Turning into my mother

So I was looking for a dress for this upcoming wedding (not mine of course, der) and I was hemming and hawing over whether I should buy the teal or the red dress.

The reason that I was having a Sophie's choice was because if I bought the red then I'd be breaking the wedding guest cardinal rule: don't wear red and upstage the bride, dummy.
But the teal just didn't look as good.

So finally I broke down and went to the store and asked the salesgirl for the red dress.


Thanks to my ridiculous indecision they only had a size 8 left and no amount of wishful thinking/pushing and squeezing myself into place was going to induce that zipper up and the only other size 10 was alllllllll the way across Sydney. I was going to have to drive a million kilometres to pick up this stupid red dress.

Another sane person would have just bought the teal and been done with it.

So I hauled myself across space and time and peak hour traffic to acquire said garment, I tried it on again in the dressing room and after all that it just didn't look as good, it looked weird. Go figure.

I bought it anyway because of the said blood, sweat and tears drive and when I got to the carpark I pulled it out again to take a look at it.

It was oddly familiar and as I stared at it some more, I realised that the damn thing was a carbon copy of my mother's dress. Her favourite dress that she wore when I was a teenager. Rather hilariously, I didn't have to run cross country to get at it, I could have just dug around at the bottom of her wardrobe.

Don't fight it, you'll turn into them one day and it'll be beyond you how it actually happened.

Batman Fingernails

Too cool. Must post this again.

To buy or not to buy.

Probably not hey?

You're my problem!

Because I wasn't feeling very well this morning, ND suggested for breakfast instead of bacon and eggs, we should go out anf eat something healthier like congee.

I really didn't want to go to the congee place in Chatswood because I'd had prior experiences with them before, namely their appalling servce especially when the boss wasn't around.

But the craving for a thousand egg and pork congee was too great so I acquiesed. I should never make concrete decisions when I'm sick and hungry.

So we got there and shocker, shocker the boss wasn't there so the waitresses all had their best FOF (fuck-off faces) on and we got our food and all was right with the world for a little while.

You know, as long as we weren't interacting with each other.

So after a little while, I get up (sigh) to ask them for the bill and they hand it to us with a total of $19.50, which is not a large amount by Australian standards for two people.

I only had a twenty so I put it down and they take it away (for a really damn long time) when a waitress comes up to clear the table and in between her putting things together, the little tray comes back with 50c from another waitress.

It comes back as a combination of two twenties and a ten, which is what Chinese restaurants do when they really really really want you to tip.

The clearing waitress is eyeing me like a vulture, as if she's never seen a tip before (she probably hadn't) so I was waiting for her to leave before I decided what I wanted to do.

Normally, I don't care about fifty cents ( I really don't) but lately I feel like I'm giving my money away willy-nilly to undeserving people. And should I not take that fifty cents and give it to a busker or a charity instead? On the other hand, what the hell you can't take money with you to the grave- right?

So I was mulling on this, when the vulture cleaner finally left and another waitress (the primary rude one) snatches up the tray with a muttered thanks.

Dude, I haven't even left yet. I looked up at her with puzzlement and said 'Excuse me? I'm still thinking about it.'

She turns to me and says 'What's your problem?'

Politely but firmly, I gesture at the tray in her hand 'I am still thinking about it.' (well not really, you kind of made up my mind for me!)

She bangs down the tray down and storms off mumbling expletives under her breath.

And we leave, coins jangling in my pocket.
**

Afterthought:

The thing is, I feel like I am complaining a lot lately about the service of resturants in Chatswood, not just on here but in real life. It's just something I've noticed going on a really steep and fatal decline. Yes, the influx of Asian immigrants into my one-time hood has turned it into a mini Hong Kong, with a dozen Chinese restaurants on every corner and while there are advantages to variety but it's also bringing with it all of these underpaid mainlander waiters/international students who just don't want to be there.

And I get that most sane people would rather be at home on a Sunday afternoon sleeping or playing games than serving me soup. I get it. But I'd rather pay five dollars more in a nice place (in a friendlier suburb) than have to wrangle once more with a resentful waitress who'd rather spit in my food than serve it to me. Who knew the effects of globalisation would trickle into suburban restaurant hospitality.

Anyway, I'm voting with my feet. I won't eat in Chatswood anymore. Do you hear that fwoinky waitresses?! Go find someone else to give your FOF face to. I'm out! (and with that, you will most likely hear less about crap service inrestaurants and more of my regularly scheduled programming. One can hope.)