A female soulmate

I think I'm back to normal now. At least writing this doesn't mean I have to type with one hand because the other hand is occupied by grabbing at stomach pains. I feel ok I think, but there is something I've completely let myself in for. It's stuff of the heart, as is usual. But this is different. I am not one to be able to boast of having had many friends in my life, although I seem to know countless people as well as quite some of their dirty linen. Not my fault, they air it in public, and I am part of the public. No I do not happen to know everybody, although I am liking the fact that I am getting to know all the people who are generous enough to leave their comments after each of my blog entries. If only I had a clue as to who was writing, but then you cannot have everything in the world. And I am content. Very much so. It's nice to know that someone out there thinks I'm a fairy! It's nice to know that someone thinks I have a good heart. So Thank you all very much for that. But I've got a problem here. The world talks about soulmates, and that there is a soulmate out there for everyone. The usual question is... how do you go about finding that soulmate? Which is plausible. And somehow we get the message that that soulmate will be of the opposite sex. That's what straight people think. Gay people of course think they will find a soulmate of their same sex. And it's ok. What about a straight woman who finds another straight female soulmate? What happens then? Well what is happening is that some people are not liking it one bit. And they are the same people who professed their undying friendship in the not too distant past. I do not have to have a Harvard degree to understand what is happening. It's possessiveness which is giving way to envy. For a reason I have yet to discover. I can hardly understand the basic concept of faithfulness in marriage let alone this. Because faithful does not include being locked up in the tower like Sleeping Beauty. Neither is it being chained to this and that. I want my freedom, away from the other 'friend's who have almost had a heart attack. The next thing I know I'm going to have a private eye on me, to see just how man times I meet my soulmate. And it makes me feel as if I'm doing something bad. The thing is, do I have a right to have a friend? Yes, most definitely

Anonymous

My blog seems to be buzzing with activity. And it makes me, well, smile. There seems to be quite some intelligent people writing in there, if only they didn't stay anonymous. If only they could put an initial, a nickname, something, anything. I'm not well, just writing this is a feat. Abdominal pains, stomach pains. And I'm scared because I have a hunch it's going to mean being examined. That spells doctors, and I don't like doctors very much. They prod you here and there and then take a guess. But I just can't sit or stand ... be back later. Oh and I love all my anonymous commenters xxxx

China

A very dear friend of mine ,who also happens to blow my brains here and there very often has also often spoken about her love of china. China as in real bone china. It's never made much sense to me. I must be the most undomesticated animal God ever made. But somehow it's rubbed off quite a bit, and I'm suddenly finding myself staring at pictures of beautiful fine bone china. This should never have happened. I usually stare at Versace and Chanel and feel dizzy. Dior and Cartier, oh God talk about really needing someone to hold you or you're going to hit the ground. The bags, the shoes, the bling bling, and now... china, of all things. And it's really taking my breath away, it's so damn pretty. Perhaps my aversion to china had something to do with plates, and cups, and dishes... and I love cuisine as long as it's someone else making it. But mugs... I can do that. And they are so awesome, it's going to feel like I'm having tea with the queen or something like that. Although I'd probably prefer a Mr. Big to the Queen. I can just see Mr. Big having china in his house with his red bedroom. Maybe I shouldn't be living here but in NYC on the look out for Mr. Big and not very far away from my dear friend. But then, NYC is not il-Hamrun!

Lost Love

Love again. This love thing sometimes drives me nuts. Because most people immediately think of romantic love, between a man and a woman, between people of the same sex. Still romantic. And yes it's a powerful feeling. But how are we supposed to stop loving when things fail to remain the same? Or worse still, when the object of our affection is suddenly out of reach? In basic English, what about broken love? Because while love grows slowly inch by inch (no I don't think there is something as love at first sight, but lust at first sight), we are expected to pull out the plug on love. As if it never happened. And that's tough. How is that even possible? You are suddenly thrown into the downward spiral of trying to understand what went wrong, how it went wrong. And it comes accompanied by a deep sense of feeling lost. Because you want to try to understand. The truth is, there will be no understanding. Not when someone breaks your faith after many years. There is no magic potion to mend a broken heart. And you miss the laugh, the smiles, the voice, the empty space in your bed. The bed. That's a whole other thing. Beds are made to lie in, to close your eyes in, to dream in. They spell trouble, because it makes the realisation all the more poignant. And there are different ways to lose a love. But only one way to make it through. Let them go, let them fly.
P.S. No I haven't lost a love just now. But I have loved and lost too. So I know, I really do.

Baby don't cry

Tears. I think it's the body's way of saying... sorry but I cannot cope anymore. Those little tear ducts act like a fuse, just so you don't blow the fuse. But sometimes we still blow the fuse, and it's ok. No need to get mad at ourselves for crying. Getting mad doesn't solve anything. That's why tears are basically salty water, there is a purpose for that. Water means we can go with the flow. It's our flow, and it's ok. Because if tear ducts are present in every human being, then they were made for a purpose. And I know all this, yet I don't want people to cry. They can cry as much as they like if they are crying with laughter. But we don't tend to cry all day with happiness. On the contrary, we cry all day because we're in pain, sad, broken hearted. And then, that is what soul mates were created for. Soul mates can do everything together, but they cannot cry together. Because when one is crying, the other is responsible for wiping away the tears, again, and again, and yet again, as long as it's necessary. I do not like to see my soul mate crying, because it means she is hurting. But I have to step up to the role of gathering all the tears and blowing them away. For as long as it takes. I've done my own crying. I've cried so hard that I couldn't open my eyes anymore. And although I would love to have magic Kleenex, that isn't possible. So I do the next best thing. I hold her hand, promise to be there and wait till all the salty tears evaporate and there are tears no more. And I'm doing nothing special, because she would do the same for me and more. Of course it hurts me to see her hurt. It makes me want to cry too. But I cannot allow myself that. Because soul mates do not cry at the same time. They cry together. And one day the same sun will shine on both of them.

The Brazilian

I realise we women go to great lengths in the quest for beauty. And we kid ourselves into thinking that it's for ourselves. I don't think it really is... for us. It's probably for our men, although whether they appreciate it is an entirely different matter. I cannot speak for them all though. I know a man who immediately notices any subtle change, the flash of a new shade of lipstick. And he's appreciative. For that man, I guess I should be thankful. But more often than not, we like the bad boys, the rogues, who make our life difficult, yet interesting. So there I plucked (pun not intended) up my courage and went for a Brazilian. Funny how Brazilians were a regular in my twenties and I could behave and take the pain like a big girl. Somehow it feels different once you hit thirty, the pain triples, and you cannot help your eyes water. Yet, no pain, no gain, that's how the beauty industry works. And with each hair that gets ripped out, follicle and all, you just want to kick the beauty therapist, I mean, kick her hard, knock her out. I've always wondered why they're called beauty therapists. Therapists, therapeutic, therapy, they make me think of this big tent in the aboriginal where pregnant women go there and just sit and be worshipped. So, a beauty sadist would probably be more appropriate. But, it's my choice, our choice, so if we let ourselves in for it, then just like childbirth, we must put up with the labour pains. And my guess is they also don't call them labour for nothing. So, Brazilian over. Kind of looks cute. Thought I'd get a lot of male appreciation for all my hard labour. I didn't. I got the exact opposite. One look of thunder and ok I know that somehow I've blown it. With this type of man it works like this... it's one look and you somehow can hear the thunder and pray to God he'll have mercy. Reasons... because it looks clinical, because it looks childish! Childish?? And there was I thinking it was dead sexy. Perhaps I'll live to tell another tale.

Rainbow bridge

The 21st. of September is always a fragile day for me. It's been three years now. It marks the anniversary of Figaro passing on to Rainbow Bridge. Do not argue, that is where pets go. And that is where Figaro, my fur baby is. He has a website all for himself, a website where I put flowers, and angels and balls for him to play with. You see, he passed on before I did. And I find comfort in knowing that the Creator would never allow the unconditional love he shared with me just to be taken away for ever. Each baby's life has meaning and purpose and the love we shared is sacred; a bond of love too strong to be ever broken, even when the physical body leaves us, the spirit remains. And I try to hold on to my Figaro's love and spirit and use that special love for the good of my other babies. Grief is never measured in time, but when the heart is dry of tears and the mind comes to acceptance, only then will you begin to heal. Meanwhile, I just know my baby is up there on Rainbow Bridge, free from suffering, and always loving. Guess I will love him forever too, because it's not just humans who touch our hearts forever. Sleep tight my dearest.
http://rainbowsbridge.com/residents/FIGAR005/Resident.htm

Butterflies

Evening has turned into night which has turned into early morning. I'm never awake at this time. I haven't seen the world at such a time for years. But butterflies have. Butterflies are beautiful creatures, colourful creatures who fill me with so much hope and love in my heart. I just don't think anymore when butterflies are around, it's when the heart overtakes the mind completely. I can close my eyes and dream of butterflies everywhere, and it's such a picturesque dream. But there is one butterfly who is fragile right now. It does not have the standard... Fragile, this way up, handle with care. Yet I know. I hope that butterfly is asleep today. And I want to catch that butterfly and hold her close, yet I cannot be the mistress of her freedom. Because butterflies are not meant to live in cages but to fly up, high up. They soar beautifully above all things material... until you get a butterfly with tired wings, the fragile one, which is the most colourful of all. And that is the one who needs the special TLC. Love is strange, especially when platonic. It can be just as fierce as any other love, and oh God do I love this butterfly, with all my might, with all my mind, with all my heart. And I think this butterfly might just love me too. And there is nothing more beautiful in the world than loving and being loved in return. Especially when it's a butterfly in question. Because love is not measured by time, and butterflies are timeless.

Broken vow

Sometimes I'm just flitting along YouTube and hearing random songs. Then once in a blue moon I'm hit with the sweetest melody which makes me stop in my tracks. And I listen, and go on a listening marathon. Broken vow. All about love gone wrong, betrayal, and poignant forgiveness. Or perhaps the forgiveness that comes out of helplessness. There must be a million love songs out there and I must have listened to half of that million on Saturday nights when I was recovering from yet another failed love story. Sometimes I think that if I had to do it all again I'd do it all so different. I would never fall in love. In lust, in cheeky lust, plenty of that. But no love. It's something of the same thing happening in Pretty Woman, where Julia Roberts can get down and dirty but does not kiss. Because kissing is probably the precursor of love. I thought it so strange back then. Now I understand. I'm not much of a kisser and I'm being very truthful. Perhaps because once you've seen Pretty Woman you're never the same again. Perhaps without even knowing all the bumps and knocks made me realise that kissing is way too dangerous. I still cringe if someone comes too close, except for very few exceptions. I can kiss my brother tightly and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. I can kiss my adoptive sister tightly and it also feels natural. I think that's about it. Of course I do not snog them, please don't get any ideas. This is not a sexy post, it's about love, yes, but not of the sexy kind. Sex and love do not go together, at least in the vast majority of my relationships with other people. Perhaps it's the fear of betrayal, maybe I'm done with asking why, there really is more to love than bitterness and lies... and I'm letting go... finally.

The Priest Fetish

Fetishes. We all have them. I crave chocolate. I crave sugary foods and carbs. I go for men who dress well (well most of the time), talk well, eat well. I also go for older men. I have a shoe fetish which is a very expensive one, I am a make up junky, a fragrance junky, a bling bling junky. But I'm a girl and that's to be expected. There are men who enjoy my same fetishes and that's ok too because they're men and it's to be expected. Because both genders are human. But one of the strangest fetishes of all (at least it is very strange to me), is the priest fetish. I know of one man who has taken to going to mass every day just to watch the object of his affection. Yet the latter doesn't know about this man's crush, so it's also ok. This man is just getting to hear a lot of bible readings, if he can concentrate on the readings at all. But, no harm done there. What I will never understand is why a woman would take to a priest. Of all people. There are so many men in the world, why a priest? Take one woman, she sees the priest, goes completely ga ga, then joins the church choir, then wants to help around with church chores, then she is 'animating' mass. I write animating, because that's what it's called, although I think someone could have found a better word. On to the woman with the priest fetish, she starts going to confession too often, she bats her eyelashes when 'her' priest is around. And priests aren't stupid. They know about human behaviour. When confronted with this type of behaviour, some stick to their chastity vows. Some don't. Because it's there on a plate for the taking, and take they do. They're human. I do not blame the priests, after all they are men who have been created as men, with all their desires and instincts. So have women. But priests are men who walk around in robes for heaven's sake. And if they don't, well, it's kind of like this; they are God's chosen ones, they belong to God. And I would never ever mess with God's property, not even if George Clooney took to priesthood. Yet, some women seem to think that the fact that God is in the picture, then He is an aphrodisiac. Now I believe in a loving God, but this is pushing it. And yet, some women cannot help themselves. And their mis/behaviour is a sight for sore eyes. It includes getting all sexed up in different places of the church, in places and on solid thing that would scare me to bits. No I'd never do it. I'm not displeasing God like that. Yet such women can get so caught up in the heat of it, that they even forget their red wonderbra behind them.... I wonder what the sexton thought of it. Maybe he's not called a sexton for nothing.

Sisters?

I've never wanted a sister in life. I was so content being the only girl in five generations. I had a brother and that was ok. Well it had to be ok, because I had no say in it anyway. He had to be conceived first for me to come about so I couldn't exactly complain. But there was no way on earth my parents were reproducing again, and as a child, a very weird kind of child, I would pray to God so he wouldn't send my parents other children. I didn't know the facts of life at 5 years old. I actually wasn't quite so sure at 15. I thought people got married, then prayed to God for kids. But in that weird 5 year old +7months of a brain I thought that maybe some people didn't pray hard enough to God and that was the reason he didn't send them any angels from above. Or monsters from below. How very naive. But I was 5 so I can let myself off the hook. I was just an innocent child, nothing wrong with that. But every time someone in my class announced their mother was about to pop again, I'd be filled with dread. I think I prayed more than hard enough. God listened to that innocent child, and sent no more. And let's say I could have coped with another brother, but I would not have coped with another sister. I was the only daughter, only niece, only granddaughter, and that's the way it was going to stay. Period. And the reflection of that is that throughout my adult life I haven't really had close female friends. Acquaintances yes, but not friends, the one who you can talk all about your nitty gritty too. And suddenly life throws me, not a friend, but a sister, on the hottest summer night of the year. Dear Lord or life, I suddenly get a sister at 36. And although I lack the experience of sisterhood, this comes as the most natural thing in the world. And in less time than you can say Amen it's more solid than the freeze in my freezer. How? I cannot talk about that, because I don't know. It's something like Freddie Mercury's ' And it's finally happened, happened, happened'. And I'm not complaining. It's so good to know that you have another other half out there. Sometimes life knows exactly what to do.

Religious jibber jabber

I've opened Face Book again to yet more religious s and M. How not nice for a breakfast at 11am. And talking of food, it seems that the big issue has translated itself into religious dogma now. Two girls are responsible for this, two totally unrelated girls, well, related by one thing... extra weight. And no it's not me this time. And I won't be following suit. Because this has begun to look like a fetish now. And while I might be into a lot of them (the fetishes), this is one which really doesn't take my fancy. So let's talk about the girls. One who had a marriage fetish, and finally after 40 years of looking (you see all of you who hold the marriage fetish, never despair) and being hooked up, she's become a saint. She now dismisses all her sex stunts as 'the silly sins of our youth'. Now if I had to do that, I'd be going straight to heaven with wings which would support me. Silly sins of our youth, she's not talking about fibbing to mum at 16, lying and saying that the bus stopped somewhere, hence the being late. That is a silly sin. I'm not sure if getting it on with a priest can be deemed as a silly sin, but as I write it now becomes very clear.. the clergy, hence religious, hence God loving. So marriage made her obsessed with God, and it's not an I wonder why at all. That means it becomes we can eat ourselves to death and be merry because God loves us anyway. And who is hubby to complain with God's wishes? Nobody of course. Now I understand, although it's complex, but I still understand.
Then there's the other one, another God preacher who, by the preachings she posts, seems to have a lot of enemies, and thinks that the world is a war zone. But she says she is blessed. Of course she is if you see it in her perspective. What did she want for? Kids. And she's got two. Black kids, that's what she wanted, and that is what she got. Perfectly healthy kids. Why shouldn't she feel blessed? And she didn't even go to the trouble of getting married. Yet if she's as religious as she proclaims herself to be, going on and on about being blessed because her kids are her life, and thank you God for the kids, and you see she feels blessed by God now. Can't she spare a thought for other people who have not had it that easy in the baby stakes? What would a woman desperately trying for a baby feel when reading all of that? Well, despair would be one. Because it's fine saying to never lose faith in God, but when statistics show you otherwise what do you do? Say thank you God for not giving me the baby I would love? Come on, it doesn't work that way. And it doesn't work that way not because we are sinners, but because we are humans. And human beings... are humans after all.

Tolerance

I have been told to watch out because my ideas lack tolerance. Tolerance and allowance. They're almost the same. Do I lack tolerance? It is something which actually hits home extremely well, it rings a deafening bell. For four years I was subjected to useless suffering just because someone's idea of tolerance was... kill the bitch, make her die. And I could do nothing about it. Then again I should not have been tolerated, because I wasn't doing anything to harm anybody either. I was just being, in a size 16. And if a size 16 offended someone, then it was his problem. Not so fast. It was his problem, but he made it mine. The intolerance turned to persecution, something very far from the meaning of the word tolerance. And perhaps that changed me quite a bit. Life played a part also. If you could spend 24 hours in my shoes, Manolo shoes may I add, then you'd see life very differently. I may look stupid, and I wish I were stupid sometimes, but I'm far from stupid. And nobody tolerates it, not even the media does. Why then should I start tolerating people who try to shove religious fairy tales up my arse? Fairytale is Norwegian Rybak. That's it. I do not want to hear about martyrs and how we should follow in their footsteps, because if that is so, then why don't the preachers really follow in their footsteps, skin themselves alive, make themselves into a Sunday roast, crucify themselves upside down... the list is endless. Those were perhaps special people who decided to die for God. And yet, God gave us life to take care of it, so that leaves me where? I do not admire saints who decided to lash at themselves with a whip, or to self torture. That, today has a name. It's called s and M, bondage, humiliation... and it's a sexy lifestyle. Did they really think that God loved them more just because they caused welts on their back? Should God love me less because I don't do the Santa Chiara thing and shave my hair off? Why don't nuns wax their hairy upper lips and put on some make up? Would that be sinning against God? So, is it really me who lacks tolerance? Or is it someone else? We are brought up thinking that 'our' Roman Catholic Faith is the most tolerant. Then you get the Bee Pope who is homophobic. Why doesn't he just go back to his German roots, not really famous for tolerance? What's wrong with gay people? Why can't they get married like the rest of us? Why can't they adopt kids? What's wrong with that? Plenty of gay men have come out of straight households, so the reasoning that a gay couple would produce a gay child doesn't hold. Even so, so what? Xenophobia? On to the infamous klandestini. Of course all man was made in the image of God. I have a hard time believing that. And yes it sounds as if I'm being very intolerant. But come and live at my house for a day and a night. One of the reasons I bought my house was because of it's then quiet and safe neighbourhood? Did I have a right to that? Of course I did. Not so know, when more than 100 klandestini given refugee status inhabit the block of flats opposite me. Sure they are people like you and I. But people like you and I do not hold street parties at 3am, do not litter my front entrance with take-away left-overs and wine bottles, we don't holler in the middle of the night, and we do not have sex standing up against my faccata either. People like you and I do not pee or shit on someone's doorstep either. Next thing I'm having a mobile toilet set up in my parapett, and then again I doubt if they'd use it. And oh, do I have the right to step out of my front door? I do, but I can't because they're all sleeping there in the morning and I'm scared to wake them up lest they bite me in the same way they bite each other when they fight. Tolerance? It doesn't exist anymore. It's all one big joke.

Delusional Face Book

I either have to drag myself off Face book, or go and book yet more therapy. This time around, I think it's the former. Why have some people suddenly become so religious that it hurts my insides and makes me want to throw up? And yes I have queried, in the most polite way, ermmmm what happened to you? When I really want to shout at them, you're going slightly madder by each passing day and I care so go see a shrink asap. No, not Joe Demicoli this time. Joe Demicoli is anyone's best bet when they're in the black hole. These are on some imaginary cloud, with imaginary wings and keep posting thoughts from some imaginary saints. It's not going down very well with me. And with a few others either. Why don't they just go and get a science book and find out fact, instead of bombarding me with their delusional thoughts? God is my shepherd bla bla bla. Since when did we become lambs? Is it the same thing as Baa Baa Black Sheep now? And oh dear the quotes by St. Teresa of Avila, the saint which gets under my skin big time. And she's dead and she still gets under my skin. She talked about her delusional visions of God and the ecstasy is brought to her. Just like the big Oh Yesssss! And no, I'm no heathen, I pray to God because I still think he can move heaven and earth. But enough is enough. So please stop shoving your delusional thoughts down my face book throat and go see a shrink. And if it means you'll stop, I'll gladly foot the bill too.

Karl

Teenagers today get so much bad press. I get to hear that they are good for nothing junkies, they are violent and can be deadly. I don't have much contact with teens, and I kind of tend to stay away from them anyway. What the perfect body projection of nowadays... I'm better off away. But I had such a pleasant surprise yesterday. It filled my heart just like a cell phone's top up card. Better than that. Maybe I should have known. Because a sweetheart can only produce... another sweetheart. So I am at my friend's house, and her 15 year old son suddenly saunters in. Me.. I freeze and expect the worst. He's a good-looking guy with a smile to melt anybody's heart, now he'll start sniggering. Not so. He does smile, but it's such a heartwarming smile I am taken aback. He's just 15 and he hugs his mum and calls her his beauty. So strange. He makes himself a drink and asks me in an I-really-want-to-give-you-a-drink, if I want anything. And he means it, somehow I know he does. And he sits down with us old hags (sorry Jo), and talks to us. He talks to me as if I were his friend. No this isn't happening. But hello, it is. And he makes me laugh with his boyish looks, and the way he keeps touching his hair. And he talks about his life, about his hobby, his education in the most natural way. He's outgoing, but polite. Not stuffily polite. He tells me about the girls! And I find myself laughing. Me? laughing with a 15 year old I've just known for 15 minutes. And I find myself feeling so comfortable, it's as if I've known him all my life. But then the same thing happened when I met his mother, who looks like his sister. This is intriguing, his mother kept badgering him to go take a shower. I just loved talking to him so much, good thing he didn't obey her on the spot (sorry Jo). And I watched him go about, he took empty glasses from the table and put them in the sink, he made himself a sandwich and cleaned up all the crumbs. He also promised his mother he would take down the clothes from the washing line. A 15 year old? And he told me about his friends, his female friends who scream when they realise that his mother is on TV. He asked me about myself, not just in a how-are-you and I don't expect an answer way. This young guy is the man of tomorrow. Such an impish smile for girls to fall in love with too. You've done a brilliant job Jo. Now if only I had a 15 year old daughter....

Of saints and madness

I am on a weekend break of being bombarded by a man talking nonsense about holy saints. Totally my fault. Every year the Zabbar festa comes up, and ever year I swear not to go and give my musical expertise in the Zabbar church. Every year I fail to keep my promise. Perhaps it's through nostalgia of my childhood, perhaps because it makes me remember the festa with my nannu and makes me feel so young again. Perhaps it's because somehow the Zabbar saint is female and known to give favours, and I could do with one or two. This year it hasn't been any different. I've accepted, so now I have to do it. It's a job, and well I have to do it. Well, maybe it's not a job, and although I grumble about the stifling heat in the church, the smelly people who need an acid bath, the other people who think they can sing and deafen me with monotone 'singing', I think I'd miss it. And it makes my mum happy because I get to listen to a lot of 'quddies', although really I'm fumbling with my mobile and giving detailed accounts what's on. This year, the Zabbar priests have really overdone it. They have invited this Father Antoine to make a lot of speeches, probably better known as sermons. Now this Father Antoine is not more than 45, and seems to be physically fit, but I think he could do with the shrink 24/7. He is mad and they are letting him preach his madness to the spectators, better known as the congregation.
He is standing there talking to the microphone, making big crescendos every two minutes, and saying that 'our mind should be obsessed with God.' That is the exact translation although it sounds worse in Maltese. He is also adamant that we should have this intimate relationship, more intimate than sexual, according to him. That to me spells La Senza, and I cannot see a God in garters and stockings, or underwiring or padding. That was yesterday. Today he outdid himself. Yesterday it was Saint Padre Pio, today it was Saint Maximilian Colbe, someone whom I thought was a nice guy. I'm not too sure anymore. This priest has told me and some two hundred people that Saint Colbe liked to make himself suffer all to praise the Lord. The exact words were, 'we must make our body suffer'. What the hell? Do I tie myself up in chains and whip my back until it's raw or what? Catholic s and M? My body suffer? Do I just bin all the creams and serums and lotions all for the praise of the Lord? Will the Lord love me any less just because I think eye cream is a must? What can the Lord have against body lotion? Is this a new kind of Catholic fashion? Because if it is my Catholic days are over. There is absolutely no way I am parting with my beauty things. God created all things beautiful and I praise the Lord in my own way, with plenty of bling bling thank you very much. And I won't make God wear La Senza, I'll wear it myself. Burn Father Antoine at the stake I plead, he'll probably love it, and it would do me a favour.

The Tales

A dear friend of mine thinks I have enough stories to tell to hold a talk show. And he's a dear friend whose opinions are as dear to me, but I'm not quite so sure. I don't call them stories, I call it experience. Because when you're old as the hills or as I am, well you've been round several blocks. What makes a girl have a past so rich as to keep a blog going day in, day out? Life, and it's experiences. And middle age too of course, although I like to call it the prime of life. I am aware I haven't had an exactly boring life. Curiosity kills the cat and it nearly killed me too in the process. But I've lived to tell all the tales... perhaps that's what my friend means about stories, the tales. Oh God I have so many, but I forget about them, then something suddenly jogs my memory and I remember it all, in colour too. And it almost always involves men, perhaps because I've never really had female friends close enough to party with. Or to talk to. So I just went for the only other gender available... men. Some tales are downright funny, others so sad that they become funny, others hilarious. I could start recounting most of them but I'm scared that blogspot would kick me out and that a lot of my followers would start reading my blog in the middle of the night when their kids are sleeping, including the husbands and the wives. Can I really tell the tale of the American who was so extremely well endowed that it made me cry? Can I really tell the tale about the Swedish guy who made me feel I'd died and gone to heaven? My petty thefts, the thefts of men who were supposed to be committed but thought they had gone suddenly single just because a 20 year old can lure in a 50 year old in a snap? I could, but I'd risk getting kicked outta here. Then again, I guess I could go around it in circles. I'll think about it.

Joe Demicoli... the best medicine

I am going to be brazen and tell someone what to do. And the target of the day is.. Demicoli. Yes, it's Joe Demicoli time again. There I was, really heartbroken, so sad and helpless that I actually forgot about my Tuesday evening ritual, which is, tuning in to his radio programme. Until a good friend called to tell me she was having a blast listening to him. And I was the one who had told her about it in the first place. Sorry Joe, I didn't feel like tuning in, but I did. And I'm so glad I did. My tears have dried up, I'm smiling now, and I dare say I've also had a few laughs. Good laughs. So here is why I think Joe should change profession. He's brilliant at his act, but my guess is that comedians do not get a fat pay check. Shrinks do. And he's done the same job for me, the same job a shrink would have done, only, probably a shrink wouldn't have succeeded in making me laugh so successfully. Talk about mood disorders being rectified in five minutes. He has been my saving grace tonight. And he hasn't even prescribed me any meds, or presented me with the bill. Demicoli has been the best medicine after all. So I'd suggest, and hoping he won't take offence, that he kits himself with a doctor's bag (just to look the part), grow himself a beard (also just to look the part), eat a little bit more (also to look the part), and set up his front room as a clinic. It would pay more, and still be satisfying. I thought that nothing would stop my tears tonight. But Joe Demicoli just did. And watching a sad person being transformed into a happy one in five minute is more than a shrink could hope for. Perhaps you could prescribe me something for the pain... the pain that comes with hilarious laughter, the side-splitting pain, the kind of when you think your heart is about to stop with pleasure. Go for it Joe. You'd get the pool too. And oh, thank you so very much. I owe you one.

Love ... beware

I am not sure if it's actually worth having experienced love or not at all. Love is beautiful, love of any kind, and in any form is a feeling worth having lived for. The problem is when the object of your love suddenly ups and leaves. And no I'm not talking about the love affairs which end as swiftly as they come. So, having thought about that, perhaps it's better to be alone in the world. Because you will not miss what you've never known. Shitty example, I never missed Cavalli or Gucci at 5 years old. Now I want them with a vengeance. The first time I set my eyes on Versace's Medusa trademark, it made me feel dizzy with a sudden want, no need to get my polished hands on it. Before that, I didn't know, so I did not suffer from the dizziness. Same in love. Perhaps it's not such a good idea being a twin after all. True the bond is a dogmatic bond, but then, what happens when one of the two just leaves? Horrible thought this. And as in the man loves woman stakes what happens when the object of your desire also leaves and there is no way you can text heaven or hell or even limbo? That I can talk about through experience. What happens is you are suddenly thrown a ball of grief to deal with on your own. Life suddenly becomes a dark uphill rocky path with plenty of Malta's potholes just popping up suddenly for the sake of making you land flat on your face. And the saddest part of it is that it's called life. I know a little about this kind of life and it's not very pretty. And perhaps I wish I weren't human but E.T. instead. Yet even E.T. wanted to phone home. That means he had feelings, that cute little weirdo who won so many hearts in his time. And suddenly all the daily things I worry about vanish into oblivion, and I don't care about my Enemalta bill anymore, I don't care what I look like anymore. I just care about the ones I love and that includes my army of cats and dogs. And I'm not sure I feel lucky to be loved. Perhaps it's best that you're left all alone in the world. That way you'll be saving and scrimping on a lot of tears. But then I'd rather regret having done something then not having done it at all. And that also includes love. It just should come with a warning like the one on my cigarette packet... beware love can seriously damage you for life. But then, I don't even head the warning on my cigarette packet. I don't think I'd head the one on the love package either.

Goodbyes?

There I was talking about the queen of queens. Right now I feel just like a queen too, this time, the queen of cowards. And I've had the most restless night to prove it. Perhaps I can't face goodbyes. Or, most likely, I cannot face pain, so I run away. I should have been at a funeral today, but I wasn't. I just couldn't do it. For once, I thought, what's the use of going, crying like a baby, and undoing all that therapy? The sad reality is that although I didn't go, I still cried like a baby, and probably still undid all that therapy. I just thought on the lines of, this time I'm going to think of me. The dead are dead and one less at their funeral won't matter. I'm sorry Yvette, but I just couldn't, and given your forgiving nature, it'll be ok from your side. And it'll be ok with her, but I have just embarked on a massive guilt trip. Yvette may forgive, I don't. I don't even forgive myself. So I woke up about 10 times this night, and now have a cough to prove it. I always know when I am in distress because my lungs cough it up. They are probably my worst organs giving the 20 years of feeding them nicotine. They are also probably my smartest organs, they give me the warning sign. It's like an SOS, help needed, now, immediately. And suddenly I'm off food, which is crazy. Yet another SOS. I thought I'd just sleep it off. I didn't. And it's all so sad. Sometimes life is way too ugly to understand. Or maybe my brain's just had enough of trying to deal with untimely goodbyes.

Queen?

I know one man who has an extremely good philosophy. He sucks at a lot of things, but his way of thinking in this matter is quite remarkable. Because he doesn't just think, he believes what he thinks. Perhaps sometimes falling in love with yourself just because you've seen your reflection is a good idea after all. And this man really doesn't care one bit what other people think. He doesn't even shrug it off because it doesn't even get to him in the first place. Not me. I scan and scrutinise everything and everyone, and the littlest look I will interpret in my own way, which is almost not a very good way. And I will keep thinking and thinking and make myself sick. But I do it in private, because sometimes it makes me cry. And a bitch never cries. I have to keep up appearances. Which is completely the wrong thing to say but I've said it anyway. I really feel I'm in a time warp. I should be living in the days when the thrones of queens were built wider than those of kings. Or maybe I should be living in prehistoric times when a woman like me was so adored and looked up to that people actually made a real goddess out of her. I like seeing her at tourist souvenir sites. She makes my day. Because for a moment my imagination can take me back in time, and I suddenly find a buddy in a clay memento. And yet I cry. And although I've tried to adopt this man's philosophy of not caring one bit about what people think and say, I do not succeed. Yet somehow the same man thinks I am awesome, and I guess I've been lucky there. He actually thinks I am beautiful, and as in many other things, he believes what he says. And I don't argue. He is never embarrassed, not one bit, on the contrary he thinks he's won the best prize in the world. And I don't argue with that one either. And yet I want to cry, although I know that would make him angry, and an angry him is not a pretty sight. His temper is really something. And as from today I am going out an armed woman. Do not get in my way because I've had enough. Careful, if you comment on whatever you see, you might just go blind. And it will have been all your fault. And no I won't be sorry, I won't even do time for you, because I have a right to live too. So, leave me alone. Because if the man with the good philosophy thinks and believes he is the king of kings, then that makes me the queen of queens.

Men again

Men. Again. They're so simple. Even the ones with the Dr. title, the ones with so many letters after their family name. Letters don't mean very much. Perhaps they mean a lot in the job stakes, or as these men like to be called, in the 'profession' stakes. Otherwise, they don't really matter. Although I must admit I prefer a lettered-guy than the gardener. Because being the gardener's lover is not exactly going to get you into the Cosmo gossip column. I don't think it really is for status reasons, but more for the fact that guys who have exercised their brain quite a bit are more interesting. They have more imagination, they are more gullible, they are more open to mind screwing before progressing onto anything else. And when you've dangerously dabbled with a man's mind successfully, then he's yours for keeps. No matter the ties. Not even if he has a harem and twenty-six kids. If a man really wants a woman... he'll have her. Or she'll have him. One man actually gave up the throne to be with the woman he wanted. That's one big lesson. And he's not the only one. When you're a young girl it's easy to lure in the bait. You're young and that is just what lettered man want... youth, their youth. So since they cannot turn back their clock they try living off your youth. When you get to thirty-something, then you put your brain to work. You learn to shock them, coax them, in a very dirty way. But all's fair in love and war. So you learn to rub their ego instead of their something else because this time round you're classier. You learn, and you learn fast. And you blow their minds, make them feel important, trick them into letting them have all the power and control they want. And they will never look back again, or sideways, or north, south, east and west. It's always been a girl's world out there, we just let men think otherwise. And it's so good. Doctors are so easily doctored, and the multi lettering transformed into primitiveness.

Inheritance?

I wonder if people ever change. I guess they don't. People don't change, they develop. I believe that all characteristics of a human being are present at the moment of conception. Yes, good and bad and evil even. If the fate of the colour and texture of my hair were sealed the minute I was made, then what was there not to seal the fate of good or evil. Nothing. And if I have inherited hair from my mum's, fingernails from my dad's, a non-outgoing character from my mum's, and a love for all things creative from my dad's, have I inherited memory too? And if I have inherited the exact face of my great grandmother, have I inherited her hips, her butt even? I think so. How did I come about? I didn't even exist 37 years ago, yet now I'm a citizen with duties and rights. And is the pattern of the people we fall in love with also inherited? If that is so, who was it responsible for my erratic male pick ups? I guess I will not find the answer to that, because back in the day my ancestors were way too Church indoctrinated, or perhaps they did it on the sly and were good at it. Somehow I must have come from somewhere. Have I really inherited memory? If that is so, my ongoing search for all the why's can come to a halt. Have I inherited survivor guilt, have I inherited the love someone more than your own self? It makes so much sense. And it suddenly becomes so very easy, finally I can point a finger and blame someone even if they've been six feet under for many years. Or is each person a bingo kind of mixture, and you never know what you're going to get? It's getting way too difficult for my thinking. I want to think of little things that make you happy. Things like shoes. It's a lot easier.

Ave Maria?

There sometimes comes a time when I just need silence. There also sometimes comes a time when I need my mum, no not my actual biological mum. I guess she has good intentions, she tries to help, but immediately starts blocking my pleas for help because they are too controversial for her. In reality it's just a normal girl wanting her mum. But I cannot have my mum. So I steal someone else's. During this time the bitch in me locks itself up for a good while. Because I'm a thief enough, stealing someone's mother makes me a grander old thief. I do not just want any other mother. I want Jesus' mother. I don't know why, but she is probably the only mum who gives me solace. Somehow through all that Church indoctrination, she is the one who has stuck with me. And in panic, it's her I turn to. No other saint, perhaps not even her son, or her father in law. It's her I want. I figure she's a woman, and I'm a woman so we can have a tete-a-tete. And of course I don't care if she's a virgin or not. I don't size women up by if they have known men or not. That doesn't make them less or more of a woman. And perhaps this Madonna doesn't have my taste in shoes, perhaps she doesn't lust after diamonds. Yet she's still a woman. And everytime life makes me feel like a stranger in my own world, I turn to her. Because she can hear me. Of that I'm convinced. I think she must know what it means to have her loved one taken away because it was in God's horrible plan. I think she must know what it is like to cry for days on end till you cannot even open your eyes properly. And no I don't go about it kneeling. Girly chats are never held kneeling. And I know that she will protect me from all the evil, the misery, the madness. Because she knows, she must know. And yes I am fully aware that she is a saint and I'm just a fool. And yet somewhere inside, I think she really likes me. She sees past all the paint, the drag queen aura and is willing to keep me, to adopt me even. And she's always been my last recourse. Call me mad, but I like this woman although she's had enough of the blue veil and probably now wants an upbeat Cavalli veil with shoes to match. She keeps me close to her heart, and I close to mine. And she might have millions of people talking to her. She also might be more than 2000 years old. But I think she just might understand my stealing, my lack of kneeling, my very little knowledge of praying. And she's protecting me right through all of it. What a woman.

Yvette

I am not about to forget today in a hurry. There I was in the middle of sleep and consciousness and I decide to check my emails. No more sleep, I was wide awake in a second. Message said... It is hard to write this but our dear colleague Yvette has passed away. Yvette has done what? Of all the things she could have done, she just passed on? It's a Saturday, couldn't she have gone shopping instead? To the beach instead? But no, Yvette has passed on. I'm not sure how old she was but my guess is she was 26. Too young damn it, way too young. I had no clue that something was wrong. She was bubbly, a sweet face, strawberry blond hair, and so so polite. So caring. And we would grumble about our daily load, and laugh at the same time. Not anymore. No more loads now. And Yvette once again chooses to open my wound again. It's death. And it's not very nice when you're the one left behind. And I kind of wonder, Yvette will aways be 26, while I get older still.. at least as to date. It's not yet time up for me. God bless Yvette. A` bientot.

Moving

Tis a day of moving. Not moving house, not moving furniture. Moving people... perhaps. But everything's moving fast, maybe too fast for me to handle. But I guess I'm a big girl and I can handle the moving. What I cannot handle are ultimatums. Nobody ultimatums me. Ultimatums are not very good carriers of love. You have to choose, and there are times when a girl does not want to choose. Why choose ice cream over chocolate when you can have both? Why choose shoes over boots when you can have them both also? Ultimatums mean you've got to make a decision. And I suck at making any decision. I can never even decide what colour to paint my nails. Enough said. Back later. More moving...

Home Improvements?

What a night. Thought I would be able to sleep like a log. And I did. Only, I think it was a very disastrous log. So many dreams, too many. People who are in this world got to join people who have passed already. And it was so sensual I think I passed out when I was already passed out. And it actually made sense. But then I woke up with a painful throat and an ugly fever. And no it's no swine flu. I guess I have met so many human pigs in my life that I'm now immune. But I had to cancel an appointment which I didn't want to cancel. Shit, maybe I can reschedule. What started it was my house being hit by a home improvement earthquake. The next time it happens, I'm going to book myself into a hotel and come back when it's all finished. But then I cannot take my cats into a hotel, and my cats turn out to be super sensitive. They too don't like home improvements and get scared then start doing their business anywhere. And I'm never cross because I know how it feels. When I moved house some of them actually got a rash, called tension rash, because the move for them was too much. I understand. I don't get a rash, I just start acting weird, get very cranky, then very tired, then exhausted. Then I get strange dreams and wake up with a fever. Well, perhaps it's because my house has become closer still to a towering inferno. If a feng-shui expert came in here he;d have a heart attack. I've got a burgundy sitting room, red curtains all over, now I have a red room. Red as in cherry red, hot red, pillar box red. And I love it. I don't know why I love, no, need red so much. It gives me a boost. The few times I've tried painting my nails pink it only lasted for a day... back to red. I love the colour. Dom Mintoff would be proud. I could never live in a white house (yes I could live in *the* Whitehouse) with cream furnishings. It would kill my spirit. Cream is such a bland colour, and yet it looks good in magazines. Cream is safe, red spells danger. I guess I'm addicted to that also.

Memory

My house is in turmoil. And I don't like it. I can live with the clutter, but this is outrageous. I so do not like home improvements, not because I do any myself, but because I have to remove my precious clutter for a while, then I will forget where I stacked them, then I get irritated, I start acting horrible and piss myself off. But I cleared the last piece of evidence there ever was. I didn't even know I had evidence. Funny, this brain of mine doesn't work very well sometimes. Somehow the part storing my memory plays funny tricks. Perhaps it's stored too many things and the fuse has been blown off or something. I guess I need to go to memory classes. I simply forget. But I remember my childhood in every detail, in colour too. I remember dreams, especially the scary ones. I remember all the things I learnt about life, especially the not so nice ones, but I forget about the good ones. And I forget what I store. Which is sad, because even a chipmunk remembers where it's stored it's food. I wonder what this is called, early Alzheimer's? Sometimes I think that perhaps I am one of the best contributors to the retail business. I buy something, forget all about it, see it again, buy it again, forget again and buy it all over again. Seriously, I do just that. Maybe I just need a transplant.