The Bitch

I realise that I'm not on my own after all. And it's taken a broken, better still, bitten fingernail to suss me out. Since I'm on my own I have to take care of my huge bears (dogs) which are usually part of the Mister's chores. So I thought I'd give my dogs a treat which they love. They loved it. They loved it so much that Fluke (the male malamute) bit a part of my fingernail off with it. Shit shit shit. My claws. Thankfully I found the bitten part, and have super glued it on. It looks real. Sad, nobody messes with my claws. It's so sad it's turned funny, like some tragic-comedy. Not even Benny Hill would have thought of this one. Had I a camera turned on, I think I would have looked pretty foolish on my hand and knees, doggy-style, just to fit in with the subject, looking for the bitten part of my fingernail as if my life depended on it. And it actually does, my life does depend a lot on my claws, which is again so sad that it's turning hilarious. So now I will have to make do with the super glue till at least Tuesday. I know it looks real but it isn't. Just like fake designer handbags. I don't care if I can get them at 20 Euro, I want the real thing. Fake is sad. It's like flashing a sign saying hey I'm so sad I'm fake, or I'm so fake that I'm sad. It works both ways. These dogs of mine. Nobody, no vet can come up with an explanation why they grew so big. Now they're a large breed, but this is enormous. A 100 kg dog. Seriously, try him. And a 92kg something bitch. Seriously, try her, she's a bitch and proud of it. I can only handle one at a time, and it's taxing even for big old me. The trouble starts when they decide to ambush me, although playfully, together. Then I have to run for my life. They're not fierce although they have the fierce don't-mess-with-me look, they're as tame as big teddies, but they weight a whole lot. They play rough too and I've been hurt by banging my head against something which they think is very funny. On the one occasion when a swell idea occurred to me; that is taking them both out for a walk, they made me run a marathon. In two minutes I was down the road into the next village. And they're strong. Sometimes the child in me likes to play horsey (no dirty ideas please), and they can actually carry me all around the floor I've built just for them. I know they were actually made to carry weights in Alaska, but me? And why did they grow so big, I remember cuddling them when they were the size of newborn human babies. Now I can't believe they were small. Perhaps my house is a dangerous house. It's a house where anybody stepping in suddenly starts to grow grow grow. At least the dogs have, and I have too. But then, just to screw my theory up, there's the cats. And they're slender slinky sexy cats. Perhaps my theory doesn't apply to felines then, just to bitches. Then that makes me... Me the bitch? If that is the case, I deserve to be crowned Queen... of bitches. There's quite a lot going on in the aura of sweet old me. Seriously, try me.

Impotential?

I have lived for quite a number of years as a single white female in my own house, through my own choice. I didn't like it at first because it came upon me not through my own choice, but by the sometimes tough thing called life. Then I grew to like it. I grew to like the fact that there was space in my bed, space for clothes all piled up in an unruly manner on top of each other. A pile which would put the Pisa tower to shame. I grew to like the fact that I did what the hell took my fancy at any odd hour of the day or night. I used to question the fact if that was how it was going to be all along. Somehow it didn't bother me. I dated, heaps of dates, all obviously very impotential (for lack of a better word) dates, because that way my own world would remain untouched, give or take the some nights the impotential ones turned potential-for-a-couple-of-hours type of dates. The minute my delicate ears heard a quarter of a snore, I'd pack them out the door. I was never too keen on bring dates close to home anyway because they'd disrupt my patterns; patterns of sleep, patterns of living, and patterns of some other things. I just made certain they'd be impotential candidates the minute I'd made the date, mostly because of the lack of the thing called on-the-same-wavelength. It would always be dinner, perhaps a piano bar somewhere, and then... whatever happened happened. I think one of these dates, a specific man, thought I was pretty dumb, as he invited me to take a look at his mother's 'villeggjatura' at 3 in the morning. Aha, I said, ok I know where this is going. And since I had nowhere to go at 3 in the morning I accepted, more out of curiosity then real interest. And I think this date had a funny mummy who although didn't live at her 'villeggjatura' in December made sure that everywhere was spotless, and oddly had made sure to leave the master bedroom in perfect condition together with the two Baci chocolates on the really large bed. And I laughed. The things men do for sex. And this was a man 20 years my senior who still behaved like a 15 year old. I couldn't hide my laughter, was I supposed to be impressed or what? There were even another two Baci chocolates laid out on the white fluffy bathroom towels. Hey, did my date think I was physically dirty or what? Or maybe he thought his mother's master bedroom was going to make me a dirty girl or something? And I laughed so much that it suddenly turned out to be not such a bad date after all. Needless to say I ate the Baci chocolates. I also made hell out of the bedroom duvet because as it turned out we sat there talking and smoking till dawn. An ok date which still would be going nowhere. I am not a neat freak, I do not appreciate thoughtfulness in that sense, it's a killjoy in the other department. My last impotential date was on the 30th April, 2003 (I've always had a good memory!), and it turned suddenly potential because things are not always what they seem. I was some 60kgs less (no, sadly I'm not exaggerating), full of confidence, and walked about town as if I had my own personal designer. I didn't but again things aren't always what they seem. So I made sure to show my then perfect pins the minute I entered his car, and could have laughed. His eyes were glues to my nylons. Perfect, ok, this was going to be an easy catch. Yeah right, turned out that the easy catch had brains too, had my same musical knowledge (perhaps a tiny bit more), and did not mind the nicotine and tar filling my pretty lungs. And one date led to anther, and another, and yet another. And it's been six years. And now I'm so glad I waited for so many years on my own and not just fell for some other date which would have long since expired. And I'm on my own again, for a couple of days that is. Master of ceremonies will be back in a couple of days. And although each time I think I do not mind, I think I do. I miss him.

Older men

Loving Day is over, but it's still a good excuse for a lotta luvin. Hopefully, by now, the oysters and the scallops will have been washed clean away by the champagne (and not sparkling wine). And now it's about time the patient men are rewarded, and I hope they are. It's funny how we talk of men being rewarded, while girls also have a need for the reward. Perhaps it goes back to what the nuns of St. Joseph Blata l-Bajda used to tell us. They always gave us the feeling that it was men who wanted the wicked ways, never us. And perhaps since we were profound Catholic girls we gave it to them out of kindness. And we discovered that two can play at the game, since two were playing anyway. We suddenly realised we also liked men's wicked ways and that didn't make us men. And we also realised that since the nuns were married to God, well God would be the best lover in the world wouldn't He? But that still didn't make us want to become nuns, not even with God as the potential husband. I think the more forbidden they made the fruit, the sweeter it sounded, even with inexperienced boys who groped their way around as if they were blind and had not yet learnt how to handle their stick properly. And then we gave the boys a miss (at least I did) and turned to older men. We being young and pretty rubbed their ego sky high, and at 40 and 50 they could have been blind in some areas but had learnt how to handle their stick like pros. The joys of older men... big sigh. Something which appalled my mother and which I think hurt my dad. But I was never trying to replace my father figure. I just loved (and still do) older men, for a reason which I like to think I don't know. And for a reason which truthfully is because they make us their one top priority, seeing we're so young, and also seeing they're scared stiff we'll run away... which we still do anyway. We just progress onto the next older guy. But then I've had one older guy, a doctor by profession, behave like a 15 year old boy. Yours truly thought it would be the best thing ever, an older man, and a doctor. He'd know his way around. Wrong, he didn't and I got upset in a very bad way and started bitching. The poor man started following me around like a puppy and I gave him hell. The next thing I knew he was on the Times of Malta Obituary and boy did I feel bad. I didn't kill him, it was lung cancer, but I still felt bad. A date who died. Terrible. And yet another older man, married by profession, who decided to leave his matrimonial house when I never even asked him to. And once he was 'free' I didn't like him anymore. I remember haughtily (Oh God have I sinned) informing him that it was over on a New Year's Eve. And I felt nothing, no tears, no anything, just nothing. There was one older man who also left the matrimonial home, got a marriage annulment, loved me to bits, a man whom I loved to bits... and let's just say that sadly he's not here anymore. And then there is the Mister, whom I thought was old, only to find out he was old, just one year older. It started just as another older man escapade. I really swear I thought he was at least 40 at the time. And since I was 29, he wasn't a lot older, but then sometimes a girl has got to do with what's on offer. I wanted excitement, fun, and I got all of that. Plus the L-word. Suddenly it was love and there was nothing I could do. And suddenly he wasn't 40 but 30, just a year older. And it stuck. And it's nice. And I am thankful it happened. Because love really could be just around the corner, and it happens when you're not even looking for it. It happened to me.