The Life Cycle of a Trip to IKEA

I had to make a trip to Ikea on Friday.  Who am I kidding? If you "need" to go to Ikea you take your husband so he can lift the heavy stuff, but if you "want" to go to Ikea, you go on your own or with a BFF.  It was one of those kind of trips. Admittedly I did "need" some of those plastic clips to put on opened bags of breadcrumbs or cereals, but really a peg works just fine.  Still....

Let me describe my findings on the life cycle of an Ikea trip, using myself as an example.  See if you can relate...

You arrive, get yourself an easy access/close to exit car-park. You hydrate up in the car, write a list of 4 things you're after, pull your shoulders back, inhale..then you're off.

You start by lazily wandering around the show rooms, marvelling at the styling flare, mentally copy ideas, and starting to scribble down items on the pencil and paper you collected at the door. That you hadn't planned but need now so you can copy the styling.

You find the one large item of furniture you came for.  At this point, you could just write down the aisle and bay numbers then head there, pick up your furniture and check out?  Thats what you do on the day you have your husband.  Not on a solo Ikea day...oh no no no...

You keep wandering, scribbling more ideas and items, collecting a few awkward shape bits in the two yellow shopping bags you've picked up along the way.  You scan for a trolley and decide not to back track to get one like the pro's have.

The tempo changes a little.  You glance at your watch and see you've lost an hour and a half.  You head down into the Market Hall.  Time to actually find all the shit you've written down.  You start to get a little frenzied, grabbing a trolly, loading stuff on it, listening to the internal chatter that tells you do do need 6 packets of those $4.00 serviettes, 80 plastic clips and 2 50m rolls of christmas wrap "because when will you be back again?". Your brain is in overdrive, you occasionally glance at your list, congratulating yourself as you do, or crossing items off if you've already gone past where they are so you don't have to go back. Which is never done in Ikea.  Only forwards, never back. You spend 20 minutes looking at lamps, you see that although they said they were only $39.99, you still need to buy the base at $49.99 so you walk away, knowing you won't get that 20 minutes back in your life. By now you can almost smell the end.  The frenzy and panic is palpable. You have bulging yellow Ikea bags filled with unplanned items, you're at the candle section, which is always the signal for the end, you throw 100 tea lights in.  Because that's just how your rolling now.

And then you enter it.

The Self Serve Furniture Centre.

You need calm.

You need one of those big trolleys (and to transfer your stuff from your medium trolley).

And you need to be alone.  Because without your husband lifting your furniture flatpack onto your trolley for you, you're going to need to hump it yourself.  And that is something you'd rather no one sees.

You get your furniture on, losing a little skin from your shins and bumping the edges of the box ominously (thinking if I've scrapped the paint off my Expedit shelving I'll just live with it, no way am i coming back).

Then with care, much difficulty and a lot of thing control you manoeuvre your trolley to the check out, after carefully and awkwardly navigating it through the "last chance" section.

You check through.  This part is always painful not only because of the self packing frenzy, but for the large number of items rung through and the tally at the end that you're sure must include more big piece s of furniture and can't possibly be made up of tea lights, plastic clips and serviettes.  Which it is.
You glance at the food section half heartedly but by now you just want to get the hell out of here.  But first you've got to get all your crap and your large item of furniture into the car.  You lose more shin skin and another edge of your Expedit shelving.  But it's in. You slug back some water, and drive with focus out of that car-park, feeling a little ashamed about what's just gone on here...

And if you're like me, you then get lost in the city in a massive downpour..but that's another story.

Do you get this or am I just doing Ikea all wrong?

Trapped in paper aeroplane hell

As a family we're not known for our crafting finesse nor our ability to fix anything. The Husband's default is to either ignore it or reach for the Yellow Pages.  Me, with fingers the size of sausages, I'm only a little bit more useful than the Husband and that's only because I'll give it a go, whereas the Husbands door is slammed firmly shut.

Sadly, this is a genetic thing and we seem to have passed our uselessness onto our children.  I need to make the proviso here, that it does not relate to anything Lego related.  I think Lego expertise is it's own special category.  And my kids get an A++ in that department.  No Yellow Page tradies needed there, no sirree.

One of my boys had a science project making paper planes.  He built and he flew and the piles of rejects got higher until in frustration he asked for some help.  Maybe that was his first mistake.  Together we watched Youtube footage, with sheets of A4 folded carefully in front of us "Why are we so bad at origami and stuff Mum", he pleaded.  And it's true.  Every other subject, I'm all over at school, but come subjects  that involve any type of construction or creation, I relax the standards, and if there has been a disaster or a bad grade, I chuff his hair up a bit and say "No worries mate, now how's that English going?"

If I don't care about it, how will he ever?

So last night, we're sitting folding, flying, creasing sharp edges.  I thought of my son's friends who's Dads are engineers, builders, handy.  One of my lovely friends offered her husband for $100 but as she lives about 45 mins away from me and he knew nothing about the intended transaction, I didn't take her up on the offer.  So with the count down on for project completion, my son took himself and a pile of paper off to the computer again, and with zero input from his fumbling mother, he created a plane that flew the obligatory distance.

And he was so happy with himself.  And it flew, and it glided and he'd done it.  the sense of achievement was written all over his face.

Sometimes we need to let our kids fly on their own so they will soar.

Today our pool guy discovered that we have a nasty blocked drain that needs sorting.  Do you think it's too soon to  pass the job to my son along with a coathanger and bottle of Draino.  Baby steps, perhaps?

Are you a Fixer or a Delegator?

Just a normal day ....

You know me well enough by now that when I go quiet in my blog world, I usually have a bit on. Now there are some bloggers out there who think it's ok to suck  time out of your day by making you read fluff and inane updates on what they've been doing.  But not in my space.  Nope, if I have nothing to say then I won't.  And I  promise I won't ever update you on my weekend.  Because based on the one just been, it would be all about kids sports and cleaning and no one should be subjected to that.

So just to get the ball rolling (think a writers version of flexing or stretching), I'm going to share a little story that actually, truthfully did happen.  And even though I promised no fluff or inaneness (is that a word) only a few lines ago, be warned - this story is nothing but.

So we've had a small (ahem) rodent issue.  This has not been our finest hour, but I'm sure a therapist would tell me it helps to work through this trauma by sharing.  We have not been sitting there waiting for them it to die of old age.  the family have all been very proactive in spotting evidence (some with a little too much excitement - thinking of Young David Attenborough - but even he was tiring)  I think there is enough rat poison under my dishwasher to take a large family down.  And sure enough as promised on the packaging, it started to have effect.  Sidebar; walking through Bunnings with a rat trap and a bumper tub of rat poison in your basket is the equivalent of walking through the supermarket with a 2 litre bottle of nit shampoo - just saying.

So feeling we were "winning the battle" (actual words from the husband - who was overseas for 10 days of The Battle), we started to walk into rooms with confidence that we wouldn't see "evidence" or worse of our visitors.  So one sunny afternoon, I settled myself in for an important phone interview with a corporate client I write for.

You know where this is going don't you.

So I'm sitting at my dining table, when who should appear but a groggy, and clearly unwell RAT. wandering across the kitchen floor (having used his remaining strength to push his way past all the poison blocks under my dishwasher).  It then pauses metres away from me.  I scream and swear lots and ask my client what should I do?

PUT DOWN THE PHONE WOULD HAVE BEEN A GOOD START.

But no, I kept him hanging in awkward silence at the other end, while I talked him through what I was doing.  i.e.
"I'm going to open the sliding door" (squeal)
"Now I'm going to bat it out with this cricket bat" (squealing, swearing OMG's)
"Oh no he's not budging, what do I do now? "(silence)
"Ok I'll try again" (hitting floor loudly with cricket bat)
"Got him, he's gone outside, but he's just sitting there, oh jesus, GROSS" (door slams, silence on the phone),
"Right so lets talk about compliance for the business this month...."

I did manage to get my shiz together to take a photo.  After I'd rung my sister, and the Husband - who unhelpfully wouldn't come back from a work trip to sort it for me.

Ok, that felt good to get that out.  I'm back!

Postscript:  To all my "friends" who commented on this photo on Instagram when I was still clearly traumatised, yes it is "huge" isn't it, and no it's not a possum, and yes it does look like it wants back in.  Thank you

Contrasts

Image is not of my friend but is from here . Though she would rock those sunnies. And undies.

I've written often about how radically different your life before and after kids can be, especially if you've hung up your pencil skirt and high  heeled shoes for trackies and trainers so you can work from home, or parent full time, rather than schlep into the city and your corporate desk at your corporate office like I use to.

Yet mostly our partners still have the same life they did, maybe it changed a little as they head off to work with a dot of baby spew on their suit lapels, or leave office drinks early and head home to another meal of spag bol.  Or have some kindy art pinned to their office wall. Small changes.

And this difference was perfectly demonstrated by a friend I chatted with yesterday.

It was our school cross country, and these things can't function without parent help, so she had volunteered to do her bit and was positioned out on a path in a bushy area to guide and encourage the kids as they ran past.  It was a full day commitment, and the volunteers were told not to "leave their post", and when you watched the hodge podge of abilities from speedsters to stragglers, you could see why.

Before the days of kids, my friend had been a high flyer, a successful and intelligent go-getter.  But yesterday her smarts had deserted her and she hadn't gone to the loo before she headed out onto the track.  And on a hot day with plenty of water drunk, but not able to wander off in search of a loo, she did what any intelligent woman would do.

A bush wee.

"Is this what I've become", she'd thought as she squatted, "a school mum doing a wee in public".

Not long after, she got a call from her husband.  He was going to be late home, he was at a long working lunch at one of the city's best restaurants and they had just opened some very very nice bottles of wine.

Bush wee vs vintage wines.

The perfect juxtaposition.

Do you sometimes look at yourself and go "when did this happen?"  What have you done that you'd never have thought you'd do?  I carried around a potty in a plastic bag as if it was an accessory for a good chunk of one son's toilet training period. What about you?

I swear, 100% promise

Last year we moved into the house we've owned for a zillion years that we've had tenants in for that time.  And having never spend 24 hours straight in the house, it revealed some pleasant surprises. But one evening this summer while gazing out at our backyard, I commented to The Husband "Shouldn't that tree have leaves on it?".  We have a massive (and frankly a gorgeous) tree that sometime over the last few years has died. Without us knowing or being told. Sigh.

It hangs over the neighbours property and they've made noises about it to our kids (who liked sitting in the big dead tree until we decided that wasn't in the Good Parenting handbook), and with a summer full of gnarly winds, we've been tempting fate by not getting it cut down.

My problem is, it's a big outlay for something that we really don't want to lose, but consulting the Good Homeowners handbook we know it's got to go.  I've had a few quotes.

Fact about me you may not know - I always think the grass is greener - I get a quote, I think it can be bettered, I get another (that comes out the same price), I still think it can be bettered.  And so on, and so on.  This foible of mine isn't just isolated to tree removal.  Its for anything that requires money. It's actually quite time consuming and exhausting.  And I keep it private.  There are some things the Husband doesn't need to know I do with my time while he works.

So today Col from Damn Cheap Tree Removals (I made that up) came by.  English is his second language, and I'm sure his Mama makes up a mean lasagne or koftas or something.  I still love listening to those greek/italian/australia accents.

"I give you the best prize, 100%, swear to god" he says.  He know this is what I need to hear after (a lot) of other quotes.  His quote comes out a little under (but not hugely, and the other guys were waaaaay more legit than Col).  His phone rings, I hear an irate customer on the phone "I come tomorrow to you 100%, swear to God", he says to her.  "But I thought you could cut mine tomorrow?" I ask him, "I come to you 100%, swear to God", he says.

But then as any good salesman should do, he starts putting the screws in.  "I need to talk with my husband", I say.  He sees the deal walking away.  He points at a couple of trees, "I tidy these up, just you and me, I do it for you 100%"

And before I can ask "Swear to God?", he has got his chainsaw out and cut down my tree.  I stand on my front lawn laughing a little in disbelief with my hand over my mouth.  Still with chainsaw going he gives me the thumbs up.  I kinda give him a thumbs up back...

THEN HE CUTS DOWN ANOTHER TREE.

"No, no, no!!!".  I gesture to him.  He stops.  Three fallen soldiers surround him.  "You see, I do good, I cut these down, we friends, 100%".  he says.

"I will call you in one hour,"  I say.  "Make it 20 minutes?" he says.

"Sure", I reply.

100%, swear to God.

How's your morning been?

Halloween Time

Around this time last year we were in the US and spent some time in Charlotte with our very dearest friends who will be shifting back to Sydney very very soon.  It was Fall, with beautiful colours, gorgeous temperatures and all I could see was how happy my friend was in her new life here surrounded by beauty and friends.  It was also the buildup to Halloween.  I'd heard about the supermarket aisles full of Halloween stuff (they were) and products repackaging themselves for a Halloween theme (yep), and to be honest I was kind of expecting it to be a little cheesy and commercialised.
But it wasn't.
It seems to me that Halloween was not just about witches and ghouls, but also about autumn and harvests, and pumpkins, masses and masses of pumpkins.  And  instead of it being a few hours  with the local school kids on the rampage bombarding the poor residents of the same streets again, it was more a generic celebration with a slow build, like Christmas.  And classy.  Houses had pumpkins artfully displayed on door steps, there were Halloween displays, but tasteful and thought out.  I loved the feel of it.  I'm not sure if I'm making sense here but my stereotypical image of Halloween in the USA was completely shattered.  And yes, there are trick or treaters, and Halloween parties, and sure there is tack like there is anywhere, but there seemed to be an undercurrent of harvest and genuine celebration.

One night while in North Carolina, while our husbands were at the Nascar races (yes, that's the kind of wives we are) my friend Kristin took our 6 tired and fighting kids on a hilarious trip out to the countryside to a pumpkin farm called Aw Shucks (yes really).  There were big ol hay bales, tractor rides, a corn maze, and pumpkins of all sizes.  I could talk about how on the way to the farm my eldest spilled his 2 litre soda on the floor of the nicest dang fast food place you'd ever see,  or how my youngest screamed the place down after biting his tongue after jumping from a very, very high ledge (and it took Kristin's 13 year old to save the day as we were freaking out at the noise and the blood), or how we heard someone call out for her daughter "Kay-lee, come to momma, Kay-lee? (insert very very strong southern accent)...but really, it was a gorgeous farm in the gorgeous countryside with people having a really pleasant evening buying their pumpkins for Halloween.

Just moments before the ill-fated leap and tongue chomp

It just felt nice.
And so this year, yes my kids will drag out the same costumes and charge down the same streets to see who can get the most treats, but I haven't forgotten my experiences of how Halloween can be done.  And I'm bringing a lil bit of North Carolina back to my street.

Mother Bear

As owner/director/founder/chief bottle washer of this blog, I get to write about whatever I feel, and today I can feel a rant coming on...

My middle fella had a fall yesterday, he's a staunch kid so the tears although heartfelt quickly stopped although the pain in his wrist didn't.  After a broken night and guilt at settling him back to bed with a good slug or two of panadol rather than taking him to the hospital, he woke up to the same pain.  We'd plans to go to a beach where the kids jump off a high net enclosure into the sea, I saw one jump, then one slow tearful climb up the steep ladder and I knew time was up.  We headed to the nearest medical center.

There's a feel about those crowded walk in centres.  Mine starts as I'm parking the car and I see others doing the same, my fast walk turns into a sprint followed quickly by a shrill "run" to the kids to run ahead of other potential patients to minimise any of the unavoidable lengthy wait.

We made it in ahead of the others and I surveyed the heaving waiting room.  My heart sunk.  This was not going to be a quick process.
And it wasn't.  I knew we'd need to see a doctor, get an x-ray, then head back to the doctors, and with only 15% battery life on my phone and two of my sons, I knew we were in trouble.
Then he called our name.
He was in fact the slowest doctor in Sydney, possibly Australia.  I'll give you an image, an older gentlemen with a classical radio station playing and his hands behind his back.  he may have been wearing a bowtie but my disappointment clouded my vision.  Nothing was going to happen fast with this doctor.  No, we were in for The Long Haul.
After a slow exam, when he dissed my son's injury (at that point I wanted a severe fracture to justify the waiting time but then medical centre waiting rooms seem to have that effect on me), we headed off to X-ray, where we were told to take a seat BEFORE handing in our forms.  I know that I could only relax when my form and my son were in the queue, so I flatly refused and hovered willing the receptionist to hurry her lengthy phone call.  I gave dagger looks to anyone else who approached the counter.  I was not giving up my spot in the queue.  No sir.  And of course a friggin trainee was on.  Of course, and by now the phone battery was down to 8%, if we weren't careful the boys would also have to resort to reading Womens Weeklys from 2010 or Boating Magazines.
We were spat out from the Xray room and told to wait outside the doctor who'd see us.
I have a finely honed sense of order and who's turn it is next, I vigilently watch people queuing and know where I am in the order.  His room was empty, and as I tormented the receptionist about where he was (possibly the bathroom was her answer), I saw him meandering along with his hand placed on a elderly patients back.  I think this doctor had a patient type and my sand covered boys and their frothing at the mouth mother didn't match it.
There was another family also waiting for their xray results, who had come in after us but got seen before us.  White fury.  And then he dawdled out to the reception and called out a name, a family of about 15, all stood and entered his room.  I'm guessing they were all having full medicals.
We waited, we waited, the boys put their ears to his door, they may or may not have kicked the door.  One tried opening the doors, but my eyes were averted in compliance at that point.
I suggested that we scream "fire" to hurry them along, but I could see that the boys liked that idea so shut it down.

The huge family exited his room.  I knew that we were going in next.  This was a non-negotiable.  I pulled my shoulders back - game on.
He walked out.  Then walked back in and closed his door. I waited ready to pounce.  After hours minutes, he walked out and wandered over to reception.  The receptionist who I'd hassled, motioned in my direction to him.  He looked disinterested and continued chatting, and laughing, slowly.
And then it happened.
"Mr Chapman?", he called out.  And like an enraged bull, I charged.
"I think we're next, I've been waiting some time with my two young sons I think Mr Chapman can friggin wait, surely he understands the queue system and just because you don't like me, Mr Chapman has unwittingly created a queueing crime and jumped" He looked down his nose at me and my too short shorts and my sand speckled feet, as we walked in to his room.
Victory.
And the result, a bad sprain and joyously we headed to the attached pharmacy for a treat for my patient boys, and their mum.

The end

Postscript: This is not a picture of our doctor, we weren't on photo taking terms by the end.  

Hell Week

Can anyone remember how I moved house only 10 weeks ago, I got it all off my chest here?  Well there was always going to be another half to the story.  The part when we move out of the temporary Little House and into our home.
And that my friends is why you won't be hearing much from me this week.  And if you do you shouldn't be.  There are a few tension points coming up over the next 48 hours and I think it's important to share those, to give some perspective to whatever form my next blog post takes.

1. Will the  phone/internet connection be up and running.  Now I didn't spend an hour and a half of my day today ranting talking to "John" (from the Phillippines) or "Craig" (from the USA?) from my telecom provider Optus, to have it not working, because frankly that's an hour and a half of my life that I can't get back.

2. Will the tenants who are moving out of our home, have left it tidy with no holes in walls or blockages in toilets.  Relationships with both our property managers, and our tenants are very ....fragile.  We don't want any more boats rocking or the Husband WILL send the very nasty email he wrote, that I begged him to put in our draft email file until we had keys jangling in our hands.

3. Will the fugue that has settled over me when I realise that I actually need to pack up the Little House, dissipate so that I actually pack up our temporary life instead of watching the Farmer Wants a Wife.

4. Will the kids remain as optimistic and excited about the house as they are at the moment, and the reality of living in a do-up that's not going to get done up, doesn't hit home as hard as it has to their father and I.

5.Will our youngest, who is making murmurings of " I don't want to sleep on my own" and "I don't want my own room" and "I just want to sleep by you", not turn into the storm we think it could.  Because frankly bucko, there may not be enough room in our bed for even us.

6. The bed.  King size.  Possibly even super king size.  The question is, will it or won't it get up the stairs. Or will The Husband and I be placing a very acceptable, new'ish and expensive super king sized bed, out on the street for the next council clean up, and go shopping for a new much smaller bed instead.

My next blog post will read either "It did" or "It didn't"

Have you had any moving horror stories or do you just like reading other peoples?

Brick Walls

I wanted to write a post about a fabulous line in a book, but my book is currently in storage along with the other 11/12ths of my life.  So I'll write about that instead.  Superstitious as I am I was going to save this post until my life was happily unpacked in my house, so I'll give you the safe version.

We've lived in Australia 5 years and almost 7 months and for almost all of that time, we've owned a house that we haven't lived in for clever husband reasons. It's a do-up.  A tired, crusty do-up with less than average bathrooms.  I do like a nice bathroom.  And even worse than less than average bedrooms.  Which I can live with. We had plans of greatness, of House and Garden style makeovers, of nice bathrooms.  But life has changed, call it two GFCs, or perhaps call it buying into a business, or even call it removing the rose tinted glasses, but the do-up is no longer on our short term horizon. *sigh*

This house was going to be my Grown Up House - the one you imagine yourself living when you're grown up.  With beige and white everything, nice furniture and not an smidge of quirkiness or council clean up finds.

We've had a collection of tenants in it over the years, from the ones who lived in it after they sold their $3.4m house across the road (they were always dissatisfied with it - I would have been too), to the ones who moved in on a Friday and I received a call at 8.30am on the Saturday to say they were moving out.  Apparently they didn't like it after all.  They were our favourites, especially as they had to pay rent for a long, long time after that.
So with our own living situation changed  the owners of the very pleasant house we were living in - which had satisfactory bathrooms, decided they wanted to come back and live in it, so booted us out, meaning we are currently living in a teeny tiny house chocker block full of us.  We told our tenants we needed our house back please, they got grumpy with us, tried to play tenancy chicken, and gave us notice, we carried on a bit like this, and then we said 'no really, we need our house back please'. Then they got all narky and said "tenancy tribunal, blah, blah, 90 days notice blah blah, not going anywhere sorry, blah, blah".

This happened one school day, so instead of freaking out and calling The Husband in a blind tearful panic, I thought I'd try and answer a few "what by when" questions first.  So I called the Tenancy tribunal people myself.  And spoke to an unhelpful person who said "nah, you have no rights, the tenants have all the rights...sorry".  Undeterred I asked to be escalated up the Tenancy Tribunal important people ladder.  Next stop, same response..."no rights...blah, blah...sorry".  Mild panic was setting in.  School pick up time was looming.  Next person please...she was lucky enough to get the indignant, panic stricken, tearful me, she was quick to terminate my call with a brick wall. Three people, three brick walls.  I regrouped, and thought I'd try a different approach and ask some sneaky questions.  So yet another phone call to another person at the Tribunal, and this time, a fleeting mention of a few words, and my life saver threw me a much needed life line.  Triumphant, I phoned the Husband with The Facts.  And triumphantly we went on the war path.  And happily we move into our house in 2 weeks.
Let me correct that, we move into our home in 2 weeks.  Because after many years of renting, we can now bang nails in whatever walls we want, we can feel a tiny bit like getting in the garden or water blasting the pavers, or just doing general house stuff, beyond the basic cleaning.  This is all ours baby.  No one can kick us out, it's ours all ours....  (maniacal laughing)

Postscript.  I am perhaps the worlds least interested gardener, I am no intention of water blasting anything, and I still have secret plans of mini-makeovers
Postscript: This house in the photo unfortunately isn't the one we'll be moving into.  I'm sure the bathroom(s) are nice though

Perks of the job

Every job has it's good parts, they might be the parts we secretly relish, or the parts that are blatant and can't be denied.  Me, even though I use the word "job" loosely, (I swear I can hear the Husbands smirk), I get to go to "work" (ok, I know he'll be laughing out loud at this) in my absolute worse trackies, ugg boots and hair pulled up with a rubber band.  Sometimes I forget I'm wearing this ensemble (or have left it too late) and need to go to my other job as a school mum doing the school pickups, in this get-up.  I call those Wardrobe Rock Bottom Days.  I also get to eat chicken chips followed by a diet sprite chaser for my lunch.  Pretend you didn't read that.

But every job has it's perks.  My sister-in-law is a professional dancer, she gets to have a fit, streamlined powerhouse of a physique - big perk.  The Husband, as a Big Cheese, gets to have lunch with colleagues/friends that sometimes last until well into the evening (although to be fair this happens seldom and they only talk "work").  I have friends who are doctors, they get pens and note pads from drug reps, they also get to save lives.  I have a friend who works in the wellness industry, she positively impacts thousands of people in workplaces, and sometimes gets to run along beaches.  All in a days work.  I have a friend who delivers babies safely to the waiting arms of mums and dads - enough said.
Shop girls and guys get to wear cool stuff each day and then choose new stuff from the racks the next day.   Teachers get loads of holidays - they count down to the holidays like we count down to the start of the school term.  Teachers also get to become very familiar with the latest nit products on the market.  I'm not sure they'd see that as a perk.

You just have to look to see the good stuff in your jobs.  Although seriously, I think the lab techies who analyse poo, puke, and snot samples may have a good case against this (they sit down most of the day?, they get to wear a white lab coat?  they're stick thin from having no appetite 9-5 Mon-Fri?)

So (is there a point?), I was out running the other day along a suburban road.  Ahead of me I could see a police car had pulled over an SUV, as I came closer, the SUV pulled away and drove past me.  The school mum's face was white with mortification, she looked like she was crying, or close to.  You could almost see her trembling in her gym tights.

And as I ran past the police car I saw...two cops inside having a laugh.

Lordy knows cops have to deal with the crappiest of crap stuff at times, so who can blame them having a friendly chuckle at this woman's expense.

Every job has it's perks.

What's perks do you have in your job?

Post script: before you get all indignant at me and the cops, I'm positive they didn't give her a ticket, just a telling off.  And to The Husband, I love that you can do the occasional long lunch - it makes up slightly for all those hideous early mornings and late evenings you endure, I just wish there had been some appropriate crap TV for me to sip my wine to instead of rugby league, s'all

What not to do when you're moving house

Hey all, thanks as always for your patience, I am back, online, with a zillion stories in my head and a new blast of energy with my blog.  During the last few weeks with almost non-existent writing and unfortunately running happening, I am desperate to get going again.  And so here I am.  Be ready for an onslaught though, and Ive got some plans afoot for some bloggy changes.  Welcome to my brave new world.

But first.  It would be soooo wrong not to do a debrief of the week that's been.  But in the interests of not boring you silly and scaring you all off with my ranting, I'll condense with a small "what not to do when you're moving" checklist...

1. Don't mentally calculate how many hours the movers at $gazillion per hour will take.  All you'll do is woefully underestimate and then be staggered into shocked payment, regretting spending $15.95 for a packet of biscuits and 3 bottles of coke from the local corner shop for the removal guys' morning tea.
2. Don't be surprised when a removal guy disappears into your toilet with a rolled up newspaper for a 15 minute smelly session (I made that bit up about the newspaper)
3. Don't be disappointed when the cleaners you paid an obscene amount of money to remove all evidence of your grot, neglects to clean the top of the cupboards, the (many) finger prints from the wall or the skirting boards.
4. Don't check up your cleaners work at 6.30pm after a long day of moving with hungry children in the car, a half lit house, and a cleaner sighing, jangling his car keys impatiently.
5. Don't leave a very nice bottle of wine and a lovely note to the owners returning to the house (they've just booted you out of), they will only kick up a ranty, angry stink with the property managers about the dirty tops of the cupboards and dusty skirting boards.
6. Don't begrudge the bottle of sugar soap and half a day it lost you cleaning the fingerprints off the walls.  It means there is one less thing for the returning owners to whinge about, and the gritty feeling on your hands will disappear after a few days
7. Don't be surprised when you attempt to replace all the blown light bulbs only to find all the "transformers" have blown requiring an electrician to replace them at a cost of $178.
8. When you return to the first night in your new (temporary) home with kids, at 7pm, with about $40 worth of KFC, after checking the cleaners work, while your husband is at a work function, don't stress that you can't get the key working or the front door open.  The very pleasant man who lives behind your house will have a spare, and will save your children the sight of their sobbing mother who doesn't care that she is swearing in front of her kids.
9. Don't throw all those last minute really important stuff, into a grocery bag into the final moments before the removal guys arrive.  You'll never find it again.
10. Don't curl up into foetal position after you finally get inside the house.  Life does go on, and you do need to find all the crap your family needs to function in the morning. Like eating, and wearing clothes.
11. Try and enjoy your new (temporary) home and not focus too much on the negatives.  Like the fact you have to park 2 blocks away if you get lucky enough to find a carpark. And that you have an unexpected lodger living in a flatette attached to your home (which you weren't aware of).  He will have a spare key when you need it most. Nor that there is a methadone clinic 1/2 a block away. Just don't ket the kids play in the street too much.

Instead be thankful for the positives like this ...

You didn't have one of these where you just came from.

Chaos

I wasn't going to put a photo up to show you how chaotic my house is at the moment, because I'm a little too embarrassed but we've known each other long enough now.
Each time I move house I adopt a slow burn, where I pack and organise over a 6 week period, meaning we live with the silent stress of being surrounded by boxes and rifling through boxes trying to find thing packs prematurely.

I have once done the wham-bam-thankyou-mam approach, packed and loaded in the container within 3 days, but then I wasn't paying for that one, with The Husbands work picking up the tab.."do I want those Big W wine glasses packed in acid-free recycled paper?  Why, what a splendid idea...".

This time, the slow burn had been conducted over a shorter time frame of a few weeks, but the stress of this is amplified by the fact we have been packing to go nowhere.  We're not in much better shape still with the bulk of our belonging heading to storage for "30-90" days and us heading to a small house in a neighbouring suburb (oh you will hear all about that once the reality of living there hits).  But least it's a roof.

With a council clean up imminent we have been rampant in our clearing out of junk, with the boys playroom, an early casualty, as a grumpy husband swept through like a tsumani, sweeping armfuls of the kids toys into rubbish bags "for other less fortunate children", frantically the kids tried to salvage but they knew it was a fruitless exercise.

I am over living like a slob, but I can't bring myself to clean around the chaos, and am tolerating it as long as the bench is clear, the beds are made (excluding the 11 year olds but that has nothing to do with our move), and the lounge room is sort of tidy with some candles lit each evening - aaah, home.

However, the other night while mid way through an intense parenting workshop with our 11 year old, he suddenly pointed to a mouse sitting behind our lounge chair.  While breathing a sigh of relief it wasn't a r_t, because I couldn't have dealt with that, we grabbed plastic containers as it took off heading towards the mosh pit of crap at the bottom of our stairs.  I think as I screamed for the fly spray, the husband had one of those ephinanies where he realised that the love of his life was going to be completely useless in this (and future) situations and it was going to be down to him and his son to sort it.  And only moments later a dazed mouse (from an unlucky aim with a metal bowl) was herded onto a breadboard and flicked with force at the neighbours house.

The good thing is we have a deadline for living like this with a 12 day count down now on.  But my job has been made harder now with every pile of crap a potential hiding spot for vermin.

Another Story about Camping

Oh where do I start.
Maybe I start back at the two days I spent putting camping equipment together, packing everything I needed into camping sized bags then carefully piling it up in our study.  Or do I start by the time I spent planning our trip and finding and booking accommodation.  Or even do I start at the cleaning and tidying, laundry washing and folding I did before we left?

I'm not sure.
So perhaps I'll start the moment in the late afternoon sun on a public holiday, we unpacked our tent after carefully choosing a camping spot in a deserted camping ground in Mudgee (empty of tents, plenty of warm campers though), after a lovely day exploring inland NSW on a crisp autumn day.
Two words.
Tent.
Poles.
There were none.
Now we have a Taj Mahal sized tent with a games room and mezzanine floor that requires many attempts and bitten finger nails to get up.  It's the kind of tent that really, truly does need tent poles.
I stood there in shock, The Husband and I spent some time pointing silent fingers at each other. But in my heart of hearts and in my martyrdom, I knew I had organised the camping stuff.  Tension was at fever pitch.  If a word of blame had been mentioned, a brawl would have erupted for all of those tucked warmly up in their campers to watch.
The Husband got busy ringing accommodation places in Mudgee with no success while I asked the camping ground owners if they had any spare tent poles, and I almost hugged him when he went out to a large, hopeful shed to conduct what he knew to be a futile search.  The Husband frostily asked what the chances were of any random tent poles actually fitting our McMansion.
I had a brain wave.  We'd passed a Big W on our way to the camping ground.  I made some calls.  We did some frantic strategising about the logic of buying more tents.  We did some quick calculations.  And then I did some quick shopping.
We had decided that 2 two man tents would be more useful than a second big one but a wise person would know that a two man tent from Big W would be more like a 11/2 person tent.  Which I wasn't, and which they were. After the 2 minutes erecting both tents our stomachs dropped when we realised our air beds wouldn't fit in the tents, nor would The Husband. But with shops now closed and light fading, we just had to make it work.  So we squeezed in our half inflated air beds, and attempted to zip up our tent.  Which if you've ever worn jeans that were too small for you, you'll know what we needed to do to inch up the zip slowly.
Which meant we were now all trapped in our weird, flat tents.  And for 4 freezing nights we slept like this. Uncanny how a cold snap hit as we attempted camping in our $29.95 tents with "excellent ventilation".  Uncanny.  And this old girl's bladder in the cold overnight temperatures just had to hold it in because that tent would never have got done up again in the middle of a night if a toilet trip had been necessary (which it was nightly).  I stopped taking on board fluids (apart from a warming red wine or two) from mid day on. And did I mention panic attacks, lets just say that being enclosed in a teeny tent in a sleeping bag liner, twisted inside a sleeping bag with legs half bent to fit in, is never a good thing for a person with claustrophobia.  But with the only other options of the car or the ladies loos, I liked to think of it as a form of treatment for my phobia.
But apart from the lack of tent poles, the freezing overnight conditions, and the claustrophobic conditions, we had a memorable family holiday. And I did see the funny side of it, my friend Caroline and the locals in the Mudgee Woolies supermarket will attest to that as a fit of hysteria struck as I snuck her a call.  It will be some while before The Husband sees the humour about this experience on one of his rare holidays.
I'm thinking perhaps never.
Have you ever had a bad camping experience?

Unstoppable

You know I love nothing more than to write about fluff, even after my heartfeltness of my last post here. Sorry, can't resist.
So my eldest was home sick from school with a head cold he's had for what feels like months.  Thinking the sickie may have been a 'sickie', I made a doctors appointment for him, to sort it once and for all.

As usual we were running, screaming, wildly, late for the appointment, so Will tore out to the car with a pair of Vans that have been too small for him since we bought them 6 months ago.  We made it to the appointment just in the nick of time, only to have to wait for ONE HOUR in the waiting room, watching as new babies went ahead of us for their 1/3/6/12 week checkups.
 I've had 3 babies, I know that this entails, removing all of the layers of the babies clothes gently (and slowly), watching in near tears as the doctor prods and stretches out the baby, after which you gently and slowly dress the baby again, and perhaps give a quiet feed to calm the tears while the doctor finishes.  There were 3 babies ahead of us.  I knew what was coming, Will didn't.  We'll never get back that hour of our lives.

When we finally got in, the doctor we got (and believe me, I would have taken a doctor of ANYTHING at this stage) was old, round, with coke bottle glasses and a crusty sore on his head (gulp- sorry, I'm still a little traumatised by that).  He did his stuff to Will, then said, 'Just kick your shoes off here, and we'll measure your height". The room froze, with a silent "noooooooooo" coming from Will.  It had taken him the full 10 minutes drive, and maybe a fingernail to get ONE of his Vans on.  They weren't the kind of shoes you just 'pop" back on.  I felt the first trickle of inappropriate laugh.  So did Will.  I whispered to him, "it's ok mate, you can just leave in bare feet".  But still, like a ticklish cough, the threat of inappropriate laugh wouldn't go away.  The doctor checked Will's ears, and then said he'd give him some nose drops.  "But I want you to really stick the nozzle right up your nose", he told Will.  Grabbing the SAME thing he'd stuck in Will's ears, he proceeded to stick it up his nose, to demonstrate.  He was very close to us both by now, and while trying not to look at my son's barefeet, the black nozzle thing hanging from the doctors nose (that had just been in my son's ears), I focused instead on his crusty head.  Bad mistake.  Quickly I scanned for a mark on the carpet or wall to refocus on, but too late, the inappropriate laughter was unstoppable.

"I am the mother, be a leader, help us out of this situation", I thought to myself as Will looked confused at me laughing, then started himself.
 With all my self control, I staunched the flow.  Will followed my lead.  Until safely back in the sanctity of our car.

Have you ever been victim to a bout of inappropriate laughter?

Bad Timing

I'm on the great hunt for a high school - in fact we have decided on one and my eldest has been accepted but in the interested of keeping life complicated, we're looking at all options to make sure we're making the right choice.  It's a bit like choosing a seat in a restaurant or finding holiday accommodation, I need to try them all before I decide which is the right one (which is generally ALWAYS the first one I looked at).  Everyone now knows you just have to roll with me, you can't break my process, the angst it causes to me isn't worth it.

And everyone else seems to be doing the same - it's a mad cycle of open days, fraught school yard conversations, testing, auditions, and good old fashioned schmoozing.  Although at times, I need to remember it's my son they're interested in, not me.  Especially not me.

There was an open day for a school we like a week or two back.  The kids knew I was trying to make an impression because I wasn't wearing shorts and thongs, my normal spring/summer/early autumn uniform, but was wearing a very sensible linen shirt dress and high heeled wedgies.  And I wasn't going to take a drink bottle in for them either (although it pained me as I knew there would be a sausage sizzle and they'd all be whinging for a drink afterwards - it's a school, I thought, there will be a bubbler, they'll survive).  So we went room to room, talking to teachers, talking to the very important looking enrolment officer (who actually is very important considering the power she holds), and we even had a very pleasant chat with the Head of School, by ourselves, where my eldest dazzled, and we attempted to razzle.

We walked smugly back to the car - even with two smaller boys bleating on about being thirsty, we'd managed to have a successful visit and meet the "right" people.

Until I looked down.  My very nice, conservative linen shirt dress was half undone, not by one or even two buttons, but enough buttons were opened that my very old, underwear with the faded pattern and nail polish splatters (don't ask) was on full display.  It's a bit like finding a piece of food in your teeth, you desperately backtrack to when it got in there, and then all the people you'd smiled at since.

I didn't need to.  I knew.
At least they'll remember us.

How was your Saturday afternoon, and other horror stories

For all you sitting on the edge of the seat waiting to hear how the birthday party went, make yourself a cuppa and get comfy...

Let me just set the scene, Smith's 6th birthday, Man vs Wild theme, 10 x 6 year olds and 2 big bro's with a couple of friends.  For those that know me, you know that I am a mad keen weather watcher, but today I intentionally didn't cast an eye over a forecast - we weren't going to woose out if it rained a little, the kids could get wet dammit, Bear Grylls would have.  Maybe that was my first mistake.  My second was giving the kids 10 x real whistles that required the Husband to scream at the kids in his scary voice, and that was even before we'd left the house (I thought I'd learnt that lesson the previous year).  My third mistake was to ignore those ominously long rolls of thunder, and that darkening sky.  "Just adds to the fun", we thought to ourselves.

So off we went to the bush track and stream at the end of our street, with kids backpacks full of survival tools, and ours full of challenges, and me scurrying ahead to hang the homemade piñata, which was not holding up well to the strains of a heavy load of lollies and the sellotape holding it together. Some elderly lady in one of the neighbouring houses asked what I was doing - I told her we had a kids birthday party coming through.  She looked dubious and unhappy.
The rain started.
We headed off down the stream, whistles blowing, kids slipping, general noise and happiness ensuing. First challenge successful, with happy kids, lolly snakes beheaded, spitting pythons spitting poison at the kids courtesy of the 11 year olds with squirters.
The rain got heavier. The thunder louder.  I started doing the lightening/thunder count to see how close this increasingly kick arse storm was.
Back down into the stream, and more climbing and clambering, back onto higher ground in the bush for more challenges, more food, more fun, although, the first murmurs of "can we go home now" (from the party boy) had started.  Don't gets me wrong, the 8 year old had started that chant as soon as the first drops of rain had started.
The rain was solid, we were all drenched, the bag with the challenges was drenched "Should we get them to drink the goats blood now", the Husband asked " no, lets get them onto the build a shelter challenge", which we did hurriedly, then got them all standing under the 2m x 3m tarp while we prepared the next challenge.

There was a crash in the distance, my homemade sellotaped piñata wasn't up to a Category 3 storm.

We bravely soldiered on, the kids were loving it (ok, I made up that part).
There comes a time in a storm, when it stops feeling fun, and safe and transitions into a situation you need to remove yourself (and 14 x children) from.  And as we headed for home, we saw that our docile, gentle stream was no longer, but had morphed into something that elicited swear words from the Party Planners.

Thankfully no more stream crossings were needed and we could squelch home along a safe bush track.  But still.
Home for the final (and most successful) get your food across the pool river challenge.  Where the kids swam (in the fricking sunshine) while transporting our party food across the pool (WTF?  The Husband thought up that one - very risky as I had nothing else for them to eat).

So even though the weather gods rained (heavily) on our parade, we need up with a happy birthday boy and his buddies.  But like everything there are learnings...
1. Never offer kids whistles unless they are refereeing a game of soccer
2. Never trust old ladies who look unhappy and dubious - our tarps and ropes had been stolen when we went back an hour later for them (I'm comin' looking for them Old Lady, even if you have got a yappy excuse for a dog)
3. If you end up with a pinata's worth of chocolates in your house, throw them away or do a massive street lolly scramble, just don't leave them somewhere they can whisper seductively "eat me...."

4. Go for the Chang rather than the Peroni next time you need a post trauma bevvy - it will go down faster, which is what was needed.
5.  No more DIY parties - there are reason places like Laser Tag, Rock Walls, Lollipops and other places with facilitators exist...
6. Don't buy Jersey Caramels to put in the lolly bags, kids don't like them and you'll end up eating the bag by yourself (which was obviously the plan in the first place).

Survival mission accomplished.

Survival Mission

A party planner, I am not.  Happily, unequivocally, hand on heart'edly.  I am more than happy to fork over fricking ridiculously large amounts of The Husbands hard earned cash for my children to celebrate parties at Lollipops, Laser Strike, Rock Climbing or any other activity that charges $30 per head for 1.5 hours of "fun", a plateful of dodgy chicken nuggets, some stale looking fairy bread, and a jug of watered down cordial.

But some treacherous, malevolent evil wormed its way into my brain a few weeks ago, when I had the delightful idea of doing it myself this year.  And really, the Husband will be cool with my use of the singular here, promise you.

I'm not sure if this happened because the memories have dimmed of my eldest's 4th birthday party at home, with too many kids who were bored, and too many adults who stayed, and a home made Thomas the Tank Engine cake with waaaaaay too much food colouring/icing, and too much rain.

Regardless, tomorrow is my Smith's 6th birthday party, and keeping it stressful simple we are having a Man vs Wild party.  He's a Bear Gryllls fan, and we have a conveniently placed stream at the bottom of our street, that we have undertaken our own Man Vs Wild expeditions in previously.  I have a handful of "sort of"  ideas, especially after googling "Man Vs Wild, Party Ideas, Children", but really people who write blogs about their kids parties, and post photos of party food such as nuts in glass jars on brown papered picnic table, surrounded by artfully placed green moss (with the pics all instagram'edly blurred around the edges), haven't left it to the last minute like I have.

I think we'll be able to fill in 40 minutes tops with my activities, I'm not sure how long I'll keep up my Bear Grylls impersonation, and nope The Husband didn't offer to step in to do that either, nor what we'll then do in the forecasted rain/storms, but all I know is it's 3 hours in my life that I want to make a bloody memorable 3 hours in his and his wee mates.

More to come soon...but you knew there would be.

That time of year

I need to some way of becoming part of Clarks shoes other than as a customer that is bled dry each January.  I think this each year.  And is it just me or do they do their own inflation adjusted repricing each year, because every year the bloody expensive shoes seem to get more bloody expensive?

I kid myself that I'll go to the shops and buy the Clarks Lookalikes, you know the ones that are probably the same shoe but without the labelling, and that you find in shoe shops called "Best 4 Less" or "Damn Cheap Shoes" or "Fake Clarks Shoe Shop", but I still get pulled along to the expensive shoe shops, lulled into a false sense of security by the 25% off School Shoes* sign (*only applies to infant shoe sizes) where some shop assistant only a few years older than my son talks me into spending over $100 per pair of shoes.   Even though my son's feet are almost as large as mine, I hear the words "feet still developing", "possible podiatry issues later in life", and "weakened ankles" and I think that I would be doing my children a podiatric (made that word up) injustice by putting them in the same pair of shoes but without the Clarks label.  But with another year and another GFC (at least in our house) where cost cutting is the continuing name of our game, I'm looking at our collection of scuffed skanky school shoes with fluff built up in the velcro versions and frayed laces, and I'm thinking - lets get a little creative this year and see what recycling opportunities there are.

This week I asked the kids whether their shoes were tight at the end of last year, wisely my boys remember those trips to the overpriced department stores, where their mother gets more stressed waiting for the 16 year old shop assistant to "go out the back" for customer number 75 and her number says 103, and she's run out of snacks, and she thrusts the two style options in their faces, even though they're identical, asking - "which one boys?"
They've shaken their heads, saying nah, they'll be fine, and even though I feel a twinge of guilt that I may be creating the equivalent of school shoe bound chinese feet, I'm going to roll the dice, get out the shoe polish and buy some new laces.

I hope none of my lovely Peeps out there are Clarks employees, because if there are, seriously they are the best shoes EVER.

Getting it right

You know me by now that often you get a warts and all version of real life events from me, I don't try and sugar coat it or myself, and I often fear the wrath of your judgement, although you're all too kind to actually let rip at me.  So in the hope this sentiment continues, here's another... and I know The Sister will be rubbing her hands in glee, I can always rely on her...

So shoot me, sometimes I get a little...hmmm..."relaxed" in the tipping department and then have the post-bad-tip anxiety, where I know in a heart beat, that the person whose hand I have tucked a fold of bills into, knows from years of experience that there is only one bill folded many times to give the illusion of thickness and many'ness (yup, made up that one).  But I know that it is too late to say, "oh and here's a little more" and that I can't dive back into my wallet to correct my meanness.  Call it the antipodean in me, but  on my first ill-fated trip to the USA, I had a "sodd'em, they'll never see me again" kind of attitude.
There I've said it.
Sometimes I didn't tip all the periphery staff involved in the hotel experiences.  And I'm not necessarily mean spirited or cheap, just naive.  I mean are you supposed to tip both the man at the valet desk who asks the driver to bring your car down as well as the driver, or can you just give them the one tip hoping they'll share?

On our last trip to the States this year, I was the picture of generosity, trying to put right my wrongs.  But still, sometimes you could feel the daggers, after a smaller than expected tip has been given to the porter/housekeeper/extrapillowdeliverer/poolperson/barstaff/assortedvaletpeople.  I felt like saying - "I'm taking baby steps here people, throw me a bone!" or "I'm not made of $1 notes". But still I don't as I may be neglecting to tip those people who listen to my rants.
I reward where deserved and I tip where I should.  I bet anyone whose been for dinner with me is now furiously trying to recount my tipping history, or those who I'm about to dine out with...
On the other hand.
Babysitters have a joyous time at my expense.  I am the picture of generosity having adopted Kevin Costners Field of Dreams philosophy with a little artistic license - "If you pay them, they will come".  And many a babysitter has enjoyed my miscalculations of 4.5 x$15 after I have indulged in those extra and unnecessary glasses of wine before coming home.
Although after a disastrous start to a much anticipated meal out last night, when my babysitter texted to ask what night she was supposed to be sitting for me and got a prompt "in 10 minutes time honey" reply from me, which had me driving like a madwoman on my quiet suburban streets then giving her my signature cold treatment as I drove her to my house (that deviation from my tightly orchestrated plan cost me a hairstyle Missy), I can promise you that she got paid to the cent.  No rounding up going on there, even after the many wines.
Performance = rewards Peeps, at least it does in my world.
Guilty of paying up or paying down?

I'm such a sucker for a freebie

..always have been, always will be. Sometimes it works for me and sometimes it backfires.  Like the time I made us spend an evening listening to a lecture about buying a holiday unit in the Gold Coast (ok, a timeshare) which if we listened for a 90 minute lecture, then had a young 20+ year old try and sell us one for a mere slip of $30k (and then get pissed off when we wouldn't), we would win a free digital camera (no brand and about 1.5 pixel), $500 (redeemable as vouchers at the timeshare complex) or a free DVD player.  Which we chose.  There was dust on the box and a faded picture of a happy couple dated mid 1980's.  It made it through one council clean up collection but was on the footpath with the rest of the crap by the next collection.
You'd think I'd learn, but I don't seem to, as evidenced by the fact I made us listen to a British lager lout give us the spiel on the road side of Koh Samui (near a timeshare complex no doubt).  He got 7 minutes longer with us than with most I think, but when we walked away from him, I'm sure he called out "F**k you!" after us.  The Husband rolling his eyes as if,  "I know you need to do this but really?  In Koh Samui?  I mean I love you and everything, but that's 15 minutes of our life we won't be able to get back"  In fact I'm sure those may have been his actual words.
So a message went out from one of my friends last night - "models needed for beauty therapist trainers - about $250 worth of free facial rejuvenation and dark pigment removal".  Hell yeah, my face ticks both those boxes and even though I'm frantically busy trying to find 2 more hotels for our trip to the US that we leave for in 6 days, along with cleaning out my pantry, fridge, and cleaning each room by room, I still could make myself available at 11am today for 40 minutes of freebie beauty stuff.

Be careful what you wish.

I got the treatment.  Have you ever had age spots removed from your face.  If you have you'll know there is no darkened room with Enya playing gently and water trickling down smooth stones sounds quietly lulling you into that zen space while you breath in deep aromatic relaxing aromas.  No, I lay there with a trainer (wearing pink eyeliner - think white rabbits), two young trainees, harsh lighting, and a scary looking machine.  As I lay there, I realised that this was not what I had imagined, no pain, no gain seemed to be the message they were trying to get me to understand.
"We need you to tell us out of 10, what this pain is, it needs to be at around 7 to be working.".  WTF, I'm not having a baby here, just some age spots.  And so for 40 minutes, they played around with different level of intensity - starting at 25 and building to 47, with a countdown of 3 each time they zapped my face with what felt like a naked flame, or a sharp needle.  It frickin' hurt.  One thoughtful trainee had placed a hand towel over me, which is where I clenched my hand together each time the countdown started.  On one countdown she forgot to turn on the machine.  And then again, I felt like I was awaiting execution and they'd got it wrong, so kept trying.  And then there was the time she zapped my hair instead of my face.  Bright lights, intense searing pain, the aroma of singed hair.  And the result in the mirror was a whole lot of brown burnt spots that will apparently "crust" then fall off "don't pick them".

Holy shit, I'd better look damn fine at the end of this.

And honestly how many bloggers do you know who put photos of their burnt age spots on their blogs.  It could be worse, I could have waited until they got crusty.