Caution: Highly Flammable. Also easily annoyed.

I'm not a patient person in most regards. Waiting peacefully in tranquility is nearly impossible unless it's for dessert or revenge, but there are a few exceptions.

For example, I may roll my eyes at the elderly person ahead of me in the grocery store line who appears to believe there's a million dollar prize available for paying with exact change, but I'll wait.

By the time you're old enough to have shrank two feet and feel comfortable leaving the house with a tricked out walker, blue perm and a plastic kerchief tied around your head to protect said blue perm from the slightest possibility of rain, I figure you've damn well earned the right to do whatever the hell you want.

I will however come close to a psychotic break waiting for the Mommy who's allowing her three-year old to unload the entire cart, presumably because she finds it adorable, or perhaps because she secretly wants me to die of an embolism waiting to pay for my Weight Watchers Double Fudge Cakes.

Children have not yet earned the right to make me wait and they won't qualify at all until they turn 21. Of course if they're male, attractive and 21 I'd probably want to sleep with them so in those instances my patience would increase accordingly.

(In my own mind I'm Madonna so this would constitute completely acceptable behaviour.)

(It would so, so let's not judge.)

It's not just people who test the very last traces of my patience - I'm equally intolerant of inanimate objects. I have thought for many years that there needs to be a moratorium placed on paintings of fruit bowls and flowers in vases. Enough is enough.

Any value that might once have existed in artistic renderings of objects normally situated in the middle of dining room tables has long ago been lost to time.

I no longer have patience for leggings, more specifically the concerning trend behind leggings as pants. I actually love leggings in the same way I love Spanx - both are convenient to wear under items designated as clothing, but I can no longer give leggings in place of proper bottoms a pass.

The same actually goes for women who just don't wear any form of pants. In these instances I long to see some leggings, because leggings do beat having to stare at errant va-jay while impatiently waiting to go up a flight of stairs.

For once and for all, a shirt is not a dress. It just isn't. The trick to finding out whether an item qualifies as a shirt or a dress is to hold it up to the shoulders. If it covers the rear and some leg, congratulations, because it's a dress. If it doesn't quite cover the rear, it is a shirt.

There is nothing wrong with owning a shirt -- I have several. There is something wrong however with pairing the shirt with no pants, stripper heels and a Guess purse constructed of triple the fabric than contained in the shirt and heading out to the club.

Yes, I have somehow become an old bat who doesn't understand kids these days. I'm fine with it, because I'll need pants for the cats to shed all over when I inevitably begin hoarding them.