Can’t Live with Them…

Confession A
This is a thinly disguised opportunity to for me to wear my Grumpy Hat. This is a hat I try to keep tucked away in the back of the wardrobe, gathering dust, for as long as possible. I don’t really like wearing it; it’s kind of heavy and ugly and cumbersome. But sometimes I feel an overwhelming urge to take it out, dust it off and stromp about wearing it for a while, making metaphorical lists of things that piss me off. But now, thanks to you, Dear Reader, I can safely wear my hat while I actually compile a real list, and then put the hat back when I’m done.

Confession B
A lot of the things on this list are extremely trivial and unimportant in a first world kind of way.

Confession C
This is only Part 1. I think my Well of Annoying Things is very deep, possibly bottomless. Is that wrong?

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

Zebra Crossing Ingrates

I am an appreciator. Ridiculously so, some might say. So when someone stops their car for me at a zebra crossing, I practically buy them a cup of coffee and invite them round for dinner. At the very least I nod and acknowledge their willingness to stop for me. “Thanks for not running me over!” I think. “You pretty much just saved my life!” Conversely, when I stop for someone and they walk – slowly – to the other side without even a sideways flicker in my direction, I am incandescent with rage.

Dress Code Dictators

My social life revolves around close friends, usually at each other’s houses, with the occasional trip to a restaurant thrown in for good measure. My wardrobe is light. It’s not a “capsule” wardrobe, just light on stuff – so if I’m ever presented with an invitation that includes a dress code (“Smart Casual”, “Cocktail”, “Evening” etc) I freak out. What does it mean? Is it open to interpretation? What if I turn up with the wrong code? Will I be banished to the corner to sit with the other losers whose interpretation of Smart Casual was misjudged? I think in a previous life I must have turned up at a cocktail party wearing denim cut-offs; the anxiety is real.

Carpet Nazis

This one is controversial. Unless it’s for cultural purposes, please don’t ask me to remove my shoes when I come to your house. I promise to wipe my feet on your doormat before entering but if I’ve gone to the trouble to choose a pair of shoes to wear to your dinner party, let me wear them. Also I cannot guarantee that during the winter months my socks will smell of daisies so you know, you’ve been warned.

Slogan T-Shirt Deniers

So, you got a T-shirt with a slogan on it. In order to appreciate this gem of comedic wisdom, people have to read your T-shirt. Therefore, when I approach you in the supermarket, squinting to read what you clearly chose to share with the world today, please don’t look at me like I’m about to devour your firstborn.

Redundant Phrases that Don’t Need to Be Said

See what I did there? Personal favourite is “3am in the morning”. Just – don’t.

Middle Aged Hangovers

Okay, I get that my body is not going to spring back like it used to after a few too many sharpeners at the bar. But when I wake up with a headache and I haven’t even had a very big night, it feels a little unfair. I think my mind is catching up with my body slowly and realising that it’s just not worth it. But it’s a slow process.

Wait Staff Who Look at the Floor

I’ve never been a waitress. But I was a barmaid for a while and I remember being told that at all times we must be on the lookout for customers. If someone is standing at the bar with a credit card in their hand, chances are they need a drink. Similarly, if someone is sitting at a restaurant table waving furiously at you, chances are they need something. So please take your eyes off the floor / your colleague / the hot guy or girl at that other table and watch the room for us poor suckers who just need some more black pepper / wine / the bill. Hey, we all want to get home eventually, right?

Taylor Swift

I’m torn on this one. The minute she releases a new single I know the words, off by heart, within a day. And then I sing it, in my head, for the next month. I don’t want to do this. I have many other songs in my repertoire, some of which are not entirely concerned with slagging off ex boyfriends / other pop stars / Kim Khardashian. If I was a conspiracy theorist, I’d suggest there was more to it than just making catchy tunes. If you think about it, she could summon an army of sorts at a moment’s notice.

Okay, thanks for staying with me, I’m done for now. I’ll take the hat off. I feel better for the vent. Consider your good deed done for the day; it’s a public service of sorts.

I’ll be just fine now. Until Part 2.

There are two types of people in the world: competitive and non-competitive. I fall into the latter category. The very idea of competition makes me break into a cold sweat. What if I lose? That would suck. What if I win? That would suck for someone else.

In primary school, Fiona Douglas and I had a cross-country pact: we would run at the back and cross the finishing line with such synchronicity that the teachers couldn’t possibly tell who had come last. Except she got in before me. So I lost. Out of the whole school. I think it was planned all along.

I played only one sport throughout school: netball. I wasn’t bad at it – as goal shoot I just needed to practice a bit and if our team were doing badly I got to strike up a conversation with my opponent. I used to cycle to the netball courts on wintry Saturday mornings in Palmerston North, play a game and then hang around to watch my friends play whilst consuming my body weight in K-Bars and chips. We wore possibly the most hideous netball uniform of all time – a red top with a bobbly, woolly, black-and-white horizontally striped skirt, elasticated at the waist for extra comfort. Move over, Sharon from Kath & Kim.

Fast forward 28 years and there I am, with a little girl who wants to play netball.

“Awwww. That’s fabulous, darling. I played once, donchaknow. I wasn’t bad either, as it happens”.

<Next day>

“Mummy, we need a coach and you said you were really good so I said you’d do it”

Right, then.

My first team, of six year olds, were called the Dragons. Which made me the Old Dragon. They were cute and frustrating in equal measure and would race around the court en masse, squeaking at each other for someone – anyone! to throw the ball to them. I’d dish out lollies to the player of the day and everyone got stickers on their netball court diagram. Looking back, The Early Primary Years were my salad days, netball-wise.

As the years went by and the girls got bigger, things became a little more competitive – not my strong point, as I’ve mentioned. And really, a competitive streak is quite handy if you’re in charge of a sports team. By Intermediate I realised the other mothers who were coaching were actually quite good at it. Like, they had strategies and stuff. They would talk logistics with their teams and dish out punishment drills for bad behaviour or a lack of focus.  There was an unfortunate incident involving the use of the main court for after-school practice and frankly I decided life was too short to go to Netball War with this particular mother who would have given Lois Muir a run for her money: my girls made do with the basketball court that week but we had a much better time than Lois’ team.

We won a few games and we had a good time. We even managed to win a couple of finals here and there over the years. I’ve hung up my whistle now, though. High School netball is way too rich for my blood. Even the girls know more than I do. So I stand on the sidelines, a safe distance from the coaches, making encouraging noises, telling my insanely competitive daughter to calm down, it’s only a game (she gets it from her father), resisting the urge to bring lollies for the best player at the end of the game, and thanking God someone else is doing the coaching.