Men, wives and girlfriends

It is common knowledge that behind a great man lies an even greater woman. But what makes a great man? Is it his money, his power, his all over the place temperament, his knowledge? Or is it his kindness, his compassion, his also knowledge, his no need for power? I'm not so sure. The thing is perhaps great men are a dying breed but we girls (especially the Bohemian ones) know exactly what to do to create a great men. Of course we're responsible for them seeing daylight, but when the man has seen daylight for plenty of years and is now into adulthood, what then? My guess is that all men love power. For some it is intrinsic, for others it's picked up along the course of life. And sure they can be very kind men, but they will still love the power. When a man is badly in need of power, it does not mean he wants to make other people miserable. Sometimes it happens that way. Mostly not. But what is it like when a man has not one, but some 10 other women running around at his beck and call? Nothing happens, he just sees one and not the other nine. Sorry for this girls, but it's the truth. He will see the one who stands out of his agenda. Because men like to watch, they are turned on by the voyeuristic point of view. Mostly. Of course a couple of men could be turned on by more noble things, but let's not stray. The more intelligent the man, the more complicated it could get. Or maybe not. Life has thrown me quite a number of men at my feet (now ain't that narcissistic, and ain't it something to put on my C.V.?!). All have been different. And you kind of learn a lot through their diverse ways, attitudes, personalities, likes and dislikes. All men want a good wife. But not all men start out as wanting a good wife. When I hear other women say that their husband wants them to go au naturel, minus the paint, and the clinking metal... it makes me think. They don't really want to have something au naturel, they really want something which will not make other men look. And these men are, more often than not, quite insecure. What they do not know is that insecurity is hardly an aphrodisiac for the girls. My Mister, oh he's a sweetheart, what I like, he will like. He loves me for being different, he loves all of the look. But then there are very few who match him. He's not insecure, never was, never will be. But other men, other man love to have a something on the side which suddenly becomes top priority. Married men have girlfriends on the side. Again ironically, the girlfriends on the side could become their top priority, because they're no goody goodies, they do not look like wifely material and that is exactly what causes them to snap. The secret is in being inobedient day in, day out. Because that is a challenge, and men love, no adore challenges. Seems human behaviour hasn't changed very much. Because we let men think that they are the head of the household, while we have the balls to control them.

Basic Instinct

I am being made aware of my trademark gypsy earrings, my over the top nails and art, my heavy war paint, my extremely heavy jewellery. For anybody who knows me on school premises, this might come as a surprise, because I don't take it to school, reason being that I wake up too late for all of that so I have to go without. For one woman, who thinks she's oh so delicate in her minute pearl stud earrings, it is all too much. She thinks I am a hamalla. My love for the south also contributes to her opinion. But I do not understand this. Why wear earrings so tiny that they are not visible to the naked eye? Is that supposed to be non-hamalla? That is lack of funding, wanting to look prim and proper. Sorry, that's just not me. And I've told her that perhaps I will one day wear he same jewellery when I get to her age. Nasty but nice because it's true. Then again I'm so certain I won't wear minute jewellery not even if I'm 80. The people at l-Imgieret will have to put my earrings on... 'for sure'. Because that is what uppa class people use as a phrase. For sure. Truth is always stranger than fiction there. So I'm not uppa class because I think that that phrase sucks. I'm also not uppa class because I use the word sucks. And yet not uppa class because I don't try using the English bullshit. English is not bullshit, it's this woman's English which leaves a lot to be desired. As does her male working companion's. And they think they're on top. Yeah right a woman on top, this woman on top, I don't even want to start seeing it, not a pretty sight. And of course I have my own pearls. But they're nothing like tiny, each pearl is the size of a small coconut ball; the ones we used to 'cook' in primary school. That's pearls for me. And this same woman complains that I am heard way before I am seen. I take that as a compliment, but I know exactly what she means.... hamalla. But she says the word shit every 40 words. I don't. And if I had to do the same in Maltese, well what would the translation be...iz-z***! I never say that, only behind closed doors when tempers really flare and of course I have to have my say among all the shit words. Ain't Maltese lovely for providing me with a word so nicely conned? It's all so onomatopoeic, it stands for attention this z word, especially said in an exclamatory tone. Which brings me to something else. The woman claims to be a soprano. Oh dear God, did she choose the wrong person to say that too. Because music is my territory and nobody else's. She is just an amateur proclaiming to have good vocal chords. And yet I have searched far and low for some recital, opera she'd be in, but I've never found anything. Could be that she is so much in demand that she only gives private concerts or else, which is probably more of the truth, she is just a lame dilettanta. Everybody can say they are a soprano. Yeah right, if she is a soprano, then I'm the world's fastest athlete to put it mildly. And I know she'll be reading this. And I don't care one hoot. Well actually I do care, plenty of hoots because I want her to know she's being plastered on the world wide web. And she can continue leaning in on people, touching their arm, fiddling with her diddly cleavage. Because she's not getting anywhere. It so seems that some uppa-class-for-sure men like the hamalli, because we're the in your face kind of women. Sorry about the pearls, the blouses, the pencil skirts, the pumps. She's also called me Bohemian, and it's stuck. Too bad for her, that men are always swept away with us the uppa class dressed in lower class tops with cleavage to die for, with the gypsy earrings and bangles. It's the history of the world, Bohemian speaks wild, sexy, magical. And men will always want to hunt down the ones who seem not to be able to be hunted down. And we give in because we still want to be hunted down, especially when it means we will always be the ones on top. Eat your heart with pearly cutlery. Because we're supremely uppa class dressed as whores. And men..... well the proof is in the eating, without the cutlery. Basic instinct my dear. Simple.