Brother time

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

Farmers

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

Tschüs, tschüs zu den zwei Scheiße

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

Parasites

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

Woodworm

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

The Marriage Change

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

In laws no more

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

Aaaajjjjuuuutttt!

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

Designer?

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

Funny in-laws

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

The wife

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

Screening

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

Three sisters

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

Anger

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

My friend

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

Bunnies and Jugs

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

No revenge

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

Rational?

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

Love you too?

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

Smoking scream

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

Screams

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

The toy-boys and the old-boys

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

La Battaglia del...

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

Make up bonding

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

Broody

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

Specs

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

Walk-in closet

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

The in-laws

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

Men and sex

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

Housework

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

Beards

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

Embarrassing?

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

Degrees

My house is in total turmoil. It's because it's cleaning day. And no of course I'm not doing the cleaning. You have to get a degree for that, and it's a subject which never caught my attention. I don't think that looking back at everything clean after having spent 2 days slaving is a lot of fun. I don't think that making whites brighter than white is fun either. And the idea of a morning out at the detergent shop is appalling. I've much better things to do, write here ahem. I cannot and will never understand why women offer you advice as to cleaning products at the supermarket, with that knowing smile, as if they were offering advice on the latest flavoured and shine-in-the-dark rubbers. Because that's exactly the kind of smile they give with their advice, it comes in a package. It's a coy smile, as if they were trying to say, you know, try this, you won't regret it you know, wink wink. Yeah right, I wouldn't regret Hagen-Dasz, I know that. I wouldn't regret Dior and Estee` Lauder. But Svelto? Who the hell cares? Detergents all look the same, whether it's Fabuloso, Lenor or whatever. And yet I don't suffer a filthy-house syndrome, thanks to my good friend who can make it sparkle. I can't. I just don't know how to do it. And yes I'm a girl. But that doesn't matter. Nowhere does it say in the Bible that Eve was created to wash and scrub. On the contrary, God told them (Eve and her partner) to go forth and multiply. Ok I haven't yet got down to understanding multiplication, you need a Maths degree for that. I've just gone forth, well, some people are slow. At least I've managed the first bit. Pity you can't get a degree called 'Gone Forth'.

Souls

I am not an outgoing person. I'm fine with people I have known all my life. I'm also fine with people whom I feel I've known all my life. But throw one new face at me and I'm lost and retreat into my big shell, shut up and become suddenly and stupidly silent. I am not able to strike conversations with strangers, not even if it's weather related. It's too hard for me, it can be harrowingly hard. And yet I realise that perhaps going against my own Bible yesterday wasn't such a bad thing after all. It's also made me realise that some people are not put off and neither do they out you off. A new face, a new woman, and yet I felt so comfortable. There are a million things us girls can bond about, this time it was make-up. Boy do I love the subject. And yet there just was something about this carefree happy woman. Perhaps sometimes it's all about vibes, and I kept getting good, better, and better still vibes. Maybe sometimes souls connect somehow because they know that there is more than meets the eye. It's about the talk, the walk and the everything else. And I've made a new friend whom I'd otherwise overlooked on the street. Because souls know about anniversaries, they know about the fear, they instantly know they have found a mate. That is the true meaning of 'soulmate'. Even if it takes something so surface related like make-up and bling bling. Look deeper.

Special Needs

There is something in me which makes me feels strongly (perhaps too strongly) at the way people with 'special needs' are treated. It is something akin to fire, it is so strong, it just transforms me into a puppy one minute and a fierce tiger the next. Because people who have not been exactly treated well by life at least deserve to be treated like royalty by us. Sadly it doesn't always work that way. And you'd think all the awareness campaigns would have got to us by now. Again, sadly not. They are treated as a joke. Not kidding, not blowing it up and out of proportion. I met this kind of thing yesterday. And I'm still hurting. I decided to go against my book of rules and go to a festa, just because it was important for a friend of mine, and because he is a one of a kind and has been a friend to me in the very very bad times. Also in the good times, and we share a biblical history of laughter. So, I made the sacrifice, in the flipping heat among people who reeked of onions. I'm glad I made it there, and I'm glad for my friend. But I wasn't too glad by what I saw. Scenario, a young man, perhaps 25 years old suffering from Down's Syndrome. And somehow people thought he was the village clown. And it made me so angry, some idiot decided it would be very funny to tear down his pants zipper and leave him with his underwear showing. How I'd love to get my claws on whoever did that. That is sinning against human dignity and punishable by torture. And this poor young man, didn't think twice about telling and demonstrating his grievance to three of us ladies. People laughed, I didn't. Not because I'm a good girl or because I'm canvassing for my canonisation. Far from it, I'm probably never even going to make a Pearly Gate sighting. But the instant this young man was next to me, my first instinct was to protect him, I told him, please please lower down your t-shirt. Not because it wasn't a pretty sight. I was instantly transformed into the girl who tries to protect the little people at school. Ok so this was a young man, but he still needed to be shielded. I guess I wanted to stop him from making himself the laughing stock. But he didn't get it, his child-like innocence betraying him and kept demonstrating. And I suddenly got very angry. Where was his mom? Where was his dad? How the hell did they think it was all right to leave him running around? Why were people laughing so hard, urging him on? Why did so many people think it was so funny, that he came to air his grievance with three ladies? Did they really think we'd find it sexy? Far from it. It was sad. Very sad. And this is where I also get at loggerheads with God. Didn't he see the disgusting party? Couldn't He have done something? Well He didn't. If I were God I would have turned them into people with Down's Syndrome, ripped their pants, and then we'd see if they thought it funny. I wanted to spit fire, people with Down's Syndrome have it hard enough. And we talk about being civilised in 2009. The sad truth is, we're worse than animals. Animals don't do it. Yet we do. And we call ourselves human beings who sin against the dignity of their own human race. People like yesterday's young man are people with special needs, and that makes them all the more special. That also means we should treat them with more love and respect. But we don't get it do we?

Kleenex

I've sinned against Blogger society. I've let one whole day pass without putting in an entry. But I was too busy running around at earthly and unearthly hours. And I needed my sleep. I'm back anyway. And I remember that the last time I looked at my blog was through teary eyes and through a tear-stained face too. No it wasn't sad. It was relief. Although to anybody looking at me it wouldn't have seemed so. But it was. Because sometimes things are not what they seem to be. A smile could be concealing the best of pain. And sobs could be the outcome of happiness. I have never been one to understand happy tears. Tears are the body's ways of saying, I cannot cope anymore, I've got to let the water works do it for me. And yet sometimes they are really happy ones, the ones which are a sign of relief; the tears all held in because I'm a big girl and big girls don't cry. Yet I have, and it's been so happy. Funny, never thought Kleenex could carry a happy innuendo.

Back

Tonight was funny. So many people welcoming me as a long lost friend, as if I'd landed in the country after a spell of a hundred years. And it was nice. And nice isn't even a good word for it. But so many 'knowing' people asking..'Are you back? Will you be back now?Will we see you now?'. I know what they mean. Because they know the old me, the one who'd let nothing stop her. So many compliments, in a negative sort of way. It seems I have been a loss to the nation, and those are not my words. It also seems that I have been a big loss to plenty of things. So much is big about me, I guess there are some things which are massive, and I have no intention of hiding this type of big. And it is nice to know that you are heralded as *the* girl, the only one, the girl this country has never seen like and probably will never see like. Too many things are happening fast, and boy they're nice. Again nice isn't even the word. And it makes me want to kick my big self. How could I have forgotten? But I did. And now it's all coming back. And I'm not even angry. But smiling sadistically. In the same way as I let my spirit be worn down sadistically. I could have taken one to one, this was a hundred to one. I'm not sure there ever is a forgiveness for killing someone's spirit. I am not God. Only God forgives 77 times. And it will take time for my spirit to flourish again, but I'm working on it. No I'm not even doing that, it's people who are working on it. I have suddenly bounced back again and I know some people are scared. Good, let them be scared, let them shit their pants just when loo roll manufacturers go on indefinite strike. I have wasted precious months which turned into years. All out of my life. I'm not wasting one more minute. I'm back.

Missing Demicoli

I had been waiting for Tuesday night for a week, it's Demicoli night on the radio, but I was in for a disappointment today. No Demicoli. Maybe he's taken off on holiday. Maybe he's tired of waiting for his number 122 and gone elsewhere. I hope it doesn't take him more than another week. I need my Demicoli fix . But since Demicoli was not available I thought of accepting an invitation for a 'hanzirata', in my Maltese terminology, a 'hnizrija'. It was fine, food was excellent as was the company, but as in all other lejla Maltija's, something was lacking. And yes I know you know what I'm going to say but I'm saying it anyway. DEMICOLI was missing. So I ate the food and made small talk and still missed Demicoli. There was another kind of entertainment, this good singer (out of Eurovision hopefuls) have a good background music type of thing, but I wanted Demicoli. I even said a little prayer to the Madonna on show for next Saturday's festa. Not even the angels were helping me this time. L-angli stunaw, and if they did I don't want anything to do with them. I pride myself on my ability to play in perfect tune, I will not settle for people with less abilities, not even if they're angels. And in the same way that is why I like Demicoli, because he's no lesser abled person. Can I write lyrics like that and make them rhyme like that? No. Can you? Probably not either. Can anybody make people laugh like that while the credit crunch is on full force? No. Because what Demicoli has is intrinsic, he's born with it and has been good enough to share. I'm not sure I would have. But then maybe Demicoli is a better person than I am. I don't know.