2004-02-19 - 10:30 p.m.
A family with kids, a boy and a girl of maybe nine and eleven, were coming out of the coffee shop as I went in. The little boy was tugging at his mother's arm and saying "But Mom, she only ate *half* of Elvis Presley's mother!"
I have no idea what this meant, and I find it slightly alarming.
The Jacob Lingerie near my work has a mannequin in the window wearing black panties with a little triangular cut-out in the back just below the waist-band. Butt-cleavage peekaboo panties move immediately to my official list of 'Put That Down, No, *Down*, *Now*, I Know You Think It's Sexy But When You Come to Your Senses You'll Thank Me.' Also on this list: Mesh panties. Posing pouches. Any kind of underwear that makes you encase your cooch in nylon all day. Any kind of underwar that involves a snake or lizard skin print. Thongs which appear visibly above the waistband of your pants. Thongs the back string of which consists of pearls or rhinestones. Thongs in general, really. As well as pants so low rise that you can't bend over without showing everyone your butt cleavage. Or your thong. Hhmmm. I sense a trend here.
And while I'm on the topic of things I hate: if you're sitting in a cafe where the tables are close enough to hear other people talk, please don't spend forty minutes loudly discussing your workout in painful, exercise-by-exercise detail, because I don't *care*, and it's unbearably *boring*, and if you keep it up I may be forced to kill you. And also don't spend the entire time discussing the potential calorie, carbohydrate, fat and trans-fat content of what you're eating, because if you're that afraid of what you're eating, STAY HOME AND SUBSIST ON RICE CAKES. Also, please don't participate in the competitive anorexic sport of detailing every single thing you've eaten in the last three days, especially when accompanied by the frequent exclamation "My goodness, if I'm not careful I just *forget* to eat!" Because again? Painfully, unbearably boring and irritating to anyone who has to listen to you, and I think I could reliably plead self-defence if I was forced to bury my steak-knife in your stringy little throat.
Talk in graphic detail about your sex life. Diss absent friends. Reveal painful family secrets or discuss what your therapist told you. Rehash ancient grudges in pathological detail. Proclaim contentious religious views. Talk about *anything* *you* *like* except your fear of food. *Honestly*. It's not just that I'm bitter and fat, though yes, I do think it borders on offensive sometimes. The real problem is that it's indescribably tedious to listen to. I'm *embarrassed* for you that you don't have anything better to talk about.
I'm going to have to start my own cafe, with seats that automatically eject you the moment the word "calorie" or "stairmaster" crosses your lips. Where all the snacks are all fat, all the time.
Coming soon to a city near you.
