Category: Pet Peeves

{From the Vault} …But where are you FROM?

Ah yes. I wrote this in September 2013 and for reasons I cannot understand, it lay dormant in my drafts folder until now! I sure had my ranty pants on, but to be fair, the issue has been a persistent one throughout my life. It shits me still! 

I am asked this question ALL the time. My story is actually quite interesting when I’m able to sit back and be objective about it, but honestly? I am a bit blasé about it. I was adopted from South Korea when I was 5 months old. I’ve been Aussie ever since, but there’s this one thing that gives me away. My looks. My almond shaped eyes, my dark, straight hair (when I haven’t coloured the bejeezus out of it) and my olive coloured skin (which is a weird way to describe a skin tone because olives are usually green or black as far as I know – but I’m not an olive expert).

I think that if I had Asian parents or mad chopstick skills (I seriously don’t) then maybe I’d be all like, here’s my story, bitches. It’s exactly what you wanted to hear!

Problem is, conversations with curious individuals go a bit like this…

Stranger: Where are you from?
Kez: *home town*
Stranger: No, where are you FROM?
Kez: *bemused face*

Stranger (with an “Ooh, I’m so clever” face on): So…where are your PARENTS from, then?”
Kez: England and Wales.
Stranger: No, BEFORE THAT.
Kez: They weren’t alive before that?

Eventually, I’ll throw them a bone.

Kez: I’m adopted. From Korea. When I was a baby.
Stranger: Oh, so can you speak Korean?
Kez: Could you talk when you were 5 months old?


And no, I’m not always a smart arse out loud (but I do think it).

Thing is, there are lots of people who have a nice vibe about them, who ask me questions respectfully and build a rapport with me. But there are also lots of people who feel entitled to my back story. Why? Because I look different. As in not white.

That’s when I get a little uppity.

Do I get to walk up to anyone who has a physical difference about them and start asking intrusive questions? What if I was to ask all the white looking people I see what the eff is up with their white skin and their reasons for being here?

Like, “Where are you from? Where were you born? What do your parents look like? What do you eat at home?”

Out of nowhere. Like literally on the street or in a supermarket. No lead up conversation. Just “WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE THAT AND WHAT LED YOU TO BE IN THIS SUPERMARKET?”

Hey, maybe I was just looking for a loaf of wholemeal bread.

(don’t get me started on how my local supermarket bakery hasn’t had wholemeal bread on the shelves before lunch time for weeks now)

Maybe I get annoyed, because what I look like is such a small part of who I am. By fixating on my race/general appearance, people are missing out on wanting to see so many other aspects of who I am and “where I’m from”. While it is a part of my identity, my country of birth is just not that significant to me in my day-to-day life.

Rant over!

{From the Vault} If it’s too loud…you’re me.

In a desperate bid to conquer my writer’s block, I have been sifting back through my voluminous folder full of blog posts that never made it past the draft stage for reasons I am not entirely sure of. Maybe I thought some were too contentious/controversial (spoiler alert: they probably weren’t). Maybe I realised they were really crap (probably). Maybe my attention span can be goldfish like (yep yep yep – what was I saying?). I don’t know. But I thought I’d start slowly posting some of them, so they can finally see the light. For better or for worse haha. 

This one is from April, 2013. I had just been gifted my laptop for my birthday and the Little Mister was almost 18 months old. Some people on the next street over were having a ridiculous party as they tend to do at peak holiday times (the last one resulted in our neighbours – the good ones – chasing a dickhead out of our backyard while we were away so now I feel completely vindicated for being an old grumpy lady). 

As I type this, I’m lying in bed with my beloved Birthday MacBook and listening to the mind numbing dirge of some neighbour’s loud music. I’m thinking old, grumpy lady thoughts and lamenting at the lack of respect people have these days. This is compounded by the fact that I had to listen to someone’s ridiculously loud radio all day too. You know when you can’t actually distinguish what the music is, but the bass is thunking around and you hear the low rumble, like the whisper of bogans starting their V8s all at once? It starts out OK. It’s not too loud and you’re kind of distracted anyway, but then it gets into your ears and your brain and slowly tortures you until you can’t think straight and you’d kill for the peace of the night. You know that you chose a place to live where when it’s all serene, you can even hear the ocean, despite being a couple of kilometres away.

Then I wonder, WHEN THE F*CK DID I GET SO OLD? You go through phases in life (or at least I did).

1. You’re too young to go to raucous parties with loud music, but you dream of the day you’ll be cool enough.

2. You’re at those parties and you don’t care about anyone else. If the cops show up it’s an extra awesome story to tell everyone who wasn’t there.

3. You stop going to those types of parties, but you feel happy when you hear them because you feel the nostalgia and are happy that someone is still enjoying their (assumed) youth.

4. You have a kid who has to sleep well at night to even half function through the day. These parties turn you into an uptight, old, crabby b*tch.

Guess which stage I’m at?

Also, early on in this post I used the word dirge. My mum uses that word. That’s a mum word. An annoyed at all the loud people mum word.

I’m a little disappointed at how ‘old’ I have become. I wonder if I’m just being precious sometimes. Surely people are allowed to party a bit loudly on a Friday or Saturday night? You know, like until 11pm or midnight or something before they turn it down out of respect?

Not everyone has a toddler or is at home doing sh*t all, I tell myself. Perhaps I’m just being an obnoxious parent who wants the world to revolve around them all of a sudden.

But then I think, NO. It’s just respect. Most of the parties I attended when I was younger were in semi rural places where the neighbours lived further away and/or were given advance notice of what was to come.

I can now hear various neighbours out the front talking. I tried to eavesdrop (like a crotchety busy body old lady) earlier and it seemed that they weren’t stoked with the noise either. I want to call the police and whinge, but I’ll be honest. I’m procrastinating. Everyone I know who’s ever made a noise complaint and wanted to remain anonymous to the party host has always been revealed by a not so smart police officer (don’t get me wrong I have the utmost respect for the police). I don’t want to be that old, grumpy lady who called the police at 8:30pm, thank you very much!

I think I need a ‘complaining about the noise’ outfit. I think a faded pink, fleecy dressing gown with a floral theme would be appropriate. Curlers for my hair. Fluffy slippers. A rolling pin I can shake around. Glasses hanging off my nose. I could just march right on up that street and give those hooligans what for!


My pet(ty) peeves.

Ha. I guess this will kind of be like an anti-Happy List (you know how I sometimes write a list of the stuff that has made me happy?)! Because while I am a pretty positive person who usually knows how to pick my battles, sometimes stuff shits me too. And I’m not talking about the big stuff. I’m talking about dumb, smallish stuff. The petty stuff. I figure why not write it down and see if anyone relates (and we can all have a giggle over it).

So here’s the stuff that shits me…

When coat hangers get tangled

Like I will literally feel a rage build up inside me. Even when I have all my coat hangers the same as each other, to reduce this situation, it still happens. And it makes me mad. I have been known to make an exaggerated “GAH” noise and throw all the hangers onto the ground and walk off. I’m not proud ?

When I’m trying to find a particular black item of clothing and it’s surrounded by other black items of clothing. 

Everything looks the same and it feels like I’m walking into a room blindfolded and nothing makes sense for a moment and I get so mad because it shouldn’t be this hard! Whether it’s in my wardrobe or floordrobe or in a suitcase, I get very messed up about it. It’s like all the black is fucking with my senses.

When drivers don’t know how to merge into one lane. 

Like a zipper people. Like a zipper. Seriously!

Also worth a mention are people who don’t know how to indicate correctly on round-a-bouts. OMFG. Or the people who park too far over in their car park space and it throws everyone else out.

When people try to trick me into buying their party plan stuff. 

I’m not talking about the cool chicks who are honest and up front and genuinely think their product might help me in a specific situation, and also know when to let it go because they realise I’m a) broke or b) bored. You guys are cool. You’re doing your thing. Trying to help along your income. I get it. I’ll call you when I need something and I remember that you’re doing that thing!

I am talking about people who say innocuous sounding things (with no mention of their party plans at all), “Let’s catch up!” or “I’m having friends over for wine and nibbles – we can have a pamper night” or “I’m starting a support group for people who want to be healthy/good parents/better at styling their homes – want to come?” And before you know it, you’re at a frickin’ party and you’re supposed to buy something. Or you start out talking about something completely different at coffee, but then you find out that you’re not there for friendship. You’re there to help further their business. That’s called being hoodwinked! It’s bullshit!

When there’s grit in my veggies

Like for example – broccoli. Like, I get it. It means it’s fresh out of the ground and it’s supposed to be a sign that it hasn’t been chemically sprayed or cleaned as much as the broccoli that is immaculate. At least that’s the myth I believe. But the thing is, it’s just a fucking dirty vegetable that refuses to get clean and I don’t want to be scrubbing it for like 6 hours just so I can make dinner. Do you know what gritty broccoli tastes like when you missed some grit in the cleaning process?! Dirt. Crunchy dirt. It makes my teeth/head feel funny and it messes me up emotionally.

Not. Cool.

Ha. So there you have some of them. My pet(ty) peeves. Is that where ‘pet’ comes from in that expression? The word ‘petty’? Maybe my parentheses are redundant. If so, I apologise to those whose pet peeve is when people don’t understand the meaning of ‘pet peeve’.

What are your pet peeves?