Bitch on the Blog

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

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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
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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

 

June 20, 2018

Bland

Filed under: Amusement,Pretentious Shit,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 12:57
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There are some truly idiotic sayings worming their existence into the communal psyche. Why do you think I rarely quote anyone? At this point I shall refrain from rolling my eyes at one particular blogger who repeats herself over and over and over, using the same quote. Albeit her quoting herself. Which is something. Nevertheless, I have come to avoid her and her staple like the plague. Yes, so bitching out of the way, here is a fake pearl:

“The way you do anything is the way you do everything.” I shall spare the author blushes by not naming him.

Is that true for you, dear readers? Certainly not for me. I am a pretty thorough and meticulous person which doesn’t stop me from being slapdash to the point of negligence where and when I feel the end result, and how I get there, doesn’t matter. Don’t press me for an example. Which in itself is an illustration.

Eerie. Had strange deja vu: Have I touched on this subject before? The moment I start repeating myself (without good cause) will be the moment I retire from life. Keep me on my toes.

U

June 17, 2018

Rachel, the Exterminator

“Annihilate” the Germans? I’d watch my language, Rachel, if I were you.

Deleted yours,
U

 

June 13, 2018

Imprint

Filed under: Adults,Amusement,Children,Family,Fun — bitchontheblog @ 12:09
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Just came across an article (not in the English press) about that sweet pain you feel when, as an adult, you tread, barefoot and in the dark, on a piece of Lego – or some such. A pain that I have never encountered despite being a devoted mother.

The article then goes on about how to make a child’s room tidy. Tidy? What is it with adults and TIDY? Strange when you think about it: An artist is excused for paint and canvas flying all over the place, professors are expected to be scatter brained putting the goose into the fridge instead of the oven, writers if pressed won’t know what time of the day it is never mind the day, yet children have to be tidy. I will expand on the outrageous demands being made on children another time.

In the meantime I remember my father once walking into the room my sister and I deemed our empire (in today’s prat lingo – private space). If my sister were five then I was eleven. So he came into our room. Nothing untoward till he opened our cupboard. I remember the moment. The cupboard was painted baby blue and was about the height of a man slightly taller than my father.

Yes. Dreamy … Sunday afternoons are designed for fathers to find something to do.

It was one of the more astonishing moments of my childhood when he turned over the cupboard, decanting all our precious belongings into the middle of the room, amounting to a heap of epic height, putting the (now empty) cupboard back upright and told us to TIDY up (in the motherland’s lingo it sounds more frightening).

I don’t think either of us cried. More like, we thought “What a ….” Not of course that either of us spoke English at the time or had the vocabulary to put what seemed a little OUT of ORDER into words.

Inspection two hours later most satisfactory.  For him.

U

 

June 7, 2018

Nerve Centre

Sometimes I wish I were given to headaches. They are a marvellous excuse to retreat from life when it gets heavy. You just lie in a darkened room. Come to think of it that’s probably why I don’t have headaches. The thought of lying in a darkened room with nothing to do not appealing to me.

My first mother’s-in-law choice of weapon to shut up her brood and her husband were sudden, if predictable, onsets of migraine. Not that I doubted her migraines. I didn’t. I have seen migraines in action, not least one of my colleagues (I was her sidekick) working in her darkened office, tears involuntarily streaming down her face with the pain of it.

Alas I am not [given to headaches]. I remember two; what’s called tension headaches, in my early twenties, in quick succession. They were amazing. My head in some sort of crushing my skull vice grip. Nearly pushing me over the edge. I’d have killed (a fly) for some morphine.

What brought on this sudden thought of headaches? Maybe my quest for eighty days in the desert. After serving life in blogland. If only I weren’t such a people person I’d love a silent retreat. But then, I suppose, being self employed, leading a nine to five solitary life, solitude which I have cherished from my earliest childhood, I engage with people more than people who are drowned in people.

Tell me about your headaches. Real, imagined, metaphorical ones. In absence of any of the above, toothache will do. Backache. Pain in the neck. Stubbed toe.  Pulled muscle. Which reminds me: Last night, bloody hell, one of my calves took it upon itself to remind me of its existence. What a cramp!

U

 

June 6, 2018

Sardines

Early this evening I cut off seven heads. I then gutted the bodies. Butterflied them by gently pressing my hand down the back of their spine and removing same, namely their backbone. And, no, I did’t call any of them Nick by the time they were spineless. I doused them with hot smoked pepper and fried them in olive oil. Served with Padron peppers and other full in your face delicacies.

Yes, sometimes you need to bloody your hands before stuffing your face. Admittedly I only do this with fish. Possibly because, when very very very young (between the age of five and later) I went fishing with my grandfather. First we dug dewy earth and caught the early morning’s worm. Then we set out. On a rowing boat.  In the middle of the (small) lake he’d cast the line. And we’d wait. Quietly. Smiling at each other in conspiracy. I think watching my grandfather reeling in fish of some size – giving a little slack, reeling in, giving a little slack, reeling in, slack, patience and calm – is how I learned to conduct my relationships.

Back at the shore, bucket with fish unloaded, poured onto the grass, my grandfather showed me how to kill. Tool being a piece of fairly substantial wood. Essentially, a bit like Agatha Christie and the butler in the library, a wack at a precise spot just below the back of the head the most benign way to be dispatched if you are a fish. After the gutting, it was over to my grandmother to fry them into a feast. Happy memories.

Six of tonight’s fish heads looked resigned to their fate, Zen like. Number seven looked astonished (mouth wide open). Know how he felt. Whilst I tend to keep my mouth shut other than when smiling (default mode) I too am astonished at times what life has in store for you.

U

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