Bitch on the Blog

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

 

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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

July 3, 2018

Directions

What’s vexing, and few people get it, is that a decision can be the right one at the time, yet turn out the wrong one in the long run.

U

July 1, 2018

Mad dogs, Englishmen, Sun

I live in a green city. Very green. Parks. Huge, weathered, amazing trees – their trunks  and canopy making you feel secure, giving you happiness and shelter should you seek it. Those parks’ existence and maintenance – and most charming bobbies on the beat – the main reason I am reconciled to paying an ouch amount of council tax.

The other day, walking back from town, a stone throw – depending how far you can throw – from where I live I came across someone I vaguely know. Nice lady. Probably in her mid sixties. Smokes whilst wheezing but then all of us are heading exit by various means if only age or accident. On approach I thought she may have lost the plot because it appeared as if she was talking to one of our stylish black metal with golden inscriptions municipal park bins. As it turned out she’d taken her daughter’s tortoise for a walk. Think beautiful tabby cat, only in a hard shell.

“I can’t understand why she [the tortoise] keeps seeking out the bin”,  she said. Well, one reason, not that I said it out loud, that that bin’s vicinity offered the only shade on a hot summer’s midday. It’s all sorts of things – sad, funny, ridiculous, ludicrous, outrageous, who cares – it ain’t easy to put people right on their misconceptions. She thought the tortoise craved sun. By all evidence it didn’t. Never mind. Sometimes one has to weigh voicing common sense against upsetting someone by showing them the errors of their ways. Yes, poor tortoise. A victim of polite society.

U

 

June 29, 2018

Abuse

Filed under: Psychology,Vicious — bitchontheblog @ 21:32
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I am at a loss whether to voice my total disenchantment with what some in my vicinity call (unbeknown to me till this afternoon) the cesspit of the internet.

Upset is mine. I am desolate. Not on my behalf. On behalf of a whole demographic. And on behalf of those who perpetrate shit which, in the end, will hurt them more than that demographic the shit is hurled at.

The crime scene being John’s blog. For someone to use John’s blog of all blogs (his being the most innocuous) beggars belief in the first place. Of course, I wouldn’t be me if I hadn’t taken the bait. On second thought I deleted my reply  to Anon (HA! Even I delete me); and, as I expected, John later deleted Anon’s deeply disturbing assertion. I also deleted my initial post “Amusement Alert” because, on reflection, there was nothing amusing about it at all.

Doesn’t make it go away in my mind. To think that there are people out there (think incel) full of hate, yet born of woman, is way out of my range of what I thought possible. I am not exactly crying but have been on the verge of tears for the last few hours – in complete, utter and crippling disbelief that there are people out there who not only think like that but have no compunction to say so out loud. Albeit, the coward’s mark, not under their name.

I wish I were five years old again and it’d all be over my head.

Distraught yours,

U

June 28, 2018

Calling

Before I get back to the Sculptor and pronouncements on my compromised mental state and lack of humour, here is a thought. Maybe something you’ll recognize. And it touches on many areas in life but one in particular, namely how you earn(ed) your living.

It appears many”fall” into a profession/job/career; little choice being exercised. It just happens. I dare say that way a great deal of potential unhappiness and dissatisfaction lies.

How many times, when you are a child, do you hear some visitor, making your eyes roll, “And what do want to be when you grow up”? I shall refrain from imagining the Sculptor’s answer: “Rude. Lacking in imagination, manners, charm. Not being affable”. That’s not a job, Tom. “Ok then, I’ll take out my frustrations on stone and metal, with my chisel, forging any material into submission, imposing my will. That’ll show them.”

The thought that inspired this post’s subject was something I have heard often in reply to someone voicing how much they dislike their day job. It has a whiff of tragic about it:

“Yes, BUT (!) you are so GOOD at it”. It’s almost like the ultimate trap. Just because you are good at something doesn’t mean you like it. Ask the Sculptor. According to him I am scrubbing toilets at Chambers*. Which I am very very very good at. Do I like it? Sure … I am good at it.

Did you plan, did you fall [into], did you have a calling you followed or had to abandon, are you happy with your choice – in hindsight, at the time?

U

*The Sculptor will deny all knowledge that he said that. But then, as his self confessed pisshead will confirm, the length of a glass is as short as an addled brain’s recall.

June 27, 2018

The Sculptor – One

I quote a useful reminder to myself:

“It is a bad allocation of intelligence, resources and money.”

Let’s leave money out of it since I haven’t spent any. The resource, badly allocated, is my time. Maybe even emotion better allocated to those who can read a heart. Intelligence? Well, I don’t mind throwing it about with abandon. It’s an infinite resource. Time isn’t. So, I’ll waste a bit more and then lay some wasters to rest.

Yes, we are back to the Alternative Comment Box.

Where to start the narrative since there are so many options? My mental health? So generously speculated about by one Sculptor, and one John who only a couple of days ago advocated that mental health should NOT bear stigma. My question why “mental health” is then, so often, all over blogland, is used as an insult, a personal attack, a way of shaming someone into shutting up? Naturally, no answer was forthcoming. It happens when people run out of rhyme and reason to justify their limitations. And I quote the Sculptor aka Tom:

“John. Why do you tolerate that ghastly woman Ursula? Because she has mental issues you think you can help with?”

No, let’s start somewhere else to make the narrative a little more tense.

I question a commentator on the Sculptor’s blog. It’s, as far as I know, an elderly lady – though why I even mention that I don’t know. Mitigating circumstances?

Sa(i)d old lady, let’s call her J, wishes some wastrels dead. So I reply

“How charitable to wish on anyone “being hit by a bus”. I suppose you are also in favour of the death penalty, wish Trump dead whilst priding yourself on your Christian “values”, ethics and morals. I take it you are American?”

This made me, on two blogs, not only “that disgusting woman” but also “that ghastly woman” (don’t say the Sculptor doesn’t use his Thesaurus to vary his disgust at me).

John who took Tom’s batton (always doing the Svengali’s bidding) says that “J is one of life’s sweet people….everyone knows that”.

To which I replied:

“Yes, John, Joanne may be one of life’s sweet people. However, even the sweetest can, occasionally, put a foot wrong, are not above criticism.

I didn’t “attack” Joanne. I thought her comment out of order. You can’t go round wishing for people to die. Sorry, but that’s way off my moral compass. And I said so.

As to “bitter and personal ATTACKS” [Tom accuses me of] – well, Tom, you are the expert. And when you can’t think of anything else to admonish me with you resort to questioning my mental health. Truly inspired as reasoning goes.

Greetings from that “disgusting” woman,
U”

And before you ask: Yes, my comment was deleted. Again. Tom’s calling me disgusting was let to be stand. Yes, Sweethearts, that’s the justice of this world, that’s balance, fairness.

So I am disgusting and off my trolley because I question a sweet old lady calling for someone to die in revenge for the poor Sculptor having to do his sculpting in a metal container in the middle of a UK heat wave (!). That’s right. Let them swing for it. Mind you, having said that, a friend of mine (American), also a very sweet Lady albeit not an old one, also wishes someone dead (Trump). Maybe that’s how it’s done in the States. Hang them. Shoot them. Take a short cut.

To be continued …

U

June 23, 2018

Schwarz Rot Gold

Filed under: Amusement,Dizzy,Formalities,Fun,Sport — bitchontheblog @ 21:14
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Never let it be said that I can’t make a complete ass of myself.

I walked into the lounge as chips were down in equal measure for both Sweden and Germany, and said: “I take it the ones in white black are the Germans.”

“Yes”.  You know the sort of yesssss (?) you get when people question whether you are still with it, if you ever were.

So far so fine. My intelligence doesn’t take easy offence at being questioned.

“The Swedish look like Ikea”, I offered. You know, blue and yellow.

The Angel who has known his mother from the word go didn’t flinch: “You, Mama, could be straight out of American Dad – or any program”. Then reminded me that blue and yellow are the colours of the Swedish flag. Ikea. As I said.

U

 

June 21, 2018

Drawing a line (?)

You know how you can sometimes relate to people in that sort of “homecoming” way? Safe. Kindred spirit, and all that. It’s not that you “agree” on everything, it’s just a baseline. You like each other regardless, you trust each other. Even if the other person’s, say, politics stink to high heaven.

I did ponder the other day if you can be friends, I mean proper friends, with someone whose political views are diametrical opposed to yours and, by their nature, outrageous. Have since come to conclusion you probably can – until you have to draw a line. HA! But where is the line? Even real stinkers in world politics do have friends. Just stand by for the fallout. If, by way of example, you were two of the Mitford sisters who were friends with Hitler your reputation will suffer. Still, Hitler was human too. As was his Alsatian. And spare a thought for Eva Braun.

I wish I could let you into a secret of mine. But I can’t. It’s too risky. Only two people know about it (the Angel and my father). Anyway, to them I am more than the sum of my idiosyncrasies. Let’s just say it’s roughly on par – only worse – with admitting that you admired Margaret Thatcher. You will be feathered and tarred.

You know what’s so crazy about my “secret”? It shows my humanity. Yet, I’d be shredded for it. 

And with that thought I’ll leave you. Maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me about your own ideas where friendship has potential to end in terms of acceptable (to you) ideology, beliefs, politics, character traits, demeanours.

U

 

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