O.B.?

More talk about netherland. And this time it's not my fault. Have been to Frank's perfumery. Always a mistake. Every time I swear I'll never ever take my custom into any of their branches, but this was an emergency. So the bitch wears (am not even sure if that verb is correct) tampons, as do millions of other women during menstruation. The bitch, however, wants her O.B. brand, which seems to have disappeared off all shelves. So Frank's was the last outlet to try. Being desperate makes you do funny things. Instore, the atmosphere was as foreboding as ever. What is it about Frank's that makes me feel as if I am about to shoplift, when the only thing I ever do there is spend copious amounts of money on things which I don't even use? So I was determined, it would just be the O.B.'s and out of there. Yeah right, I kept looking and looking for them. There weren't any. Finally snooty assistant who probably has a brain the size of a peanut, asks me what I'm looking for. I tell her. She says they don't have any, but they have Tampax. Grrrrr I do not want Tampax thank you, I have been o.b.-ing ever since I was 16, I am a faithful and loyal consumer. She also tells me if I want a Shiseido lip liner because they are more prestigious the the Prestige line. What the hell does that have to do with O.B. ? I know that Shiseido does a neat gel eyeliner because I have that, but Prestige's lip liners are also neat, so don't kid me with the talk. She also asks if I want to try out Hypnotic Poison. No I don't because my dear 'sis' just got a whole 50ml just for me. Then again, poison, do I look suicidal or what? I just buy something I don't need so I can make it past the cash register. Sorry Frank's, you had one solid customer in me. But things change, you don't have that nice manager anymore. And that's a big loss. Jooooo come to my rescue dear.

Sexy synonyms?

The human race never fails to surprise me. It comes up with so many different words for the same thing. And more often than not it is about, yes, the reproductive system. Yes the reproductive system as in copulation as in mating as in breeding. There you go, that's four words for the same thing. Is that necessary? I'm not so sure. Why have four words describing the same thing when it could have been used to describe something else? Perhaps it makes for a rich language, but then there are even more words to describe this 'thing', coupling, pairing, conjugation, union. Oh and making love, which case I have a hard time understanding. How do you 'make' love? Love is such an intangible thing, does mating make love? Or does love make mating? But that's the furthest nice girls go, they go to all these words to describe something summed up so easily as 'sex'. So easy, yet somehow, somewhere, someone has gone to great lengths to come up with such a variety of words. Perhaps they were prudish; it really seems like it. So what do these nice girls say, oh honey let's make love? That sounds like something out of Browning's and Keats' poetry. Let's have sex? No that sounds rude by nice girls' standards. So what is it nice girls say? Maybe they don't say anything or whip out their thermometer to see just how fertile they are. Oh God what a spoilsport. At the rate the world seems to be going, sexual intercourse could be deemed as a violation of privacy, worse, a true tangible invasion. And I thought girls had it rough, it's worse for men. Thankfully I'm no nice girl, I don't own a fertility thermometer, rubbers taste foul no matter the flavouring. Do I want to actually taste strawberry milkshake at that point? No, and forget about coitus interruptus. And that's because it's a killjoy, and I like joyful. So just getting down to it, going down on it, works fine for me. Because the dictionary might have plenty of words for the 'it'. But I have more. Makes me word-richer. Take the bitch's word for it.

Blogville

Ok so let's go. Here is where I feel safe right now. Farmville ain't safe, I could get swallowed up by some elephant. Elephants on a farm, now that makes a great deal of sense. Dragville ain't safe either, I could get my 10 cm heel stuck in someone's booty. And that makes a great deal of sense, you cannot go to Dragville sans des talons aguilles, no flats there. So Blogville it is, where I can go up and about to my heart's content. Blogs are a horrible thing when you don't have a life. As it is, i get mine read exactly because of the opposite; I have a life. Oh yes, a complicated life with its twists, but a life just the same. So I don't spend ages trying to come up with the most difficult and cryptic of language. I write as it comes, because it's me. I need not shout to the world about my intellect, because perhaps I don't have one. I don't need to prove anything to myself either. I just write, in my own name too. Because my Blog is safe, I make it safe. And perhaps it's because my blog happens to be on the rock. It's the rock where we do things our way. We do not need outsiders to tell us how much we should be selling our houses. If someone asks for a price, we expect to sell at that price and not be made an offer. We might have il-Monti, but property selling is no Monti. That is our territory there and we don't like being pushed, although we sure deal with it in a more polite and understandable way. Fine we don't sell, we're ok with it. We just live in it, pas problemes. Mintoff is over and done with. I do not admire anybody who thinks that pounding on someone's car just because he was once Prime Minister is a terribly good idea. It could have been the Pope for all I care. I do not have one fond memory of the Mintoff era either. That's because his people were skinning rabbits on my mother's roof, and I can still hear those poor rabbits. And yes rabbits are important, otherwise they wouldn't be sent as gifts on Farmville would they? I don't even need an answer for that because it's my blog and I write as I want to, when I want to. And, cats do not hit on us. They hit on other cats, because that is the law of nature. And that much, this bitch understands.

Drag-ville

This is my blog and I say whatever pleases me at whatever time pleases me. Today it's about my fascination with drag. On a day like today when I'd sign myself in for gender change surgery at the drop of a hat or less, I remember my feather boas very fondly. Correction I have actually taken them all out just to be able to see them. There are quite a lot. I don't know what I was trying to prove when I bought them seeing I'm as straight as they come. But they are so luxurious to the touch, so warm and give you the va-va-voom you need once in a while. And I wish I wear a man so I'd be able to go around in drag. As it is, I still do, only difference is that it's a woman inside so that makes it look pretty convincing. If only facebook could come up with something like Dragville where you'd have to shop in designer outlets to create the exact image. Oh I'd be such a loyal customer then. Because instead of milking the cows I'd be milking the leather, the fur, the feathers the heels. So much more stylish. And since there is no virtual Dragville, I'm making my own. And it's all real life.

Farmville!!!!!

There is a new trend on Facebook which isn't that new or trendy. It's about building a farm. In 2009. I would hate to be a real life farmer. Imagine out and about, 'so what is it you do for a living? ... I'm a farmer!' I'd hate that, probably because I'm snooty and also a snob, and my idea of living isn't in dirty dungarees getting my manicured nails filthy and hiding my perfectly polished toes in rubber wellies. No, I just would never do that. And yet this virtual farm seems to be all the rage right now. It's the in-thing on Facebook. And I also have one, which is shameful, perfect to waste time with. But not something to get addicted to. Buying sheep and harvesting corn isn't my kind of thing. But it's the perfect type of people watching. You get to know a lot by a person's farm. Most have white fencing. Most have animals so orderly that they make me feel sorry for them. They cannot even move. And the ploughing plots are really something. They could be measured by an engineer's callipers and would be deemed as having been placed perfectly one by the other. No waste of space. What is that? Virtual OCD-ing? And as if that weren't enough, what about the obsessive need to check if cows need milking? Would I keep checking a cow's udders in real life? Oh noooooo. The thought itself is harrowing, and no do not kid me into saying it's relaxing. Relaxing is in some Bedouin drinking hot chocolate, smoking with a significant someone else. Relaxing is throwing all my newly acquired shopping possessions onto the carpet and making love to them in my own kind of voyeuristic way. But the best (and worst) thing which has come up lately is the hedging. There are hedges all over the place. Which spells, what exactly? If a virtual farm is on show for all to see, why bother with the hedging? Has Farmville become the 'accepted' place to air out our control issues or what? Then again, must be something I'm missing.

Boundaries

I am told I do not understand the word. Probably because I do not have any left, and a big part of my life is about pushing my boundaries to the extent that I don't have any left. And that's ok. I don't get mad. I don't get even either. Perhaps I do not understand the word because boundaries in maps show up in red. In life they are colourless, as transparent as you can get. Boundaries are like territory, they bring war to my mind and with war the endless senseless suffering and deaths. A country, a city, a state. You see on the rock I live we do not have those on the map either. We have villages as opposed to cities, and states are something we can only imagine. Some of us take off to see what they're like. Some of us stay here and do not know what it's like. And for the we who stay on the rock, the we do not turn to legal jargon unless we're in the law business. Sorry because this time it's our turn to put up frontiers and we do things our way as much as other people might hate it. Just because we're on the rock doesn't mean we have a pea sized brain. Nobody got suddenly blessed with a MENSA I.Q. just because they flew to see the queen. Or because they flew to the Big Apple for that. And while boundaries is a word in its own right, it just doesn't sound very inviting. I guess it's the way it's supposed to sound. Just a nicer word than a clear off. Fine. But then I have another word. Attitude. And that doesn't conjure up thoughts of war, or red lined maps. It's my word this time.

Kohl

Tuesday night is Joe Demicoli night, and I know the guy is brilliant, but sometimes things just aren't right. The worst part is that I cannot put my finger on it. I just don't know. But I have a choice. I can cry myself to sleep and that won't happen. And I can put a spanking brand new smile on my face, and that way it easier because I will not have to explain to the eyes who scrutinise my every move. I have questioned myself, what am I missing? And I don't even know that. I've tried my best, and if someone thinks my best is not good enough, then so be it. I was not born a prodigy and I did not grow up to be a genius either. I am normal, I guess I can allow myself that word. I do not want to be made sick on words such as leverage, harassment, money, currencies even. It's all a bunch of crap. I choose to make myself sick on piercings and in your face kind of behaviour. If someone chooses to power trip just because I care, then they can have the longest trip in history. The odd thing is that they cared and I am eternally grateful for that. Sure it hurts, but it's like piercings. They hurt, they make me sick, and so what? I'll just get the antidote for that. It all boils down to kohl really. Some more kohl this evening solves it. Some extra more kohl tomorrow morning will solve it. And yes I've got waterproof, of course I do. I'm a waterproof kind of gal. I was flooded once, never again. And the next time I hear the word prodigy, I'm going the other way. I just don't understand them I guess. Pass the kohl again will you?

Falsies

Sometimes I kid myself that I am on some journey in search of the truth. I wish that journey didn't have to stop as much as it does. Sometimes it's for refuelling, sometimes it's a chartered flight, sometimes it's one hell of a big stop over. It always hits the pause button somehow, and as much as I would love it to be over, I keep getting jet-lagged. And also as much as I try to think of it as my journey to the truth, I wonder why I am in love with so many false things. I love my gel nails which of course are not natural. They go from red to black and blue in one day. I wasn't born with painted nails. I also wasn't born with a plastic looking face, I just got wise and know what I should use. And no, of course I'm not telling. I love my false eyelashes, also an altered truth. I love purple hair dye, and of course that's not true, I wasn't born with purple hair. I wasn't even born with the blue eyes I wear on weekdays or the green ones on weekends. Then sometimes I get the urge to delete the truth. I give my eyebrows a solid all over wax, and that's not natural either because I was born with a pretty set which I keep over-waxing to nothingness. And people might think it's not very pretty, but through my own perspective it is beautiful although I keep thinking that I might as well belong to the snake family. But then, do not even try and kid me with a fake Chanel, I will spot it from a mile away. I want the flawless diamond, because one flaw and it is unacceptable. I will wear no flawed diamond. Nothing but the best will do. Tal Lira shops are hot, that is if someone is burning them all down. They are unacceptable to the human race, well at least to my kind of race which I have yet to produce. And yet I keep looking for the truth. Yeah right!

The hike

Life is no hike. Or perhaps it really is a hike, only the hiking takes place very much uphill. And I'm not very good at hills, because I'm no hilly billy. What would pacify me right now, is hot chocolate, a good cigar, and a Demicoli show. Of course anybody can join, but only from a distance. I am quite possessive about hot chocolate, cigars, and yes, even Demicoli. Do not laugh at Demicoli in my presence, but rather, laugh with him. That's ok. And it's the very little luxury I have right now. Try living with an ex very nice man who has turned as moody as I get when experiencing PMS. Impossible. So I just don't. I listen to Demicoli instead. Yes it's called running away from the hike. But I've hiked enough. I have tried to understand, to be sweet and nice too (yeah there is a nice in me), I have been exasperated and angry and let down. And nothing changes. It gets worse. And there grows fear, not the x-rated fear perhaps, but still fear. The fear of not knowing how it will be like in the next 5 minutes. And I'm safe, physically safe. But the torment of not knowing, of expecting the worst is not easy. So I just drown in hot chocolate and get dizzy on cigars, and get excited on Demicoli. I think I deserve that. I know it's still a hike. But it doesn't hurt anybody. And it gets me up the hills.

Crying

So I cried. And I'm not sure why. Funerals have never been my scene at all. There was a time when I went off them altogether. And I apologise to the ones I didn't pay my respects to. But I reasoned, why get myself in a state, when they were in a different state anyway? But then there was *the* one I had to go to, and it was surreal. I was at the funeral watching everything and blocking everything. I saw people cry and thought, so what? I've cried enough, I'm sorry but let them cry if they want to. I thought I'd become the seasoned warrior, never afraid of battle. I couldn't have been more wrong. Today was just like any other day, I cannot say I was looking forward to a funeral. Who does anyway? But it was ok, I didn't even know the man. I didn't even know if it was a man or a woman. I just don't know what happened. Somehow something somewhere there was an energy, perhaps a spirit. And it drained me and all my energies out. So I did the girly thing, and cried. I cried for the past. And I cried for the future. But not for the present. And no, although I've thought about it, it wasn't just an excuse to have a good old cry. I could have done that with my cats, they seem to think that when I cry they have to give me a lot of attention. As it was I hid behind my sunglasses. Coward.

Facial Hair

I've woken up so early. It's been months since I've seen this time of day, and now I wish I hadn't. I don't like this weather, it's as if the Gods are just merry-go-rounding in Splash and Fun while knowing very well that it's not my type of fine. I am no sun worshipper, but this? and oh yes I know how great grey, rainy weather is for staying in bed with loads of hot chocolate, but how much chocolate am I going to drink without getting sick? And sure I know what bad weather could be good for, a something else in bed. The trouble is that it's a week-day and men work, and right now they seem to prefer tables in stainless steel. Not my idea of fun, especially when I am nursing my poor back. And that sounds terrible, housewifey, because I work to, and so do plenty of women. The only difference will be that I will constantly be dodging the rain because of my hair. Men are lucky in that respect, well at least a lot of them are. Some even give their moustache a blow-dry, a practice which could easily be adopted by some women too. Well, ok that's catty, but since they want to strut around with a Godzilla kind of upper lip, then why not make a feature out of it and take it to a top hairstylist. The possibilities are endless, you could get a curly shocking upper lip, you could even crimp it for a retro eighties look. I still don't think it would be pretty, but if that gives a little bit of style, and the waxing pot is just not on, then why not? It's just like home-improving and designing, they pile on so many different colours and textures and make a feature out of a bad point stand out high and mighty. I know not how they do it, but somehow it works. All this would at the very least give me an excuse to stare, I don't know what it is with me and other people's facial hair. True it's wicked, I have been blessed in the hairless department, but somehow I start scanning a face and my eyes rest on the damn facial (which can go down to the neck) hair. I try not to look, but I just can't. I try to look elsewhere, but I still cannot help it. I must be something like the waxing parlour's dream. I even like waxing hairless skin, I think I like that best because it doesn't even hurt, not even that little bit. Oh and the eyebrows! I went as far as waxing them off entirely in my teenage years, and I thought it was such a good idea... until the next morning when I thought that the person looking back at me from the mirror resembled a reptile. And no, I'm not fond of reptiles. And I still waxed them all off in my twenties, thinking that I was then grown up and they would suit me better. They didn't. But I still suffer the consequences from all the heavy eyebrow waxing in my mid-thirties. I don't have much left, although one would never think so. Thanks to them I have had to become an artist in my own right. Facial hair, I'm not too fond of it, no, even if it happens to be a man. Why cover a face in hair, what are they hiding? Ok just a little bit, but no to overgrown. They must be hiding something. And I wonder why I never thought about it before.

French Letters?

I have to smile, this French letter thing never fails to make me smile, just as if I were a 15 year old boy feeling really smug about his first shag avec the french letter. And yet I have never even handled a French letter, let alone given it a trial. Too messy. Yet again some of the most beautiful things in love are messy. Birth is messy, at least that is how it looks on the Discovery Channel. The only birth I have seen is when my cat produced four beautiful kittens, and no it wasn't at all messy. But then cats are clean creatures. Another messy thing, making love, that is if you're not doing it with a clean freak, with whom I wouldn't even bother anyway. How can you really feel the earth tremor if you're more concerned with being totally clean, as in tyring to clear up the tell-tale signs immediately? And I smile some more. I was educated in Convent School, and with that comes them nuns. I wonder why one specific nun was intent of reading all the letters of St. Paul (?) in French. So intent was she, that she told us students too, only thing was she announced that she was reading French letters. And I wonder why she didn't figure out why we 15 year olds, mostly all already deflowered, were grinning like the silliest cartoon character you can find. Or maybe she was just playing stupid. Stupide in her case. While a lot of us actually had the French letters in their schoolbag wallet. Why does a girl take french letters to school with her? To show them around like a trophy? Well maybe. The thing with French letters is the less you have, the more of a trophy it is. Or pour nous who didn't even bother and risked a lot, the trophy actually was that we never even had them. Ze messier Ze better.

Dads

How do dads always know what's wrong? How does my dad diagnose my perfectly, although of course I brush it off and tell him he's wrong? How can he take one look and say... hey my girl, you're sad.. when it's true? My dad is not a therapist. He's a dad and a good one. But what do I tell him? A pack of lies. Because I cannot come out with the honest truth, I want to enjoy him for several more years, and it's best that he thinks that his daughter being sad is a possibility rather then a definite one. But how does he know? I don't know. Perhaps it's because dads just know. Mine does.

Amnesia?

It's a little bit funny how short people's memories can get. Shorter than a fuse. They just forget, poor things, it's a tot of amnesia, nothing much to worry about. I wish I could forget too. And I forget plenty to things, tell me one thousand times where I've put my keys and I'll still forget. The location of my keys is in fact one of the many things which makes me realise that my forgetting isn't worse than other people's. Is there really a time and a place to kick up a fuss just because no I cannot find my BettyBoop/Dolce e Gabbana/Cavalli key chain, together with the keys. I wonder why it's such a big bunch of keys I have. Who am I kidding? Do I want to look as if I have the key to everything? Or do people think that I have the key to everything? Well, dear other people, you're in for a disappointment, because I only have the key to my heart, and even then, I seem to keep misplacing it. Do you really need to drag me down just because my hand will not support my glass and I find it's dragged itself crashing down onto the floor. Am I the same as a glass? Am I being pompous in thinking that I have more worth than a glass? Don't you realise that the same woman who held your hand through thick and thin, the one who bulldozed her way through the thorny bush, the one who lifted you up each time you fell up the rocky path is the same woman who is just retiring into a black corner alone? The one who doesn't even look up because she is exhausted? Have you forgotten? And is patience too much too ask for? It is the same woman inside. Only, this time I am not asking. I will not beg in vain. Because that is just the way I am. Is it pride? Not really. And I may forget my keys all the time, but I will forever remember the hurt, just as I will forever remember the priceless hand given to me in the name of friendship. Am I mad? No, just sad.

What's happening

Having plenty of coffee at the Sliema front is a good thing to start the morning with. If only there weren't so many people jogging. And a bit later then that, the world suddenly seems intent on showing off their baby strollers too, checking the label. As my good friend tells me, even strollers have their own designer labels. I wouldn't know, I don't want to know, and I wonder how my friend knows. It's a he, and a he is never a mummy. The thing is while I am on my seventh coffee and probably my 14th cigarette, I do not know what I look what, I have made the effort, what with it being Sliema and what with my always impeccably dressed friend. But I have a feeling that I am not oozing beauty right now. Oh well the sight of my Cavalli sunglasses are beautiful, that much I know. But it's only that much I know. I feel like a woman in disguise. Only, I'm not and that makes all the difference. True I am not a morning person, but some things are done in natural lighting, and that includes a coffee drinking marathon in one of the chic chic chic places of Sliema while watching plenty of people stuck in traffic jams on their way to work. It's like giving them the finger silently. It's like a la la la here we are in relax mode while all you others have got to go to the office. The office, what a horrible word, I'd never survive in one of those. And no I've never been and I know I wouldn't survive, it's instinct. Although perhaps an office fling would be nice to put on my terrible-enough love CV. I mean it would stand out, because all the others take place elsewhere. And out of nowhere comes the private eye. I call her (yes it's a female eye) THE private eye because there is nobody on this planet in her right mind who does a private investigator's job for free, just for the satisfaction of telling on me. What a woman, she makes you hate her instantly, what with that passe` lipstick on her horrible teeth. And oh the breath, you'd think she was blowing pigs the night before. And my friend, dear dear sweetheart, thinks she might have! And that makes me smile, for the first time this morning. THE private eye doing swine, oh God that's why she's immune to the flu. So that's why she tries to give out vibes of being proper, because she's been in the mud all night? Hilarious. So I brace myself, embrace my friend who gladly gives out his hand anyway, but all the more so just because THE private eye will see that. Ok private eye, you've seen us, now go away. The whole world can see us, we don't care. Thinking of that, a lot of people take a good look at us. At first I thought it was because I was ugly, there's no way my friend is ugly. But the more I covered myself the more it happened. And sitting here almost completely hidden in an Audrey Hepburn hair wrap, people still look. I think we're a good looking couple, just very diverse in occupation but not as in sensitivity. Take our cigarette cases, mine is a cute Betty Boop (yes the child is still inside), his is a sleek gold one with engraved initials which would make you think he could be the Prime Minister. And we talk, incessantly, we talk about boys, about girls, about everything excluding baby strollers. And we've been here for four hours and coffee is going to turn to lunch. I am ignoring my cell phone which is on silent. I am ignoring the urgent texts summoning me to lunch. For today, I've lost my hearing, I'm suddenly very short-sighted. I'm staying put. Here. With my friend. Oh and writer's block is over too.

Stranger still

Another dream. I was back in High School, which, when that means convent school, is nothing very interesting. But this time, I made sure that my comeback to school would be more interesting. I still wore a uniform, how I hated my school uniform. It was a girl's uniform while at the time I already had the body of a woman. This time round though, I my cleavage was very tastily on show, with just a hint of that french lace bra showing. It had the most tasteful Monroe-type skirt. Oh and I wore red heels. A white uniform with red heels. And I sat for lessons feeling on top of the world, because I knew everything already. And somehow we were allowed boyfriends in class, we were allowed to hold hands. And I didn't have one. I had a lot. A very ego-boosting kind of dream. And I kept holding and letting go of all of the boyfriends one by one. Until I had just three left. But two hands. One would have to go. The problem was which one? So I first started judging by intelligence. Then by looks. Then by the love I felt for them. And the love they showed me. And I dumped two. Suddenly two more appeared and I dumped those two. Yes two more, and I ditched those other two. And somehow the nuns were watching looking very pleased at my behaviour. Finally three were left and I couldn't chose. Because one was my dad, one was my twin, the other.... I just had to find another hand somehow to hold them all. In the white uniform, in red heels. Oh and in pillar-box red lipstick, all at a convent school.

Strange

I'm not sure my head is trying to tell me something. But I have been having strange dreams, really strange ones, not associated to the past, or present, and I hope not the future. I remember one dream I had two days ago. Strange dream this. I was in a prison cell, a funny prison cell, not a 10x10, even the cell was strange. It was arched and would have made a nice looking cell were it not for the flaking stone, which meant I was in Malta all right. It didn't feel like it, in the dream I was sure I was living during the French revolution, I even had a basque and petticoat to prove it. So surreal, but then if a dream isn't surreal, what is?! Back to the dream, I kept trying to look out of this barred tiny window but couldn't because it was too high. I was also getting irritated because I was wearing way too much clothes to be able to get out of something which only a cat could get out of. And I remembered my cats in the dream. Yes even they suddenly were living in France and during the revolution. And I thought of stripping down to my undies in a bid to be able to get out of the little window. After all there wasn't anybody about, and the only light came from a candle about to expire. But something held me back. I was too scared that someone might come and find me in my petticoats and kill my cats as punishment. Not kill me, but my cats. Which made it worse. And yet I was in no panic. I just lived in it and quite happily realised that if I kept all my garments on, then I'd be safe. So I just sat down in the arched sell, clad in French costume, with my six cats, and went to sleep. I didn't wake up in a cold sweat. I just woke up lazily checking to see if my cats were still next to me. They weren't. And yet I wasn't in panic. Then I just jumped up, oh God if this was the French revolution there was no Rothmans cigarettes. So I checked, this time in panic. And I found them, had a smoke and woke up the other half not intentionally...... I'm still not sure if he likes such wake up calls...

So not gentle

It's a big hand which cries out, 'Manicure needed asap'. That will of course go unheeded. There's also a hint of a thin gold bracelet hanging from the wrist. I'm not sure I like it, but I'm thankful it's not a thick one. Those hands which act before they think, but then I'm not sure brains are embedded in hands. And I keep closing my eyes very time they get too close for comfort. And I keep mouthing 'why' without ever being brave enough to ask. Because I might not like the answer. Because I don't know how to find him, I don't know how to read him, but he is under my skin. The menacing looks which I hold as in defiance, when I know that defiance means trouble. And he never once blinks through that gaze, it'll have to be me to look away and accept that he's won yet another time. And that's when the hands go into it, they seem to love leather too much sometimes. And it's when I turn away that I know I've fallen into his disturbed embrace. The hands which turn into fists too quickly, the fists which rain too quickly.... And this time I know that public or private makes a whole difference. And yet I know that there is a man in there who can be gentle. The one who instantly nurses my injuries. But decides otherwise. I keep hearing you in the wind. And I have nothing to explain.

Professions and fear

I've always known trumpeters to walk with a swagger. It's their trademark. Give me a thousand people, let me see them walk and I will pick up the only trumpeter. I can also smell a woman who thinks her life revolves around her concert mistress' chair from 20 miles off. She lives for the chair, and she'll die in that chair. Sopranos? They're the easiest. Prima donna behaviour, the walk, the talk, then they don't even sing in a general rehearsal because, as they say, they're saving it for the grand night. It's all bullshit actually, but very much accepted behaviour. Teachers? Oh good Lord, I smell them three thousand miles off. They always think they know better, their profession is one big power trip. And yes I teach too, but I'm not like that. Really, honestly. I actually have not yet decided what my profession is, and it's about time I do. My purpose in life. I don't even know that. So what makes me stay. Well, it's a twin brother who makes me stay. A twin brother who doesn't cope very well with sadness. It's my cats, my dogs who (not which no) would be very disturbed if mummy wasn't there. They eat from nobody's hands, not even if they're ravenous. It's got to be mummy and nobody else. But other professions? They're as diverse as daisies. Only daisies are somewhat pretty. Maybe I should have stuck to the daisies, but I guess I got too bored. I wanted more, and just went straight into the jungle. Strangely enough I was fearless then. Not now. Now the fear is as real as this laptop I'm typing into. One look sends me reeling into the fear ball. There's no daisies. I get jumpy and jerky. And I'm 36, I should know better. But I don't.

So gentle

I am losing track of the days of the week. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Yesterday I thought it was Saturday. Now I discover today is Tuesday. Which isn't such a bad thing seeing that I seem to have skipped Sunday, the most boring day of the week. It does feel like I'm carrying the weight of the whole world plus several planets', as if I wasn't carrying enough weight already. I wonder what would happen if I fell, probably get drawn to the centre of the world where it's so hot that it resembles hell. I think that's why a certain thinker has his own way of reminding me about the soaring temperatures down there. Or maybe he's been there already, which is plausible given what he seems to think he knows a lot about. And I'm exhausted. I must look like something the cat dragged in, only my cats don't drag anything in because they're too scared of the outdoors and since they're given plenty of TLC they won't bother. So why am I in the outdoors writing this? There must be a reason. Coffee? Nahhh have plenty at home. Hot Chocolate? Got that too at home. It's good company in the great outdoors, while being sprayed at by the tiny stretch of sea I have before me. It is like a little ocean to me. That's the thing about perception. We see what we want to see and that includes the sea. Smells so nice too. Even better than usual, because I've got one of the bestest kind of company in the world. There is nothing better for a girl to have someone hold her hand in a brilliant display of affection, yet so intimate. And although one hand is gently holding my hand reassuringly, the other is in a fist. Sign of anger, I've seen it way too many times. But I'm not scared of this fist, I know it is anger not directed at me, and I know that this fist will do me not harm. Not because it's in the public. It could be happening in the most remote part of the country where my screams would go unheard. Still, that fist would leave me unharmed. Or perhaps it would finally unfold itself slowly and become gentle too. He says he sees the fear in my eyes, which I thought were very well disguised under a mountain of black paint, I see a lot of kindness in his, which are neatly rimmed by a just a little amount of kohl. To look at us from afar we have absolutely nothing in common. Up close, there is still nothing in common that meets the eye. Just because hearts are embedded deep within, it doesn't mean they're not active. True they will not show up on camera, but they're there anyway. The amount of weight they can support is amazing. And I'm not petite. Yet this heart is still up to it. It's the heart of a very gentle-man too. I guess I'm lucky.

The Gays

No I don't call them in that manner. I call them friends. And yes they're guys all right, guys who are very much in tune with their sensitive side. And I don't care one hoot if they ask to borrow my shoes either. Or anything else. And to a rough, rugged man, it will be always a mystery as to, how can I go ga-ga over men whose object of affection are men? In truth what is affection? Well it's certainly not sex. It's most certainly love. It's an emotion, a feeling and a sentiment, a growing fondness, a friendship over and above reason. It's love all over. Who says love has got to have sex going on? OK I know who does, but he's quite wrong. We (well not I) love our kids affectionately and dear God I hope that does not include sex. I love my pets affectionately and of course there is no sex involved although plenty of hugs to go around. It's the same between a gay man and a straight gal. We kiss, we hug, we hold hands, we do each other's hair, we talk about the latest cosmetics, we talk about our amorous lives or lack of them. We can sleep in the same bed cuddling and go to sleep without anyone of us demanding the sex. I think I could even get married to a gay man. It would be fun, we'd just have our own bedroom boundaries that's all. But imagine being dumped by the love of your life and instead of heading home alone, you know that your someone is going to be there to make tea, to listen, to puff up your hair and call you the most beautiful woman in the world. The gays? Yes I'll always love them. And if I had to start all over again, maybe I'd be on the lookout for one. One who would call me sweetheart and babe and behave as tough he meant it. Now isn't that reason enough for loving them? Yes, it sure is.

NO!

Such a tiny word which speaks a lot. My mother says it was the third word I actually spoke, after the gold word and the shoes word, most naturally. Third time it was a no. No mum I didn't want to eat although you seemed to think that I had to eat eat eat, although now you seem to have changed idea about it. No mum I didn't want to wear pants, I wanted a full skirt because you told me I was a girl. Or because it was ingrained in me. No mum I never wanted to cut my hair, not even when you begged me. No No No. I've said the word a lot. It does tend to be a big part of your vocabulary when you're headstrong and want to do it your way. I think somewhere along the course of life I got tired of saying no because I wasn't getting any attention. So I started saying yes, and found it made extremely popular especially with the opposite sex. I had guys. All it took was a yes. Ok maybe a little bit more than that, but there was always a yes. And then one day I realised that 'yes dear' was on its way out too. For the first time in my life I was on my own, and I couldn't say yes to anyone else anymore. I didn't want to. So I starting 'yes dear'-ing myself. Oh I love the red strappy sandals, should I... yes dear, because you have been through too much so you deserve it. Guys were in much the same situation as the strappy heels. I never again said a yes to them, only to myself if I felt like it. Did I feel like it... yes dear. Did I feel like it... oh no, clear off. That's how it was. And I believed in women's rights, and I can understand the bra burning of my ancestors. Thing is, I still believe in women's rights, although I love pretty balconettes. But something isn't quite right. I have become an expert at saying no in a variety of shades. No thank you, would you mind if we didn't, no please, I can't, so many versions of no. And while most people would stop and think and at least accept the no even if they didn't agree, the world still contains a man who thinks that no means yes and yes... means yes. And he really believes it. He will still want his twice a morning and his twice a night, even if I said no. And I've said it so many times that I've learnt not to argue anymore. Because if I say no, a yes will happen together with a flare of temper, loads of threatening, and what nots. So I might as well say yes and get it on. It's easier. But it shouldn't be like this. My no should mean just that. NO!

Babies and no babies

No wonder I say I hate grocery shopping. Now I am hating it even more. I think once I'm in such a store I become invisible. Really. And I think the reason, or one of the reasons, must be that I do not carry a diaper bag, stroller, pushchair, screaming baby. Why does one woman who buys a total of 2Euro get a carrier bag to go with it? While me and a grander total of 45.66 Euro gets nothing? What am I supposed to carry them in? My latest Versace bag? It's too small for that. And I'd never risk all that weight in it either. So what is wrong with me? The fact that I don't say, 2 kilos apples, shut the fuck up Shania I'm gonna kill you when we get home? The fact that I say 2 kilos of this, 3 of this, 1 of this please full stop? The fact that my only visible and audible interruption would be my mobile phone? I'm still a paying customer, just without the physical baggage. And please all you women who have tiny tots, would you do everybody a favour and leave them at home, dump them somewhere? What's the baby's daddy for? Just to ejaculate during the ovulation season or what? Worse still, maybe there is no 'official' baby's daddy and this one is in the store buying stuff off my taxes. How not nice. And she still lives with the baby's daddy of course, and everybody knows that, but on paper, it's father unknown, that way she can get away with murder. Or at least with the Euro taken from my earnings. No I don't hate kids. They are not to blame. I don't hate mummies and daddies either, but hey, they lay down together so now they might as well do what is needed. I am childless not because, ' il-Bambin ma hasibx fija'. I don't know where the Bambin is during sexual intercourse. I don't even know where the bambin is once two people of the opposite sex have had the sex according to the law of the Church. And my guess is that sometimes it wasn't even that, but an accident in the heat of the moment. Well I've controlled my heat of the moment. That doesn't mean I shouldn't get a carrier bag. And please would all mummies and daddies stop giving these innocent kids horrible names which they have to bear till they are 80. One year old Shania is not the same as Nanna Shania.

Unmarried

I have the key to the question I'm always being asked... 'Why haven't you ever married?' Before, it used to make me embarrassed, as if my peers had won the prize which I'd never even thought about. Now, I know why. It's a religious answer, of all things. The answer is, that I have come so close to getting married plenty of times, but God, the real God up sitting on the clouds has been kind enough to grab me by my long hair and take me out. I used to be mad at Him for this. Not anymore. I am so thankful. If I had got married once, I would probably be through with my third marriage by now. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing, but then I'd probably have kids too by now. Which perhaps wouldn't be such a bad thing either. But Oh dear am I thankful for not having gone through with an itchy thing such a divorce. Perhaps I have commitment problems, and perhaps that stems from something else, and perhaps a million years on the couch will never solve the why. But somehow cohabitation feels safer, as long as the common law marriage doesn't happen. And no I'm no trying to be silly, I am just seeing my friends distraught over dead marriages which they still live in because they have no place to go. Because once they said their marriage vows, the rest of their earnings wasn't all theirs. Half and half. Not even if their husband or wife decided to go on a screwing rampage and parade it in their face. They have to stay. Otherwise they will suffer for it. And the thing is they are suffering for it already. And I think that somehow I understand. Everybody seems to get married till 25, and that's it. But we grow, our mind grows and what is satisfaction at 25 suddenly becomes a boring old chore at 35. Because really, how can we know what we want for the rest of our life at 25? We don't. Me at 25 and myself now. My tastes are different now. I will not settle for less than Chanel, and I've even taken a liking to fine bone china. I thought that would never happen. It did. But china is easy. I could throw away all the contents in my cupboards and start again. With marriage, it's not that easy. Or I guess it's not. Few people really don't care a hoot. The majority cannot do anything about it. So they become slaves to something which is dead boring. I'm sorry for them, I really am. But thankful that I'm left on the shelf.

Slavery?

No I do not go around in chains and collars. Well maybe I do and will, but that depends on fashion and on nothing else. It also depends on designers' trends for the season. And oh yes I've got bags to match. And shoes. Plenty of those. To think all about them. I could kick so many people by just the shoes. But I don't. Because although I will kick ass, it stays in the metaphor, and never becomes physical. Does anybody kick my ass? Oh yes, plenty have done so. Plenty of others have tried to do so. And I've waited for my time, and kicked them harder and faster than the force of gravity. But slavery? What causes a woman so ready to kick ass to change so drastically? I'm not sure I know. All I know is that it was present in my early childhood, and no I was never hit or kicked around. But I loved the Japanese cartoons, the volleyball ones where young girls used to get all bruised by their running all over their volleyball court. I'm not saying it's the same it's not. They practised a sport. I have my own lifestyle. Love does funny thing to us. Lust does even funnier things. I wish I could explain, but I really cannot.

Demicoli's I Will Survive

I will survive. Oh dear, we who remember the eighties know this as the song to dance to till we drop, especially after some son of a bitch has stood us up. I remember this song so very well. It was like a revengeful exciting dance reminiscent of some cannibal tribe licking their lips, about to put a human being into a cauldron of boiling water, so hot that it would steam up my specs in less than an instant. But then cannibals never have specs, at least they don't in cartoons. But it was the 80's and we were quite civilised. We didn't go around with spears to kill the object of our 5 minutes before affection. So we did the next less civilised thing... dance with the pole and to whatever male attention we got. Breakup time makes you do that. And it's the damn specs again, we wore contacts of course, but my vision wasn't as clear. Toric contact lenses weren't very well developed in the 80's. Perhaps that was the reason for picking up all the wrong men. Not that it's changed very much in 2009. I have good contacts now, but I've got hips, so I keep bumping into the wrong men anyway. I have no 'beware' sensors whatsoever. And since I'm heavier now well I probably cannot dance till I drop to I will survive. I do the next best thing though. I put on Demicoli's version of I Will Survive, sit on my computer chair making sure I'm in perfect physical equilibrium, make full use of Dolby and sing sing sing. Oh and I can really sing. And I know how to share, what's the use of having a damn good sound system if you don't treat the neighbours to it? Yet I play Demicoli ad nauseum, and it's not because some boy has left me for a blond this time. I don't know why really. I just know hat it makes me feel so powerful. I also will never tire of Demicoli's lyrics. They are Ssssppppllleeennnnddddiiiddd! I wonder how he can write like that. God it's so funny, so real, so slapstick, the nurse with the sexy outfit which should be passe` and yet isn't. Demicoli makes me do a lot of things. He makes me laugh, he makes me feel 15 again, he makes me feel powerful, he is better than any SSRI. And I'm thankful for him. And the first thing I will always suggest to any person who feels under the weather is... no, not therapy, but to go buy all Demicoli CD's. I think it would actually work out cheaper also. So...thanks Joe.