A rose without thorns.

I would like to apologise for not keeping this blog updated as much as I should have, and to thank those who actually keep on turning up for a peak to see whether yours crazy truly had anything to share with the world. I haven't really been inspired in the past two weeks; it seems that I might perhaps have temporarily run out of my sarcastic stream, and have turned, inexplicably, human. I'm not too pleased about that, and discussions with inner-self are ongoing to try and regain the sharp corners that seem to have been knocked off from me by circumstances beyond my control.

Today's post will in fact not be of the usual kind of piss-take, and for once this blog will not be a Chronicle of Nothing, but of Something, Someone in fact who is really Everything, and who in my eyes, will always remain so.

It's my mother's birthday today, and she would, or actually SHOULD, have been 59 had the world been an ideal place where good people live to a ripe old age in happiness and not lose battles against an arbitrary, engulfing evil that destroys everything in its wake. However, as we all know, the world is not ideal, and for the past nine years, it has been rendered even more flawed by the loss of an amazing mother and a truly beautiful human being. On a personal level, her loss for me meant that she did not see me graduate, she did not share the excitement of my first job interviews and my first day at work. She could not react to all my impulsive decisions, like leaving for Brussels, changing profession, buying a flat (collective face-palm in the HSBC home-loan department is still ongoing, four years on), going to Africa... and could not witness the changes that each decision brought to my life and personality and my ensuring stubborn, head-first reaction to the consequences. She missed the joy and laughter brought about by new friends and loved ones, and the tears, so so many of them, brought by those whose sole aim in my life was to wreak havoc and leave behind shattered pieces. She missed my spiritual moments, and my continuously resurfacing atheist ones.

I miss all the things I had with her, and things I could have had, but was denied. I miss the drives and the singing in the car (a habit which I sub-consciously kept, as a solo act, to the dismay of fellow drivers stuck parallel to me at traffic lights), the morning hugs, listening to the stories she used to bring from the the kindergarten she worked in, the long blond hair, the blue eyes that mirror my own, and the nose which I so would have liked to have, but which I unfortunately did not inherit. Most of all I miss the opportunity to be able to learn more from her and to become the woman, that for a period that was unfairly too short, she was.

Happy Birthday Mum, I miss you and love you. Today. Everyday and Always. And since my atheist moments are still of a sporadic nature, I pray that one day I will also be blessed with a daughter to name after you, to love and cherish her, and who will perhaps one day love me as much I love you.

The Other Side of Valentine's ....

Valentine's Day is approaching, and love is supposedly, and presumably for others, in the air. While the couples bask in each other's love and happily ever afters, the dark side of the moon is inhabited by the rest of us, which I refer to as the Minus Ones. Being a Minus One can actually be great, but there is a 50% chance that it is a status that was not the direct result of your decision, but rather the decision of your former Plus One, which let's face it, is as painful as hell. By digging through my old diaries (I was always a meticulous record keeper), I've actually discovered that there seemed to be quite a pattern in my post breakup reactions, which I divided into 5 stages that can span over months (in my teenage years and early twenties, I used to be invariably dumped in June, just before the onslaught of the Nordic EFL students, and therefore my post breakup mourning period took the whole summer), weeks, or whatever time it takes.

I have of course adapted these stages to cater for people my age, and since I can only write about what I know, I have focused mainly on the female perspective since

a. I'm not sure whether men actually suffer from being dumped;
b. I assume that any possible slight discomfort felt by men at the end of a relationship is pretty much taken care of by a beer, the separate or combined efforts of Inter, Milan, Juve, Man Utd, Liverpool and Chelsea together with the discovery of novel, unchartered and unexplored boobs.

I would like to specify that I [hope to] stand corrected, so please dear guys, go ahead and ... correct me.

Anyhoo, what I'm going to try and do today is go through a typical break-up/rejection, based on my own experiences, and on that of my closest friends. The specifics may not apply to everyone, but more or less, I tend to think that we're there:

The Nth Day - Armageddon.

You've just had the talk ("it's not you, it's me!"). The pain in your chest is similar to a stab wound that has shattered your heart in a thousand shards that pierce every internal organ every time you breathe. That is pretty much what happened...so cry. And when I say cry, I don't mean let an elegant, dainty tear roll down your cheeks; I mean sob loudly and wail like there is no tomorrow. Because, actually, there isn't, or at least not the tomorrow that you expected it to be. Also, OF COURSE, it is YOU and not him who is the problem, so take a deep breath and cry your heart out and turn your face into a puffy snotty structure made of goo. You are, of course not good enough for him, you suck and you deserve all the pain you're going through just because you couldn't keep him with you.

While you're at it, put Adele and some suicidal Coldplay (pre-Gwyneth Paltrow era)on a constant loop and send out a text to your friends informing them that you have been dumped, but that you don't want to talk about it. This is not the time to hear that there are plenty fish in the sea, that it is his loss and not yours, and that he is an ugly selfish bastard. You don't want any other fish, you're the one crying while he's comfortably chilled watching TV, and the ugly selfish bastard is actually who you want to be with.

Cry a bit more. And sleep.

N + 1 - Damn Allergies.

Wake up in the morning with swollen eyes that do not open more than slits and pray for the early onset of a mild flu that will allow you to stay home and cry. People with adequately developed immune systems are inevitably screwed. Check for pain in throat, head and ears, discover that there is none, and drag yourself to the shower. A broken heart is no excuse for poor hygiene. Pat yourself on the back if you manage to insert your contact lenses and don't bother with make-up. You're ugly anyway. Wear warm, comfortable clothes and avoid zips, because today is just NOT the day to be tugging at zips. You still suck, and you've still been dumped. Urges to cry today are expected to happen every 7 to 10 minutes.

Get to work and avoid eye contact, and if people remark on the state of your eyes and the sniffles, blame it on "damn allergies". Dump yourself on your desk and choose tasks that require time to dwell on your useless existence and to have a private cry. Language teachers should assign surprise class essays with the title "Men are useless sperm receptacles made of sh*t. Discuss.", "L-irgiel huwa recipjenti inutli ta' sperma maghmulin mill-h**a. Iddiskuti." "Gli uomini sono recipienti inutili di spermatozoi fatti di m***a. Discutete." You get my drift. Maths teachers should assign surprise algebra tests, and fail the boys in class. Good boys should also be given detention, because they're the worst in the lot for hiding their true a**hole selves.

Try to get through the whole day. Go home and watch an episode of How I Met Your Mother and/or Big Bang Theory while repeating the Mantra "My friends are getting married or getting pregnant. I'm just getting more awesome!". Cry. Read. Cry a bit more. Sleep.

N + 2 - Friend Love.

This is the day to allow your friends to love you. Gather around your closest female friends, and your closest male friends who are either gay or in a relationship (single guys are not allowed to give an opinion just in case they happen to have a non-objective interest in you), and allow them to tell you that you're lovely, sweet, beautiful, loving and that IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT that you got dumped. It would be ideal if such declarations are put in writing since you will not believe a word they say today but you will then resort to rereading them at a later stage in your mourning period. The office playlist should include Alternative Rock bands such as Train, Lifehouse, Snow Patrol, The Script, Three Doors Down and Counting Crows.

Urges to cry today are expected to happen every 20-25 minutes. Number of smiles expected: 5. Number of laughs: 1 or 2.

Go have a coffee with a male friend. Cry and embarrass him... it's ok, this is the one time he will let it pass. Then go home. Read, and cry a little more. Sleep.

N + 3 - Tourette's Syndrome

General dehydration is expected to set in imminently, so tear urges should be reduced drastically and replaced with sporadic and uncontrolled declarations of "f*** him!". It is possible that such interjections happen in public places and more loudly than anticipated. Do NOT explain yourself, but if necessary, give observers a look that denotes that:

Today is also the day to consider a haircut. Reconsider it. If you're doing it just to show him what he's missing, a short edgy haircut which you will hate after two weeks is not the right way of doing it because:

a. he won't care
b. he will hate it (although you don't care of course. F*** him!)
c. odds are that he dumped you for someone with long glossy hair that you are still a year or two away from attaining.

Of course, the above does not apply if the only reason you let your hair grow long was because he wanted you to. In that case, chop the damn locks away of course, and if it's long enough, actually do something charitable and donate it. And of course, F*** him!

N + 4 - Alternative Communication Channels

The anger starts dissipating and you actually realise that you miss sharing stuff with him. Who do you tell if you happen to be the last car in the rush hour traffic jam? Or if you walked straight into a cactus? Or if your strawberry yoghurt burst into your brand new handbag? (now that I think about it ... no bloody wonder I'm single) Well, this is the stage where you just accept that THAT particular channel of communication is gone for good, and that it is time to find an alternative.

Consequently, artists should paint (you might consider going abstract and drawing blood coming out of his eyes and slit throat, that should sell well on ebay), musicians should play, writers should write, insecure writers should blog. Athletes should run and have mental conversations to avoid asking themselves why on earth they're actually running like crazy for no particular reason and in no real direction. It is not the same thing, but for now it will do. Turn off your mobile, log off Facebook and resist the urge to get in touch.

N + 5 - Understanding

This the final stage, i.e. that point where your pain is now similar to a dulled constant pressure on your heart that sometimes spikes whenever you think of him, see a photo, or meet him randomly. This feeling will last a while, but it's bearable, and finally gives you a chance to take a good look at yourself, and to start understanding.

Forgive him. Forgive yourself. It's not his fault, and it is certainly not yours. Rather than not being good enough, it is more a question of not being "right" for him, and being thinner, taller, smarter or funnier will make no difference whatsoever. One day, when you will be ready to blindly love another (because, after all, the female heart never EVER learns), you will also realise that he was not right for you either. But until then, learn to love yourself, to stop being your harshest critic, and to appreciate the quirks, gaffes and eccentricities that make you YOU.

That is the other side of Valentine's Day, and in my humble opinion, the one that counts the most.

Love, always.

Gracie xx

That was the night ...

I was hoping we would have avoided sending a male singer with better shaped eyebrows than mine. Again.




Ah well, there are those who say we will do well. The ones of the "glass is half full" variety. Glass half full of narcotics I guess.

On a final note, I take back all that I said about Ron's hairstylist ... s/he must have read my blog and decided to piss me off by turning a perfectly amazing hairstyle into a LegoLand WWI helmet. Not amused in the least!

Guest Post!

Thank you JohnnyFavorite!

Malta Song For Europe - Chronicles from my Eardrum

I'm the kind of person who does not automatically see the glass half full. Many times I see the glass as it really is ... lacking the right amount of water to quench my thirst. However, I'm learning to appreciate silver linings, and for this I can only thank a couple of people around me that this past week have managed to say the right things at the right time to undo the wrong things at the wrong time said by others. You know who you are. Thanks xxxx.

Enough of that. Did you really think I was going to blog about serious stuff?? Honestly? What I was going to get to was the fact that I did manage to find a silver lining to the Malta Song Festival and its excessive coverage on the Times of Malta (and everywhere else, but luckily in my household local TV is mostly ignored). The continuous loop of interviews, articles and irony on the festival at least showed that the journalistic team at ToM was able to take a break from copying and pasting press releases (and getting spelling wrong in that as well!) and having original thoughts, so kudos to that ... maybe they could try it with other topics. It might actually, you know, work.

Anyhoooooo. Last night, yours truly was watching the festival with a group of friends (XXX and XXX thanks for having us!!!), and as the wine flowed, and as the festival progressed, my fingers twitched, and I really missed my loyal sidekick ... no not Blackie my BB, who has taken the role of my husband ... but my laptop, whose faded keyboard and messy desktop is a direct result of it trying to keep up with my train of thoughts. So instead, I went all 19th Century, grabbed a pen and a notebook and SCRIBBLED. While my friends socialised.

I'm sooooo going to die alone and friendless.

However, before I go on, I have to explain that my notes are not very clear (I might have been the slightest of tipsy) and that I have no idea who most of the singers were and what they sang, so please do bear that in mind when you read what might sound slightly cryptic to you and me now, but which I'm sure made perfect sense to me yesterday.

Ok ... off we go!!!

Comperes - Ron and Girl in pink rubber gloves (GIPRG). I won't say much about them, the gloves stole the show and are taking the Maltese Facebook scene by storm. GIPRG was wearing a glittery garbage bag but she still managed to not look hideous. Since I would probably look like yesterday's non-biodegradable garbage ready to be landfilled, I confess to be jealous. So I hate her. So I won't talk about her anymore. Ron: loved the hair, though it was a subject of debate among the girls around me. I defended it with valour. I'm not sure what else you did during the show though ... but well done to the hair stylist!

With that out of the way, here comes the Chronicles of Painful Ear Drum Nothings:

1. Danica Muscat - I thought she looked like someone, but not anyone particular important. I found her vaguely irritating on my ears, so blocked her out with a slice of pizza.

2. Janvil - There is a planet where Janvil is probably understood and appreciated. It's just not ours. To be fair, he removed a full stop between the J and the Anvil, and seemed to realise that the age of Prohibition in the US has been over for about 90 years. However, Janvil reinvented himself with a velvet rust jacket over .... nothing (or presumably chest hair), and included a choreography of him standing with his feet apart and clicking his fingers. Perhaps not surprisingly, I was left unimpressed with my only thought reserved to the body odor that must have resulted from his wardrobe choice.

3. On the third singer my notebook says "Who Cares"? I guess I don't. Moving on.

4. Francesca Borg - the first of a series of important noses on stage. Is it a Maltese woman trait??? *staring at mirror* Hmmm ... yes, my nose does have a certain "quelque chose". Adding another complex to my list. Thank you Ms Borg ... you're really taking me far...into a dark tunnel of self hatred though!

5. Nick Carter!!! No! It's Klinsmann Coleiro. Aaaaaw, he reminds me of my teenage years where I used to have posters and T shirts of the Backstreet Boys and dream of fairy tale encounters with Nick Carter. I don't believe in Fairy Tales anymore... so hello and bye Klinsmann, you're aging well though, keep it up!

6. Richard Edwards - do you remember Patrick Ray Pugliese from Grande Fratello 5? The one born in Teeeeehran? It's him. And that's all I have to say about him.

7. Don't know the name - she carried with her on stage the understudies of the Flashdance actress ... why?

8. Kurt Calleja - the song is called "This the Night" which is the opening phrase of Dexter the Serial Killer just before he goes and knifes someone in the heart after wrapping him in plastic sheeting and showing him pictures of people he (the future victim) had killed. Scary Shit. Mr Calleja, one might consider rethinking the title?

9. Don't know the name, but singer looks like someone from Non e' La Rai. Nothing else impressed me. Moving on.

10. Nadine Bartolo - song starts with she's a clichaaaaaay. Downed by wine and drowned her voice. Bye!

11. Lawrence Gray - just what I imagine a mutant chicken nugget to look like. Isn't it time to just GIVE THE F*** UP??????

12. Kaya - In the same planet that would appreciate Janvil, they would probably appreciate your Marie Antoinette ensemble. Just go look for it. It's FAR AWAY.

13. Claudia Faniello - a very clever surgeon turned her into Kim Kardashian (though one would ask why). But isn't the idea behind fake boobs that of showing them?? Having said that, thanks for covering up though :D.

14. Don't know the name - apparently she's a teacher at a boy's school who went on stage to sing with a some sort of shiny gray jump suit that allowed her to show her legs to full advantage. This jump suit has a secret button that allows it to light up, and the singer actually made it sound as if she thought it was a good idea. A class of Form 2 boys collectively reached puberty last night. Niiiiice.

15. Aaaaah Wayne Micallef. A full head of shiny dark hair (apart from Lawrence Gray's transplant, most of the man on stage had a full head of hair. Has the Maltese hair loss gene been identified and destroyed by any chance? If yes, could we work on the Maltese female nose and hips one now?) and a good boy look that I just go for. Then he opens his mouth and ruins it all when he announces that "Ghamel l-Ingejc!". Short English lesson: it's "Engagement" and not "Ingejc", and incidentally it is "Bridesmaid" and not "Brajs". Please. My life is sucking in general but do allow me the peace of mind of English well spoken. Thaaaaaaaanks.

16. Dorothy Bezzina - RANDOMNESS. A song called "Autobiography"?! Seriously???? I have a song in mind and it's called "Ravings of a Maltese lunatic gone wrong". I think I'll just submit it. Cani e Porci. Seriously.

17. Gianni. WHYYYYYYYYYYYYY? Shouldn't a convertible be enough to assuage your andropause?? Good luck, it would be nice to see you at the Eurovision, but you're so much better than this dammit.

18. Fabrizio Faniello - brother to Kardashian. Like Lawrence Gray, it is time to move on. Psychotherapy helps. Please.

19. Don't know and don't care. But did she add a second arse to the one she already has? (Speaks the blogger with the curves from hell).

20. Eleanor Cassar. Another important nose. And over plucked eyebrows. At this point the wine is making me drowsy.

21. So drowsy am I that all I have written in my notebook at this point is "WTF". We'll leave it at that.

22. Deborah C and someone else - dressed as airhostesses! Hahah, Britney Spears gone wrong and very toxic. Ridiculous!

23. Don't remember and don't care.

24. Something about answering with my eyes. I'll just roll them, and down a stiff one. That should be an answer enough no??

And that dear folks, is what I thought of the Malta Song for Europe Festival. As I bow out, I wish you all enjoyment for tonight's final. Yours truly plans to miss it. However, she will still have something to say about it probably.

Happy weekend!!!

[from a rather dejected] Gracie :)