A face is a terrible thing to have. There was a woman on my bus this morning who didn’t just have bitch-face, she had gormless-bitch-face. And she was probably a very nice chap.
It did prompt me to wonder, though, do you grow into your face or does your face grow into you?
So after reading Martha’s comment on Pretty Pretty Pretty about her magic cream with “rice scrubby things”, I thought to myself, “I’ve got rice. And I’ve got a blender. Magic rice scrubby cream here I come!”.
I don’t think my blend was quite as fine as it could be–it would be fair to say there were chunks–and when added to my cleanser it did a kind of gloopy rice puddingish thing. But it smelt good and it made my face soft and smooth and–if I do say so myself–blindingly gorgeous. I reckon with a few refinements and maybe a coffee grinder, I could totally find myself in the Estee Lauder league.
Bus etiquette: when sharing a seat on a crowded bus and many of the passengers get off, do you move to a vacated seat?
I say yes. Because if you don’t you could be blocking a certain wee lass in, causing her to stress out about bell pinging access. Obviously the chap sitting next to me thought no. Or was too lazy to move his camo-panted arse. Thoughts?
Thanks to an invitation from the lovely Sue Tyler, Peter and I escaped Boganville on Saturday night for a trip into The Big City and dinner with Sue, Rebecca, Kathy, Stephen, Brock, Andy, and Tantek*.
Now if there are two things I’m crap at–and, sadly, there are vastly more than two–they would be a. people, and b. noise. Dinner in The Big City with people I haven’t met serves up large portions of both.
The trouble with people is that they put out way too much information for my brain to cope with. So it shuts down. Which doesn’t really work in a social setting. The whole sitting staring blankly into space thing just isn’t valued the way it should be.
Something as seemingly simple as making eye contact can cause a complete neurological short-circuit. Generally when I need to speak to someone I find a blank area to look at while I’m talking. That way, my own thoughts don’t get swamped by the stream of incoming information. But, as strategies go, that one doesn’t work particularly well when you’re attempting to initiate a conversation. Making eye contact is the standard human method for letting someone know you’re talking to them and not the tabletop. So I need to get the thing I want to say completely prepared in my brain before making eye contact, taking a deep breath, and hoping all the words make it out in a non-scrambled form.
Of course, in the ensuing eons the prospective conversationee has generally been engaged by someone with fewer I/O bugs.
Sound is another area where my brain works sub-optimally. Noise that other people consider reasonable I find physically painful. And if the noise is at all complex my hearing just turns off. It’s like switching the mute button on the world. I can look at things and know that, logically, they are producing sound but I just cannot hear it.
But Saturday was nice (despite incredibly rude maître d’/glorified receptionist at Monsoon Poon) and I think even the technophobe boyfriend enjoyed it (trying to explain the concept of a web star taxed my powers of elucidation somewhat though). Might even attempt more of the human interfacing thing again in future.
*Please let me know if I guessed anybody’s link wrong!
Another one of those backseat of the bus conversations:
Teenage Boy 1: I reckon you’re going to be like 16 when you lose your virginity.
Teenage Boy 2: That’s when it’s legal. You’re not allowed to do it before then.
Phone camera + Holga-ish filter on Picnik = The World Where I Live.
Also, if you’re stalking me, I don’t live anywhere near the scene of this photo. At all. No Siry Bob.
You know how the balloons in the supermarket always come in bags of colour ugliness? Don’t give up. Sometimes you just come across a bag of pretty.
A thing I learned on the bus this morning that I would prefer not to have learned:
Having “hairy sacs” is something Intermediate age boys aspire to.
The dead baby hedgehog I spotted yesterday–
Look at its little curled up hands (first person to say “rigor mortis” is banned). Now cry dammit.
There was a cat lurking by my back door this morning. I bet it was a boy cat planning all the nefarious things he would do to my Edie. Not on my watch buddy. Take your boy bits and slink off back to where you came from.
You know how the “gangsta” kids go around with bandannas hanging out of their back pocket? I saw a guy this morning with a slide rule hanging out of his.
As a nice added bonus it dragged his pants down far enough that we all got a great view of his yellow satin boxers.
Twittering
