Bitch on the Blog

June 21, 2018

Drawing a line (?)

You know how you can sometimes relate to people in that sort of “homecoming” way? Safe. Kindred spirit, and all that. It’s not that you “agree” on everything, it’s just a baseline. You like each other regardless, you trust each other. Even if the other person’s, say, politics stink to high heaven.

I did ponder the other day if you can be friends, I mean proper friends, with someone whose political views are diametrical opposed to yours and, by their nature, outrageous. Have since come to conclusion you probably can – until you have to draw a line. HA! But where is the line? Even real stinkers in world politics do have friends. Just stand by for the fallout. If, by way of example, you were two of the Mitford sisters who were friends with Hitler your reputation will suffer. Still, Hitler was human too. As was his Alsatian. And spare a thought for Eva Braun.

I wish I could let you into a secret of mine. But I can’t. It’s too risky. Only two people know about it (the Angel and my father). Anyway, to them I am more than the sum of my idiosyncrasies. Let’s just say it’s roughly on par – only worse – with admitting that you admired Margaret Thatcher. You will be feathered and tarred.

You know what’s so crazy about my “secret”? It shows my humanity. Yet, I’d be shredded for it. 

And with that thought I’ll leave you. Maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me about your own ideas where friendship has potential to end in terms of acceptable (to you) ideology, beliefs, politics, character traits, demeanours.

U

 

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June 7, 2018

Nerve Centre

Sometimes I wish I were given to headaches. They are a marvellous excuse to retreat from life when it gets heavy. You just lie in a darkened room. Come to think of it that’s probably why I don’t have headaches. The thought of lying in a darkened room with nothing to do not appealing to me.

My first mother’s-in-law choice of weapon to shut up her brood and her husband were sudden, if predictable, onsets of migraine. Not that I doubted her migraines. I didn’t. I have seen migraines in action, not least one of my colleagues (I was her sidekick) working in her darkened office, tears involuntarily streaming down her face with the pain of it.

Alas I am not [given to headaches]. I remember two; what’s called tension headaches, in my early twenties, in quick succession. They were amazing. My head in some sort of crushing my skull vice grip. Nearly pushing me over the edge. I’d have killed (a fly) for some morphine.

What brought on this sudden thought of headaches? Maybe my quest for eighty days in the desert. After serving life in blogland. If only I weren’t such a people person I’d love a silent retreat. But then, I suppose, being self employed, leading a nine to five solitary life, solitude which I have cherished from my earliest childhood, I engage with people more than people who are drowned in people.

Tell me about your headaches. Real, imagined, metaphorical ones. In absence of any of the above, toothache will do. Backache. Pain in the neck. Stubbed toe.  Pulled muscle. Which reminds me: Last night, bloody hell, one of my calves took it upon itself to remind me of its existence. What a cramp!

U

 

May 30, 2018

Anything goes

Where no etiquette exists you have to make it up as you go along. Blogland will, eventually, write its own rule book.

I am not being facetious here. I am in a quandry. Seriously.

A blogger has finally, against all odds, managed to throw me for six. Our blogging relationship died some time ago, briefly resurrected in the last few days.

Why am I floored? I left him a brief message acknowledging my own role in what went wrong within a particular circle of bloggers, at the same time questioning whether he felt any responsibility [for his own role] too.

I received an answer back to the effect that his (very old) mother was dying in hospital (location specified) and for me to “fuck off”.

I am sorry for his imminent loss. However, despite my sympathy, I fail to see how anyone can wallop you with a fact I wasn’t aware off, neither does it make any difference to the rationale of our exchange. I find it vaguely distasteful (and this is not a criticism, it’s just how I feel) to “use” his mother’s possible demise to tell me where the door is.

Am I missing something? Obviously I’ll leave well alone though my first instinct was to impart my good wishes. But having been told to fuck off under the pretext of your parent dying, to me not quite congruent, it’s probably best to do just that [eff off].

Well, who’d have thought it: He finally managed to shut me up and leave me with a bad taste into the bargain.

And for those I need to spell it out for: This is not about point scoring. I am genuinely bewildered.

U

May 9, 2018

Opposites and their attractions

What do you do if you want to go wean yourself off something – can be anything, not just hard core addiction? Say, for instance, and I know why my father pops into my mind this minute, you were addicted to being obsessively tidy – would you be able to leave alone for a week, not to say a WEAK, and see where it leads? Would you? Or would you just procrastinate?

I am a going-cold-turkey type of person: Just do it. And a procrastinator.

Cold Turkey and Procrastinator: The combo from hell. My Procrastinator (Motto: Tomorrow) being top dog, Cold Turkey (Motto: NOW, and determined) being strung along for the ride. Myself? I am in the fascinating grip of conflicting interests wrestling it out.

Around New Year 2017/18 I decided, for mostly rational and many valid ones too, to give blogging a miss. And what a fine mess my Procrastinator made of it, Cold Turkey (amply supported by the Angel who thinks blogging a waste of time) being on the loosing wicket. A fly caught in a sticky spider’s web has nothing on me.

So, what do you do when you feel you need to break a habit that brings you nothing but joy?

U

 

April 8, 2018

Lullaby

Sometimes, when lost in the sea of many possible perspectives, I seek advice. Seek advice with hope in my heart that if I don’t follow it [the advice] the advice giver is wise and kind enough to not take it personally, as a rebuff. That’s why there are some people in my life whose advice I do NOT seek. It’s enough to grapple with the problem that makes you seek advice in the first place, without then having to play nurse maid to someone’s hurt feelings. People like that don’t seem to understand that they should be glad to be asked in the first place as it implies trust, and that the purpose of advice givers is that of a midwife: Helping with the delivery, not claiming the end result.

Before I pursue the above line of thought, a subject dear to my heart, I’ll stick with the original purpose of this post.

Sleep has always been important to my mother. As she got older she started sleeping rather a lot. Now she sleeps, more or less, round the clock. Every time I phone her I can bet my bottom currency that I have either woken her or that she was just about to go BACK to sleep. This is during the day – not at midnight. So enter increasing irritation and exasperation (neither of which I ever voice to her) on my part. Who wants to see their once active mother wilting? I take it almost as an affront – of nature/biology. Once resentment starts creeping into any relationship you need to regroup, and/or seek ADVICE in order to restore perspective and balance. So, this morning, I took to the experts. Yes, really. Google.

Peace has once more returned to the part of my heart that is troubled by my mother’s (as perceived by me, excessive) need for sleep. A few clicks and links later it’s so simple I wonder why it hadn’t occurred to me in the first place:

“There is no law, indeed no need, why someone (particularly in their old age) should conform to our idea of being active. If it makes someone happy to sleep let them sleep.”  That insight, so obvious yet obscure in its simplicity, was all I need, in future, to not be endlessly frustrated by my mother’s sleepiness AND her blatant, if gentle, refusal to engage any longer with anything that clouds her days, and I quote the same source:

“Discussing a point is no longer important for her. It’s like all she wants is hearing our voices, smiling back, hugs.” Peace, I suppose. Peace at the end of a long life. A peace I will contribute to as best I can. Doesn’t come easy to me to put myself onto the back burner – yet, since when haven’t I been able to will myself to do almost anything for the greater good.

The hard part (for my mother), wait for it, that she is fully aware of her increasing frailty and laments vehemently the physical restrictions in its wake(!). Hardly the time I can make one of those, meant to be assuring, throw away remarks: “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Though, most likely, in the end, emphasis on END, everything will be fine.

U

April 5, 2018

Primal

My trusted lot, I need your help.

I have just come across a blog post that is so wrong about gender on so many levels if I don’t watch it I’ll turn into one known Canadian who has most forceful, convincing and obvious views on that subject (and many others) – and let rip.

So what do I do? Do I use my full arsenal (Alternative Comment Box) on my own turf and put my argument, or do I just slink away in the firm knowledge that whatever I’ll say, no matter how well reasoned,  will make no difference on the blogger’s-in-question outlook on life?

Question Number Two: Do you think there is a cut-off-point in terms of age when you leave the older generation and their blogs/opinions just to it? Is it kind or is it cruel to keep shtum, not challenge them and bite on a piece of well seasoned driftwood in order to stifle your screams instead?

U

 

April 1, 2018

Poison

Being Easter my thoughts turned to eggs. Not so much scrambled as chocolate.

I particularly like the tiny ones which I leave on every surface all over the house. Wrapped in green, gold, blue, pink foil. Atmospheric among vases of daffodils, and, obviously, keeping people in chocolate without being faced with a full on one, the size of an ostrich egg.

Yes, so with eggs on my mind just now I went for a stroll round the park when one of my lesser brain children was still born.

Trouble is, as soon as you set foot out of the house, misery will meet you. I make it my mission to wring a smile out of anyone coming into my vision, coming my direction. On the whole I am pretty successful. Despite my being the arsehole that I am depicted as in certain quarters in blogland, I am one of those amazing people whose beaming smile, a smile from the heart because I really really really like people, makes others, strangers, smile back. Children, adults, young men, old men, young women, old women. Dogs. It’s a gift. Let’s hope I’ll never suffer a stroke leaving my face immobile. Life won’t be the same again. In fact it’ll be shite.

Yes, eggs. So there I was looking everyone I came across this afternoon wide and into the eye, as I do, when I had this, at first glance, marvellous idea: How about if I gave every single person crossing my path today one of those tiny foil wrapped chocolate eggs? Obviously they’d take it. But, and this is the big BUT, would they eat it? More to the point: If a stranger gave me one would I eat it?

And thus an awful thought was born. Namely that the world we live in has made us suspicious of the kindness of strangers; suspicious in a way unrecognizable from the time when I was a child, a young adult. If I, of all people, forever trusting the good in mankind, can fathom a thought like that then the sad truth is that the world is effed.

Want one?

U

March 24, 2018

Alternative Comment Box, Finals … – Going Gently

Sorry about pauses in proceedings.

Sometimes I wish there were three of me. Don’t groan. It could be worse. Four of me. Hundreds, Thousands …

The only reason I wish I were more than one of me that I could delegate to my others. Delegate to my others to tidy all those loose ends I leave in my trail whilst trying to tend to the main business of my life.

This morning’s washing (black) coming out of the machine covered in tiny shreds of white tissue. I nearly lost the will to live. Then I remembered my mission in blog land; namely to support rhyme and reason, eradicate unfairness and instill justice. Not just on my behalf. I can live with shit – even John’s who can barely contain his.

Before I stop mentioning John by name (after all, he just stands for others with similar limitations), I won’t deny him the public glory of having excelled himself. To my dismay I  had, initially, not picked up a true morsel he served me up on a platter. You may remember my post “Inadequate” in which I ask about the morals of a man who applies double standards.

Casting my inner eye over most people in my life, not least some of my readers/commentators, I imagined their answers if I had laid such a serious question at their respective door steps. And what eloquent and reasoned replies I would have received. What does One John come up with? It was so thin, I nearly missed how thick it is: “No comments as per usual….go figure”.

You ask someone about their moral bankruptcy and all they are able to come back up with is “No comments as per usual….go figure”?

Yes, John, go figure.  Unlike you I don’t hone a herd of sycophants who comment even if they haven’t got anything to say; even if there is nothing to add.

Unlike you, and some of your circle, I do not make layman’s pronouncements (in absence of anything mildly original to say) on others’ mind, soul or inner workings. Without wishing to stretch the limitations of your brain power to bursting point:

What does that feeble “counter attack” (if you can call a lame response that) of yours say about you? That you are feeble?

Ok. Let’s, for sake of argument, say that you are feeble. In which case, dearest John, you will be so happy to hear that I only blame myself that I didn’t follow a hunch many moons ago that I was whiling time away in the wrong part of Wales. To no one’s benefit.

Read the last paragraph again (yes, I know, you claim you don’t read my posts any longer; pull the other one, John. You’d have to be super human not to; not least because you don’t rest in yourself but are totally dependent on anyone’s and your readers endorsement of you). I said “I only blame myself”. You see, John, that is self awareness. That is admitting that we have limitations. Mine being that I don’t recognize that gold nuggets are not to be found in a sand pit. I am tempted to go as far as apologizing that I mistook you for someone you are not.  You never claimed you are something you are not – so it sure ain’t your fault that I find you morally bankrupt.

To you it’s all black and white. Which, considering your surname is Gray, is almost tragic.

U

 

 

 

 

March 16, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, Short Term – Consideration

John left me a comment to my last post yesterday and it reads “You are upsetting me Ursula, I don’t need this”.

I took note of it, did not – as promised – release the awfully long, and rather awful, post I had penned yesterday morning and referred to, left pending to ponder on. Just as, late in the day, I was returning to my desk, John’s comment stopped me in my tracks. I like to think things over when other people are hurting. So I slept on it.

Yes, when other people are hurting. Look at John’s sentiment again: I am upsetting HIM. HE doesn’t need IT.

What I find staggering that John does not address the fact that I too, maybe, made abundantly clear, am upset by his/the trio’s (in)action. For Pete’s sake, is everything just about you John, Joy and the Sculptor? Do you actually ever fucking (falling into Rachel speak) care about anyone else but you?

Last night, in wake of your plea, I nearly softened. Poor John, I thought to myself. Mustn’t upset him. Luckily, sleep tends to act like a windscreen wiper. All becomes clear in the morning – what has become clear that you don’t give a shit about me. Nothing of what I have said over the last two or so weeks (and before) has sunk in. All you see, all that counts, is that YOU are upset. That YOU don’t need “it”, whatever IT is.

Sorry, John, you should have thought about that before. Before you edited me even the Angel wouldn’t recognize his mother by the way the three of you have managed to depict me.

Actions do have consequences, John: You can’t spit at someone as the three of you did and then demand that I don’t wipe your spit off my face. 

U

 

March 14, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, 11 – Regret

Filed under: Communication,Human condition,Intermittent despair — bitchontheblog @ 10:22
Tags: , ,

Let me give some satisfaction to John the Samaritan, miserable Joy and charmless Sculptor. The last thirty six hours of my life have not been good. You managed the unthinkable: Reducing me to tears.

I am NOT crying because of all the shit you offload at me NOT at MY doorstep but your own blogs and comment boxes. Heavily edited. Every which way.

I am crying at my failure. My failure being that I so misjudged all of you. Crying at the idiot (Cro’s idea not mine) I truly am that I thought you worthy of my attention. That I actually liked all three of you. Well, John is easy to like; neither did he ever claim to be an intellectual. Joy I liked because she is a lost soul; the Sculptor I liked I don’t know why … maybe because he reminded my of Sisyphus.

Crying that I was fool enough to try again and again and again and again to mend bridges. To no avail. If you want to define “failure” try “to no avail”.

I am crying having allowed to be abused to an extent I didn’t think possible. Who am I kidding? “Allowed”, as if I were in control? I just was [abused].

I am crying at the shameful fact that (apart from John’s feeble attempts) none of you will address me on my blog, stand by your slander. You were so vocal (on your own blogs, so trigger happy) – Now? Now nothing.

Who are you people? Do you actually have any feelings other than for yourselves (this question mainly addressed at Joy and Sculptor)? Do you actually ever consider the impact your (in)actions have on others? Does your world center on your navels, your navels only? Are other people just dummies to furnish your self centered habitat?

Anyway, be happy at having achieved nothing more than a grown woman cry at her own foolishness. Congrats. Rejoice.

U

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