Loving Day

It's February the 14th and I'm still inside. It's a 5 degrees outside and I really cannot find anything in me, no matter how small, which will push me to choose the 5 degrees rather then the comfortable 20 degrees which I'm sitting in. I know it's the International Day for Loving, but I am just not in the mood. I'm amazed at how people change, better still at how I have changed. Before, a day like today, was a big excuse to count the flowers as if the more flowers meant more love, to see if a diamond was on the menu, again as if the diamond signified real love, to dress up in black or red and spend a lavish night in some lovingly dressed up restaurant. That is where it stopped, I was never lured by weekend Valentine's Day breaks. I hate hotels anyway, hotels are boring places if you're going to live in them for more then 6 hours. Hotels may provide a lot of things but they do not provide home comfort for me. Hotels make me feel terribly uneasy, I'm no low-end Lolita thank you very much although remembering my escapades in the past... well at least I was a high-end Lolita back then. I remember the knowing glances by hotel staff in the early hours while desperately trying to rub off the already perfectly smudged eyeliner which had run down to my chin ... somehow. But now, hotels won't take my cats will they? And If Valentine's Day is the day dedicated to love, and I love my cats, then leaving them on their own for a whole night isn't being very loving. And I wouldn't enjoy it anyway, I'd constantly be thinking something was happening to them, something which mummy (that's me) couldn't kiss better. Oh no, the last weekend break I accepted was a horrible mistake. I got bored, worried, and so concerned that in two days I made 5 trips from Cirkewwa to Fgura just to see if my cats were all right. They were, but something could have happened. Cats are such curious creatures, they can get up to all sorts of trouble, they can get sick, they can get cold, so many things could happen to my babies. I'm not leaving them on their own for some 24 hours. It's difficult to travel I know, but then I made a choice, I wanted cat love, a trip to Hawaii is nothing compared to the love of these fluffy creatures. So no hotels, no travelling, at least no travelling with the Mister, either he goes or I go. That's how it is, however queer that makes me sound.

Back to the flowers, diamonds and lavish restaurants. There is one thing which I've never understood very much. Perhaps I'm a bit too simple for it. Because the flowers, the diamonds and the restaurants always give way to the one thing which complicates life a lot... sex. Yes I've been out with men who have behaved impeccably all through Valentine's Day right up till after the dining and the wining. Then it's obvious, they think they have the God damn right to be 'paid' for all their efforts, and they will not take credit cards, cheques nor cash. The price comes as in human instinctive bedroom activity. Aha, that's why guys love wining and dining their belles in hotels rather than restaurants, that way they will not waste time proceeding to The Room. But come on, after a whole day of being-spoilt-depleting-energy, and a heavy meal, who the fuck wants to fuck? I guess a lot of people would, just not me. It could lead to such embarrassing situations. Heavy physical exercise after all the oysters and scallops could result in a regurgitation, and what if that happened when tongues got entwined or worse when a girl was on her knees worshipping the male phallus, worse still on her hands and knees just when the male phallus decided to accidentally hit her intestines ? Geeze now that is what I call dirty bedroom behaviour, imagine all the vomit. It's not funny, it could be more realistic than it sounds. Then what? Who would be up to clearing all the thrown up oysters and scallops? It's a scary thought. Hopefully some of the men-expecting-to-be-paid will read this just in time not to push it, not to push their phallus, and their luck. Do not even push it the next morning, there is something called morning sickness. Just try and live on delayed gratification. I think it's a man's best bet.

The Roses

So it's finally Valentine's day, one day in the year which will be responsible for the end of year statistics as in births. This is one day which sets the economy booming in an otherwise uneventful month. February is a very insecure month, it doesn't even have it's days set. But there's a Lovers' Day bang in the middle of it, so that makes it a little bit sweeter. I have been driving around as I usually do on a Saturday morning, buying mundane things like cat food, since my cats have suddenly acquired a big appetite. And I've seen so many silly things. A blue rose? Pardon, c'est trop trop passe`. If I were a man I would be genuinely upset to be given a blue rose, suck a fake thing. A red rose? Well maybe that's better. But a "Say it with Roses"? Say what exactly? And why do roses, come February the 14th. start talking? They were so quiet at the florists, at which I didn't stop for roses. Speechless flowers, well probably speechless because me, the big diva made an entrance. Probably they started speculating between themselves the minute I, the big diva made an exit. Yeah right. I'm not trying to be queer, I like flowers, and I like roses but I don't like anything fake. As in designer watches and bags, I want designer flowers. But then again man-made roses are so ugly. I want the natural things, for once, I go au naturel when it comes to these beautiful red roses. a family member, whose name I will not divulge because it would ruin his already stingy reputation, has been mean enough to buy his belle a plastic rose from Tal-Lira and, as if that weren't bad enough, the fake rose somehow changes from a rose into a plastic thong! And he's banking on having made a brilliant find as a pressie. If it were me on the receiving end, I'd put the thong to good use and choke him. Because men like these deserve capital punishment anyway.