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> > > Danny Start: Blogbitch


She's a rootin', tootin', blogbitchin' babe!

Danny Start

By Danny Start

Howdy Dude - I'm new to this blogging game. The name's Dinah, the Honky Tonk Babe. I love a bit of Country and a line dance - and a hootenanny. So, let's get on with the show!

This here blog entry is all about bitches and bitching and misery. And what inspires this theme? I hear you ask. Well sir, it's recently been brought to my attention (and rather rudely I might add) that moi is getting a mite bit grouchy. That's what Jane said anyway - You're getting a mite bit grouchy. Like she'd bloody know!

But I know what she really means. She means I'm a bitch. And I take exception. Just because I'm not a girly girl who thinks planning weddings and cooing over taffeta frocks is fun… Shallow cow. Her backside is vast enough for a thousand red hot brands - yessirree!

Now being called beautiful, buxom and brazen (which is me down to a capital T) is fine - but being called a bitch is totally out of the question.

Besides, why are women called bitches in the first place? Ever notice the minute a woman gains any success in this old world (not that I'm successful mind) she is straightway called bitchy? A woman with a broken foot (I'll be getting to that soon) who swaggers and limps and who is forced to play her own doctor as she searches for medical info on the Internet is called a neurotic bitch. A beautiful and neurotic woman calls the NHS to argue the case for personal hypnotherapy - and is tagged a devious bitch for even trying such a clever angle. And the worst case scenario - the same little fabulously martyred sainted woman is called a bitch for assuming she (possibly) has a terminal illness in her foot and is a wedding such a big deal when compared to this earth shattering possibility?

But back to the rodeo…

First of all, it happened rather innocently - insouciantly even. I was dragging a sack of chocolates into my house and I was wearing new, stupefyingly pretty cowboy boots. Although these two things, choccies and dude boots, appear to have nothing in common they actually do. Oh yes!

Apparently, as I was dragging my sack of milk chocolate vary-centred sweeties, I somehow or other raised up my foot, which is necessary when one walks unless one is a slithering snake or my sister Jane (a bitch if ever there was one!).

Okay, I'll digress (again) for just one more second and explain about Jane - because I know you're all doggone eager to hear about her. Jane (Mummy's favourite little possum) was born with a red hair so lustrous you'd swear she was the original model for all those pale-skinned seductresses the Pre-Raphaelites have a thing for. Whereas mine is this limp leukaemic colour. Well, you'd get jealous and 'ornery too!

Jane's a nice girl. Sickly nice. And she is getting wed to the love of her life, a right Charlie called, well… Charles. She swans around the office as if all the phones ringing and clients effing and blinding is the fuel she runs on. It probably is. While I… Well, I suffer the numerous indignities of my role as client advisor in the Employment Service as if someone has stuck a harpoon through my head and snapped the barbs off a little too close to the bone…

Now back to the rest of the story - call out the possee! Ah yes… I've told about the inadequate description of moi (the bitch thing) and I've shared my love of chocolates (chardonnay too - did I mention chardonnay?) and my pathetic luck of the draw in family genetics and… Oh yes! The wicked boots! Anyhow, I raised my foot up and my precious Metatarsals, connected to my Phalanges (aren't these sexy plumbing terms?) which are connected to my Extensor Retinaculum or something like that. Well, it all went kaput. And somehow or another I broke my foot.

Of course I didn't go to the doctor at first because that would have been be way too scary. Instead. I looked up every foot ailment on the Internet. Since I am a bona fide intellectualising hypochondriac the diagnosis was many things. All of them terminal and eroding the brain. I was sick. I felt sick. So didn't go to work. Jane's painful matrimonial shenanigans heaped on the misery…

Eventually I went to the doctor (a quack with antiseptic on her tongue) and she recommended a hypnotherapist but I'd have to go private - but can I afford to go private? Chocolate and chardonnay is expensive, you know!

Now before you come all over all smug and demand to know what a hypnotherapist has to do with a terminal foot disease - let me assure you that it has nothing to do with it whatsoever. Except for the fact that it was suggested to me by my quack (a total bitch if there ever was one) that perhaps You're too tense and a tad bit retentive. And perhaps you've got a thing about your sister and have developed a blind spot over it all? Huh? What the hell is she talking about?

Oh, by the way! Yesterday I met a real live blind man. I bumped into him outside Tesco's. And he called me something I can't repeat here. Do you really think Disabled people should eff and blind like that? It's so undignified. Anyway, he heard me shuffle past and called me a bitch. Did he smell my perfume? Infinity tinged with a hint of fear. Hey bitch - bet you've got a fat arse! Charming…

May I digress for another moment? Well, it's my blog and I will if I want to! Ever seen those pictures of landscapes and roses that people paint with their mouths or toes after undergoing something horrible? A car accident, disease, paralysis, disfigurement, or a diving accident kind of thing? Well, it made me think. Since I am now shuffling and dragging my foot might there be a way that I could utilise another body part to make up for my lame foot. For instance, could I use my hand to match my good foot and maybe tie my bad foot up against my fat arse? Could my tongue become strong and long enough to drag itself across hot asphalt to stabilise my balance? Could this set-back, or health crisis as I like to call it, perhaps turn me suddenly artistic and famous for something other than another writer in dire need of a literary agent? Christ, I'm desperate…

So, there. You see, don't you? I've let it out of the bag now. I'm an aspiring writer. And I saddle up here every day, in front of my computer screen and put off the world and Jane's wedding and tuck my greasy hair in under my Stetson and mutter an occasional yee-haaaaaa!

As you can all see, my life has been shitty lately. I am lame and nobody cares. If I was a horse - they'd shoot me. Night after night, I toss and turn and witness my future as a one-foot Babe. And I go downstairs and put on some Loretta Lynn or Dolly Parton and imagine myself a cotton-picking, coal-dusted diva rising from the ashes and being a star. I always end up guzzling that half bottle of chardonnay I've saved in the fridge and fall asleep on the sofa dreaming of Miss World for monopeds…

My loved ones are tiring of me quickly. They scoff as I drag myself dramatically across the room. They have the cheek to question my role as an Internet physician. They've hidden my beloved medical manuals and thrown away my blood pressure cuff. And I, in return, refuse to get fitted for the bridesmaid's dress. Jane cries. Mother cries. And it's going to be a red wedding. I don't do red…

Several weeks ago my birthday arrived. No cards came. And, I admit it, I felt sad. That evening Jane arrived on my doorstep. She held out a card and I invited her in. And she didn't get sniffy or prissy at the mess I live in. She handed me my prezzy - a CD. Emmy Lou Harris, her greatest hits. And I cried…

And cried…

These days no one cares. If I'm a bit cranky - or bitchy if you must use that term - or slightly hysterical or off centered, or, or, or - whatever… Understand this - I am attempting to stand in my cowboy boots on one foot only.

I continue to diagnose myself with only the internet as my guide. But I am getting out and about. I was maid of honour at Jane's red wedding. My one red foot, pushed into a red cowboy boot, propping me up. I danced on it. I got drunk on it. And Jane smiled (the bitch!).

So, happily ever after. For now…

Well, that's enough rambling for now pardners and until we meet again a word of advice: Respect your feet and loosen up your hidden hostilities - and never, ever whine - it'll get you nowhere and some visually impaired misanthrope will tag you with the B

Stay tuned, folks. The Honky Tonk Blogbitch will be back soon. With a vengeance!

A Blogbitch has got to do what a Blogbitch has got to do.

Bye y'all.