Bitch on the Blog

September 9, 2017

Subterfuge

One of the more painful lessons, to me, as life marches on: Learning to bite my tongue.

I don’t think I have ever been needlessly tactless (well, two occasions come to mind – I blush to this day at how thoughtless I was); however I am outspoken. No more. I shall bite my tongue till it’s bled dry. Let my wasteland be your desert.

The beauty of thought that in the privacy of your skull you may think what you like. No one knows. Brilliant. Except that, as the social beings we are, we’d like to give a thought a voice. Yes, sad day, when you start weighing expenditure of energy against gain. Just nod. And say, “Yes, yes, of course”. Yes, yes, yes, yes … Or stay silent. Do not cast a shadow of even the slightest doubt over someone’s assertion. People don’t like it. I could tell you why they don’t like it. However, do remember, see above, I am learning to bite my tongue.

Of course, and that is why my self imposed curse of biting my tongue will last no more than this post, it’s no way to live. The most basic law of physics dictates that that there needs to be friction (think thunder and lightning) for there to be a spark.

U

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August 27, 2017

Exotic

Ramana mentioned pineapple in his last post. I am fond of pineapple. I even have a pineapple corer. One of those concoctions you screw down the center of a whole and fresh pineapple  to come away, well, with the core. Come to think of it, so fond of fruit am I, I have a melon baller too. Employed about an hour ago. I am attached to both my serrated tomato knife and my curved grapefruit one. You may say, a knife for all occasions, not least the butcher’s one I managed to slice my finger tips off with. Don’t worry. It didn’t hurt. Yes, that sharp it was. I just bled like a pig. Unnoticed by me till my guests pointed out red running down my apron. Nothing that A&E can’t fix. In fact, in A&E, they prefer the stupidly unaware like me to the drunk unawares with broken jaws and stuff. During the early hours of Saturday and Sunday morning.

One of the questions Ramana’s questionnaire put which pain the worst you ever endured. I don’t know.  Teeth spring to mind. Last time, can’t remember now exactly when, maybe two years ago, an abscess emerged from nowhere. One moment I was fine, the next morning the Angel told me I looked like “American Dad”. If you don’t know what American Dad looks like please don’t google him. He looks like a big man with a big chin. Still, his wife loves him.

Unlike my mother – who I believe uses the excuse of headaches to get herself out of scrapes – I never ever suffer headaches. There were two – a bit like migraine – in my early twenties, diagnosed as tension headaches. If tension is like finding your skull in a vice grip then, yes, they were definitely tension headaches. Sweethearts, you haven’t lived nor given birth to your first child till you have had a tension headache. Back in the motherland a colleague of mine, wired to the tune of perfection, had migraines, on and off. She’d sit at her desk, blinds down, room darkened, tears involuntarily running down her face. whilst battling on. Our boss would send her home habitually which, as her sidekick, used to put me into rather a spot.

Other than that, and back to pineapple, my first “real” boyfriend used to make his friends his one and only masterpiece (he was a painter among the rest of all the painters in our circle; one made it big, yes LSF – longest standing friend). T’s masterpiece? Hawaii Toast. Ham and pineapple. It was divine. Thomas killed himself in his early twenties. Pineapple didn’t feature. His father was a psychologist. His mother a little absent minded.

U

August 13, 2017

Pressure cooker

I am torn. Not for the first time, for the umpteenth time.

Yes, I need to write a letter (an official one). I wish I had two options but I don’t. Option Number One to tell them exactly what I think and where to fuck off. No doubt it would add hilarity to their otherwise dull day yet land me in shit big time. My aim being to come out of a hairy situation smelling like roses.

The world is full of Hypo Crazy. Sometimes I wish I’d gone into being a stylist (ref. photography).

So, in order to NOT land me in shit big time, I have to duff my cap and toe the line.

You know what the worst of writing an official letter is? You can’t employ sarcasm. No, not because it’d be wasted on the officials in question. The opposite. They’ll see it exactly for what it is. Taking the mickey. Which, privately, they may enjoy, officially they have to condemn it to the sin bin with the power of making you pay.

Thanks for listening. Am now bracing myself for keeping it all under a lid whilst simmering.

U

 

 

August 10, 2017

Best foot forward

Forget all your joys and all your problems. Imagine you were a centipede, frozen trying to remember which leg to move first.

U

July 15, 2017

Beautiful

Filed under: Exasperation — bitchontheblog @ 16:06
Tags: ,

I didn’t think I’d see the day – because I didn’t think there’d be the day.

Have seen it now. The day I actually feel sorry for Trump, his gender and my gender. The day a man can’t pay a compliment to a woman without it being squashed as “sexist” is the day I would like to indulge in a mud bath. I’ll be unrecognizable.

U

 

July 2, 2017

Limitations

Filed under: Communication,Ethics,Exasperation,Future,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 20:06
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I may have mentioned this before. If so please attribute it to occupying my brain in an increasingly unnerving manner.

It’s vexing. Any advice gladly received. What do you do when people get older? Do you actually argue a point, set them straight as to the facts or just leave be? Obviously the latter the easy option. But also … I don’t know … condescending? Yet, what’s the point to put a point when someone (by virtue of age) is more or less on the way out? What purpose does concrete information serve? I think the answer is: None. Yet when does the point in someone’s life come when it appears kinder to just nod?

I don’t like to use Americanisms yet a useful one here: I feel “conflicted”. If ever there was a shorthand for being between a rock and a hard place it’s downright “conflicted”.

To reiterate: Is it worth it to point out errors or, less challenging, just put a different point of view when that person can’t make future use of being informed as their time is almost upon them?

I don’t know. It’s painful.

U

May 25, 2017

Spoilt for choice

There is a regular program on Radio Four (BBC, Sunday morning) called Desert Island Disks. Someone of relative public interest is invited to talk about their life and, intermittently, ten pieces of music of their choice are played.  They’ll then be asked to choose one of them to take with them – don’t say the BBC isn’t generous – before being shipped away and with little hope to return. You are given the Bible. You may choose one other book and one (in numbers 1) luxury item. No, not me. I am not a luxury item. I am cheap.

It’s amazing what people will choose as their luxury item. For heaven’s sake – who needs silk sheets in the middle of nowhere? Take a Swiss Army Pen Knife instead. What would I take? I don’t know. It’s not likely to be allowed within in the parameters of the programme but most likely a never ending supply of my favourite fruit/vegetable. Which is … What? Trying to come to a decision will take some time – a most welcome interval to delay the evil departure.

So, what about you? What’s your luxury item, food or otherwise, to take to the desert island? Please don’t say a harpoon. Life doesn’t work like that.

Tom Hanks greetings, and don’t forget to squirrel away some matches and don’t let them get wet during your voyage,

U

April 17, 2017

Trigger happy

Bloody Hell. Never buck a trend.

I commented on some thread (national newspaper). Two sentences on MY personal experience re a woman’s issue. Clearly didn’t chime with other commentators, most clearly didn’t fit in with the paper’s agenda. Bingo. Deleted.

This is crazy making stuff. Two sentences, nothing offensive.

Well, not to put too fine a point on it: I am done.

Is this the world we are coming to? Take an eraser to you just because of … what exactly? Because you put an opposing view on a subject?

Never mind. My username has been taken for that of a man many times. Which (and here is one for Nick, the defender of damsels in distress) means I cause offence to other WOmen. The irony is so delicious as to make me smirk with amusement.

U

March 28, 2017

Rope

Filed under: Communication,Exasperation,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 19:31
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Ask me a complicated question. Nullo problemo. I will bullshit my way out with the best of Seneca and Socrates at the frontier. Wittgenstein if you can’t take a hint.

Ask me a simple question. Multo problemos.

When I say simple I don’t mean: “Does my bum look BIG in this?” If you have to ask me you know the answer without compromising my good manners. So stop it and go back to the changing room.

However, I will, from time to time, find myself be thrown to the dogs when someone asks me whether I like something (on them) or a poem they wrote. A shit drawing they drew.  Photos – smartphone – prevalent in blogland. It’s complicated (multo – on many levels). No one can accuse me of being backward in coming forward. However, there are limits. Even for me. I don’t want to deflate anyone’s balloon.

If there weren’t a place called Dodge City already I’d start putting down the foundations right now. Probably in Texas. Or Colorado. Or Kentucky. Or wherever they will tolerate me – no questions asked. Mexico. I can scale walls if need be. Ace of spades. A trump, nay, a death card if ever there was one.

Yes, so how do you tell someone who asks you whether you “like” it? Doesn’t matter what “it” is. All that matters is that you already know that THEY “like” it. And want your affirmation.

Good luck. Those are the moments you wish Clint Eastwood were there to shoot the noose before it tightens.

U

March 8, 2017

Forever

This post is not pleasant. I am going to make an observation and don’t expect any of you to answer, if at all, truthfully.

Do you wish/have you ever wished anyone would just die? Not because you bear them ill will, just because you’d like to tick a box (make that a coffin), breathe a sigh of relief and be done with that person?

Can’t believe I am writing this but there it is.

U

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