Like a virgin?

I have just taken yet another Facebook quiz, partly out of boredom and partly out of being annoyed with myself for not being able to find brand new jewellery which I bought and never wore and probably put in a place long forgotten. I'm always forgetting where I put things. Maybe it's the 'dementia' of my middle-aged life, which sounds so scary but which is true. I'll be middle-aged in a few years anyway. So I just took a rather appealing "Do You Have A Dirty Mind?" quiz. And I was sure I'd score a big yes with the highest percentage. Because I thought my mother was right about me being a pastaza. It seems not. My score reads... You're the innocent one, very pure. I couldn't believe it, I took the quiz again, same answer. I'm pure.. hey hey hurray. That means I am going to have a lot of thinking to do, and perhaps also book the therapeutic couch. I have a bad impression of myself. I always think I'm bad at this and that, and that I am really bad, mostly because of life's experiences. I now finally conclude that I'm not. And it has taken a lousy Facebook quiz to convince me. Because I've been thinking, that perhaps I have been made to feel all bad and guilty when really, it was never my fault. I have come to see a lot of double standards in my mother's judgements. I still try to make excuses for her in the fact that she is a brilliant mum where material things are concerned. Not so in the psychological. When, at 19, I ended my first love relationship which had been going on for 5 years, she approved, but still made it clear pointing out how much time I had lost. When my cousin ended his relationship at 20 she felt genuinely sorry for him. So did I. But why did she never have compassion for me while having loads for her nephew? She said it was my fault for making bad choices. And it stuck. And I rebelled and went on a series of many relationships doomed to fail at the start. I wasn't even looking for love but for power and for things my mother would never approve of. Perhaps to kick her psychological butt. Perhaps because it was all so exciting. But I fell in love again and she blamed me for the relationship ending after another five years. Because of course, out came the classic, I choose wrongly. And then I just played havoc with all the unavailable men I found, who I shrugged off the instant they became available. Somehow, suddenly it was love again, real real love. And of course I kept it secret, because, at 25 I was still scared of my mum. She found out anyway and was a real pain in my ass, I tried to tell her I could do nothing because love is something which grips your whole self. She didn't understand, she didn't even want to understand because I had a married man on my hands again. And once the married man became ex-married she was appalled. I think she got very mad as in psyche. She would trail us, come to my door and eavesdrop. Totally crazy. I was 25, he was 45. It's not as if we were kids. And I knew I had limited time on my hands. I told her so. She didn't believe me. She ranted and raved about how sexually bad I was, when that actually meant I was good in the sack. My mum is a prude, a prude which I suspect tried to curb her longings so hard that she got hard on her offspring. And I remember her fallen face when death came and axed out the man I loved. I cried. I cried because I had lost my love. She should have cried because her daughter cried because she had lost a love. Instead she cried for what the neighbours were about to think. And I remember sitting down and wanting to wipe her face out. Honestly. Perhaps it is not what daughters should think or do, but that is just what I felt. My dad... poor old dad cried because he saw his daughter was sad. My mum just said I had made the wrong choice and had let the sex go to my head. And I really couldn't understand how she could make such a statement seeing that I had never invited her to see me in the bedroom action. We do not choose who we love. But prude mum doesn't understand that. And I flew off the handle and told her that perhaps now she'd be happy seeing my true love-story had really ended. Her silence said everything. She now was content. Hard to believe. But very true. And she wouldn't take my crying saying I didn't have reason to cry for a man who was not my husband. So instead of killing her on the spot, I took off and sat alone. I slept alone, I didn't eat, I did everything alone. And it was hard. But mankind somehow will adapt if there is the will. And slowly, very very slowly, I began dating again, not for the date's sake, but for at least having someone to talk to sometimes. From outing I became ingoing, from extrovert to deep introvert. I always thought that I at least was lucky because I had experienced real love twice. Some people do not have that luxury in a lifetime. That was it. I was on my own. But as fate would have it, love crept in again and the frowns turned to smiles. I loved another man who loved me in return, and this time, there was no flipping way my mum was butting in. She tried. She tried her hardest. But I had swore never to allow her access, and that was it. It's been six years now, and she still tries. She tries and plays on my empty maternal feelings, and uses the classic comparisons to the Jones's. This entry could probably be a classic for appreciating the dysfunctional relationship between a woman and a daughter. People say my mum is a saint. I say her daughter is even more of a saint for having borne her constant putting-down. I know she's not proud of me. Unlike my dear old dad. And yes I am angry at her. She thinks she's done right for having given everything materially. Mums aren't made just to be material. I haven't given her grandchildren to manipulate as she did me. Not all women were made to bear children. Some have dirty minds and say it like it is. Some are pure and innocent and harbour the dirtiest secrets in their heart. Some were made just to be loved. And I am one of them, as innocent or as bad as I can be. Everyone fucks. My mum fucked, I am proof of that. And being a good fuck just not make you bad. It makes you just that... a good worthwhile fuck.

Pastizzi and erotica

Good Friday is almost over. I can't say I'm sorry about it. I've blocked my TV permanently on LivingTV, I have only been over to my mum's so I cannot say that I've seen any Good Friday reminders. Which is good. The only thing is, that some Face Book users have been really staunch Catholics. One in particular seemed to be irritated about having seen people eating pastizzi. Poor old pastizzi. They must be the number one enemy for cholesterol all right, but why take it out on pastizzi just because it's Good Friday? I cannot for the life of me, find anything disturbing or God-disrespectful about pastizzi. They don't even contain meat so why is it annoying? Does God hate pastizzi? I'm not sure He was ever around to taste them, and if he were, my best bet is He'd love them and make himself sickly silly over them. I have also shocked my mum (not intentionally) because she spied my forever Rothmans Blue peeping out of my pocket. Yet again, does God hate Rothmans Blue, or perhaps is he into some kind of other brand? Some people hate smoking. The trouble is the exact minute when a smoker is born. Loads of us (at least those in my generation) have tried at least one cigarette. There are the ones who will hate it immediately, cough themselves for an hour and decide that smoking is bad. Then there are other ones like me, who have instantly taken to the tar and nicotine. My twin is of the former. He hated it. I am of the latter. I loved it, and was born a smoker at 15. I still love it. But will God really see me as hateful because I smoke on his Good Friday? Will God really find people who are eating pastizzi on a Good Friday hateful? It's not as if we're acting like some Kamekaze. It's not as if we're murdering someone or torturing someone to death. Perhaps smoking kills us, perhaps it will make me live 10 less years. But I will have at least have lived the 10 less years pleasured by the tar and nicotine. It's hard for non-smokers to understand, but we smokers love it. It is a turn on, just like any other sexual turn on. Turn ons and fore play and passionate. All can be so not sexual. I get turned on by shoes on display, trying them out is foreplay, and actualky wearing them is passion. And I don't even need a rubber to protect me from all the STD's. The same goes for jewellery. I have just bought myself an Easter present; a massive artistic, stylish pendant in the form of a massive sun set with diamonds. It turns me on, putting the chain on is as erotic as any bedroom scene, and yes it makes me wet with all the passion too. And I still don't need a rubber. And now I really have no idea how this has gone from innocent pastizzi to rubbers and erotica. And oh dear, all of this on a Good Friday. The thing is, God will never love people less for eating pastizzi. He will never ever love me less for my passion of shoes and jewellery. God made people to be turned on. He made people to know passion. And it's a sorry creature he who does not have the ability to experience all of this. Because God made people as people and me and me.