Reflections from the frontline

The war is in full swing, but I am going to have to call a truce as I've killed my internet allowance. It gets reset Thursday (darn Apple OS update) but I may fold and up my quota before then. In the meantime, go and see what Sunni had to say about my Lazy Girl Advent Calendar. But don't take the word of an animal abuser who likes to play Quokka Soccer seriously. :P (Scroll down a post and enter her fabric giveaway, then if you win, you can send me the sweet jelly roll in sympathy).

As my computer is moving at the rate of a snail on pot, I can't upload any pictures, so I will tell you what happened on Monday, which is not quilting related for a change. Being on the frontline of a blogwar makes you reflect on the meaning of life. The purpose of my life is to act as comic relief for others it seems. Not by choice, the universe just set things up that way. It used to be my dating stories (my dates usually reveal that they talk to dead people, hear colours, have restraining orders or get advice from monkeys - all actually happened honest to goodness) but I've been on a dating hiatus lately (partly because of the number of men I meet who talk to dead people/monkeys or have restraining orders and/or turn out to be gay or leave the state). So the universe decided to come at me from a different angle.

So, on Monday I went to a new physio with a sore knee. (I am starting to believe my mother that exercise is bad for you). After being told to roll my slacks up, the conversation went like this (Physio is J, he did not crack one smile):

J: Oh, fake tan [distasteful face].

Me: Yes, it's pretty bad, ha ha.

J: Yes. I see a lot of fake tans and none of them are good.

Me: Neither's skin cancer.

J: Have you put on any weight lately?

Me: Um, yes 2-3kg.

J: You want to watch that. You'll be looking in the mirror thinking you look fat and getting depressed.

Me: I'm only 62kg! (That's 136lb and I'm 5'5/165cm, I've always been on the skinny side of normal, not quite ready to go to a fat farm)

J: Well the good news is you dress appropriately for your weight (was wearing flowy top)

Me: [mouth hanging open]

J: Stand up and take off your shoes [I comply]. Your feet are pretty cruddy.

Me:  [did I just hear him correctly?]

J: Yup, pretty cruddy. Early signs of bunions. You'd have got those feet from one of your parents. Do you have children?

Me: Um, no, just furkids... you know, dogs. [halfhearted attempt at a laugh]

J: FURkids? You're not one of those people who have RSPCA numberplates are you? [they have PAW on them and money goes towards animal protection]
Me: No, but my MUM does, her initials are PAW.

J: They're freaks those people with the RSPCA numberplates. I mean, why would you do that?

Me: Um, to stop animal cruelty?
J: Humph. What do you do for work?
Me: I'm in education.

J: Oh teachers. Couldn't organise a piss-up [is this an Aussie term? drink-fest basically] in a brewery. I treat a lot of them. Principals too. Nice enough but couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery...

Me: !!!!!

Well! Tourettes? Aspergers? Has to be somewhere on the autism spectrum. I toyed with the idea of going back for my repeat appointment to see what other insults he could sling at me (and to see if I could work his greasy hair and BO into the conversation), but decided against it. One war at a time is enough for me...