Bitch on the Blog

September 5, 2018

To Hare is Human

Wile E. Coyote runs off the cliff and FAILS to fall because it doesn’t occur to him to look down.

U

Advertisements

June 23, 2018

Schwarz Rot Gold

Filed under: Amusement,Dizzy,Formalities,Fun,Sport — bitchontheblog @ 21:14
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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 13, 2018

Imprint

Filed under: Adults,Amusement,Children,Family,Fun — bitchontheblog @ 12:09
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

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

 

March 1, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box – Interval 2

On good news, this afternoon I was briefly reminded of the joys of my childhood’s snow: We haven’t had this much in one day, here at the South Coast of England, in years. It’s lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely. What is, obviously, not so lovely that the English tend to go into siege mentality, a type of hysteria. Cubic meters of the white stuff other countries conquer easily make some English go into melt(!)down.

Anyway, minimalists and all those of you lumbered with people difficult to give presents to because they have everything money can buy and afflicted by that certain ennui that comes with saturation, here is your perfect dinner party gift for the host with most except nothing:

Just before arrival at and on said host’s doorstep, you gather as much snow as possible, preferably the kind that sticks together to allow you to sculpt it into, say, a snowball. Make it round. Perfectly round. Hand it to your host/ess who, naturally, will shrink away from it but reconsider in a second since it’s impolite to refuse a gift. Fast forward to dessert, nay, after dinner coffee: Your present will have melted. Gently. Leaving little trace other than a tiny puddle of water. Genius or what?

U

 

November 5, 2017

Reparations to my last post

There is a saying in the motherland: “Lass die Finger davon”. Good advice. Roughly translated as “Don’t touch it” – underlined, usually, and for theatrical effect, by being hissed.

Anyway, the good news is that I can play Snap with four year olds, even three year olds. After that it gets tricky. As my last post shows.

To keep you on your toes, and please do keep your own selections coming, here are three more. Not because I want to but because I feel need to redeem myself.

One – My mother, sleep walking, climbed out of a window, ready to jump, when eight months pregnant with me.

Two – A mouse kept me locked out of the bathroom.

Three – I have never knowingly killed anyone.

Spot the lie. And keep your own riddles coming.

And yes, ref my last post and exchange with Mike, my father did send me a telegram, just as I was packing to decamp and fly to the motherland in time for the church wedding, him declaring the whole affair off. The whole affair went ahead, no thanks to him. I didn’t hold it against him – the wedding photos are witness to that. As they are witness that he didn’t feel an ounce of shame or remorse. He has never once apologized, acknowledged the huge impact what he did had on my subsequent marriage. FOS (father of son), unfortunately, not as easy going as my father.  And spare a thought for my mother. She is easily flooded by tears. That she didn’t drown on occasion of that “cancellation” is a miracle. So, as I said to Mike, the Angel thought two of yesterday’s guesses the truth, and thought the lie that turned out one of the truths. Never mind. At least I won’t need to throw myself on a pyre when FOS snuffs it.

Yes, pregnant pause, strange when you think back over your life … so far away yet so real – the blessing, a curse possibly for some, of an almost photographic and audio memory.

U

November 4, 2017

Let’s play

Filed under: Amusement,Fun,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 14:19
Tags: , , , , , ,

Hope you are up for playing a rather awful game. It only came to my attention today and does appeal to the forensic scientist in me.

“Spot the lie”. You have to make three statements (about yourself/experiences you have had) two of which are true and one which is a lie. If you have difficulty to get your brain round the concept do not worry. My brain is in a spin.

Anyway, think about it. As will I. It’s damn difficult to come up with a lie so outrageous as to outshine two truths without being detected. Good luck.

Be bold, be brave, let’s meet later,

U

Some time later … update … see first comment

July 12, 2017

Expansive

One of the fairies at my cradle made sure that I’d never be bored.

Her intention was good. In practice it brings problems. None of which can’t be solved; but problems nevertheless. The main one being that I waste (how does one define “waste”?) on wastes of space. I do I do I do. Because I never give up. And if there is one adage I cling to like a calf following her mother’s udder it’s that only the boring are bored. That way you dig your own bore.

Be still, my beating heart.

In the motherland there is a saying, and I have no idea what it means but it sounds good: Den inneren Schweinehund ueberwinden. Roughly translated: To overcome your inner swine (where the dog comes into it I do not know). It’s taking me forever (the present continuous wisely chosen) to overcome my swine’s dog – but, I am getting there. With regret, I shall concede that some in blogland (no, not ye, my faithfuls) will bore. Even me. Actually, that’s not true at all. The more boring the more amusing and interesting they are. In a sort of forensic research type of way.

Hugs and hisses,

U

March 3, 2017

Trilling

Filed under: Amusement,Communication,Dizzy,Exasperation,Fun,manners — bitchontheblog @ 16:59
Tags: , , ,

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

September 20, 2015

Three in the morning

Filed under: Amusement,Babes,Fun,The Reaper — bitchontheblog @ 02:24
Tags: , ,

I have so enchanted myself re-reading my last blog post and comments I’ve forgotten why I was recharging the comp and what I was going to spout about.

Yes, sleep. Elusive. Again. Never really liked sleep. You don’t know what’s going on when asleep. Nightmares. Dreams. Sometimes I wake myself talking out aloud. Which beats not waking up at all.

Virtually all people in my life, and that includes you – my dear readers and my mother – adore sleep. It’s a mystery to me unless you are under twenty five [years of age].

Having said that I do realize that sleep is important to keep you compos mentis. Yes, good old sanity. Had good reason to cry tonight. Then remembered the old saying “crying yourself to sleep”. Doesn’t work. Not for me.

Best sleeplessness and with a purpose was when the Angel was little. The first fifteen months of his life I never had more than 2.5 hours sleep at a stretch. Tiny stomachs need to be refilled at short intervals (Looney, newly made grandfather take note). No matter, during the day the Angel and I slept side by side when he slept. In tune as it were.

One of the truly worst sleepless nights ever? Don’t ask. And don’t laugh. Or do. It was the first night (he was fourteen months) when he slept right through. I was frantic. Kept checking every few seconds whether he was still alive. He was. Even in the morning. Waking to a mother basically dead but still on her feet. I have calmed down since then.

U

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.