Bitch on the Blog

March 21, 2017

Why, oh why, oh why

As I currently appear to be in questioning (if not questionable) mode here is another one to make you, my dear Readers, blush:

What do you remember as one of the more embarrassing moments of your life? Obviously, all of us are spoiled for choice, and some episodes best taken to the grave, never to see the light of day. Others? Other embarrassments may make (some time in a far away future) a passable anecdote.

And yes, before you scroll back, I DID say that ALL of us (no use denying it) are spoiled for choice – and I say this as someone who is NOT easily embarrassed. As they say “Shit happens”, so, and being conceited as I am, I am reconciled to the human condition. However, when I do embarrass myself, boy oh boy, no half measures taken, no hole to swallow me in the near vicinity, I do wonder why this mortal coil of a life is peppered with snares to get trapped in.

It also makes for a rather interesting exercise in time travel, not least when you learn that some people were elephants in a previous life; they never forget, and have amazing ability to cut you down shorter than to size by casually mentioning something that happened ages ago.

In the short space it took me to type the above, my life of embarrassing episodes has flashed past me and I feel a little hot under the collar. It’s why the prospect of someone writing your biography once you are dead and therefore unable to put the record straight is pretty daunting. OH MY GOD. Actually tempts me, rarely – but it does, to put it all down on paper myself. Except, of course, who wants to relive that which is best forgotten?

Please don’t be shy. As so often, I will reveal myself in reply to you. If that sounds like a trade off – it isn’t. It’s my ingenious way of hiding my tree among bushes, in the hope no one notices.

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

March 3, 2017

Trilling

Filed under: Amusement,Communication,Dizzy,Exasperation,Fun,manners — bitchontheblog @ 16:59
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In the wake of my last post, and your assorted favoured instruments doing what instruments do (who’ll provide the crescendo?) I will throw my own screech into the ring. Namely the chatterbox.

Don’t dismiss the chatterbox and come to me with bland spoutings of silence is golden” (though it is, and one of the reasons I rarely listen to music when working, instead spending most my life enveloped in relative silence). What’s the other one put forward by those who have little to say, yet trying to justify being a little vacant? “I am a good listener”. Really? How about being a good conversationalist? You know, like ping pong, a game of (table) tennis? Back, forth, back, forth … Then, naturally, and it’s a pet hate of mine, and was amply targeted at me by a woman of questionable integrity and even less brain matter and now having run out of steam: “The empty kettle makes the loudest noise.” What eludes the poor sausage that repeating the same saying again and again doesn’t make her (or the saying) any more interesting or true. She’d have been better advised to fill her own kettle. At least, at boiling point, she’d have made a hissing sound instead of just running dry.

Yes, so, once a chatterbox, always a chatterbox. It’s a gift. Trust me. I have drawn people out of themselves who consider themselves tongue tied, particularly on the phone (yes, phone phobics are my speciality). Of course, one could and would and possibly should agree with one of my sisters who once said to me, tartly: “There is no such thing as a short (telephone) conversation with you, is there?”. She was cross with me at the time, and also right. There isn’t such a thing as a short telephone conversation with me. Not even when you are phoning from a callcentre. I have made friends with people in call centers, weeping at my far removed shoulder, thanking me for talking to them as if they were part of the human race, not just doing a shitty job.

Yes, chatterbox. Like any instrument you need to fine tune it (a bit like Lorna’s and Shoshanah’s much desired singing voices and/or bodies) and Maria’s hardening finger tips. I once did stop in my tracks when FOS (father of son) suggested it might be less time consuming (for him) if I stuck to written communication which, apparently though not evidenced by this post, tends to be concise and to the point. I interpreted it as a sort of a backhander of a compliment.

Anyway, and then I shut up, you will suffer, like with any art, for refining your powers as Ms Chatterbox. Not least because you tempt people into lying to you. One hour on, they’ll tell you someone is at the door, the dog has died or whatever a suitable excuse may be to get me off the blower.

Apropos of nothing: Today John told someone (not me) that he (the other) was a “tit”. I have been wondering: Obviously what is a tit to a suckling baby, and a singing bird to the enthusiast, is someone else’s arse. Or some such.

U

February 25, 2017

Impetus

Filed under: Amusement,Philosophy — bitchontheblog @ 22:41
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Ask me a question or two. Anything will do. If I can I will answer them though won’t necessarily be able to do so; but that’s not the point. Think of it as stoking a fire.

U

February 5, 2017

The eye of the beholder

Filed under: Amusement,Formalities,Future,Peace — bitchontheblog @ 17:27
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I wish Trump were easier on the eye. It wouldn’t make anything better but at least I wouldn’t feel vaguely repulsed every time (which is all the time) I am forced to set eye on the man. Also, he needs a stylist. That thumb touching forefinger forming a circle aka hole does nothing for his allure. Only to repulse further by echoing the shape of his permanently open (and round) mouth. It was therefore with some glee when I came across mention of some fossil. All mouth, no anus.

I recently mentioned somewhere that America’s then-just-about-to-become First Lady looked like a rabbit caught in the headlight. This was, naturally, as is her wont, immediately being taken as a criticism of Melania by someone who – a few moons ago – managed to take a mega dislike to me which isn’t as remarkable as it sounds. The person in question doesn’t appear to like anyone much, not even herself. Fact is, Melania did look like a rabbit caught in the headlight during the inauguration. Pays to pay attention to body language. And what do you know: It’s now all on youtube. No wonder the boy, Barron, looked excruciatingly awkward too.

That Trump has (supposedly) small hands is not his fault or doing. So, STOP going on about it. Having said that, and no use denying it, there is and always has been folklore about what people’s features say about them. For instance, my father warned me about men whose earlobes are not well defined. Can’t remember what it meant. But it wasn’t good. Then there are the thick necked. Which, whilst not particularly attractive, does, for obvious reasons, come in handy if you aspire to become a professional wrestler. What else? Hair. Hair is a matter of pride. And you may joke about the hamster on Trump’s head but what would he look like if he let his scalp go commando? Mussolini?

Other than that I am confident that Angela Merkel will not hold hands with Trump. Unlike Theresa May (with an ‘h’ omitted by the current administration).

And, just now, “the US president has expressed no desire to speak in Westminster Hall, or another venue within parliament.” You don’t say. What an opportunity to miss to make a complete ass of himself. AGAIN. As long as he slurps his tea with the Queen and assures her that he’ll make America GREAT, AGAIN, all will be fine.

Mind you, the Angel pointed out and, as much as it pains me, he is right that whatever Trump’s shortcomings may be he sure has shaken the world and woken even those given to political inertia. If that’s Trump’s only legacy it’ll be swell.

U

January 24, 2017

Wildlife

Filed under: Amusement,Animals,Questions — bitchontheblog @ 16:06
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Being a practical person I search for solutions. In absence of which an answer may suffice.

Here is a question. I’ll paint you the scenario: I just picked a book (off my well tended and regularly and lovingly dusted bookshelves) and opened it. So far so great. Like meeting an old friend. You pick up where you left off; revisiting the past.

And then? AND THEN? Then, and no sooner had I opened page 172, one of those tiny little critters shoots out of it, hurtling along, no doubt not knowing what to do with exposure to daylight.  Let’s leave aside that I never knowingly disturb anyone, I’d not even dream to raise the dead; however, and this is the question: What is the actual purpose of “beings” like that? What do they add to the world – ours and theirs? On the bright side they don’t bore holes into your books, they don’t sting, they don’t make any noise, they don’t defecate (as far as I can tell); they just are. What for?

U

January 5, 2017

Cold turkey

Some people do seek, or are advised to do so, aversion therapy. I don’t.

Why? Because, other than the usual candidates, I am averse to little. Particularly not people. I never tire of them. Not even bloggers (with potential) whose blogs I comment on who can’t be arsed to enter a civilized discussion (two at the current count). I take their idiocies in my patient stride. They may “block” me and my comments as often as they like (showing themselves up as the wastes-of-time I keep telling myself they are). And yet. What do I do? Keep going. Which is why I need aversion therapy in reverse.

Any suggestions, words of wisdom?

U

December 31, 2016

Caution and the wind

This entry is inspired by Cro Magnon. He is an Englishman. No, not in New York; in France. If you are into growing your own food, dogs and questionable political views please do visit his blog. He is, unlike some, also a gentleman. One may say “refined”, with a, as yet small, dose of “ennui” thrown in.

Yes, so in one of his recent posts he brought to my attention a bit of folklore. Namely that when eating your first mince pie of the season you should  make a wish. This was news to me. But felt immediate relief that I hadn’t yet had THAT mince pie. If I’d had  I’d have wasted a good opportunity. He also, more or less, guarantees that that wish will come true. Marvellous. If I were five years old I couldn’t have been more excited.

Now the crux sets in – and when the Angel took me on a magical walk in the New Forest and to one of his favourite spots, on Boxing Day, I related one of his mother’s shortcomings to him. Remember Boxing Day is on the twenty sixth of December. I still hadn’t had my FIRST mince pie. Why? Sweethearts, it’s simple. There are times in life when I will dither. Whilst once upon a time (BC – Before Cro) I would have eaten mince pies with abandon, his innocent piece of information made me enter dangerous territory. What should I wish for?  I am spoilt for choice. Will I, by accident, wish for something idiotic (think of the fisherman, his wife – and they had THREE wishes – and how that ended up a bit of a disaster and a massive disappointment)?

I wouldn’t call myself indecisive but when it comes to wishes one can’t be too careful. So, naturally, and being risk averse, I keep postponing the moment. As I was relating to him this new found anxiety the Angel smiled. Ok, I said. I’ll take my life into my hands – bury me later -, on our return home we’ll have the first mince pies of the season. In separate rooms if need be.

Imagine my surprise when, back at the ranch, I rifled through the cupboards and couldn’t find any. I “knew” I’d bought them. Not least because they were on my shopping list. Nope. No mince pies. I even checked all my receipts. No mince pies. One wonders how the subconscious plays little practical jokes on us. Don’t quite know what to make of it. Should I be glad that I didn’t tempt fate? Should I curse fate that I missed a chance? Obviously I could just curse myself. In which case I’d need a mince pie to undo my curse. Where to go from here?

31st December greetings,

U

November 19, 2016

Solid

I don’t like “flimsy”. Bound to leave you freezing. Like flimsy excuses. The see through type blowing in the wind and many a hole. Worse – flimsy reasoning. Where reasoning has fled discourse before it has had a chance to get a foothold.

Despite coming from a long line of the artistically gifted indeed earning a living off their talents, I couldn’t paint you a thing to save myself from being drowned in a tube of Titanium White. However, and I am the only one surprised, the other day I came across a pile of caricatures – all done by my own fair hands ca. when I was about eighteen. OH MY GOD. The girl who, just like during her PE lessons, eschewed the marathon (ie pain staking painting) for the sprint (a pencil swift glimpse of someone how I saw them). Well, insert self indulgent sigh, nothing much has changed. Except that that pencil doesn’t draw as much as scribbles. Which, as the years march on, brings me to a neat though not welcome by others conclusion: The word is indeed mightier than the sword. Where people tend to be mildly amused at being “caricatured” in pencil, they sure don’t like it when that same pencil strings together letters, words, sentences, paragraphs – no more acerbic. Few recognize benign.

U

November 4, 2016

Know your onions

Filed under: Amusement,Food — bitchontheblog @ 14:12
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As posts go my last was a flop.

Before I threw myself on the line yesterday evening I had sliced an onion, nay two, very finely AND I did NOT cry. My tear ducts were as unmoved as Salome’s when John’s head was presented to her on a silver platter.

Which made me take note.

The absence of eye water throwing up my existential question, namely, how many years and onions it takes before you stop crying. I did a quick calculation, more of which in a moment.

Magpie proceeds to tell me – at length – how to cut an onion. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I slept it over. In the morning Ramana – as only assorted Asians can – advised me to pay someone to do my dirty work for me. Leaving aside that I enjoy cutting onions and making my own bed, it shows you a cultural difference. On a finer note he adds that – having cut many an onion – I should be able to AFFORD someone to do it for me. My dear Ramana, I can barely afford myself. Never mind anyone else.

So, working on a rough average per day and taking the years into account, my mental arithmetic serving me well, I’d say so far over my lifetime I have diced, cubed, sliced, grated, quartered and generally battled and enjoyed doing so somewhere between 14,600 and 19,900 onions.

U

 

 

 

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