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 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 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 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 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 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

June 3, 2018

Good

Filed under: Amusement,Beauty,Earth,Nature — bitchontheblog @ 12:11
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Once a month we have a Farmer’s Market here, right at my doorstep. Prices are eye watering if you don’t have money. If you do [have money] it seems perfectly priced considering the amount of love, time and effort that goes into a jar of honey, the making of a loaf of bread, catching fish, growing a big fat pot of basil, making a hand raised pie.

Yesterday, there was a new addition among the stalls. Meadow flowers. I took one look, fled back upstairs and cried. Just a little. Meadow flowers. Some of you may have noticed that occasionally I refer back to my being four/five years old. That’s how it was yesterday morning. The memory of the meadows of my happy earliest childhood.

Once I’d composed myself I went back to the stall and picked a few stems, as one does in a meadow.

Happiness lies in the tiniest, most modest of small things. And sometimes happiness brings many a tear in its wake. The window sill along my desk now being my meadow. Little heads nodding in the slight summer breeze coming from the sea.

Sea: When I phoned my mother yesterday afternoon she indulged in her love of water, oceans in particular. She does paint such a picture of water, swimming in it, the smell of water. That we didn’t drown in the process only due to fact that she now lives close to a river. Then, in return, I painted her a picture of my beloved meadows.  It was only afterwards, and it made me laugh, that I realized that she was born under a water sign, and my feet are firmly rooted on earth. Indulge me.

U

 

May 22, 2018

Clive, well known

Filed under: Accuracy,Amusement,Communication,HumoUr — bitchontheblog @ 09:49
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And I thought I’d finally been able to put my Alternative Comment Box to rest. Alas those who complain about me the loudest and give me no room at their assorted blogging inns are the very ones who’ll keep it alive, come peace or high water. I suppose entertainment comes in many guises.

Yesterday, in one of my idle water cooler moments, I strolled over to spineless Nick’s blog. He proudly claims, what a man, that I do give his blog “a wide berth”. As achievements go I wouldn’t spout it from the roof tops, Nick. Doesn’t look good on your blogging CV.

On the whole I can take any blemish in anyone but backbone is a basic requirement to keep my interest afloat. Yes, so berth or not, my sail took me into Nick’s still backwater. To be fair, his blog does have some use. Mainly to amuse me for all the wrong reasons. And I wasn’t disappointed. Among comments left in reply to his last post you will find the following nugget:

“… PS one final remark – I’m only here because I picked up on some bizarre drama around a person with mental health issues on a bullying campaign to you and various other bloggers mainly from UK. I’ve had a good mooch around and all I can find is a wind-up fake account channeling through the title bitch on the blog. Which I think is being put out by a man called Clive who is well known and across the www for identical scam / troll like activities….”

So far so funny. Call me Clive. Well known. And beware; considering my “mental health issues” that some bloggers are so eager to speculate about, nay diagnose long distance, I’d be careful: Ever thought about which place offers itself to bury the hatchet some think I carry? 🙂 Don’t worry. There are limits as to what I sacrifice to low life. Time, yes. Prison and my conscience plaguing me? No. Instead I leave members of my fan club to shooting themselves in the foot. That’s why they barely have a leg left to stand on.

So, there I was, caged in by my mental health issues, trying to locate the hatchet so I can bury it, chuckling away at that priceless comment, the suspense of waiting for spineless Nick’s reply to the above comment sweetly killing me.

I made a bet with myself since there were only three ways it could go: Either Nick would take the comment seriously and agree, take the comment seriously and defend my honour, or take it for what I believe it to be, namely a bit of fun. My money was on Nick taking the comment seriously – because his imagination does have narrow limits, yet, despite his spinelessness, putting up some defense for me. Good job I kept my stake low. I lost. He took it seriously and gravely concurred, other than to the my being a man bit.

Oh, Nick. I know you aren’t the youngest chop on the blog but you really don’t get it, do you. Think about it: Someone posting under “Anonymous” (no blog), signing off with “John” satirizing my persona as perceived in the starved of wit Outer Siberia of Blogland. And both you and glitzy Bijou fell for it.

And no, Anon John wasn’t me though I wish it were because the idea and execution rather brilliant. I have a good inkling who is behind the joke but that is for me to cherish and for you to guess.

Hugs and hisses,

Call me Clive

 

 

 

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