The other day, I was out and about, cheerfully going about my pre-Christmas business at the local shops, dressed like this:
As you can see, there is nothing special about this outfit. It’s a pair of $9 Target shorts. A top, which I pulled out of a tub at the Anglicare warehouse op-shop, and purchased at $8 a kilo. So, literally, nothing special. At all.
It was while I was trying to balance a heavy basket of fruit and veg atop my rather flimsy and very overloaded pram, that I noticed a woman looking at me. She was older than I, probably in her fifties, and very well “put together”- think freshly pressed clothes, perfectly maintained hair, and an actual face of makeup. As I wondered why she was looking at me, this perfectly presented example of middle aged womanhood looked me up and down, scowling at my legs and my thongs. She then looked me in the eyes, and shook her head in what appeared to be disgust, made a “tsk, tsk” type noise, and walked away.
What. The actual. Fuck.
I didn’t have much time to ponder on her silent but clear judgment of my presentation of myself. Truth be told, with three kids and a full time job, I don’t really have much time to worry about the concerns of perfect strangers at the best of times. I briefly considered chasing her down, and confronting her. And then I realised that my toddler needed a nap, and my preschooler needed some play time, and all of this needed to happen before I took my primary schooler to her Christmas concert dance rehearsal. So instead, I fantasised about telling the woman to eat a dick.
The next day, one of my children brought this craft home with them from school:
Now, I am not sure what it is supposed to be. I was told it was a Christmas decoration. Yet all I can see, in all its festive, red and green glory, is a cheerful Christmas dick. On a plate. And after I stopped laughing hysterically, I got thinking. About the lady, and her judgey face. About all of the other judgey-pants who I have encountered. About how many times I had wanted to tell them to eat a dick. And now I had it – a dick on a plate. And how I also had a blog. And how I could write an entire post about this. So, without further ado, I present to you:
Rissa’s “Go Eat a Dick” Awards.
To that random, judgmental lady: go eat a dick. You probably had hours to get ready. Getting ready is probably your biggest priority in the morning. My biggest priority is usually either convincing a toddler that play dough is not a good breakfast option, or explaining to a six year old that she can’t wear sandals with her school uniform. Perfecting my appearance is so low down my list of things to do. You appeared to be offended by my choice of shortish shorts. If the most offensive thing you encountered that day was my pasty white legs, I feel you should consider it a good day.
To all of the people (and there have been countless) who had taken it upon themselves to tell me that this kid needs to start wearing fake tan:
Please, for the love of peanut butter, go eat a dick. Make it a hairy one. She is six for crying out loud. Yes, she is pale. I’m her mum, so I am pretty sure I am aware of it. It’s probably why I keep several tubes of 40+ stashed throughout the car. And even if your perception of beauty means that she is less awesome due to her pale skin, that does not influence my perception of her total awesomeness. This is a funny, crazy, curious, creative little person. She is full of fun and laughter. If all you notice is the fact that this little girl has pale skin, and if you think that her porcelain skin is a negative thing, you are missing out. Believe me. But then again, if you are that shallow, you probably deserve to.
To the lady at Kmart who took it upon herself to tell my son that he was looking at the “girls” dress ups, and ‘helpfully’ directed him to the “boys” costume section:
I cheerfully invite you to go and eat a dick. May I suggest a particularly slimy one. I am sure you noticed the filthy look I gave you. In fact, if I recall, you ducked your head in an embarrassed fashion and walked away. This four year old can wear whatever damn dress-up he pleases. The other day, he was a ‘spinny skirt pirate’, which is when you wear a patch over one eye, a shirt with skulls on it, and a pink and purple tutu. Some days he is Spiderman. Others, he is Elsa. I don’t feel it is my place to restrict his imaginative play. Perhaps it is different in your house. I don’t know. Put please, if you see this kid in a dress, in a shop, and feel that it is your place to tell him what he should and shouldn’t wear, please step back and eat a dick.Perhaps you are more comfortable with him dressed like this. Well, that’s OK. But it’s also your problem. Not mine. And not my kid’s. Eat a dick.
To anyone and everyone who has a problem with a grown woman who wears rainbow unicorn shoes:Or for that matter, rainbow unicorn t-shirts. Or rainbow necklaces. Please go and eat a delicious, veiny dick.
Let me be clear. I don’t mean my friends and family, who laugh with me at my kookiness and obsession with wearing bright colours. I do not wish for you to eat any dicks. I am talking about the few people who make snarky comments about my choice of attire, choice of accessories, and general sense of style. I’m not offended particularly by their judgement of my weirdness. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel that they need to eat a dick.
More than anything, your judgement annoys me. What would you like me to wear? Should I dress like you? Should I sell my colourful collection of oddball clothing, and use the money to purchase an entire wardrobe from Country Road and Witchery? Am I offending you by choosing to wear something other than coordinated neutrals? How?
The thing is, on the rare occasion that I have worn “grown up mum clothes”, I feel like a wanker. I feel like I am wearing clothes that belong to someone else. I feel like I am heading to a costume party where the theme is “middle class mum”. It might be comfortable for you. You probably feel great, and you look fine, too. But it’s not me, and I don’t wish to wear it just to make you feel more comfortable. How does it make you feel more comfortable anyway?
When I wear bright, colourful clothing, I feel good. When I look at my awesome shoes, I smile. And if these little things that make me feel happy make you feel like judging me, then I cordially invite you to eat a dick. All the dicks.
I will make it clear- these individuals are the exception, not the rule. It appears to me that most people have better things to do with their lives than hand out unsolicited advice and judgments to the rest of the world. For the most part, people couldn’t give a crap about what my kids and I wear, do, or look like. And I am totally OK with that.
But if you are one of those few who have nothing better to do than care too much about the appearance and harmless choices made by others: please, spend your time more wisely. Go and eat a big, cheerful, red and green dick.