Bitch on the Blog

January 24, 2017

Wildlife

Filed under: Amusement,Animals,Questions — bitchontheblog @ 16:06
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Being a practical person I search for solutions. In absence of which an answer may suffice.

Here is a question. I’ll paint you the scenario: I just picked a book (off my well tended and regularly and lovingly dusted bookshelves) and opened it. So far so great. Like meeting an old friend. You pick up where you left off; revisiting the past.

And then? AND THEN? Then, and no sooner had I opened page 172, one of those tiny little critters shoots out of it, hurtling along, no doubt not knowing what to do with exposure to daylight.  Let’s leave aside that I never knowingly disturb anyone, I’d not even dream to raise the dead; however, and this is the question: What is the actual purpose of “beings” like that? What do they add to the world – ours and theirs? On the bright side they don’t bore holes into your books, they don’t sting, they don’t make any noise, they don’t defecate (as far as I can tell); they just are. What for?

U

January 15, 2017

Repetition

Filed under: Errors,Fairy Tales,Folklore,Future,language — bitchontheblog @ 13:53
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Never being backward at being forward I have identified at least three phrases I have started overusing in my blog posts. If I were my own editor I’d have word with me.

In no particular order:

“in the olden times”

“once upon a time”

“apropos of nothing”

creep up with increasing frequency.

Mitigating circumstances are, say, age. Obviously now there are more “olden times” than any time ahead of me. “Once upon a time” is solely to be put at the doorstep of being brought up on a heavy diet of fairy tales and folklore, a habit I have kept up to this day. “Apropos of nothing”? Well, it is usually apropos of nothing. Just something that pops into my  mind, apropos of nothing.

So, not so much apropos of nothing, what do you find when digging in your memory box of once upon a time in the olden days?

U

January 13, 2017

Please select one of the following options

I need to vent a brief spleen. And who better than my helpless readers to vent it on?

One of the reasons I am considered to be so “good with children” that I have the patience of several saints rolled into one. Keyword “patience”. I myself would say that the reason I am good with children, indeed anyone, is because I am interested in them. But that’s not today’s spleen’s subject.

Patience. Naturally, as one would expect considering the laws of adversity, my personal life is peopled with people on a short fuse. GG (gay guy) had the shortest of them all. He was charming with it and, at a distance, one can live with other people’s short fuses. Though, truth be told, short fuses leave me bewildered. I don’t get it.

Back to where I started. I nearly blew a very long fuse ten minutes ago. Though I didn’t. It’s not that poor girl’s fault (Chinese, stuck in some god forsaken BT call centre, with an almost undecipherable accent to match) that the company she works for is what it is.

What got my goat – and not for the first time – that people just assume (in letters ASSUME) that I have a mobile/cell phone/handy so they can send me a text to confirm whatever there is to confirm. I DO NOT HAVE (see above). On relating this the dense will repeat the question: “What is your mobile number?”. This is the moment when even I (eleven minutes into a tedious call) am ready to burst a blood vessel. I don’t and I didn’t.

My question to you: Are we supposed to sing and dance to the same tune?

U

January 5, 2017

Cold turkey

Some people do seek, or are advised to do so, aversion therapy. I don’t.

Why? Because, other than the usual candidates, I am averse to little. Particularly not people. I never tire of them. Not even bloggers (with potential) whose blogs I comment on who can’t be arsed to enter a civilized discussion (two at the current count). I take their idiocies in my patient stride. They may “block” me and my comments as often as they like (showing themselves up as the wastes-of-time I keep telling myself they are). And yet. What do I do? Keep going. Which is why I need aversion therapy in reverse.

Any suggestions, words of wisdom?

U

December 31, 2016

Caution and the wind

This entry is inspired by Cro Magnon. He is an Englishman. No, not in New York; in France. If you are into growing your own food, dogs and questionable political views please do visit his blog. He is, unlike some, also a gentleman. One may say “refined”, with a, as yet small, dose of “ennui” thrown in.

Yes, so in one of his recent posts he brought to my attention a bit of folklore. Namely that when eating your first mince pie of the season you should  make a wish. This was news to me. But felt immediate relief that I hadn’t yet had THAT mince pie. If I’d had  I’d have wasted a good opportunity. He also, more or less, guarantees that that wish will come true. Marvellous. If I were five years old I couldn’t have been more excited.

Now the crux sets in – and when the Angel took me on a magical walk in the New Forest and to one of his favourite spots, on Boxing Day, I related one of his mother’s shortcomings to him. Remember Boxing Day is on the twenty sixth of December. I still hadn’t had my FIRST mince pie. Why? Sweethearts, it’s simple. There are times in life when I will dither. Whilst once upon a time (BC – Before Cro) I would have eaten mince pies with abandon, his innocent piece of information made me enter dangerous territory. What should I wish for?  I am spoilt for choice. Will I, by accident, wish for something idiotic (think of the fisherman, his wife – and they had THREE wishes – and how that ended up a bit of a disaster and a massive disappointment)?

I wouldn’t call myself indecisive but when it comes to wishes one can’t be too careful. So, naturally, and being risk averse, I keep postponing the moment. As I was relating to him this new found anxiety the Angel smiled. Ok, I said. I’ll take my life into my hands – bury me later -, on our return home we’ll have the first mince pies of the season. In separate rooms if need be.

Imagine my surprise when, back at the ranch, I rifled through the cupboards and couldn’t find any. I “knew” I’d bought them. Not least because they were on my shopping list. Nope. No mince pies. I even checked all my receipts. No mince pies. One wonders how the subconscious plays little practical jokes on us. Don’t quite know what to make of it. Should I be glad that I didn’t tempt fate? Should I curse fate that I missed a chance? Obviously I could just curse myself. In which case I’d need a mince pie to undo my curse. Where to go from here?

31st December greetings,

U

December 22, 2016

Jesus Christ

Filed under: Atmosphere,Exasperation,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 14:59
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Naturally I consider myself the epitome. Don’t ask of what. Or you’ll all hate me. For ever and ever and ever. It would be disingenuous of me to say I don’t care whether I am liked or not. On the whole I don’t but – on account of being human – will make exceptions.

Yes, insert heart felt sigh, earlier today I came across a fine example of stupidity. Not mine. That would be forgivable. Others’ stupidity? Nah. Forget it. Not that I am easily disappointed. But then I am.

When I say “stupid” I don’t mean people like myself who don’t understand theorems, maths and stuff. I mean people who are so stupid they’d light a match to see if there is a fire. Who light a match to see if they have switched off the light. People who look at you blankly. People who are so stupid all you can do is keep your temper in check and remember that it’s not their fault. If ever there was something to test my humanity it’s stupidity. The other being “inconsiderate”. Don’t get me started on the latter. There is not enough foam within me to cover the contempt I do have for the inconsiderate. My only consolation that I try and remember they aren’t inconsiderate DELIBERATELY. Thus saints are made. You forgive everything and everyone.

Yes, so today I was what can only be called “on a wild goose chase”. The goose wasn’t wild. It was dead. And nowhere to be found despite a delivery address.

Still, what would life be like without an injection of drama and associated adrenaline? Peaceful. That’s what. Who wants peace? In the season of peace and good will. Am on vigil of the next instalment.

In the meantime, light a match to light a candle. I love candles. As soon as winter’s daytime darkness sets in (think Finland) candles will be lit in this house. So soothing.

And yes, before your condolences flood in, it took me all but twenty minutes to locate the temporarily missing goose. No thanks to imbeciles involved but my own brilliance of powers of deduction. And what a beauty it [the goose] is.

U

December 19, 2016

Keeping a foothold

If I had to define one aspect of (my) life I’d say: Happy go lucky.

Happy GO lucky? Literally? Come again.

In all our lives there are “themes”. Bits that repeat themselves. One of mine is stumbling, falling over. I’d like to say: “No shit”, but that’s not the sort of language I employ outside my own hearing.

My headmistress and my English and German teacher told me that I was the only pupil they’d ever known to fly UP the stairs and do herself an injury. And thus my feet slowed me down – not often, but at measurable intervals.

I won’t bore you with an episode, in my late twenties, when one of my legs gave way often enough for me to even more lose my footing. Never has anyone curtsied as graciously and as often as I did – even in an ice cream parlour. People fell in love with me thinking I was Cinderella. To the rescue here they came. Which was sweet. One can only love so many (romantically that is, otherwise the heart is wide). And I was already in love with the future father of my future son. Unfortunately FOS had, and probably still does, tendency to see multiple sclerosis and other dreads where there are none. Anyway, so that went away on its own account. And, years later, when runner’s shin was not a diagnosis, acupuncture miraculously cured a pain never to return.

Remember we are talking walking. And losing your footing. For years everything was fine. I’d carry the Angel, even at age four and of corresponding weight, running down a hill in pouring rain without so much as one ankle giving way. Now?

Now? Don’t ask. One time I faltered – right at the doorstep of our front door – the Angel said, and never shall words ring more in my ears: “MAMA, you ARE a liability”.

That’s nothing. I could be dead or demented. Then I’d really be a liability.

Since, and in the last few months, I keep falling. Nothing broken. So that’s good. What is not so good – and the point of this post – that I have recognized the law of being conditioned. Yes, conditioned. Not flummoxed. Not fixated. Conditioned. Thus, or so my theory goes, phobias develop. Where, once upon a time, my nose was up in the air admiring the clouds, now my eyes are fixed on the ground. Trying to locate pot holes in the pavement before they trip me up. Negotiating decaying damp leaves before I can slip on them as if they were a discarded banana skin.

I wouldn’t say it’s depressing since it gives you a different perspective, one you didn’t have before. Nevertheless, I now find it daunting to set a foot outside. And, remember “conditioning”, I can barely bear dare to do so after darkness falls. Because then, guess what, I can’t see where I am going.

I am sure there is a life lesson in there somewhere, one of my beloved metaphors. But what is it?

U

 

December 18, 2016

Chemistry

Filed under: inexcusable,Kitchen,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 16:45
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Don’t think me mad. I am not. Or no madder than to be expected once you have left the relative safety of your mother’s womb.

I don’t know why, and this is why I am throwing myself at your collective shoulder, I do have a distinct horror of curdled milk. A fine cheese maker I’d have made.

In decades I haven’t curdled milk but this minute I did.  And before Looney and any scientists among you say anything, I know it’s NOT me who curdled the milk. The milk curdled all by itself.  Shows you what an awful position to be in when you are the middleman. The facilitator. The one with the pan. The milk. And the means to heat it.

Gravely and in grieving, yours,

U

December 8, 2016

Arms

Filed under: Babes,Future,Health — bitchontheblog @ 17:18
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Not to put too fine a point on it: My father is barely older than me. On an even finer point, and my mother won’t mind me putting on the internet what is common knowledge, I was conceived – two virgins having falling in love and first time. You can’t beat it. No wonder, I am so healthy. I was born before either of them had a chance or a choice to wreck their bodies. Not that either ever did.

So it is with some dismay I have learned just now that Mick Jagger has fathered yet another child at the age of 73. I am sorry, guys. It’s disgusting. Not the fact that he shags a 29 year old. Do whatever you like. With a goat if all else fails. But FATHERING a child at any age over, say – for sake of argument – fifty? Nah. If you have to prove your manhood go fell a tree. Do time travel. Become a Viking. Invade England.

To put it another way: Just because you CAN doesn’t mean you should.

Marvel at nature. There is a reason women’s fertility shutting down before their eggs’ use by date. Jagger will go on forever. I can’t wait till he is a few years older. Kick a football with yet another son at age 100? And I am letting Rod Stewart off lightly – not because I like him but because he is short. As is Jagger – come to think of it.

U

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

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