Bitch on the Blog

July 16, 2017

How to make a splash without getting anyone wet

Filed under: Formalities,Future,Pretentious Shit — bitchontheblog @ 17:30
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I need to change my blog name. Bitch on the Blog, for all its alliteration, is tiresome. Whether you (that’s me) do or don’t live up to other people’s expectations to deliver the goods you (that’s me) have another thing coming.

Blip on the Blog?

U

July 15, 2017

To one who is unlikely to recognize it’s addressed to him

Filed under: Accuracy,Communication,Formalities,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 21:17
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Some people are lovable piss heads; piss heads one will forgive transgressions. There is veritas in vino – and some who imbibe several too many most charming and insightful with it.

Others? Others, the angry, vindictive, twisted and bitter brigade, amount to little more than the proverbial [pub bore] once their glass is so empty they barely see the bottom of it. Rude, ill mannered, self pitying, grandiose. Well, mate (the one this post is addressed to), I will clear up your sick. Don’t expect me to take you seriously. If you can’t hold your drink stick to candy. Or keep shtum.

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

November 10, 2016

Don’t fence me in

Once upon a time I was a homeowner with all the responsibility that entails. Not least, in Britain, to respect the boundaries your neighbours will impose. Though not British, when in Britain, I will do (within reason) as the British do – or, at least, try not to ridicule what’s bred in their bone. And as much as the Brits’ homes are their castles (complete with a mortgage that even a drawbridge groans under) as much they do like borders.

Yes, borders. As in walls, fences. One of my more far fetched theories that the reason the British prefer dogs to cats that cats do not respect fences. If they want to climb up and jump over one they jolly well will.

So back to Trump and neighbourly etiquette. If my neighbour wants to put a fence or a hedge or whatever else round his patch of immaculate lawn thus blocking his view that’s fine. What’s not fine, indeed unacceptable, is to ask me to pay for it. That’s Trump’s plan on Mexico. The guy has no manners.

Before I take this post into a direction even I find beyond satire I’ll leave you to do your own fencing.

U

September 12, 2016

Horizontal

Filed under: Amusement,Formalities,Fortune,Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 06:00
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Like Hilary Clinton I too needed to put my feet up. In the olden days, like a hundred or two years ago, someone would hand you smelling salts. Now? Never mind. Just wilt.

So there I was, yesterday afternoon, on my sofa, not tired yet wired and somewhat queasy. So, in absence of anything else to think about I tried to remember what day of the week nine eleven was. My guess was Wednesday. Wednesday is good. In the mother lingo it’s “Mittwoch”. Literally “mid of the week”.  Let’s not delve into Sunday. I am not up to it this minute.

Anyway, upshot being nine eleven was a Tuesday. Tuesday – for some reason – is a non day to me. “Dienstag” – the day you do your duty. Serve.  I like Thursday. Donnerstag (Thunder). Monday is, obviously, the day of hope. Goethe had something to say on that. And I was born on a Monday (EVENING). Fair of face. Could have been Sunday. But I did take my time. Apologies to my mother. She bore it well. Never held it against me.

Friday. “Freitag”. Being free is obviously what all of us aspire to, and few achieve. That’s the reason we look forward to the weekend. An illusion. Even the land of poets, thinkers and tinkers couldn’t think of a good name for the gateway to “Sonntag” (Sunday). The gateway being either Samstag or Sonnabend. “Abend” being eve. Pretty fluffy if you ask me.

Whatever your respective remnants of the day are: ENJOY.

What day of the week were you born? And why are some people’s birthdays always at the weekend?

Other than that, and back to Hilary. Pneumonia? Shite. She’s got to hold out. No matter what. This is ridiculous. If the worst comes to the worst she could always pass her torch back to Bill.

U

September 6, 2016

Diversion

Filed under: Amusement,Family,Formalities,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 16:01
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By way of taking our minds off weighty issues:

How do you feel when you meet a namesake?

Ursula

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 24, 2016

Food heaven

Despite what most bloggers wish to believe – none of you are saints, and even saints may have a mean streak.

My mean streak? It is a shocker if ever there was one. And I am not proud of it.

Before you hyperventilate in anticipation of my confession – do sit down at my table and enjoy (food cooked by me). And you will [enjoy]. What you don’t do, because thus disappointment lies, ask me for THE RECIPE. I know people think it’s the ultimate compliment. It isn’t. Trust me. It’s a gross intrusion into, nay violation of, my treasure trove. I will NOT give you the recipe. Come back again for more of the same – but don’t ask me for the recipe.

The above notion problematic in reverse – as I learnt as a young bride having landed on these culinary shores ca. mid 1980s. You enthuse over someone’s food; the host(ess), oh so polite and sweet mannered, will beam at you: “Would you like the recipe?” No, actually, I don’t. Naturally, I didn’t, and still don’t, say that. It’d be plain rude if I did. Instead of which you (that’s me) walk away feeling ashamed knowing full well that I myself would never offer full disclosure of my biggest successes. Though – mitigating circumstances – will give veiled hints how NOT to do it.

If none of you ever speak to me again – that’s my loss.

Hugs and hisses,

U

July 18, 2016

Comments

Filed under: Communication,Formalities,Pretentious Shit — bitchontheblog @ 16:30
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Brief interlude before I answer comments on my last post.

Some of you use blogspot as their blog host. And some of you, though not all, have drawbridges in place.

Do you really think it necessary to infantalize your readership, or rather those inclined to comment, by asking them to “verify” that they are not a “robot”? Tick box. No, I am not a robot. But I may well employ one soon to tick the box verifying that I am not a robot. It gets worse.

“Please tick all pictures showing a shopfront/trees/mountains”.  Come again?

What’s all the paranoia? Do you really think you are so precious that someone will take the time (after having penned a more or less considered reply to your musings) to then jump through the hoops like a dog with a biscuit waiting the other side?

U

February 13, 2016

Riding the wave

Filed under: Amusement,Communication,Environment,Formalities,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 23:42
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Among one of the worst bunches of my traits: There are people (make that men, women don’t care as long as I admire them) who think I think them stupid.

I don’t.

I take people as they come. What’s it to me that my landlord doesn’t understand the mechanics of damp? Nothing. That’s what. Shorten my life by a few years. As long as I don’t think you stupid the world is my sneeze.

My landlord told me I think him stupid. I don’t. I had never considered the matter of his intelligence. Nevertheless, he is miffed. Him being Italian complicating matters because, on one hand, Italians revere women – particularly if you are their mother. On the other? Well, on the other they are short tempered even when they are shorter (in length) than you. Never mind.

If you want affirmation as to your intelligence speak to my father. I don’t say this lightly because I despise name dropping as some people do to make themselves grander, BUT. But my father’s IQ is of the jaw dropping, hit the ceiling variety. Incidentally so is that of LSF (longest standing friend). And yours [that’s my readers’] possibly too. After all, why would I talk to people who don’t show me the errors of my ways?

Yes, so my father – and it was one of the more shocking, leaving a long lasting impression on me, moments of my youth: He pronounced (don’t ask) % of people “stupid”. Since I myself am not THAT stupid the first question popping into my mind: What constitutes “stupid”? It’s a big question, not easily answered. Not that it matters.

Before I rest my case: One of my favourite books features, and is told through the eyes of, the proverbial “village idiot”. He may be simple. Yet, stupid he ain’t.

Hugs, kisses, dashes, yours,

U

 

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