Bitch on the Blog

September 29, 2014

Gondola

Filed under: Fashion — bitchontheblog @ 12:33
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Have to do my blog name justice once in a while. Forgot it was all about bitching.

Yes, that dress. Forget it. Clooney may buy you a £460,000 engagement ring, a £22,000 wedding ring (does marriage come cheaper than a promise?)  but, by golly, whilst I think money brings  you contentment it sure can’t buy you taste.

Yes, taste. That most elusive yet so stylish accessory in the armoury of  life. The bride steps out (remember she is not a five year old flower girl) as what can only be described as a tulip on two long pins (her legs). Pathetic. I do hope, as my mother advised when I was three and wore short skirts, that she was wearing matching underpants. Not that it is particularly windy in Venice. And what’s with the flowers down the front? Giambattista Valli (designer of dress), shame on you. You are Italian. You should know how to dress a “tough lawyer”.

To put the icing on the cake Clooney was (allegedly) nervous to cut, his father-in-law declared the wedding as “more than perfect”. Either something is perfect or it isn’t.

U

September 18, 2014

Dali

Filed under: Amusement,Beauty,Health — bitchontheblog @ 18:31
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Grow a beard.

If you are a woman – tough luck.

U

September 15, 2014

See through

Filed under: Atmosphere,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 03:11
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To continue where I left off:  Sometimes I wish I were a character in a cartoon. My tastes being simple Tom, Jerry and Roadrunner come to mind. There is a lot of subterfuge, traps and running around. Whilst no good at subterfuge or wishing to set traps I am fast on my feet. Not to keep fit  (this is addressed to Jane Fonda and my American readers) or because I am in a hurry. Not at all. But because I CAN. Ha. Enjoy it whilst it lasts.

No bull. The sensation of a confident and fast stride is heaven. There is freedom in stride. My heart – being so soft it doesn’t have a shell – goes out to many people and their plight. Yet there is something particularly unnerving about the ‘elderly’. Reduced to a walking stick, inching their way forward, maybe round shouldered, bent forward. Breaks my heart to think of them not that long ago (if decades) skipping, tearing around.

Where was I? Cartoons and ghosts of the past and a future to come. My mine gripe, and as punctual as the yearly advent of Christmas,  the days are getting SHORTER. I don’t like it. Not because I don’t like the dark. I do. I am not afraid of it and dark gives you an excuse to light candles. Nevertheless,  as I am looking out of my window now, it’ll be another two hours or so till dawn dawns (as dawn does). Yes, dawn and dusk. If ever there was a melancholic alliteration.

U

September 9, 2014

Dream on: I have started so I’ll finish

Take it from me, Sweethearts, and I am the expert in falling into holes: Some projects are best never started.

Why? Because to finish them is the devil’s own job. One moment you amble along happily, the next I get a bee in my bonnet. When I, full of the zealot’s zeal, tell the Angel that I am on a “roll” he is happy. Two weeks later he asks me why I appear to be stuck in the jungle. I don’t know. Let’s leave aside that my eyesight is now so shit it’s like wading through fog. Let’s leave aside that I inherited (from my father) that most unfortunate trait of things having to be just so. Ever since part of my life and believes collapsed a few years ago I tell the Angel (correction, I tell myself by way of mantra and to soothe shattered nerves) that before order there is chaos. And it’s true. I have proven it so many times I’d qualify as something … a chaos expert. God. The Universe. Before it all went pear shape in paradise.

Back to “best never start anything”, particularly if you intend to bring it to a satisfactory end. I remember my great grandmother (paternal side). She was tiny even before she shrunk in her old age. To the last she was independent (she lived well into her nineties). She was the wife of a painter (my great grand father). He died early, and her daughter (a portrait paint) lived with her. My great aunt a person full of mystique. When I was young they lived in a mansion, rambling. An Aladin’s Cave for the very young me. Circumstances reduced them to move to a much smaller house. Yes, how to cram a quart into a pint pot. Have been there, done that. So, to my then, say, ten year old self, their abode right on the shore of the sea became even more of an Aladin’s Cave. Treasure (and cobwebs) wherever I nosed about. It was brilliant. It was phantastic. Then my aunt died, some years later my great grandmother. Enter my own father. Oh, my god. I still haven’t forgiven him – and we are talking decades. He ordered a skip. And made order out of chaos as only he can. Unfortunately, at that time I was freshly married and marooned in England, under my husband’s watchful thumb. So I couldn’t intervene. A shocker if ever there was one. Never mind. I am having the same conversation with my father now that, sooner or later, he’ll be on  his way out. I besiege him not to throw away all his files and folders of  “intellectual property”. Forget it. I know exactly what I’ll find: Zilch. He’ll probably scrub and desinfect the place before he takes his last breath.

Where was I: My own shambles. I need people, say,  a secretary, an IT wizzard, my sister-in-law (if ever there was Ms Efficiency no barrels held it’s her), a cold compress, and most of all, and dearest sweetest hearts, count your blessings if you have it: SPACE. Apart from time,  SPACE is the ultimate luxury.  The less space the more organized you need to be, the less forgiving daily life is.

To be continued … If you can find me that is.

No hugs today, only a hiss from underneath the mountain,

U

September 4, 2014

WoMan

Filed under: Communication,Despair — bitchontheblog @ 15:14
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Let me throw myself at your collective shoulder. I have declared war on a British paper.

It is a paper – of repute – which appears to specialize in feminism. So far, so boring. Today I left two comments in reply to an inane (not that I used that word) article written by an ardent feminist. You know the sort: The sort you’d pity any son they might have. Remember, I am a woman. So, I, woman, gets moderated at the rate of knots by answering (see above) another woman for critically questioning her take on men. There was not a swearword in sight, just reason. The “moderator” threw me out. Twice.

I am only telling you this because I am frustrated. I am an (investigative)  journalist’s daughter. I come from a hugely argumentative household. Exchange of  opinions, outlook on life, welcomed. And then you get some of the great names of what once was Fleet Street to shut you up? Forget it. From now on I shall follow the Angel’s somewhat tiresome but probably good advice: “Why are you doing this to yourself, Mama? Just leave it.” Yes, indeed. Why engage when one could just keep shtum? Swallow shit, die of colon cancer later.

So very disappointed with mankind. No, forget MANkind. So disappointed with ‘feminists’. Next they’ll burn books (written by men). For fuck’s sake …

U

 

Belated PS, this is what I wrote:

“I am a woman. Sorry, [name of columnist], but sometimes one needs to make clear what gender one is. Not least in your column when every slightly questioning response is assumed to be that of a man.

I have clicked many a recommend on previous, and critical, comments – possibly made by men. Who knows. With women commentators jumping down the throats of sa(i)d guys. Let’s just say I am glad that, currently, I am not a man. Which is not the same as saying that I am not ashamed about some aspects of my gender. Can you, so called feminists, just for once shut up and listen. No one is after your hide. Shit happens. Sure. But stop generalizing, stop measuring all men with the same yard stick. It’s so tiresome, so embarrassing (to me as a woman). Just get on with your day job, your life, stop being so resentful whilst expecting YOUR man (poor sausage) to read your mind and know when to put the rubbish out and
generally making himself useful. Be an example to your daughters AND sons by stopping whining. Just DO as you want to be done by.

Don’t widen the gender divide. Close the gap. And don’t lay all the work to do so at men’s thresholds.”

On being ‘deleted’ I sent the following. Naturally deleted too.

“Do not be a woman (as I am) and write a somewhat critical comment in reply to [name of commentator] take on feminism. You will be modified. Nay, moderated. Nay, deleted. So much for “feminism”: Fit the hole or you’ll sink without trace.”

Cloud Nine

Filed under: Pencil and Paper — bitchontheblog @ 00:18
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I know the necessity of sleep and the science behind it.

However,  I don’t like sleep. Let’s forget how much time one may waste. Though am sure that some people waste a lot less time by being asleep. My main grievance with sleep are dreams. My dreams are god damn awful. All night (well, all five hours of it) I live another life whilst I am supposed to rest and regroup for another day full of folly and adventures I’d rather avoid. Can’t a woman have some peace?

I don’t know about you. I go to bed (only because I am tired) and then I lie there. Thinking. About stuff. Two minutes later I am asleep. It’s annoying. I’d rather think than sleep. Then I dream. These days I have taken to talking in my sleep which means I am woken by my own voice. So startled on waking I promptly forget my dream(s). As cost benefit goes it’s an accountant’s nightmare.

Some years ago I bought a Sony voice recorder. I don’t know why. I never record my voice. If I have something to say or on my mind I’ll write it down. Still, and may Sony listen, if a contraption were devised trapping/recording my dreams I’d work overtime.

U

September 3, 2014

Pockets

Health Alert: Lecture on the horizon.

Just told guy outside cornershop, (sweet, young, of uncertain nationality – I don’t ask that most awful question “Where do you come from?”): “Never ever ask anyone if they have change.” As begging goes it’s so brainless and, for the one with or without change in her pocket, a complete turnoff. Ask me for fifty pence, one Pound Sterling, a fiver. Tell me what you need. But please don’t just sit there and ask me for “change”. He took it well, though I dare say he wasn’t sure what I was trying to convey.

Most of you who communicate with me on this blog are both of strong opinion and live in cultures different to mine. Actually let’s forget the ‘culture’ bit since people within the same culture can be, and are, so very different from each other. Please do let me know how you ‘give’ when directly approached, how you give via, say a charity, how you give to  a friend. Or, why you do NOT give.

The young man above remained courteous when I told him how not to go about it. And no, I did NOT leave him shortchanged. For that I know too well what it feels like having to ask in the first place.

U

August 29, 2014

Volume

Filed under: Communication — bitchontheblog @ 18:44
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Phoned my father this afternoon. As one does. Unless you are one of my sisters in which case you won’t. In-joke. Snarky. Forget it.

My father is a noisy person. I keep the receiver well away from my ear. This afternoon it got so bad my mother intervened to tell him he could be heard half way down the road. He did close the window.

Anyway, him never one to be held on a leash mashing you into a pulp,  two more pronouncements were made on me (notwithstanding that – as usual and by his own confession – he enjoyed our conversation): In his opinion I  am supremely arrogant, on top of which, apparently, I divert any subject from the theme back to the person.

Yes. So? Whatever.

I am good at letting people run into open doors. So I conceded that I am indeed arrogant. With good reason. Arrogance is the intellectual equivalent of sartorial elegance. Keep it understated.

As to my, apparently, turning the abstract to the more personal: Try it sometime. Makes for so much more intimacy. And friendship.

U

 

 

August 25, 2014

Ebb

Filed under: Despair,Ethics,Family,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 17:13
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Sweethearts, I need your help, comfort, words of wisdom. I mean it.

I am five minutes, a stone throw away throwing a blast at someone’s life. I won’t do it. But am  sorely tempted as that person destroyed several years of my happiness. Maliciously. Vindictively. With not a shred of regret, an apology. The  reason I am not going to repay in kind are twofold. Firstly because once upon a time I loved that person, secondly because I’d never forgive myself if I stooped to her level.

And yet, and yet. If I could wipe that self satisfied smile off her face for five minutes, make her feel – for just five minutes – the utter misery and humiliation she put me through. I won’t. But I wish I would. Still, unfair fight. I suppose. As she has always maintained: She wouldn’t wish to cross swords with me. Which is, no doubt, why she stuck the knife into my back. With repercussions her imagination does not stretch to.

In the aftermath of that disaster I do empathize with those who seek revenge. Yet, what’s the point? What’s the fucking point? What, other than a short lived moment of satisfaction, do you get out of paying back in kind? Nothing. That’s what. Or more despair. I keep reminding myself: The damage is done, there is no rewinding of clocks and revenge will not bring back what once was.

Devastated, and disgusted, yours,

U

August 10, 2014

Gorging yourself

I like descriptive language. Language that conjures up an image in your mind.

Thus I have just been reminded of “Kummerspeck” which the author of the article correctly translates as  “grief bacon”. For those of you either dim or preoccupied with other things: Grief bacon is when you eat BEYOND HUNGER because something is eating away at you, like grief.

So you are unhappy, you eat. Which means that an awful lot of people in this world (no, not the starving – they don’t have the means to drown their grief in a bacon sandwich) must be unhappy. Forget the BM index. Measure your unhappiness in wobble. Don’t you dare: I have already patented this amazing piece of intellectual property in copyright. All I now need to do is write it all down and get it on the market.

My father once remarked (and yes, I do know I have mentioned it before) that if I, his daughter, were driving down the motorway and the radio would announce that there is a ghost driver coming their way I’d think to myself: “What do they mean, ONE? Thousands.” I took it (not) hard. Though as character assessments go it was on the harsh side.  Still, being my parents’ daughter I am thick skinned. I smiled to myself – and it’s true. Going against the trend.

Going against a trend. Doesn’t make you popular on its own. You have to charm people in other ways rather than just contradicting perceived wisdom.

Yes, so in short,  when I have ‘Kummer’ (grief – even lightweight one) I lose all appetite. The last thing I need when gnawing away at a piece of shit fate has buried for lean times is food. Stomach shuts down. Most effectively. I can barely eat one of my beloved apples.

Do you know what a syllogism is? All cows are animals. Not all animals are cows.

So just because I am slender does not mean … Don’t worry, I have lost my own line of reasoning in the course of this meandering … not least slightly distracted by the remnants of Big Bertha having arrived at the South Coast: Hale bashing against the window. Thunder in the middle distance.

U

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