my violin

you’re always there when i have to sing

my sad songs of sin

you’re the queen of my abstract life

the main attraction at the head party

you screech like my soul possessed

the grating sound of a filigreed complaint

the hurt of my solitude and its bard

the shameless fiddler waiting to be paid

and i got no money

but yet, you still sing my woe

when it is time to close the show

whimsical

he says, you look beautiful. he says, nobody will be able to take their eyes of you. he says, your lips are soft and full and meaty like a good steak that i want to devour. he says, there is a glow on you that refuses to go away. he says, they will know.

it is true, they always do. they see the handywork, they understand the effect, and they try to find this magician that can perform the miracle of glamour, the beauty caster, the vigorus chef that cooks bodies in their own heat and sweat, until they turn into something so delectable, he commits gluttony on them.

there is no magician, no chef, no caster. it is all the talent deep inside that pours then dries out, the hands that lament a master while they shape the beauty, the brains that refuse to quit even when everything else is beat.

and she looks beautiful still. it will soon fade, absorbed by the mediocre, the hungry who can never get their fill because they keep spitting it out instead of swallowing it, and those strange creatures who can only flourish while all faces around them are drained and doped.

but while she looks beautiful and he looks on, life blooms and the skies turn blue. because he said, you look beautiful today.

i need to fight

i am truly in a very dirty mood tonight. it is a full moon and i need somebody to beat up. i mean i need to turn somebody or something into pulp. i need to make them count their own teeth and then put them against their black and blue skin. i feel like one of those anime werewolves with red eyes who are out for “bloooooodddd”. and then blue “poufff” “purple “bum, bum” red “Grraahh” and black “brrrdaww”.

sometimes i do get these feelings. and especially when it is around a full moon, i do get ready for a big showdown, something worth getting red over. and yes, i got it this time. my nemesis in this case is a short mousy haired woman, with severe psychological issues. and she deserves a good thrashing.

i do not know what got me about that woman. maybe because she was not right. maybe because she came over with the explicit aim to abuse the receptionist (me). maybe because she insulted my customer service skills. now anyone can say what they want about my cooking but they do not touch my customer service skills.

cooking

my mom is in albania these days. and, for all my modern exterior, feminist ideas and bla, bla, bla, i cannot in clean consciensewatch my dad cook. i can feel at least 16 generations of women turning in their graves and unhinging their jawbones at the thought of me sitting down on the table and eating the food my father has prepared. cooking for a man is in my genes and takes priority over career, dating, even sales at Barnes and Nobles. unfortunate, shocking but nevertheless it is the truth.

and while i lick the cookie batter off the spatula, i can see that i, ahem, went a tiny bit overboard this time. was i that eager to prove myself a bonafidekitchen goddess? it looks like it.

the thing is i rarely get my chance to prove myself in the kitchen. with a mom at home and various female cousins standing by in the kitchen at any family gathering, i do not see the point of showing off my mettle. i do not really have any mettle. i do not even know what it is.

but i am discovering i am not that different after all. am i losing my edge? am i getting old and traditional? say it aint so!

that is why i reflect on why people cook:

Train of thought

let’s say that there is a friend. and that there are a lot of feelings surrounding this friend. and that this friend has all the signs of a potential soul mate. you know, the smile that lits up the face, the crinkling of the eye corners, the awkwardness of the gait, the sweet soft voice that incites strange desires in the brain of the other friend. and let’s say that there are promises of future perfect children emanating from the eyes of this one.

let’s say that said friend goes whenever first friend is invited. it is a given, a sacrosant right, a blessed union that brings a lot of other people panting around, eager to join in on the laughter and the fun. and that this friend perfectly understands that without other friend, the fun would be somewhat dilutted, and the joy light less bright.

i take everything back about albanian women (if i ever said anything stupid). there is no A-list  hollywood party, no rich saudi sheikh harem, that compares to a simple birth celebration. there are dresses, there are curls, there is blinging jewelry and stilettos. and the make-up, ahh the makeup. it takes days to put on and then days to take off.

me and my cheap red  HM beads hid in a corner and stuffed our faces with food and wine. there was absolutely nothing we wanted to say, no movement to attract more attention that we were already getting. we had fun though. the baby (it was her birthday after all) was delicious, a little puffball in a purple dress and pink headband, a trooper who never cried no matter how many matrons pinched its cheeks and how many girls screeched over it.

it amazes me how these girls do it. it was not only the mother, but everybody else as well. the kids too. one little girl of about seven had more mascara than I did, and way more lipstic for sure. she must have woken up very early. thank God for that extra hour.

so anyway the party was good, even if there were about 150 “closest” female relatives jumping up and down to the same music and with the same steps for about four hours. no men…except for the ones we brought with us. they should put this on the invitation though. BYOM. (Bring your own men).