In the gutter

Just checked on what I call my Horror Scope. Do so at your peril. I don’t know what’s worse: Hopes being raised or dashed before you have so much as set a foot outside the house. Anticipation of  what the stars have in store for you being roughly on par with raised adrenaline level (which is why I don’t drink coffee).

And no, I am not talking offerings in newspapers or magazines. This is serious stuff: A reputable source going into so much detail as to heighten my potential of being reduced to a quivering wreck. My horror scope is tailored to the place and exact time of  my birth, as far as my mother can remember it.  She claims, and I tease her about the inaccuracy, that two of her children were born on the hour, two at half the hour. I bet my bottom Euro that I was at least five minutes earlier or later.  Of course, in her day,  giving birth was not an exact science. Another  horror within scope: Imagine the midwife’s watch being fast or slow. All your life you will labour under false expectations as to what will happen to you next Friday, and more importantly, who you really are in the eyes of cosmic constellations.

So let’s hope Mercury who has ability to mess things up big time will be retrograde any moment now.

May your stars twinkle on all you little specks of dust out there and may we live to see next Friday (if only to prove the forecast right).

U

Not finished yet

I realise with crystal clear clarity that blogging is the equivalent of a chat at the water cooler. A pleasant diversion. A cup of tea. A coffee and slice of Sacher Torte. An espresso. Cucumber sandwiches at the Ritz. Nativity play at your child’s school. A magnum of champagne on some arbitrary excuse of an occasion. Anything which might one get away from business in hand.

This minute I am in despair. I have so much to do, so little time to do it in, my head is spinning, I feel sorry for myself, I don’t know where to start, I wish I were Mary Poppins, Doris Day and my brother’s wife rolled into one. Luckily neither of my sisters lives round the corner otherwise I’d really be in the dog house. One of you, I think it was gaelikaa, said the other day something about paralysis. Make that brain dead in my case. I fear for myself. Sanity comes at a price. Also, piece of advice: When you nurse some virus do not, whilst lounging semi-comatose on the sofa, succumb to the lure of daytime television: I hate TV adverts. Always have. They feed paranoia, say, “washing whiter than white” (and if any of their lab technicians can explain that one to me I shall forthwith purchase the product till my dying day, despite white not featuring heavily in this household); also I learn that discovering the lowest quote for home insurance is where the way to happiness lies. Then, to top it all, up pops what’s her name proclaiming:  ”…because you are worth it”. Hein?

Anyway, watercooler. Jean, the cheerful Monk in my life, asked me what took me to the life and soul of the party: The consortium (LBC). It’s a rather dull story actually. I wish I could spice it up a little but I can’t. Once upon a time, say 12/18 months ago, a friend of mine knowing how very fond I am of the Irish (and anyone else for that matter) gave me a link. Via this link and the comment box I happened onto a fellow commentator,  good old Grannymar herself, who left me a few favourable remarks. So I checked out HER blog, clicked – as one does – on her links and hey presto my life is in turmoil and has taken me to India and parts of the States I didn’t know existed. Don’t say I don’t lead an exciting life.

Thus friendships are formed. It all went swimmingly until GM ran out of puff. I am still trying to make amends but maybe humoUr is currently in short supply at GM’s premises. She might thaw out once snowdrops emerge; usually February down here at the south coast, maybe March her area in time for her birthday. Ever the optimist, I hope she’ll come round to see the funny side of it all, not least because I need her advice on certain skills. I am hovering on the brink of taking up needlework again. If only to regain a measure of equilibrium and patience currently lacking.

Though, on reflection, I prefer to take up fencing once more. If ever there was a good sparring partner it’s me.

So, Jean, you wanted a boring story. Now you’ve got it.

U

Avgolemono Soupa

gaelikaa, thank you for propping me up in my hour of need. I tell you one thing, and please pass this on to your children: When in doubt cook SOUP – any, doesn’t matter as long as it’s liquid. Use lentils, an onion, a carrot and a potato  if nothing else to hand. It keeps one out of mischief, away from the keyboard and off the streets, indeed satisfied as something to look forward to and being nourished when the world falls apart round your ears. You don’t even have to chew just slurp.

U

PS Should any of you google ‘Avgolemono” don’t believe all you come across. Hugs and kisses.

Pissing in the wind

gaelikaa, my dance with Ramana is off. So there will be no photos for you to look forward to.

I rarely go into a sulky strop, in fact never:  Which is why, now that I have,  it is a rather illuminating experience for me. Ramana ticked me off earlier today regarding a perfectly reasonable answer to both his original post and GM’s response which I commented on in one wash [same comment box].  I am getting a little tired of  all the sensitivity (few sensibilities) on some of the consortium’s blogs. Frankly, I have had it. I might as well plant a rhododendron on alkaline soil. It too won’t flourish.

I am miffed big time. Better stick to my usual playgrounds – so much more fun.

For all those not familiar with the meaning of my header: It’s sailors’ language. Look it up if you must or try it the next time you are aboard ship. You’ll soon get the drift.

U

Sinking not drowning

Some of the consortium’s members occasionally mention the odd self-help book as if that’s where gospel lies.

Naturally I have nothing but disdain for them [self-help books that is]; long been another source of irritation to me. Don’t get me wrong: Despite my better judgement I too occasionally flick through the odd one expecting some sort of  map on the road of  life. Forget it.

Who are these self appointed peddlers of the obvious? They need as much ’help’ as the rest of us. Possibly more.

The term itself is so ludicrous: SELF help. The only people helping themselves are the authors – to your money.

Mind you, one of the publishers has got it down to a ‘t’ with their series of  ”The Idiot’s Guide to …” whatever currently plagues you. Charmingly, encouragingly, their covers tend to be bright yellow. Thus hope lies.

If and when the day comes  that your sofa needs re-upholstering may I recommend: 

                                                                   To help you break through to a whole new life:

                                                                      Buy ten door stopper sized self-help books

                                                                           Do your back in heaving them home

                                           Put them in a pile on the floor (the biggest at the bottom otherwise it won’t work)

                                                                                                Sit on them

                                                                                     Read Schopenhauer et al

                                               Now you have helped yourself and all the other people in your life

                                                                                                Ursula

Lull

Saturday or no Saturday: Hell and damnation I have a reputation to live up to.

To Conrad

Conrad, your prose is so convoluted, so opaque, I give up. How could I have ever let myself be blinded to  your charms?

With regards to your dream: You are clearly quite prickly when your readers offer you an interpretation different to the one you want; in itself rather interesting. May I, not least with the support of Jung, note that you take your dream images far too literally. It doesn’t work like that.

Ah, and the Chakras, Conrad. I wonder which ones of yours need some attention.

Sweet dreams,

U

Saving graces

My grandparents weren’t church goers but had me say grace before every main meal  of the day (which in our house was at lunchtime). A few lines to recite, short and simple; I loved the tingle of anticipation.

If only they were still around I’d surprise them with what I found a minute ago, in a book first published 1947.

Bless the meat, Damn the skin. Open your mouth And cram it in.

None of today’s diet nonsense. Had they lived longer they’d be turning in their graves at calorie counting; they knew how to starve, during and post war (twice); and had the grace to count their blessings afterwards.

I could cry; which, since Saturday is my day off my self-prescribed blogging identity, I now will in memory of  two people who made my early life a happy one.

U

Thank God it’s Friday

Thursdays have now become a source of dread to me – for which I only blame myself since nobody forces me to visit GM’s blog. To do so is – if you remember your childhood – like picking a scab on your knee (say, a week after having fallen off your bike) prolonging the healing process. Giving satisfaction in a rather perverted way. I can’t say I am proud of myself.  Still, apparently it takes about six weeks to wean yourself off anything – make that a few more in my case.

Judging by GM’s entry yesterday she will move into the realms of necrophilia this coming Thursday. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.

U

In the woods

 Bike Hike Babe drew my attention to Tiger Woods.

I am not familiar with the notches on his bed post. Neither do I care. What consenting people do in their free time and behind closed doors is their business. As is dealing with the emotional fall-out afterwards.

There was a time when life was simple: Wives at the ready with their wooden rolling pin on the late return of their husbands. When roles reversed, men usually just suffered in silence or, if given to temper, re-enacted Shakespeare. Now we have “Hello” magazine.

Judging by BHB’s clip poor Tiger Woods is paying through his balls for what comes natural to him. Having had  his trousers unfastened in public, his (golf) balls will now miss many a hole. I feel for the guy. Wish I were his sister. I’d have words with his wife as to emasculating her husband in full view of everyone; and give her a state of the art rolling pin as a belated wedding present, so much more useful than letting it all hang out on the playground of the media and its salviating readership.

What does the world and his wife expect from someone who swings it like him? It’s well known that testosterone levels run high in men of power and success; and power, on whichever stage, attracts groupies  only too willing to tempt with their candy. Some of my aunts and my mother are still hyperventilating since it came to light that their hero, the man who managed the Cuba Crisis and averted the threat of the Third World War, yes, the good JFK himself, availed himself of many a woman.

With power comes prowess. It’s simple. And if I had been an intern under the charming Bill  Clinton himself the only reason I would NOT have taken advantage of his attention is because I don’t touch, never have, other women’s men.

I despise women who can’t keep their mouths shut (after the event as it were). Do have sex with a married man if you must but do so with integrity and discretion instead of dropping the guy in it afterwards.

U

Sitting duck

Trust me on this one:

THINGS WILL GET WORSE BEFORE THEY GET WORSE …

2009 was living proof to me – a rather startling year, even by my standards. At regular intervals it [the year] delivered unpleasant surprises (and that doesn’t include discovery of  the consortium). A rabbit caught in the headlights of a car had nothing on me.

Seventeen days into 2010 and I try to sit still as not to walk into the next disaster (which in itself is a disaster since I need to keep moving). And, as I AM the disaster area it’s all getting rather complicated. Annotation: It got so bad (say April) that a friend of mine started taking tranquilizers on my behalf: Did I feel guilty? Hell no, it’s MY life: If I can cope with my downfalls so can everyone else. Since I am now in the elevated circles of the humoUr brigade let me tell you what I found: When you are in a real shithole (and I mean real) people will be most unforgiving if you still see the funny side in your own misfortune: It cost me friends, no joke.

Seriously yours,

U

PS And no, I am not writing this from prison