Bitch on the Blog

August 15, 2018

No Echo

This minute I am upset. What better shoulder to throw myself on than that of the collective blogging community?

Before you read on please do remember: I have the patience of a saint. I do bear with call center  staff, making allowances for the shit jobs they do, realizing that they are only mouthpieces of company policies.

But there are limits. And my limit was (nearly) exhausted.

Call center staff have their scripts. I appreciate that. Neither are they nor I robots. How many times do you actually have to plead with them to not read you the same shite again and again. Reminding them of what we covered yesterday and today, and then some. Suggesting a way forward. No, no. Not at all. Let’s go back over the past. I nearly lost it. Which is not my style. In the end I asked to end the conversation as it was going nowhere, resume same conversation later today when I’ll have regained my composure and, maybe, they will have taken time to think (outside their box).

There is something so dehumanizing, impersonal, about the world we now live in it has power to condense me into despair.

U

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August 13, 2018

Limitations of google

Filed under: Accuracy,Human condition,Questions — bitchontheblog @ 18:13
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Let me put a tiny grief of mine at your doorstep.

Every so often I go somewhere, say a shop where the music is so awful you flee the place; alternatively, as happened earlier, there is one [song] which you’d completely forgotten about. You like it. You  have no idea what it’s called. No idea about the band’s name. But you catch just enough of the lyrics to kid yourself you may be able to google and track it down.

Unfortunately, back home I now have the tune in my head, forgotten about the lyrics. Strange, don’t you think – maybe the last bastion – you can’t google the memory of a song just by its tune. Luckily I am easy going; otherwise I’d be really pissed off this minute (with myself). Which reminds me: One of my friends, a painter who actually lives off his art, also a stickler for detail, once reminded us (we were only in our late teens) of how many brain cells we lose every day. Compounded by any vices. My inner, as yet to be unleashed, accountant didn’t think much of it at the time. Live off your capital. Now I am not so sure. I try and ignore that occasionally my memory will take time over retrieving something so idiotic my only excuse is that it’s so idiotic it’s not worth retrieving. Yeah, well, it’s not easy to deceive myself.

Any holes in your tissue?

U

July 31, 2018

Evolution and the chair

Here is the bad news and I quote:

“Bottoms are not designed to be sat on”. Depending on your command of English there are various interpretations to this: I most certainly don’t wish my bottom to be sat on. By no one. On the other hand how do I sit down without my bottom having a role to play? Can’t wait for Ramana to suggest I might stand on my head instead. Stand on my head? GET OFF.

U

July 27, 2018

Evocative

My mother and I, over the span of the life she and I have shared, sometimes talk about the “senses”. Which one either of us wouldn’t mind to lose as much an other. Try it. You’ll soon come unstuck.

Today, smell came to mind. Yes, smell. I bought a melon. My intention was a WATER melon since it’s the coolest thing when it’s hot but their weight made me buy a small Galia instead. What distinguishes a watermelon from a Galia?  A whole, as yet not cut open, watermelon smells of nothing. A Galia? Oh my god. Nectar of the gods.

Smell is evocative. Be it a perfume, be it an aftershave, be it a flower, be it musty. One whiff – in passing, on the high street, at a party – and what do you know: Bingo. Transported to another time, another place.

What are your smell(y) memories? Do they make you smile, weepy, long for, or full of disgust?

U

 

July 26, 2018

Own goal

The writer of one blog, a blog  I not so much follow as read for its folly, has lost the plot. Actually, make that two bloggers and their commentators. They warm each other in the same bed. When they talk politics. Birds of a feather. Plucked.

It must be so “nice” to surround yourself with those who always nod at even the most idiotic assertion of yours – not reflecting, dumb.

One of my father’s friends (Austrian Hungarian) was a Russian spy (no shit). He stayed with us for a few weeks when I was in my early teens. This, obviously, well before the vile and guile of the internet. Boy oh boy, not that my parents ever knew (or may they pretended not to), did he teach me the skill of observation and other tricks of the trade.

Yes, so little wool being pulled over my head. And even if – quickly unravelled.

The only thing about the spy that vaguely baffled me when he said I had a footballer’s calves. When my gym teacher had told me I had a ballerina’s legs. Maybe both need muscle. Who knows. Never put either skill to the test. Do I look like someone who chases a ball or jeopardizes her toes? Though do love dancing. Full on.

Back to the subject: Forgetting that one shouldn’t discuss politics and religion in “polite” society, how can any blogger even consider doing so when most (though not all)  comment boxes allow only sound bites rather than proper discussion?

Anyway, mustn’t be too hard. If you want to read a truly impassioned intelligent well argued piece on American politics you won’t waste your time reading

http://shackman-speaks.blogspot.com/2018/07/what-frustrated-you-most-last-week-and.html

And if you want to argue YOUR corner, not only will he let you but listen.

U

July 22, 2018

Sin bin

Filed under: Accuracy,Style — bitchontheblog @ 20:52
Tags: , , , , , , ,

I am ashamed of myself. Not for the first time; not for the last time unless I drop dead in the next ten minutes.

What kind readers I have. None of you pointed out that I appear to have a problem with spelling the word “authenticity”. Despite my whole post lamenting lack of same by some participants of and in blogland.

Have taken post briefly off air to check where else I made a donkey-round-the-well of myself.

Thank you for making me blush all by myself.

This post has a lot of “myself”/ves in it; my only excuse that this post is about myself and an imbecile (myself).

Hair shirt, ashes, up the mountain, desert, name my destination, give me a camel to ride and an oistrich for company,

Consolable,

U

July 21, 2018

Authenticity

Every so often I do remember my blog’s name and that I have to honour it. And do a bit of bitching.

Yes, so there is someone in blogland (no blog of her own) who regularly and frequently leaves comments on blogs which we both frequent.

However, and I am annoyed with myself, she is beginning to get on my nerves big time. To understand – the few blogs I do follow I always read all comments,  in detail.

Why is she beginning to get on my nerves?

I tell you why: It’s one thing to be human – foibles, tempers (good and all), being misguided, argumentative, under the weather either temporarily or permanently, whatever. It’s another to be saccharine to the point of dripping. That woman is incredible. If I were her I’d encourage myself to become a professional condolence letter writer. She is so CONSISTENTLY “sweet” it borders on insincere. I don’t like insincere.

I have “known” her for, say, a couple of years now and started imagining her life. I can’t give away her locality – let’s just say I can see her wafting through the wines, no, not daisy waving; an illusion of herself. I can see her being the saint of her, possibly and most likely vocal if faintly bored, family. What I mostly see is her weaving her sugar net of constant and indiscriminate approval of others (and thereby, by implication, approval of her in return). Everything any blogger does or says she approves of, not only lavishing praise but piling it on. It’s almost fraudulent.

Sweetheart, life doesn’t work like that. If you want people to take you seriously then the odd questioning or not agreeing with a blogging friend would add greatly to your credibility. The odd jarring note.  A bit of critical distance. Not everything someone does or says is laudable. If any of my friends (blog or other) and family would be as approving of everything I do, say or cook as you appear to be of others I’d run screaming to the hills. I’d think they were taking the piss.

Still, in your defense – and it really really really wasn’t “nice” what you said there a day or so ago – who’d have thought it you had it in you; in a sort of underhand way you left a comment, somewhere, which makes you the bigot I thought you were all along. Yes, yes, sweet …… and what do you know … condemning a whole demographic group. Can’t say I enjoyed your (gentle – naturally)  malicious thought. Prefer your saccharine. As cloying as it is.

And before any of my readers do an “Iris” (what’s happened to the oracle?)  and tell me who I am referring to: Don’t. Because if you identify her she is guilty as charged.

U

July 12, 2018

Testing Times

Searching the internet for info is great. Unless you search for any symptom, even the mildest. Essentially, what you do – after a few minutes, that’s all it takes – wonder why you are still alive. Or ever lived. Yes, Google, the Reaper. The taker away of peace of mind. I have to hand it to certain American websites who should definitely be avoided. Say, you have had some vague symptom for a little while; not given to hypochondria and/or panic you (that’s me) will be quite happy and certain that it’s nothing.

NOTHING? American websites will tell you to see a doctor IMMEDIATELY lest dire damage will maim you for life, death not necessarily imminent but don’t bank on it. Which is a great pity (the “immediately” bit) when you have already had that teensy weensy symptom for some days. So, as if that isn’t bad enough, you can now (ca 2022 hrs BST – no surgery other than A&E open for business) add another worry to the worrying symptom. The prospect of GUILT. That most sinister invention to mess with the human psyche (animals don’t feel guilt – unless they are dogs and even then I doubt it perturbs them much even when put in the doghouse for minor dismeanour).

GUILT at the fact you were NEGLIGENT. Short of apologizing to yourself, hoping you won’t see fit to sue yourself for damages, you swear yourself to secrecy. No one, not even your closest and dearest (particularly not them), must know that you should have gone to the doctor YESTERDAY. Not even your doctor. “No, no, doctor, I came running to you straight away just in case.” In case of what? Well, in case I should have  come to you earlier and now I (I in bold letter) AM to blame for my imminent misery – misery as yet undiagnosed (other than by google).  So not only are you down the route of guilt, you have little choice but lie – just a little. No, lets not call it lying (mustn’t add to aforementioned GUILT); let’s call it white. Self defense.

What brought on this post? Latent hysteria, possibly. And, naturally, google.

I read a blog entry, and it was very informative and most certainly well intended, but I came away wondering whether I’d still be alive in five weeks’ time. Why? Because some conditions don’t even carry symptoms till it’s too late. Well, at least I won’t need to blame myself for that which I didn’t know needs to be investigated. All is good. I’ll be dead guilt free.

Don’t worry, don’t send chocolate, sunflowers will do to keep me happy (whilst alive – later they won’t make any difference),

U

 

July 10, 2018

Art

Don’t ask where what follows comes from. Am I the keeper of my thoughts?

There are several types of people when it comes to tattoos. Those who scorn them, those who (like me) enjoy their art as a spectator sport – and there are some beauties out there, and those who actually get them and then have them. Emphasis on “have”. Forever.

That’s grand. Have. Forever. Particularly if you can live with your mistakes and your aging skin wrinkling your tattoo as you march to your final destination.

In the motherland they say that the CLEVER person prepares. I agree. Forethought will let you scrape out of many a hole before you have fallen into it completely. Yet how do you know that you won’t take up a life in crime AFTER a prominent tattoo seemed a good idea? No bull. If I were a man (working  under the assumption that most not law abiding and with few scruples humans are men) one thing I’d never do is give myself an identifier. Doesn’t pay. I know this because recently I went through a spot of binge watching a lot of noir (our new neighbours having turned night into day and sleep hard to come by during its normal hours) .  I particularly liked the Spanish one. One tattoo and several episodes later the baddie’s own mother killed him. Not because of the tattoo but because she realized her son was one hell of a fucker and nothing but death would stop him from killing other people.  And yes, such are the sacrifices mothers make, she killed herself too in the process. Details on request.

Leaving your fingertips aside do you have any distinguishing features which would prevent you to take up a life of crime unless you are homeless and need a roof over your head (prison)?

U

July 6, 2018

Trapped

Filed under: Children,Errors — bitchontheblog @ 05:17
Tags: , , , , , , ,

As no one else appears to have asked the question I might as well get my head chopped off:

Why were those boys (teenagers) trapped in a Thai cave not taught how to swim? Surely being able to swim (from the earliest age) is a life skill? Indeed, arguably, diving, knowing how to hold your breath, a survival skill too.

U

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