2013: Curse of the Lucky, or, Damn Well Kicking

I swore I wouldn't make a list of all the good and bad things that happened this past year - you know, the usual crappy stocktaking we all do when faced with a 'new' year.  Is it new, though? Isn't every day new? So what makes one year different from another? Well, nothing at all really.  It's a convention agreed on centuries ago to mark the passage of time with numbers, so we got used to marking mid-winter as the end of one year and the beginning of another.  And around this convention, we've built a whole gamut of traditions to make this particular moment in time seem more important than any other time of year.

Newsflash, darlings: it's not.  It's just another day in our lives, and there is nothing different about it in the least.

Not that I'm complaining.  For one thing, it's a public holiday, and I love public holidays as much as the next person.  Possibly more, because I usually have to be pushed into taking any leave from work, and it's never to relax anyway, so they usually provide me with some much needed R&R.  [But I digress.]

There is something satisfying about laying the past to rest, and opening your arms and heart to the future.  The more time passes, the more I realise that most people don't do this on a regular basis and actually require the rigmarole of New Year to carry out this essential mental and emotional cleansing.  I do it every few months anyway, because I've learned the hard way that letting dead issues stack up in my mind is the correct recipe for a festering, maggoty mess inside my head.

Got that cheerful postcard firmly imprinted onto the screen of your imagination? Excellent! There's nothing quite like the mental scarring of some good advice for some character-building! ;)

I've decided that instead of regaling you, dear reader, with a list of glorified 'Thank god it's over!' and 'Thank god that happened!' moments from the past year, I shall write you a list of lessons that have served me well.  Yes, lessons, because whoever said education stops at school or university or any kind of formal training was lying to you, the bastard.

1. You will find yourself faced by obstacles of all types throughout your life, because life is hard, and would be terribly boring if it weren't.  Accept this fact and get on with living - because if you don't, what's the alternative? Losing your place in the gene pool? Oh dear.

2. Humans are a destructive, invasive species.  As a sentient being, appreciate that you, your loved ones, and the rest of the race are a poison to the very planet that supports you.  Be kind to your environment while you can, before it becomes as poisonous for you as you are for other organisms.  Because once it does become deadly to humans, memories of the non-murderous environment may be the only thing keeping you warm at night.

3. Stupidity abounds! Be grateful for your intelligence, and understand that the smarter you are, the greater your capacity for stupidity - 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall', as it were.

4. Medicine is a godsend, but deities are renowned for their cruelty as well as their kindness.  I'm talking about side effects.  I'm talking about chemical dependency.  Mostly, I'm talking about quality of life.  Don't swallow a pill when another solution exists.  Pills should be used with caution, when necessary, and not because you want a quick-fix to your health problem.  Quick-fixes are notorious for a reason.

5. Treat your body with respect: it's the only one you have, and the only thing you'd be left with if you lost everything but your life.

6. If you don't want to do something, for whatever reason, but it has to be done and there's no way around it, quit whining, suck it up, and do it.

7. Always have at least one hobby: you'll socialise, you'll have something to talk about, you'll have an outlet for stress, you'll be a better, happier person overall.

8. Resist technology at your peril.  We live in an age where society is no longer just physical, but digital, and any attempt at staying away from the digital world will actually cut you off from a growing portion of society.  I'm not saying go out and buy the latest hardware and software; but I am saying get comfortable with the changes in social interaction.

9. Get creative.  Use your imagination, exercise it.  Watch movies, read books, view visual art, listen to music, sing, dance, act, paint, make things; but more importantly, engage with whatever creative outlet you're into.  Passivity is for puppets, and last I checked we're not made of wood.

10. The single most important bit of advice that I've come across in my short lifetime: keep moving forward.  Don't dwell on your failures, don't dwell on the past, don't obsess over 'what if?', and don't get stuck in the now.  Just... Keep. Moving. Forward.  

As posts go, this is perhaps one of the grouchiest I've pattered out.  I have yet to experience a year's end free of stress, running about like a beheaded chicken, free of ridiculous expenses, and so on; in short, I have plenty of reasons to be grouchy [don't we all?].  And I'm thankful for that, because it means I'm (a) alive, (b) surviving, (c) in control, (d) happy, (e) doing my damnedest to keep things that way.  I am lucky enough this year that I can tick off (a) to (e), and while it's hard, because living is hard, I'm bloody glad about the whole thing.

Here's to us, my friend.  We're alive, and we're damn well kicking.

Sincerely, 

Macs

Running Commentary: Rehab by Amy Winehouse

I don't know about you, but whenever I watch a movie, tv show, listen to a song, or do anything that involves taking in popular culture, I hear a voice in my head with a running commentary.  This affords me no end of amusement and food for thought.

Case in point: the song Rehab by Amy Winehouse.  

If you don't already know this, Ms Winehouse lost her war against her demons, fell to temptation once again and died of alcohol poisoning on 23rd July 2011.  She was diagnosed with manic depression, had a drug habit that she amazingly managed to kick after several years, only to once again develop an addiction albeit to a different - and legal - substance [alcohol].  Although she tried to help herself, she didn't want outside help, refusing psychological treatment.  And not long after that, she drank a hell of a lot of alcohol and died.  Draw your own conclusions.

Now on to my nefarious yet humorous observations.

1.  Is there a more fitting vice for someone with a surname like Winehouse? I swear it's like Malvolio or Toby Belch in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night!

2.  She wrote a song in 2006 about refusing to go to rehab, because at the time she thought she didn't have a problem.  Looks like Alanis Morissette's Ironic needs another unironic line: It's like refusing to go to rehab, then dying of alcohol addiction. 

3.  I now present you with the lyrics to the song, undermined by my comments. [Spoiler alert: I have a very catty running commentary voice.]

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no" - I think you'd agree now that that was a bad idea.

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know - We would, especially since now it would require a feat attributed only to Jesus and other unnatural beings.

I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine - you're 24 and you still think Daddy always knows best? Oh honey.

He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go - Tantrum, anyone?

I'd rather be at home with Ray - Really? You can't listen to music anywhere except at home?

I ain't got seventy days - Not any more you don't.

'Cause there's nothing, there's nothing you can teach me 

That I can't learn from Mr. Hathaway - Shall we make a bet?

Didn't get a lot in class - *Gasp* No! Really?

But I know it don't come in a shot glass - There I was thinking you preferred it by the bottle.

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no" 

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know know know

I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine

He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go

The man said, "Why do you think you here?"

I said, "I got no idea - Har har har.  Good one Amy.  Pull the other, it's got bells on.

I'm gonna, I'm gonna lose my baby

So I always keep a bottle near" - ...to beat him into submission?

He said, "I just think you're depressed" - No shit Sherlock. Give the man a prize!

Kiss me, "Yeah baby, and the rest" 

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no"

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know

I don't ever wanna drink again - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZ7BcumfEXo

I just, ooh, I just need a friend

I'm not gonna spend ten weeks

Have everyone think I'm on the mend

And it's not just my pride - Really? It's not?

It's just 'til these tears have dried - So that's why she looked shrivelled! SHE WAS DEHYDRATED!

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no"

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know

I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine

He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of thing that runs through my head when my brain refuses to shut up and enjoy what I'm listening to or watching.  I am a self-confessed commentator - you should have heard me muttering at yesterday's Master It! meeting - and the worst person to sit next to at the cinema [hey, at least I don't go into full-blown critical analysis like this one guy I know].

Until next time folks!

Sincerely,

Macs

Would you risk your life for a contraceptive?

No.  I don't care how badly you don't want to get pregnant, the answer to that question is a definite, absolute, resounding no.

What's got into Macs today?, asks my dear reader.  Let me correct you.  It actually got into me 14 days ago.  Wow, that's specific! How do you know that?, you question.  Oh, well, I'm glad you asked.  I put it there.

Let's rewind to my yearly gynae appointment in the last week of September.  It went well - I was recovering from a bladder infection so I got to miss the smear test [this is the only time I will be grateful for having urethritis!], the doctor was pleasant and helpful as always, and very sympathetic to my plight.  What? Oh, my plight, yes well.  I wanted to change my contraceptive, to something ideally non-hormonal, or else to something with a small dose of hormones, because I'm prone to depression and would like to reduce anything that could affect it.  The non-hormonal options I was interested in were shot down in seconds because I've never had kids, and even though I explained exactly how much I don't want and never have wanted any anklebiters of my own, the doc was adamant.  No to the intra-uterine non-hormonal devices.  I gave in when she used the words 'uterine tearing', because I am extremely squeamish [thinking about it, I'm surprised I'm fine with the sight of blood].

So then we went through all the possibilities remaining to us: hormone injection every 3 months [downside: if I react badly, there's no taking it out], contraceptive patch [downside: fly abroad or give my prescription to someone going to the UK to bring back a supply, because Malta is of course run by idiots who thinks preventing pregnancy is a bad thing, ergo a contraceptive that's only good for contraception is the devil], hormone implants [see downside to hormone injection], or other pill-type contraceptives [downside: I get sick too often for this to be reliable, reason 2 for changing contraception].  That left only one option: a vaginal ring that releases the same hormones the pill does right at the source of all potential trouble.

Here's the sales pitch: no remembering to take it daily, you just put it in, leave it for 3 weeks, remove it, let 7 days pass, then repeat.  Hardly any side-effects, maybe some spotting during the first month of use, but otherwise it's perfect, especially because it doesn't cause mood swings.

-_-

You know what that face means people.  You know it, I know it.  Allow me to fill you in on the hell that has been my life since 5th October 2013.

Day 1: fine and dandy.

Day 2: fine and lazy.

Day 3: worry.

Day 4: worry worry.  Stress.

Day 5: stress.  Anger.  Stress.

Day 6: stress.  Anger.  Anger.  Anger.  Stress.

Day 7: stress.  Anger.  Stress.  Try not to cry.  Misery.

Day 8: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.

Day 9: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.

Day 10: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.

Day 11: misery.  Crying.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.

Day 12: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing. Misery.  Stress stress stress.  Anger anger.  Crying.

Day 13: misery.  Stress.  Sobbing.  Stress.  Anxiety.  Stress.  Anxiety.  Sobbing.  Weeping.  Bawling.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.  Crying.  Try not to kill myself by driving into something intentionally.  Sobbing bawling sobbing weeping sobbing crying sobbing bawling sobbing groaning.  Fear of leaving the house.

*something awesome and cool happens*

Day 14: Fine.  Fine.  Fine.  Anxiety.  Fine.  Anxiety.  Okay.  Anxiety.  Stress stress stress.  Okay.  Anxiety.  Okay.  Crushing disappointment.  Admit defeat.  Pretend all is well.  Try not to sob.  Calm down enough to explain what's happening.  Okay.  Bitter disappointment.  Frustration.  Frustration.  Super-frustration.  Anger.  Anger.  Crying.  Misery.  Fear of seeing other people.  Fear of communication.  Panic attack.  Anxiety.  Panic attack.  Crying.

If you bothered going through that, you'll have noticed the part where I said I tried not to kill myself.  I haven't had seriously suicidal thoughts since I was a young teenager going through the double whammy of puberty and depression.  As you can imagine, these sudden feelings of wanting to die added to my already excessive levels of panic, because if there's one thing I love it's living, and I wouldn't swap my life with someone else for anything because I really really really love my life.

Bring on resorting to the Internet.  I typed in 'nuvaring causes depression anxiety' and a plethora of forum posts show up.  You can imagine how sane I then felt: I wasn't the only woman turned overnight into a psychotic bitch whose crying exceeded her water intake all because of a little ring.  Yay me.  Then I saw the dates on the posts: 2008.  2007.  2006.  2005.  'Ah, so this bastard has been around for ages after all.  Interesting.' thought I.  Then: 2011.  2012.  2013.  'AHA!'  And I'm thinking, how does a gynae worth her salt not know how badly this thing can affect women with a history of depression?

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to say: if you, or your lady, have had problems with your mental health, stay far away from Nuvaring.  I know I'm getting rid of my supply.

Sincerely,

Macs

Experiments in cooking

Coming to you live from my bedroom, I have been sitting down for at least half an hour because I'm tipsy.  Been having a go at the bottle, have we? No, no, not at all.  Actually yes, just a little.

Oh hush.  It's not what you're thinking, so wipe that smug smirk off your face you cheeky muppet.

Every now and again, motivated by cravings and boredom, I get the urge to cook.  I usually end up cooking the same recipes over and over, so sooner or later I get exasperated and try to change humble recipes into something tastier.

Today's attempt: vegetable soup.  Special ingredient to change up the recipe: red wine.

Yes, that's right, I'm tipsy on vegetable soup.  Since I'm sure many of you like, if not love, wine, and food, and wine in food, I'm sharing the recipe while it's fresh in my mind.  I call it... *tum tum ta TUM!*

Vino Veggie Soup [Alas, there isn't a synonym for soup starting with v! Join me in disappointment.]

Ingredients!
2 round marrows
2 carrots
1 garlic clove
1 large celery stick
3 small potatoes
1 cup of broad beans [Maltesers, these be our beloved ful]
1 cup of red wine [I used Bardolino, much to my horror upon discovery - far too good to cook with surely!]
1 teaspoon of salt
1 chicken stock cube
2 tablespoons of tarragon
1 teaspoon of turmeric
1 cup of rice
Lots of water [I play this by ear ;)]

1. Chop les vegetables!
2. Grab ye a big pot, turn on ye olde burner on a low flame, pour ye sunflower oil [or any oil suitable for light browning of les vegebables] in ye big pot.
3. Add les vegebables to ye big pot, biggest/hardest ones first, leave 5 minutes and add the rest.  Stir every so often - obviously don't let it burn!
4. Add yer turmeric and 1 tablespoon of tarragon.  Leave the veggies a-cooking till they darken a tad.
5. Add 3 cups of water, yer chicken cube, and yer cuppa vino.  Take a nice big swig of yer bottle of vino [This may have been unwise of me].  Leave yer pot on a low flame, add yer other tablespoon of tarragon, and leave yer pot like so for about 10 minutes.
6. Pretend I'm not saying 'yer'.  I'd stop but I've an Irishman yammering in me 'ed.  Yer lucky yer only getting an overload of 'yer'.
7. Back to yer soup! It should be steaming just a little.  Now's the time to add as much water as ye reckon yer pot will hold without watering down the soup too much.  Add yer cuppa rice.
8. Ye can turn up the heat now if ye like, or ye can leave it slow cooking, use yer judgement.

As for how long you cook it, well, I like my soup veggies to have a bit of a crunch, so I don't leave them more than 20 minutes simmering away.  It's all according to taste, ye ken?

I think I'm off for a lie-down.  Oh, deary, deary me.

Sincerely, 
Slightly tipsy,
Macs

That Time I Talked About Feminism

Feminism.  It's an ugly word isn't it? Upon hearing or reading it, a plethora of images come to mind: angry women, men-haters, bra-burning, butch lesbians, machismo-rich men, women-haters, men beating up women, men sneering at women, men 'putting women in their place', 'make me a sandwich' jokes, 'get in the kitchen' jokes, most of the jobs at the top all over the world occupied by men, women at the top being viewed as power-hungry bitches whose careers are their pride and joy [tantamount to sacrificing an infant on an altar to Satan while laughing with glee], women who are anti-family, women who are anti-children, hippies, underarm hair, leg hair, protests, heated discussions in all forms of media, women with pretty nails and pretty hair saying 'oh no, I'm not a feminist' or 'I hate feminism', women with pretty nails and pretty hair saying 'I'm a feminist', men standing up for women, women's rights,

and the list goes on and on and on.  It's endless, and most of the images aren't positive - whether they're in favour of or against feminism.

So many people don't understand why feminism is important, why it is still needed today, why it will always be needed, and why the name should be done away with and the whole concept called something else.

The truth about feminism is this: it's not about women.  It's about men.  It's about everyone.  In fact, if a completely new gender showed up, it'd be about people of that gender too.  It's about straight people, gay people, bisexual people, transgender people, asexual people.  It's about mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, colleagues, enemies.  It's about everyone.

What do you mean it's about everyone Macs?! It's feminism, read the name - F E M I N I S M.  That's got to be about female, feminine, women, girls, and all that jazz, so why are you going on about all that stuff you just rattled off in the paragraph above this? Bitch you CRAZY.

Alright, I'll bite that bit of baiting.  Feminism is usually about sticking up for females, agreed.  But tell me, what will happen if all the females in the world were wiped out? Mass extinction, that's what, because we're half of all populations [I'm not just talking human, people], a hell-ton of grieving from all the males whose beloved females of all relations were gone, economic meltdown because hey women are part of the workforce, and the destruction of life on the planet.  So clearly, sticking up for females is a good thing.

Guess what though: the same thing would happen if all males magically disappeared at one go.  And no, the survival-due-to-pregnant-females clause won't work here, because all male unborn offspring would be gone too.

BALANCE, PEOPLE! That's what I'm talking about here! Without one gender or the other, no species can survive for long.  Why would anyone want either gender to be 'better' than the other? Clearly both are necessary, so why screw the species?  This means that all parts that make up a population need to be looked after, cared for, and appreciated.  [Note: this same argument explains why racism - and racialism, don't think I don't know that loophole - is stupid]

This of course explains why feminism needs to be, at the very least, rebranded.  And this is happening, don't think it isn't.  One of the things a feminist doesn't have to be is female.

What makes you a feminist? That's an easy one.  If you believe that people should be treated with respect, regardless of gender, you're a feminist.  If you believe domestic violence is wrong, you're a feminist - because most victims are female.  If you believe men and boys who wolf whistle, catcall, holler at, cajole, and leer at women and girls walking down a street are disrespectful, you're a feminist.  If you believe women are not just meant to be mothers, you're a feminist.  If you believe women and men have the same capacity for intelligence, you're a feminist.  If you believe that when a woman or girl says no, she means no and you should back off, you're a feminist.  If you believe you would want to beat 10 kinds of hell into anyone who physically hurts your sister/daughter/mother/cousin/aunt/grandmother/friend/colleague or any female, you're a feminist.  If you believe girls and women should have the same education as boys and men, and be given the same opportunities for education, you're a feminist - because, newsflash, this doesn't happen everywhere.  If you believe it's wrong to abort a pregnancy because the gender of the foetus is female, you're a feminist.

Why didn't I say anything specifically about men up there? Because the sad truth is that still, in this day and age, women are still holding the short straw, when there shouldn't be a short straw, and worst of all when we are all fooled into thinking that gender discrimination is a thing of the past.  Women can vote, women can own property, women can go to school and university, women can work, woman can work while having a family, woman can provide for themselves... women can, same as men.  What women can't, involves a bunch of things that unfortunately aren't as obviously wrong.  Women can't wear short skirts without being taken for sluts; women can't wear tight clothing without being taken for sluts; women can't wear low-cut tops and dresses without being taken for sluts; women can't wear nailpolish without being taken for bimbos [yes, I'm using that old word] or sluts; women can't wear make-up without being taken for bimbos or sluts; women can't go around without make-up and be taken for real women [and I cannot stress enough how MORONIC this is]; women can't have very short hair without being taken for lesbians or anti-men [again, MORONIC]; women can't have long hair without being taken for airheads [-_-]; women can't have a family and work without half the people around them thinking they're selfish; women can't talk to men in social situations without giving the wrong idea to many of them; women can't tell even their loved ones, let alone police, that they've been raped because they'll be accused of lying or of instigating it [as if that absolves the rapist]; women can't reject someone's advances and have that person subsequently not try harder;

and again, a hell-ton of other things that women can't do without being thought of as inferior, not taken seriously, brushed off, taken advantage of, given a hard time, and so on.

----

So now I'll go on to some experiences of my own as a woman living in an anti-women world.

- I gained weight about 6 months ago, and haven't felt comfortable enough to wear strappy tops and short skirts.  Since I stopped wearing clothes that show more skin than arms, shoulders and legs, I no longer get reactions from men when I'm walking.  When I show less skin, I am not viewed and treated as a piece of steak they want to sink their teeth into.  I have thus found a way to become effectively invisible to men, both when walking and when out in clubs.  And let me be clear: I have a pretty face, very big boobs, a big ass, hips, I wiggle when I walk, and a friendly smile.  Tally that up, and even with the big thighs, occasional spots, and curly hair that seems to be a turn-off in my country, I'm attractive [remember this blog is about sincerity; if I were boasting I'd have said something like 'gorgeous'].  Even so, I'm ignored because I'm not showing skin.  While I enjoy the invisibility this gives me [sitting on my own in my favourite bar sipping a drink and enjoying the music without being annoyed is brilliant], I deplore the implications for the society I live in.

- Whenever I have worn anything showing even the slightest bit of cleavage, or short skirts, I have endured men's eyes following my until I was out of sight, calls of 'aw SABIHA' [equivalent to 'hey gorgeous'; female brain decipher: 'hey meat-I'd-like-to-ram-with-my-dick'; other male brain decipher: 'hey sexy, wow you're hot'], 'aw SEX', 'PSST', 'ejja ha nkellmek' ['come here let me talk to you'; female brain deciphering: 'come here let me stare, cop a feel, and proposition you for sex'; other male brain decipher: 'come here let me try to chat you up while I admire how attractive you are].

- In a group of men and women, all aged in their 20s, all supposed to be friends, one so-called friend still interpreted my talking to him as being interested in him - and I wasn't flirting in even the remotest way.

- Young women often deplore their singledom and say that 'at this rate, I'm going to end up a crazy cat lady'.  You will never hear a young man saying anything negative about ending his days single.  From this I conclude: a single woman is to be pitied for having a wasted life, a single man is to be toasted for having enjoyed life.  Many of the single women I know are happy, vivacious, busy, have several hobbies, travel, and are easily the people I know who most enjoy their lives.  The crazy cat ladies I know are not single, were crazy before they got the cats, and have cats not because of a lack of human loved ones but because humans aren't fuzzy, can't purr, and talk back when you don't want them to.

- About half the girls I went to school with are already married at 26, quite a few with children.  Half, folks, half.  Many of them were girls who wanted to be doctors, lawyers, successful psychologists, business women; yet very few of them are both married/married with kids/mothers and on the path to their dream career.

- 3 women I count among my closest friends were raped, and not by strangers; 1 woman was almost raped; 2 women I know had boyfriends who hit them, and 1 of these women has a scar on her leg where one boyfriend cut her with a knife while he threatened to kill her; almost all my straight female friends and acquaintances have had psychologically and/or verbally abusive boyfriends at some point in time; I had a psychologically abusive boyfriend; and the pathetic fact is that the number of women on this list will only grow as I get older.  Even more pathetic? This is the status quo.

- There are very few women in local politics, and most [if not all] of them are past 40, while younger and younger men are getting involved in local politics.

- In local media, when a rape case not involving relatives is reported, the comments section is full of victim-blaming. 'She must have done something', 'She was teasing them, what did she expect', 'She's lying', 'She didn't report it right away so it must have been consensual', 'What was she wearing?'.  I am ashamed to say my country is part of the European Union, and that my fellow Maltese think they are up-to-date, civilised, and come from a first world country.

- In local media, when a rape case is reported, the word 'raped' is replaced by the word 'defiled'.

- A local woman spoke at a domestic violence conference about one of her experiences with the police in Malta.  She had separated from her husband, who used to beat her horribly, and one night she was woken to shouts from said husband outside.  He was holding a shotgun, trying to break the door down, and shouted repeatedly that if he got inside he would kill her.  When she called the police, they told her she had to go down to the station to file a report, and then hung up.  And no, one of the mobile squads did not show up at any point during the night to at least check on the situation.

- I have given up on talking to my male friends about feminism, women's rights, and domestic violence.  The reaction is always a variation of 'Oh come off it, you have the right to vote don't you? You're making a fuss and hating on men'.  This leaves me speechless, flabbergasted, and disillusioned.


----

And there you have it.  The post that I've been wanting to write all summer, but avoiding at the same time.  That's just the tip of the iceberg.

Sincerely,
Macs

Alternative Ambition: Dancing

I never wanted to be anything lucrative, like a doctor, or a lawyer, or an accountant.  In fact I never even wanted to have a desk job, office job, or anything remotely requiring me to sit still for long periods of time.  My friends always amaze me because most of them have an aim in mind, a career that they chase with all their being, even going so far as to move to countries that don't speak any of their languages.  I don't think I'll ever be able to say how much I admire these people for these things.

I myself never had that kind of ambition.  The truth is that the only things I've ever had a passion strong enough to follow are the sort of things that aren't viable in the long run.  I wanted to be a ballerina, a singer, an actress, a dancer, a writer, a performer known as an all-rounder because of being great in several different things.  These are all things that take a ridiculous amount of time and effort to do anything with, and that put me off for a long time.  That and the fact that, in all honesty, I was never particularly good at any of the above, except at writing.  

I was a terrible ballerina as a child, my body kept growing and growing and growing which made controlling it rather difficult.  When I hit 12 and had my grade 5 ballet exam, I had finally stopped growing and developed my technique so well that everyone expected me to get a Distinction [ie. an A].  Instead I fell flat on my ass during an adage exercise.  No, really, I'm not using an expression there - I lost my balance and fell smack on my bottom.  I was so mortified and my nerves were so badly shaken that I couldn't do anything right afterwards throughout the exam, and ended up failing.  Everyone was shocked.  My confidence while dancing ballet never recovered, and I always felt like shit in my ballet lessons afterwards.  Add to that the fact that I hit puberty and became boobed and wide-hipped quickly, which is a humongous no-no in a ballerina [or was back then], and you have the death of my ballet dreams.

I turned to jazz dance instead, and enjoyed it tremendously.  Unlike ballet, it was actually fun.   I could so see myself pulling out all the stops in amazing routines on world-famous stages in the future! Unfortunately, once again my size and shape came under fire.  This wasn't blatantly apparent until after 2 years at the same school, when the head and my then-teacher looked at me and congratulated me in front of the whole class on my weight loss.  The only reason I lost any weight that summer was that I had been sick with glandular fever/mononucleosis/Epstein-Barr virus for 2 months, 2 weeks of which I spent being unable to eat more than a fistful of food three times a day.  It also had to be liquidised.  The weight I lost wasn't even fat, because I was by no means chubby; I lost muscle mass, because fever day and night for a month turns you into a decrepit thing with jelly-legs and jelly-arms, unable to walk more than 5 metres without collapsing into a chair.  Fun times.

I stopped dancing that same year because I couldn't afford it, which was a terrible shame because I had finally become one of the best in class.  But it was a blessing: I escaped the pressure to lose weight, be skinny, be the best, and all the other crap that comes with the most serious of dance training.

Fast forward 4 or 5 years to when my friend Hannah became obsessed with bellydance and convinced me to try it out, and you have the beginning of my ongoing love affair.  I began American Tribal Style belly dance, and loved the movements but wished there was more room for creativity, along with moves carried out with the left side of the body [strange as it may sound, ATS, Tribal Improv, and Tribal Fusion almost always work with the right side of the body, and I have no idea why].  Then I started Tribal Improv, which had more combinations to sink my teeth into.  TI is great fun and a fantastic challenge to coordination and reflexes, because it's a follow-the-leader style of dance: one person leads, deciding on what moves to use on the spot and indicating by pre-arranged signals [yips, hands flicks, head turns, and more] what comes next so that the rest of the dance troupe knows what moves to perform.  The faster the music, the quicker you have to react so that the audience doesn't realise you're not actually doing a full choreography.  And nobody notices that we do this, which adds to the fun - we're totally winging it, and it's our secret! We learned and grew together, became perfectly synchronised, put on a couple of shows and took part in the first regular burlesque show on the island.  Dancing was good to us, and life became better.

There is a 'but'.  The problem with TI is that you need a troupe, and unfortunately life got in the way of ours: our director moved country [the lovely Hannah again!], the girl who took over fell in love and got pregnant [we all joked that she'd have twins if she ever got pregnant; 9 months later she fulfilled our prophecy], another girl moved country, and when I finally took over the classes I had to give it up or risk failing the second year of my BA.  So we went our separate dancing ways, which was awful: in any form of bellydance, the people dancing together become like family - that's how it started out after all, with women dancing together while doing chores, and men dancing together while doing their thing, and everybody dancing at weddings [albeit with a lot of self-censoring].  I cannot stress enough how different this is to ballet and jazz, which are dominated by one-upping and competition, creating a tense atmosphere that stops you enjoying yourself to the full when you're dancing, because somewhere inside you're thinking 'I have to be better than the others!'.  In bellydance we don't do that.  We each revel in what we can do well, applaud each other on the things done well [you should see and hear the reactions in our classes when a bellydancer does a perfect belly roll!], and we all encourage each other when facing a baffling move.  I am proud to say that I found the sisters I never had, and to this day even though we no longer dance together and in some cases haven't seen each other in years, we support each other in all we do.

This means that when bellydancing, I associate it with all my bellydancing friends and feel love, which makes me dance with love, which in turn adds an element to the dancing that I have yet to see in other types of dance.  This love isn't just about the bond between dancers though.  It's also about loving your body and yourself.  There is no pressure to be fatless, toned, muscular, as small as possible, and all that crap, in bellydance.  Whatever way, shape, or form you have, it's great, because it's your body, your instrument, and you are dancing.  Whether you're an apple, an hourglass, a pear, a banana, your shape is perfect.  Whether you're huge, or large, or medium, or small, or tiny, your size is perfect.  A piano is no better than a flute for being bigger, a violin is no better than a harp for being smaller; they are different instruments and together create complex and beautiful music.  Nowadays in fact, I can see that I dance well, because I'm no longer busy worrying about being the thinnest I can't possibly be, or being better than the rest. [There had to be a moral to the story, didn't there.]

And now I'm finally doing one of my favourite styles of bellydance, called Tribal Fusion, a style based on flamenco and bellydance, seasoned with hip-hop and a bunch of other dance forms.  This style doesn't use improvisation, so there's a lot more room for creativity than the others I've learned, and that sets me gleefully a-glow.

So I may not be performing at the West End, and I may even have stopped performing locally at all, but I'm dancing and I'm loving every second of it.  I've always felt the most alive while dancing, putting my heart and soul into even the tiniest of movements, letting the music take over and becoming part of it, using my head to make my body do beautiful things, and I couldn't ever give it up again.  That would be like cutting off a limb.

Sincerely,

Macs

PS. Here are some links for you to see the different bellydance styles I mentioned.

ATS improv, performed by FatChanceBellyDance

Tribal Improv, performed by Gypsy Caravan

Tribal Fusion:

Rachel Brice, the biggest name in TF

Kami Liddle, my favourite TF performance to date

UNMATA, my favourite bellydance troupe, practising their own special high-octane Improv Tribal Style

Things I Hate Thursday

Any of you who have blogs or online journals will 99.9% have heard of the custom 'Things I Love Thursday', a list of things that happen on the relevant Thursday of the week that the person writing the list loves.  Today's list, as I think you've guessed, is about things I hate on the Thursday I'm having today.

1. I was late for work.

2. While driving to work I saw a dog lying on a pavement looking dead, exhausted, injured, or asleep with her eyes open.  I wanted to stop and check on her but no, I was late for work.

3. Day 3 of period cramps making me uncomfortable throughout the morning whether sitting, standing, or moving in any way.

4. The eyelashes on my lower right eyelid have grown so long they're sticking together, pulling at my eyelid, and generally making me want to rip my eyelashes out.

5. Making a mistake at work and discovering it while on the phone to the business's HSBC representative.

6. Finding out emails I thought were meant to be insulting were actually from people who were being genuinely nice, so I've mistakenly felt insulted, and thought these 2 well-wishers were being snarky and mean, for 2 days.

7. Invoicing idiocy.

8. Feeling the urge for a hot cup of tea thanks to the beautiful storm we had today, and knowing that it would just make me sick because I've suddenly become intolerant to black tea.

9. Being pissed off and frustrated for no reason, and feeling angry at everything and everyone, thus affecting everything I do, despite being a reasonable, rational, logical, intelligent person.  

Anyone trying to sympathise with my bad mood will face evisceration in my imagination.

Did I mention I hate today?

Sincerely,

Macs

Of Dreams and Stories...

Every morning I wake up and desperately try to go back to sleep.  While sometimes it's because I'm tired and need more sleep, it's most often because I'll have had an intricate and intense dream that I want to go back and finish, because I must know how it ends.  This compulsion applies to all books, stories, movies, series and songs that capture my imagination.  There is nothing more annoying for the imaginative than a story ending prematurely and without an ending, as it were.

I've had this idea for years now, and the past week I've voiced it several times: if I could hook my brain up to a visual projector and recorder while I sleep, and then sell the results to film companies, I'd be a multi-billionaire.  Possibly the quality of cinema would improve drastically, and many film viewers would be left feeling like the ground they were standing on disappeared.  The universe would be filled with so much 'what the fuck?!' that it would seep into the collective human subconscious and, probably, make the world implode.

Alright, alright, so that last part was excessive hyperbole [haha, haha!], but you get the point: my dreams [and nightmares] are incredible and awe-inspiring.  It's such a shame that I frequently forget them within 10 seconds of waking.  Not so with this morning's dream, which so captivated me that I'm working it out as a story.

It's funny how writing hits me.  I call it the itch.  When it strikes, I feel compelled on all levels of existence to grab something, anything, to record my ideas and get the pictures in my head out.  It's kind of like an exorcism, expelling some presence from deep inside, or a purging, but what comes out is a positive thing and only gross if my creativity takes me that way.  It's spontaneous, overwhelming, and feels like it just won't - and can't - be denied.  Translated into words, my body tells me 'DAMMIT woman get writing now now now now NOW NOW NOW NOW!', varying from a whisper through to a bellow.

My psychiatrist [go on, get over it, I dare you ;) ] said there's a weird connection between mental illness and creativity, and speaking from experience this is true in several ways.  Some of the most intense things I've ever written are a result of the ghastly misery I suffered while in cycles of depression.  The more acute my feelings, the more poignant my writing becomes.  It seems obvious then when I say that antidepressants effectively cut my creativity and imagination from my being.  Happily, these old friends of mine only went on holiday, rather than relocating permanently.  When I finally reduced my dose of antidepressants significantly, within a week of my body getting used to the low dose my brain suffered a barrage of amazing ideas, beautiful sentences, and stories.  I wrote one poem in a frenzy at work one day, and composed another two while driving home on the same day - sadly the latter two are lost to whatever graveyard verse inhabits when it disappears from its author's brain.  HOWEVER.  The point is that I hadn't been able to write anything creative, anything at all, for 3 years.  3 years folks.  That's beyond tragic, especially considering I used to write at least one poem every few weeks from the age of 12 to 19.  And weirdly enough, mental illness doesn't just inspire and trigger creativity, it also kills it.  Thanks to depression sinking its hideous talons deeper and deeper after 19, I wrote less, and less, and less, until one day I realised I hadn't written anything in 2 years.  I can't describe the sadness that realisation caused.  It actually is beyond words.  And here I am now, cured of a horrible bout of the Evil Sad, able to write once again, and willing.

Guys, I'm ecstatic.  Join me in a hilariously dorky and gleeful happy dance.

Sincerely,

Macs

That time when things got personally awkward

There are times when writing with a certain level of maturity is beyond me and I run the risk of making a fool of myself in ways I just don't care for.  The past 2 weeks of silence happened because I just didn't feel like writing, I just didn't want to think, and I just could not be sincere without facing certain consequences.  I'm here now, I'm writing, and I guess it's time for me to face the reality that, whether I like it or not, I have to write about things that have been... bothering me.

On my mother's birthday I met my then-boyfriend of 2 years and a bit, in the knowledge that we were going to break up, that he was going to start off the process, and that I was fine with it because it was time to admit defeat: we no longer worked as a couple and could no longer keep trying.

I now realise there were a few things I wasn't prepared for.  I wasn't prepared to hear that he had long since given up trying to try to make things work between us, when I had done my best right to the end to try to make 'us' work.  I hadn't prepared myself for the fact that now he would be talking to other girls, friends or otherwise, when before he seemed fine with cutting himself off from all but his closest friends.  I hadn't prepared myself for the moment when I would realise that, despite how far into each other's heads we are, he no longer loved me.

This is where I say I no longer love him, and where you believe me, and where we move on to something else.  But.  But.  As a horribly caring person, I find it impossible to stop caring.  About anything, really.  It's a drawback.  I should have developed into a heartless bitch given what sensitivity and caring got me as a child, but that just didn't happen.  So instead, I care.  This is an infinitely bad thing when I'm going through the process of getting over a break up.  I care about that person's well-being, I care about their life, I care because I put time and effort into that person and it's actually very difficult to let that go.  You'll notice that I haven't used the word 'love'.  That's because what I feel is different to what I used to feel back when I was in love.  Now I just feel the same attachment I feel for my best friends, 'just' being an understatement, because I love my best friends dearly.

Part of the problem I feel bothered about all this is that I can't actually be a best friend to him, just as he can't be a best friend to me.  Forget the usual 'you've seen each other naked, you can't be friends after that' litany, because that's not the problem.  The problem is censorship.  I have to censor everything I say to him - indeed, to anyone I've ever had a break up with - and be careful what I ask and how I react.  How inappropriate is it for me to ask about his dating life? Extremely, which is the same answer to 'how inappropriate is it for him to talk about his dating life'.  If there were things we didn't do together for specific reasons, and now we both are doing them, it's a potential bone of contention that needs to be kept buried.  In every conversation we now have, it feels like there's a big fat elephant in a neon pink tutu and a neon orange headband sitting between us while humorously trying to play a trumpet.

And of course all of this is rather irritating, because we were both happy to end our relationship and happy to remain friends, but the reality and truth is that we can't be proper, honest to goodness friends.  The past gets in the way, doesn't it? And there's nothing to do about that but lump it, and get on with things.

So here I am getting on with things, and having got that off my chest, I can get on with bringing you my thoughts on any subject under the sun in other posts. :)

Sincerely,
Macs

Everyone gets a little crazy sometimes - 1

There are different ways you can tell that someone is kind of, maybe, just a little, teensy weensy bit gaga.  Cuckoo.  Plemplem, as we like to say in my family.  Batty.  There are many reasons people exhibit this, uh, hm... behaviour.  Some are born mad, some become mad, and some have madness thrust upon them [fellow literature freaks, can you spot the reference?].  Some of us exhibit madness on occasion, because sometimes certain circumstances just plain drive us up the wall.  We're going to take a look at some of these situations, along with a few things that seem to be typical symptoms of their corresponding craziness, over a number of posts.

Number 1 Crazy Behaviour: Road Rage

Someone overtakes recklessly, pulling into the opposite lane completely and putting the pedal to the metal to increase speed so as to effectively and quickly overtake the poor slow turtle that tickled their speed itch.  You're on that opposite lane, and they're heading straight for you if they don't manage to pull back into their lane as soon as friggeting possible.  Your heart rate accelerates drastically, your eyes fly open, you stomp on the brakes, blare your horn, become horrifyingly aware that you're going to die, and gabble 'Ohgodohgodohgod' or 'Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck'.

And the reckless driver pulls into his own lane, successfully overtaking the turtle while reducing your life span by 20 years, increasing your number of grey hairs significantly, and making you a candidate for a heart transplant in 30 years time.  Now that you're sure you're not tasting metal, the madness begins.  The bastard! THE BASTARD! HE ALMOST KILLED ME! I COULD HAVE DIED! SON OF A BITCH! ROT IN HELL YOU MOTHERCHUCKING MORON! WHO THE BLOODY BUGGERY GAVE YOU YOUR LICENSE?! MAY YOU DIE HORRIBLY WHEN YOUR CAR BARRELROLLS! AAAAARRRRRGH!!!!!!!

And more thought of that ilk rampage around in your brain and out of your mouth until you eventually catch sight of yourself in the rearview mirror.  Rabid animals the world over give you a round of applause at the froth bubbling on your lips and the insane look in your wild eyes.  As you thump the steering wheel while revelling in livid rage, you catch a glimpse of a passing pedestrian's face.  WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! KEEP WALKING ASSHOLE! And the person breaks into a power walk.  You reach the end of your swearing vocabulary, so you make up new words and phrases as you carry on your tirade.


Eventually your ranting and raving bubbles down into mumbling and muttering.  You arrive at your destination and grumble about crazy, suicidal, homicidal drivers, for another 5 minutes.  The moment food or drink appears on your horizon, you forget all about your brush with death.


______

This one goes out to one of my best friends, whose passenger road rage is always an odd surprise.  You know who you are.  ;)


Sincerely,

Macs


Ps. Hey folks, feel free to add whatever sweet little word you use instead of 'crazy' to the list. :)

Much Ado About Nothing deserves much ado.

I should probably give you a couple of warnings before I get seriously underway: a) having listened to three hours of Shakespeare, I might use somewhat outdated language, because the Bard has that effect on me, b) I am about to gush copiously, so prepare the mops!

I've just returned from a wonderful three or so hours of watching and listening to Shakespeare's 'Much Ado About Nothing', put on by the MADC, and I am delighted.  The acting was perfecto, the casting was spot on, the wardrobe choices were numerous and exact, the stage was cleverly arranged, and the props and stage hands could not have worked better.  Seeing that I decided to attend tonight's performance alone, I desperately needed the show to cheer me up.  Add to that the fact that I got caught between two fuel-sucking traffic jams on the way to the performance and arrived ten minutes late in a vile mood, you can guess that the MADC had its work cut out for it tonight regarding this miss - and here I am in bed, a happy, satisfied bunny.  If I could purr my contentment, I would.

Allow me to explain.  Having been introduced to the world of performing at the tender age of three thanks to ballet, I've been on stage and in front of audiences many times over the years, and I've been backstage, and I've waited in the wings, and I know the horror of watching something go horribly wrong.  On top of that, I am now a stickler for quality, and nothing irks me more than a cast member who isn't up to the standard of the script or the other actors, a poorly thought out performance space, or indeed anything that just does not deliver as it should.

Much Ado had none of these problems.  Certainly, two or three actors stumbled on a word and had to repeat a line, but they pulled it off by keeping in character and not letting it phase them one bit, and quite frankly who doesn't end up tripping over their own tongue in real conversation? It's perfectly natural.  So to them I say: well done, you.  But other than these tiny moments of tongue-teasing, there were no slip-ups: when actors needed to interact with props, they did so without mistakes; cues were followed flawlessly; comedic timing was followed without a hitch; the actors were all very much equal to their roles, the script, and the constraints of the stage; and there were no dreaded wardrobe malfunctions - a miracle considering how many costumes there were and how many changes were made!

Let me go into what I loved about this production, bit by bit.

1. The location and stage: San Anton Gardens is in my opinion the ideal spot for an open-air performance, and with the background of the palace it truly is the perfect place for Shakespeare's work to be showcased.  The stage was long and narrow, making audience placement far more intimate than the norm with all spectators being rather close to the stage no matter where they were seated.  And a gate into the palace was used to wonderful effect as the main entrance and exit for the actors, which really added to the idea of the characters' moving from one place to another.

2. The wardrobe: my word, did the wardrobe mistress go all out! The clothing was 1940s style, and lovely.  All the costumes fit, and every scene had a change of clothing for the women, with the men sticking to the same formal dress during formal scenes such as the wedding and the funeral, but otherwise also having a change every scene.  What I thought was lovely was that every actor didn't just have clothes suiting their roles, but that also suited the actors.  I think the only thing that jarred - and this only happened when I really thought about it - was that the clothing and music was all set in the 1940s, but the men carried swords when they were in their army formal dress.  Even then, considering these were high officials [a count, a prince, a prince's bastard brother], so perhaps their uniform at that level would mandate swords at the time.  Regardless, the time period worked.

3. The actors: there were a few actors and actresses whom I haven't seen on stage before, and they played their parts wonderfully.  To be honest, I had first decided not to see this production because there were so many names I just didn't recognise, but having spoken to an actor friend who knew what was going on in the play, I decided to give it a shot.  And I'm so very glad that I did! Folks, I've said this before and I'll not stop saying it, we have so many talented people on this tiny island [to non-residents, non-Maltese, strangers to the island of Malta, we've a population between 400K and 500K] and we don't make enough of a fuss about them.

While the whole cast did a fabulous job, I must pinpoint some moments of excellence: the moment when Hero is asked to speak regarding the horrible claims laid against her was gold, with actress Nicola Abela Garrett putting raw emotion into her voice and still projecting perfectly; Imogen [Mrs Leonato]'s moment of chiding Count Claudio and the Prince for causing her daughter's death via public shaming, reducing them to nothing but boys [as the speech entails, in fact] was masterfully done with class and the pride only a mother can have; the love scenes between Benedick and Beatrice, played by Malcolm Galea and Fay Paris respectively, flowed so well that I could have been watching a real courtship; Colin Willis pulled off Hero's father Leonato grieving for his daughter's reputation with such desolate misery, I think the glass and bottle of JB were hardly needed as props for that scene.

4. The comedy duo:  Oh gods, did I laugh! Dogberry and Verges, played respectively by Erin Stuart Palmier and Joe Depasquale, had me bring out the silent laugh for the benefit of everyone around me, otherwise I can't guarantee their hearing would have survived my screeching cackles of laughter.  These two had the comedic timing down pat, and delivered their lines and actions with the right amount of gusto.  A match made in heaven.

5. The language and tone used: Now here comes the cherry on the cake.  Malta is a bilingual country, and we all code-switch like crazy, adding and substituting words in Maltese when speaking in English and vice versa, which adds to the colour of interaction thanks to the fascinating fact that both languages have phrases and expressions that just don't translate properly into the other language.  So it was with glee that I eventually realised the actors were using Maltesisms in between their Shakespearian dialogue for emphasis! Now hold your horses before you roll your eyes or tut tut in disapproval.  I'm talking about the typical things we say like 'eh' and 'mela'.  Well, except in the case of the clown sergeants Dogberry and Verges, whose dialogue was delivered with the thick accent of Maltese who aren't fluent enough in English to avoid carrying over their Maltese pronunciation - a great idea in my opinion, because the sergeants' scenes are used to counteract any seriousness that occurred in the previous scenes, and there really is nothing as amusing as that accent when coupled with the appropriate Maltese buffoon stereotype.  Oh, the hilarity! I'm not one to enjoy slapstick, but this was done so well I couldn't but end up gasping for breath at the end of each of their scenes.

That's enough gushing from me I think, you should find out how great it is for yourselves folks.  What's the worst that could happen? ;)

And thus, good gentles, reiterating my fervent wish that you all rush to the MADC website to book your tickets for the last three performances, I bid thee adieu!


MADC's Much Ado About Nothing on Facebook

I'm sick and tired of always being sick and tired

I'm lying down on my bed, tapping away on my laptop, with tears streaming down my cheeks.  The fan whirs in the background, I can hear faint popping sounds of fireworks from far off, and my mother is clattering pans in the kitchen while she prepares our lunch.  I'm sniffing, and getting a headache from the combined effort of crying and not sobbing.

I should be a normal healthy adult, but I'm not.  To all outward appearances I'm hale and hearty.  I dare say if I had a blood test done, I'd be given a clean bill of health.  Yet I have the immune system of ... of ... I don't even know what to compare it to.  I don't know anything or anyone with my problem.

Let me make it perfectly clear that I am not a hypochondriac.  Please believe me when I say that something goes wrong with my body on a monthly basis, on average.  I don't want to think of all the money I've spent on doctors, medicines, fuel to get to doctors and to pharmacies to buy medicine.  I don't want to think of all the days I've spent with restrictions on my activities - the school days missed, the work days missed, the fitness classes missed, the dance classes missed, the fitness boot camp I had to drop out of, staying away from other people, forcing myself to lie down and not do anything - because once again, my body wasn't fine.

(One long overdue hullabaloo when Mum asked 'what's wrong?', and lunch later...)

The only thing I can assume is that my immune system was destroyed when I had an incredibly bad bout of glandular fever at 16.  I was sick for a month.  The glands in my neck, groin, underarms, and throat were swollen, my tonsils were so enlarged that I had 0.5cm space between them, my liver and spleen were swollen, my fevers varied between 102 in the day and 104 at night, I couldn't go from one room to another without sitting down upon arrival, I couldn't sleep more than a couple of hours a night, I couldn't eat more than a small bowlful of liquidised vegetable soup, and it could only have been worse if either my liver or spleen ruptured, which would have resulted in death, or so I'm told.

Now let's forget that it took 6 months to build up my strength again, to turn from yellow [because with a swollen liver you get jaundice] to a natural colour, to recover to a reasonably normal state of well-being.  Let's consider how often I used to get sick as a child, and with what: 3 times a year, with cold, flu, or a cough.

Since January, I have had: 2 bladder infections, labyrinthitis, 2 bouts of thrush, 1 cough, 1 bout of hives [allergic reaction to I have no fucking clue what], a repetitive strain related pain in my left arm [elbow to fingertips], and the current bout of cigarette smoke allergy.  Count: 7 months; 9 problems.

That's not the only problem. What? There's MORE?! Yes, yes there is.  I don't just get sick often, I get sick badly.  I don't get a sore throat for several days that might turn into a cough if not taken care of.  I get a sore throat for a day, a cough the next, and a chest infection the day after.  And take the bladder infections, for instance.  Most people get a burning sensation when they pee, and a frequent urge to run to the bathroom for about 3 days, then it gets painful, and then they develop blood in their urine.  Dear old me gets all of those in the time period of 2 to 4 hours.

Did I mention that it's usually on a Sunday afternoon? Yep, that's what usually happens, along with public holidays [Merry Christmas!], and sometimes if I'm really lucky, at 7pm on such days.

This sort of disaster happens with every one of my ailments.  When I had hives this year, I was misdiagnosed twice: first I had highly contagious measles, then I had a somewhat contagious fungal infection.  Finally 2 doctors agreed it was 'just' an allergy.

And that, ladies and gents, is perfectly normal for me, and has been ever since I had glandular fever.  Why? I have no fucking clue.  Actually, I do, just a little.  Apparently, glandular fever [aka Epstein Barr Virus, Mononucleosis shortened to Mono in the US] delivers such a hit to the immune system that many people suffer from a weak immune system for several years after that fact.  It's been 10 years.  10 years, folks! A decade.  A decade of spending money on doctors and medicine and constantly getting sick.  In the 6 months after I had glandular fever I got a super-flu bug.  I was sick for 3 weeks, hoarse for over a month, and missed a week of sixth form, when I had Pure Maths at Alevel, and missing just the one hour was enough to make you struggle to catch up.  I missed 8 hours.  No matter how much I tried to catch up, I couldn't.  It was all downhill from there that scholastic year.

So here I am, 26 and something wrong with me on a monthly basis.  I was overjoyed because up until last week I hadn't had anything for 2 months.  Cue two things after each other.  I have no words for the frustration.  Argh.  And argh again.

Just in case any reader thinks this, let me shoot it down: fibromyalgia and ME, also known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, are not what's wrong with me.  I have no unexplained pains, I have no debilitating symptoms that floor me for days or weeks.

My problem is the frequency of getting sick, and the prolonged recovery of each problem - because as if getting sick often wasn't bad enough, I also take long to get over each thing.

If I ever become rich, the first thing I'll do is fund extensive research into the immune system, particularly in cases of diminished immunity.

The last thing I have to say is this: Bahumbug!

Sincerely,

Macs

Link it, baby!

Afternoon, folks!

So you may have noticed I skipped the midweek post.  This week has been hectic for me.  I started a new job and am at the training stage, which leaves me somewhat brainless for the rest of the day - there's a phrase in Maltese that fits perfectly for the effects of 5 hours of training by a frazzled woman: 'xorbitli mohhi' [literal translation: she drank my mind; sensible translation: she drained me so now I can't understand a damn thing].  Add to that an attitude I developed 6 months ago to always do my best to make it to my various commitments, and you'll find that despite being rather tired out I still went to my belly dance class on Monday... and fitness on Thursday... and singing on Friday.  I tried to attend fitness class on Wednesday but alas, it had to be cancelled when the instructor was pretty much grounded for overtime by her boss.  Include a certain fireball issue in Malta that had me on an ethical rampage for 3 days [and you'll find out my views on that fireball in a few weeks once I've settled down and had time to carry out some research ;) ], and you've got a Macs whose physical, mental and emotional energy has been sucked out with a straw until long after the horrible sound you get once there's nothing left.

'Why are you telling us this Macs?', you ask.  Well, it's like this: I don't have a long post today.  Nope.  Nothing insightful, nothing confessional, nothing funny.

What I do have is a handful of links that I consider very worth reading.  I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

In gender discrimination, we find 2 fascinating posts.  And they're both by men.

http://qz.com/103453/i-understood-gender-discrimination-after-i-added-mr-to-my-resume-and-landed-a-job/

http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2013/07/life_as_a_stay_at_home_dad_everyone_i_meet_calls_me_a_hero_for_taking_care.html?wpsrc=upworthy


And in the food industry, the lovable Jamie Oliver shows us what goes into McDonalds burger meat, and many other minced meat products...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20Yg-c6iBF8


Did you hate school as a child? I know a lot of people who did.  Personally, I loved the learning part of it.  Whatever you loved or hated about school, there's bound to be something you're incredibly thankful for about having been sent to school.

 Is that clear in your mind? Yes? Good.  Now imagine children who aren't allowed to learn, who are actually banned from being educated. Go one step further and imagine a teenage girl on a school bus being asked to identify herself and be shot, or everyone on the bus gets it, and she speaks up and gets shot in the head.  And survives.  Who shot her? A Taliban gunman.  Why was she shot? Because she's been speaking out about girls' rights, educational rights, and children's rights, since she was about 11 years old.  Happily, Malala Yousufzai survived, and judging by her address to the UN this week, she's recovered excellently.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5X70VyjU0g


Here's another survivor whose story sets the old cogwheels grinding.  Have you ever wondered how the heck you're going to navigate your way out of a place in pitch dark?Well, maybe it's just me, but this is just too interesting to leave out.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/jul/13/experience-blindness-echolocation-daniel-kish?CMP=twt_gu


Did you enjoy that brain food? I know I did.  Now here's something to set you squealing with glee - and maybe singing too.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10200168194676529

Cheerio until Wednesday!

Sincerely,
Macs

A funny thing happened the other day...

I'm on the cusp of starting a new job [literally, my first day will be tomorrow!] and had my last day at my previous job on Friday.  As last days go, it was rather run of the mill, except for one thing...

Here's a break down of my last day at Fenlex.

8:20am - Enter office, call out a cheerful good morning to my floormates, turn on pc and make tea.

8:30am till 12:30pm - Begin the mad dash of every last day in existence, work to finish everything that's still pending.  Answer emails quickly, exchange contact details with friends.

12:30pm - Rush up to 4th floor like a mad woman to say goodbye to a friend before she leaves the building.  Rush up to 5th floor because said friend isn't on 4th.  Hurry back down to my office on 2nd floor to see where exactly she is, because 5th floor had a distinct lack of her.  Hurry down to 1st floor to get the lift to the ground floor, take time in the lift to compose myself in case clients or company partners are around [tuck flyaway hair into place, adjust top, hitch trousers up to where they're supposed to be, find a suitable smile, try to breath like I haven't just run up and down 3 flights of stairs], and make my way to sub-zero to find my friend.

12:30pm till 12:35pm - Find friend.  Hug friend.  Get into conversation with friend and her officemates.  Hug friend again.  Say goodbyes, get wished luck, hug friend a third time.

12:36pm till 1:00pm - Back at pc, work, shift uncomfortably as hunger demon gets cracking on the latest assault on my stomach.

1:00pm - 1:30pm - Continue working while hunger pangs reach painful levels. Think and mutter 'Where the hell is that pizza?' every few minutes.

1:30pm till 2:00pm - Scarf down pizza and sigh contentedly.

2:00pm till 4:30pm -  Continue working to finish.  Lament eating too much too quickly.  Work one-handed while rubbing obscenely full belly with the other hand.  Astonish best friend Hannah with a bass-filled burp that escapes before I can cover my mouth or leave the room.  Spend a minute laughing at her wide-eyed expression and the unlikely sound, continue working to finish.

4:30pm - Realise there's no way I'll finish by 5pm.  Doggedly decide to stay till 6:30pm if that's what it takes.  'Dammit, I will not leave without finishing!'

4:50pm - Admit defeat on last task.  Pack up file and papers, grab notebook and pen, head upstairs for final file review meeting with supervisor Claudia.

4:51pm till 5:45pm - Climb the stairs to 4th floor for the last time.  Pull up a chair next to Claudia.  Get up to collect the files from various shelves and cupboards on 4th floor.  Sit down next to Claudia.  Get up to pick up papers from printer.  Sit.  Begin meeting.  All goes reasonably well.  Get side-tracked for a few minutes, continue meeting.

5:45pm till 5:55pm - Meeting ends.  Get a hug from Claudia and the funniest expression of good-luck-but-please-come-back-some-day' I've ever heard.  Put all files away for the last time.  Leave goodbye note on another friend's desk.  Think how quiet the office is with only Claudia in.  Head back downstairs.

5:56pm till 6:30pm - Put desk in order.  Write a handover email for Hannah, ask her not to miss me too much.  Turn off pc, lights, printer, turn on alarm, close the door, turn off lights and board the lift.

6:30pm - Hear voices saying 'Ejjew ha mmorru' [Translation: Come on, let's go!'], hear silence as electric current nearby is switched off.  Lift stops between 1st and ground floor.  Call out for help to the disembodied voices on ground floor.  No-one hears.  Realise I'm stuck in the lift.

'Bwahahaha! I get stuck in the lift on my last day when everyone's left.  This is hilarious! What are the odds? Hahahah!', thinks me, along with 'Gosh it's hot in here, and airless.'

Uh-oh...

'Shit.  Wait.  Don't lifts run out of air when they're switched off? Isn't that why they're so noisy when they're running, 'cos the air is pumped in? What if I run out of air before someone finds me?' Panic is trying to set in.

'NO! No panicking.  Oh I wish I still carried my anxiety meds.  Why did I take them out anyway? DAMMIT! No, no, don't panic.  Think Mar, think!'

'I'll call Claudia!' Hunt through mobile phone's contacts for Claudia.  Dismayed as Check Balance skips to Corinne.

'Fuck.  Ok, don't panic.  Call Hannah! She's still in Valletta, and Claudia won't have gone far!'  Find Hannah's number, call, listen to the rings until voicemail comes on.

'BUGFUCK.  Ok.  Whose number do I have? Adrian! Rhona!' Hunt for Adrian's number, no joy, move on to Rhona's number, descend significantly into panic and feel lungs ready to hyperventilate.

'... What do I do? What do I do?! Who else can I call???' Find Luisana's number, call, try not to cry when it rings until voicemail.

'*mental sob* I'm going to spend the weekend here.' Try Hannah again.  Still no answer.  Run out of swear words, run into depths of hysteria.

'HAHAHAHAH! Oh my god this is so HILARIOUS! HAHAHAHA I'm stuck in a LIFT! I'm sleeping here tonight! HAHAHAHAH!'  Some dregs of sanity suggest I call Luisana again, and again no luck.  Begin to be annoyed.  Also start imagining spending the weekend sleeping on the floor of the lift and having to start my new job in the same clothes.

'Seriously, what's the point in having a mobile phone if you don't answer it?! Yeesh!' Try Hannah, and still no answer.  Realise my phone's battery is very, very low.  Shift brain cells into overdrive and scan through my contacts for someone, anyone, who can help me.  Cue epiphany.

'DAVINIA! Hannah's with Davinia! YES!' Call Dav.  'Hello?' 'DAV! HI! Is Hannah with you???' 'Hi Macs! Yes she is.' 'Ok, tell her I am STUCK in the LIFT at WORK, tell her to CALL CLAUDIA.' 'What? Shall I pass you on to Hannah?' Try not to scream in frustration. 'Yes please!' Hear shuffling sounds.  'Hallo?' 'HANNAH! I'm stuck in the lift at work! Call Claudia!' 'I don't have her number!' 'Yes yes, it's in the phone I lent you!' 'Oh ok! Alright, I'll call Claudia and get back to you.' 'Great! Thanks! Bye!'

Sigh with relief, let panic ebb away slightly.  Hear Claudia's voice from 4th floor.  My phone rings.

'Hi Han,' 'Hey listen, she said she's at work too.  What's the problem?' 'What - ? I'M STUCK IN THE LIFT.  THE LIFT STOPPED WITH ME IN IT.' 'Ooooh! OH! I thought you said you were stuck at work! I'll call her again.' 'THANK YOU.' By this point I've broken into a sweat and can't look at myself in the mirror.  I'm sure my reflection is mocking me.

I hear Claudia's voice again, and her laugh.  'Oh yes, it's amusing, I know,' I smirk to myself, and think once again of the irony of getting stuck in the lift on my last day when the office is abandoned.  'Thank the gods for Claudia working late.'  I hear footsteps and the loud switch of electricity buzzing.  The lift moves and I watch the LED go through 1, 3 and 4.  I wait with baited breath as it comes to a stop and the doors open.  Claudia is waiting and I swear I could bearhug her and fall down and weep with relief.

'CLAUDIA! THANK YOU! MY SAVIOUR! I thought I would spend the weekend in there! THANK YOU!' I gasp, while she smiles and laughs, and says 'Miskina!' [Translation: poor thing!].

'Issa I don't know what you prefer, you can take the lift and it should open on 1st floor, suppost.  I don't know if you want to try it though,' she smiles.

'NO! No, thank you, but I can only suppress a panic attack for so long and I really, really don't want to risk it again.  Can I take the stairs?'

'Haha miskina, I don't blame you! Yes of course!'

So I make it down the stairs, out the door and into the sunlight.  Somehow it feels like it should be a moonlit night and deserted, instead there are people thronging the main street of the city two corners up the road.  I sigh with tremendous relief and grin.  'Well, that's one way to leave a job I guess.'

And there you have it folks, my last day at Fenlex ending with just a little bit of drama.  I had a good giggle about it afterwards!

Sincerely,

Macs

Quirks and Other Quiddities

Well hello hello, is it Wednesday already? It's time for my mid-week post! Today I bring you... ta ta-da DA! QUIRKS!

What is a quirk, or quiddity, really? It's something that one does that is perhaps a little odd or unusual, something that is not quite normal behaviour, but which one makes part of one's own everyday life.

This one's quirks include:

• Using different voices for the heck of it, at any point in time, according to this one's mood - baby voice, bad French accent voice, creepy butler voice, Igor voice, posh voice, growling voice, and the list goes on and on and on...
• Hand-dancing whenever this one is riding passenger in the car with this one's mother - the dorkier the movements, the better the hand-dancing! [Of course!]
• Having conversations with this one's mother and brother in mm-mm language - replace all known words with 'mm', use various tones and pitches to express different meanings, et voila! A conversation only the two [or three] of you can understand! [This one's brother hasn't participated in this for some years now and has probably lost the knack.]
• Squealing 'DOGGY!' at the sight of any canine that comes into view.
• Speaking in a squeaky syruppy goo-goo voice to all furry creatures and having a one-sided conversation along the lines of 'Oooh so fuzzy! Who's so fuzzy? SO CUTE! I want to squish you! SQUISH! Eat your ears! NOM! Such a pretty baby, awwww googoogoo!' and increasing in inanity until this one's companions point out that people are starting to give strange looks...
• Making popping sounds with this one's lips at random intervals throughout the day, particularly when bored or concentrating. [*Pop!*]
• Separating this one's hair into sections, feeling the entire length of each curl, and shifting curls from one side to the other when bored.
• Acting out all characters in a story or anecdote this one is telling, thereby royally confusing the audience.
• Pulling faces at children in cars or who look particularly bored, until they smile.
• Reverting into baby voice, goo-goo talk and silliness when trying to catch sight of neighbouring cats
• Randomly taking on a persona when writing, such as 'this one', out of sheer amusement.

And what quirky quiddities do you exhibit, dear readers? Post below! I don't bite! I promise...

Sincerely,

Macs, 'this one'

It Gets Better - or does it?

Hi, I'm Macs, and I was bullied as a child, starting from the age of 8 all the way to 14, with the worst of it being when I was 10 till 13.  I'm here to tell you that it does get better - until it doesn't.

It's not that I don't want you to have hope, because that's not the case at all.  I do, however, want you to get through the experience with a realistic idea of what might happen to you for the rest of your life as a result of being bullied.

The experience will leave you traumatised to varying degrees, and although you probably know this, you might not know what I'm about to tell you: the trauma will come back to you one way or another, at any point in time, whether you're happy or sad, because there will be things that trigger it.

Speaking from my own experience, here's the damage list.

Depression

To date, I've had several episodes of this mental nasty since I was 10.  Bullying can cause depression, as most of us well know, but did you know that experiencing depression at a young age can make you prone to it for the rest of your life? I didn't.

Being the Queen of Hiding Shit So Others Won't Worry, my family never cottoned on until I had got over each episode.  Until my final year of my undergraduate degree, that is - because I finally realised what was going on and went to a doctor for help ('cos, you know, I'm smart like that).  I was days away from becoming a vegetable and on the verge of being unable to do the basic things we need to survive - like eat, sleep, shower, communicate, and move.  I was living in Hell and couldn't do anything about it 99% of the time, until one day I was lucid enough to freak the fuck out and drive my ass to a doctor.  The problems this beauty of a beast aren't simply health-related, oh heck no.  They are:

• Financial, because psychiatrists don't reduce their fees just because you only need a prescription for a lower dose, and antidepressants are a monthly expense;
• Social, because you can no longer drink alcohol - and while I'm fine with that and perfectly happy without it, people I have to spend time with in alcohol-related situations (weddings, family gatherings, gigs, clubs, parties, bbqs, and anything adults use as an excuse to open a bottle of wine or down a 6-pack of beer) find it a downer - until you explain that you're on medication and mixing alcohol with your meds will be a very, very bad idea, which is when...
• ... people find out you're on antidepressants and have one of three reactions: 'OH I SEE! NO, you're not allowed to drink alcohol, and anyway you don't need it' [the rarest reaction and most appreciated], 'You don't need pills/I don't believe in pills' [go FUCK YOURSELVES, you insensitive and ignorant retards, because you know exactly JACK SHIT about the situation and the benefits of antidepressants versus being a useless meatsack], and lastly 'Oh come on, a little won't hurt/So much the better, you'll have SUCH a buzz!' [ oh, the inanity.  Seriously.  I have.  No words.  INANE!]
• Stigma: there's a taboo on mental illness and all treatments of it, along with emotional distress and its treatments too.  Some of you will stop reading my blog, because I'm supposedly crazy [I prefer 'certifiably sad', thank you] and omigosh crazy people are scary! [ -_- ... Inanity!] Some of you will look at me differently - I can just imagine... 'She's such a liar, she's always so happy, she couldn't possibly be depressed!' [*head-desk* I'm cured, and it's a hormone imbalance, not a character flaw]... and 'Wow, I had no idea.  She must be so sad, poor girl, what if she's suicidal? Omigod!' [Whoopdeedoo, no, no, and no, in that order]
• Self-doubt: when you're undergoing treatment, or you're fine, and you feel sad, you find yourself saying 'Am I depressed again?', and 'There I go again being sad' and 'Can't I catch a break?'
• Future health: I could relapse when severely stressed, I get the blues when I don't see sun for a week which makes Winter a potential enemy, and I'm a prime candidate for baby blues both during pregnancy and after.
• Offspring health: depression can be hereditary, and in my case it is, from both parents. This doesn't mean I was bound to get depressed at some point, this means I'm more prone to it than other people. And so will my children be, if I have any.  There's also the terrifying thought that since depression can involve suicidal thoughts, I could be suicidal while pregnant and harm my unborn darling, or suicidal after said darling is born and leave s/he an orphan.

Moving on...

Trust Issues

People you thought were your friends or at the very least, not people who would harm you, turned on you as a child, broke your heart repeatedly, destroyed your self esteem, made every potential friend afraid to befriend you for fear of receiving the same treatment, thus effectively turning you into a pariah, and did their very best to trample you into non-existence [in my case, without using physical contact at all].  How do you go about trusting people ever again? 

Well, you don't, not really.  My paranoia was so honed by the time I turned 12 that anyone who so much as glanced at me was thinking that I was weird and sneering at me.  Never mind that they were looking through me because they were staring into space and caught up in their own problems, or that there was someone behind me they were looking at, nope, they were looking at me, and thinking bad thoughts, the bastards.  I'm delighted to say that I got this mental goblin under control some years ago, so nowadays instead of thinking everyone thinks I'm pathetic, I just automatically assume that they'd backstab me, use me, or forget I exist in a heartbeat.

A Seriously Warped Self-Esteem

When people pick on you daily, call you names, say hurtful things, exclude you, and only include you to use you as a target for humiliating games, you know that you feel like shit because they think you are shit.  You know that when you leave those people behind and make friends, finally, somewhere else, you'll feel fine or great, because there won't be anyone to think you're shit.  Except yourself, really.  How long can you listen to people say you are something until you believe it? A week? A few months? A year? Regardless, the changes are you will eventually believe what they say, and become your own worst enemy.  Second-guessing every decision you take will become the norm, and you'll be able to nod knowingly at the phrase 'you are your own worst critic'.

The only way to deal with this is to acknowledge why you criticise yourself and learn to see what's really there.  The drawback to this is that you develop a dual commentary: 'I look pretty today/Ugh, I look lame, why do I even bother?', 'Wow that was a tough assignment, so glad I finally finished it/If I weren't such a lazy retard I'd have done that in a quarter of the time'.  All I can say is ignore the negative voice, or use the positive one to argue it into shutting up.  It may seem like you have 2 people inside your head until you succeed, you may get headaches from the effort, but it does work eventually.  And on the other bright side, it teaches you to argue like a boss.

So, does it get better? Yes, of course.  You'll leave those useless meatsacks behind and grow into the person you're meant to be.  But you will be set for life with the kind of baggage that will sabotage you if you don't do your best to kick it down the stairs and out the door.  It's doable; it's a never-ending battle, but it's doable.

I took 7 years of people saying I was different in a bad way, I was weird, I was crazy, I was a freak.  At 14 I tackled the 'weird' and 'different' and 'crazy' parts by saying to myself 'They want weird? I'll show them weird'.  And that worked so well that they backed off.  I wrote an angry suicide note on my desk one day, and discovered 3 of my tormentors pouring over it during break.  They had the gall to ask if it was directed at them.  I shrugged and said 'if you've done anything of what's written there, then yes'.  They never did anything to me again.  The reality is that after years of being miserable, I stopped being miserable and got angry, and channelled that anger to do what I wanted to do, and it worked.  Not so for everyone.  Look at Columbine, and all the other school shootings in the US.  If I had been there instead of in Malta, and suffered in the same way as I did here, I would have made the headlines.  Rage and hate can take you to the ugliest places of your being, and you'll be lucky to see them and turn your back on them.  I did, because all along I knew I was better than that.

As long as I live, I swear I will not forget that I did that for myself.  Me.  What those bitches did to me for 7 years, effectively ruining my childhood, and fucking with my mental health for the rest of my life, was still not enough to break me.  And just in case you're reading this, you pathetic excuses for humans that you are, you lost, I won. Suck it and drop dead.

Sincerely,

Macs