Bitch on the Blog

May 4, 2017

All is well

This morning I woke with a sense of foreboREdom. Don’t believe a word of it.

Package it as you like. I woke with a sense of doom. I didn’t so much have a head rush (when you get up from your seat too quickly), I was positively faint with my heart racing me to death’s door. Nothing unusual in that: Healthy specimen that I am, my body has always played out my psyche to its soma. I am sure there is a reason we have a solar plexus. If only to keep us nauseous.

Anyway, as usual, my optimism was surpassed by reality three hours later. And to think I nearly cancelled the appointment because I didn’t trust my balance to make it.

Never mind. It’s not the end of the world. And I’ll live – just in case you were hoping I’d leave you alone any time soon. I won’t. I won’t see you for dust. Or, maybe, I’ll see you, myself and the rest of the world more clearly. Which would be good, a great relief and a great saver of wasted energy.

Made me think, on my way back, how hope makes you postpone the evil moment. Because, as long as you don’t hold eye contact with reality, there is always that chimera “Hope”. I know people who have wasted their whole lives waiting in hope which, essentially – and please do contradict me if you think otherwise – constitutes the con of all cons.

Onwards and upwards,

U

March 16, 2017

Appearances

Filed under: Accuracy,Bureaucracy,Errors,Family,Future,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 20:39
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Let me bore you, and ask you as, no doubt, have done so before: What’s in a name?

I don’t mean surnames. From a woman’s point of view and/or if you were born out of wedlock, your father later marrying your mother, you may have had as many surnames as me, namely a few. I will not beat Liz Taylor’s record as I am not the marrying kind.

So, first names. How did you come by your first name? If any of you have already told me, that’s fine. I am more than happy to be told the same story many a time. Repetition is what anchors an anecdote in one’s mind.

Myself? I am rather in love with the story how I became an Ursula. All down to my beloved grandmother who registered my birth. My mother’s preferred choice would have caused me no end of pain. She registered her second daughter under the name she wanted to give me. Which is why I am a little bear and my sister is a rock. Not as in reliable, but as in immovable. Stone. Hard as nails. She was followed by our brother, named after “The Great”, and Cornelia, our youngest, who feels short changed to this day. What Cornelia doesn’t understand that someone does have to be the youngest – even if you were part of quadruplets. Perish the thought.

So, please do indulge me and tell me, if you know or at least have an inkling, how you came by your first name. Why you love it, hate it, are indifferent to it. What you’d name yourself if you could be arsed to apply for a name change. What was your name shortened to if at all? No guess what our very own Nick’s of “here and now” fame complete name is. And, last but, not least: Were you given a nickname? By whom? And why?

U

 

 

March 14, 2017

Vision

The other day I was forced to have my passport photo taken. I am most certainly not eye candy to the lens – as we all know some people photograph better than others, yet the question springing to mind: Why does EVERYone look like a criminal on a passport photo?

Don’t deny it. Don’t flatter yourself when lovingly gazing at your very own passport photo: You do look like a criminal. Maybe a petty thief rather than a fully blown bank robber – but still worthy of locking up for five minutes. Even the Angel does. And he photographs well. My sister does too – you could put her into a black bin liner and she’d still photograph well. A bit like David Bowie.

Completely lost my thread. That comes from writing long intros before getting to the point. I’ll get back to you once I am up to speed again.

And before I forget even more: You know WHY I look complete shite on a passport photo? Because NOW you are NOT supposed to smile any longer. My smile is my most important USP. I dare say my smile will let me off murder – even if it were in a court with the jury entirely female. I wish all future border control agents good luck. If you showed me my passport photo I’d only be able to (barely) identify myself by my eyes. The rest may go into the shredder.

U

October 13, 2016

Munch’s Scream

Having been brought up on folklore and fairy tales to bursting point and lasting as fodder for my nightmares (and dreams) a life time I sometimes wonder about “sayings”.

Today’s is “walking in some else’s shoes”. Having a lot of imagination and empathy by the bucket load, I flatter myself that I do not need to walk in someone else’s shoes to understand. Ha. Never overestimate your abilities. You may have a clue, a bit like finding your way through fog. You will get lost in the woods.

In absence of any other diversion I have just tried to imagine what a rat, indeed any animal (or human), feels when forced into a corner. Main thing, I suppose, is to have your back against the wall. That way you face the horrors in pursuit of you full on; better than being stabbed in the back. Similar, I imagine, to drowning. You know it’s happening and, in absence of a lifeline, for a few minutes in your life, you’ll have certainty.

Ray of sunshine greetings,

U

October 10, 2016

Check, Mate

One of the joys of a language being your second is that you give meaning to words and phrases only you understand.

Let’s leave aside my coquettish, and for years, saying “prawn to something” instead of prone. You have to be a foreigner to enjoy that little play. British humour aside, they don’t get it.

Anyway, I grew up – yesterday – and now know how not to be stupid beyond my capabilities.

U

September 7, 2016

Count me out

Filed under: Accuracy,Amusement,High Finance,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 22:39
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Some of my reading is frustrating. Why? Because it states the obvious.

So, for instance I learnt, and don’t shoot the messenger because the message is blindingly clear: We have twenty four hours a day. Well, obviously and because I am extra special, I do have twenty FIVE hours –  but that’s delusion for you. For all I know I am dead already and will live till eternity eats itself inside out.

Yes, so twenty four hours a day are the great equalizer. Rich man, poor woman. Squander at your leisure, work yourself into a lather. Doesn’t matter. Twenty four hours every day. Regardless. By way of non sequitur: In the olden days we were told that even Kings and Queens had to go to the toilet.

If twenty four hours a day for everyone is meant to be comforting, it isn’t. As capital goes there is no interest. Which in itself is no problem as long as the capital is not likely to be exhausted. And don’t fool yourselves by punishing your body going for endless runs or whatever is your poison to keep you from falling apart.

Once upon a time I had an egg timer. After some years of vague and irrational irritation every time I used it I got rid of it. Keeping an eye on all that sand (five minutes) running at the rate of knots was unnerving.

Hard boiled yours,

U

September 5, 2016

Error

Filed under: Accuracy,Communication,Errors,Formalities,Integrity,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 12:49
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I shouldn’t have published yesterday’s post which is why, this morning, I decided to take it down. Not that that’ll necessarily stop me from putting it back for public viewing.

The reasons I did so are many fold.

Firstly, my post gave a more than usual glimpse into my personal life, expecting – possibly – too much from my readers in return.

Secondly, as so often, and it is not the first time I  have noticed this, virtually all commentators (there are exceptions) will latch onto ONE aspect of any post. In this case there were many facets to one of my life’s worst scenarios, with consequences reaching far further than my own self. And that was why I responded to Ramana more sharply than I would have ordinarily done (apologies, Ramana). Why I felt dismissed by Cheerful Monk and therefore reacted a little too hastily to her too.

Thirdly, and this links in with the above,  as some of you pointed out there is a back story. I do not think that revealing the backstory (I can’t do that in a public place) would help my agony aunts and uncles that much to give me advice on, say, how to resolve a Catch 22. And that is what it is. In fact, it’s better than that. I am caught up in the perfect Catch 22. 

As to your suggestions of involving a third party. That is an almost guaranteed way to backfire. As soon as you involve a third party in any subterfuge (even the most benign with no evil intent) you can bet your bottom dollar sooner or later it’ll ooze out like pus out of a wound. Been there (at the receiving end). Few people can keep their mouth shut, and that’s a fact. How many times in my life have I been “accused” of being secretive. Well, there is a reason for it. And the last time I forgot my own resolve it landed me in a hole I am still in. Six years on.

I can see where this post is going. Down a rather agitated and emotional road to nothing. Forgive me.

Some of the questions I brought up were general ones: Like, do we (as a spouse) always have to toe the line? Why – as soon as people get hitched – do they suddenly lose their own identity, become as one? To become as one, spiritually and when bringing up a family, is commendable but that doesn’t mean curtailing someone else’s freedom of movement, choice of friends. I will pick up on this subject in a separate post from a slightly different angle. See how that’ll resonate with you.

Anyway, thank you all for your patience, for trying, for taking an interest at all, not least a friend who didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say it. A special mention to Looney. Thank you so much, Looney, for making me laugh with your brilliant and humourous take on this whole sorry saga. That laugh was the first ever in this context. For that alone I’ll probably reinstate my previous post.

Hugs,

U

August 4, 2016

Beast, no beauty

Filed under: Accuracy,Amusement,Beauty,Errors,Now — bitchontheblog @ 17:43
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From a lay woman’s view. and please don’t slaughter me, we have one option.

And one only. What (for sake of argument) you lack in looks you have to make up by personality. Be it wit, charm, intelligence, warmth, empathy, generousity (of heart and mind). Anything redeeming like, say, being able to tell a good story. If push comes to shove, cook up a storm.

Yes, so you have to make up for your shortcomings. Not least when you are a man. It’s one thing to be short. It’s another to be Dustin Hoffman, Danny de Vito, Woody Allen (I particularly like the woody bit), Al Pacino, and even Robert Redford I don’t imagine to be tall.

I won’t mention names because people get arrested on fewer charges but there is one currently in the limelight on the world’s stage who is undesirable on every imaginable count. I don’t WATCH the news, mainly because I am no voyeur, find them tedious and drawn out where the written front page is concise and you can scan those news at a pace you are comfortable with. But even not watching the news will not allow me escape THE VISAGE. Someone somewhere today suggested that he who shall remain unnamed wears a mask. To be pulled off. Chance being a fine thing. Some people actually do look how they look. And that’s before we measure a hand span.

Wait till you are at his feet.

U

 

 

August 2, 2016

Rhyme, reason, sense

Filed under: Accuracy,Dizzy,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 12:19
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I could have also named this post, which I did by accident, “Thyme, season and dense”. Same difference.

 

Working in research rarely delivers surprises.

I started a blog post with the above one sentence a couple of days ago, only to abandon it as, no doubt, the phone rang or something. Flow diverted like water by a dam.

“Working in research rarely delivers surprises”. Well, you could have fooled me but I take my word for it.

Please do let me know if you ever find yourself in mysterious snake pits of your own thinking’s not so easily negotiated labyrinth.

U

 

July 18, 2016

Snapshot in time, Take Two

I love photographs, those of my life, the Angel’s and those of others’ lives. To me a photo is pure magic – a snapshot in time.

I pour over them, and each tells a story. I believe the oldest I have is of my maternal great grandparents, taken in 1895. My beloved grandmother was born a year later. Judging by his moustache my great grandfather could have been Nietzsche’s  younger brother. To look at the image of two people you have never met, long dead, yet without whom I wouldn’t be here. They had five children – four daughters, one son. Though why they bothered to have a boy is anyone’s guess. In the end he was just young fresh meat cannon fodder. As indeed was my grandparents’ eldest son, Karlheinz, AFTER the end of the second world war. Prisoner of war. Russia. Couldn’t stand it any longer. Tried to flee the camp to go home. Shot in the back. He was younger than the Angel is now. The Angel being 24.

Mustn’t get carried away with nostalgia – though I do. If I were allowed to save one thing after all living beings were removed from the house on fire I’d take my treasure trove of photos.

I have done it again. Long intro. What I meant to convey, and please do let me know your own examples: A snapshot in time without holding your camera to it. Yet engraved in your memory forever.

Last time it happened to me was about a week or so ago. Caught up in my usual far away dreamy world, crossing the road on foot and on autopilot, a car passing stopped. The sun was shining. The driver leaned out of his open side window – a young man in his mid twenties, long blond hair, and his trademark big smile: Mama, he beamed.

And that, having been taken by surprise, frame was a snapshot in time. A perfect moment in time. That moment’s “frame” has etched itself onto my visual memory in an almost shocking clarity. It’s there. Like a photograph (not taken).

U

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