, but better. What happened was never planned. I'd been the girlfriend who'd been had, the fiancee` who'd been had. And I know what it felt like. Bad. And I vowed it would never happen again, and it didn't. I am not going back on my latest blogs though, what I said there still stands because it is what it is. Life is tough, marriages break up, mistresses will still be all over the place as will be male lovers. Funny, they're not called masters. Masters are something else which would require whole new entry here. And then I'm not so sure it would be good to write about Masters because I'd also have to write about slaves. And s and M, which would raise too many a bushy eyebrow, most of them very good candidates for a sadistic wax. But all that happens is good for the economy. Many hotels would go bankrupt and have to let go of their employees were it not for affairs. That in turn would put a family in financial difficulty, and most times it's the beginning of the straying. It's one circle. I wonder what it would be like for a married woman to stray. But it would also be good for the economy, as long as she isn't brazen enough to use her own matrimonial bedroom which is the subject of so many jokes; the husband coming home from work and she has to hide her lover bla bla bla. It could also turn ugly I guess. But I will never know. Because I will never do that. There are some things in life that we just have to experience, some other thing we do not have to. And while remembering hot Lolita me at 25 still makes me smile, well, it was also the case that love never came easy. Love, not lust. As little girls we do not plan on having our own black book and counting how many came and went. At least I didn't. But I made one mistake. I thought everybody was just like my dad, my lovely nice dad who never got angry, always smiled and made me laugh, my dad who thought I was his little princess and who was so proud of me that his bragging sometimes embarrassed me. Poor dad, he was just so proud, and I thought everybody was just like him. And I know this is a hard one to swallow, but right up till the age of 13 I didn't even know that marriages splitting up were possible. I remember being very confused when one classmate announced her dad had gone. Gone? Gone where? I thought single families where only possible through a sad death of a parent. My dad had so wrapped me up in the cotton wool called extreme love that I was not in tune with the world outside the cotton wool. Seriously. And it's not as if I were slow academically, musically or anything. And yet I didn't know anything about life except for love. I thought my first boyfriend would be just like my dad. Geeze I couldn't have been more wrong. And the first breakup hurt so much because I thought things like these rarely happened. At least I'd never seen anything like it. Because mum, with all her funny ways had been lucky enough to meet someone like my dad at first go. I wasn't so lucky. It took a second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, until I lost count. And I became none the wiser. And I know just why my affairs with older men hurt my dad so much although he never said. He thought I was looking for a father figure because he'd been bad at it. When it was so very much the contrary, I wanted a father figure because I wanted a man like my dad. And no, there's no hanky panky incest thoughts involved. Anybody knowing my dad would know he'd never ever think about something like that. And I'm sad now because dad's a 61 and if I'm lucky I'll get only 20 more years with him around. He has been the greatest dad life could have given me. Life may be tough but it blessed me by such a gentle dad who has been an inspiration all around. At first I wanted to be just like my dad, then I wanted someone like my dad. And finally after 20+ years of looking, I think I've got my man who is a lot like my dad. I owe so much to my dad, who still looks great (because if he knew I was writing about him he'd want me to underline that out of vanity), still helps me out of my scrapes. It has always been easy for me to think of a loving God as a father, because if God is anything like my dad, then there really is none other like him. And I have to thank the thing called life for that.

The D.I.Y.

I am still thinking about the bitch in me. There is a bitch in all girls. But the worst you can get is when you actually manage to find a bitch in a man. Then, it starts getting very dangerous because there is no known antidote to date. But right now I am trying to feel sorry for all my actions done as a bitch, and what's making it worse is that it's bringing no tears along with it, rather I smile and laugh. Because there is another thing I do not understand. My mum. That's no new news. The problem is that this time, a lot of people think the same as my mum. Affairs... big sigh. People who marry in their early twenties will always condemn affairs. Just as my mum screamed her lungs out, "Heyyyyy he's married, you should be ashamed of yourself!" Why? A married man is just like any other man. And since married men do not go about with a married name tag; and yes most are coy enough to remove the wedding band, it's not my fault. But people like my mum think that I cannot even so much as take a look at a married man because for some unfathomable reason I have a duty to protect their marriage. Yeah, says who? It's their affair, just as I have had my own affairs. I have never expected anybody to protect my things, it's D.I.Y. And it works in the same way as with straying married men. I do not have a duty to protect marriages and families. And yet another thing I could never understand was that I have somehow a duty to protect a married man's kids. How? If a girl is getting on with it with a married man, should she think of his kids before orgasm or what? In what way does sex with a married man mean protecting or not protecting kids? It's X-rated, not suitable for children. They do not come into it. Plenty of marriages are a sham, and plenty of marriages are good solid ones. A bitch like me would immediately pick up on the difference between a man who stays and a man who strays. And since I have no rights then I have no duties to do anything. And for us who have been left on the shelf, albeit imaginary, because Homemate has run out and anyway I would have to have it on special order because of the size, we are not issued with a list of all married men so as to know which ones are ripe for the picking or not. Because as it also happens, sometimes married men are very very ripe. Most of them are living in shambles but since they do not have the guts to go their own way, they are just waiting for us girls. Also because it works both ways just like a seesaw. Perhaps married men also have a duty not to go off with young girls and thus seal our reputation as sluts. And that's ok, because sluts are not boring. But perhaps married women also have a duty to take a club and bash their own men to their senses. And another thing I will never understand; why are married women so angry at us girls lying down on a bed with their men? It's their men who promised for better or worse, we weren't there were we? And why do they threaten us that they're going to tell our mum and dad? Mum and dad? So what? Where do mum and dad fit into the picture? It's not as if we're doing kneeling-down jobs in for mum and dad to inspect are we? Do married women who've been had think that we're silly girls who mum and dad will punish and make go without watching TV or what? Hell, it's so jumbled up. It's all in the past now. And it still makes me giggle. Am I not sorry for all the marriages I ruined? No, because I didn't ruin them. And I will not go into whether they were ruined in the first place or not. I don't care. I was just a girl, looking for some excitement and I depended on nobody, I just was a dab hand at D.I.Y. And just as I didn't have any duty then, I don't think anybody has a duty now to protect my and my Mister's relationship. Because I finally chose wisely; he's one of those who stays. It's all D.I.Y.

Affairs

Face book is a brilliant idea of connecting people. It is addictive, and you're never the same after your first logon. Sometimes it's a good giggle, sometimes a good laugh or an outrageous scream as I look at photos with my 80's hairstyle, which, was still very pretty may I add, pretty for the decade it was in. Looking at the "about me" sections are also funny sometimes. Some people blow up their nothingness to big nothingness. They become experts in this and that. And it doesn't take one university, just a face book logon. So cool. But just when I think I've become a seasoned old gal, one photograph has stopped me in my tracks. An old face which reminds me of an affair I'd clean forgotten. It reminds me of the bitch I had in me, the bitch which was then working overtime. Somehow I didn't think so then. And it's taken Face book to make me think so now. Oh dear, the affairs. And what's even more puzzling, I remember the faces swear that they would never again return to the wife. They wouldn't have had I stayed. But I didn't. The minute they left the wife they somehow looked bland, uninteresting, unexciting. I'm a queen bee, and wasn't about to become a worker one. It is the phase called, let's-see-how-powerful-I-was as in being the mistress who was also a bitch. Should I pity them now? I do, but I shouldn't. Because now their Face book is splashed with photographs which are called 'My Family', where there is the inevitable tag called, 'my wife'. They also state that they are married. Because of course they went back to the hive. It's one big laughing stock, all the more so when I remember the promises, the statements of love. I never once asked them to leave the wife. Because I didn't want them to leave the wife. I wanted the mistress title, and I wasn't about to be the type of forever waiting mistress. No, it was just pretty exciting. I like to think of it as research, it was through this research that I discovered how powerful is a lame hand job. If a man decides to leave his family for a hand job, then it's his decision. And when you're in dire straits, then there are a variety of acts progressing from the hand job which will secure whatever you want, in my case, the forbidden, disallowed feeling of an affair. Affairs are not about love, the minute love is in, then it stops being an affair. And affairs are not of long duration, otherwise, they again stop being an affair. It's easy, you just have to behave like a man, that's all. And what is unfair although of no bother to me, it's the mistress which always is the baddie. No problem, I never had had any fun being a goody before. Suddenly the world was at my feet, and it was my world and I was going to do whatever felt good. It's a lame excuse to blame a man's roving eye on another woman who becomes a mistress. Mistresses do not force married men to do anything. They just look at them, smile at them dangerously, and they're in the bag. But we certainly don't lure them away by threats of beheading this and that. It's all in the head. We do not even text them with messages of love. That's the man's job. We just want fun, just as they want. If they end up in love and in lust, then it's their fault. Because really, they usually were men 20 or 30 years my senior, so they should have known better. But there almost always is a same reason. At 20, we're pretty, voluptuous, and also have a brain. The men think they're in control because we're so young and helpless so they think they are in control of their wife, themselves and us. In reality, we're the ones in control, we're controlling the men, the wives, themselves, us. It's a big circus where us girls know how to turn ravishing tricks to perfection. And I can understand why a man, suddenly mistressless goes back to his wife. What I will never understand is how and why there is the wife with open arms, waiting for her man who will never be the same again. I have been a mistress. But never will I be the wife who will take her husband back after he's been doing the dirty on some young 20 year old. Because I'm still the queen bee.

The B-boom

I see a lot of people are moving on. And what has me by surprise is that a lot of people are moving on in a very selfish manner. It happens like this... at first I am taken by shock, then surprise, then amazement, and then the inevitable disgust. It sometimes happens that I meet a long-lost someone who turns out to have met another long lost someone, who in turn turns out to know another long lost someone else. Now I know all about full moon, I have Alaskan Malamutes who actually respond to full moon periods. But this is outrageous, is there a baby moon out there or what? It so seems to be, that a woman's stamp on the world seems to be a word spelt with the letter B. It's not beauty, but it is total bullshit. It's a baby and oh boy isn't everybody happy? No. Why is every girl I know (minus Rob, but then Rob is sensible) getting pregnant? And it's not as if they're blooming health, they're blooming silly and selfish. Biological clock running out is not a good excuse. Babies should be born into solid relationships because babies are defenceless tiny things who need to be protected by mum and dad. Having a baby just on a whim, and then what? Being excited because there's a growing belly.. but do they really have to incorporate a baby in doing that? Can't they just eat themselves silly or something? I will never understand this biological clock thing, but then I never understand any type of clock. If a man and a woman have a stable relationship going, then go forth and multiply and square that answer to your hearts' content. But are six months enough to guarantee a stable relationship, enough to make two suddenly three? And why do these girls think they've just got very clever? It's not as if they're doing something nobody has ever done. We know how it's done, pretty easy actually. It's becoming the latest trend, this baby boom. A man and a woman who have not yet got past the courting stage, and bang, there comes baby. It's sad. What about the baby? How the hell would I be able to explain that to my baby? I'd say, you see I met your dad whom I never saw anymore, and decided I wanted to do something different, so I just lay on my back and prayed to God and there you were! It would nowadays make a 5 year old laugh himself silly. And silly would be fine. But it doesn't remain silly. Then they go on benefits because they have to raise what they got on a whim. And the flipping government actually pays them to do that. I think I'm off to buy a dolly, hide it under my clothes. No I don't need that physically I think I could actually pass off for a baby-to-have girl. Then I'd just stay at home reaping the benefits. This is all bullshit and anybody thinking that it is a good idea should be sent to Africa where they can increase and multiply as much as they like... and go and work to make a living. There's no way people are just getting portions out of my taxes just because they're on a whim.

Over

Why is it in the world that we can never somehow put ourselves into a neat little drawer which holds us in our entirety? It's the same as the boxes. Those tiny box which you're supposed to tick. Sometimes they come in ageing boxes, the 20 - 25, 26-30, 31-35 boxes. I don't know if they come in big capacities since I've never had the need to look. So let's safely say I've overlooked them. We have boxes for everything, height, gender, academic achievements, and sometimes even a rude box for weight comes up. And I'm expected to put that all over the Internet? Oh No. I will not be targeted by Weight Watchers and points. But I guess my time is somehow up. And I'm trying to be brave like Jade. I don't think I am as brave, but I'm trying. My time ticking weight boxes is up because very soon I'm going to be the next Jade. And although I will not be going into the mad media limelight, I will still be another Jade, just a few years older. But tragic just the same. And it's ok because we are here journeying. It is just as if we have a flight ticket, for most an economy flight ticket, and for some, a business flight. It's still a flight. And for the better part of us, we can wedge ourselves into the seat. Some others just can't. Over and out.

Naked

I have broken my latest record. I have just let a day gone by... blogless. I didn't mean it to be that way, it just happened that I also broke my usual routine elsewhere. I usually have something like a routine, I am not usually out all day long on a Sunday. But that's what I did yesterday, and I enjoyed it. And I came back here exhausted after a day of doing nothing so I just placed myself prettily under my duvet and let nature work. And since nature works both ways, I'm back up again. And I feel bloggingly naked. Naked is a very good word to use in a lot of circumstances. It has the exact powerful effect as if you'd uttered the word walkies for dogs. Try a lot of naked words in the same sentence and you get the butterfly effect in no time. Perhaps a naked table, a naked room, a naked whatever you wish, and you get the attention in no time. I've tried it, and it works, especially if you're after XX attention. Not as in X rated but as in X chromosome attention. You could be referring to something as innocent as a naked patch of ground, naked walls, but there is something about the word which has heads turning fast. And I'm not even talking about naked legs or breasts. The naked word must be one of the most versatile words in the English Language. Try it, you'll see. And there goes my naked blog.

Jade

I have been following all the Jade Goody news, which hasn't been good. I'm not sure I ever liked Jade much, someone who signs up to Big Brother, well it's not as if they're doing something awesome. But I must admit Jade's stuck in my mind ever since I laughed so hard I almost wet myself, with her tragic words, "Rio de Janeiro? Ain't that a person?". Geeze Jade, didn't she ever go to school. Her mangling of the English Language didn't score points with me either. She was just a single mum, a loudmouthed single mum who just wanted the limelight. And she took the limelight by storm. Because we hated Jade Goody for what she represented; the tragic decline of the average British youngsters. And yet we secretly loved Jade for all her in your face confidence she managed to effortlessly pull. I remember once, I just wondered how nice it would have been to be Jade and have all that money. Now I don't want to be Jade anymore. Who the hell would have thought that this ex dental nurse would be dying at 27? That's too young to die. It is so unkind, a mum with two young boys, a mum who will be six feet under in a matter of weeks. No, I don't want to be Jade one bit. I don't care about her 1million deal with OK magazine. I don't care about her white wedding. I find it so strange. Why go to the trouble of getting married when you know you don't have much time left? But then maybe Jade's so sad that she's creating positive things to at least make the best out of her last weeks. I'm so sorry for loudmouth Jade now. Life's smiled at her only to deal her the cruelest frown of all. All because of cervical cancer which I wasn't even aware of. I thought things like these happened to old women. It seems they don't. And through all the mass criticism because Jade has chosen to make her passing away public, I on the other hand, bow to her courage. She's doing it for one reason, her boys. She is just a parent who knows her children are about to be orphaned, and she wants to give them the best possible chance in life. That means, that at a time when it should be all about her, she's thinking of her boys. And I can only applaud a girl like that. And cry. I really don't want her to die.

Keyboards

It's a Saturday evening, a day which I like, and a time which I love. I am here seated, typing at my keyboard which needs a brilliant makeover. No, better still I need a new one. Keyboards with me have a shelf life, and it's not a long one. First of all I have to do a tour de keyboards to find an ultra flat one which will then be expensive, which will get filled to the brim with cigarette ash, which my claws will wear down in constant torture. Keyboards.. beware. I do try to treat them with tender loving care, but it never works for very long. If I were a keyboard propped up prettily in a PC shop, I would really try to make myself lost if someone like me came along. Firstly, the claws, never a good sign. Secondly, the sleepy trance, yet again not a good sign. The size... no comment. I have lost count of the number of keyboards I've bought in life. Most of them are still shoved into a cupboard somewhere because I can never bring myself to part with them. So I make sure that I at least give them a proper burial. And now I'm thinking, I'm not sure thinking about keyboards at this time of the day is a good thing. I'm risking having dreams where I am alone surrounded by all the keyboards I've used in life, and they're singing tantric songs and attacking me.... URGH!

The God Theory

On a day like today I bless the world's oldest ancestors. Because they came up with the world's biggest excuse to take time out for merry-making, and holidaying. And they didn't have Internet back then. And although Carnival does nothing for me, it provides me with a very well-deserved break. I think it's lovely for little people to be able to dress in fancy costumes, wear makeup and masks. But for adults? And then again why not? If masking people's faces is what takes their fancy, I can do without setting my sight on some ugly people. My face... oh no, it needs no mask, it's the one perfect thing I've inherited and I'm not about to cover it up. My twin and I have a theory about the timeline God used when making us. We are sure that God started constructing his feet, legs, waist, abs, and neck. Then God proceeded to leave my twin to dry and started on my face which he painstakingly constructed with precise chiseling. Such was God precise at doing my face that it exhausted him. So God took a nap. And the bloody inexperienced angels took over, giving my brother a less than perfect face, and using all the wrong tools to make the rest of my body. Perhaps it was a lesson as in, you really cannot have everything in the world. One rude, rich and old woman, who had lipstick-stained teeth once decided to give her uninvited opinion. She took one look at us and said , " Oh, so it's true with twins, one gets the body (and she looked at Joseph) and the other gets the face (and stared into my eyes)". Well in her case it seemed as if she got neither but such was our surprise we didn't have the energy to talk. The most damning thing is that it's not so very long ago when I too had the perfect body. But what is the perfect body? What would be the opinion of a limbless person I wonder? And so we have to make do and be thankful because it could have gone a hell of a lot worse. I learnt a harsh quick lesson at the Razzett tal-Hbiberija swimming pool. There was I desperately trying to cover up my legs because I didn't want anybody to see the orange peel effect. So I stayed sitting down waiting for people to go. And in sitting down this young woman was seated not very far off from me. And she too was waiting, for someone to help. I could have helped, but I didn't want her to see my cellulite. And she seemed nice enough so I told her so. Her answer made me feel so small. The conversation was like this, "Hi, sorry I can't help but I'm waiting for people to go because I'm shy about my legs. Because people will stare and stuff". That was me. And this was her, "Oh I see, I'm waiting for someone to help because I've got no legs. And because people will stare and stuff. "Such was I concerned about the stupid orange-peel effect, I hadn't even recognised this girl's needs, partly because I was obsessed about myself, and partly because she was cleverly draped in a big white towel which hid the things which weren't there anyway. I always thought hiding meant concealing things which are present, such as my cellulite. Here was a girl who was hiding nothing and everything. In just 5 seconds I had learnt a big lesson in life. I bet she would have wanted to trade places with me and my orange peel. I still remember that girl from time to time. She made me feel so small and angry at myself, which was not her intention. Where was God when He made her? Did he trade a nap for a coma? And which angel was it who decided to play such a sorry trick? I'll never know. But I know now to shut up, face the stares and get on with it. Because it could have been worse.

Supermarkets

I have just been wasting my Saturday morning; shopping. I love shopping, but I've just shopped at a place I hate; the supermarket. It's usually the Mister's job, but since we were passing by and since he smilingly asked that I accompany him, I didn't have the heart to refuse. Supermarkets are the world's ugliest place for shopping. For one thing, they are places where people shop for their needs, and not their wants. That is a killjoy enough. I like shopping for what I want and not for what I need. Secondly supermarkets are divided into sections none of which make me at all excited. While I see other women picking up things, putting them down, picking them up again and putting them down again as if they were diamonds, I really wonder what the awe is all about. Why do women have to smell all the detergents on show, why are they so excited by fabric conditioner, it's not as if it's going to smell anything like D & G is it? Am I really about to wash my delicate white skin with something off a bland white supermarket shelf? And they're all so sickly stacked that it's as if they're staring at me in the face and giving me the finger because at least they found a shelf to hold them, while I have not even been lucky enough to find a shelf my own size. They're like weltering soldiers in the army called offensively rude. And how the hell do people even go close to onions, cabbage, apples? They actually touch the dirty stuff. I can never picture myself doing the same. My lovingly manicured nails touching something so filthy. Oh dear, that's one big no. And what about the queue at the delicatessen? Why do they call it delicatessen anyway? The word makes me think of delicate lace and pearls and satin and velvet and cashmere and fur, a far cry from the cheese, ham, sausage, beans, garlic this and garlic that. And people are actually ready to queue up for stinky things like these? Waiting in a file just for that? Then there's the freezers. So cold that I'm sure one look down them can make you actually catch the cold and get a cold. And so manufacturers really think I'm actually going on deodorising my underarms by something bought out of a supermarket? Or that I am about to put on my face something labelled a face mask but which looks like mud? Hand cream and wait for it, the most offensive of the lot... Vaseline which has now such notorious connotations that it's suddenly being called petroleum jelly and on which jar (it's always in a jar isn't it?) it says that it's a terrific make-up remover. I'd like to know where the woman who actually smears Vaseline on her face lives, just so I can behead her for safety standards. Where have our standards gone to girls? Mine have not gone down the supermarket lane, they never will, because the hatred I have for places like these turn me into a monster. And I guess the ones who love supermarket shopping because they're insane will be lurking on my blog and think that I'm one spoilt brat. And I probably am. A very special spoilt brat who will hate supermarkets till my time in this world is up. One thing in men's favour though, supermarkets are becoming the new place for pulling pick ups. So many women in there, so little men. Perhaps that is another reason why they're open from 7 till 7.

Therapy

It's finally happened. I get a stretch of four days of bliss; of holidaying and sleeping and making up and making down and of course of blogging at my leisure. I'm not sure why I love this blogging thing. Perhaps I've discovered that it's very much the same as buying years on the couch, only it's better, because I do not have to keep appointment schedules, I do not have to worry whether the couch can take big old me, I do not have to think in advance what the issue of the moment is so as not to waste time out of the expensive therapy. And with me, it could get massively expensive, because I seem to have a different issue every day. I do not have to worry what the therapist will think of me if I cry at the wrong moment, or laugh at the wrong moment. Sometimes I am just like the naked women that go around in the Australian bush. No it doesn't mean I go around naked, but they are known to have it the other way round. They weep out of joy and laugh out of sadness. And sometimes I do that too. Blogging also means saving me a lot of time which can be spent in the good way of sleeping. Going to therapy appointments means I have to dress up, I have to be flawless, because I do not want the therapist to know what's going on inside. Which is silly because I am actually paying him to get to know what's on the inside. One day I decided to forfeit the flawless everything and turned up in jeans, an ugly shirt, bad hair (sorry Nigel), and a squeaky clean face. The result was astounding. The poor therapist, who is extremely good at his job, was really and truly concerned. Just because I'd gone from fab to drag (not as in gay drag, but as in something the cat dragged in) meant I got the extreme attention as to what was wrong. Nothing was really wrong, it just happened that I had lost the mask. Which made me want to smile and about which I cried instead. I still have my therapist for emergencies. But I've come such a long way thanks to here. Because once I have sworn myself to say the truth and nothing but the truth in here, however uncomfortable that may be, then it's truly therapeutic. I do not come here to story-write, although that is how it may seem sometimes. I come here because it's such a breath of fresh air on the world wide web. Oh and I can sit on a couch too, a really comfy couch. I may be judged but really I don't care. What I don't see will not hurt me. I don't even see so much as a raise of an eyebrow. It's just me and my beloved blog. And thank God for that.

JAQQ!

I have never been sure if the meaning of the word upset means upset as in sad or as in angry. But if someone can be angrily upset then it is yours truly. Angry for a woman who has decided that she wants to get back into my life regardless of history. And no, it's not even a sexy tidbit history, because sadly her having a husband being the worst example of homosexual , could never have been sexy. Being married made her so arrogant, so rude, so as if she knew it all. And her being married made me want to kill her, not in a hurried way of killing. No, I wanted to prolong her death so it would be as painful as possible. But since I unfortunately didn't live in the jungle then, I just pressed delete on her name and her miserable ignorant entity. She never could have hurt me, but she hurt my Mister a big deal. Because this woman is his hysterical sister. She worries me a great deal in the what-if-I-had-a-child-who-turned-out-like-her. I thought she was mad then, and I think she's madder now. And while mad might be good sometimes, this isn't. I do not care if she cries now, I do not care if she is depressed, I do not care if she's sick or not. Very frankly I don't care if she doesn't exist anymore. Some things, a lot of things, I can forgive. Some and many other things I cannot forgive. Geeze when I remember the agony and pain she created for her brother, when I watched him hurt and hopeless, there is no way on earth she's getting back into anybody's life, certainly not into mine. She cared less when her brother wasn't well, and I will care less for her who isn't well and who hasn't been well for six years, because that is as long as I have known her. Because now, she's left her husband. A husband who qualifies for the rudest sense of the term 'pufta'. And I do not like using the word, for my own reasons, but this time I just have to. A husband who walked and talked and sat and stood up like a woman and who interpreted my open-mouthed staring as if I were hitting on him. And boy is he ugly. And stupid and illiterate. There is only one word for people like him, it's a shuddering JAQQ! And it does happen that people sometimes wake up and recognise their mistakes and say the sorry word, which however does not guarantee forgiveness. A million sorry words wouldn't make me forgive. But what gets under my skin is that this mad hag hasn't even felt the need for just one sorry word. She goes around in a nest of hair, with a big mole on her face which would be perfect for this weekend's Carnival, had she to go around as the cruel witch of course. And just because she's lost the pufta husband does not mean she can call my house at her will. I think she'd like to, but she doesn't have my phone number. And she has actually tried to chatter me up as if nothing was ever wrong. It was I who sat there feeling helpless praying for Mister's and my situation to be better. It was I who cried with him. It was I who sat with him. It was just us two alone. She wasn't there. No she actually was there to make things worse. Together with her pufta husband whom she sang praises to... at the time. And now it's my time. My time to decide that I've pressed delete on her hysterical ways six years ago. My time to feel angry that she now expects help when she made sure she was never around. It's not my fault. Perhaps I am a bad girl. I am not Jesus who apparently accidentally told us to forgive 77 times. She's exceeded her 77 times anyway. And I will not forgive. I do not hate just because I am selfish, because I know that had I to hate, the hate would eat at me and in this sphere of life I am no masochist. So I just forget, i.e. forget her and not forgive. I know it's not making me look like a very nice girl, or a very sweet lady. But it's how it is, and I owe it to myself and the Mister not to let a wolf at my throat again. JAQQ!. That's the only word I can come up with. The big sense of disgust I feel is overwhelming. She can go hysterical as much as she likes, perhaps one day someone will lock her in a straight white jacket and put her where she belongs. Complete with her unpronounceable disgusting sorry excuse for a name which I shall not mention because then I'd be risking looking insane myself. JAQQ!

Jesscia Rabbit

I love my brother-in law. And I actually like him. I like him a lot. It was not the case when I first met him. He was too quiet, one of those good-looking fellas who are so quietly contained in themselves that they can sadly go unnoticed. Nigel, a man of many artistic resources. Nigel, the one who makes my hair shine, the one who makes my face shine, with glee while he quietly lights up a fag (no pun intended) and smiles. He's the one doing all my hair experiments of which all go right. He's a man of not many words, but of a lot of wisdom. It's a very wise head on the good looking twenty-four year old. He's the one responsible for me being a fiery redhead right now. And he loves my hair, because it's so long and silky. I can feel it when he does it (the hair I mean). The way he lovingly runs his magical hands through my hair, almost as if he were making love to it. Not sex, but love. That is how passionate this young man is about hair. My hair. And somehow I don't feel uncomfortable about him making love to my hair. I guess I should, because hey he's my brother in law. But I don't, because it's hair and I guess it's allowed with hair like mine (ahem). I mean God has bestowed beautiful hair to cover my already beautiful head, and if a top stylist like Nigel doesn't make love to my hair, to whose is he going to do it with? And it feels nice, perhaps because it's family and thus it should be forbidden. I'm not sure, but I don't argue because I love it anyway. And I love him, not just for the hair magic tricks. I love him because somehow he's grown on me (just to add to the weight that little bit more) and I have come to love him and his quiet ways as if he were another brother. He is also a very good chef, he treats me like a princess, he really cares, it's a 24 year old looking out for a 35 year old, which is probably very mad. But I like mad and sometimes mad is good. And yesterday it was this quiet man wanting something wickedly mad. He wanted a Jessica Rabbit, because he thinks Jessica with her big butt (hint) and massive boobs is the sexiest cartoon character ever put out in the cartoon world. I kind of agree, although the fact that she's a rabbit and thus a rodent still puts me off a little bit. So I get my Nigel, my fine hair, a Jessica Rabbit costume on the table, and a sad Nigel because he would so have loved to dress up in his Jessica Rabbit costume, sewn perfectly by himself. But he lacked the shoes. The red patent high heel killer shoes worn by this rabbit. And I smiled. Shoes... now that's my department. Red patent killer heels... I had just the ones, bought because they looked so sexy and never worn. And I smiled even harder, because while I am a big 41 in shoe size, he's a trim size 41 in shoe size. It meant that I could make a man happy without even showing him my boobs, and you don't get that very often. I just looked through my shoe room, sure enough there they were, grabbed a pair of stockings and displayed them proudly for him to see. His reaction... never have I seen a human being so overjoyed in my life. After putting them on in a flash, he did the walk... and dear God the guy actually walks better then I do in heels. They fitted perfectly, suited him and his Jessica to a tee. That's what being a good Samaritan is all about, sometimes it's all about shoes. So there was Nigel, walking the walk, talking the talk... of Jessica Rabbit. It was almost perfect, except for one thing in which area I am dreadfully inexperienced. He just needed a bigger butt! Something apparently difficult for some people to have. But we foamed it all out with the heaviest of foam padding I ever saw. And finally Nigel got his bigger butt. His red shoes. His siliconed boobs. And his Jessica Rabbit. Now he's just got to shave his legs a little bit...

All Mine

I've been good today. I've finally broken my oversleeping pattern, just when four days of holidays are around the corner, four days which I could spend sleeping in limbo. But I just thought if little people were going to be allowed make-up, then so was I. So I wore the paint, dressed finely for the first time in weeks, heels and all. And I just froze to death. Glamour doesn't go with human body temperatures. I'd have loved to go shopping, but I just couldn't take the cold anymore. I was at a point where I didn't know where my butt was. And that is a big statement, which means it's really cold if my butt just became numb and frozen. I just had to head home. I'm now wearing two pairs of socks, woolen pants, two woolen tops in the hope of defrosting. It's not glamorous by any means, although if someone had to take a head shot it would look nice. But that's all. And I'm happy to trade glamour for anything if it means I have at least some warm comfort. Maybe I got kicked out by the Gods from under my duvet way too early this morning. It's change, something which is as foreign as the Chinese language to me. I hate changing my coffee mug because the coffee doesn't taste as good, I hate changing my place at the table because the food tastes funny. It's a whole list of commandments. Thou shalt not sit on my computer chair because it's mine. Thou shalt not drive my car because it's mine. Thou shalt not sleep in my bed because it's mine. Now I realise this is a very possessive part of me which I never knew I had and which could easily qualify for OCD. It's all mine, and I don't want to share. It's not very Christian-like either. What's worse is that its making me think of my mother and the more I have struggled to be her opposite, the more it seems I'm becoming like her and her ways. Not as in her size of course. It would take me the 7 years of famine to perhaps come close to her size. And then there would be the 7 years of abundance for me to put it all again. The yo-yo. I haven't seen one around in ages, except for the big one in my life. And it's weird because y0-yo's were a big part of Carnival in my day and age which seems so long ago. Did they die a slow painful death or did they all take a secret massive decision to incorporate themselves into my life and become all mine? That's so cheeky of them.

Ladies

I am going to try and behave like a real lady. Because lately I've not been much of one. The thing about behaving like a lady is that it forbids a girl to say it as it really is. It takes a girl on the forever tour of trying to find lame words to describe what would otherwise have interesting potential. Behaving like a lady is hard work, it is responsible for some serious TMJ seeing you have to smile sweetly and innocently almost all the time. Ladylikeness also plays around with a girl's hearing ability, since no lady ever hears swear words, it also makes her very short-sighted because she doesn't see some things which are, summing it up in a word I hate... inappropriate. It is inappropriate for a lady to hear see and talk. It is appropriate for a lady to have doors opened for her, fur coats delicately removed by the stronger (?) sex, and chairs pulled out for her to be seated first. Of course I know how to behave like a lady. I wear delicate pearls, soft make up which looks as if I've just got out of bed but takes an hour to create. Oh, and my nails. That is a problem. A true lady should have carefully polished nails in French manicure. I have my own carefully polished nails, but what a waste that would be, French manicure. No, I want the all over the place nails, the ones that make a statement. I want bold lipstick and heavy eye liner, and I would trade pearls for black diamonds anytime. Oh dear, I'm not sure there is a true lady in me. But then what would the definition for lady be? My dictionary reference says, a woman who is refined, polite and well-spoken, of a high social position or economic class. And I try to be objective, I'm a St. Joseph Blata girl after all. So that makes me automatically refined, and don't try to argue with me. Of a high economic class? I would be if I didn't spend so much on designer stuff. But since I am childless and nobody is depending on me financially, then I feel as if I deserve the designer stuff because I am a lady. I'm not bad in public, I am polite, I am well spoken, I would never dream of swearing within someone's hearing. I think I do well. It's just this blog of mine which I have to be truthful to. So out come all the shitty words, stories about thingies, double sexual standards and disappointments about girls trying to be ladies and failing miserably. Most girls are not ladies. Most girls are pimping themselves out for something or other. I see it every day. I just never see the pimps, because today seeing we are so very advanced you can get a whore-and-a-pimp all in one. That is called a lot of progress. Ladies... big sigh. Ladies today are getting TMJ for the wrong reason, not through smiling. Ladies today are partially deaf because they panic they will die old and alone and think that the loud-mouth which comes along is fine because they are hard of hearing. Ladies today become short-sighted because they do not want to wait for a sight for sore eyes, so they start overlooking this and that. Low expectations do not make a lady. And after all is said and done, ladies today suffer from back pain because time, never forgiving the locked jaw, the lessened hearing and myopia plays the wicked trick on them. The trick which is called "I-told-you-so", through which they become experts on ceiling covings and ceiling gypsum. But the real lady, a timeless lady like me will have just watched, smiled, will not have stuck to her expectations and so will be ignorant as in ceilings but wise in her smile. And I smile. And I rest my case.

One Guy and loads of pee

Now yet for another thing happening this morning. It's not about ladies anymore, it's about men, or boys who like to think of themselves as men. It happened during break time. I needed a loo-break desperately. And as I trotted off to the loo I see a man go in. Shit (not as in real shit), I would have to wait, my bladder already at bursting limit. So I waited and noticed that this man had got into the ladies. Perhaps by mistake. I also realised where I knew this man, it took me down the ugly part of memory lane, I remembered this nerd who had just one girlfriend in his life (and it was because he got very lucky), and I don't think he'd changed at all... for one he was in the ladies and not in the gents room. Anyway I waited and remembered. He finally made an exit, and just as he saw me making a move to go in, turned round, walked straight back in, and flushed the loo. Then he made this cheesy excuse that he was about to forget! About to forget in my terms of the language means remembering just in time. This one didn't have a case of amnesia, he was just plain lazy and since it was obvious that I was going in, it was also obvious that he was about to be caught out as regards his filthy habits. On no, I wasn't buying it, the guy had just not flushed because that is what he probably always did. Perhaps to save on Enemalta bills. Disgusting, filthy man. And he hadn't even washed his hands, had he done so I'd have heard him. Because people wash their hands at least with water, water can be heard, and the sink was clear. Shit again. I summed it all up in a snap, was I to use the same loo as this filthy man who hadn't even washed his hands but had touched the door knob? That meant that he'd not just not flushed his pee away but he'd also touched his thingy together with the pee and then touched the door knob with his fingers which had also touched his thingy and the pee. Talk about the Princess and the Pea, this one qualified for the Guy and the Pee. One step further, he also qualified for a degree in the Guy with the Pee all over the place. There was absolutely no way I was using the loo, and the floor! Oh God, it was pee-riddled. So bladder bursting or not, I had to walk away in disgust and anger. Because a full bladder makes you feel somewhat irritated, but as it was I would have rather taken to doing it doggy style (no, I'm not hinting at the something else) and squat behind a tree somewhere. But I couldn't really pull that one off in broad daylight, so I just had to use the little peoples' loo, which was perfectly flushed and clean. When are men going to learn? With all our eyelash batting, we still manage to pee down the inside of the loo and not down the outside. Are most men myopic? And how do they manage it even without toilet paper? Do they fling it dry in a North, South, East, Westernly manner as in cowboy behaviour, or do they just place it under the automatic dryer? Or do they, God forbid, just put the pee and all into their underwear? And this in turn raises another uncomfortable question, who is it who is washing all those skid marks away? Or do men just dispose of their underwear every day? And what about the men who think underwear should go a long way? Because seeing this nerd didn't flush the loo, if he were trying to save water, then wouldn't he try to make things last as in desperately trying not to use the washing machine? And how does my man, who is slightly myopic always manage to do it all decently? He's not just good, he's very clean. And any guy, no matter how ugly will always pull himself off as long as he's clean. I think there's just one way to do it, confiscate loo keys for a week and let men find their own way to flush their bladder. I'm not so sure they'd be very happy to bare their thingy out to the cold weather and splash all over a tree. Poor tree. But they've got to learn.

Rhetoric

I see a lot of women during the day, perhaps too many. I'm no feminist, but not even a female-turned-male chauvinist pig. I just think the two species should have equal rights, equal opportunities, equal treatment. Which is puzzling, because it seems that women do not want that at all. They want to be treated as the fairer sex when they want to play the game called rhetorical. It consists of flapping smudged eyelashes, pouting colour-smeared lips, adjusting pants as if they were tight-fitting jodhpurs. And they want to play the game with men. And men do not want to play. So they prod, cajole, dig, and pierce them until they have no choice. And then the men beat the women at their own game. Hence the sulks. Geeze, am I the only one seeing it happening every day? Men do not want to play the mind game because they don't need to. Ever since little, they get their own fascinating toy down there. They look at it, touch it, kneed it, do whatever and are happy. We get nothing. But we are also fascinated by the boys' little toy so we learn to appeal to it and make the boys think it's the greatest thing in the world, so great that it can also replace the brain. It's so sad. I think I am against women in the workplace, because my workplace consists so much of women with a sprinkling of men. This sprinkling potential is then halved because we have to let the gay ones out, and what is left is just a pinch. And this pinch is constantly being abused by the eyelashes, the lips, the head laugh. And the saddest part of it is, that the abusers are ugly women who think that the cosmetic field can make them beautiful, and then again they do not even know how to use the cosmetic fields, so they smear and smudge, blacken what is already ugly, probably in the hope of hiding it. And they do one miserable job of it because they haven't yet learnt that there is no prettier nose than mine. That is all. So subtract all of these and add the rhetoric game. The What-if etc etc. Just leave them alone. They're loners like me. They don't want to play because they have their fair share of play. Just like me. And no, I'm not growing myself some phallic something just for my pleasure. I have enough toys...

And now it's the freckles!

I tried. I really tried not to get another "Are you all right?". But Dior didn't even manage it. And just as I am carefully reading out an exam paper to a boy I get it again; a stranger asking an "Are you sure you're all right?". And the thing is I'm sure I'm all right but I'm not sure what is causing this doubt of allrightyness. So I asked why, just got an already known answer, "Because you look sort of pale. And because it's as if you have freckles of something." Freckles or something? Freckles by all means, but a something as if it were contagious? I like my freckles, even if I didn't like them, they've always been there, so it's not as if I have ever had a choice. Freckles do not make me look all wrong. This is now bordering on the discriminatory. It's mostly the Church's fault, because the Church is easy to blame and it's so strong as to bear the brunt of everything. But all those love-the-klandestini-neighbours sermons are having their toll. So now the Church-going population is starting to think that dark is normal, and pale is not normal. Any time now I'm going to be thrown sticks and stones just for being whiter than white. I'd better not comment on what I feel for the klandestini because sometimes I grumble my fair share. And at the same time I think it could be me. And apparently it's starting to be me, just on the furthest colour palette. I am taking a good look at my face in the mirror and I think it's normal. But people don't think so, including my mum. My mum thinks I look worn out. And that makes me think of the Bible, as in the 7 years of famine and the 7 years of abundance. And I don't want to think about fattened cows for a very good reason. I'm not worn out, I lead quite an easy lifestyle, I get enough sleep, I basically don't do much. Nothing to be worn out by. But with a big majority of men turning gay, and with so many klandestini running all over the place, I really think I'm going to become a very rare breed of white. It'll be just black babies sooner or later. And my yet uncooked babies will be the subject of racism because they'll be white. It's my grandad, God bless his soul, who was a terrifically good looking man even in his eighties, the product of an Englishman who left his seed and fled to his country. Generations later, I inherit the white skin and the freckles. Just what's a girl like me to do?

Diagnosis

I'm trying not to cry. And nothing's wrong. But something is making me unhappy. A something which depends on just me. My love life is fine, my pets are fine, my family is also fine. It's just me. It's got to change, and it's got to go, and it's got to relieve me of the unhappy feeling. I have so much to be overjoyed for. But I am seeing a pattern, and sometimes, for us who are not hypochondriacs, we can diagnose ourselves better than anybody else. The pattern has got to go too. It's just one thing, but it's killing me. And I'm just 35.

A whiter shade of pale?

I have been asked a genuine "How are You?" some ten times today. I have also been asked an "Are you all right?" some ten more times. And I am trying to see what is generating all this genuine concern. I just don't know. The only thing I can come up with is the fact that I look pale, sometimes very pale. Perhaps I also look as if I am in some magical trance, because I just am never sure where to go, which steps to take and I make sure that I stay well out of the reach of new people. One genuine colleague has said I look stressed out. But I don't feel stressed out. It's the colour of my skin which is making me look like this. I cannot help it. God just sent me white, sometimes too white. Perhaps that is what makes my Mister's life easy when it comes to choosing a shade of Dior foundation. I suppose it's pretty easy, the lightest shade goes... perfectly. And I'm no English rose. I'm just a one hell of a mix-up. I am the only girl in the family who gets black hair, brown eyes. Then I am the palest one of all. And while the other girls flaunt their blue eyes and blond hair, I have whiter than white skin. And of course my twin has been the one to be blessed with green eyes, then he gets a tanned complexion to go with it. That makes me just one thing; a mongrel. A bit from here, another bit from there, no wonder I don't look like anybody in my family. That is why I really believed I was adopted when I was 5, I thought that maybe they'd found me somewhere, taken me in, and told a big lie to go with it. People said my twin looked like my mum, and stopped short at me. And then I wonder why after 35+ years of living, I still feel like a misfit. If I'm lucky or unlucky I'll get some more 35 years. And then I can pull of my pale skin perfectly...

My man and Dior

Lonely days are over. And just like a child I am happy with my pressies... more Dior make-up. God, it's so sophisticatedly addictive. The deep blue packaging, the slick glass, all of which I know I'm paying for yet I buy anyway. Well actually I didn't buy it, the Mister did. Because Maltese Dior stockists are really backward. I read on the Internet that yet another Dior product is out, that means it will take at least six months to perhaps start prettifying Maltese Dior stands, but my Mister solves all that. I wonder how he does it. It would help if he looked gay but he looks anything but. I wonder how he goes up to the Dior rep and asks her about foundation. And he has no qualms about it, I just have to write whatever it is I want down on a scrap of paper and he just gets it. I have asked him if he's shy, and he just looks at me as if I had just spoken in Japanese. If it were the other way round, I'd be very painfully shy, but not him. And as if asking a female rep for foundation isn't enough, he also goes to the trouble of choosing shades. And he gets it right... always. He also manages to get a very big number of samples. Go figure. I have trouble walking up to a Dior counter on my own, and I'm a girl. He's a boy and he does it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I wish I were a little fly watching while the rep smears different shades of foundation on his wrist. That would be hilarious. And I just know what he'd do once he'd chosen the shade, hold his wrist out for the rep to clean it off! And he says he gets an awful lot of help, which I never get. Perhaps make-up reps thinks he's about to come out of the closet, feel sorry for him and help. That makes my man a closet man. Well it's almost Carnival, and there's bound to be a lot of Batmen, Supermen, Wondermen... and one Closetman.

Enemalta!

Apologies for not having blogged just one entry yesterday. It's wasn't my fault, but Enemalta's. Enemalta people seem to be pretty brazen, they issue massive bills then they don't even live up to their reputation I could have cried yesterday, just when I was on the topmost floor I was swallowed up in darkness. And I think it must have been a very hungry darkness. So there I was with two big dogs, in pitch black, and making my way gingerly through two storeys. I think it could have been fatal, now I know how it feels to be blind, and it's just not very nice. Somehow I made it downstairs only to find out that the only candles were upstairs, so up I went again. Power-cutting is all black for me, I even get a black mood to go with it. Some people say it's cosy. Cosy is sleeping under my duvet by choice. Cosy is not staring into the dark sitting at the kitchen table and smoking because there's nothing else to do. Because then cosy takes a metamorphosis of its own, that is, cosy and cursing. I don't care if Enemalta have a fault, they shouldn't have a fault. I don't pay for faults, sorry. So the picture was very dark, with one candle and me trying to read articles off The Sunday Circle magazine. Real shit. And then I had a cruel brainwave, since there was nothing else to do, nobody to talk to, I'd cook! And so I did, and hated it from the very first minute. Bad bad idea. I don't even cook in broad daylight, let alone in pitch darkness. But somehow the cooking made me feel sleepy, and so I was switching off the candle, when bang, the house is like a heavily-lit Christmas tree. Grrr. And I had a choice, to swear or not to swear. And I didn't but sighed instead.

Body Language

Today I woke up just that little bit apprehensive and very very scared. Exam times. And I'm not the one taking exams. But I knew it would be a new school, new little people. And their reaction. And I kept putting off making an entrance till the last minute, because if it was going to be tough then I might as well have as little tough minutes as possible. I really thought they might laugh, and they probably did, my new colleagues that is. Not the little people, as usual I needn't have worried one single bit. I had a lovely boy whose academic abilities I shall not comment on because it really would be very inappropriate and it also doesn't matter. He didn't stare. He didn't laugh. He just talked to me, very normally. I would know if it weren't the case, you see I'm not paranoid, I'm just real. And I have no idea why I always have to get a cute boy who explains to me that he's just asked Jesus to come with him. And I cannot help but love a boy like that. My job is to facilitate little people during exams. And that is just what I did. I helped, as in reading, prompting and whatever. But of course I cannot help as in giving the answer. It is against rules and what's more important is that it wouldn't be fair. And I like to think I'm fair. And just as I was quietly concentrating on reading quite an easy comprehension this voice startles me into real life. A voice which said sternly, "No helping please, beware of your body language". E? Body language? There it goes again, the flippin body. Just when I think my body language scores a big perfectly round zero. What language? And why do I have to be singled out? Of course, the voice, being female and thus coy then turned to all the others and said the same thing in a very milder tone. Cool, now I've got a body language. As if I don't hide my body enough, now I have to hide its language too. Does it mean that since the volume of my body is already massive, then my body language is also big, shrieking, screaming or what? If a little person has difficulty in concentrating then is a little "Go on" push interpreted as bad body language? It wasn't as if I was giving the finger anyway. It wasn't as if I had my cleavage on show, it wasn't as if I had dressed to be promptly arrested. What is this language? Why is the fact that a boy feels and looks comfortable in my presence always singling me out during exam time? I didn't even 'look' like a teacher, if there is a teacher look at that. And I'm getting quite mad now. Because of an observer's snooty looks, one who looked as if she'd just dragged herself in from a heavy clubbing night in Paceville. I thought so, I felt the vibes, and she probably felt as if her sight was way too perfect too have me in it. I'm not sure whether to plummet her to near-death tomorrow. She's no match for me, one whistle and I'd have her thrown right next to the 'klandestini' in Hal Safi. Because she's not a tiny person, but a very little non-existent imperfect edged zero. And that's the whole truth.