Bitch on the Blog

April 30, 2017

Breaking news

Ha, all is becoming clear.

In my last post’s reply to Ramana’s comment I say that I actually don’t mind people displaying a healthy dose of arrogance. According to an article I just read we like those who resemble us. Which, oh my poor dear Sweethearts and regular commentators, on the assumption that you give me the time of day because you quite like me and it’s worth your effort, makes all of you arrogant and antagonistic swines. And those who shall remain unnamed – the ones who in their quest to divest themselves of me – are little Bluebells swinging in the wind waiting to be picked. Cute.

Well, if that isn’t a damning indictment (fn the Bluebells) I don’t know what is. Don’t cry. Here is my handkerchief. Keep it.

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

December 8, 2016

Weather

Filed under: Ethics,Exasperation,Fortune,Roadkill,The Reaper,Vicious — bitchontheblog @ 14:40
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There is a blogger. Let’s rephrase that. There is someone, somewhere, who blogs.

He has surpassed himself. It’s not even him being selfish. It’s him being thoughtless. Inconsiderate.

Yes, so come early December – and now he has got his “overcoat” out – he laments that December’s temperature, so far, is way above “cold”. One may say “warm”. He wants “cold”. God damnit, and if he wants cold he wants cold. Till March. May Bambi’s April showers piss on him.

Why do I even note this? Insert derisory snort. Because people like him with his beer and his whisky on tap don’t give a monkey’s thought to all those homeless, sleeping in doorways, ignored by passers-by, kicked by drunkards around midnight, who might, just might, be truly grateful that December isn’t as cold as Mr Blogger and his overcoat wish it to be. Those who can’t afford to heat the place if indeed they have a roof over their heads. Those who don’t eat because maybe it’s better to starve than to freeze. Those who don’t have a winter coat.

Plumbers are hard to come by on Christmas Eve. May Mr Blogger’s overcoat stand him in good stead. And be moth eaten next December.

Disgusted yours,

U

October 13, 2016

Munch’s Scream

Having been brought up on folklore and fairy tales to bursting point and lasting as fodder for my nightmares (and dreams) a life time I sometimes wonder about “sayings”.

Today’s is “walking in some else’s shoes”. Having a lot of imagination and empathy by the bucket load, I flatter myself that I do not need to walk in someone else’s shoes to understand. Ha. Never overestimate your abilities. You may have a clue, a bit like finding your way through fog. You will get lost in the woods.

In absence of any other diversion I have just tried to imagine what a rat, indeed any animal (or human), feels when forced into a corner. Main thing, I suppose, is to have your back against the wall. That way you face the horrors in pursuit of you full on; better than being stabbed in the back. Similar, I imagine, to drowning. You know it’s happening and, in absence of a lifeline, for a few minutes in your life, you’ll have certainty.

Ray of sunshine greetings,

U

September 9, 2016

Gatekeeper

Filed under: Communication,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 15:23
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Some of you use blogspot.com (blogger? by another name). It’s exhausting (for the commentator) trying to leave a comment.

By way of last example, just now I wrote a rather lengthy reply to Shackman’s take on chores. Yes, I then tick I am NOT a robot. Then I jump hoops. “Please tick all boxes with streetsigns/shopfronts/mountains, trees/water” – you take your pick. This goes on ad nauseam. I do have patience. Even mine is not infinite. Eventually, when I run out of it, as I just did, I exit. Let the comment, feedback, evaporate into ether. So, Shackman and others, thanks for saving myself from myself. I had written a most informative and personal reply – but suppose some things we best keep to ourselves.

U

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 27, 2016

Uniform

Leaving France’s fashion and mind police aside for a moment, has any of you ever had dealings with home grown and/or police on foreign ground?

Don’t be shy about it. If you have robbed a bank or dug up your grandmother’s grave to pawn her wedding ring, obviously that’s private. And doesn’t count. Desperate times warrant not so savoury measures.

I mean the common garden gnome variety run in with the law. And are you jumpy as soon as the blue lights flash and the siren howls?

U

March 5, 2016

Napoleon

Filed under: Amusement,History,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 19:49

Sweethearts, you think I am low on the ground? I AM FLATTENED. Finito.  Basta. Ende. You name it as long as there an end to it. A hedgehog crossing a busy road has nothing on me.

Let’s apply a bit of American speak: I am “challenged”. Which I’d normally welcome but not with my comp crashing every seven minutes. It’s difficult to think when rushed.

The Angel put his friendly face round the door the other day, looked at me, shook his Viking head, complete with long locks,  and said “Mama. The Keyboard Warrior”. The Keyboard Warrior. I should be so lucky. Win a battle, try and invade Russia (in winter). You may lose the war. At the moment there is a truce. Kissinger notwithstanding. Never mind Hillary’s emails being made available for public consumption. I can’t send any. As to playing cards: Trump ain’t ace.

Never mind fracking. Let the best woman win. And it’s only March. Ides of.

Upshot being that the only reason I don’t wish I were still five because then the Angel wouldn’t exist. Logistically, biologically impossible. So I am what I am. And what I am is both totally happy and totally disenchanted.  If anyone had forecast this x years ago I’d told them to go away and revisit me in x years. Well. You can beat the hell out of an optimist (physically) but you can’t darken my sun.

Other than that: Everything is fine.

Hugs and kisses,

U

 

 

January 18, 2016

Jackson Pollock

Cheerful Monk aka Jean, a woman I respect for a number of reasons, asserted the following in her last post:

“I know some people who think life just happens, they don’t have much say in the matter. That attitude seems to work for them, but it’s against my nature to be that passive. … It’s more fun to be the painter than the paint.

If you want your story to be magnificent, begin by realizing you are the author, and every day is a new page

This last one points out how incorrigible I am, that at the age of 76, I still think I’m a creator in my life.

For me it’s a lot more fun than just being the paint.”

 

To which I replied in her comment box, and such is my purpose and sorrow that I vent same what I feel this moment on my own blog:

“My dear Jean, if only it were so easy. Yesterday (Sunday) evening, in a moment of misguided optimism and hope, I, the author of my life as you put it, took an initiative and “painted” and what did I end up with? A lot of paint on my face. So much paint on my face it will take a lot of resolve and tears to wash it off.

Say what you like: Sometimes we are at the mercy of others. And when we are at the mercy of someone else, you – the supposed editor of your life’s story – may take time off and go home early. Yes, I hit a brick wall. Hard.

I am devastated. Wish I could “re-write” that chapter of my life (into the future) but I can’t. Why? Because no man is an island. There are occasions, maybe few but nevertheless, where we are entirely dependent on someone else’s ability and willingness to communicate. And if that will isn’t there you may as well (metaphorically speaking) fill your coat pockets with stones and wade into water.”

U

October 14, 2014

In the chair

Filed under: Atmosphere,Cats,Formalities,Future,Human condition,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 17:12
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And now to something truly unpleasant. I don’t know in which order to put this: Teeth first, dentist second? In the medical profession there are lots of specializations. First you study for years, then – for even more years – you peer up people’s nostrils, up their birth canal, down their throat or – in the case of dentists – holes. Cavities by another name.

Dentists may earn a fortune. They do. But whilst you have your ‘client’ clamped down on your chair you can’t even have a conversation. Believe me I’ve tried – and I am the patient. The other thing – and this is why I won’t have my eyes operated on in December, the make merry season – dentists need a steady hand. Can you imagine a dentist with a tremor, even a slight one?

Some years ago I came across a statistic – on both alcoholism and suicide. Not that the two are related other than that alcoholism is a slow and sneaky way to kill yourself. So the statistic was startling: Journalists, Vets and anyone living in Vienna (that’s Wien/Austria) are more likely to commit suicide than someone doing accounts. Figures, doesn’t it?

Apropos of nothing: I once took our cat to the vet. Locum. I took one look at the guy. Alcoholics have nothing but my sympathy. Even if they are just about to operate on my cat. I made my excuses. Still remember that sad look in that guy’s eyes when I left the surgery, cat not having been touched. He knew I knew. Sorry I can’t save all of mankind from themselves.

How did I get onto teeth? Something is brewing. Usually on a Saturday afternoon. So, I’ll have another three days to go.

U

PS Other than that – currently not so much rewriting my will as composing a masterpiece – I am undecided whether to spare the Angel funeral costs by donating my precious body to medical research. Rationale tells me one thing. Squeamishness another. I do not wish to be slaughtered. Even if it is for the good of mankind. We’ll see. Considering that once upon a time medical students had to dig up graves to give them fodder …

 

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