I cannot claim that I do understand ‘Karma’. Karma being a concept put forward, most kindly, by some of my blogging friends.
To me it sounds vengeful. And misguided. We do what we do in life. And have to live with the consequences. The fall out. End of story.
U
I stem from a cluster of countries deeply steeped in mythology, fairy tales and associated forests. Tell me about it. Then I followed one of Grimm’s (!) tales, left home and learnt how not to fear.
There is a belief that a noticeable cleft in the middle of your chin (underneath the mouth for those of you who need a map) denotes temper. Thus found more often in men than women. I am a woman and I do have cleft in my chin. Not a Grand Canyon. But a cleft nevertheless. According to Wikipedia (aren’t they just such fountain of often misguided knowledge) a common feature in people of Germanic and Eastern European extraction. What that’s got to do with lab rats? After all – Russians are famed for throwing glasses over their shoulders. Which I am sure has more to do with Vodka than a cleft in their chin. And the Greek smash crockery at a wedding. Don’t get married.
U
Some years ago (not that many) a fine specimen of a woman told me she ‘knew’ people. Who would break my legs.
Having watched all episodes of “The Godfather” I didn’t so much as believe her but did weigh the risks. People will do crazy shit over nothing. And I don’t even own a horse.
My point being? My point being that I leave things alone. I don’t sue.
I don’t shy conflict. But there needs to be a purpose to following up wrong. And, most times, there is no purpose. None whatsoever. Other than to prolong the senseless. I’d rather lose a lot of money than quibble over one Pound Sterling.
Having said that: That woman I wish all the misfortune that fate may have in store for her. The lot. I hate meanness. It’s an unforgivable sin in my book. And that woman was so mean as to drive me to the brink. Not of sanity. Just to the brink.
So, you lot out there, those believing in Karma: Will come around what goes around? I doubt it. So very much.
Other than that I wish I were Sicilian. She’d have another thing coming. Nothing deadly. Just another thing. Being given a taste of her own medicine.
U
The human body is perverse (as in ‘contrary to what is expected’).
A few years ago I went to my doctor. Perturbed that I had tears rolling down my cheeks even when as happy as the infamous Larry. Dry Eye Syndrome he said. This is what I love about life: Dry Eye Syndrome and your eyes overcompensate by flooding. You can’t beat nature, can you? How often have I wondered why God (the guy with all the time in the world) was in such a rush. Seven days? One of them rest? No wonder design faults crept in. Imagine he’d taken more time: Life would be perfect.
U
Rules (who makes them?) are a landmine you stand on at your peril.
Sometimes I wish I owned ‘Debrett’. Then I would RE-write the rules. Obviously I’d keep the chapter in about how to address people with titles. Mainly because I don’t have a clue and have to look it up myself. Dear Sir doesn’t cut the mustard. Funny about the English: On one hand they are informal, on the other they are so formal as to amounting to ‘anal’. I myself blame boarding schools so popular here. If you send your child away at age eight don’t be surprised at the outcome.
Take names. The English think nothing of addressing you by your first name . You only met them a minute ago. They don’t even ask. There are hoards of English people if you asked me what their surname is I’d draw a blank. Haven’t got a clue. I don’t particularly mind. Mainly because I really don’t care what anyone calls me. Call me Ingrid if you must. As did the head of an airline company I did a short stint at. To him I was Ingrid. Fine. Whatever. To my mother-in-law I was Marlene Dietrich. And before any of you start calling me Ingrid (in an attempt to be mischievous) don’t: It’s one of my middle names so it won’t needle me. What’s the other one? HA! Let’s just say it’s not Gertrude.
This is the point in this post where I have to decide which way to go. It’s the trouble with free style writing. Or what GG (who called me rather sweetly ‘Urse’) would refer to as Urse’s ‘river of consciousness’. May the damn burst.
It’s why I love the discipline of essay writing. You can’t just be all over the place. Well, you can. But it would make crappy reading. Some of you, not least Renee, know how important it is to structure any piece of formal writing. Like a general you need a plan. No good to just invade Poland nilly willy. Same with architects. They even have ‘plan chests’. I am no architect. But I’d love to have a plan chest. Found a beauty, a few years ago, just at the moment when my bank manager was forced to withdraw his favours because computers now override a personal decision. I felt for him. Talk about being emasculated.
Yes, some people look at a Mink coat, I look at a plan chest with longing in my heart. Though, admittedly, I once did look at a white Mink coat too (Koenigs Allee, Duesseldorf). It wasn’t the price tag which was stirring. It was the sheer beauty of it. Still remember the moment. That it was at night only added to dramatic effect. It’s one of the reasons I love the film “Pretty Woman”. When Richard Gere gives Julia Roberts free rein on his credit cards it’s nothing to do with money at all. It’s that most delicious feeling of being taken care of. The last sentence will go down well with feminists. But it’s not about feminism, it’s about chemistry, order of nature. Says the woman you’ll have to hold down to accept so much as a compliment – graciously.
So, Sweethearts, the above is a fine example how to be all over the place, not stick to one subject, but imitate the gushing of a steep mountain waterfall in Bavaria.
It was 0303 hrs GMT when I wrote the above. Then I forgot. And yes, thanks for asking: I had slept and was as good as new. Now the day has worn on.
U
“When one door closes another one falls off”. My sentiment entirely.
Not as bad as it sounds. Like a cat chasing her own tail I am easily entertained.
U
I am torn, as one is, between various news stories today. Which, if any, to cover?
Male contraception has reared its ugly and long dead head once more. It won’t work. If I were commissioned to do a feasiblity study on the notion I wouldn’t even lift my pen.
First hurdle: Men tend to be quite protective of their spraying themselves widely. It’s nature.
Secondly: I, woman, would never ever trust a man to take care of matters maternal. If I, woman, don’t want to become pregnant I’d rather take care of it myself.
Mind you, having said that: I am the mother of a son. And I dearly hope that, until he is ready, his destiny (and that of his child) won’t be left to careless abandon of a woman. Which still doesn’t make me think that the male pill is a good idea.
U
Sweethearts, as you know I am not exactly given to being explicit. My tongue being my sharpest weapon.
Yet, heads do have to roll. Mainly because they are empty.
So I read this utter drivel about women and their sex life. Can’t fucking believe it.
Let’s just all go home and start again. Without prejudice. Legally speaking that is.
U
I believe my father being fond of me. Which doesn’t stop him from telling me home truths. To the ouch factor.
Was reminded of this by some news item just now of a driver going up the motorway the wrong way. Where I come from that’s no news. Or only in as much as if you are on the Autobahn your radio station will warn you of what my country quaintly calls ‘ghost driver’. Indeed. That’s why I never take for granted, particularly when on foot, that people will know a one way street/road when the traffic sign, ignored, hits them in the face. Looking right and left always applies. Otherwise you might end up as roadkill.
Where was I? My father. It was hurtful though he was probably right when decades ago he observed that if his daughter Ursula listened to the traffic news (whilst driving) “Be careful of ghost driver on the …” she’d say: “What do they mean? ONE. There are hundreds.” Yes.
U
How times change. One minute – which is most my life – I prefer to do everything myself. The next, like now, I wish I had staff. Personal assistant, a cleaner. My hairdresser. Someone to pluck my eyebrows. A chauffeur. Anything and everybody. Just do it. Please.
If I had 48 hours in every day it would be easier. Not because I’d have more time. But because I need more time. Not least to warm up to every day’s tasks.
We all have reveries. I have many. This minute I just want an army of people who do.
Yes. That’s a nightmare pricked.
U
Bitch on the Blog 