Diagnosis

I'm trying not to cry. And nothing's wrong. But something is making me unhappy. A something which depends on just me. My love life is fine, my pets are fine, my family is also fine. It's just me. It's got to change, and it's got to go, and it's got to relieve me of the unhappy feeling. I have so much to be overjoyed for. But I am seeing a pattern, and sometimes, for us who are not hypochondriacs, we can diagnose ourselves better than anybody else. The pattern has got to go too. It's just one thing, but it's killing me. And I'm just 35.

A whiter shade of pale?

I have been asked a genuine "How are You?" some ten times today. I have also been asked an "Are you all right?" some ten more times. And I am trying to see what is generating all this genuine concern. I just don't know. The only thing I can come up with is the fact that I look pale, sometimes very pale. Perhaps I also look as if I am in some magical trance, because I just am never sure where to go, which steps to take and I make sure that I stay well out of the reach of new people. One genuine colleague has said I look stressed out. But I don't feel stressed out. It's the colour of my skin which is making me look like this. I cannot help it. God just sent me white, sometimes too white. Perhaps that is what makes my Mister's life easy when it comes to choosing a shade of Dior foundation. I suppose it's pretty easy, the lightest shade goes... perfectly. And I'm no English rose. I'm just a one hell of a mix-up. I am the only girl in the family who gets black hair, brown eyes. Then I am the palest one of all. And while the other girls flaunt their blue eyes and blond hair, I have whiter than white skin. And of course my twin has been the one to be blessed with green eyes, then he gets a tanned complexion to go with it. That makes me just one thing; a mongrel. A bit from here, another bit from there, no wonder I don't look like anybody in my family. That is why I really believed I was adopted when I was 5, I thought that maybe they'd found me somewhere, taken me in, and told a big lie to go with it. People said my twin looked like my mum, and stopped short at me. And then I wonder why after 35+ years of living, I still feel like a misfit. If I'm lucky or unlucky I'll get some more 35 years. And then I can pull of my pale skin perfectly...

My man and Dior

Lonely days are over. And just like a child I am happy with my pressies... more Dior make-up. God, it's so sophisticatedly addictive. The deep blue packaging, the slick glass, all of which I know I'm paying for yet I buy anyway. Well actually I didn't buy it, the Mister did. Because Maltese Dior stockists are really backward. I read on the Internet that yet another Dior product is out, that means it will take at least six months to perhaps start prettifying Maltese Dior stands, but my Mister solves all that. I wonder how he does it. It would help if he looked gay but he looks anything but. I wonder how he goes up to the Dior rep and asks her about foundation. And he has no qualms about it, I just have to write whatever it is I want down on a scrap of paper and he just gets it. I have asked him if he's shy, and he just looks at me as if I had just spoken in Japanese. If it were the other way round, I'd be very painfully shy, but not him. And as if asking a female rep for foundation isn't enough, he also goes to the trouble of choosing shades. And he gets it right... always. He also manages to get a very big number of samples. Go figure. I have trouble walking up to a Dior counter on my own, and I'm a girl. He's a boy and he does it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I wish I were a little fly watching while the rep smears different shades of foundation on his wrist. That would be hilarious. And I just know what he'd do once he'd chosen the shade, hold his wrist out for the rep to clean it off! And he says he gets an awful lot of help, which I never get. Perhaps make-up reps thinks he's about to come out of the closet, feel sorry for him and help. That makes my man a closet man. Well it's almost Carnival, and there's bound to be a lot of Batmen, Supermen, Wondermen... and one Closetman.

Enemalta!

Apologies for not having blogged just one entry yesterday. It's wasn't my fault, but Enemalta's. Enemalta people seem to be pretty brazen, they issue massive bills then they don't even live up to their reputation I could have cried yesterday, just when I was on the topmost floor I was swallowed up in darkness. And I think it must have been a very hungry darkness. So there I was with two big dogs, in pitch black, and making my way gingerly through two storeys. I think it could have been fatal, now I know how it feels to be blind, and it's just not very nice. Somehow I made it downstairs only to find out that the only candles were upstairs, so up I went again. Power-cutting is all black for me, I even get a black mood to go with it. Some people say it's cosy. Cosy is sleeping under my duvet by choice. Cosy is not staring into the dark sitting at the kitchen table and smoking because there's nothing else to do. Because then cosy takes a metamorphosis of its own, that is, cosy and cursing. I don't care if Enemalta have a fault, they shouldn't have a fault. I don't pay for faults, sorry. So the picture was very dark, with one candle and me trying to read articles off The Sunday Circle magazine. Real shit. And then I had a cruel brainwave, since there was nothing else to do, nobody to talk to, I'd cook! And so I did, and hated it from the very first minute. Bad bad idea. I don't even cook in broad daylight, let alone in pitch darkness. But somehow the cooking made me feel sleepy, and so I was switching off the candle, when bang, the house is like a heavily-lit Christmas tree. Grrr. And I had a choice, to swear or not to swear. And I didn't but sighed instead.