Finally honest?

I am receiving a lot of congratulatory messages for my upcoming wedding. Thank you. And I'm being asked for a date. But I do not have a date. It will be an out of the blue, quick affair, and that suits me just fine because I hate dates and planning. I can just say that I will be finally made an honest woman this year. That means that I have been and still am a dishonest one. (Mum was right all along, I still qualify as a pastaza). So it's a dishonest woman writing here. But I do not cheat and steal. Being made an honest woman through marriage means that I will be able to live with my man without living in sin. So now that makes me sinful too. I never understood this marriage thing very much, maybe that's why it's going to happen so late in the day. I don't even think that women of 35 can qualify as brides. Me, a blushing bride at 35. I just can't see it. So it all boils down to the sex...again. Cohabitation, to a lot of people, means you're sinfully sexually active. Married means you're blessed sexually active. But it's the same activity going on. Nothing changes, except for my ring finger which will have a Bvlgari ring. Yes my wedding ring will not be something off a shop window. Oh God no. And oh there's God too now. Should I bow to the Curia and do it in style, in a cathedral of course, a diva like me isn't doing it in some remote chapel. But then again, there probably will not be many people so it's kind of a waste of space for just ten or so people. Should I just go to the registry office in jeans and have it over and done with? But then I would still be sinning. And that in turn would make me still dishonest. But can I really pull off the damn Cana meetings with other couples who could be my own children? Gals and guys at the stage when groping and heavy petting is really something to moan and get all turned on about? That would be a scream, there is no way I could pull a straight face when it'll come to fertility thermometers (big waste of time) and planned sex. Planned sex, it's enough to put you off sex for good. Sex should be something pleasurable, safe, consensual... and spontaneous and insane, between a two people, or three, or more if it tickles your fancy. Take the spontaneous out, and it's a total kill-joy. And then there's the monitoring-of-the-lubrication. Disgusting. And useless, I saw a lubrication pleasure something by Durex at the supermarket. And it doesn't cost the earth. Or perhaps when they see a 35 year old they will not explain anything about the family-planning-regime since they will think I have a shelf life which will expire soon so they will put me on the two-for-one shelf. Oh dearie me, people my age have been married, divorced and married again and divorced again. And here I am trying to be excited about the whole thing. And I'm supposed to be planning venues, flowers and bridesmaids. But I'm not. I never thought that a bridal party, all female is very exciting. Maybe I should get myself a male bridal party wearing just pants and showing off their tanned abs in style. But I don't think I would be allowed that at the Registry Office. And I'm certain the Curia (spoilsports) would never allow that. It's not fair, it's my party and I should do what I like, cry if I want to, and get turned on if I want to.

The teens

Something today wasn't right. I don't know what it was, it's just a vibe I got, and quite frankly as opposed to what usually happens, I couldn't be bothered very much because I was too much in outer space to think about it. But now I am reading my yesterday's entries. Oh God, maybe my mother is a little (just a very little) bit right to say I am a pastaza at times. Perhaps I really should clean up my act. But if I cannot come here and say it as it really is, then where am I going to do it? If I really dislike the Pope, and since a blogger doesn't faint from all the things I've been typing in here, well is there really any harm being done? I know that some conservative people read my blog religiously, and I'm not sure they were very pleased yesterday. But this is the only thing I can do for myself, I don't talk much during daytime because I haven't got the time. And I always have to live up to a kind of image, so if I cannot let my hair down here and be me, then I will be having a lot of bottled-up issues, which will then mean that I need couch therapy, and since that doesn't come cheap and also since I'm not sure it works, then I'll keep doing what I'm doing. I can't help it if there if there is a latent pastaza inside. I was a model daughter, until I hit 14. Then somehow everything changed, I was a total rebel, I started smoking to be cool, I ignored curfews, I dated the bad boys, I also snogged the bad boys, and I think at some point I must have also bonked a few of them. Because I thought I was so grown up and I also thought that my mother was a fidila. A pastaza being raised by a fidila. Oh dear, that sounds very complicated. And it was. I turned my 11pm curfew into an 11am curfew, on the grounds that 11 was 11 anyway. I smoked myself silly, and also tried to hit the bottle. Because cool girls always had alcohol in their hand. I fortunately could never learn to like the alcohol, somehow it made me too sad, so I ditched it for Diet Coke instead. I am not very proud of the things I did in my teens, not because I think they were very wrong, I was just a rebel willing to try all the forbidden fruit. But poor mum and dad, I wasn't easy to handle. Especially when I fell in love, mum thought that a 14 year old should have never fallen in love, and then, with the wrong kind of boy. But it's at 14 when you get riddled by raging hormones, and yes it's at 14 when you can really fall in love. I couldn't help it back then. We never chose who to love, although thankfully I got the bad boy out of my system just in time. I should never point a finger, but unfortunately that's what I'm going to do. I was raised by a fidila who knew nothing about life, and when I suddenly realised that the world out there could be very exciting, I was lured by all the bad things in the world. Sorry mum, but you wrapped me in cotton wool, and that backfired. And so the model daughter turned into a pastaza, and perhaps there still is something of it there inside me. Only, now I just keep it to myself and my blog.