Bitch on the Blog

May 4, 2017

All is well

This morning I woke with a sense of foreboREdom. Don’t believe a word of it.

Package it as you like. I woke with a sense of doom. I didn’t so much have a head rush (when you get up from your seat too quickly), I was positively faint with my heart racing me to death’s door. Nothing unusual in that: Healthy specimen that I am, my body has always played out my psyche to its soma. I am sure there is a reason we have a solar plexus. If only to keep us nauseous.

Anyway, as usual, my optimism was surpassed by reality three hours later. And to think I nearly cancelled the appointment because I didn’t trust my balance to make it.

Never mind. It’s not the end of the world. And I’ll live – just in case you were hoping I’d leave you alone any time soon. I won’t. I won’t see you for dust. Or, maybe, I’ll see you, myself and the rest of the world more clearly. Which would be good, a great relief and a great saver of wasted energy.

Made me think, on my way back, how hope makes you postpone the evil moment. Because, as long as you don’t hold eye contact with reality, there is always that chimera “Hope”. I know people who have wasted their whole lives waiting in hope which, essentially – and please do contradict me if you think otherwise – constitutes the con of all cons.

Onwards and upwards,

U

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January 11, 2011

Slip sliding away

Filed under: Communication,Despair,Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 15:05
Tags: , , , , , ,

Had long telephone conversation with my father yesterday afternoon. The guy is a miracle. Few in my life have the gift of enchanting and enfuriating me with their intellect – in equal measure – as he does. I shall miss him. Not that he is in any hurry to go anywhere soon – considering I am his eldest and my parents started very young he might still be dancing on my grave. AND I WON’T BE ABLE TO ANSWER BACK. And if he says so much as utter an appreciative word in an obituary kind of way I shall have to raise from the dead.

Why am I talking about my father? No idea. I could talk about my mother. She is like BHB minus a computer. Like Jean, she only has so much patience with your woes: “Haven’t you got any GOOD news?” Gee, thanks. I just gave them to you.

Anyway, easily side tracked today’s stunning insights are related to forthcoming Chinese New Year: Since I only know my own birth year and that of BHB and none of your others I can only speculate. Is there a Dragon amongst you? A rabbit? A snake? A horse? Ah, I know who the horse is. A swine, a swindler, a fake? A saint? A car mechanic?

Be that as it may and please do not let vanity stay in the way of honesty by fessing up I give you the ideal companion to Conrad’s dung beetle as interpreted by Wrong Feng Shui: Remember dung beetles are NOT popular and whilst I am undecided whether we prefer equals or opposites to complement our set I give you: “No one likes earwigs. Even other earwigs avoid the company of an earwig. They are wriggly characters who scurry about scaring small children. They are also very good at spreading rumours. If gossip (remember, gaelikaa?) is a perennial problem at your workplace, find out if any of your colleagues are earwigs and confront them with your suspicions. Earwigs should be watched carefully at all times . They should never be left alone with cake. The plus points of earwigs are that they are good at hiding and will survive after a nuclear war.” So that’s anyone born in 1925 , 1937, 1945, 1957, 1969.  Start looking for your dung beetle now and live in moist companionship here and thereafter. I’ll give you directions to the dung heap. Just remember I easily confuse right and left.

I sincerely hope that we have a Cutlery Tray Insert in our midst, and I quote: “People born in the year of the cutlery tray insert tend to be anally retentive. For them everything has a place, and everything should be in its place. Leave even a hair out of place in the environs of a cutlery tray insert and they’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks. An exceedingly neatly stacked ton of bricks. These people tend to be vociferous defenders of the status quo. They also keep gloves in the glove department of their cars. Never marry a cutlery tray insert. Your life will be intolerable. And any children you have will grow up to be serial killers.” (1935, 1947,1959, 1971)

Condolences if you were born in the year of the grout: “Grouts are even more unappealing to look at than shrubs. They are the least exciting people you could hope to meet. Having said that, groutings serve a vital purpose in society. They help to stick things together. They are the people who work unobtrusively behind the scenes to bind diverse humanity into a coherent (w)hole. For this reason grouts make good interpreters, marriage guidance counsellors and waiters”.

I wish I were an Artichoke, alas I am not: “Artichokes are odd characters. They don’t fit in. They also tend to worry the rest of the world. Not many people know how to deal with them. For this reason artichokes are often ignored. However, if you can find a way through an artichoke’s spiky exterior, you will find a surprisingly tender heart. Eeyore was an artichoke. Artichokes are afraid of melted butter.” (1928, 1940, 1952, 1964)

Yeah, well, in your quest of ‘know thyself’ more on application.

I subscribe to Feng Shui’s unstable table of life stating that tables with even lengths legs create a false sense of security. Shortening one leg  and watching your dinner slowly sliding into your lap will provide you with a most instructive metaphor about the mess life is.

Charmed, I am sure,

U

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