April 10, 2016
March 12, 2016
Sweethearts, despite various spanners in recent years’ works I lead a charmed life. Unlike those [bloggers] who can’t help themselves moaning and groaning over, say – and I truly love this – that they have bloggers’ block. How much more entertaining can it get? You have nothing to say and tell the world all about it. Take a leaf out of a mouse’s book. And keep quiet.
Anyway, lets unite in our assorted self afflicted boats and use WD40.
WD40 is a miracle. If I could WD40 all of you I would. After having WD fortified myself.
And I quote from the can
- Stops Squeaks
- Drives Out Moisture
- Cleans and Protects
- Loosens Rusted Parts
- Frees Sticky Mechanisms
At the bottom, and in my experience important, “See Cautions on Reverse”
200 ml. Silicone Free.
Hugs and kisses,
March 5, 2016
Sweethearts, you think I am low on the ground? I AM FLATTENED. Finito. Basta. Ende. You name it as long as there an end to it. A hedgehog crossing a busy road has nothing on me.
Let’s apply a bit of American speak: I am “challenged”. Which I’d normally welcome but not with my comp crashing every seven minutes. It’s difficult to think when rushed.
The Angel put his friendly face round the door the other day, looked at me, shook his Viking head, complete with long locks, and said “Mama. The Keyboard Warrior”. The Keyboard Warrior. I should be so lucky. Win a battle, try and invade Russia (in winter). You may lose the war. At the moment there is a truce. Kissinger notwithstanding. Never mind Hillary’s emails being made available for public consumption. I can’t send any. As to playing cards: Trump ain’t ace.
Never mind fracking. Let the best woman win. And it’s only March. Ides of.
Upshot being that the only reason I don’t wish I were still five because then the Angel wouldn’t exist. Logistically, biologically impossible. So I am what I am. And what I am is both totally happy and totally disenchanted. If anyone had forecast this x years ago I’d told them to go away and revisit me in x years. Well. You can beat the hell out of an optimist (physically) but you can’t darken my sun.
Other than that: Everything is fine.
Hugs and kisses,
February 25, 2016
New bloggers out there: Choose your blog name carefully. You may never live it down.
Recently I have been reminded, more than once, and in no uncertain terms, that I am a bitch. This doesn’t do dogs any favours. Still. One aims to please.
So here goes for all those mimosas out there – and wilt at your own speed.
Dearest (Mimosas – as in “flower”), if you knew how much pleasure you give me measuring the rather thin of your assorted hides, your pouting, your sulking, your insults, how much you make me laugh, you’d be whining and whinging even more than you are prone to already.
There was one rather sweet example the other day of someone’s rant (left on an other’s blog) how she (yes, it is a she, they usually are) doesn’t like whiners and whingers. She then proceeds to whine and whinge. Cute. And before you point the finger at yourself. Don’t. There is more than one of you.
In fact so cute I’d like to take people like that by their hand and show them the way out of the woods.
The more fragile among male bloggers? Bad manners. No argument has ever been won by telling me …
Let’s cut to the chase. Intelligent debate is not fertilized by those who weed anything they don’t like to hear. That’s where a gardener fails at the first hurdle. Shoot the grey squirrel digging up your bulbs but contemplate whether what you consider to be a weed, and therefore irritating, is undesirable. By way of example: Nettles sting. You have two options. You put on gloves, pull the nettles and make them into tea or compost OR cry at your initial blisters.
Need a handkerchief, nay, a tissue to wipe your tears of indignation? Look no further. You may cut me off. I am here. Always ready to engage. Even with the ninnies and the most delicate of divas in blogging land.
Hugs, hisses and kisses,
February 18, 2016
Dearest Sweetest Hearts,
What am I going to do if Trump wins? This is the question I asked the Angel two nights ago. Planet Earth will not be mine. But how do I get myself to the Moon or Mars or somewhere? Anywhere.
Obviously, both Looney and my father are in a better space to tell us about demagogues. I just sit here, cortisol levels rising.
The Angel has little patience with politics. Listening to him I feel better and wonder why I bothered to be born.
February 13, 2016
Among one of the worst bunches of my traits: There are people (make that men, women don’t care as long as I admire them) who think I think them stupid.
I take people as they come. What’s it to me that my landlord doesn’t understand the mechanics of damp? Nothing. That’s what. Shorten my life by a few years. As long as I don’t think you stupid the world is my sneeze.
My landlord told me I think him stupid. I don’t. I had never considered the matter of his intelligence. Nevertheless, he is miffed. Him being Italian complicating matters because, on one hand, Italians revere women – particularly if you are their mother. On the other? Well, on the other they are short tempered even when they are shorter (in length) than you. Never mind.
If you want affirmation as to your intelligence speak to my father. I don’t say this lightly because I despise name dropping as some people do to make themselves grander, BUT. But my father’s IQ is of the jaw dropping, hit the ceiling variety. Incidentally so is that of LSF (longest standing friend). And yours [that’s my readers’] possibly too. After all, why would I talk to people who don’t show me the errors of my ways?
Yes, so my father – and it was one of the more shocking, leaving a long lasting impression on me, moments of my youth: He pronounced (don’t ask) % of people “stupid”. Since I myself am not THAT stupid the first question popping into my mind: What constitutes “stupid”? It’s a big question, not easily answered. Not that it matters.
Before I rest my case: One of my favourite books features, and is told through the eyes of, the proverbial “village idiot”. He may be simple. Yet, stupid he ain’t.
Hugs, kisses, dashes, yours,
January 30, 2016
Whilst I do believe that colour does not beat the starkness of a black and white photograph I do have difficulty liking those who paint the world in black and white. Those who indulge in generalizing instead of taking their magnifying glasses to the particular.
Yes, the general and the particular. What a marvellous subject. Lending itself to all FACETS of life. Today, going the way of least resistance, I shall focus on the soft subject of dog and cat lovers.
Please note that I said ‘and’ NOT ‘versus’. There is no law to say that you have to be either or. Or can’t be both. Sure, we may have affinities. Men, mice. Some even keep hamsters. A friend and neighbour of mine used to. I can’t say I loved them (I loathe anything on a treadmill) but they were living things (not that they knew it) so I looked after them when friend was on holiday. Even when friend was not on holiday I’d get those blasted things over to my garden and let them chew the grass. I’d have preferred a sheep or a goat but friends can’t be choosers.
If I were technically as adept as all of you I’d now attach to this post a photo of my fifteen months old self and Pongo. Pongo was my first body guard, an Alsatian. Sitting, at my side and on his hind, taller than me. And yes, the picture is black and white. Which is just as well because Pongo’s fur was black and it was midwinter and the snow was very very very white.
Where were we? Cats and dogs. Animals. By temperament I’d say I prefer cats, for purely selfish reasons. Cats want nothing from you. They give (not least half dead prey put at your feet as a sign of affection) but that’s about it. Dogs? Dogs are takers. They – not by desire, by default – may look at you as the leader of the pack. Don’t let yourself be flattered so easily. As leader of the pack you are looked upon to provide. PROVIDE. Like what? Fun, entertainment, and, naturally, food. You are at their beck and call. And those eyes. Those EYES. Pleading, needy. That’s ok. I don’t mind pleading, needy, that’s what makes dogs human. But, for heaven’s sake, there is that never ending sorrow in a dog’s eyes. It’s why, and please shoot me now, why I firmly believe that those prone to the metaphorical black dog on your shoulder should not keep dogs. Keep a cat – if you must have a pet – instead. Cats are affectionate to the point of suffocating (me) yet they never expect you to throw a stick. And to reciprocate I never expect them to fetch it [the stick].
As an aside and whatever you do: Do not keep a gold fish. They are soul destroying (their own and yours).
Hugs and hisses,
January 23, 2016
Dearest Sweetest Hearts, and arseholes who too read my pourings and too lazy to say what you have to say, let’s assume that I have lived three thirds of my alloted time (loose roof tiles and car accidents notwithstanding): I am on the home stretch. Which is NOT sad. What is sad, and I can’t forgive myself, that I can’t leave passion, fire in my innards behind. I wish I were … I don’t know … indifferent. That’s it. Indifferent. Fuck most things, little touches me. Bliss. I am indifferent. Fat chance. The grail. I so wish, I so wish … what does it take to become a true Stoic, someone I define as not to be touched by anything (at least on the surface)? It ain’t going to happen.
In fact it’s so bad I am running a parallel blog. Not physically. In my mind. That blog is so full of venom, useful venom, truths you can only dream of. Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the what’s it of them all? Close contest. Most people are tender little plants. To name but two, the biblical Rachel and the Samaritan John of fanny flannel fame (which I find vaguely offensive since he is gay). That I haven’t ripped them apart in their blogs’ constant snivelling is a miracle only attributable to my upbringing, natural tact and that I don’t want them to set Sicilian bulldogs onto me. As long as amusement is mine, and it is, I shall keep that lid on my steam.
Thank you to all of you who gave thought to my last post’s lament. That I am still under the weather after last Sunday’s storm is an understatement. I lost a week in a haze of trying to reconcile reality with my concept (and expectation) of the world. I sometimes wish, indeed pray, I were different (entirely selfish because “different” in this context only means my less hurt/bleeding. Peace).
Slight reprimand to Jean whose riposte to Looney I found a little waspish: Looney is a learned man, Jean. I wouldn’t mind playing squash with him because I’d know from the outset I’d be in the corner by the end of it. Yes, Looney, in the wake of Epictetus you reminded me of an anecdote (same school – Zenos and Chrysippus) and since Jean is fond of dogs maybe appealing, and reconciling, to her too, and chiming in with your, Loony, mentioning the fates:
“The Stoics had an image with which to evoke our condition as creatures, at times able to affect change, yet always subject to external necessities: We are like dogs who have been tied to an unpredictable cart. Our leash is long enough to give us a degree of leeway, yet not long enough to let us wander wherever we please.”
January 18, 2016
Cheerful Monk aka Jean, a woman I respect for a number of reasons, asserted the following in her last post:
“I know some people who think life just happens, they don’t have much say in the matter. That attitude seems to work for them, but it’s against my nature to be that passive. … It’s more fun to be the painter than the paint.
If you want your story to be magnificent, begin by realizing you are the author, and every day is a new page
This last one points out how incorrigible I am, that at the age of 76, I still think I’m a creator in my life.
For me it’s a lot more fun than just being the paint.”
To which I replied in her comment box, and such is my purpose and sorrow that I vent same what I feel this moment on my own blog:
“My dear Jean, if only it were so easy. Yesterday (Sunday) evening, in a moment of misguided optimism and hope, I, the author of my life as you put it, took an initiative and “painted” and what did I end up with? A lot of paint on my face. So much paint on my face it will take a lot of resolve and tears to wash it off.
Say what you like: Sometimes we are at the mercy of others. And when we are at the mercy of someone else, you – the supposed editor of your life’s story – may take time off and go home early. Yes, I hit a brick wall. Hard.
I am devastated. Wish I could “re-write” that chapter of my life (into the future) but I can’t. Why? Because no man is an island. There are occasions, maybe few but nevertheless, where we are entirely dependent on someone else’s ability and willingness to communicate. And if that will isn’t there you may as well (metaphorically speaking) fill your coat pockets with stones and wade into water.”
December 16, 2015
This post is going to HURT. Me. Not you.
Do you actually know what it means to go out there, face your fellow men – and BEG? Don’t answer.
Yes, the season of good will. One week to go and I still haven’t procured the goose that – once upon a time – flew effortlessly, caressed by me, onto the laden table.
If anyone, ever and so smug, tells me that money doesn’t buy you happiness I’ll tell them to …
Such a happy life I believe to have led between the age of 19 and …
Now? For the last six/seven years? I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I were Virginia Woolf. I don’t mean the author. I am not given to being a writer. I love the word. I don’t need publicity. Yes, stones in your coat’s pockets and water. But, as a doctor recorded many years ago: “Won’t act on impulse on account of her son”.
Indeed. I believe all of us to be selfish to the core, yet there are limits as to what we do to others.
A fool I ain’t. The moment I committed to motherhood was the moment I realized that life wasn’t my own any more. Happy I had the guts to take the plunge.
Everything went swimmingly. Twenty four years down the line I fail. Put that into your assorted handkerchieves.