Don Juan, Don Quixote and Dulcinea

Well behaved girls rarely make history, and if they do I'm not too sure it's for a reason I would want to be remembered for. They are also not famous while they're alive, it happens when they're dead and about to be made a saint and since they're dead they don't even get to enjoy the party. Not very fair, but it's their choice. Most times. Sometimes it isn't, because for the rest of us girls for whom misbehaving is part and parcel of every day life, we really do not get to choose to be good or bad. Shit happens. And misbehaving happens effortlessly. And somehow it is attractive to some men. The same men who try to control us while knowing that they never really will. A feisty girl is just that... feisty. And it is precisely that feistiness which makes a man's brains (together with his nether parts) pop. And no, he won't ever stop, probably not even when he is in Imgieret because thinks he's so fit that Imgieret will never be the place for him to pop. He is very much like Don Quixote, but of course will never admit it and thinks he is a Don Juan instead. Oh God the word, a Don Juan. But he is just a Don Quixote always looking out for his Dulcinea. He says he wants a Dulcinea who can be brought to heel, but if he had that he'd be bored stiff and in search of the next Dulcinea. So it's a crafty Dulcinea who makes sure he is kept on his toes, an even craftier Dulcinea who lets him think he is the boss, crafty old Dulcinea who knows exactly how and when (also where) to rub his ego. Dulcinea could pass as a daughter, but has been round the block quite a few times. And since this Dulcinea is a far cry from the proper Dulcinea who wants to be famous for her good behaviour, then it starts getting twisted. She know she will never be brought to heel, and keeps old Quixote wrestling with himself, trying to think of new ways to conquer. And she will win hands down but lets Quixote think he's the winner just to make him satisfied. Because it starts out as a game, a dangerous game, because somewhere across the lines both want their territory, both want each other and both make each other's life difficult because they want to play. Do not give the two something on a plate, they will not be interested. Because I'm not sure they would make history for their good behaviour, but they just might make it to fame for their gross indecent misbehaviour. Somewhere, someone must have seen something, but of course they'll keep their mouth shut... because it's too dangerous when you're dealing with a Don Juan.

Hobz biz-zejt

I am no summer fan. Ok that sounds weird because we take out fans in summer to help us cool down. But you know what I mean. I just don't like the sticky people, the ones who smell so bad that they make you think they are onion fans. I don't like all of that. I also don't like the fact very few cosmetic manufacturers have thought of Malta and it's humid climate and produced waterproof makeup. But then of course summer is one long ball of holidays, so I cannot really complain. Although a month has already passed by in a flash and I've only got two more months to go. Still I cannot complain. But summer has me in cravings. And no I have not been knocked up yet. Nothing in the oven, it's too hot for the oven anyway. And lately I have been dreaming of hobz biz-zejt, I am trying to find a decent translation for that, but I can come up with none which describes it in all its mouth watering glory. Bread with oil? Oily bread? That's just shit in comparison. But I am craving this hobz biz-zejt with a vengeance. And there isn't one restaurant which offers it. Because I am not very good at DIY. And I crave more than that. I'm going down memory lane and remembering the summer nights spent as a tearaway, thinking that a small piece of rock could be the world's most fabulous game. I want that again, but it's all about Play stations now. Only one thing for it, I'll have to do it myself, sit on a porch and have my hobz biz-zejt. Childhood memories are just that; memories. But I'll substitute the longing with some Joe Demicoli. That'll do the trick to a T. And it will feel as if I've died and gone to heaven. Will post back.

In the Post

I seem to have a postman with a very dry wicked sense of humour. I am a big fan of ordering 'thing' over the web, so of course it takes a postman/woman to deliver the 'things' to my door. And here is one example of women being better on the beat than men. My postwoman is a darling, she knows that I first have to check my hair in the mirror because you can never be sure who's calling. It could be a Mr. Big and I would never lose out on an opportunity like that. But she's also welcome, because she waits for me to open the door and give me my new thingies. I love opening new thingies and although I've never told her so, she know, she just knows because sometimes there is something called unspoken understandable sisterhood. So she's more than fine. The trouble is when it's the other postman on the beat. He rings my doorbell then probably makes a quick dash down the road, also managing to shove a piece of paper telling me to collect my thingies... the next day. Oh no, the next day is too far off and I don't know how to wait. It's as if my thingies have been so close yet so far. And he does it again and again. Couldn't he at least wait for 30 seconds? It seems not. And then I grab the damn little paper and call the number printed on it. And I'm angry so I voice my anger and say what the hell, do you have postmen on sprint beats or what? To which I always get the same answer... do you want to file a formal complaint madame? And that suddenly makes me stammer. Of all things, she calls me a madame! Madame! That's ancient enough to catch any girl on the wrong foot. Secondly, do I want to contribute to a man losing his job? No, because then I wouldn't be able to sleep at night. Perhaps the postman has a wife and kids and it's his only income, and he's so bored that playing games with me and my letter box is his only thing which he does for fun. So I say no, I don't want to complain and listen to the lady over the phone raising her eyebrow at this lioness suddenly transformed into a lamb. Oh well, I'll just have to wait. If all this waiting will lure a Mr. Big to my door one day, then it will all have been worth it. Because God works in mysterious ways.

Conduct?

I had to go to pick up my police conduct certificate today, and I wasn't too keen on it either. Have been postponing it for weeks. Because, quite frankly, I don't like cops. They're nothing more special than me and you, anzi, we're even more special. But they get a hideous blue uniform which does nothing for the female cops' widening hips, a badge, and a hideous hat to go with it. Suddenly a Jack in the street is transformed into an authoritarian. Just like that. And they are supposed to help other citizens. Yeah right. Try talking them into letting you park somewhere. Try asking them something else. They expect you to call them, Sir. Sir? Have they been knighted or what? Knighted for their greasy faces because their hats do not allow their skin to breathe? Oh no, that's not what I call a cop for. So anyway had to walk into this building where I saw cops strutting like peacocks (as if I don't get my very own peacock strutting every day), kept silent and asked for my police conduct certificate. Female cop looked at me as if I had gone mad. She said, 'il-kondotta mrs?', To which I would have liked to reply, no, I want a slip of paper to prove my good conduct and not just a conduct, and no I'm not a Mrs, but I nodded instead. I had to go through three harrowing minutes of waiting and my mind just went everywhere. What if past and buried affairs would show up and come to haunt me? What if all the bad things a good girl shouldn't do would suddenly appear on the monitor? Two, thirty-three, was all she said. Not bad, for having a piece of paper say, 'This person is of good conduct.' Yey yey yey nothing so nothing showed up on the monitor. I have a certificate which is my pride and joy and shows that I am good. And I think I'd better frame it for safety keeping too. Just in case someone calls me a bad girl again.