Mirror mirror on the wall

Reflection and perception are funny things. 

I have this mirror in our new house. It was left behind by a tenant and it has remained there as the only bathroom mirror. Using it the first few times I was frustrated  as it is in very poor light, you can't get close enough to see the finer points and putting makeup on in here was a guess at best, not much better than doing it in the dark, at worst. 

But over the weeks we having been living here I have come to rather like the work this mirror  does. I wash my face in it, check for stray beard-hairs, put on my makeup and do my hair in its mediocre reflection. It all looks OK to me. My skin looks smooth and bright. The eye shadow  and mascara look in place. There doesn't  appear to be any moustache.

I think I actually pass as OK. Certainly presentable enough to pop down the shops, even off to work.

The full length mirror in the hallway, with great light and an honest face and the little flip down mirror in my car are singing to a different hymn book however. They think honesty is the sign of a true friendship. We are no longer friends.

I like the sweet little lies the bathroom mirror tells me. We can be friends.

Which got me wondering today. 

• Do you still look good when you feel inside that you do? (and that your mirror is confirming this)
• Is appearance only what you see or is it how you think you look. 
• Who is judging this beauty contest anyway?
• If you feel great, who cares?
• Is this what blokes have worked out? A quick look in a bad, good or indifferent mirror gives them the false belief that 'yeah I look pretty good.' They strutt out into the world thinking they are gods gift while us women peer and scrutinise and confirm with 4 different mirrors in 3 different light conditions to convince ourselves that we really do look like we think we do.

So, for some smart, young entrepreneur, go out and develop a I-always-look-good mirror to replace all the honesty is the best policy ones. 

This also applies to my over 50 age and having to wear glasses for the small print. If I don't see the dust (or the ring on the tub, or the coffee stain on the bench) - does it still exist? Is this why older women get happier, and more relaxed?

It's the Little Things #2

Go on... you know you want to ... sing it .... 

Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree

Merry, merry king of the bush is he

Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh

Kookaburra, gay your life must be!

These are a few of our resident Kookaburras that come to visit us each evening to roost in the big Spotted Gum by the stables. They arrive just as the last of the light is fading, laughing and calling to their family to come roost for the night. They number between two and six, and come most nights.

They leave at first light, saying goodbye with a laugh as they head off to hunt for the day. 

It makes us smile to know they like our home enough to make it theirs.

A few interesting facts about Kookaburras and the Kookaburra Song

• They are an Australian Kingfisher
• The song was first performed in 1934 at a Girl Guides Jamboree
• The tune is the same as a Welsh song about a Blackbird
• The song featured in a 2006 episode of Dr Who, Fear Her
• The laughing kookaburra is not native to Western Australia
• The laughing is to mark their territory
• A girl wrote the lyrics to the song!

When Fantasy meets Reality

Pinterest for women is like a man looking at pictures of a playboy bunny and thinking that would be nice!

You look at pretty pictures of tables set in fields, or apple orchards, with linen cloths and dainty china, tiers of little cupcakes, scones and neatly cut sandwiches.  A string of pastel bunting, billowy swags of tulle, wooden table with paper lanterns strung above.

You get an idea.  What if I have a garden party for my friends?  We could all dress in floral, cotton dress's, be carefree and wallow away an entire afternoon, laughing lightly and sipping pink champagne.    I could take the dining table out onto the lawn.  I could quickly sew up some chair covers in calico and tie a pastel pink ribbon to the back, pop in some dried roses.  Cut out triangles of scrap material and string them together.  It will mean a trip to Spotlight, but it wont cost much.

You have a few 'trio's' but need a few more.  You start to watch Ebay for Royal Albert and Royal Doulton.  A few parcels arrive, you think they are a bargain at $35 a set.  You buy a silver sugar dish and polish it.  On holidays you find a pure white linen tablecloth and eight matching napkins.  The shop lady (who was twice your age, well almost) says they will take a lot of ironing.  You laugh, a little too gaily  that you love to iron.  

You attend high teas at a few places, just to get ideas of what food to serve.  You make up a menu, write it out in long hand calligraphy on sepia paper. You make invitations the same way and hand deliver them.  Sunday.  1pm.  4 weeks from now.

You let a week go by, plenty of time, it's just afternoon tea.  Three weeks to go,  you panic.  Four weeks seemed plenty of time when you planed this, but then you make the 'to do' list. It seems endless.

It's real now.  You have to follow through.  You start by going to buy material.  The natural calico ends up costing you $120 for 8 chairs.  The tulle another $40.  The parcel of material sits on the dining table for a week before you have a chance to sew it.  The chair covers are harder than they look.  You make 3, then have a go at the prettier bunting.  By 10pm Sunday night you have made 2 metres, you are pretty pleased with yourself.

The next weekend you find a perfect silver tea set in a second hand store.  You are delighted.  You rush home and spend the next 4 hours polishing it, plus all the little silver cake forks your Grandmother left to you. You now have enough fine china trios for your eight guests.  You wash them all by hand, drying them carefully.  It takes you ages, but you tell yourself that to slow down is a good thing.  The rest of the house is a shambles and don't even think of going into the laundry!

You go online and find a site that sells everything party.  You buy cupcake cases, striped straws, pastel icing, sprinkles, paper lanterns, sugared almonds, candles.  It costs $124 but you tell yourself you will have these things for years.

There is a week to go.  The garden is still a mess.  You haven't picked up the dog poo for a week now and the lawn needed mowing a month ago.  There are dead patches mixed with eye-high grass.  The roses need a good prune, and cooch has invaded the flower beds.  You work like a navvy in the garden, and cajole your husband to help by offering favours you know you will be too tired to grant.  You rush to Bunnings and buy 'potted colour' at exorbitant prices.

The weekend of the garden party.  Saturday.  You want to make everything from scratch, the old fashioned way.  A shopping trip with a toilet roll for a shopping list, which includes a visit to the kitchen shop to get specialised tart trays and a 3 tiered platter.  You get home, exhausted and not at all feeling like cooking.  You poach chicken breasts in tarragon to make sandwiches.  You make cupcake batter and set out 2 dozen pink pokerdot cupcake cases (you want to send everyone home from the party with their own, beautifully decorated cupcake to remind them how wonderful you are). 

You bake and ice and decorate.  Piping bags were never your friend.  At 7pm your husband casually wanders in and wants to know whats for dinner.  You snap at him, 'fucking cupcakes!'  At 8.30pm you are eating Maccers from the kitchen bench as you stir custard.

By 11pm you are exhausted, you have been in the kitchen all day.  You feel a little panicked that you haven't yet cleaned the house or scrubbed the toilet.    But you go to bed satisfied that you have made all the cupcakes, have made the filling for the three sandwiches - smoked salmon mouse, chicken and celery in creme freche and cucumber and sour-cream  there are 10 individual chocolate mouses in shot glasses (2 extra as you broke your deal with the husband and this may get you off the hook), miniature lemon meringue pies, fruit custard pies - you even made the tiny pastry cases and glazed the strawberries with apricot jam.  You sleep, but not well - a to do list for tomorrow running through your head.

Midnight.  You wake with fright as you just remembered that you left the fruit custard tarts to cool on the bench and they have custard in them and need to go in the fridge.  You debate if they will be ok, have visions of your lovely lady guests with food poisoning, and get out of bed to find a container they can be stored in and wedge a place in your overflowing fridge.  Its 2am before you finally get to sleep.

8.30am.  You have slept in!  You start yelling at your husband to stop being a lazy bastard and help you.  You make him clean the toilet while you start cutting crusts off two loaves of white and wholemeal bread. He comes back 2 minutes later and says he is done.  You know damn well it wont be done properly and have to do it yourself.  You hate him.  You tell him so.  He takes off to the shed.

You know your hair needs washing, but no time now. You need to get the table set.  Your sister-in-law phones you and asks if you need some help?  You try and keep the panic out of your voice as you casually say no love, all under control, I just want you to come and enjoy yourself.  

You have to go and apologise to your husband, you need him to help you move the dining table onto the lawn.  He helpfully asks if you cant just use the outdoor table?  No you say through clenched and stubborn jaw - the vision is for an extravagant dining table on the lawn.  It's the whole POINT!  He just silently carries one end as you struggle and heave it past door frames.  You take a chunk of plaster out of the wall.  You swear.  He disappears into his shed again.

The linen table cloth, that has been ironed once, still looks like its been slept on by the dog.  You set up the ironing board and try and fix it.  The bloody old bitch at the shop was right.  You hate her too.  You reason that when its covered in plates, glasses, napkins and food, and you have sprinkled rose petals all over you wont notice the wrinkles.  You are wrong.

It's now 11.30am.  The table is set.  It looks pretty.  Now to move all the chairs outside and cover with the calico.  You don't dare ask the husband, you can hear him hitting something pretty hard in his shed.  The covers are fiddly, the bows on the back even more so.  You only got around to making 6 covers, too bad!  You think to hell with dried roses.  

The 2 metres of bunting only goes on one side of the fence.  You had visions of it all the way round.  It looks a bit naff.  The paper lanterns keep falling down from where you have strung them.  It's 12.45 and you still are not showered or dressed and you have scones to make and pots of tea to prepare.  You stuff the very expensive tulle back into your laundry.

You just get in the shower and you hear the door bell.  Shit.  You husband comes to the rescue and starts telling your 8 lady friends what a bad mood you are in, and laughs that you will need a lot of champagne to calm you down.  You get out of the shower, still half wet and throw on the floral dress, that you just remembered you needed to iron. Makeup and hair are forgotten.

Damn them all for being on time  and damn your husband for not taking them straight out into the garden.  Now all the ladies are assembled in your kitchen, which looks like a teenagers bedroom, you look like a bedraggled,  crumpled teenager to suit.  Smile.  Open a bottle of pink champagne and get them to follow you out to the garden.

The oos and ahhs at your elegant, garden, Pinterestque table setting don't take away the exhaustion and despair you are feeling.  You gulp down your champers and fill up the glass again.  A kind friend follows you into the kitchen so you mercilessly put her to work arranging food onto platters.  She asks a million questions of how you want the cakes placed, which platter for the sandwiches, do you want the scones on the top tier or the bottom.  You don't freaking care anymore because the scones are burning.  

It all goes off pretty well considering   The ladies have a great time, you are glad however when it all ends earlier than you fantasied about.  Your husband ventures out of his shed when he hears you have got drunk.  He flirts with your friends, and tells them stories about how much of a bitch you have been preparing for this day and you don't care.  Only your sister-in-law stays to help clean up. You feel bad.  Every Royal Doulton, every silver fork, every crystal platter has to be washed by hand. You can't do it in the dishwasher.  You tell her you will do it all tomorrow.  She tries to insist she will help.  You get cross and tell her to go the hell home.

There is lipstick on most of the linen napkins and pink icing and rose petal stains on the tablecloth. They never come out.

You and your husband have cupcakes for dinner, you were too drunk to give them out to the ladies as they left.  The kitchen stays like this til morning.

Nope.  The fantasy never lives up to the reality.  Any playboy reading man will tell you that.


Footnote : Pinterest did not have any pictures of the reality ... I wonder why?

Markets, Germs and healthy?

Went to the Subi markets this Sunday.  It was humid, noisy, crowded and well, not very pleasant. Perhaps it's just me, I have become a bit of a recluse of late.  One thing struck me, and I am probably very slow in this, I know my Mum would have cottoned on, is how unhygienic open food in this environment can be.

Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I am no clean freak, I don't mind 'clean' dirt, I can tolerate camping and flies quite happily.  I will eat food and share it with my horse/dog/child.  I don't sterilise my kitchen.

But.  I do have an aversion to 'people' germs.  So back to the markets.  All this fruit and vege, on open display, hundreds of people poking and pinching and prodding it while they make their selection.  Fine for things like potatoes that will get peeled, or a rock-melon   I bought grapes and plums, they looked delicious, and I sat with friends and we picked at them.  

But they weren't washed and I wonder how many hands touched them.  What germs those hands had on them.

Is this why I have had a stomach upset for days now?  

Then there was the open containers of rice, nuts, grains.  People stood over them, scooping out contents into bags.  One sneeze and there are body fluids in droplets all over the exposed food.  The thing I wondered, after years of hell with them, was weevils?  This place was a hot bed for the little critters.

I will still drop my bread on the floor at home and claim the 15 second rule, I will still eat yogurt that is 5 days over its use-by date, but I will always just wonder about open food at markets.  If there was ever a epidemic, some super virus, then these are the places they would spread.  

One more reason to grow my own!

Phew - tax audit is over...or is it?

I know I have been MIA from my blog this last few weeks.  Always seems to happen this way.  This is whats been going on.

• I get on top of all my work (paid work as opposed to housework - never get on top of that) and start having some quieter days at work
• This gives me a hope that maybe I could study part time and still get all my work done
• I enroll at Uni - Unit 1 of 24.
• I get very excited about it - prepare all my resources  write out a study plan, do a lot of reading, get familiar with how online learning works.  
• By the 1st February, I am all ready for the start day of 25th Feb.
• I wait and look at my tub of sharpened pencils.
• 2nd February, I get a phone call from State Revenue.
• It appears we have drawn the lucky straw and been selected for a 'random' payroll tax audit.
• For anyone not familiar with this money gouge tax, its when a business pays $750,000 or more in wages over a financial year.  Not a lot when you think of how much an average wage is.  The govt take from you, 5.5% of every dollar over this threshold.  Doesn't matter if you made a profit at all that year, not relevant apparently. We didn't   We made a loss.  So keeping on staff while we were quiet is going to cost us.  Lesson learnt, sadly.
• Even though I do keep very good records, always pay what I need to on time  there is still a lot of work goes into collating, getting the documents out of archive, going through SR checklist etc
• I have been working with my accountant and his assistant for weeks now.  Finally we have it all ready to present.
• Yesterday, we had the audit (great timing, the last day of the month is always a busy day for me)
• She said it normally takes anywhere from 4 to 8 hours.
• My accountant presented her with bound documents for each year, collated and with every record she needed.
• She took just under an hour to complete her audit!!
• She gives me a preliminary finding, but I will have to wait for an official one.
• My accountant says to expect to wait up to 12 months for this!!
• I sent wine and chocolates and a hundred thank yous to my amazing accountant.
• We will have a bill for this financial year just gone, but all the other years are fine.
• We wont be employing any more staff, and pay rises are on hold until they raise the threshold.*
• Great incentive huh?  We are just a small business - and we get penalised for employing people.

OK.  Back to my study!

* Which I hate, our staff are like family to us.  Each and every one is valued and a human being.  We understand their problems and would love to be able to help with regular pay rises.  We would also like to keep staff on when things get quiet, but sadly we can't now.  This is how, and why bosses have to be tough.  It sucks.

Update to Fawlty Hardly Normal

Monday, Mr K came home and asked me if I had made a complaint to HN head office?  Not yet. I haven't been able to actually get to talk to somebody to make a complaint.  I went to their website, looked up the 'contact us' page and was greeted with the usual gate-keeping process of no phone numbers and web-forms.

This frustrates the hell out of me, and I daresay other people too.  It stinks of arrogance, but that's a whole other rant.

I filled out the web-form, with just a request to speak to someone from customer service.  That was all.

I get this reply ...

Feeling very frustrated and as Homer would say "but I am mad now" I went to the HN Facebook page.  I cut and pasted their email reply to me, and just stated that it was rather frustrating.

I get this reply .. (and I can't show you a screen shot because they have removed it!! No bad language, nothing at all nasty, just a cut and paste of their email to me!)

Please advise case number for us to follow-up.

I reply that I would if I had actually got to speak to someone to have a case number.

I left it at that.  End of discussion.  So I thought.

So, back to Mr K coming home.  Turns out he had got a call from the Midland store, our 'dunno' manager who said he had been asked by head office to rectify the situation!

He offered us - a free upgrade to the next model that was in stock, free delivery to our rental home and arranging with the installers to do all this on Friday!

Wow.  I was impressed.  I did not expect any of this, I just wanted to voice my frustration at how their system had failed us.  This offer was beyond my expectations and I was very grateful.  

True to their word, the new unit was installed on Friday, my tenants are happy, I am happy and I hope the customer service dept. feels good.

Thank you Mr Harvey Norman.  

Where my time not blogging is being spent

This weeks assignment for a writing course (the one I will finish the same week Uni starts!)  was to write a character description, and link this to a life lesson.  I chose my Grandad as he was such an enigma to me.  The parameters of the essay were it had to be 400-500 words (so hard when I had much more to say), we had to use words to create the character, put the character in a physical situation and then join in the life lesson.  It could be essay or fiction.  I might try and write this again as a fictional story.

The upshot is that I am really enjoying the challenges of the assignments.  I start at Curtin Uni next Monday, the first unit is online. But it does keep me away from my blogging, I need to retire from work so I can just write all day!!

Grandad and Grandma - he always loved cats!

My Grandfathers Gift (or Don’t look a Gift Horse in the Mouth?)

My grandfather scared me.  He was gruff and looked like a small wiry pirate. With his ginger, long beard, sea swept face, and thick glasses, he always looked ancient to me.  His fingers were all bent, one of them at right angles, and he always smelt of wood putty and pipe tobacco.  He evoked an air of distance, like the leader of a dog pack, us littlies approached at our peril, especially when he was eating his sharp cheddar and bread.  He was fond of the saying Silence is Golden, something that I never really understood at the time, but I got the gist when he growled it.  Sometimes, he would pay me attention, by picking me up to show me the little blue cuckoo that would spring out of its carved wooden door when the hour hand struck.  If he was in a good mood, he would indulge my request when I said ‘again Grandad’. 

Grandad rarely gave us kids presents, and certainly not when it was expected.  Christmas, Birthday, Easter - we learnt to not ever expect gifts from him.  I never really thought of this until I was older because what we didn’t know did not hurt us.  As I got older, friends would show me amazing gifts they had got from their Grandparents.  One time my best friend received from her Grandma the biggest Easter egg I had ever seen, nesting in a cardboard box with cellophane and ribbons. I wondered why I never got such things.  It was a fleeting thought, certainly never an issue. 

No, Grandad did not spoil us with material things, but as we grew into more independent beings, and I dare say less silly, noisy and sticky, he was more than generous with his time, his careful teachings, his wisdom.  By the time I was a teenager he treated me as a grown-up. I knew this was given as a gift, so I acted as such around him.  I loved just being in his calm, quiet, contemplative company.  He was always doing something interesting, making things with wood, tinkering with tools, in the garden, reading, debating politics or religion.  Even watching him prepare his pipe, was engaging.

He took a keen interest in my horse riding.  He was a man who loved animals and appreciated the skills in handling them.  One day, he turned up at my parent’s farm, with a very pretty little palomino mare, in foal.  She was way too small for me to ride, but he wanted me to teach my little cousins to ride and care for a horse.  This was his gift to me – the temperament and tool to guide and teach the young as he had done in the ways of quiet, steady, consistent patience.  A horse was the perfect gift for this lesson. 

  

Hey! I won a Myers Gift Voucher today

I was really excited today, I was given a gift voucher for $50.00.  I got a phone call and when I answered the lovely young lady with a funny American accent told me.

"Congratulations Mrs Ford (I am not Mrs Ford, but for a $50 gift voucher I was keeping that quiet) you have won gift voucher for Coles/Myers for $50.00. PLUS (she said in a very upbeat tone) you have gone into draw for $1000 prize!"

My lucky day.  

She started to ramble off what I had to do to go into the prize draw, but I am no gambler, and I thought I would just take the prize I had already won and leave it at that.  Share the luck around, someone else could go into the draw for the chance at $1000.  I told Ms Lovely American Voice

"That's ok, just send me the Myers voucher.  Are you going to post it to me?"

She said 'Excuse Mrs Ford' (it was a American accent with Asian inflection).  I repeated my question about if they were going to post my prize.  

She laughed, nervously.  "Oh No Mrs Ford, you have to take survey first"

"Huh?"  I was crest fallen.  "So I didn't win the voucher?  You are not going to post it to me?"

"Yes, yes.  You win voucher."

"Good" I said relieved, "then you will need my address to post it to?"

"Mrs Ford ..." (I was now getting a little miffed at being called Mrs Ford and as I knew exactly why she used that name I was suspecting this was a scam!  Nooo.  Really?)  Twelve years ago, the phone number we have now, belonged to a Mrs Ford.  So I know that anyone who calls asking for her is using a VERY old data base.

I cut her off mid-sentence and stopped playing with the poor girl.

"Well if you are not going to post the prize I just won, I don't think I want to talk to you anymore." (Yeah, what a sore loser I am)

She tried hard to re-engage me, but my heart was broken.

I hung up, sad and deflated.  Dreams of what I would spend at Myers, or even Coles, flashed before my eyes. $50 of Lindt!!

I know this was a mean way to deal with telemarketers, but we get, on average, 2 or 3 of these calls a DAY!  I should know better than to answer the phone, normally I let it go to voice mail, but I am sick of having to avoid real phone calls because of these scammers.  I swore at one the other day, and it made me feel bad.  I had just hung up from one moments before.  The phone had gone flat so I put it on the charger, which is at the other end of the house.  Plonked in my chair, had a tiny sip of my tea, didn't even have time to say 'ahh' and the phone rang.  Thinking it can't possibly be another sales call so soon, assuming it must be a real phone call, I rushed off to answer it.  

Yep.  You guessed it.

"Hello Mrs Ford?"  

I am sorry, I cant actually repeat what I said next.  It would be bleeped out.

A hot shower, no Bex and a OK lie down

For people my age, who live in Australia - they would remember the catch-cry of the 1950/60's house wife - what I need is a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down.  There were mothers, in aprons and rollers and hairnets, all up and down this country lamenting this when it all got too much for them.  And I can image that it did get too much - cricket teams of kids, cooking every meal from scratch, cleaning devices that were the neanderthal version of a 'Dyson', husbands that could avoid all this by staying back at work until the kids were in bed - and I am surprised that Bex didn't contain something a little more robust!

The advertising campaign was actually this : "Stressful Day? What you need is a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down" It obviously worked as most mothers took the advice.  I suspect the cup of tea and the lie down did as much, if not more, good as the Bex powder did - it was a combination of asprin, analgesic and caffeine.  I recall the way it was packaged - a white powder, neatly folded up in a little paper envelope.  Not that I know much about drugs, but I have seen the movies, and isn't that how they package cocaine?

By the time it was my turn to be a mother, Bex had long gone.  Ever resourceful, I found a clear liquid called Gin as its replacement.  My mother would come over some afternoons and say she needed some tonic water as it had quinine in it - great to replenish lost salts when you had been sweating (they used this in India during the British Raj era - thus the name Bombay Sapphire Gin).  You can't be as uncultured as to just drink tonic water, it must be taken properly as a Gin and Tonic, with lemon and ice.

We would say 'just the one and then I will start dinner' and sit on the back lawn, watching the boys run about and exhaust themselves (this was a theory, not a fact - little boys never exhaust themselves).  The 'just the one' would go down very quickly, so would become 'awww go on then, one more wont hurt'.  We would drink the second one much slower, that way you could really feel the medicinal effect of wobbly legs and who-the-hell-wants-dinner-anyway.

By the third one, we would call Mr K and my Dad and giggle and shout for them to bring home fish and chips.  The boys would be filthy, and having a ball, and we could not give a flying Bex!

Ahhh, the good ole days.

Bright Life - Really? (Warning - Old Age Material)

I am sure you have all seen the brochures.  They sneak into magazines - not Cleo or Style - but Gardening Australia or Patchwork Weekly.  You normally just chuck them out as junk and get on with reading the good stuff like Costa's road verge garden, or how to propagate with Jane.

I was in the loo (sorry, but it had to be done) and one of these brochures must have dropped out of the latest mag.  I had read the mag cover to cover, even all the little adverts in the back, and was in desperate need of reading material.  Here it was - the latest BrightLife catalogue.

I am guessing this is directed at the, ahh, elderly, as every second page had some product to do with incontinence.   Now I know this is not funny, I have had children too, but really ... trying to make it look sexy with these boxer shorts is just, well... you be the judge...

These boxer shorts are designed to look & feel like normal underwear but with a discreet absorbent pad. Features waterproof backing to prevent leakage & staining of clothing. 

Machine washable. (so glad they are, would hate to be dropping these off to the dry cleaners!)

Other clues as to the age demographics of this catalog are :


Pill Organiser Timer

Nothing like planning your day around drugs

Toilet Safety Rail

Not just for the frail, I could see when this would come in handy after a night out!

Ready Relief Bottle

....... or take it discreetly with you for any journey.  (Maybe if it wasn't bright RED, it would be a little more discrete)

If this is what old age is like - being obsessed with liquid expulsion, then I am scared.

So, when I came across this item, I was a little perplexed (or do I just have a really dirty mind?)

Personal Massager

Massage away stress and tension. Deep penetrating massage soothes aching muscles and helps stimulate circulation. For use on neck, shoulders, back – anywhere on your body.  Use at home, work, travelling.

I think I might get one of these and take it into my next work meeting and tell them I have a stiff neck.


Moving on.  

The item that made me laugh so hard (and remember I was in the LOO! so Mr K had every right to ask what the hell I was doing in there) was this one.  The description reads ...

Video Pen

It is so small and unobtrusive that it is perfect for conversations with your ex, vendor meetings, negotiations with salespeople and any situation where a big camera just won't do.

WTF?  Words fail me.

I know this is petty, in the scheme of things, but ...

How can you possibly have a bad day shopping?  What's that saying?  A bad day shopping is better than a good day at work!  Well, this particular day, I think I would have rather been at work.  In a coal mine.  Aged 6.

The beginning was great.  It was a 40 degree day, but I was in an air conditioned car and about to go into a air conditioned shop.  No problems there.  Even got a parking bay undercover - should have known there was going to be a price to pay for this stroke of luck later on.

I met with Son#1 girlfriend, Ms A.  We always have fun at IKEA!  Passing the long line of mums and fidgety kids lined up for the play room, we both commented that we are glad that wasn't us!  (I had a little secret wish it was, her as Mum and me as Grandma, but only for a nano second, broken by a high pitched whining).  Despite school holidays and the office area being overrun by Mums day dreaming about kids going back to school with perfectly Swedish organised desks and bedrooms, it was not too crowded or chaotic.

Ms A and I did a few more shops, had a food hall lunch that was passable and went our separate ways, both a little weary but satisfied we had done a good days gathering - our inner cave lady would have been proud.

On my way home, I had one last errand to run. We had bought a new kettle with some Christmas vouchers we were given.  It was a lovely Sunbeam Cafe Series, to match all my other appliances.  Except it didn't.  Match that is.  When I got it home, it was red not silver like all my others!!  Dang.  So here I was, in Myers to exchange it.  Simple.  Except it wasn't.  Simple that is.  I had lost the receipt.  Upending my handbag, my purse, my pride - it was nowhere to be found.  I think the sales guy was so embarrassed for my lack of dignity as I almost wept, that he said no worries, he would exchange it without a receipt as the box had been unopened.  (it had been, that's how I discovered the RED kettle - but I was not about to spill the coffee beans). 

Feeling a little lightheaded, and on a roll with my new silver kettle, I decided that while the sales were on I would buy a new pillow (my feather one really did need replacing) and on the way out I saw my favourite dinner setting, the Royal Doulton 1815 range, on 60% off!!!  There was this lovely serving platter - cream, little handles, 60% OFF!!  Three seconds later, I was watching the chap wrap it in tissue paper while I held my Visa card enthusiastically waiting to swipe. 

Off down the escalators, past the perfume counters ... and it happened.  One minute I am feeling rather pleased with myself and my shopping prowess, the next, a kind man was helping me up from the floor and asking if I was OK?  All I could say was, 'my shoe ... my shoe broke!'  He looked at me with a mixture of concern and fear, saw I was OK and took off. 

My shoe had completely broken, so I had no choice but to take it off, which meant the other one had to come off too as they were a little high to walk with only one.  Barefoot, and shattered, I was in no mood to go shoe shopping now, so I shamefully walked out the shinny, bright Myers and to the carpark.  I could hear something odd, so stopped and examined my bags.  The creamy white platter, was in a millions pieces, still wrapped in its tissue paper!

I think  they call this 'pride comes before a fall'?  Or maybe its more like 'middle aged women should not wear wedge high heels when shopping'?

Either way, I now have lost my favorite shoes and did not even have a chance to kindle a love affair with the platter.

They are sitting on my new potting bench, I don't have the heart to throw them in the bin!

Telstra as a Dating Agency

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with this post, but I can only add pictures from my phone or blog due to Blogger STILL not fixing their known problem about picture icons. 

My lovely Samsung Galaxy 3 died right before Christmas.  Actually, it was the day the world was meant to end, which, clearly it did for my phone.  Off it went to the Telstra shop for a mother board transplant and, so far, it has not rejected its new organ.

When they messaged me, on the phone I got loaned while mine was in the phone hospital, I was very keen to rush in and pick her up.  She had been through a lot and I loved my little phone.

I get to the official Telstra shop in Morley ... and there is a queue of people right out the door!  Oh the injustice!  Mr K assumes that the queue is not meant for people like him so goes and sits at the Tech Desk (this is Telstra, not an i shop so places have names of what they are, it's not a genius corner).  I join the end of the line, out near the chemist and alluringly, the liquor store.  At least I can have drugs and booze while I wait.

As I sigh and roll my eyes and try and glare at the 3 teenage girls behind the counter (who carefully avoid any eye contact with the ever growing line of frustrated people) a man behind me says 'Isn't this just pathetic?'

I am about to agree in a monotone, until I turn around and see the man responsible for the comment.  He is very handsome, with a nice smile, so I make my response much more animated.  I make a funny comment about how 12 year old's are running the world now, and we are all screwed. He laughed. 

For the next 25 minutes, we stood in line, chatting away, inching forward, making mutual observations.  I got to know just about everything I needed to know, stuff that I probably didn't need to know, and passed the time very pleasantly.  Had I not been ..
a) married,
b) had said husband sitting not 10 feet away and
c) not got my phone back yet,
I would have exchanged phone numbers and got him to call me sometime.

So all you single girls, forget the night clubs and rave parties and head off to your local Telstra store and get in line!  You never know what you might find!

PS: As Blogger STILL have not fixed their problem with the picture icon, I can not add the photo of this very handsome man ... sorry!

So, that was it? 2012

Hello my blog.  I have missed you.  I have stayed away, not because I don't like you (I like you, I do, I really do) but because of a whole swag of excuses very valid reasons.  They don't really matter now, what matters is that I am back.  Here, with you, my sanity saver, my escape from the world, my outlet to express - in fact, I would put you up there with one of my best friends (shh don't tell Strawb)

I spent New Years Eve for 2012 in a melted state, 42.2 degrees - the 8th straight day of temperatures above 37.  If ever there was a time to move to Tasmania, this was it.  I did mange to get a few things done and a few challenges met, these I will tell you about later. 

I don't know if I am disappointed or feel content with the fact that I spent the night with the Two Grumpy Old Men.  I certainly didn't want to go out partying - have never liked that, and like it even less these days.  I was quite content to just have a relaxing evening, even in my own company, as Mr K was complaining that we had spent the last four years not going out on NYE - so I told him to go, go out and do what he wanted.  I really was more than happy with a book on my own.  But he pouted and said he wanted to go out with me.  Silly boy, he knows what an introvert I am.

So Uncle James came over, we got G&T's and got in the pool.  Now isn't that WAY better than making small talk and being with people who bore the tits of you?  The music would be loud, so you can't talk anything meaningful - 'What?  Oh yeah, we had a great Christmas thanks.  You?'  'Oh, you had a Christmas lunch.  Great'.  'Um, made any resolutions?' 'Oh, great, a weight loss program, good luck with that'  and on and on this silly talk goes. 

Nope, not for me.  The three of us had a great conversation - as we normally do. Last night, we were all cheeriness and light and talked about the latest craze of 'Prepping'.  We talked about how we would prepare for the end of civilised order in a world quickly going mad.  How we could feed ourselves when all the shops closed or ran out of food, how we would protect ourselves from looters, where we would escape to when the violence started, how we could set up a new life away from the chaos that would ensue after our society collapses.  Think Mad Max, the one with Tina Turner in it.  (If you have Foxtel, go to the National Geographic channel and watch Doomsday Preppers if you really want
a) a good laugh,
b) some sobering thoughts,
c) entertain the idea that maybe they are onto something
or d) remember your sanity and have a good laugh.

We now have a plan.  Mr K is to get the trailer camper ready with fuel and water and make sure we have a full tool kit.  Uncle James is in charge of weapons and planning the escape route.  I am in charge of feeding them (hey, what's new)  collecting and storing seeds and a way to start a vegetable garden in the desert.

Cheery way to end the year wasn't it?

Hope yours was at least a Happy start to the New Year.

The Great Rock Sell out

It's a bad photo.  I had to take it with my phone. I was holding the 'few things' I had popped into Coles for.  People thought I was a bit nuts, juggling toilet paper, 3 litres of milk, cat food, tim tams (yeah, I fell for the special ploy), broccolini (what we used to throw out as underdeveloped/bolted broccoli heads when we were growers, they now market and sell), Bonds socks - three pack and tonic water - to try and then, with arms full, (really should have got a basket) to try and take a picture.

What was it that made me carry out such madness?

Status Quo.

Once, they were cool.  Long haired, hard rockers.  I would bet my arm full of shopping that they had done their fair share of groupies, Jack Daniels and white powder in their time.

Now they are sad old men, trying to make a bit of money by selling out their famous hit to Coles.

There, at the checkout, you could buy the CD of Status Quo singing Down, down, prices are down for $10!

That's why I had to take the photo!  No-one would have believed me otherwise. 

On being a cocaine user

Icing sugar anyone?

Shocked are you?  That all this creativity comes from a white powder?  Let me put your mind at ease.

I have discovered that I would make a lousy cocaine addict – I can’t even snort nose spray up my nose properly.  I have had some kind of allergy/sinus infection for weeks and weeks now.  I like to let my body fight things naturally, but its got to the point where the bug/irritant has won and I have lost.  I haven't been able to breath normally at all.  Not wanting to wait hours in a Dr's surgery with real sick people, I went along to my local drug pusher chemist.  I was given a nasal spray and some quite nice tasting medicine. 

I read the instructions carefully, (after I found my glasses, the print certainly was fine), had a little practice go of putting the nozzle up my nose, breathing all the way out and a big breath in.  Looked like an complete naff but I was in the privacy of my own kitchen. Repeat these steps, while at the same time I am to breath in, squeeze the bottle to emit a spray of liquid up my nose.  Oops, forgot to block one nostril with my finger.  Talk about multi-tasking - how would a man do all this?

The first try was a failure.  The liquid just ran back down my nose and dripped on the kitchen bench (so much for hygiene).  I guess you have to take a bigger breath in.  Tried again, I breathed back harder this time, and got a nose full, that trickled down the back of my throat and made me cough and splutter.  OK, so in between the two actions might be the way to go. 

Third try lucky.  I pretended I was a groovy chick at a upmarket party and this wasn't nasal spray but fine cocaine. I sniffed it up and waited for the rush.  Oh my giddy aunt.  I could breath, for just a minute.  Clear fresh air - is this what cocaine does for you?

A friend, who, umm, knows all about chemistry, informs me that I could just shoot cocaine direct into my veins, but where is the fun in that?  No, I want to look Kewl (yes, with a capital K) with white powder around my nose, otherwise how will the hipsters know I am one of them? 

Clearly, a seasoned user

I have also been taking this sinus relief medicine (yeah, watch out, I am one mean, on the streets, druggie) with big bold letters saying

NON DROWSY.  

Three minutes after I take it, I want to sleep the sleep of the dead. 

I guess I just wasn't cut out to be a drug addict.  Pity, I reckon I looked pretty with it!