Beards

Something has caught my attention. A bald penguin has been fitted with a wetsuit made out of a human wetsuit to protect him from the sun. Cheers to whoever thought of it, whoever made it, and whoever dressed Ralph the penguin up. Now Ralph can enjoy the sun without the risk of getting sunburn. Because as opposed as what normally happens to penguins, consisting of new feathers growing and forcing the old ones out, somehow poor Ralph lost all of his in one day. And the other penguins got curious seeing their mate looking 'different' but soon recognised him and now accept him as him. Big lesson to humankind. But I'm not here to lecture today. It's something else which is making me think. Something which has puzzled me for a long time might now be making that little bit of sense. It used to be senseless, now I'm thinking twice. So perhaps men with facial Freudian hair had got it all figured out before I did. I don't like that, but then I'm a woman blessed with being so not hirsute. The only thing I know about is the hair on my head and it's my crowning glory. I wonder what happens with men and their facial hair. Do they want to have natural protection (as in natural family planning kind of thing) from the sun? Does new hair grow and push the old hairs out? If that is so, does that mean that they're losing facial hair all the time? And where does it go? On the floor, gone with the wind fertilizing flowers and shrubs, in their drink? In my, heavens forbid, in my own drink? In my own food? Am I being subjected to teeth flossing without my own knowledge? Because if penguins undergo a complete moult every year, does it happen to men with facial hair too? And isn't that unhealthy, unhygienic, nasty even? How did Freud, someone who wasn't exactly stupid, never think of this? Or did he know and was evilly shedding his facial hair onto his patients in the same way priests shed holy water onto people they like to call possessed? And as if the shedding of facial hair weren't enough, why, oh why, do they have to stroke their beards as if it were their penis extension? Or perhaps it's really a penis extension by the look of things. Man = penis = ego. Then Man = beard = ego too. And do beard brushes exist? I mean, when I brush my hair, the loose hairs get stuck into the brush. Would that happen to beards too? It's unnerving when I think that my Diet Coke might not be as neat as I like to think it is.

Embarrassing?

I am now living in what is probably the cleanest house in Malta. How my friend does it, I've no clue. She's like a hurricane, she just does her thing and hey presto my house is bling bling material. Honestly you could eat off the damn floors. And my mum is pissed because she thinks that I should never let anybody see the clutter (as in enormous, huge, gigantic) I accumulate in one week. The thing is I'm not even embarrassed about it. My kitchen table doubles up as a very big make up parlour. My sitting room is home to all jewellery. I have a room just for shoes. Is that so embarrassing? Well, sometimes. Sometimes I find myself closing the kitchen door so that nobody can see inside, which is silly since my kitchen door has glass panelling. But I have never understood how anybody can apply proper make up in bathrooms, the only rooms without airconditioning. I'd have make up running off my face and into the sink in no time at all. It's so comfortable in the kitchen with a x10 magnifying mirror and air conditioning directly on my face. So I do whatever works for me. Should I be embarrassed about it? Perhaps, but I ain't. It's not as if I've got rubbers strewn all over. The only thing made of rubber in my house are rubber elastic hairbands, not really something to gt embarrassed about. Plenty of women with long hair will understand. Plenty of men won't, but then what the hell. They say your house is your castle. Well, mine is too, except that right now it's a very clean castle. And somehow that's odd because castles are meant to have cobwebs and dust. Roll on next week.

Degrees

My house is in total turmoil. It's because it's cleaning day. And no of course I'm not doing the cleaning. You have to get a degree for that, and it's a subject which never caught my attention. I don't think that looking back at everything clean after having spent 2 days slaving is a lot of fun. I don't think that making whites brighter than white is fun either. And the idea of a morning out at the detergent shop is appalling. I've much better things to do, write here ahem. I cannot and will never understand why women offer you advice as to cleaning products at the supermarket, with that knowing smile, as if they were offering advice on the latest flavoured and shine-in-the-dark rubbers. Because that's exactly the kind of smile they give with their advice, it comes in a package. It's a coy smile, as if they were trying to say, you know, try this, you won't regret it you know, wink wink. Yeah right, I wouldn't regret Hagen-Dasz, I know that. I wouldn't regret Dior and Estee` Lauder. But Svelto? Who the hell cares? Detergents all look the same, whether it's Fabuloso, Lenor or whatever. And yet I don't suffer a filthy-house syndrome, thanks to my good friend who can make it sparkle. I can't. I just don't know how to do it. And yes I'm a girl. But that doesn't matter. Nowhere does it say in the Bible that Eve was created to wash and scrub. On the contrary, God told them (Eve and her partner) to go forth and multiply. Ok I haven't yet got down to understanding multiplication, you need a Maths degree for that. I've just gone forth, well, some people are slow. At least I've managed the first bit. Pity you can't get a degree called 'Gone Forth'.