Don Juan, Don Quixote and Dulcinea

Well behaved girls rarely make history, and if they do I'm not too sure it's for a reason I would want to be remembered for. They are also not famous while they're alive, it happens when they're dead and about to be made a saint and since they're dead they don't even get to enjoy the party. Not very fair, but it's their choice. Most times. Sometimes it isn't, because for the rest of us girls for whom misbehaving is part and parcel of every day life, we really do not get to choose to be good or bad. Shit happens. And misbehaving happens effortlessly. And somehow it is attractive to some men. The same men who try to control us while knowing that they never really will. A feisty girl is just that... feisty. And it is precisely that feistiness which makes a man's brains (together with his nether parts) pop. And no, he won't ever stop, probably not even when he is in Imgieret because thinks he's so fit that Imgieret will never be the place for him to pop. He is very much like Don Quixote, but of course will never admit it and thinks he is a Don Juan instead. Oh God the word, a Don Juan. But he is just a Don Quixote always looking out for his Dulcinea. He says he wants a Dulcinea who can be brought to heel, but if he had that he'd be bored stiff and in search of the next Dulcinea. So it's a crafty Dulcinea who makes sure he is kept on his toes, an even craftier Dulcinea who lets him think he is the boss, crafty old Dulcinea who knows exactly how and when (also where) to rub his ego. Dulcinea could pass as a daughter, but has been round the block quite a few times. And since this Dulcinea is a far cry from the proper Dulcinea who wants to be famous for her good behaviour, then it starts getting twisted. She know she will never be brought to heel, and keeps old Quixote wrestling with himself, trying to think of new ways to conquer. And she will win hands down but lets Quixote think he's the winner just to make him satisfied. Because it starts out as a game, a dangerous game, because somewhere across the lines both want their territory, both want each other and both make each other's life difficult because they want to play. Do not give the two something on a plate, they will not be interested. Because I'm not sure they would make history for their good behaviour, but they just might make it to fame for their gross indecent misbehaviour. Somewhere, someone must have seen something, but of course they'll keep their mouth shut... because it's too dangerous when you're dealing with a Don Juan.

Hobz biz-zejt

I am no summer fan. Ok that sounds weird because we take out fans in summer to help us cool down. But you know what I mean. I just don't like the sticky people, the ones who smell so bad that they make you think they are onion fans. I don't like all of that. I also don't like the fact very few cosmetic manufacturers have thought of Malta and it's humid climate and produced waterproof makeup. But then of course summer is one long ball of holidays, so I cannot really complain. Although a month has already passed by in a flash and I've only got two more months to go. Still I cannot complain. But summer has me in cravings. And no I have not been knocked up yet. Nothing in the oven, it's too hot for the oven anyway. And lately I have been dreaming of hobz biz-zejt, I am trying to find a decent translation for that, but I can come up with none which describes it in all its mouth watering glory. Bread with oil? Oily bread? That's just shit in comparison. But I am craving this hobz biz-zejt with a vengeance. And there isn't one restaurant which offers it. Because I am not very good at DIY. And I crave more than that. I'm going down memory lane and remembering the summer nights spent as a tearaway, thinking that a small piece of rock could be the world's most fabulous game. I want that again, but it's all about Play stations now. Only one thing for it, I'll have to do it myself, sit on a porch and have my hobz biz-zejt. Childhood memories are just that; memories. But I'll substitute the longing with some Joe Demicoli. That'll do the trick to a T. And it will feel as if I've died and gone to heaven. Will post back.

In the Post

I seem to have a postman with a very dry wicked sense of humour. I am a big fan of ordering 'thing' over the web, so of course it takes a postman/woman to deliver the 'things' to my door. And here is one example of women being better on the beat than men. My postwoman is a darling, she knows that I first have to check my hair in the mirror because you can never be sure who's calling. It could be a Mr. Big and I would never lose out on an opportunity like that. But she's also welcome, because she waits for me to open the door and give me my new thingies. I love opening new thingies and although I've never told her so, she know, she just knows because sometimes there is something called unspoken understandable sisterhood. So she's more than fine. The trouble is when it's the other postman on the beat. He rings my doorbell then probably makes a quick dash down the road, also managing to shove a piece of paper telling me to collect my thingies... the next day. Oh no, the next day is too far off and I don't know how to wait. It's as if my thingies have been so close yet so far. And he does it again and again. Couldn't he at least wait for 30 seconds? It seems not. And then I grab the damn little paper and call the number printed on it. And I'm angry so I voice my anger and say what the hell, do you have postmen on sprint beats or what? To which I always get the same answer... do you want to file a formal complaint madame? And that suddenly makes me stammer. Of all things, she calls me a madame! Madame! That's ancient enough to catch any girl on the wrong foot. Secondly, do I want to contribute to a man losing his job? No, because then I wouldn't be able to sleep at night. Perhaps the postman has a wife and kids and it's his only income, and he's so bored that playing games with me and my letter box is his only thing which he does for fun. So I say no, I don't want to complain and listen to the lady over the phone raising her eyebrow at this lioness suddenly transformed into a lamb. Oh well, I'll just have to wait. If all this waiting will lure a Mr. Big to my door one day, then it will all have been worth it. Because God works in mysterious ways.

Conduct?

I had to go to pick up my police conduct certificate today, and I wasn't too keen on it either. Have been postponing it for weeks. Because, quite frankly, I don't like cops. They're nothing more special than me and you, anzi, we're even more special. But they get a hideous blue uniform which does nothing for the female cops' widening hips, a badge, and a hideous hat to go with it. Suddenly a Jack in the street is transformed into an authoritarian. Just like that. And they are supposed to help other citizens. Yeah right. Try talking them into letting you park somewhere. Try asking them something else. They expect you to call them, Sir. Sir? Have they been knighted or what? Knighted for their greasy faces because their hats do not allow their skin to breathe? Oh no, that's not what I call a cop for. So anyway had to walk into this building where I saw cops strutting like peacocks (as if I don't get my very own peacock strutting every day), kept silent and asked for my police conduct certificate. Female cop looked at me as if I had gone mad. She said, 'il-kondotta mrs?', To which I would have liked to reply, no, I want a slip of paper to prove my good conduct and not just a conduct, and no I'm not a Mrs, but I nodded instead. I had to go through three harrowing minutes of waiting and my mind just went everywhere. What if past and buried affairs would show up and come to haunt me? What if all the bad things a good girl shouldn't do would suddenly appear on the monitor? Two, thirty-three, was all she said. Not bad, for having a piece of paper say, 'This person is of good conduct.' Yey yey yey nothing so nothing showed up on the monitor. I have a certificate which is my pride and joy and shows that I am good. And I think I'd better frame it for safety keeping too. Just in case someone calls me a bad girl again.

Double

Sometimes I feel I'm seeing double, looking double (that's a very bad bad feeling, having double, living double. I suppose I am a living double too, because I am so much in the shadow of my twin nowadays. And that's ok, because I am left to do my own thing. Then when people realise I have a brain they put it down to the fact that of course, she is oht l-avukat. It makes me smile, but it really isn't like that at all. Because had the avukat not had a double, he would probably be street sweeping. Really. Which is maybe not a bad idea either because who the hell would be inspecting the dust gathered anyway? But the avukat had a sister who decided he was going to do well, sometimes at her own expense. So there you go, it's now oht l-avukat and not the other way round. Big sigh, what's a girl gotta do about it? And still this girl hasn't learnt her lesson yet. She's gotta have the double theme written all over her face which seems to get her in deep trouble. I see so much double in people, which is sad. I hope I don't look double, although I'm not too sure about that seeing I am so not keen on taking pictures. I seem to have had enough trouble for two, because I walk straight into the den with my brain placed prettily in the my nightstand drawer. That's the problem. My brain sometimes takes a day or two off, and... there we go again. Instantly it's double. But I'm tired of the double theme. Because only one of the two seems so right. It is so true, we cannot serve two Masters. I never heard anything truer in my life. And yet I try to make it double. Maybe I should take a day off and let my brain do all the work... but there is one problem...I don't trust my brain.

About the arse...

I've just done the thing I hate most... gone to the supermarket. Again. I wish I could go in there with dynamite and explode the whole thing, seeing it gives me such a short fuse to deal with it. I am not very cruel, but watch me in a supermarket and it turns ugly. It always does because somehow somebody has to meddle with my fuse and make it shorter. Why the hell does it always happen to me? Perhaps it's because I expect to go in there, do my business, pay and leave, without comments. Do not talk to me in any of these buildings because I give back the hell that I will be feeling. So I go in, hoping to make it as short as possible, swear under my breath because someone thinks that trolley-bumping is the same as bumping cars. It's not a game. But perhaps it's accidental so I say nothing and I instantly book 2 imaginary years on the couch. Then it's all going to be over soon, at least I think, and I wait in the flipping queue to pay for the damn things. Although my affair with Diet Coke is a solid one, somehow it doesn't look so sex in the trolley. Anyway, I wait, and just when it's my turn this macho, beer-bellied, nit-wit takes my place, because, according to him, he just has a couple of items, which turn out to be more like 20 items. What the hell? He didn't even ask and say the please magic word. Oh no, it's not happening. So I tell him so, no you've got 20 and you didn't even ask politely so back you go. He called me... a whore! Seriously, the Maltese word for it... qahba. And I didn't even try. I was looking the complete part of the mara-tad-dar or so I thought. The only flesh showing was my arms and ankles, I had a bandanna for God's sake, and he calls me a whore? So, since he was armed by 20 cans of tomato paste, I said, yeah me the whore and what are you, the kunserva pimp? He didn't get it at all, but I loved drumming it into him. He had to wait... period. And just when I was handing over my hard earned cash, my small pretty but very functional ears picked up... the Z-word and not in a nice way. He had just sentenced me to an up-the-arse fate. He blew my short fuse completely, and since I was thinking about fuses, I turned back and told him in a really whorey (?) manner, 'yeah right as if, with that short fuse of yours!'. I heard laughter, and I was so pleased. Because he was an ass hole, seemingly an expert in subjects revolving the arse. Makes sense. I am still fuming. But the Diet Coke looks so pretty in my glass... perhaps it was all worth it.

Uppa' class?

So yesterday has come and gone and I had a smashing time. Yesterday was just a perfect day where perfect things kept happening. And now I look like a doctor, albeit a gypsy one, because I have my own leather Gladstone for keep. Had been wanting it for ages but could not track a decent one down. Because of course I will not take imitation, I want the real thing. The thing is although I love the Gladstone, I do not want to look remotely like a doctor. To me doctors spell clinical, and I am not an inch clinical. I am just driven by emotion, and perhaps a little bit of brain which just fuels that emotion. It so seems that doctors have status, and although I have been made aware of that, really, I do not understand it. All right, I can understand that it's no handyman, but it's not something to really shout about. I think I'd be embarrassed if I were into the medical field. Docs don't get much of a life, they spend more than half of it chained to clinics where they listen to people's problems and 'try' to cure it all. Most times it's a hit and miss thing. Many times it's a let's-try-this sort of thing, and if that doesn't work then let's-try-that kind of thing. I wonder how they keep their sanity. Or maybe they don't and we're none the wiser. And yet it seems to be uppa' class. If anybody out there would tell me what is so uppa' class about an internal medical exam I would be grateful. Because I just don't see it. They are normal beings just like me, they are not Gods, they just make a living out of trying. Trying to cure people, trying to look the part, trying to make themselves sound as if they were the most knowledgeable people in the world. And people pay them for just that... for trying. What's it so uppa' class about?

Addicted

I am alive again. Perhaps because I'm one year wiser. Or perhaps because somehow we have addictive personalities. I know I do. Diet coke is my best friend. Rothmans Blue is like a sister. I stay away as much as possible from chocolate because that has been an endless love affair. And some people are the ones who breathe life into me. I feel whole again. It felt so much as if I were missing a limb, not now. I still don't have total control (what a word), and my energy will take some time to be full. But I'm getting by. Because I'm 36 and missing nothing. Not missing the hands, not missing the feel of that breath on my face, not missing the eyes, the mischief, the love (?), not missing anything at all. And I'm so grateful because my addiction is fulfilled.

Sobs

"When morning came and you weren't there...
And night time came and you still weren't there...
Then for me there never was a day.'

I'm not sure whoever wrote this, when, why and how. But it describes me and my inability to deal with death and grief. And why hell am I writing about this, just seconds before the clock strikes the hour to the beginning of my birthday? It's because I've just had my last 35 year old good cry. And boy did I need it. The kind of cry where you sob and sob endlessly, then get interrupted... by brother darling (a real darling for once) screaming a happy birthday to us at the top of his voice. And I just held onto the sobs for a minute, put the phone down and continued the crying game. I don't know why birthdays, anniversaries... which are supposed to be happy.... have me in tears, real tears. Or maybe I know...

One last day...

No lady should ever divulge her age. Yeah right. That's what ladies who look actually older than they really are do. Ladies who look younger don't give a damn. And this is my last day at 35. As from tomorrow I go right onto the wrong age of 30. It's so odd, it doesn't even feel like 30. One reason why I love little people is because they think that I'm so much younger than their mums, when I'm actually exactly their age. I used to think that 35+ females spelt sexy. Now I realise it's not very true. You can still be 35+, wear jersey shorts and a Snoopy T-shirt. There is goes, Snoopy is for little people not for 35+ ladies. And still I go ballistic on Hello Kitty, I think that Betty Boop is sexy, and that hair braided in silk ribbons is the in-way to wear your hair. But that is perhaps I see women as asexual. It's not the case when it comes to men. I think Superman is past it, Batman is only helpful for flying around when the traffic is too much to bear. And I think Sex and the City's Mr. Big is the perfect man ever created. I also realise that it won't be much time more I'm menopausal and that is so great, living without the monthly pains and not having to worry about contraception; having a wild party and never spend a couple of days holding your breath and staring at Clearblue sticks which always come up negative. But still, it's a tough couple of days. My hair still hasn't a white streak, the day it does I'll go shocking pink at the hairdresser's. Because although most people think that living a full life is the thing to do, I never want to be old. And the only way not to be old is for your alarm bell to go quickly. No, of course I am not waiting for death. But the older I get, the closer I get to that damn age of 43. If only I could skip that year altogether. That would be the toughest of birthdays. And although I sometimes grumble that I cannot do anything on my own, perhaps it's a blessing that I get to share my birthday. A worry shared is a worry halved. My twin takes care of that. Because, as usual, it will be our birthday and not mine. And that's another problem. We might share the same birthday but little else, our taste in men is as alike as chalk and cheese. And while I don't have to worry about another sneaky female replacing me, he does. Although he would never admit it. And as much squabbling our diverse tastes in men provide, I do not want to think of a birthday without him. Plenty will be going on tomorrow. But not today. Today I spend the last day of my life at 35. And come tomorrow, I'll divulge my age without a problem, because I don't look it! Yeah!

Sad

Nobody would want such an unpopular feeling, but sadness sometimes takes a big part of life. Perhaps it's because we wouldn't feel the extreme highs of happiness were we not to experience the depths of sadness. But it's a feeling I would trade for anything and everything. I just don't like sadness and the rest of its family, tears, sobs. You'd think the tears will never stop. But they do. And you're still sad. Which takes me to... therapy? If there is one rule in therapy it's that of working your way through your feelings, no matter how hard it is. But me in therapy? On the damn couch? Not even a grand old couch draped in silk and swathed by organza sounds attractive right now. Not even a girlie therapist who would throw a cashmere cushion as if it were a teenage pillow fight happening. Nothing seems right, not even Hagen-Dazs ice-cream in Belgian chocolate which never fails to cheer me up. No more couches, no more organza and no more ice-cream...Roll on Tuesday....

John 19:41

"At the place where Jesus was crucified there was a garden, and in the garden, a new tomb, in which no one had ever laid..."
No, I am not going all soppy on Jesus' crucifixion. I don't like it one bit and when some nutcases decide to dedicate a day to celebrate all the pain an honest man went through, I stay inside, put my TV on Living, and watch back to back Jerry Springer shows, or Maury shows, or Sex and the City. A far cry from all the blood and gore happening. Because no, I do not want to celebrate the barbaric murder of a guilty man, let alone an innocent man. I am not a big fan of the bible either, I prefer to read newspapers, novels, biographies and the odd magazine. But then again, from time to time, I need to listen to A. Lloyd Webber's version of John 19:41. It is a basic need, I need to listen to the poignancy of it all. It is beautiful, but you might cry. Or else, it never fails to make me cry. For a moment, all the silly day to day stuff I write about dissolves into oblivion and I can only concentrate on the existence of my being in life. It's therapy, which comes for free out of YouTube. Switch off all phones and just listen. It's one experience in life which never fails to get me straightened out, as screwed up as I might be sometimes........ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqDoLcORDwU

One dead bitch... Yeah!

It seems like Malta has become *the* country of wannabes. Wannabe this, wannabe that, wannabe singers... they seem to be mushrooming as fast as the potholes. The thing is, potholes are sad because they are for real and can be responsible for a lot of swearing. Wannabe singers are also sad because they are not for real but are also responsible for my lot of swearing... and my a lot of smiles, a lot of I-told-you-so's. And while I glare at the potholes, I smile candidly at these wannabes and tell them to go go go because I want to have one big festa inside. Yes I'm a bitch and I know it. But this particular wannabe also can also dangerously compete in the who's-the-biggest-bitch competition. She is a dangerous competitor, but not for a seasoned bitch like me. Because there is place for one bitch, one diva.... me. So this bitch has me worried for a whole week, I thought it was going to be hellishly uncomfortable. It was uncomfortable, for her, not for me. I was risking being struck by lightening because all this was happening in the house of God. But God knows that I might be a bitch, but I know my thing. So bitch one was waiting, in all her glory, dressed to kill and pouting to throw up. Bitch 2 was apprehensive but decided she was going to grin and bear it.. that's me. Not only did I grin, but I laughed and laughed and felt so triumphant that I could have jumped for joy. Because with all the pouting, bitch one is a wannabe, cannot sing to save her size zero life. And I didn't behave like a bitch, I tried encouraging her... to do even worse. Don't be scared hanini, belt it out sabiha, isa keep it up like that. Yeah right, I think she was shit scared, didn't feel an inch sabiha, and kept up the disgraceful thing she was doing. Me.. well, ahem, I'm the pro. I will never go wrong in my thing. I might not be a size zero, maybe I'm not a zero in anything. This size zero bitch was a total zero. And there are situations when beauty dissolves into nothingness and it's what you can do that matters. I wasn't struck by lightening, perhaps because it's a very forgiving God up there who knows that I have been patiently waiting for the truth to come out. It turned out to be one of my bestest evenings, for entertainment, for watching the pouting bitch wither and die. And I waited until I got out of God's house and punched the air in triumph. I told you so brother darling. Because there's place for only one bitch, and that's the wannabe bitch killed off for good. Feels great!

Cake anyone?

I have always been quite mixed up by a phrase involving a cake. They say 'You want to have your cake and eat it too'. Yes of course I do. I love cake. What's the use of having cake just to look at it? That would be one of the best masochistic practises I can think about. And although I am not exactly the Marquis de Sade, I love my creature comforts too much; comforts which include eating cake when having it. But then there's another saying which perhaps makes more sense to me; You want to eat your cake and have it too.' That's better. Because you really cannot eat your cake and have it appear again by magic. That is impossible. And yet that is exactly what I want; to eat my cake and have it again, and again, and again. And I try my best, but magic isn't exactly my forte. And it would take someone better than Copperfield to work that out for me. As much as I love cake, sometimes I am so scared of eating it that I just keep a vigilant eye on it. Which doesn't make much sense either. That is also torture. And it's an endless coming and going, this cake thing.

B-I-T-C-H

For some reason, some people have called me a bitch many several times. And I have a hard time understanding it. Because I have a real bitch here at home and although she's as cute as anything, she doesn't look remotely like me. First, she has four legs and walks on all four of them. I walk on two legs because I have evolved past the Darwinian theory. Secondly she does not only have hair, but fur. I have none, I have been indeed blessed by not being hirsute at all. Thirdly, she barks and howls while I can speak a language. Fourthly, she cannot type, I can. And that's just the beginning. She's a real bitch. And I have been called in exactly the same manner... a real bitch. It has happened so many times that I think I must be an expert in bitchology and it must be so intrinsic that I am not even aware of this innate expertise. So why am I called a bitch? I have been called a bitch because I stand up to be spoken, because I am not afraid to fight for my rights and say it how it is. I have been called a bitch just because I am effortlessly good at several things. Injustice and the way I go about it has also been responsible for my being called a bitch. I do not tolerate injustice, because injustice means that some ass-hole is having a power trip over some innocent person. And innocent people deserve to be, at the very least, left alone in their own innocence, not being made into a dartboard. Do not try to stamp on me, don't even think about reducing my inner flame into a flicker... you won't succeed. And what's this myth about my having to protect other women's marriages? It was not I who said the vows, so I don't have any promises to keep. If you are very aware that your husband is a player, then do not take it out on me and call me a bitch. Because it might me that he's a dog. It is not my fault if a husband is lured away, it really means there never was a stead-fast marriage in the first place. If men want to be unfaithful then I really don't think they will go for female dogs on four legs anyway. And no, I will not protect strangers' marriages. I will protect my own marriage when I have one and I will not expect other women to protect it for me. The minute I know that my husband is a player, then he'll be in the dog house and I'll probably be called a bitch again for it. And if all of this makes me a bitch, then what can I do? I will embrace the title and will cling to it for dear life. Because BITCH might not be a bad title after all. It could mean the Beautiful, Intelligent, Thoughtful, Choosy, Hell of a woman. It's not my fault that I was born a bitch. I could never choose my genes. And if I can bite and bark at the same time.... well I'm just super talented in multi-tasking.

Underwear

Sometimes I find myself thinking about things which are almost best left alone. They are also mostly left hidden, at least they were in my day and age. Not now. And it makes sense. Underwear, it's supposed to be worn under something, but nowhere on the tag does it say that a flash of it could make you go wrong. Underwear can be expensive, and there is no way I am letting a Wonderbra go to waste, hidden beneath something else. It does not mean I'm going out in just it, although I would if it were not for the thought that I might get arrested for soliciting. And no, just in case you were thinking, I need no Wonderbra either. No maximiser or minimiser. The Good Lord has bestowed me with a perfect set of headlamps. Praise the Lord, He's been good to me in that sphere, or twin sphere. But, underwear is something we all have to deal with, and whether we think that a baggy set of bloomers is considered ok to lounge about in some others like me have other opinions. Everyone wears underwear. Even the Pope wears underwear, at least I hope and think so, that is perhaps one other reason why he broke his wrist, he was trying to fit into the latest embroidered white papal thong. The Queen of England wears underwear, and I don't think she buys it off London's high street M&S. Perhaps she has tangas matching every outfit in the same way she has hats matching every outfit. Even GonziPN wears underwear, although I guess it's of the ill-fitting kind, the way he squirms a lot nowadays. Perhaps we should all take a leaf out of GonziPN's squirming and come to the conclusion that blue underwear is just too tight. I wonder what Mrs. Gonzi wears, does she wear suspenders? Underwear can really get an old soul like me very confused. I see female underwear ads holding things up while male underwear ads keep holding things down. Did Ghandi wear underwear, and was it beige marl? Did Shakespeare wear underwear? Mozart even? Did they try to force things down too? Henry the VIII? Did his wives wear underwear? Was it the reason he killed them all? And why do so many men keep rubbing their crotch area? Is it because Lycra is itchy? What about Mother Teresa? Did she wear a girdle? What cup size did she take? Joe Demicoli... does he wear underwear? My insight tells me he might also wear a thong for 5 minutes, then reverse it because it's up his crack too much. And what about the infamous alpha monkeys? What do they wear? They never wear vests of course lest it interferes with their hirsute chest. Below the belt? Boxers of course because they are dying to show the world that they need extra space which conceals the shocking bulges. Underwear will always cover a multitude of sins, be they physical or physical again. What about me? Well, I'll be damned if I cover up completely and not show a hint of brassiere. It's way too expensive to keep it private. Because if God gave me an asset(2 to be precise), I just have to be the living proof of His glory. I am one of the chosen ones. Praise the Lord.

Organza

Now that to me is just an expensive bit of fabric. I know they use it whenever bridal belles are about to walk up the aisle, but since there has been no aisle for me, I know it somewhere else. Such a thin, sheer, lightweight fabric; the continuous filament of silkworms. Silk worms. They sound like uppa' class worms, who don't realise that their bottom line is, they're still worms. To me they sound as if they're dragging fake Versace bags, fake Cavalli sandals (how I hate this word), and fake Chanel sunglasses while having coffee at Giorgio's in Sliema. Amazingly, one coffee lasts them a whole morning. They don't just chin-wag, they must comment on other people like me who think that going to Sliema is no big deal so I don't have to posh just because it's Sliema. Because I don't fake the posh, I am posh anyway, I carry blue blood, that's why it says B+ on my blood donor card which will unfortunately never be used again. I will certainly never settle for the fake this and fake that, as long as it's not Take That reuniting again just because of me. If I could draw, and that's a big if because I just cannot draw, I'd draw the silkworms with the fake Versace, Cavalli and Chanel and make them have coffee that tastes like a camel's urine. And yet the posh ones drink it, being very careful not to get any of that white stuff on their lips lest it could remind anybody of the night before. I... I just don't give a hoot, so what? It's milk and not something else, and even if it were, what's the big fuss about. If a posh one had it on her lips just 8 hours before, then why does it suddenly become an issue 8 hours later? Which comes to the organza. Is it these women who have woven all of that? And if so, why does a girlie friend of mine with the wrong apparatus love it so much? Why does he have to stroke it as if it were the sexiest thing invented since breasts? Why does he have to wrap it around me and my cleavage and stand back to inspect then jump for joy? It's something made by worms for God's sake. And yet I never tell him this. Because I probably like it too. Heavy-petting wasn't just meant for a clumsy fondle in a car in an abandoned somewhere in the middle of the night. It has also found it's way into something more overtly clinical. And yet, perhaps it's the worms which make it feel less clinical; my can of worms which spin something as beautiful as organza.

Dreams, Demicoli and a funeral

I had this weird dream about Joe Demicoli. Now just before you close this window and write me off as a total nut-case, just spend a couple of minutes more. Because I really had this dream. And I woke up with such a silly, yes very welcome grin. What the hell was I dreaming of? Is this what sophisticated girls dream about? No, but then they're not as sophisticated as I am. It would take a hell of a highly sophisticated girl to be able to laugh at (not as in making fun of) Demicoli. I would make a potential husband think twice, a potential lover think four times. My dad cannot think anymore, because he should have thought before he did (not made) me. No, that sounds terrible, let's say he made me, by the help of the blessed virgin Mary. I never could understand why she's is called a virgin. What difference does it make? None to me. Does the fact that she stayed a virgin mean that she was any better than if she saw some sense and enjoyed herself that little bit more? Anyway, no side-tracking, my dad didn't think twice and look what he ended up with... twice the trouble. Back to Demicoli, just to answer a few haughty remarks here and there... yes I like the guy. Always have. It's just that this blog has finally given me the chance to come out of the Demicoli-loving closet and say it out loud. So what if he's not the usual men who resemble King Kong in all they do and the manner they do it in, I still like the guy. Nobody can make me laugh as hard with his talk of Enemalta people dangerously balancing their thingy when they're doing maintenance. I hope he will be able to come to my funeral and do his thing. My brother will pay up no problem. Because that would be so original. But then, I want people to cry too. I want them to cry because they will have lost this wonderful human being whom they did not appreciate enough in life. I want them to cry because they feel so guilty. And I want them to cry because hey I'm not getting an Extra-Large coffin for just one hour of praying. Because since I haven't gone down the aisle standing up, I'll do it relaxed and lying down. My coffin will be my wedding dress, although I think that costs more in Euro money. It will be my party and since I will not be able to cry, then they will have to cry because I want to.

Widowed?

I think I've really done it this time, it feels as if I've widowed myself, if that is possible. I really think it is, making yourself a widow is indeed possible. Especially if your mind runs so wild that it takes control over everything. Including nail art and the love for diamonds and shoes. I thought I'd be flitting around like a, let me think, like a butterfly. But then many other things flit around and they're not so welcome as a butterfly. Can a girl chain herself? I thought not, but I think so. Can she go for it, risk everything and still be a butterfly? No, because everything has a consequence. Ready to pay the price? I guess so, and I'm not so sure I should so. Why is it that no matter how many times my mother said that chocolate was bad for me, I still loved the damn thing? Why is it that no matter how many people say that it's bad for me, I still love the damn thing? And I used to pride myself that love was never an issue. But perhaps it was. And it is.

I Don't Know

I keep asking myself this question... Would you rather not know and be happy, or would you rather know and face the music? I choose the latter. I can face music, that's not too hard. I'm not sure I kind face any kind of music though, especially the kind I'm wondering about. I don't know. And is there such a thing as having a home and feeling homeless, wandering about in pitch darkness without ever coming near to seeing the flickering light which promises belonging? I don't know about that either. There is so much I don't know. We'll see what the night brings with it. Because I don't know what it will bring.

Toe-talk

Feeling so cranky and knowing that I have a wedding to attend to later on is not helping. How I hate weddings, the stand up sort of weddings where people expect you to stand for five hours on dangerous heels. But I might just give the heels a miss and turn up in flip-flops. I did it once when I totally forgot to change my shoes and discovered it when I thought how I wasn't feeling tired at all 2 hours into the wedding. And it really didn't matter because since I love dressy pants which sweep up floors they didn't even show. I think it really will be flip-flops tonight and I don't give a damn what anybody else thinks. Of course my mother will be mortified but then I'd rather mortify my mother then mortify my back. I can find no plausible reason to hurt my back for the bride and groom. And anyway my flip-flops will have probably cost more than the bride's shoes anyway. I love showing off my toes, for anybody with a foot fetish, I am a dream in summer. Closed shoes are given the boot, it's out with the peeping toes. Some people have such ugly toes, they are a mess to look at and probably need surgery, the kind of where they break all the bones to make them look more normal. Now I don't need that kind of surgery, mine are sexy, prettily painted, straight, as if they have just come out of a fashion magazine. At least I get to have something sexy. And so, like the rest of the world possessing something sexy, I flaunt them. You'd be amazed by the number of people (mostly men) having foot fetishes which they will never admit to. And toes??? A lick of pretty lacquer will do wonders... it's all in the toes.

Therapy, opera and cashmere

People keep asking how and why I keep writing and writing and writing. How.... that's easy, because I am an alone person in my thoughts and since I cannot be described as outgoing I pour it all out in here. Why? That's more difficult to answer, but I like to answer it like this... it is therapy. If I didn't I would suffer from mental constipation. It is really therapy. Had I to book the couch I would firstly require a very solid couch, next I would need many years, and worse still... I would need to book a therapist. And I get stuck there, not on the couch I mean, stuck on looking for the right therapist. Because therapists are a lot like shoes, you don't just want one your size, but it has to fit comfortably and not pinch. It's also got to be the right colour. And if they are so much like shoes, where would I find a red-stiletto therapist? I don't know how to answer that. Because red stilettos, as sexy as they might be don't spell comfort. Meaning... I would need a running-shoe kind of therapist? No thank you. That would be so boring. I guess I'd settle for a pink ballerina style kind of therapist, one with a purple handbag even, like Tinky-winky. And he'd listen and listen until I'd make him deaf, which isn't a very good idea because then he wouldn't be able to come with me to the opera and hold my hand when I cry because the two lovebirds on stage are about to be parted somehow. And then it wouldn't do to make him go blind either because it would stop all the hilarious cashmere cushion shopping. No, I'll stay put and make it very easy for him. Because in therapy, you first have to love yourself...

Papa Beeeeee

Pope Benedict (or Papa Beeeeee as I call him) has broken his wrist in the bath. So it's not just me getting clumsy. I did the same thing once, but I did it in a more dignified manner... not in the bath. And for a minute I forgot that the news headline says it happened in the bath and thought that perhaps he just got muddled up in his skirt. After all he is not a teenager, he's 82. The new report also said he's 82 and has got no health problems. It makes me envious, but then of course God wouldn't never allow such a prized one of the flock to have health problems. Pope John Paul was a fine man, I so liked the guy, such a kind face. This one isn't. Every time I see his picture plastered somewhere it's a man with a grin, the type of ... I'm so fabulous kind of grin. Perhaps he needs to change his perception about himself. He isn't so fabulous. He thinks gay people are sinful and is always talking about how God made a man and a woman. I agree, but God also made gay men and women. And although I'm not gay, I could have been. I had enough problems growing up totally straight. Why doesn't Pope Be put himself in a gay shoe for once? Imagine how harrowing it must be to watch the world function as man+woman while you have feelings for people of your same sex. The least Papa Be can do is be kind. He's not, but hey he's a Raztinger, so it's a kind of, what do you expect sort of thing. The man will never win my sympathy, and it's ok because my sympathy means nothing to him. Still, it means a lot to me. How would he feel if we suddenly started to generate the idea that since man was born to copulate with a woman, then he's also wrong, seeing he chose his chastity vow and chose to deny God's greatest gift of sex in the process? I was brought up to accept gifts politely and say thank you. This man probably wasn't. And I keep wondering what exactly broke his wrist. We'll never know.

The dotted line

Not much happening today. Well to much happened yesterday, so I guess it Yin-Yang's everything out. Just like ironing, something I am so good at but also something which I don't like. Somehow I cannot cook to save my life, cannot even clear up my kitchen table, and yet when it comes to clothes I become a wizard. Talk about the women who have nothing else to say except for how to wash whites brighter than white. I am one of them, minus the talk. And talk about the expert ironing, I am one of them also. And it didn't take University. I just had to do it one day since nobody else was around, and hey it was so easy. Then women complain about being chained to the kitchen sink, the ones that put 'housewife' on the dotted line when it comes to occupation. Complain? About what? They don't even have a boss. They can sleep in if they feel like it. They can watch Jerry Springer shows back to back. So I don't know how to cook, but I see my Mister and he does it like a pro. It also doesn't take all day. Housewife? Are they really married to a house? Or married to a couch more likely. I would love writing 'housewife' on the dotted line. I wouldn't cook, I wouldn't waste time at all, I'd get my beauty sleep in shape. I mean a woman is entitled to that at the very least. But we unlucky working women cannot afford that. We have to drag ourselves up (at least I do), go and face a boss, a workplace with all of it's pluses and minuses. I have yet to see the day when I can put 'housewife' on the dotted line. But then I'm no wife. Girlfriend one day, mistress another, mother, daughter, sister..... that's what I'd write on the dotted line. Too bad it's such a short dotted line.

Damn Eve!

Today is the day I swear with a 'haqq Eva'. And I mean it. Why the hell did she have to drag me into the picture? She wanted the apple, I have plenty of those in here. Oh come on Eve, what difference would it have made if you had a lesser-quality apple. And how lame were you, to be convinced by a snake of all things? It's slimy, looks ugly, and you actually took the time to talk to it. Not very ladylike. I'd talk to a diamond, not a snake. Snakes had better keep their distance because my screaming will render them deaf in a second. How I hate reptiles, except for the playful 'gremxul' in the sun. The others can go to hell, but as Eve did it, she sent me hell every four weeks. So I guess I am allowed to swear at her. And where, tell me, was Adam? Tinkering with his privates or what? It comes across as very strange to me that in the very beginning of the world, Eve had all the freedom she wanted. But then again, of course she had, Adam needn't have worried about her going with any other man or woman because there were none. Walking around naked; I think that's so cool especially in these not so cool temperatures. I would if I could. And I could but I wouldn't. So no other men or women for Eve, but a snake. That's not even close to bestiality, perhaps something I'd call reptilism? Whatever the case, I'm suffering. And swearing. And I'm allowed to, because it's all her fault. Or was it? What was it that Adam wasn't providing, for Eve to be enthralled by a snake like that?

Monkey business

I'm still trying to find my way about monkeys, perhaps some monkey business too. Now I know exactly why they call monkey business as monkey business because it seems that this Alpha/Beta male/female theory keeps manifesting itself all day long, all week long... that's just about as far as I have made it. And perhaps it's not a theory after all, but it's been proved and I was sleeping somewhere all the while. Now and only now it is starting to make sense. But if we are behaving so like monkeys, then will I have to accept that my great-great-great-great-great-mother was an ape? Maybe not. Because maybe I come from a different breed of monkeys, the ones that read books, and listened to music and thought that theatre and films made a great night out. My breed also probably thought that Joe Demicoli was excellent. And yes I will keep harping on about this until somebody out there stops taking the piss. I am no hamalla and neither is Demicoli. My tastes are highly expensive, I am extremely high maintenance, you'd stop the hamalla thing in a flash if only you spent one day with me. My breed of apes were not hamalli, they just appreciated well made nonsense, loved to live and to laugh heartily and weren't afraid to do so. Because again, Demicoli stays. So please stop all the bullcrap and perhaps take time out to listen to what is probably the only decent comedian we have. There are other breeds of apes of course, those who thought that education is also important, that eating is the only past-time in the world, and that culture is something unheard of. And they are proud and think that it's funny because I get to cry while watching Traviata, and that I keep listening to Puccini's 'tre zbirri una carrozza' from Tosca because it moves me. They are proud, haughty, and so stupid because their genre of apes have been born musically tone deaf. And I think they secretly laugh too at Demicoli's jokes but they'd never admit it in public. So while my breed of apes has produced an Alpha female (I will never accept my being Beta even if I am) who is all about culture, seems another breed has produced an Alpha male (definitely Alpha) who brags about music being useless and to whom drama means the way he conducts his life. This breed walks with a shirt so unbuttoned, he'd might as well tear off all the buttons in monkey style. My breed also walk with unbuttoned shirts, but it's done delicately just enough to show off the headlamp assets. How do two different breeds cope? Good question, one I do not have an answer too. Somehow they cope, perhaps through a love for smoking, good food, laughing at each other and instinct. Because I'm not sure any breed of monkeys has a brain... except for my own of course.

In the name of the Cross?

Ok let's rate this as 18+. Please stop here if you're younger, which of course you won't but that's what porn sites say and under 18's probably still click on ENTER because there's nothing proving their age. As long as their parents are away. But it's no porn over here, just a bit of adult content, as in things happening in everybody's adulthood. Still, better be safe than sorry. At my age there is nothing shocking about knowing the facts of life. At 35 I should know all about sex. I guess I know something, if only a little bit. I know that sex is the way to go if you want to have babies, and even if you don't. I also know that sex really isn't everything, but is at least something. I know what are turn ons and turn offs. But one's turn on could be one's turn off. So, just to be very safe, let me write about one big turn off for me. Women and jewellery... turn on. Men and jewellery... turn off, that is, if they're not sporting a Rolex and a Bvlgari tennis bracelet, or a wedding band perhaps. Otherwise... turn off. But I seem to have a problem on my hands. You can call it off if a man is wearing a thick gold chain around his neck. I'd have no problem with that. What if he were wearing a really thin chain with a pendant cross? I would call that off too. But it seems I'm stuck, because this man has stuck to his guns. The chain stays. So does the cross. And although for him it's nothing to do with religion, perhaps it is for me. I don't hate God or Jesus. I know that Jesus died on a cross and it must have been terrible, horrible. I also think poor Jesus didn't deserve to die with so little dignity. A great man. All that's well and good. But why do we have to keep on celebrating his taken-away dignity so much as to wear it on a chain? It's unnerving. Man on top, cross dangling some millimetres away from your eyes. You could close your eyes? Wrong. Because the man insists, orders you to keep your eyes open. So you suddenly see Jesus looking at you when you're not in a position you'd want Jesus to see you. True, Jesus sees you wherever. He can see me when I'm in the bath, but I don't have a Jesus something in my bathroom. And then it's not a smiling Jesus who is watching, but one who really suffered, while you're having your bit of fun. It makes even the most brazen of girls turn very pious. So what's with these broad bare-chested men and the golden cross? They can keep it for day, but there is always a nightstand to put it safely on. I, for one, do not appreciate having it look at me. I prefer to push the fact that Jesus is watching to the back of my head. And I manage that, but not when it is so dangerously near that I could, perhaps by accident, swallow it. Wonder what the Casualty Department at Mater Dei would think of that?

Fairytale Men

I have always prided myself in never ever liking younger boys. I go for the older ones, well, my male-history-c.v. seems to be all about the old ages. It's such a nice feeling to be 18 and sitting on a 58 year old's lap. They lap up everything, they're putty, and no matter what prominent day job/profession they might have, they are suddenly puppies. I liked that feeling, sometimes perhaps too much. It was that feeling which was the big aphrodisiac, not the men themselves. And that feeling felt powerful. It must mean I liked power then, perhaps a very mild Lucrezia Borgia kind of personality. But years passed, and I bagged a Mister who isn't even a year older than me, and he's stuck fast, for almost seven years. True I thought he was older and the next one in the line for a bit (or plenty) of fun. I was shocked when he confided he was just a year older than me. And yet, he's still around, even after seven years. And I have grown to love calling him 'OLD' and referring to his childhood as 'IN YOUR DAY AND AGE' which is quite frankly also my day and age. But it's just some fun and it's so harmless. But there's another calling, I get to keep watching Alexander Rybak on YouTube and thinking he's soooo cute. And the damn Alex is just 23. God that must be close to paedophile calling. Good think he's on YouTube and will stay on YouTube. Because I like him singing about this girl he really really loved and for whom he would have done just anything... another puppy with big come-and-get-me eyes.... big sigh! Perhaps that's the attraction.... yet more power. Well having a cutie like that at your feet... bliss. And then there's Chris Noth, aptly named as Mr. Big (Sex and the City), who's not 23 but more like 45 and who keeps makes my mind go fuzzy. I have loved Mr. Big the minute he appeared on my TV set. I keep watching runs and re runs and re re runs just because I know he'll be in. So different from Rybak, he makes my heart and my something else tick. I thought he made everybody's something else tick, but my colleagues don't think much of him. Good, the less competition the better. Sadly though, I think that this one is also staying put on my TV screen. What a waste. The yet another man. He's no youngster, but behaves like one. You see he's totally delusional although he'd hit the roof if anybody even suggested that. He thinks he has it all, and he probably has quite a lot. And he's not fit like Rybak or like Mr. Big. But he doesn't care one hoot. And this is the perception I like, a perception I'd love to have. I am omnipotent, the Alpha (that's definitely it) and the Omega and people should bow to me because I am so me. That is the type of philosophy this man fondles. He fondles his ego and wants people to fondle it for him too. Problem is, he gets his way somehow or other. He has spoilt himself so rotten that perhaps people sense it and do it for him. Because although he would dismiss fairy-tales in one fell swipe, the man still believes in fairy tales. And he's got so many Tinkerbells trying competing for the role. But it's one Wendy who's bagged this Peter Pan.

Looking poor?

A good friend of mine has a brilliant habit of saying things the way they really are. I appreciate that because I'd rather know the truth than live in fairytale world. Although I like fairy-tales, especially when they're sung by Norwegian Alexander Rybak ( oh dear the boy is a sweetheart and doesn't he know it!). But this same friend can also analyse me (and other animals) in a snap. She just sizes them up with the greatest ease imaginable, or unimaginable. Very convenient, it's just like having the world wide web all in one person, except that it's better because she can laugh. And very few people can laugh like that. Fewer people can make me laugh outrageously and have me smiling for a week after that. Well ok, Joe Demicoli can do that too, I wouldn't miss him for the world, and they call me a hamalla for that. Fine with me, Demicoli stays. But my friend also stays. Intelligent creature, a woman born with brains and one who isn't afraid to show it. At least I hope so. And while I keep brainstorming myself as to why certain things happen, she types it out in a millisecond. I'm not sure whether I'm pleased or not, but it makes me stand up straight and widen my eyes ... and laugh, because she's right. So I got the wanker. And I kept wondering what it was that got me a wanker in the early hours of the morning. I did not look like a whore, I sure didn't spell sexy, for Christ's sake I looked like a mum who barely had enough money to buy the bread. You see, even I sometimes give the Bohemian look a miss, when I drag myself out of bed, dishevelled hair, dissolved make-up (and no it's not because I've been sleeping), because I am craving the damn toast. Something so innocent like toast. I kept thinking what it was for three days. My friend got it in less than 3 seconds. I looked POOR! So the effing wanker thought I'd do anything for a 100 Euro. To him I was a poor woman, young (next to his 200 years), so I was a catch. Very nice I don't think. And it's not being prudish, not one bit. Had it been Sex and the City's My Big... I'd have been in his car immediately, even forfeiting the 100 Euro. But this was no Mr. Big, so pleaseeeeeeee give me a break! My other friend, supposedly also intelligent first got pissed off that I'd been hit on, even if it was by a 200 year old, then started thinking it was funny, because, according to him I put out whore vibes out there and they get picked up. He thinks it's very very funny, and pointed out that he'd also picked up the vibe. Not funny. So bandannas spell poor now. And to think I spend close to, if not more than a 100 Euro for them. Moral of the story, never look poor, even if your purse is overflowing, or you risk getting hit on by a wanker.

Harem?

There are 6 women in the house. And myself. That makes 7. And 1 man. Just 1. To look at it, it would seem like the most professional business in the world. Dig deeper. It's just an uppa' class harem. And since it's uppa' class, the man doesn't get to enjoy his 'wives' the way Arab harems are run. I'm not very sure if that is what he'd like to do. But I am oh so sure that that is precisely what the females would love to do. Given the opportunity. But there's a catch. Because they never get the opportunity. I wonder why. Because they really try. And people who try should get rewarded for their efforts. Well, that's what I think about little people. I just don't think the same about these other 6 women's efforts. And it's tough to try when there's a vigilant eye. Yet, so intent are they on their mission, they ignore the vigilant eye and try their best anyway. And I'm not talking about any professional mission. It's the mission called leaning-in-on-the-one-man-seductively, looking-one-man-straight-into-his-eyes-holding-the-gaze-then-retiring coyly, touching-the-arm-of-one-man-repeatedly,floating-about-in-skirts-so-short-that-they-could double-up-as-a-bandanna,adjusting-their-non-existent-cleavage-a-hundred-times-per-morning... and glaring at mine with envy. Because yes, I actually have a cleavage, I don't need to try and create one with some sock in my bra. I don't need to lean on int, I don't even need to hold a gaze flirtatiously. And of course I wear bandannas... on my head of course. True, most times I could pass as a drag queen. But then of course I could, I'm a queen, and effortlessly I drag all the other six through the mud. Because there's no harem, and never will be. Sorry girls.

One man

To one man, I want to be known in a way that I have never been known before. I think he remembers every detail of how I taunted him, sometimes in a subtle manner, sometimes more overtly, ignoring the ragged breath, his hunger, treating him as just 'the friend.' I ignored all warnings and pigeon-holed him in my mind; as a fascinating weirdo whose brains I could pick for my own personal entertainment. I want him to know that I used him for this purpose and that after weeks of 'friendship' building I had also built my own agenda. And I tell him that. And he looks at my triumphant face and I expect a look of shock tearing at his normally cool, calm and collected features. But there's none of that there. Just a smile, a knowing smile. Not even polite laughter which would later turn to rage. I watch him from across a little table as he decides my fate trying to discern the how, the why and the when. I don't believe, although he has talked, that he has the guts to actually carry anything out. But in any case I start thinking fast for a plan to put his plan to shame. But the wine is too fine, the music divine, and I've crossed my line. It's late and we get up to leave. I want him to notice how the wind blows my long black waves into my face, I want him to move the hairs aside and see my face, my dark eyes canvased on a milky-white face, under arched over-plucked eyebrows which deceitfully make my eyes bigger. And he does, and looks into those eyes, looking for the last time into the eyes of a girl about to be branded, intoxicated with desire. Because He knows now, it's His call and none other's. The night is young. Another chapter has begun...

In another world...

There is a world, relatively unknown to civilized humankind. Or perhaps it is a known world but because humankind considers itself to be civilized, then it sometimes chooses to be extremely myopic. That doesn't make it less of a world, but it makes it a very difficult world to understand. Because what is different doesn't come with a manual instruction leaflet, hence the people living in this world and following its lifestyle prefer to keep it under wraps. Quite understandable, because it is no lifestyle for just anybody, it is a lifestyle based primarily upon instinct and its awkward perceptions, the pleasure and the pain of the flesh, and the twists of the mind. Yes it wrecks all superimposed beliefs of what should have been and what should be. Nevertheless, it is a world of rapture so high that one finds total freedom within the shackles. Within this world opposites survive, for the same reason that if one had to never know the darkest of sadness then one would never be able to grasp fully the meaning of happiness. It is the world of obedience brought on by disobedience, of becoming fearless through the fear, of lusting after the welts after being turned on by the perversion of the lash. A girl is there to do all, all that is required of her. In return she will be given her freedom, only to walk right back to where she belongs. Her mental thoughts are not hers, her feelings are always shared, and she proudly bears the pain of the lash which provided the welts which in turn give way to extreme lustful pleasure. Because the welts are her reminder that she's been taken, broken and she is His. She looks to Him, in Him for direction, and He is lost without her. And the ache is over and the tears have been wiped down gently with a hand like no other. His hand, caressing with soft brush strokes, fingers tracing the path to Neverland, taking their time, moving fluidly, articulating a carnal code so unique, because the strong hands possess a giving girl on the edge of a shimmering note.

Real-life Wanker

Have you ever desperately wanted toast in the middle of the night? Let's say 4 am? Well probably not because at that time, people will be sleeping like angels. But since I don't sleep and also since I am not an angel, I started craving for toast in the middle of the night. But you need bread to make toast, which is the one thing I didn't have. But the south is just unbeatable for these type of cravings. We're so advanced that we have 24 hour convenience stores which are actually bakeries who know all about our southern cravings and have been clever enough to open up a shop full of goody goodies to die for. At least I'd die for them, but there's no need for me to die for them. The Euro does just fine. So I just when down to this shop. The smell was heavenly, the smell of bread being baked is probably as close to the Pearly Gates as one can get. And since I was there, then I didn't just stop at the bread. Don't these shop owners know how to display their wares. And don't I just walk into their trap every single time?! So I was looking at the ham, the cheese, things like that. And somehow I dropped a 2Euro coin and a 5 cents Euro coin. Instinctively I bent down to pick them. And swore at my nails in the process. There is a lot a girl can do with long embellished nails, but picking up coins isn't one of them. And I tried tried tried and finally I managed to get the 2 Euro coin. Seeing I could sense this man very intent on what I was doing, or on what my butt was doing, I just left the 5 cents and proceeded to pay. I felt terribly shy, this man was looking at my butt, and let's put it this way, it is not my best asset. So thoughts of a stranger laughing at my butt at 4 in the morning were not very welcome. Stranger finally left.. phew. I paid, smiled politely at a joke the shopkeeper cracked and left. Now, at 4 in yesterday's morning I wasn't exactly dressed to kill. Just a pair of pants and a top probably 4 years old. I didn't want to kill, I just wanted my toast. And then it happened. I went back to my car tried opening the door and this silver car almost rams into me. An old man, as old as the hills of all the countries of the world pokes his head out and says, 'ejja, ha dduqu, ma nhallikx b'xejn ta, mitt Euro' while fiddling with his nether parts. And I, stupid I, couldn't even scream. Worse to come... he grabbed my arm with his hand and God knows where that hand had been. He kept insisting, I just said no no no no let me go. He wouldn't, and kept pressing me. Until i finally decided to open my car door anyway, to hell with my car, I wanted to damage his. He deserved it. That was probably the best move I've ever made, he left off. What a wanker! And I still couldn't move for a couple of seconds. Then I just threw my goods on the passenger seat and left off. Now I'm not exactly a prude, and I know that things like these happen. But they haven't happened to me in probably 5 years now. I thought that the dirty old men had grown up and died. Seems not. A stranger offering you to be groped in the middle of the night is not something very welcoming. It really shook me up. There was no way I looked like a whore, more like a mara tad-dar buying bread to feed her imaginary kids. So.... did I look so desperate? Oh God, did I really? I hope I'll never find out. Because I do not go off with strangers offering me a 100Euro in the middle of the night. One thing, a 100 Euro is way too little for my efforts. Another thing... now if only it had been a Mr. Big.....

Bad girl

I was bored, took a stupid Facebook quiz called, 'You a good girl or bad?' The result was 'You are 100% bad!' I wasn't expecting that. I wasn't expecting 'You're an angel' kind of result, but neither a totally bad one. All right, let's get things straight, Facebook quizzes are something crap, they always have to ask you your favourite colour, as if liking red would make a girl bad, and liking pink would make a good girl. But still, a 100% bad? I haven't killed anybody, I haven't sinned against someone's dignity (except perhaps for the woman in the pearl earrings), and still I'm so bad. And I've asked a couple of people what they think, they think it's funny, they have smiled and said of course you're a bad girl, that's why you're so good. As if that makes sense to me. I get a smile for a reaction. Somehow I don't think my mother would be as amused. So it boils down to possibly one reason, and that is that men like bad girls. In the same way as girls like bad boys, seems it works the other way round too. Why? Probably because we've been round the block quite a few times and know all about it when it comes to getting down to it. Experience is a very good teacher. Experience in the bad boy field is an even greater teacher. But most times we aren't even looking for the bad boys, they are attracted to us like magnets. Somehow, the clever bad boys know. My men-C.V. does not explain why it happens, but it is proof that it happens. My first man is now locked up in a cell somewhere. That bad. I learnt my lesson and substituted bad for another type of bad. Which was so much fun that it intoxicated me for many years. Getting at the forbidden (not illegal) fruit at some way or another is a fun way to live life. It, of course, does not come without the heartache if you're a fool. But you learn. And learn more. And suddenly you're not bad anymore, but just a good girl with bad tendencies. Or a bad girl with good tendencies. And you think the bad girl is over. And bang comes in another one who knows you're bad material. And it goes on and on. It never stops. Because you finally realise that good girls might go to heaven, but bad girls go everyfuckingwhere.

Men, wives and girlfriends

It is common knowledge that behind a great man lies an even greater woman. But what makes a great man? Is it his money, his power, his all over the place temperament, his knowledge? Or is it his kindness, his compassion, his also knowledge, his no need for power? I'm not so sure. The thing is perhaps great men are a dying breed but we girls (especially the Bohemian ones) know exactly what to do to create a great men. Of course we're responsible for them seeing daylight, but when the man has seen daylight for plenty of years and is now into adulthood, what then? My guess is that all men love power. For some it is intrinsic, for others it's picked up along the course of life. And sure they can be very kind men, but they will still love the power. When a man is badly in need of power, it does not mean he wants to make other people miserable. Sometimes it happens that way. Mostly not. But what is it like when a man has not one, but some 10 other women running around at his beck and call? Nothing happens, he just sees one and not the other nine. Sorry for this girls, but it's the truth. He will see the one who stands out of his agenda. Because men like to watch, they are turned on by the voyeuristic point of view. Mostly. Of course a couple of men could be turned on by more noble things, but let's not stray. The more intelligent the man, the more complicated it could get. Or maybe not. Life has thrown me quite a number of men at my feet (now ain't that narcissistic, and ain't it something to put on my C.V.?!). All have been different. And you kind of learn a lot through their diverse ways, attitudes, personalities, likes and dislikes. All men want a good wife. But not all men start out as wanting a good wife. When I hear other women say that their husband wants them to go au naturel, minus the paint, and the clinking metal... it makes me think. They don't really want to have something au naturel, they really want something which will not make other men look. And these men are, more often than not, quite insecure. What they do not know is that insecurity is hardly an aphrodisiac for the girls. My Mister, oh he's a sweetheart, what I like, he will like. He loves me for being different, he loves all of the look. But then there are very few who match him. He's not insecure, never was, never will be. But other men, other man love to have a something on the side which suddenly becomes top priority. Married men have girlfriends on the side. Again ironically, the girlfriends on the side could become their top priority, because they're no goody goodies, they do not look like wifely material and that is exactly what causes them to snap. The secret is in being inobedient day in, day out. Because that is a challenge, and men love, no adore challenges. Seems human behaviour hasn't changed very much. Because we let men think that they are the head of the household, while we have the balls to control them.

Basic Instinct

I am being made aware of my trademark gypsy earrings, my over the top nails and art, my heavy war paint, my extremely heavy jewellery. For anybody who knows me on school premises, this might come as a surprise, because I don't take it to school, reason being that I wake up too late for all of that so I have to go without. For one woman, who thinks she's oh so delicate in her minute pearl stud earrings, it is all too much. She thinks I am a hamalla. My love for the south also contributes to her opinion. But I do not understand this. Why wear earrings so tiny that they are not visible to the naked eye? Is that supposed to be non-hamalla? That is lack of funding, wanting to look prim and proper. Sorry, that's just not me. And I've told her that perhaps I will one day wear he same jewellery when I get to her age. Nasty but nice because it's true. Then again I'm so certain I won't wear minute jewellery not even if I'm 80. The people at l-Imgieret will have to put my earrings on... 'for sure'. Because that is what uppa class people use as a phrase. For sure. Truth is always stranger than fiction there. So I'm not uppa class because I think that that phrase sucks. I'm also not uppa class because I use the word sucks. And yet not uppa class because I don't try using the English bullshit. English is not bullshit, it's this woman's English which leaves a lot to be desired. As does her male working companion's. And they think they're on top. Yeah right a woman on top, this woman on top, I don't even want to start seeing it, not a pretty sight. And of course I have my own pearls. But they're nothing like tiny, each pearl is the size of a small coconut ball; the ones we used to 'cook' in primary school. That's pearls for me. And this same woman complains that I am heard way before I am seen. I take that as a compliment, but I know exactly what she means.... hamalla. But she says the word shit every 40 words. I don't. And if I had to do the same in Maltese, well what would the translation be...iz-z***! I never say that, only behind closed doors when tempers really flare and of course I have to have my say among all the shit words. Ain't Maltese lovely for providing me with a word so nicely conned? It's all so onomatopoeic, it stands for attention this z word, especially said in an exclamatory tone. Which brings me to something else. The woman claims to be a soprano. Oh dear God, did she choose the wrong person to say that too. Because music is my territory and nobody else's. She is just an amateur proclaiming to have good vocal chords. And yet I have searched far and low for some recital, opera she'd be in, but I've never found anything. Could be that she is so much in demand that she only gives private concerts or else, which is probably more of the truth, she is just a lame dilettanta. Everybody can say they are a soprano. Yeah right, if she is a soprano, then I'm the world's fastest athlete to put it mildly. And I know she'll be reading this. And I don't care one hoot. Well actually I do care, plenty of hoots because I want her to know she's being plastered on the world wide web. And she can continue leaning in on people, touching their arm, fiddling with her diddly cleavage. Because she's not getting anywhere. It so seems that some uppa-class-for-sure men like the hamalli, because we're the in your face kind of women. Sorry about the pearls, the blouses, the pencil skirts, the pumps. She's also called me Bohemian, and it's stuck. Too bad for her, that men are always swept away with us the uppa class dressed in lower class tops with cleavage to die for, with the gypsy earrings and bangles. It's the history of the world, Bohemian speaks wild, sexy, magical. And men will always want to hunt down the ones who seem not to be able to be hunted down. And we give in because we still want to be hunted down, especially when it means we will always be the ones on top. Eat your heart with pearly cutlery. Because we're supremely uppa class dressed as whores. And men..... well the proof is in the eating, without the cutlery. Basic instinct my dear. Simple.

He

Where am I headed for in life? I have no clue. I cannot plan today yet alone tomorrow and the day after that. And yet some people have it all mapped out. They hit 30, then realise it's about time they got serious, find the next girl on the menu and decide it's the right one. Then, they marry her, have kids. And I have to talk about a he because I'm thinking about a he. And after he has kids, then he decides it's time for some part-time nooky, which turns into full time. And of course as luck would have it, the next girl on the next menu is also the right one. And he juggles everything so effortlessly without a care in the world. Usually, married men who have girl-friends do it on a part-time basis. And yet he does it full-time. Unashamedly. I, of course, am not here to condemn him. But he's a piece of work this he. And a lesson in life. No inhibitions, no trying to hide this and that. He stands on his own. Or perhaps not on his own. Perhaps he needs to feed off power so much that he goes along and creates it. And yet, every tyrant is slave to someone, mostly himself. History is a good way of fathoming out what happens today. And every tyrant was putty in some girl's hands. And I try to get a good look and think about what such a man's childhood would have been like. Because a child grows up mimicking what he's seen. Most of the time. Mimicking and monkeys. And he says it's because he says so. But if he had nobody to say because I say so to, then he would be a very lost little boy all alone in the big blue marble. The power is hers.

Interview stuff

Yesterday has come and gone. Finally. I wasn't too keen on the day because an interview was looming ahead. And I'm not very good at being interviewed. At least that's what I thought. But one good friend whom I never knew I had took the time out to sent me a few words of encouragement as well as what to expect. Life savers like her are very few. It made me feel nice inside, but I still braced myself for the worst. Unfortunately I am not the outgoing twin. I'm the one who says nothing and observes. Which I know makes people uncomfortable. The fact that my Mister here is an interviewee pro didn't help either. He kept smiling while I kept complaining. He likes, no, loves, no, adores interviews. Because he will conduct the interview and not the other way round. But then he's far more outgoing than me. And although I know exactly what he'll be thinking, we really don't think the same at all. His thinking would be, oh yeah great, interview here I come. My thinking was, well in an hour's time this will be over and I cannot wait for it to be over. He doesn't even think that his being big could interfere with things, and since he does not give that scared vibe, it never does. Me.. I dressed in black (more flattering), still kept my trademark gypsy earrings (I don't care if subtle earrings are more suitable for an interview because that's not me), and the rest of my other 5 earrings. And me... scared the big issue would come up. And quite pleasantly there wasn't a millimetre of the big issue vibe in the room. So instantly made me comfortable. And I talked, and talked and talked. I couldn't stop. Suddenly I was loving the attention. Because it was all to do about my world, the world of music and little people, and that is a subject which is very close to heart. I must have written a hundred entries about that subject alone here on my blog. Plenty of practise. The words couldn't stop. The supposedly 20 minutes turned into 60. I never faltered, or felt like a mouse. No I was there in all my grandeur and I knew exactly what I was saying. Experience... sigh. Experience is probably a very good teacher. And being a teacher probably makes you good at public speaking. Four years ago, I wouldn't have been able to hold a conversation with a stranger to save my life. It seems things have changed. I am calmer, but I talk more. I can finally talk because in these four years I have been a teacher, mum, nurse all in one. The world of little people is a grand one. The world of music combined with little people is an even grander one. Hence the interview was a breeze, thanks to the little people, and my new friend. I owe you one Rose!

25 hens

A dear old friend (old as in many years of friendship) has brought to my attention something so funny that has turned me into looking like an idiot, going about life with this big smile. I have also started laughing to myself too. Now I know that some people talk to themselves and that isn't exactly healthy, so I wonder where the laughing-to-yourself fits into the healthy/unhealthy scale. My best guess is that it's extremely happy. It has had me laughing for three days now, and no I'm not tired. And I so want to share this with everybody on the street, but I have to be selective because it sounds thoroughly mad. And sad. When you decide you want to buy a house, you usually go to an estate agent. At least that's what I did when I wanted to sell and buy. Of course estate agents aren't stupid in the least. It's their job, and nobody seems to do anything for nothing. Plenty of foreigners are buying property in what is called the South and that's fine, because the South is also mine and I don't mind them one bit. So the usual thing happens; estate agent calls upon the potential buyer and takes them to show them the house, or whatever type of property it is. Seems we are having inflated prices, but let's skip that. Potential buyer gets to see the house, then asks if the price is negotiable. Perfectly normal. Imagine if the estate agent came out with an,' you have got to add 25 hens to the price'. You'd think he was pulling a fast one. But no, it's a dead serious statement, it goes with the price, 25 hens, actual clucking real hens. Because it's a traditional thing in the contract, estate agent explains. How sad it did not happen to me, I would have died laughing. But if it had happened to me I'd have laughed and said, oh well what can you do. It's not so when it happens to foreigners. I am trying to see it happening to people who do not speak the mother tongue. With disastrous consequences. They must think that for a moment we're back in medieval times, or quite simply, that we're hopping mad. It would be enough to put them off Malta for life. It's outrageous fun for me. But sad for the country. And if I didn't know my friend well, I would have thought she was taking the piss. But no, it's dead serious. And so I've kept thinking about it for three days, smiling like a lunatic, wanting to share it with the world but apprehensive that the world might think I'd gone mad. I haven't gone mad yet, it's all true. And if you've seen this girl out on the streets walking in a zig-zag manner, smiling so hard at nothing, well now you know why. It's all about the hens. Pity not about cocks. That would have been an even better smiling situation. One thing though, I haven't been able to touch chicken for three days, lest the chicken I eat is one of those hens which are drawn up in the contract. Yes, hamsa u ghoxrin tigiega. That's exactly it.

Clawing attitude

I sit here with a cat perched dangerously on one thigh, cigarette in one hand, diet coke in the other. It's like a circus. I've learned to do the balancing act. And it's pretty dangerous because we're talking about fire, glass, and claws which could dig deep into my thigh and make me scream. It's a scenario for disaster, Then again, it couldn't. Depends how you see it. If my cat dug into my thigh then I'd scream lose the Diet Coke and burn myself in the process. The other way round. If my cat dug into my thigh I'd drop my Diet Coke on the cigarette, put it out, drench the cat in Diet Coke which would lead to the cat scurrying off in fright. And yet I just chose the first scenario. What a flipping pessimist. Forget the half full, half empty glass, that has become sic. This is far more interesting because it involves live mammals and a whole lot of action. That makes me a pessimist, a drama-loving pessimist. I cannot take the looking into the glass, seeing my attention span is less than that of a fly. I need the drama, the burning, the glass breaking, the cat, the claws, and my poor poor thigh. If I were a little person about to start a P.E. lesson at school, a lot of people would be calling 179, Sedqa, Appogg. Unfortunately I cannot even begin to count the scratches, since I cannot turn my backside, although wouldn't I love to see it. Then again, that would probably make me depressed, it's the same as in being cheated on. What you don't know won't hurt you. I believe in that. Although I do not believe in a farce. But then if it's all a circus, why ever not? Le Pailasse triste... it's not just the clown who puts on a brave face, and tries to hide his sadness with paint. I do that too. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. But you've got to survive somehow, and I choose the cat and the claws over the glass.