Monday, February 22, 2010

When rude people are allowed out.

Can I smoke?
What can I say? You're outside, you're entitled to.
Well, you say no, I won't smoke.
Well, I can't say no, we're outside, you can if you want.

I'm simultaneously interested and offended that I don't qualify for an interrogation. Her table is directly midpoised between ours, yet my response is void. Possibly only having coffee disqualifies me from the ranks of potentially offended diners.

Well I'll just turn this way.

Thanks, lady. It wasn't enough for you that I'm downwind of your odious cigarette, now you want to turn and face me, too.

Forget tasers, I need a flamethrower.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Black, black, black, mistake...

I am a white failure. Put a white garment of any decription within a three foot radius of me and I will spill, spray, smear or just mysteriously blemish the damn thing inside an hour.

Who are these people who can swan about in white-on-white ensembles bestowing munificent smiles upon us lesser mortals? I strongly suspect they've had every pore sealed with hairspray and eaten nothing but naked white rice since they got dressed.

Even then, their laser-beam-shooting eyes would have to be activated every four seconds to ward off spouses proffering sweet chili sauce (for the rice) grimy-pawed pets and small children in search of climbing frames. I'm just not highly evolved enough for this.

Since my trip to Bunnings and heavy investment in wardrobe infrastructure, I've noticed a definite trend in my garments. More worryingly, the pink top that made an appearance on Thursday provoked a flurry of comments along the lines of "Omigod it's pink! You? Pink? What???!"

Clearly my wardrobe can be divided into two components: black & I can't believe it's not black. (Oh, and denim. But that doesn't really count.)
Or, as I prefer to think of it, camoflage & today I'm prepared to make an effort. Dammit, theyre finally onto me. I think I might need to try harder.