I love animals. So much I could eat them.

I love animals. So much I could eat them.
My memorable first contact with animals was when, aged 5,  I started feeding pigeons on my windowsill. It took a week for the windowsill to rot , submerged by the shit of every single pigeon living in my city.
Convincing the pigeons never to come back proved very hard. They would always return.
So I smeared superglue on the windowsill. They got the message.
Despite living in a tiny apartment and having to share a small  bedroom with my parents and my sister, and with the aid of my imploring big brown eyes, I successfully convinced my parents that we had far too much space.
I also convinced them that I could not possibly turn into a mentally stable adult, unless I could share such tiny space with pets.
Since the signs of a rather unstable mind were visible since a young age, my parents gave in.
The animals started moving in and my father moved out. I felt it was a pretty good deal, at the time.
Teresina the duckling (also referred to as "the fluffy bundle of joy") was bought at a local fair.
Such purchase had a deep purpose: my mother wanted to introduce her young, already
unstable child, to the concept of death. Everyone knew ducklings do not survive very long, when they live in a shoe box.
Teresina (also referred to as "that fucking bird that never dies") , however, seemed to thrive in a shoe box. When the shoe box collapsed under her weight, The bird got an upgrade and was allowed to roam freely in the tiny kitchen.
She turned into the most beautiful goose, which prompted my mum to go back to the fair and demanded for her money back. She felt she had been conned: she paid for a duckling, not a gosling.
Teresina became part of the family and was loved by everyone, except my Nan, whose involvement in her life was solely to clean her crap from kitchen appliances.
It was my grandma who suggested that Teresina (also referred to as "the fucking bird that craps everywhere") would be moved to a better home, "surrounded by friends".
Once again I implored by mum, using the big brown eyes technique , but my grandma had a most powerful weapon: she declared she was no longer willing to clean goose feaces from forks and knives.
At the thought of finding a bird's turd in her spaghetti Bolognese, my mum gave in and Teresina was moved to a better home. Not long after, I discovered that "surrounded by friends" really meant "surrounded by roast potatoes and covered in gravy". My mental stability got worse from there.
In order to put a smile back on my face (and probably to distract me from noticing that  my dad had moved out), my mother agreed to many more of my requests.
Piuma was a beautiful parakeet . He used to absolutely love coffee. He could drink up to 5 cups a day, little bugger! He lived a happy life until a stroke sadly took his life.
I never understood what could have caused it.
I mourned for months after the funeral.
Baffy the turtle was bought hoping I could start smiling again.
She was a peculiar turtle, with obvious suicidal tendencies.
I always felt we had so much in common.
At any given opportunity, she would skydive (with no parachute!) from the top of the wardrobe and crash on the floor. Despite her dark desires, I'm confident she lived a happy life. Until one day she successfully killed herself.
For sometime I blamed myself. Knowing her tendencies I should not have kept her on top of the wardrobe. But have you ever seen a little turtle jumping from a wardrobe? It's freaking hilarious!
She looked so peaceful, dead. I thought she was sleeping. In fact I only realised she was dead after a month,  when maggots came out of her butt hole.
Despite the previous disastrous experience with the goose, I was allowed to have a chick, which rhymes with....oh never mind.
I'm not even sure how I managed to convince 'mamma', possibly going on a hunger strike played its part.
After refusing pasta for two consecutive days, she became seriously worried for my wellbeing. If you are Italian, you simply do not refuse pasta.
My mum gave in . I got lasagna and a chick.
The chick (called The Chick) became my obsession.
I developed paranoia. I was convinced that at any moment, someone looking like my grandma would
snatch it away from me and put it in a frying pan.
So for his entire existence (8 days, 3 hours and 12 minutes) The Chick lived in my sleeve.
He lived a happy life until the day I accidentally suffocated him under my armpit.
What a way to go, huh?
Tiffany the cat arrived when I was 10. The day he arrived he tried to remove one of my eyeballs from its socket.
The day after he was gone.
I  don't think  he had a happy life, but I don't  really care because he was a bastard.
Gino the hamster was one of my favourite pets.
He could eat and eat and eat until he nearly exploded. Chips with mayo and cheeseburgers were his favourite. At the end he did indeed exploded, but not for the food.
I sat on him.
Until then he seemed genuinely happy though.
 At least he died on a full stomach, so he couldn't really complain, could he?
I love animals, I really do.
So much I could eat them.
In fact I often do.
But I'm never mean.
Just always hungry.

Size doesn't matter. (Unless we talk about backpacks)

Tony had a nice big one. One of the biggest I have seen, in fact. Smooth to the touch, yet strong.
 I spent hours admiring it and touching it whilst he was asleep.
Luis, on the other hand, had a ridicously small one. I often wondered how he could cope with such a
tiny one. Well, he was a small guy so I guess it was all in proportion and he seemed to be doing
just fine with it.

Once I travelled with a girl who had such a large one that she could fit a standard size umbrella in it. An umbrella! I guess this is what made her happy, so there.
Mine can barely fit a hairbrush in it. I envied hers. Especially the colour. A lovely shade of pink.
Mine is grey, which is a little dull.
Next time I buy a backpack, I won't go for grey, for sure. I want it green, so that people will mistake me for a giant turtle. A Ninja Turtle.

I never thought I could develop  "backpack envy", but I did. I can cope with the people who have one prettier than mine, (story of my life) but I can't stand the travellers who go around the world for 5 years with a rucksack as big as my make up bag.

 "I bet you can't fit hiking shoes in there".
"Yes, I can".
"Well, surely you have no space for a three- man tent with gazebo attached?!"
"Yep, front pocket".
"How about oxygen tanks should you randomly decide to climb the Himalayas ?"
"Of course. They are in the side pocket"
"An inflatable dinghy to use on the Himalayas, in case a sudden change of climate would cause a storm so heavy to completely submerge the mountains?!"
"Bottom pocket"
"And a pump to inflate it?"
"Oh, shit. I knew I had forgotten something...."

My advice is: travel light and only pack the essentials.
Now, the term "essential" is very individual, I discovered.
My friend Lidia arrived in Mexico with a backpack which weighed 21kg for  a 5 weeks holiday.
Remarkable , if  we don't consider that 20 and 1/2 of which consisted of jewellery.
To her, it was "essential" to change a necklace after each meal.
Of course, after a few days most of the jewellery was donated (with hysterical cries) to indigenous women.
If you travel in remote villages in Mexico and you see farmers wearing H&M necklaces, you know where they come from.

My idea of "essential" is slightly different.
Tweezers are essential. Once that I travelled without them,  I ended up  having to shave  my face to remove unwanted hair. A week later , locals referred to me as "Pedro". Tweezers are in.
Tampons are essential. In some places in Central America the only choice you have is "Apple scented super sized tampons". Unless you want to smell like an Arbre Magique for 3 days a month, tampons are in.
Pills to stop diarrhoea are essential. Very essential. I am now at a stage where even  if I just look at a goddamn taco, I shit my pants. So with no further ado, pills are in.
Parmesan cheese is more essential than ANYTHING. You can spread it over tacos and with a bit of imagination, you can believe it s a pizza. Take away my tweezers, my tampons and my pills. Parmesan is staying. Or else I' ll go home.

Home. What a beautiful, yet abstract concept, these days.
Home is where the heart should be. They say.
 So what happens when your heart is everywhere in the world?
Well, I guess you keep going. You keep packing. Light, hopefully.
In your backpack, fit whatever you need. The essential, I say. A full size umbrella, if that's what makes you happy.
Whether it s big, small, pink or grey, just fill it with your wildest dreams. And while you're at it, pack some necklaces too. You never know when you ll need some.

Mexico, tequilas & wicked bus rides.

My Mexican audience watched me in disbelief .
Surely, it was a misunderstanding. Surely, what I really was trying to say in my broken Spanish was: " I can not possibly live without it".
I repeated one more time, sheepishly: " yo no tomo tequila" (I do not drink tequila).
If you have ever spent some time in Mexico, you would know that such a statement is as bad as saying :" In my spare time I enjoy hunting baby squirrels, hang them upside down and  burn  them in front of their mothers".
In Mexico, you MUST drink tequila. If you like gin instead, you might as well pack your shit and leave the country  by night. You, buddy, are a traitor.
I discovered that is better to be a liar than a traitor. When I'm offered a shot of tequila (one every 8 hours, on an empty stomach, like some sort of medicine that will cure all aches and pains), I aim for my mouth but then shoot it my eyes then say :" oh, dear, I thought it was contact lenses solution!"
It burns like hell, but at least I won't have to leave the country by night.
I am just hoping that nobody realises that  I do not wear contact lenses after all.

I was born a worrier. I worry about absolutely anything. I always did.  I mean, during the Gulf war, I was the only teenager (well, outside of Iraq ) who kept an emergency suitcase under the bed. I worried some bomb might end up somehow in Italy. I worried I would have no time to pack my Nintendo Gameboy,  that the end was near. I wrote my will. That's how much I worried.
Since I ve been living in Mexico, I'm struggling to find things to worry over.
I used to worry about how my hair looked. Now I don't, because I know that no matter what I do to it,  with 100% humidity, my head will always look like an artichoke left on a bbq for too long.
I used to worry about make up. Now I don't. And not because I magically turned into Cindy Crawford after clearing customs. It's because any powder you carefully place on your shiny forehead, within minutes turns into mashed potato, sliding into your cleavage. The worry of having to explain to people why the hell I walk around covered in mashed potato is too much too handle.
I worried about my weight. Then I moved to a country where men call women "gorditas" (literally, "cute fatty") and the women take it as it s the nicest compliment, for God's sake.
Can you imagine the men in your own country addressing women in a club by saying :" Hey, Fatso, fancy a dance?".
To Mexican standards, I'm severely underweight. I worry they would see me as a traitor, so I'm trying to fix the problem by eating tacos for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Before I know it, I will be called "gordita " too!

One of my favourite activities (when I'm not drinking gin served in tequila glasses), is to go on bus rides. I sometimes go on a random buses, end up in some sort of far away Mexican slums and have to get an expensive taxi home. But the thrill! Oh, the thrill!
Buses are exactly what you would expect in a third world Country. Drivers often race with other bus drivers and as a passenger you worry for your life (but that could just be me).
In such distress, what is comforting is to be surrounded by all sorts of religious paraphernalia, reminding you that you are in good hands.
 "Jesus is with you" written on a sticker on the windscreen,  can have a very calming effect, especially when you worry that your head might soon be smashing against it.
But bus rides are not gloomy! They are fun! And they come with entertainment!
In Europe we have beggars. People who ask you to share your hard earned wage with them, offering nothing in return. (If not the illusion that karma will pay you back).
In Mexico, you have artists, who are happy to share their artistic skills with you, in exchange of one lousy pesito. I feel the need to add that most of the times these "artists" are utterly pathetic, but it s really not the point. It s the idea of "exchange" that I find inspirational.
The past three weeks on the R1 bus alone,  I saw a poet clown (the make up was not very effective, so I didn't give any spare change); an old man with a guitar playing the song "Bamba" (awfully out of tune, no spare change there, either) and then my personal highlight: the Mexican rapper. Usually the performance only lasts as long as the distance between two bus stops, but this dude stayed on rapping for 35 minutes.
To this guy I paid the entire bus fair. So he could get on another goddamn bus and rap somewhere else. Not only because he was utter shite. I worried he might distract the bus driver.
A race was going on, after all. I HAD to be on the winning bus.

Tinder me softly (based on a true story)

My greasy index finger betrayed me. This will teach me never to eat chunky chips AND use Tinder at the same time.
I accidentally swiped left.
My plan, however, was to swipe right at such speed that not even the fly in my background could suspect, for a second, that I fancied Steve. (real name)
As I lick my finger clean, tragedy strikes: me and Steve are a match.

Oh, God. Oh, well.

Quickly, it becomes apparent that me and Steve have something in common: we both like food.
I am very intuitive, I just need to look at someone's face to understand their likes or dislikes. I am gifted.
The fact that Steve's belly is desperately trying to escape a grease-smeared vest is a little give away.
The fact that, in his profile picture, he's savaging a kebab with the same intensity with which a shark slaughters a baby seal, is a slight confirmation.
My first impression is then totally confirmed by the sight of lamb juice dribbling down his chin (well, one of many, actually) and landing on a good pair of man boobs.
Steve loves his food. I'm on to a winner.
As I wonder what could possibly push a man with a healthy brain to believe that such image could turn any woman (who's not in the kebab industry) on, I receive a message. From him.

"Hey babes".
"Hey"
"Sup?"
"U mean soup?
"No, babes. Sup = what's up?"
"Ah"
"How are you babes? "
"After seeing your picture, hungry"

Steve unmatches me within seconds.
Oh, God. Oh, well.

I continue my "window shopping".
 I swipe right, then right, then right.
Until I see Tom's face. (real name).
He's just my type! He's blonde, with blue eyes, reassuringly chubby. Swipe right.
 In his profile picture, he's holding a puppy (95 points). In the background, a motorbike (85 points).
I am very intuitive. All I need to do is look at his face and know, just know that he's the one for me.
His eyes are kind, his face gentle, he's the kind of man who would never disappoint me and would always talk to me with the greatest of respect. I am gifted. I know these things.
 Im thinking of how to introduce him to my mum during the next family holiday, and the miracle happens. Me and Tom are a match! See? I told you!
As I start sketching my wedding dress , he sends me a message.

"Hey, you. Fancy a fuck?"

Oh God. Oh, well.

Plenty of fish in the goddamn sea! I think cheerfully to myself.
And I am right.

Karim (real name) is 39 y.o. and he's just my type. He's dark, with dark brown eyes, very slim. Swipe right.
In his profile picture, he's holding a glass of champagne (75 points). His background, a fancy restaurant (67 points).
We are an immediate match. Future is looking bright!

"Ho, hon, prety girl"

"......"

"prety girl, why no answerr, whot you are doing? Plaing with yoursel?"

"......"

"prety girl, you spit o swallow?"

"At your face, Karim? Most definitely, spit".

Oh, God. Oh, well.

When I start thinking that there is nobody, out there for me, I come across Jack (real name).
He is just my type. He's bold. And black. We match !And within seconds, he sends me a message.

"10 inches"

Oh, God. Oh well.

I take a little break from Tinder. I need to rest my index finger and finish my chunky chips.
I Google important things: "learn how to knit in 24 hours"; "how to survive the old age by being alone and unloved"; "grow your own vegetables despite not having a fucking garden"; "why do men over 40 always lose their hair but gain a belly". Nah. Back on Tinder.

As I am coming to the conclusion that maybe (just maybe), I shall not find the man of my dreams on Tinder, I see Joshua (real name). And he's just my type. He's ginger and his face is covered with freckles. In his profile picture, he's holding the hand of a little ginger girl (oh, shit. That's -90 points. He's got baggage). His background, an enormous villa (ding! ding! 110 points).
Of course, we are a match. Yawn.
Of course, a message arrives within seconds. Zzzzz.
Here we go again.

"Hi,there, darling. How very refreshing to come across a lady like you, with such an open, smiley face. I love the way you look at the camera, like you own the world!
I'm sorry if I sound pushy, but I really would like to meet you.
I am around your area tomorrow night. may I invite you for dinner? You chose time and place. Obviously it's my treat :)"

"Hey, Josh, are you fucking high on acid?"

"......"

"Joshua?"

"......"

"Joshua?! Im free, FREE tomorrow!"

"......"

"Joshua"

Oh, God. Oh, well.

Turning 40. What now?

The time has arrived.
 I turned 40.
 What now?
 Well, now it's time to realise that  my older friends who, in the past, assured me that "40's are the new 20's", were, in fact, feeding me the the biggest bullshit in the history of human kind. Thanks for that.
40's are NOT the new 20's, I can now tell you that, dear friends.
 To begin with, your boobs, when you are  20, look UP. They look like rose buds and they point towards the sky.... 20 years later, the roses turn into prunes. And they aim at the pavement more than they do at sky. Great.
When you're 20, buying bras is not a necessity. It's a hobby.
 These days, more than a bra I need a scaffolding. And even with a scaffolding, my boobs could not look up. Sideways, with a little bit of luck, but certainly not up.
I'm not one to give up without a fight, I tried:
 A) the so called chicken fillets, placed in the bra in the beginning of the evening and found on the dance floor, covered in beer and vomit, at the end of the night;
 B) rubber bands strategically placed around your breasts and attached to your ears;
 C) super glue, smeared on the nipples and then attached to a sexy top, hoping they stay put.
I am ever so sorry to announce: neither of the above did work. Scaffolding it is, then.
 Here's what happens when you're forty: you realise that gravity is a bitch. A bigger bitch that I ever was in my twenties, if that's even possible.
When you're 20, you make heads turn.. At 40, heads still turn, but chances are, they turn to see the younger women behind you.The ones who buy bras as a hobby .The Sluts.
Not all is lost, however! Women in their 40's can still get a lot of attention. My advice is to wear bright red lipstick, a skimpy skirt and nonchalantly walk past a building site, possibly during the builders' lunch break.. I guarantee you, it works wonders for a quick ego boost.
Here's what happens when you turn 40: you realise you can still be choosy with friends you hang out with, with the food you eat and the booze you drink. But, (you guessed it), you can't be as choosy when it comes to fulfilling one night stands....

I mentioned booze...ah, the booze.When you are 20, you can handle alcohol. Boy,  I certainly could! The beer would start flowing on Friday afternoon and would only stop by Sunday evening,
 Only then, with my make up intact and walking carelessly with no shoes, I would dance my way home.
By Monday morning I would wake up full of energy ,with no hang over, rosy cheeks,  and several new contact numbers in my phone.
At 40, (and I have tears in my eyes, as I type this) you can no longer drink as much as you used to. (sob). Doing a "pub crawl" means you will be crawling straight from the pub onto an ambulance.
 If you drink more than two pints, you will end up spending more time in the toilet than with your friends,and people will think you are the toilet attendant and will demand lollipops and  tampons from you. In fact, you'd better to always keep a stash in your handbag, just in case.

After my 40th birthday, I woke up in the morning and I was grey. Rosy cheeks? My ass.
The only color came form my eyes: deep red, courtesy of several veins burst, as I puked my own bile into the toilet.(That was when people realised I was NOT the toilet attendant, after all).
And how about waking up the morning after, feeling full of energy and with no hangover? Ha! A piece of dog shit squashed by an army of filthy pigs would have had more  energy.....
I woke up in my bed (this also did not happen often when I was in my twenties), managed to open one single eye (the other was kept shut by the surviving fake eyelash) and reached for my phone...surely, I had at least one new exciting contact number from the night before, right?!
I might be 40, but I am still hot, right?! Even if I need a scaffolding to hold my prunes, I can still end up with exciting new contact numbers in my phone, after a night out, right?! Right?!

And sure enough, I did have. Under the letter "B". "Booze Brothers- Speedy  Delivery".
Here's what you also learn at 40: time goes by, beauty fades,  heads might not turn as often  and gravity fucks with your life, but the ardent desire to enjoy life and cherish every moment of joy, never, ever ages.
I like this concept. I think I'll drink to that.

Knock knock....who's there?

I've had enough of cakes.
I.Have.Had. Enough. Of cakes.
I've never had a sweet tooth, you know. Not even when I was young. Sweets give me the shits. Sugar gets stuck in my dentures and it's very, very bad for my diabetes.
I love pies, I do! Steak and ale? Yes, please! Mushroom pie? Any time!
The little bugger knows that all that sugar might kill me, oh yes, she does! But what does she bring, every single fucking day? Cakes.
She crosses the woods, unaware of the perils, wearing that hideous, little red riding hood I would not wear at a fancy dress if they'd pay me.
With a silly smile printed on that cute, annoying little face, she turns up at my door step every single day. And it's always the same story.
knock -knock.
"who's there?"
"It's me, grandma. Little Red Riding Hood. I brought you a cake to make you feel better".
Oh, fuck. Not again.
Why not bring a trashy magazine, for once? Or a pie? She knows I love pies!
And where on earth does she find the time to pop by every day? Doesn't she go to school? Doesn't she have homework to do? Doesn't she know more annoying  brats like her to hang out with?
She's an evil, crafty little bitch and I cannot believe I am the only one who understands her cunning plan! She's feeding me all these cakes because she knows all this sugar will eventually kill me.
I am diabetic, you know, sugar will kill me!
She's after the inheritance, that's what she's after! She thinks I will leave everything to her, since she's my only grandchild. As if!
She doesn't know I have already made a will. Once I'm gone, well, I have left everything I own to my lovely neighbour, Mr Wolf.
 He's such a good hunter, you know. For months he's been giving me the most gorgeous fresh meat to fill my daily pies. Not ONCE has he brought me cakes.
He knows sugar might kill me. He also know that once I'm gone, he will receive a fortune. He is ever so grateful!
 He keeps me company. He asks a lot of questions. Mainly about my will. He is so interested in me and I feel less alone....
Oh. Someone s knocking at the door.
That must be him.
I'd better go.
He is so thoughtful. He knows my granddaughter will be here any time soon. He's really looking forward to meet her.
He said he's got a surprise.
It must be a pie.

I'm not so hot Down Under

After my disastrous experience at the recent step classes, (see previous blog entry, "It's warm Down Under") I decided not to let my lack of coordination rule my life and shatter my confidence, so I gave a dance class another go.
What a success that was! I was by far the most coordinated, firmest and fittest of them all! All the other ladies could not stop staring at me! I stood out!
It did pop into my mind that choosing a "dance class for Senior" would be a little bit like cheating and I was bound to be noticed for being the only lady under 70 years old, but hey! I needed a confidence boost! And what better place to go than a dance class full of great-grandmothers?
 No firm butts there, guaranteed. And not many coordinated dancers either, to be honest.
For once, I appeared to be the only one who still remembered the difference between turning right or left and the simple fact that my boobs didn't slap the laminate floor at each jump, filled me with utter joy.
In fact, I was so full of joy that I added some free style break dance moves to my dance routine. Just to show off the power of my young-ish ligaments.

These days I have a lot of time in my hands. A little too much. I try to fill those long boring hours by doing every thing I possibly can.
I took up gardening. For an entire day. Then I rememberd that Australia's back gardens are home of the deadliest spiders in the world, so I bought plastic plants and started looking after them, instead.
It was fun for a while, but then after watering them every night, they somehow started to rot and the fun stopped.
I stumbled upon the world of loyalty cards. That has been way more successful.
Every day I fill in forms, after forms, after forms.
 And after several months spent in Australia, I have more loyalty cards than friends. In fact I discovered that those plastic cards are, indeed, more loyal than most friends.
I collect points when I buy cucumbers. I collect points when I make phone calls (not many points collected so far: I have no friends, therefore I have no one to call). I collect points when I recommend a friend (zero points so far, see above) , I collect points when I sleep, when I poo, when I breathe, I collect points for swearing! (millions of fucking points for that).
I even collect points when I buy fuel, which is not very rewarding because, since I don't drive, I don't buy fuel...but one day I might take up driving! And when that happens, I already have a loyalty card!
What I love the most about loyalty cards is that each of them includes a monthly statement.
I love receiving statements! Every morning I wait by the window and when I see the friendly-faced postman approaching, I run towards him and hug him. He has never, so far, returned my hugs, but that might just be because of the cultural barrier.

Strangely, I noticed that the postman no longer comes daily to my house. I know in my heart that this has got nothing to do with the fact that I force him to hug me, every time he delivers the mail.
I know it must be because of the Government cuts. They are cutting the salaries of those friendly postmen! So they only deliver half of the post and they only deliver to the houses located closer to their offices. I don't blame them. It's not their fault. It is MY fault for not living closer to the Post Office.
Since these days I receive my post just once every other month when I'm lucky, when I actually receive something, it is a great reason to celebrate and be jolly.
When I get to the the mail box and I find a statement addressed to me, I scream :"Someone looooooves me!". I say that very loud, so that my neighbours hear me and they believe I'm a very popular person and I have someone who loves me.
Actually, what am I saying? I do have someone who loves me. I was told just the other day.
Someone knocked at my door and I literally jumped out of bed to open it. I could not believe I could finally  talk to a living creature who had no wings nor ariels, for once, ! I had to take this precious opportunity quickly!
It was a Jehovah Witness. He looked at me and said: "Jesus is your friend. Jesus loves you".
 I was so happy. I knew there was someone out there who loved me!
 I asked the man if Jesus was willing to keep me company. He said:" Jesus is always with you". I asked if Jesus was willing to fill forms with me. He gave me a bad look and left. I guess Jesus does not believe in  reward schemes.Go figure.