Theological Musings and a Gentle Warning

Since last week, my week improved. I swallowed a couple of bitter pills made up of pride and indignant self righteousness, cleared the air, had a laugh or two or twenty, and just enjoyed being around people I really care for who helped me out of the whole disasterfest. Popcorn and cola-bottles while watching the train-wreck that is Breaking Dawn helped too... and stability is tentatively being restored :).

On the subject of cola-bottles, and other forbidden food, please allow me to digress to the topic of grocery shopping. My shopping cart is in general rather dismal. A rather alarming amount of yoghurt is the only sweet thing it carries within it, possibly because the 15 years of rigid Catholic education taught me that anything remotely pretty, tasty, colourful or sweet is essentially sinful (although the last 2 years at the Jesuits were meant to set off the previous 13 years at the nuns). Or else, it's just because I seem to have already found my life [round] form, and should thus not add on to my already spherical essence. Either way, my cart tends to be unhappy, and to covet the chocolates, crisps and wine gums that it passes through its journey round the supermarket as it is gently but firmly pushed by me.

So imagine, the feelings of my cart (if it were to have feelings, but then again, I'm pretty sure they would be similar to mine) upon seeing that just ahead of me at the paying line, a cart full of chocolates, crisps, beer, coke and "all that's nice!" was being pushed by this wispy, long-haired, female creature whose tall, thin legs reached up to her neck in degrees of perfection that made my blood simmer and boil with ill-concealed envy. Here comes the theological angle I feel I must give to my musings. If my own legs, which pretty much reach to my knees, were made by the same supernatural being (the one who loves playing chess with our lives) who made the legs of the chocolate binging size-4 model ... could someone please explain the reason behind such arbitrary choices of form and aesthetics??? Why give some people the shape of a long willowy forest flower, and others the shape of a halloween pumpkin?

My message to the world is that the more I think about it, the less impressed I am.

Supermarket parenthesis closed, I can now move on to other life experiences that really do not impress me - males behind wheels. And speaking of messages, I would like to send a message to those neanderthal men who honk their stupid sounding horn every time the lights of the traffic lights turn orange:

Dear Sir,

- whether you happen to be driving a delivery van with your tatooed, fleshy hand hanging out, or
- whether you happen to be wearing a suit and driving an enormous car bought upon reaching andropause and after realising that your secretary will NOT sleep with you

please note that if you happen to honk your bloody horn on the day when my menstrual cycle reaches the apocalyptic PMS epicentre, you will leave me no choice but to run out of my car, pounce at you through your window and pluck out your eyes with my bare hands to make sure you won't mix orange with green again.

You have been warned. And also, please note that Big Cars in general mean Small ...

Thank you and regards,


Gracie.

Gavi v Checkmate!

And as I had ingeniously predicted, I did jinx myself with my last post, and life did bring it on. Damn it, it brought it on big flippin time. In the game of chess between me and the possibly-existing-but-I'm-really-not-that-sure-supernatural-master/mistress-of-the-universe (which we will neutrally and safely refer to as "Google"), my queen has just been knocked out, and my king is uselessly cowering behind an army of underage pawns. And when I wonder where the damn bishop is just now that I need him, the blush on the knight's face gives it all away ...

Anyway, before I go into not so very deep details, let me include a proviso here before Sedqa or Caritas get me off the net for encouraging alcoholic substance abuse. I'm not a drinker, and in fact my favourite drink in any bar is the Diet Virgin Cuba Libre so there is no way that anyone can possibly say that I am a fan of alcohol. So there, read with caution and an open mind (let's all make the collective effort to stop being Maltese until the end of the post), and as always, take what I say with a pinch of salt.

The point I'm trying to make is that when your week has just been a series of events resulting from a rotational loop of bad decisions taken by others, and when long drives in the rain do not work because really, any reflective attempts are overwhelmed by caustic rage and sheer disbelief, there is nothing...Nothing...NOTHING better than heading to a favourite bar after work on a Friday evening with your favourite colleagues and soak your surprised, but not entirely resentful liver with bottle after bottle of 35 South or Gavi di Gavi :D. When the number of glasses of wine consumed hit the double digits, that's where you know that with a "to hell with everyone" you can find the strength to laugh and forget.

The day after you'll wake up with nausea and a feeling of slight disbelief, but what the hell, you would have knocked the cavorting bishop off Google's board, and stepped closer to his queen, and farther away from your checkmate.

Cheers!

Goodbye to the Italian ice-breaker!

Good evening to all!

It's been almost a week since I last updated my blog ... I tried a number of times to put my disjointed opinions to "paper" but I admit that following my self-imposed censorship on local politics and on people-who-might-realise-I'm-talking-about-them, I found the river of thought to have become quite parched. Having said that, I still got 543 views since I started this blog which is just about short of being amazing and just a couple of million hits away from DCG's blog :D. Admittedly, some hits have to be mine, but still, thank you loads for the support :).

So, big news of the week ... Berlusconi is "trenino"ing himself away from Italian politics to the sound of the Halleluia sung by cherubic angels wearing Nicki Ventola T-shirts and Gianfranco Fassino pants. I'm really quite glad about this, if only because all my Italian friends deserve better than having every conversation with them start with "but tell me, who the hell voted for Berlusconi?". I guess there are a number of 18 year olds girls (aka letterine, schedine, paperelle, letteronze, veline, stronzine, p*****ine)who are quite desperate though, their dreams of becoming Ministers and MEPS have been pretty much shattered and they might actually need to go look for a real job which does not involve a pay check proportional to their cup size.

I can also now stop wondering who the hell voted for Domenico Scilipoti (the delightful little guy in the picture below) since I now know that in actual fact, no one did, he just found his way into the Italian Parliament because of the way their electoral system works.

The conversational dynamics with Italians will now have to change, but I'll adapt, just as foreigners will now have to adapt to not use the ice-breaker "so is it true that in Malta you don't have divorce????? O.O" Thank God (tee hee)we got rid of that conundrum :D And yes, God is probably not amused, but if s/he did not want me to use irony, why did s/he grace me with it?? Final thought on divorce (since it borders on my self-imposed censorship as well) - SUCK IT PHILLIPINES!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Lovely ... off to hell I go :)

Wishing you all a lovely week, I've just been jacuzzied, bubbled and spaed to squeaky and shiny oblivion all day, and life's good :). And yes, I am pretty sure that I have now jinxed it.

Bring it on!

Gracie

Of Hannibal Lecter and Fathers Unknown

I'm not particularly well known in my neighbourhood...ok let's say that I'm not known at all. I do not chat in shops or on the bus stop or in the street; actually I always carry a face of pure terror mixed with impatience mixed with adrenaline rushed hurry whenever anyone I know happens to want to chat to me anywhere within 100 metres from where I live. Once I risked throwing up in the bus as a result of car sickness because I kept on pretending to read to avoid having to talk to one of my neighbours who decided to sit next to me after ignoring my discrete, but unequivocal look of abject horror.

Anyway ... you get the point. I hardly know anyone in my street, and hardly anyone knows me. I hope this state of affairs continues until I move, which is hopefully soon. However, this morning while walking towards the bus at the usual ungodly hour, I bumped into this strange, neanderthal looking individual who happens to inhabit a house a few doors down from me and, without wanting to, peeked curiously inside his house to catch a glimpse of it for a second while giving me an excuse to avoid having to saying hello.

And there it was ... Criminal Minds merged into Dexter merged into CSI-Whatever merged into X Files merged into BLOODY SILENCE OF THE LAMBS. The walls of his house were covered with pictures of dead people (the ones they give out at funerals). Scary Shit ta' veru. The whole Tombesque Decor was completed with candles and statues of our Mary of Sorrows and the Crucified Christ to give the whole place a warm cosy feel with inner joy and cheerful tidings. Riiiight. Since this guy spends his time sitting on his doorstep with no particular source of employment, I can safely assume that my tax and future hope for a pension have been invested in turning a normal house into the set of a low budget horror film of the kind where people get eaten, killed, eviscerated or sold for spare parts.

I'm looking forward to my moving in the coming months. Also, an alternative route to the bus stop is being sought as we speak.

Speaking of people robbing me out of my pension, while at the baker I overheard a woman announcing that her daughter had just had a baby. After everyone, except me (refer to description above), congratulated her, she had to explain that the baby had been registered with "Father Unknown". In the silence that followed I could just hear the collective "X'GHARUKAZA!!!" that went through the minds of the other women.

As for me, my first thought was that unless this girl took the concept of "close your eyes and think of Malta" to the next level, it's a case of Father Unknown my arse. As my salary sheds euros in favour of an abused welfare system, I can't help wondering why certain men seem to think that recognising their children is actually an option. If you're man enough to pull your pants down, you should be man enough to pull your socks up and take responsibility.

In the meantime, I might decide to take up online grocery shopping once again.

Off to watch Big Bang Theory ... I think Sheldon Cooper is on his way to become my new idol!

Nothing more to say ... I wish I knew who wrote this line for How I Met Your Mother, because s/he deserves my constant, pure and committed adulation. I will forever kick myself for not having come up with this fantastic line before!

When democracy bites you in the touche!

I promised to myself that I wouldn't ... but the opinionated mind is weak. I resisted a full 4 posts without touching the International Politics subject, but I succumbed after reading article after article about the whole Greek referendum will they won't they diatribe, which can be summarized with a loud, resounding, Greek-Chorus-in-Athenian-Mythological-Tragedy -type WTF MR PAPANDREOU??? (not to be confused with our very own Maltese "papawhatever" but I digress into dangerous waters)

I mean seriously, did the Greek PM expect that the EU bailout offer actually came with an option? I can just picture the scene, after the Euro Saving Summit of last week:

**** open scene****

Mr P: Nicholas! Angela! Thank you for the time and the 100billion write off. I'm going to ask the people whether they are willing to endure 10 years of wage cuts, pension freezes and unemployment parakalo?

Merkozy: JA!! Mais oui! And then we go celebrate the yes vote together yes? Maybe we could also ask Silvio *Merkozy share a loving, simpering smile* to join us??

Then they turn to find that Berlusconi is however leading a celebratory trenino round Place Schuman to the tunes of Copacabana and Bridget Bardo Bardo! with all the EU Member State leaders except for David Cameron who's discussing the Rebate with a potted plant and our own PM who's answering questions from the national media about whether the Arriva buses are being washed every night as promised (we are great at prioritising issues in this country). The phrase "trucking tanker" was heard to come from the newly graduated journalist with her BA Useless Subjects (Hons).

**** end scene****

I read on the Daily Mail (this is not Times of Malta material you see, there are no late buses in the story) that he has now backed off this crazy notion after being "bullied" by the Franco-German Evil alliance. Daily Mail - get over the end of the war please. Britain won it, and a World Cup some time after that. For crappity's sake, enough with the bitterness.

Back on theme with the fact that Maltese priorities do not match the rest of the European World, what on earth is all this fuss about the Gan Luwigi baby naming business? To those not in the loop, a couple went to register their son at the Public Registry and could not do so because the registry did not have the Maltese fonts installed. Big facking deal. One or two opinions on the matter:

1. Gan Luwigi is not a Maltese name. It's the name of a Juventus Goalkeeper spelt in Maltese. That makes it just as Maltese as Havjer or Djego. The Maltese equivalent is Gwan Alwigi, but that is not so pretty now is it?
2. Not having a dot on the g does not change the fact that this child is facing a lifetime of Gan Luwigi sive John ahead of him;
3. Why can't the Public Registry employ someone who can use the "insert symbols" option on Word? The "Maltese fonts" are not needed. All you need is to find the G with the dot on top of it and give it a shortcut key.

X'panic oxxenament ezagerat!