Bitch on the Blog

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

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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
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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

September 20, 2015

Three in the morning

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

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