So, the first time we made love. No, not my first time (there is nothing worth blogging about it), but the first time JBQ and I made love: it felt so right. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel guilty, or dirty, or used, for having sex. It felt just right. And I cried.

Thom’s post yesterday about his missing cat reminded me of my first pet cat: Sebastian.

It was 1984, and I was 11 when Sebastian visited our home in the mountains for the first time. Sebastian was a nice cat, but he wasn’t our cat. He belonged to a family about 400 meters away from our home, but he was not getting much love (or food) there, so he was dividing his time between the two homes. Once, the owners came with a sack to take him away, but he returned to us the next day.

The time came in 1985 that we had to move to Louros, a nearby town, just so I didn’t have to travel 2.5+ hours a day to go to high-school and my father could find new jobs as a house builder. We came back to visit our home in the mountains a month later. Within the hour, we would hear from far away a fade “miaou, miaou” and we would soon see a fast approaching cat (literally running towards us). Sebastian wouldn’t stop for over 5 minutes: “miaou, miaou, miaou, miaou, miaou, miaou…”. If he was a human, he would be crying hard and ask us where we’ve been and why we left him behind.

But two days later we had to leave again and go back to Louros. And we couldn’t get him with us as he wasn’t our cat and we were not allowed pets in our rented apartment. I never saw him again.

In the ’90s, and while my father finished building our own home in Louros where we could have our own pets (but not living with us inside the house), we had a multitude of cats in our home, but most of them were poisoned by a specific neighbor of ours. The two most notable cats I had was Miaoulis and her son, Bobo, both beautiful all-white cats. I found Miaoulis half-dead as a kitten in the wild and I took care of her (her mother left her to die, as she was born ill and didn’t want the rest of her kittens to get ill too — good survival instinct). Miaoulis got her name not only because she would “miaou” all day, but also because of this Greek hero. Bobo got his name from DJ Bobo that I had a crash upon at the time.

I totally recognize myself in Homer Simpson (although my IQ is admittedly over 100). I like to eat a lot, including donuts, I am abrupt and have weird humor, I am lazy, I don’t have much hair left, and of course, I have this weird fascination about pigs: spider pig, spider pig… I totally get that.

JBQ is a Marge. Always the logical, down to earth person, who likes things being in order. He even has the long hair to prove all that. And he loves me so, even if I am a pig.

I’ve talked many times on my blog about the mountainous village I am coming from, Skiadas. A friend, who originates from the same village too (and currently lives in Athens), sent me a URL with a picture of the village. My parent’s home is not visible in the photo though, as it’s on the left side (only half of the village is shown in the pic). I lived less than 6 years there, ages 2-4 & 9-12, but it’s what I consider “home” (I was born in Athens, then moved to the nearby city Preveza, and later we stayed for good in Louros, a nearby town). When I close my eyes at night, that’s the only place I find myself into.

My favorite times there were during Easter. So many people would come back to the village from the surrounding cities, Athens or even Germany. For at least a week the village would be buzzing with 400 people who came back to their birthplace for the biggest celebration of Orthodoxy. Everyone knew everyone too, so there was not much you could do to escape the social requirements of being presentable and well groomed at all times.

And at the Easter night, at 12 AM, either at the Saint Paraskevi or Saint Christopher church, the mass would take place and the whole village would be there. All 400+ of them (not all fit inside the church). The lights would go off, and the priest would share his candle flame with someone, and the flame would spread among the crowd. Soon, the only light available would be candle light. Some people would use fireworks in the later times, but originally in my village some men would usually used their guns to shoot towards the sky (hehe…).

Then, we would go home and feast on either fried, or as a soup, lamb/goat intestines (the animal was given to us from my uncle, as in my own family we never herded big animals as my father is a house builder instead). I preferred them fried personally, with home-made fries (potatoes usually from our garden, stored from the previous year). And that felt as an amazing food, as we had to fast for at least a week before Easter (a strict vegan diet, while on Good Friday we were not allowed to eat anything oily either — some people would fast like this for 40 days, e.g. both my grandmothers).

And the next day, what a feast with our extended family! Greek easter lamb (or goat). Best. Food. Ever. Food coma for the rest of the day. And many bathroom visits too.

But the day after Easter, the village population would go down to about 100 people again, and today, only about 35 people live there. Since most inhabitants left the village at around 1990, the school was abandoned, and none of the six churches have a mass anymore as there is no priest to fill in. An abandoned village, just like so many others in the Epirus region. Mass migration to big cities to seek better employment and a better life. Life at these villages is hard in the winter…

I miss my hens though.

Just came back from the doctor. I have this back of the neck problem for a while now, where my neck will do crackling noises when turning left and right in the area where it attaches to the head, while sometimes I will literally hear the blood going upstream with difficulty (like trying to drink a soda with a bad straw). He suggested an MRI. Not sure if I will do so yet, but I might have to. And all that because of the way I sit in front of my PCs in the past 10 years.

I remembered today a great uncle and a great aunt of mine (brother and sister) still living in the mountainous north Greece. The great uncle was born with health problems, he is disfigured and he can’t control his body well. They are both in their 70s now. My aunt never got married. She dedicated her life in taking care of her brother. Sending him to an institute was not an option as not only these cost money, money that sheep herders don’t have to spend, but also because back in the day Greece didn’t even have such institutes, and the ones that appeared later were abysmal in living conditions. So she stayed with him. Never got married, never had a companion in her life. I am sure that there would have been some arranged marriage talks in her youth (that’s how it was done back then in the rural Greece), but by mentioning of also taking care of her brother probably cut these deals off. That’s true love, and even more importantly in this case, true responsibility, right there.

Suddenly, I remembered of my high school sports teacher tonight. What a nightmare. He would put us on running for the whole 45 minutes of the sports class. Some of us would drop like flies. Math, chemistry? That was piece of cake compared to the sports class. We didn’t learn much during the 3 years we were assigned to his class, other than hating him.

The guy would live literally on coffee btw, and he would snap off extremely fast. No one dared to talk to him eye to eye (and he had hit children once or twice during class — these were different times). The funny thing was that when I started doing some sprinting and later javelin, the guy was much softer (he became my coach). Apparently, the secret was to show some interest for sports, that was the only way to get some respect out of him.

I have a past that should have been kinder to me. A past that I can’t get over with.

I realized something about my husband though. He has no past that makes him sad and depressed when he remembers it. Well, you could argue that he never opened up to me to tell me about it, but I don’t think that’s it. I think that he has lived an early life where he had balance and understanding at all times — unlike mine. JBQ is joyful, happy, healthy and if there’s only one thing he would like to do more is to visit more places. That pretty much describes his psyche.

I, on the other hand, I am depressed most of the time, angry about my past, angry about my present where I am sick most of the time and I can’t join my husband to visit more places, or work, or have a child. Everything seems negative to me, until proven positive.

You could say that I am dragging him down. Or, you could say that he brings me more balance (and he has). But what do I give back to him besides love? He claims that this is all he wants from me, but is it really enough? I do hope it is, because if it isn’t, I don’t see light at the end of the tunnel for me. I would end my life if I lose him. He is my link to this world. My everything.

Wow, a very sexy Hugh Jackman, I don’t even want to think the countless painful hours spent on the gym building that body. Thankfully, the producers let him grow his chest hair back, as he is currently filming the “Wolverine” movie. This is why I like the Wolverine super hero: ’cause he’s a hairy badass. He doesn’t look like a wuss. I don’t like the real-life actors btw (I can’t stand their insecurities — I have enough of my own), I often like the fictitious characters they portray though. Jackman’s wife seems to like Wolverine too, as it is said that sometimes Jackman wears the X-Men costume in their bedroom…

I guess I can ask my (also hairy) JBQ to come to bed with his work costume, covered in printed sheets of C/C++ and Java Android code.

Someone said that I am rude (not the first time, of course). Thing is, I am rude in general. But NOT on the specific case. But people always have prejudice against others and they over-read comments in the future if they have caught you once to actually be rude.

But despite that, I won’t stop being who I am and always second-thinking every move of mine just so I make sure I don’t get misunderstood again in the future. That would just not be honest. And if I am one thing for sure, that’s “honest” (no, not “self-righteous bitch”).

My “straight-forwardness” and “to the point” comments towards others often puts me in trouble, but I believe this is my best quality. If you look like a stuffed potato in your new dress, be assured that I will be the one to point it out to you point blank, and I’d do that exactly because I care. Would it “suck the fun out” of it? It probably would. But at least you get one person who’s not afraid to be honest with you and not laugh behind your back.