Supermarketting

Today was well, different. Because I got to do housewife chores. I didn't sweep, clean, or do laundry. None of the sort. But I had to brave it to the supermarket because I had to, Mister couldn't make it, and we were heading for the fairy tale story, where a little girl peeps into the cupboard and it's all bare. That bad. I didn't bank on the trip making me so miserable. First you have to park your car, then try and find 1Euro to shove into the trolley because somebody thinks that if the public gets to put the euro into the trolley then they will take the extra trouble to put it in it's previous place to get the euro. I couldn't care less, so disgruntled was I. One Euro would never make me do that, in fact I really wanted to abandon the damn trolley in the sweltering sun. But since people were looking, well, you know. Anyway I somehow made it in safely, loaded my trolley with Diet Coke, all the while getting very strange looks. What's wrong with Diet Coke? Nothing, I just hate supermarkets so much that I really load my trolley with Diet Coke with the plan that getting a lot of it will at least save me another trip to the damn place. So I'm in, suddenly a mother looking like a granny swipes the smile off a little boy's face with a nice slap. Poor boy, of course he wanted his sweets. Who wouldn't? I wanted them too but I got scared that I would be getting slapped by this woman. So, no sweets. Until I turned a corner and the mummy looking like a granny was out of site, so I could push my favourite chocolates in the small space in my trolley. Next thing I go on a guilt trip, I see a perfect, perfect blond physique on two long pins, all made up, in heels wheeling a trolley as if it were the most natural thing to do. How do they do it, I was a mess, so hot, a heavy trolley... that's no place for heels. But some women can actually do it. I cannot. And I saw something new. Men, on their own, pushing empty trolleys. Strange, they were also eyeing the ladies. Have supermarkets become the new dating agency or what? The ladies seemed to take the cue, so many were battering eyelashes that would put Max Factor to shame. Pathetic. Or not. I was still interested only in getting out of there, as fast as possible. I have an aversion to these places, and changing venues still doesn't change anything. No wonder the deodorant department was almost sold out, some people reeked of onion, oh God. But the razor department was very well stocked up, probably the reason why so many women had hairy armpits. Next time... there won't be a next time. I'm out of there for good, even if I have to starve.

If only...

This laptop of mine has proved to be the present anybody gave me. And to think I was so rude about it. I opened it, looked blankly, put it in back again, and placed it in a cupboard for it to see the dark for six long months. That is exactly the degree I go to when faced with change. It can get worse than that. I don't know why. Anyway I start becoming envious of everybody carrying their laptop and being able to be 'there' everywhere they go. And I suddenly remember that I have a hell of a laptop, which is sitting in the dark. Poor laptop. So I gingerly take it out, and try. Big failure. When you're trying something new, and your mind is subconsciously resisting it, there is no way you're winning. But I did win, and now am able to carry it like all the other people. Ok, I wish it were pink, but that doesn't sound like reason enough to buy another one. And then, another one would mean change again. No, I'm staying put with my Dell. And I'm not thinking happy things, but facts. Facts aren't always happy. Neglect. Oh God how bad that can be. It's a knife in the soul of innocent ones who hope to get better. It makes them probably scream inside, but there is nobody to hear them. They're doomed. It's the truth, I am not trying to make up the basis for a sad novel, although there would be plenty to write. The air is oppressive and it does nothing to take my mind off those people who are hoping, and hoping, the same people who finally stop hoping and vegetate because their dignity has been stripped, through neglect. And I hope the people responsible rot in hell. Because if I even had the doubt that a little person was being treated in half the same way, I'd go ahead and do something, even if it were just telling that perfect man who would instantly understand and move mountains if necessary. That same man who crops up time and time again, if only he knew what a good role model he is. But he probably doesn't know, such is his humbleness. Then I also know big men, who have no idea what humbleness means and go about with an ego so big that it becomes dangerous. But then again, the bigger the ego, the less the self esteem, or so I have heard lately. Just like bullies, they are just about beings trying to feel superior because they cannot live with the inferiority they feel. What a complex world, or perhaps we human beings make it all the more complex. Power, money, manhood, womanhood (just for it to be equal). And the less fortunate ones are under their thumb, wasting day by day. Just because there is nobody like that perfect man in this sphere. If only there were. If only...

OCD-ing

OCD. The three letters which have me in despair. Because they're used oh so loosely as if they were funny three letters stuck together for laughter's sake. For the real sufferers, they're painful of course. For me, I think I have an OCD life, I breathe the three letters to perfection. I even OCD sleep if that were possible, because I don't sleep much seeing that I keep leading the OCD lifestyle. Right now, I have got into the habit of biting the inside of my lower lips. All the time. And come nightfall, I swear it's the last time I'll be doing it. Yet, come morning I go into relapse. But that is also nothing compared to the real OCD. I get all kinds of them, right now, it's the diamond OCD, which is the best of them all. I keep designing, re designing my diamond. I'm calling it my OCD diamond, because it has to have a name and it sounds like a very fitting name from where I am writing. It'll be a big fat diamond, for many reasons. For one, I have never understood why diamonds come in a 0.01 carat. Why break a lovely think like a diamond into such tiny pieces? The girl who consents to wearing such a farce of a diamond must be in dire need of therapy. Because just to take the truth out of it, it'll be called a delicate, simple, dainty thing. I don't want delicate, or dainty. And the last thing I want is to be called simple. So come off it you men, dig down into your pockets... and pay the price. Another reason why I have to have a big one (diamond I mean), I'm not small myself, and that is one reason why God created big girls, to be able to show off big stones unashamedly. I need at least a 2.5 and that's the minimum. Of course I'll have a bigger one (diamond again). Size isn't an issue? Oh of course it's an issue, the bigger the better. So come Tuesday, I'm off for a biggie... a big diamond that is. Perhaps then that would also mean the end of my OCD. Two killed with one big one.

Fundraising

I have realised that I have a blog backlog. Apologies to all. I probably just found myself having so much to do I wasn't even aware of it. But it feels so much like home here and now I am aware of the abstinence. Well, what was so important? Probably it was something which I was dreading and making it more important than it really was. A family wedding, that's a big shudder. I don't like weddings very much. No, I like fairytale stories, and living happily ever after tales. I love romance, I love seeing it on other people's faces. Romance is good because it pushed the happy hormones. At least I think it does. I wouldn't know if weddings actually made the happy hormones tick too. I haven't yet had my own. And there's good reason for that. I think the ritual is too long, too expensive, not for me. I could do it in jeans in 15 minutes and that would be fine. But even then, there is too much to prepare. Cana's family planning something. Which is a farce, would be a farce where we are concerned. After living happily ever after for 6 years together and emerging childless, then shouldn't we be given credit and let off the hook for that one? No, that's not what the Church thinks. So I push the whole thing to the back of my mind. I'm not one for white either. I'm fine. But it has occurred to me just how much money I could make out of a wedding. I call it fundraising. Because since we don't need furniture, white goods, nothing because we already have it all, then I could make a big profit. And what's a day of embarrassment against a big profit? Not torture really. I think I could just about grin and bear it and think of the Euro sign all the time. And thus the Math comes in, 100Euro per couple.... times a lot of couples. I am sure that certain people would make a no-show, because we're living in sin, sin, sin. And sex, sex, sex. I guess I'd better start looking into chapels so I can get rid at least of the sin, hopefully not of the sex. It's all in the name of fundraising.

Monkeys

I see a lot of uninteresting people who try to be interesting. Their resemblance to monkeys is frightening. They talk in a half pigeon English, half broken Maltese. I hate all that. Give me good old Maltese anytime. But I'd win hands down with these people in any English competition. And no, my mum, if it's the only good thing she did, never brought us up on English. I cannot even imagine myself talking in English to my parents, or to my brother. Oh God, he'd die laughing, because we just don't do it. And yet English comes as natural to me as Maltese. Probably the tons of books I have read in my lifetime, mostly good, some bad. Some screwed with my mind and still remain my favourite. Take Hardy, he screwed me with his Tess, at 11 I couldn't imagine why D'Urberville took her behind the tree and her innocence in the process. It was only when I was admitted to hospital a few months later, nothing special, on suspected appendicitis, that a surgeon spotted my property (my book) and said perhaps I was way too young to read that? But at the same time, doctors gave me a pregnancy test to rule that out. So if I was old enough for that, then I was old enough for Hardy. Then it suddenly made sense. Somehow something went wrong in my love for books. Today, we badger little people to read, read, please read. Please read and I'll buy you a computer. When I was growing up it was a stop reading, stop this bullshit reading or else. But I didn't stop. I never do. The worst thing anybody can do with yours truly is issue an ultimatum. Because I just love breaking the rules. It's exciting as a night of basic instinct with a married man. Those were my wild days. Single men? No thank you. Bring over the married ones, bored to the core, because I was young and about to rub their ego to ejaculation. So easy. And they will in turn rub your everything, eager to please. Perhaps we are all like monkeys, and some of us are quick learners and get to perform wicked tricks in the bedroom stakes. And perhaps we are really monkeys because it's all a jungle. But, I prefer to be the lioness.

Celebs

How is one supposed to feel when they see an email in the inbox, and it's coming from a local celebrity? Surprised at the very least. I actually was about to delete the email because I thought it would be some spam from someone posing to be the local celeb. But I didn't, because curiosity will not just kill the cat, but me together with the cat. And I'm glad I didn't. Because it was all true. I'd have thought that having a local 'celeb' brother with so many local 'celeb' friends would make me immune to it all. And it does. Except for one man. He makes me laugh, and opinion-forming me already had an opinion. A very wrong opinion. A 'normal' man who is perhaps very sensitive too. Plenty of insight, but then I guess you have to have that sort of insight to woo audiences. Once a man is on stage, he probably has to size up his audience in seconds first, then work from there. Brilliant stuff. Try making people cry, that's easy. Try making them laugh, not so easy. People like to laugh and cry not necessarily in that order. And in a credit crunching society, it's even more difficult to make them laugh and cry, again not necessarily in that order. The British are well known for their one of a kind humour. Malta... I see nobody, except for one man. He's on his own, wether it's a good thing or not. And because he draws people by the crowds, then I, for one, decide that I am royal stuff and remove myself from the rest. Or maybe not. The rest are loud, vulgar, ignorant. I'm not of course. And yet I harbour their same thoughts with a vengeace. I like, no, love, the same thing precisely. So does that put me into their same net? Ir probably does. Because then again, I love garish, loud, flashy. But convent school leaves it's dire marks on any girl. I have come to hate most local 'celebs' because their manhood probably doesn't work anymore seeing that it's their heads which swell and not their private parts. They love the attention, they lap it up as if they were lapping up the sun in Ghajn Tuffieha. They say it's too much, and talk about how lovely it would be to go about unobtrusively. All lies. They're all the same. But for this one man. And there is probably an even better woman somewhere edging him on. Good girl.

Shoulder massage?

Hey hey hey it's my second day of trying to be positive. So here we go. Nothing's changed much, yet I keep thinking up, up, up. And somehow I'm not in despair. So far so good. But I realise that I have fallen back on my anthropology research. I need to be a pain in someone's ass, I need a persjana, which would be the wooden apertures found fixed on windows in Maltese houses. I don't have one in my house, although I still go and have a look through my peeping hole sometimes. Peeping hole... oh dear that sounds pervert. Not just a peeping Tom, but one with a hole? Why do the things I have seem to be perverted, and if they aren't they become perverted on their own. Maybe this house has a perverse vibe, there it goes again, the vibe. Vibes in so many sizes, textures, colours, it's endless. It's all welcome, just don't push the glass one in my face. I am not making the trip to Mater Dei to have any glass removed and having to explain how it got where in the process. Which gets me to where I want to be. I passed by a pharmacy, nothing special, picking up some paracetamol, nothing sexy there either. And lo and behold there was this dangerous looking vibe, in the shop window placed carefully sideways so as to leave nothing to the imagination. I so wished I was four for a minute, with twin brother on tow. He'd have asked what that was in front of a shopful of people, in a high pitched voice and shamed my mother. He's always been very good at that, and making me laugh in the process. Back to the vibe. Another funny thing, it's being marketed as something which makes your aches and pains go away, like a massage tool. Ok it's a tool, that's obvious, and perhaps it really wipes out the aches and pains, but it's no shoulder relaxing machine. Or a DIY back massage. The shape says it all. And yet that's what it said on the window. And it was placed strategically to be noticed. Purposely. Oh and it comes with rechargeable batteries, and it's waterproof, just in case it falls in the bath when you're massaging your poor shoulder blades. Now that feels sooooo good.

Tit for Tat

I always have thought that it is vital for every human being to have a dream; to chase that dream; to give it birth even if it is through a difficult labour. Chase that dream. I'm not so sure now. I see a man who rose above all expectations, who chased his dream, who finally was close enough to feel it, and yet was thrown back just seconds before closing the deal on his dream. And it makes me feel so sorry, so sad, although I'm not sure I am helping very much in that way. It almost throws me into despair, but I cannot go down that road because despair is the step before death. I have to look up if I am going to be of any help. And yes I have to be of help because that is what love is all about. I have finally find a way to resurrect his dream and make it real for him to touch it and live it. I have no way. And it makes me feel helpless, but helplessness is another road I cannot let myself go down, because helplessness is eerily similar to despair. Is it fair? No it isn't, but then who said life was fair anyway? But he chased my dreams, and now I will chase his. Not as in a tit for tat, but as in a because I love him thing. And since I can only look up, up is where God is. No I do not go to God just for help, but even if I did, He'd help me anyhow. Because God is another version of loving, and it's not a tit for tat kind of loving. At least I want to believe in that because otherwise my head will hurt, my brain will start thinking despair. Or perhaps God always does His tit for tat loving, loving me because I am His daughter, loving my man because He is his son. It's all tit for tat, and it's a good thing because ironically it's all in the beauty of unconditional; as in unconditional love.

Bye bye clutter

I have been given a stern, clear warning... I either have to clear up my act... or else! Unfortunately, I have to wave goodbye to the clutter, which will mean discovering plenty of new space. I've done it once before, two years ago. Now it's time again. And the mere thought makes me go weak at the knees. And not in a good way. I hate doing this. So I will probably sit somewhere and drink Diet Coke and smoke and talk. Because someone has to provide the entertainment, and that is something which I am good at. And effortlessly so. I am not too keen on sweating it out, not in this kind of heat. Calorific loss has to come from something else. So I'll have a brand new house and that's cool. Or not so cool. Because I am used to finding my way around my clutter, although I keep losing things and finding them a year or so later. But as I peep into my garage, oh dear Lord, probably anyone but me would have a fit. A garage is supposed to house a car, not a million bits and bobs acquired over 35 years. It will all have to go. And it's not going to be easy.

The diamond perception

Sometimes seeing things from different angles of a something helps. Sometimes it doesn't. Just like watching a diamond up close and personal. A shiny diamond might be so brilliant to the naked eye that it looks perfect. Then again, magnifying it could reveal flaws and imperfections. Would I rather know the truth? Not really. Because we are all like diamonds, and we all have hidden imperfections which we have the right to hide. And perhaps revealing imperfections is humiliating. And unless humiliation is part of the pact and bargain, then no, leave those kids and less-so kids alone and let them do their thing and move on. If their imperfections are so hard to fathom out, then that's ok. That means that they strive to do the good thing. A man who looks bad and is bad usually does nothing to hide it. And perhaps that man also might be better left alone to bask in his hideousness of a creature. So I am here in this unclear world with so many people having so many different versions of real life, of what is the truth. And what is that? Your truth might be different to mine. Because you might perceive things so differently. And our perceptions might both be valid. You might think a diamond is just a rock like any other, to me it's a distinctive kind of rock, one which I would love to prettify and mould it into a six-prong setting. It still is a rock, and it still is a diamond. And where I get my love for diamonds is a mystery. A diamond is a girl's best friend huh? To me it's my ego all put into a rock, which I prefer to call a stone. And what is strange is that throughout the course of my life I have picked up quite a number, and yet yearn for more. I would give up eating if someone gave me diamonds instead. What a terrific diet that would be. I'd turn into a size 8 with an 8 carat on my finger. But I'm not so sure that anybody is ready to do that. What a pity. And I have a feeling I am rambling on from one thought to the other which makes sense to me, but which might not make sense to you. I'm sorry if it doesn't. But it's all about perception, the magical golden word.

More please

We live and we die, we laugh and we cry, so that makes it... we eat and throw up? I certainly hope not. I have been to dinner with some amazing conversation, because really, what makes a good dinner (apart from the food), is the conversation. Of course good food helps, a lot. I have eaten so much, but it's ok because that is part of the celebration; the celebration of a brilliant mind. It's a female one too, just in case anybody reading starts having any ideas which go to their well-rubbed ego and to their brain. I will never grumble that I lack the quantity of close friends, because having known quality I go for that. Good food, good conversation, a good friend, a terribly good evening. There was not one stall in the conversation. Which is not surprising, I wasn't expecting any. Now I don't exactly hang out with half-wits, but this, oh dear, this is a sight for sore brains. Brainy people? Not like this one. Yet so human. So laid back, easy going, and still the feisty girl in there. People really do not change, they just develop and their essence becomes even more concentrated. This time round, it's good. Because prodigies develop into genius. They might not be very aware of it, but it's all there. And I'm lucky enough to bask in that glory, permission granted of course. And I want more...

Hands

My hands hurt. And it's not fair. Because, outside of this blog, I am really quite a polite lady. I certainly do not gesture with my hand in Sicilian style, I do not keep touching people when talking to them i.e. I don't talk to people much anyway and when I do I will most certainly not touch them again and again. I know one man who does that, he makes me so irritable that I want to thump him and cry at the same time. He should know better, he's soooo highly educated and thinks that people should bow to his very existence. But he still keeps on with the touching, and people do not bow to him (I would go as far as to pay them so as not to bow to him), but he still thinks they should. This man thrives on power, little power as to where he sits on the table (which is not my table thank you), who gets the first glass of wine, who lights up the first cigarette. And he's not young by any means. Back to my hands, I am quite composed, I keep my hands pretty if it's the only thing I keep pretty. My hands will be always polished, no nail polish chipping, that thought on its own is makes me want to throw up. And back to that man. This is sounding as if I'm going back and forth, which I do a lot not just in writing. The man's hands are striking, although not for their beauty. Beauty has two facets, what turns one on could make another run a mile. I'm not sure if I hate them, but I don't really like them. They are so pale, hairy, and pale and hairy. And pale. Mine too are pale, but they sort of match me. This man's hands don't match him. Clinical hands that look as if they've been given a lot of scrubbing by stern mother who caught her son in the act; in The act. I have been brazen enough to ask, he denies anything of the sort, I'm not too convinced. Or perhaps latex gloves are the ones with powder on the inside, a lot of that every day would make them white I suppose. Still very unsexy. Clean white hands... I like the rugged type, but then I don't exactly go for plumbers and farmers. His hands carry no rings, bands, wedding band. Mine carry a lot of weight, but not enough. I would love to carry an 8 carat around, no matter how much my hands hurt. That's a nice idea, one which I will pursue till death do me part. I'm certainly not the type to be happy with a small little ring, which men have made women called 'dainty'! Men are crafty, they have also somehow installed it in women's heads that big diamonds are loud. Misericordie! I go for the big ones, because in diamonds bigger is always better. I just don't care if I am called loud. It's just envy because my hand is a siren, a flashing siren. Then again, maybe my hands are screaming for a break, because they hurt under all that weight.... yeah, dream on.

Ir-Razzett l-Antik

It's very early morning on a Sunday. I am past my bedtime. But it doesn't matter that I'm not at all sleepy because I will not have to drag myself to school when I finally get to bed, sleep, and wake up. This weather is killing me, my long hair doesn't help me either. But there goes vanity. I'll never give it a snip, not for a million Euro. Then again perhaps I would give it just a snip for a million Euro, but since that is not happening, then I'm safe. But apart from the heat today wasn't bad at all, minus the one full hour wasted in finding myself an elegant pair of pants to wear to today week's wedding. Weddings... in this heat. Now that would be a plausible excuse for divorce. Because people marrying in this heat are not in a right state of mind, and, I have big doubts whether the newly married are hopping in bed... not even with two air conditions on. This heat brings out the worst in me. The bad bad bad worst. But today was something else. So I decided to check out this restaurant promising good Maltese food. To say the truth, I was sceptical and I thought that I was in for a disappointment. Again, not today. I was instantly surprised, beautiful place, beautiful surroundings, really nice friendly staff, and omg the food! The food above all, was heavenly. It's been some time since I have been served with such smiles, since I have been treated as a human being, and as an elite human being at that. What is it with my accessories, why is it that the minute I decide to dress up I am treated like the queen? I don't know, but I'm not arguing. And all this was happening at a place called ir-Razzett l-Antik, which to me didn't seem very promising. It wasn't just a Razzett, it was also old, would it live up to my expectations? Sure enough it didn't. It surpassed all my expectations. Lovely place to be welcomed like that, friendly but polite, and by the end of it we had got rid of the Dr. and Miss (I'm just a Miss!) titles and staff were seated at our table like friends. I loved that. I also loved the spotless bathrooms, the quick elevator which sends you straight into a smoking terrace (meaning smoking is allowed on the terrace), I loved the way the tables were dressed, comfortable chairs, the whole lot. Again, the food is cooked to perfection. I don't think Cetta round the corner could make brungiel mimli like that, or haruf like that. But then it depends what you mean by Maltese cuisine. Ravjul overcooked smeared with tomato paste? That may be Cetta's idea, but here I was treated to cuisine so perfect that it was reminiscent of the Kavallieri who would forget the chastity vow. Perfect, I would award them 5 Michelin stars, I award them that anyway in my mind. And... of course we had entertainment of the typical Maltese sort... myself staring at a strange couple. He must have been 70 (seriously), she was no older than 25! Yeah yeah I love these couples, I was one of such couples not just once in my life. But I would have never ever dated this man. He ate fenek with gusto, meaning he had his ten fingers and two palms in the food. He kept pouring wine while smearing the bottle with bits of fenek. His glass, once transparent became opaque. And he finished eating, and I kept waiting for him to go and wash his dirty smelly hands... he never did. But he did take his mate's hand in his! Yuk! His mate, a petite (they all are) Philippine who spelt red young lolita. Now I know love makes you blind, but does it also meddle with your olfactory system as well as the sense of touch? Couldn't she realise she was holding a hand smelling like a forgotten rabbit hutch? Rabbits are rodents, for God's sake. And of course my dirty mind kept wandering. It was clear they were heading to an other course after dinner; intercourse. I really hope he washed his hands. Having smelly rodent-meaty covered hands all over my body isn't my idea of fun. But perhaps that's what it means when they say they fuck like rabbits? I'm not too keen on finding out there. But I keep thinking of the poor Filipino and the 75 year old reeking of rabbit. No wonder I can get no sleep. Back to my fine dining experience. To be recommenced, and highly so. I just got an entertainment bonus, that's all. But then I seem to stumble on things like these and I swear I don't plan on it. Five stars go to ir-Razzett l-Antik!

Are you behaving yourself?

There lies one gentle doctor, brilliant, cool, calm and collected. One has to listen very carefully to what he says, because it's always in an undertone. Something which I could describe as sotto voce. Why? Because he is no prima donna like some other doctor. Perhaps because he is into pathology and not into the brainy kind of medicine. Perhaps brainy doctors are queer. And although it's a different kind of medicine to the brainy field, this doctor, quite brainy himself, is a tinge strange. He reminds me of Sherlock Holmes, but he has no Watson, there is no trace of gay in him. Although he's quite good at being a detective in his work. Pathology must be no mean feat, it is, in a way, very much like detective work, one still has to chase the culprit doing harm. So perhaps it's fitting that he dons the Holmes look. My wild guess is that he has a very attractive female Watson too. It's all there in the eyes, in the subdued voice. Almost perverse. Or actually perverse. But one thing he asks, always asks is, have you been behaving yourself? The first time I was taken aback. Was I in a doctor's surgery, in a confessional, an 8 year old being quizzed by a stern headmaster? Then I noticed the smile, a wry kind of smile, just like a British. Oh God, this was sexual. And how do you answer a question like that? I was in a state of panic. If I said no, then that would make me a nerd, if I said yes then would that make me a sex maniac? I had very little time to make up my mind. So I said nothing, I decided to copy the wry smile. And I smiled my wryest smile. I'm not sure if it worked or not. This man has eerie insight. And I'm not sure I'm looking forward to my next visit. Because he'll ask again. And can I get away with smiling again? I'm not so sure. Perhaps I'll direct him to my blog.

Oh so pretty!

This is me in a good mood. Because the world sometimes gives you a broad smile and you have to know how to see it in time. This time, I'm in time. And it feels good, and pretty. The word pretty never fails to make me smile anyway, even just on its own. It reminds me of an extroverted woman and an introverted man trying to make music. I've performed it plenty of times with them, and it's always been a scream. I've always been treated to one big laugh. Because over 50 people shouldn't exactly belt out an 'I feel pretty' to an audience. Oh come on. Neither should over 50 people fill their good lungs with air to sing, 'For I'm loved by a pretty wonderful boy!', when that boy is an almost 50 year old husband. One thing in for them, it is entertainment of the best kind. It makes me laugh, always, without fail.

I have always wondered how good old Leonard Bernstein actually accepted to compose music to these lyrics. Or maybe it was the other way round. But the words are fun, fun, fun. It's a let-down-your-hair sort of thing where all things suddenly come to life in a big merry go round. The song, if I could write about it in a nutshell, is about a girl who has become so deliriously happy that she's become totally nuts. She thinks that the city should give her its key, she thinks that a committee should be organised to honour her and that Miss America can just resign, all the while being so obsessed with how pretty she is. Lovely song if you want to push your self-esteem. And I somehow can relate to it... such a pretty face, such a pretty dress., such a pretty smile ... such a pretty me! Told you there would be no self-esteem issues here!

Vibes

Sometimes you walk straight into a place and you instantly know you're going to be ok, because you get the welcome vibe. Other times you walk into another place and you start getting apprehensive, the way a victim feels when he spots his bullies from a mile off. At least I do. And I can do nothing about it but bear it. Not grin. Just bear it and think of all the other welcoming places. All that is ok, because you know what you're dealing with. But yet other times, you walk into a place where the vibe is mixed. At least, yet again I do. I walk into one specific place which is welcoming even before you step right into the building, given a hearty welcome, under suspicious eyes. And those eyes drill right into me and make me feel guilty... for being made welcome. I am made to feel like a monster just for the praise of not being a monster. I don't know if that makes sense. I'll try to make it make a little more sense. When you're working with little people, you do not only work with little people, but also with the other adults who also work with little people. And if you love little people they just love you back. It's instant, you don't have to work very hard for that. If you also respect little children, they will respect you back. And little people, who have less inhibitions than big people, will show their love sometimes physically; a big bear hug, a smile, a taking you by the hand, and verbally... I love you Miss. As well as all the other gifts and cards made especially for me. They go to a lot of trouble to make their cards perfect little cards and something like that makes you happy for a month. It's a great big reward and sometimes I wonder what I have done to deserve it. I have done nothing special, I have been fair, and careful not to do the mistakes some teachers have done in my past. That's it. And I don't think I'm their supreme superior, I can guide them yes, but not shout them into nothingness. That, I'm afraid, is not my style, never will be. I will appeal to them because they are my friends and if they want to be my friend then we have to respect one another. It works. So many people say some horrible things about little people, they're not what we were, and that's a good thing. I love little people who feel comfortable about my presence, who are not afraid to ask, ask, ask, I will answer, that is the least I can do. Yes I have grown to be a big old softy where little people are concerned, and this is coming from the woman who hadn't a clue as to how to say hello. But that was five years ago. Things have changed. Children can be cruel? I don't think so, not if you take the time to explain. It's almost ironic that I, a big girl in all respects get to work with people so little. And... although there is that diversity, I have never had one single problem. True, little people will never be able to make their hands meet around my waistline in giving me a hug, but oh boy do they try! So what's bad about that? Nothing, nothing and again nothing. What's bad is the constant scrutiny of eyes which make me feel bad just because I've been hugged a second ago. It's not a nice feeling, and yes I know about child abuse, but I wonder which judge will make me spend time for having been hugged. The problem is, certain people are pompous and think they not only rule their roost, but their workplace, the environment and the world. Yes that I what I think they think. They do not have a court room but create a court room vibe where they certainly are never in the dock. And it makes me wonder why. All bullies are bullies because they are being bullied themselves, they have a problem with their own identity, so why not shove it on some victim. As it is, I am no little victim, if my crime is being loved by little people, then I am guilty, very guilty. And it's probably what those eyes think, deviant little eyes. If they too are the window to the soul to whom they belong, then I don't even want to think what's inside.

Tears

It's late late late. But I don't care. I feel like shouting Good morning America at the top of my voice. Which doesn't make a lot of sense because it's not morning and it's the E.U. here. But nothing would stop me from doing it anyway, I'll shout Good Night Africa if it so pleased me. Such is the definition of relief. We are not out of the woods yet, but I though that at this time today I would be making funeral arrangement. And instead I am sipping Iced Tea and smoking at leisure. I've cried a million tears today, the tears of spent up stress, the tears which flow involuntarily because they are the body's way of saying, I have to have one outlet please. And so let it be. Tears never hurt anybody. So I can cry, as much as I like.

Fate, in a good way

No blogging yesterday. I couldn't, I just couldn't. Of course I had the time, but I just cannot do it when I'm worried sick. And yesterday, I was worried sick. Now, I am in one big dilemma. Who do I have to thank? Which people, which God, which Higher Powers, which destiny, which stars? My Catholic upbringing says I should thank God Almighty. But then, if the prognosis weren't good, would I have to scream at God Almighty? Where does it stop being God, and where does it start being destiny? Or, where does it stop being fate, and where does it start being God? I am now left off the hook, and just in time. If I hadn't been extra extra careful, it might not have been this way. Now, nobody is going to die on me, at least not prematurely, not yet. I kept thinking Jade Goody, Jade, Jade, Jade. I also kept thinking someone else. Because I hope someone else watches over as he promised. Then again, the words coming out of a mad man's mouth aren't really something to go by. Too much unfinished business which I have put on the imaginary shelf because I don't understand half of it. I call it acceptance, but perhaps it is dense stupidity. Because I can be quite stupid as to the things I don't understand. Which somehow makes sense because stupid is being unable to understand. And in a way it's a dry wicked sense of humour. I am let off the hook, now that's a nice picture. Hooks, being let off hooks. People telling me to hang in there, lovely choice of words. So my Mister stays here at least for some more borrowed time which is called just in time. If only I could share his fate just as we share so much more. I really do my best. And I'm crying, not much of a blogger right now. Will be back. Have to stop the tears and celebrate the good fate.

Looks

Sometimes I get to know something new. Most times it's welcome. Today's something new wasn't. Now let's put this straight, I have no problem with gay people, because why should I anyway? I actually like some gay people because they are nice, polite and decent. Same as are some straight people. Gender issues and sexual orientation issues don't make people less inviting. I believe in all of that and more. I go as far as believing in gay marriage, gay adoption. Why not? Again, sexual orientation does not make anybody less loving. Gay couples could make great parents, or bad parents, same as us the straight ones. But, I am getting treated to gay bitch shit, which I will not tolerate. Because if a gay man has the right to love another man, then I have the right to do so too. If gay men want or need to me feminine, then I have the right to be so too. It basically goes down to the basics, if gay people have the right to eat an apple, then so do I? Apparently not. Because I'm not gay, I'm not black, I'm not diverse in those ways. And after all we say about diversity, there still seems to be one chapter which has been lost along the way. I am also diverse. Because I'm big. And being big does not make me less of a citizen, it does not deplete me from my rights, and it certainly should not be a one way ticket for abuse. Now big old me will not hurt an ant. Big old me will love little people. But big old me subjected to the fat-intolerance-abuse can get scary. One does not need to wear shades and inform me that they are wearing shades because they cannot tolerate the sight. Because their D&G shades are then at an aggressive risk. One does not need to change their place and go eat in another place, preferring the view of a refrigerator while informing me it's because their intestines cannot take it. Then, their intestines are indeed in deep danger. I like all kinds. So I expect to be at least tolerated. It's sad, how size can affect people. I see so many ugly people dear Lord. But I don't look the other way while giving the information. One can be discreet. And careful there, because what looks good to you might be blasphemy to me, and I know what's best. Always.

Unplanned

All people can be put into two categories. It might not be true, but as long as it makes sense according to me, then it’s true. No I don’t think beyond my box, it’s too big. There are the planners and the unplanners. I belong to the latter group. I never plan anything, nothing, not even my forthcoming wedding. I cannot even choose a date, I keep putting it off and off and off, and it’ll happen on its own because Mister will take care of it. He’s a planner. He’s a good care taker. That’s why it works. I don’t even plan where to go, most times I’ve started my car engine and I still don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t plan what to eat because quite simply I don’t cook. I don’t plan what time to get up, I do set alarms, but I know I’ll just be ignoring them the minute they start. And I suppose at my age I should start planning things, seeing that the biological clock is not exactly on my side, but then, what clock? I’ll never make a clock my master. Chocolate perhaps, but not some tick tocking boring old thing. But it’s not all my fault. I started life like that…as unplanned. Nobody was planning me. They were planning the other. I know that for a fact because it’s been told to me a million times. One cheeky doctor had the audacity to say that I was a freak of nature, to which I answered; well it’s a beautiful freak innit? So many things do not make sense about what happened for me to come about. Firstly, nobody was expecting me. I was born first but conceived last. And I was conceived last but born first. It says on my ID card too. I am younger than the All Mighty Adonis prancing about the beaches right now. Good, it means he will age faster. So unplanned me just had to fight harder. My dad, God bless him, always said I was the best surprise in his life. Mum said nothing. But at 35 it doesn’t take a genius to realise how the female and male bodies work when copulating and conceiving. I was the freaky second egg which decided to make a statement and freakishly appear during one menstrual cycle. That’s what made me. Quite cheeky too, kind of gotcha! So perhaps when born unplanned you just get to live unplanned. It’s a nice life, Bohemian, gypsy type of life, you never know what you’re going to get because you never know when and where you are going to start. It’s a laid-back lifestyle, very laid back because you tend to do things at your own pace. You also tend to accumulate a lot of clutter. But then it’s not my fault. I was never planned. So I’ve done the best I could have done. Because just as the thickest of thorns grow unplanned, so do the scented roses.

Demicoli

I’m writing this for a variety of reasons. There seems to be a massive power cut, so that has left me with absolutely nothing to do in the heat. The only thing I can listen to is Joe Demicoli’s version of Chiara’s What if We. Which isn’t such a bad thing after all. I like Joe Demicoli, yes I know he can go hamallu, and yet I still like him, because his wit is what makes me like him. I keep dreaming of going to some dinner dance which is held every Saturday evening at il-Buskett Roadhouse where he is there for the entertainment. Mister smiles every time I request this. He’s a crafty one, he smiles way too much! And yes I know there will be a lot of garish outfits to compliment the hamalli at Buskett Road House, but I still want to go. I can take hamallu, I don’t take nasty, but hamallu is not nasty, it’s just letting your hair very very down and laughing at a lot of jokes which involve sex and lack of it. So what? It’s a small price to pay to enjoy Demicoli, and I might just enjoy the hamallati too. Being a hamallu isn’t that simple, Joe Demicoli is not simple, there is a great mind behind all of that. But he knows where his money making lies, so he goes with the flow. And there again I think of my mother, and now it’s my turn to smile. Oh dear Lord, if she knew I was intent on anything like that, she’d be mortified. She would never go to a place with women whose arms are in camouflage four inch thick solid gold bangles. Myself… although I do not own any of the bangles, I actually like them. Because they’re so big and I like big. Again my mother would never venture to a place which seems over-run by an epidemic of bleach blondes. Myself… I like watching them. Am I a voyeur? Could be. I like watching a lot of things. I just stay as quiet as a mouse, say nothing, and watch watch watch. I’ve always been that way. But I don’t think I’d behave that way at the Roadhouse. I’d probably even join in and be as loud as the rest of the other people. My mother again, she wouldn’t go anywhere where she’d call no uplifting. Sigh. I’d like to uplift a lot of things I will not mention here. But where’s the fun in uplifting? Nowhere. Mum, it’s time you grew up a bit you know and didn’t think that a dirty joke meant queuing for confession the next day at 6am. Sexy, dirty jokes exist for a purpose, and that is either to make you cry or to make you laugh. I choose the latter. Even if they are so soppy that they could pass for a laxative. I sometimes wonder where I really came from. My stoic mum? I can never ever imagine her having sex, and even if she did, she wouldn’t have undressed from top to toe. How did I come about? Did she shoot it through a syringe in private or what? And perhaps she wasn’t sure it went in so she gave it another shot, hence producing unplanned me. Or perhaps behind the most straight-faced of people lie sex vixens? I’ll never know. Mum’s not telling and dad keeps mum about it. All I know is that I just have to go and see Joe Demicoli before I die.

The dread

Sometimes I get this feeling inside my stomach. If I could draw (which I cannot), I'd draw all my stomach contents (probably not a pretty sight) into one big knot. It's a feeling of dread which I cannot explain, because I never know the reason why. And it scares me. Because instead of looking to the future I look to the past. I have a nasty habit of doing this, always going to the past, trying to figure out my ancestry, where I came from, why I don't look like anybody else. And of course there's the nastier past. I have always been aware that somewhere sometime in my life something big would be happening. And it wasn't going to be a nice big kind of thing. And of course I cannot tell the future because I'm lacking a crystal ball, but it still was there. I remember listening to the news when young, and feeling so sorry about some tragedy or other. And in a selfish kind of way I never thought about the dead by tragedy person, but about the ones left behind. Always. And it filled me with dread, as young as 8 years old. The feeling stuck there, and I was driving at 18 when I again used to hear the news and think about the ones left behind, and ask the question... when is it going to be my time? It was my time soon enough, although I never ever banked on having such a cruel time. So that was that. And although statistically speaking I shouldn't have another one, I still keep asking, when do I have seconds? Too much is too big about me, and I'm so scared tragedy will be one of them. I don't want to have to make my way through the thorny entangled bush yet another time. It's way too soon. And way too cruel. Of course I won't die, I will live to tell the tale because that is what I seem to be good at. But I still don't want whatever it is to happen. Guess I should pray to the Gods. But I prayed to the Gods before, I was so certain nothing like that would ever happen, because God knew I couldn't possibly handle it, and God, who knows it all, also doesn't give us more than we can handle. Either God didn't know anything, or else He trusted me way too much. Yet, I emerged, not a stronger person, I am still moved by silly things. I emerged perhaps a battered person who didn't give up, nothing more. But, how much battering can a human being take? My fear is that it's a lot for the chosen ones. Of course I'd never get chosen for a lottery win. I'm not being pessimistic, it's how it is. Will I get chosen again? I hope not, but then why is there the same feeling of dread all over? Fat chance of getting any sleep. Because just to rub more coarse salt into the wound, this is one Leo who won't be sleeping tonight.

Prayer problems

This facebook. Pictures of sweet little people dressed up in what seems to be the latest fairy-looking gear are sprouting out of control on Facebook personal pictures. And they're sweet, very sweet, perhaps sometimes sickly sweet. But I don't have any. Perhaps because this morning was a wake up call, an all in white mass for the little people. And they prayed. And they moved me. Because I didn't know any of the prayers. One went, Hail holy Queen, another, Holy Mary Mother of God... that's all I know. Another was, Our Father who art in heaven... that's all I know of that too. Of course I could look them up in Wikipedia but that would be cheating. Now I'm 35, and these little people are 7. And they teach me a lesson. I was overawed. And try as I might, I cannot remember any of these prayers. I have tried my very best, and I don't get by the first line. Shameful I know, but it's the truth. And yet I was such an avid Muzew goer in my times. How has it come to this? I don't know, but it just felt so shameful that on meeting a childhood friend I just had to ask her. And lo and behold, I think she felt the same. Ok so I'm not on my own here. Two girls raised in convent schools, both not being able to recite prayers. Thank God my mum will never know. And I wonder what going to confession would be like? Confession being a little bit like consensual s and M. You say something and get the punishment or something like it. And since I will very probably not be able to carry out the punishment in its correct style because I'll have absolutely no knowledge, then I'll do just like my dear friend did and recite the National Anthem instead. After all, it's also a prayer. And it'll have to do.

This twin and the other

Loads of pretty little children dressed in white today, Holy Communion Mass. Of course the odd over the top dress in very bad taste, but otherwise school looked like a big field of angels. And it made me happy somehow. Happy to see them and happy to remember myself at that age all excited because I too had a crown and a veil. Such a happy time. It should have been, but of course it wasn't my day, I had to share that too. Luckily, at the time, my twin was nowhere near upstaging cute little me. Because I was the girl in curls with a pretty dimply face with freckles scattered in exactly the right place. My twin.. well he wore the boring suit, boring hairstyle, nothing to get very excited about. My dress was perfect and I could pirouette in it and make my skirt go round like a ballerina's. How things change. I don't think I could get away with the pirouetted now, or my skirt going up showing my undies in the process. I don't think I own a skirt at that. My face remains exactly the same, which is incredibly a very good act of God. I have those curls too if only I wouldn't go under the hairdryer every week. But, I wouldn't fit into that dress which is understandable, and which I like to find understandable even if it weren't. But things change. Let's start with the good ones. The other twin now has less hair (another beautiful act of God). I think that's just about it. The other changes. He can and still does wear a white suit and carries it off beautifully. Gone is the scared little boy always in my shadow. He now parades at Ghajn Tuffieha (or wherever) scantily clad in a piece of cloth called swimwear, apparently designer stuff and also expensive stuff which comes in less stuff than a handkerchief. Seriously, it puts a loin cloth to shame. And sometimes, just to carry on the white theme, they also come in white. Angelic, pure and innocent rolled into one very tiny ball which would fit on a two year old's palm. Big sigh. I am not about to divulge the type of my underwear, but let me safely say it's much more good value for money, and no, I'm not pure anymore, I don't go for it in white, but black. Again, things change. My chest has changed ever since I was a six year old. I have grown a cleavage, which when properly dressed is quite a good cleavage too. Other twin also has a cleavage, which isn't called a cleavage but a pumped up chest complete with biceps, triceps, abs... I'm not sure of the technical body words. Yet another good kind act of God... he gave me my crowning glory which isn't going anywhere, and yet he left me with almost no body hair. Good old God, knew the wax is painful. The other twin, aha, his hair is going somewhere extremely soon, and if it weren't for the wax, he'd be mistaken for a bush. And not the sexy kind of bush either. The fact that he goes dark brown in summer doesn't help him much. I stay white, white and pale.
Back to the innocent boys and girls. I like to think I was one of them. I wasn't, thanks to the other twin, who kept informing me that he was about to pee in his pants during the whole ceremony. As the good girl I was back then, I found him a loo to settle the business. If it were the bad girl I am now I'd encourage him to actually do his business in his pants no problem. So it's wasn't just my day, but on second thoughts, I never thought I'd grow up and remember the whole thing and find it so hilariously funny... thanks to the other twin. And God bless the twins... seeing that I think He cannot even bless me on my own.

The Shoes

Finances again. I've just realised I'm good in finances. Because I am just great to the economy, my greatest contribution being... shoes. How I love shoes. I've loved them ever since I was a little child. I was never the perfect child, I would throw tantrums because I wanted to wear my red not my pink shoes thank you very much. Mums might think that pink is for girls, and perhaps it is for many girls, but red it is for me. Always has been. The sight of something red sends me into an almost-orgasm. Then if it is a red shoe... oh it's not staying in the shop window for any longer. Yes I do have a fetish, I actually have a shoe room. I also have plenty of shoes bought but never worn because there is not enough time. But I still have to have them. There's no way anybody else is handling them with their grubby fingers. Shoes talk. At least they talk to me a lot. Every time I enter a shoe shop I start hearing things like, 'Pick me', 'Take me'. Really. The last time I counted them it was more then 500 pairs. Honestly, this is no bragging, just saying things as they are. I've since lost count. I wear a size 41/8 and this hasn't stopped me from my shoe addiction. One time in Italy I had a hard time. I was trying to shoe shop and my size seemed to be an alien size. Then one shopkeeper said it all.... we not do 41 because they be ugly. Pardon? Ma per piacere, I am loaded with size 41's and they're not ugly. I think I actually have pretty feet. I hate to see some feet now it's summer, they're all squiggly and diddly and need a good manicure, a good wash, and they need to be broken and put into plaster to be presentable. Not mine. I have awesome feet. Top model material feet, pretty, straight, all polished up. You won't find many feet like mine. And I acknowledge that I sound like a foot fetishist. But I'm not. I hate the idea of handling someone else's feet jaqq. Foot fetishists are strange people, they want to lick toes and stuff. That is disgusting. Then there's the boot fetish, licking boots? Oh no way in hell. I might be a shoe addict but not a shoe fetishist. And if anybody is licking my feet, then it will be my feet and I won't be doing the licking. It's that simple, people can kiss my feet.

Ministru tal-Finanzi

I must be the worst financial advisor there has been to date. What makes me even more certain about it all is the fact that brother darling is in fact a legal financial advisor with a Masters. So it's definitely it. I really am bad when it comes to finances. It doesn't help that the lady of the house is also il-Ministru tal-Finanzi of the house. It seems to suit the Mister just fine. It suits me just fine for a couple of days when the pay check is in. Then I feel just like the richest thing on the planet and do not give a hoot at what's coming in, what going out. That is the problem. For a grand couple of days the world suddenly seems to be at my feet, or at my Euro more likely. It's a good good feeling. The feeling of suddenly turning into Imelda Marcos and buying shoes by the dozen. What it is about shoes I'll write in another entry. That is too special to waste on a financial entry. So every month I swear that next month I'm going to be good and at least know where the money is going. Every month this fails to happen. I have no idea how certain women actually bring up a whole family on a miserly wage. I don't even know how to bring myself up on not a miserly wage. Perhaps my expectations keep getting higher. I want Chanel and Dior now. If I could I would buy designer wear for my cats too, but they don't like being dressed up. They're nudists and like going about the house very naked. My dogs are just like me, they need oversize. Trouble is, while I seem to fit into a lot of oversize things, they just don't do that much oversize clothing for dogs. A lot is big about me, take my dogs. No, don't you dare take my dogs, they would never go anyway. And the average person would shit their pants just by taking a look at them. So they too go about naked. X'pastazati in this house. No wonder my mother thinks I need a good blessing. But I have tried, when the pastor's walking in the sun (mad pastor), and visiting houses just to make some sotto-specchio wet with his blessed water. The problem is the pastor does not stop at my house. Wonder why. Probably because it is a house tal-pastazati seeing there is no marriage certificate, or perhaps the pastor doesn't like nudist pets romping around the place. And yet again I have digressed from my financial or lack of talents. And perhaps that is what I keep doing every month... digressing.

Mummy darling?

I'm not too sure what brings me here tonight. Perhaps it's a mixture of happiness tampered by sadness brought over by useless guilt. If doing some Sliema shopping is wrong then that's my crime for the weekend. Guilt, it will never ever leave me. Guilt for shopping, guilt for eating dessert, guilt for blowing a lot on shoes. And owing to all of this, I can safely say that teacher do not necessarily make good parents. I shouldn't feel guilty for liking my brightly painted nails. I shouldn't have felt guilty for being 6 years old and staring into the eyes of a woman who told me she was my mother and that I was so bad that she didn't want to live anymore. Rather she'd scream and say she wanted God to take her. Of course God never took her, and I don't blame him, He probably didn't want her. I was 6, that was my crime. I was a quiet little girl, very much into books, really trying not to upset the queen bee. But I guess I still did. Because I was a child who would knock something down once in a blue moon. I was happy keeping out of her way, but no, she'd take my books from me. Why? I would love to say because she was evil, but she wasn't. She probably had the most enormous post-natal depression which she never admitted to and which to this day still stands. I tell myself that I had a happy childhood, and my dad made sure I did. I cannot fault him, he was my rock. He never wanted to die because of me, rather he'd stroke my hair and tell me I was the most beautiful flower in the meadow. Really. But I saw too much pain, and I was too young for that. My mother having a physically handicapped brother never helped. He was a gem, he was the uncle I could talk to for ages. But then my mother felt guilty that it was him not her who got handicapped. More guilt. And more transferal of guilt and pain. Onto me, because I was so odd. Girls played with dollies, I just wanted to grow up fast so that She could never get her hands on me again. Yes, she could get physical. Where was 179 at the time? And I finally grew up and of course she cannot lay her hands on me now, I'd crush the 50kg bee in an instant. I really would. And I made sure I became the exact opposite. Calmer, smilier, less angry, without the foreboding look in the eyes. I have tried. And the question in the mind of that six year old girl remains. How could a teddy like my dad marry my mum? I still ask the same question. If she wasn't well because of the sudden two babies at once, why didn't she ask for help? Why make me feel guilty? After all, it was her ovary getting fertilised, and probably getting pleasured in the process. Maybe twins come about during a massive orgasm, so there she should have kissed my feet. They call it a multiple birth, perhaps it's coming from a multiple orgasm. And now of course there is no mother/daughter bond. I have never been shopping with my mum, and it's not bound to happen anytime soon. I don't want to die a martyr. So she says, look at all the other women side by side by their mum. And I say, yes sure, that's because they have another mum. Yet I don't hate her. I still feel sorry for that six year old who never knew what kind of mother tantrum she'd wake up to. But I feel sorry for my mother, because she never worked through her own anger and guilt, becoming stoically puritan in the process. Life is for living and it doesn't hurt for us to enjoy it sometimes. We needn't be in pain all the time to feel good. Not everything is sinful. And the troubles we come across are not out fault. Even if they were, what is guilt going to solve. So she still managed to ruin my shopping today although I kept a brave face and did it anyway. She still pulls up that dirty trump card, but no mum, people have not left this world because of me. Perhaps they had a choice and perhaps they didn't, but it's still not my fault. My mum and I will never see eye to eye. Our eyes are not the same. And I'm thankful. Perhaps we were both myopic, but I decided to put eyeglasses on. She just kept living in her myopic world, never seeing straight. It was her choice. But not her right. Because once you are a parent then you have a duty to start seeing straight. Oh well, I've survived to tell the tale.

Kittens and genetics

I am up having spent the night engaged in some extra marvellous impossible dreaming. I loved the dream, got disgruntled to find it was just a dream. I had kittens in my dream. Loads of them, black and tiger kittens. It was so fab. They were all running around and I was just looking at them in awe, just like a proud mum looks at her baby for the first time when he's fresh outta the oven. To be honest, I'm not sure I could have coped with all those kittens. But I so wanted to, feline creatures are so very perfect. At least I think so. Dogs are beautiful too, I don't keep two huge malamutes just for the sake of having them. They have their own rough way of playing and tumbling about. But felines do it for me. They are perfect. So some dream therapy now, self inflicted. Why all those kittens, and why did I feel so happy? I don't want to go down the path of the broody female. I really am not, or perhaps I think I'm not and my subconscience sometimes gets the better of me? I truly don't know. All I can say is that when I was a little girl and other little girls were dreaming of getting married in white and having children, I wasn't. It was actually a very hard concept for me to understand. I was dreaming of no white wedding, and I thought to myself that perhaps I could get away without babies. Not because babies have anything hateful. Of course not. But the world is so riddled with strife, I am not about to produce an innocent human being who will have to face the tough life. It's been tough for me, and if it were half as tough enough for my baby, then I'd feel so guilty. Because there is so much I don't know about genetics. I know that we inherit so many things. I've even inherited the way my nail bed is and the way my nails grow and it's been a good thing. I've inherited the fat gene, and that's not been such a good thing. Perhaps I have also inherited the love for art, it is so intrinsic it is sometimes scary. I've inherited the way my temper flares up once a year. I do not look like anybody in my family but I am so convinced I'm theirs. Because of all these things. But one thing I'm not certain of. Do we inherit memory? If we pass on so much to our offsprings, then couldn't memory be one of them? I know not if I have inherited memory. All I know is that if my baby had to inherit the memory of the bush I have had to entangle, then there is no way I am inflicting that on my own blood. I sometimes look at people who have a pink card at Polyclinics, on the odd days when I have to go because it's so late and doctors are not available. I think they have pink cards because they have a lot of children, because every female bearing this pink card always has a lot of children in tow. And they're not all very well kept unfortunately. I get no card, I pay my way, because I have nothing in tow except for the faithful Mister. But then I am more than happy to keep him instead to the grubby pink card. Pity the kittens were just in the dream though.

Back on track

And I'm ready to go again. No more sadness. And it's happened instantly. Perhaps shopping helped of course, but I'm not quite as sure. I think I really suffer from horrible PMS and I don't even know it. Other females write the monthly thing down in their diary. I never do. Because I have never understood why, what makes it so important to write about. But I feel like a brand new girl, and really I thought I couldn't get lower than that. Mystery solved, simple as that. So I can write without falling apart and just looking at a blank screen which keeps being blank for hours on end. So it was quite a good day today. I just kept away from brother & co. That simple. At 35 I think that I have at least learned one thing in life, to keep myself away from hurting. I deserve that at least. It still hurts but what you gonna do? Keep thinking and thinking and hurting and hurting? So, there is a man who thinks I do not deserve respect because big equals no respect. He is probably not the only one. And then there are men who think I'm Lady Godiva. I've had men wanting to kiss my feet too, totally foot fetished. Then there are those who will kill for my cleavage. Good for them, I don't mind the blood and the gore. Some more think I have an intellect to die for, but there's no need to die for it because dead or alive it's still there. Yet more others think I have a heart which goes a long way, although I'm not sure all this smoking is making it a very healthy heart. And then, there are the little people which I had forgotten all about thanks to this hateful PMS. I forgot that they too have an opinion, and that opinion matters. I wish I'd thought of it before, yesterday or the day before. Oh well, better late than never....

Perfect Patience

So I'm shelving this bad feeling for a moment. Because I have forced to remember when was the last time I had the good feeling. And that was yesterday morning. From time to time, I keep writing about this perfect man, who might not be perfect himself, but strives to be perfect in his ways. And he never fails to make me smile, that feel-good allover smile. Because I have found yet another plus in this man, he has patience perfected to the whole alphabet. All through my working years, I have met many a man and woman whom I would like to forget about. Not this man. I hope I will work in his presence for many years to come. It's strange how sometimes life throws in someone who makes up for all the others. So I shouldn't feel bad at all, but think of him. And again, I have a smile. Why? Because he makes me smile with his perfect ways, and now, his perfect patience. There hasn't been one time when I have been disappointed. How does he do it? Probably through perfect brains and a perfect heart? I wish him so well, it is a feeling which for once leaves me quite speechless. He is my mentor, and wait for it, he is younger than me! I wish so many people were more like him. He really doesn't think that big means being able to do away with respect. And this is where God comes in. Me, embarking on an entirely new career, so frightened. No problem. Bang comes this guy who settles everything for me. That is God. Because sometimes, God is not just found in poor people in India, but also in successful people in Malta. And to this man, I wish all the happiness in the world.

TLC

It's at times like these when all I can think of is TLC. TLC for myself, my own kind. It doesn't come cheap. It usually comes in the shape on a lot of shoes (that's what I've been doing these past couple of days), tops, bottoms (not necessarily in that order). Basically I need to own things to give myself my TLC. Which some people might not understand, whereas my kind of people would understand to a T. Can a big girl like me feel so fragile? Oh dear, yes she can. Can she feel as if the world dumped and spat on her? Yes, another yes. So what do I do? I try and look at my cats who think I'm the best mummy on earth, they really do, such gorgeous creatures who (no, not which) know how to give their own kind of TLC. They purr loudly by my side and try to stick their face into mine, which in turn makes me cry. I look at my dogs, who (again the who) also seem to think I'm their greatest mummy, and my dogs understand the biggish issue seeing they are almost as big as I am. Yes it's very true, they're enormous dogs who would frighten anyone but who are just big teddy bears. So what's the matter with humans? Why does the closest man in the world to me think that I'm obnoxious, deviant, sad, silly, too big, pitiful, and not worth his time? Shit this hurts, it hurts even worse seeing the lengths I have gone to protect his VIP privacy from going all over the web. And if my Mister thinks the same as my pets, then does that make him an animal, a pet perhaps? Because if that's the case, I'm just becoming loonier and stocking up on even more cats. I'm just leaving the door ajar just in case any animal wants to come in. Sorry, no human beings.

Pity, respect and dignity

I haven't been blogging for the past couple of days. I thought it was because I was busy. But I am never ever busy to write. So it's not because I was just busy, but just plain old sad. Sure, plenty of things are sad in the world and perhaps I should lift myself up and see the world as it is. Yet, it's been too difficult. How can one sentence ruin a person for three days? Alas it can. I'm still thinking, pity and respect, and now I'm also thinking dignity. I'm also thinking sanity, my sanity. If three people see one thing as good and I see that same thing as bad, then who is right? It sounds just like a story sum, except that it is a story sum taken from the book of life. Is it to do with perceptions, but then how can three people think it's so awesome when I think it's the lowest, the basest of things to do? I have no idea. And the same thing has thrown me twenty million miles back on my journey of life. When I am 80 (because of course I will live to see the day when I will get all diapered up), I will look back and think oh God what a waste of time. But right now, it's no waste of time. I don't want pity, commiseration, I don't want people to kneel at the sight of me either, but just leaving me to my own dignity would help. I thought that once the storm was over, people would see their faults as I see mine. It's just not happened this way this time. And it's sad.

Biting the dust?

It's all not very nice this evening. I feel like a bear with a sore head, only it's sore teeth and gums... again. Yep I have another tooth which will probably be biting the dust. And I just feel like biting someone really hard. Two in one week. I wish I could win the lottery that fast. What is it with my teeth/gum weakness I will never find out. Ok so one lazy wisdom tooth out, now it's yet another molar which has decided to follow gravity... it's moved away from its socket, so practically the nerve is out and practically I am popping antibiotics and pain killers as if I were a drug addict. This is no life, I think I could manage a hurt foot, but with teeth it's something else. It is all turning me into a monster and I hate it but I have no control over it. So now I'll be spending a week trying to control the pain only to have a tooth funeral again. Oh and then I'll be having a fixed porcelain tooth fitted in of course. Dental surgery and the bill, oh God. I could have bought myself a brand new diamond, instead I am nursing my teeth. But then, it could have been worse couldn't it? Somehow I think of those people who would love to trade places with me. But it still makes it no better. Tooth fairy... you can keep all the Euro, I need some magic this time.

Not respect but... pity?

I have had a horrible statement dished out to me on an imaginary silver plate. You want respect, ha ha you ain't got no respect, but just pity, not more no less. What a lovely statement innit, and coming from a man I love so so much. No, it's not my Mister. My Mister ain't perfect but he would never come up with something like that. I know my man. I also know the other man, have known him for 35+ years, and never ever thought it possible. But it is, and that's the reason why it felt just like cold stab, because I never thought it possible. It's made me sad of course. But does feeling sad make it better? Not really. It makes me feel ever sadder. Now I also know why we have coined the term a better half. Because this time I am not the worse half, because I have never said things of the sort to one of the most loved men in my life. This is when twinnings get complicated. And sad. Because if my twin really thinks that my biggish stature really should get in the way of respect, then can I really demand otherwise from strangers? Saddest of all, doesn't that make my twin another version of Normal Lowell? My twin, who of all people should thank his lucky stars he is living now and not a hundred years ago. My twin is diverse in his way, I am diverse in my own. So that is why I do not have biggish problems anymore, because people talk to me out of pity? And after bearing the brunt of so many jokes in bad taste, after taking all the abuse (really) because I am not a size 8, 12, 14, or 16, all I get is pity? Is that what you really think bro? Because I don't think so. Perhaps I will get no respect from silly people like you who think the butt is the be all and end all. I have fought for your right to be diverse and have ended up looking like the black sheep in the process. I have kept mum about so many things lest I would hurt you. I still do. But you don't. And that makes me the better half, with a very biggish percentage too. Because even if do not deserve respect because of my biggish qualities, I am still going for it. Pity.... no, that it not even in my dictionary, sorry.

Rectum matters

I seem to have a choice between two thing; either to get extremely mad at someone, or to shake my head in pity at the same someone. It's so easier to get mad, but where would that take me? Nowhere. Pity... that doesn't take me anywhere either, but it at least does not deplete me of my royal energy. So I call a spade a spade, an asshole an asshole, a wanker a wanker, a fart a fart and myself the very royal self. I have never understood what it is about spades, although I don't even understand the asshole and the wanker bit. But then I guess it should make me one happy girl, who in all her finery will not, cannot stoop as low as to understand things like a rectum and in turn things being exhaled out of the rectum. But it still is all about being like a rectum, although why some people like behaving in this manner is beyond me. Now if only they could behave like flowers, butterflies and fairies. Wouldn't the world be a better place indeed?

Stone Age dentists

I am finally up. I've survived one night of dental mortification. Nurofen is a knockout, because it does just that... it knocks me out. These tiny white pills always do the trick. Of course they should be taken in two's, without alcohol. I've disobeyed all of that. I hope no doctor reads this or I might just be reported to the Medical Council, but then again the Medical Council can kiss my Achilles heel, perhaps they don't know what it's like. Plenty of doctors are curing or attempting to cure conditions which they themselves have not harboured. And I guess dentists are one of their kind. I don't hate dentists of course, it has always taken one of their kind to restore me blissful painless happiness. But I do wonder what it would have been like for me in the Stone age. I would probably have died a very young death out of blood poisoning. So it seems I am on borrowed time. It seems like that for a hell of a lot of things. I defy death, but then it's perhaps because I have no fear of it. When you actually stare at death in the face, you kind of get used to it? I don't know, I'm not waiting for death in the post, but when it comes I'll do it gracefully. Nobody gets out alive here. I'll probably be buried with really nice looking teeth too, there is no tell-tale sign to reveal the woes I've had to endure. Perhaps I won't have wrinkles if keep to my father's side of the genetic cycle. And then again, perhaps I will have. Oh God, this is getting so confusing, and all because of toothache, I'm having a break.

Toothache

I would have probably fared quite well in life had I to have settled down with a dentist. Of course that would have made me a kill-joy of a dentist's wife because after the dentist hubby would have closed shop, he'd have me left as a constant patient. I'm not rich by any means and I know why. I've given most of my money away to dentists, dentistry, dental surgery. Money really doesn't matter much, what matters a lot is dental pain. And of course, the best time for something of the sort to start is round about midnight just when I am thinking of taking my royal self to bed. And oh God, it's royal pain this time. Why the hell couldn't I have suffered from hairy stuff? Electrolysis is so much milder in comparison. But no, I'm as unhairy as a baby and I suffer from teething problems like a baby too. For as long as i can remember, I have suffered from dental pain in some form or other. For the parts I cannot remember, my mother has filled me in with the details... she spent quite some sleepless nights trying to comfort this baby girl who would scream in pain. (of course the baby boy would sleep blissfully, he just had to be the extreme opposite of the girl). And if it was anything like what I am feeling now, I do not blame that little girl. I don't know much about babies, but I feel so sorry for their teething troubles. They cannot swear, drink whiskey, smoke, swear some more, take pain killers with some more whiskey and finally knock themselves out. What they can is cry, I pity them. Probably that is one of the reasons that makes me childless, because my body knows just how bad dental pain can be and is reluctant to pass on the gene. I also remember, at four years old being so taken over by dental pain that I tiptoed downstairs in the dark (and that is a big achievement for a four year old), got a chair, stood on the chair and drank the whole bottle of Calpol which was on top of the fridge. That was what my mum gave me for the pain (I hear Calpol is still popular), so I figured since the pain was extreme I could drink the whole bottle. It tasted nice too and for a moment it also pacified my sweet tooth and for some four hours knocked me completely out. You see, poor little girl had a bad night and was making up for it. I never told my mum the truth, though I guess she guessed the truth. Calpol bottled do not evaporate overnight especially when they're tightly closed. I was already at the dentist at 4 years old, and that's another achievement because I never cried. Yes I was already having teeth filled, temporarily of course. And you'd think it was bad hygiene or something. It was far from that. Teeth-brushing was something routine, twice a day. And yet I have worked my butt off just to make dentists happy. Of course I tried medical insurance, but aha the medical insurance people (or perhaps dentists) are not stupid, and it's not offered anywhere. I have had just about everything excluding dentures. Teeth filling, root canals, braces, braces again, extractions of good teeth because my jaw didn't have place for them, extractions of teeth looking perfect on the outside but so bad on the inside (thanks to viola playing), TMJ, silicone bite pads, fixed porcelain teeth, sutures, I think that's about all there is on a dentist's price list. Where it comes from... well I have a hunch it has a lot to do about living in the South where the water isn't as good as other places? One musician friend of mine once made me so sad, at 20 she had never been to a dentist, never experienced pain, but thought she should go have a checkup. The result of the checkup.. no problems. I hit the roof. I was happy for her, but why couldn't it have been that way for me? Probably we all have our Achilles' heel, it's just that mine is way up above high in my mouth. And it's nothing sexy. As a dentist once told me, innocently at first, well don't put big things in your mouth. As soon as he uttered the last words he realised what he had just said, turned scarlet and apologised. I never could figure out why he apologised, but of course I could never have disagreed because my mouth was wide open at the time anyway.... facing that bright light which dentists have.

Wankers

Sometimes I wish I could blow fairy dust on my tarot cards and make some of them come to life. Who would I be... the Empress of course. But I don't want to digress today. I just want to put one wanker to shame. I need an axe really, I could stand the gore, but probably not the smell that would come out of a wanker. It'd be nice to see a wanker go cold, but then again I have to think of decomposition which would happen fast, because bad people decompose faster. Don't argue with me, it might not be true, but for me it's a sacred truth. It's just like a monster thriller where once hit where it hurts, the monster will fizzle and evaporate fast fast fast. The same thing happens in life. And monsters are bound to give off foul-smelling gasses. So, no axe. Although my weary brain can just draw a not too blissful picture of what I could do with an axe and a wanker. Wankers, the most private of people, because of course they don't want us to know that they're not getting any and have to make do with dating porn sites, are... wankers. And the more private they try to be, the more obvious they get. You can spot a wanker from a mile off. I can spot them from 7 miles off, but that's just me and my sex radars. And really, they can wank themselves to death if it so pleases them, but not if it means that so hard they try not to look like a wanker, they behave even more of a wanker. Wankers can never be my friends. Because friendships start with a handshake. And there is no way I am putting my royal hand into another hand which obviously has been shaking something else just beforehand.

Killing

As much as I love love love the arts, I think people who are over artistic are nuts. No, let me rephrase that. People who think they are artistic but probably aren't go overboard to tell the world... Hey, I'm soooo artistic. The thing is people who are naturally artistic never bother to tell the world about it, because they do so by nature. It is intrinsic, innate, there is no need to book a TV station at odd hours of the day or night and just talk, talk, talk, use difficult words just to make sure you're seen as an intellectual and make poor Cettina who runs the grocer shop switch the channel on her remote control because she's not understanding anything. And because there is no need for modesty while blogging, I am one of the over artistic, no, better put, overtly artistic. And I don't book obscure TV stations at the oddest of hours. I am known by my nature, because, and yes, wait for it, I am a gift to the nation. I am not the one who said these words, rather I am quoting a very very gifted man who has done a lot for the arts. No bragging, no modesty, just the truth. But, but, but, I do not look like the genius that I am. And I don't really care because the proof of the pudding... is in the listening in my case. Now I have nothing about killer heels, on the contrary I think killer heels are exactly what their name suggests... killer. But I still don't need the killer heels to do my bit for the arts. Because I don't need to kill, I don't kill people's dreams and hopes. Rather I try and make those dreams, evoke those dreams... I create, I don't kill. Men (because it's a man in this case) who like to dash hopes and dreams with a rusty blade should be locked up away from society. Nobody can kill my dreams now, because I've carried out so many already. But killing the dream of a little person? That is despicable and punishable by torture.

Solo

The Times of Malta has updated us with a statistic... 62% of the population do not use contraception. And just that statement has led to it being hit by hundreds of people, with the same hundreds all leaving their comments on the website. And I read the comments... and sigh. Now I love Malta, and it will always be home to me, but in 2009 one would think we'd have been bombarded with enough sex education to last us our whole lifetime. Or not? A statistic like that is somewhat challenging. Since sex happened in pairs, or threesomes, or the occasional gang-bang, the 62% have to have at least one partner. That means... 62% + 62% = 124%. Which makes that mathematically impossible. The country does not have a 124% population. So... someone's cheating, both in stats as in sexual relationships. Probably a lot are cheating but they won't admit to it. And the married men inevitably feature into this. Perhaps also married women, but I wouldn't really know about that. So, the married men leading us to believe they weren't doing it with the Missus... that was a lie. Perhaps the married women leading their illicit boyfriends to believe they weren't doing it with the hubby also lied, but again I have not been on that side of the fence. Where does the contraception, or lack of it come in? People certainly do not use contraception when they're pleasuring their own good selves, or maybe they do? That's the only way a country could reach a 62% statistic. Oh God, nothing surprises me anymore in this land of sex. Do we have a contraceptive solo fetish now? And yet this doesn't surprise me either. By the look of the very intriguing rubbers making it into the market, it comes as no surprise that a curious mind aka and intelligent one, would want to see, feel and experience the lot. So many flavours at the fraction cost of an ice-cream. So many textures at a fraction of the cost of Cavalli material. And now there's vibrating, turbo... it's endless. Then there are the inflatables Barbie-looking dollies. If I had something to stick into something like that, I'd try it too. It probably works just as fine as any woman or man with less repurcussions. And it doesn't even want a cuddle afterwards. So yes, it seems we really are going solo. And perhaps we're not to blame either.