I was tortured and survived – just!

Hairy lady faceThere is one thing I hate about my Maltese heritage.  Body hair!  I know that beards are in fashion; and a bearded lady even won Eurovision last year.  But really, I’m so over it.  I remember going to the doctors and I said “I’m worried, I think I’m turning into a man.  I’m … growing something.”  He look horrified, leaned forward in his chair and in a secretive whisper asked “What?”  I moved towards him, paused, and whispered back “A beard.”  He almost looked disappointed!

He bloomin’ well laughed out loud at me.  All he said was “Do you have European heritage?”  I said I did.  Maltese.  Apparently it’s the legacy that is handed down to us all, men and women alike.  Men can look like razorbacks (a hairy black pig that looks like it’s got a mohawk up its spine), and women can look like men.  I can relate to the term sasquatch now.  Because I’m starting to look like one.  Just call me “Mrs Bigfoot”.  Not because I’ve got big feet, but because of … well … Bigfoot!  Truly.  Once I refused to shave my legs for 2 months, and it looked like spiders legs were hanging over my socks.  And my chin can look like a mohair chin-strap.  As I said, I’m over it!!

So – I bought an epilator; to rip the lot out by the roots.

Maybe I should have thought about it more.  Because I went straight in for the kill.  I started with my armpits.  B.I.G. mistake!

Very hair legsI stood in front of the bathroom mirror, determined that the hairy pit was going to vanish and be replaced by a porcelain looking surface.  I turned the little hair remover on and watched the spinning tweezers whir into action, revving like a lean-mean-hair-stripping-machine.  I raised one arm.  I slowly moved the “e” towards the quivering mohair mat, then pushed straight into in.  I screamed and my body started jerking around the bathroom like I had been electrocuted.  I stopped, threw the machine onto the vanity and felt a cold goose bumpy feeling creep from the back of my heels to the top of my head.  My eyes started to roll back into my skull and my vision start to blur, noise sounding distant, and I’m sure I was about to lose consciousness.  I staggered to the edge of the bath and sat down.

When I’d recovered from the first attempt; I continued.  I was going to finish the job.  After a moment I picked up the implement of torture and managed to finish the one armpit.  It took 6 attempts, 30 minutes and pained squeals like an animal being slaughtered.

I’d never felt anything like it.  I was NEVER able to epilate my arm pits again.

After a few weeks I tried it on my face.  To be honest, ripping the moustache out was just as painful!  One moustache removal and I had tears running off my face.  Oh, I wasn’t crying … that’s just how much it made my eyes water.

I saw my sons having an arm wrestle and they were arguing about who was the strongest.  I said women were because we had to endure an epilator.  To prove it; I got them both to put their arms out to see which one could endure a 1 inch removal of hair with an epilator.  They both screamed louder than I did!

So I say to any man that thinks he is tough.  You wanna prove it … try an epilator!

© 2015 CEW
Originally posted on my old blog site

Hairy legs image courtesy of Ryan McGuire  http://www.gratisography.com/#0

What the hell is that on the floor?

Long brown balancing rock formationMaybe we had altitude dementia? Or maybe not. But at 3.00 am at 36,000 feet on a long flight back to Australia, my sister and I went absolutely stir crazy. Huddled under our little blankets giggling our noggins off, we woke our Dad sitting in front of us, as well as other passengers in our vicinity. We couldn’t help it. Have you ever tried to stifle hysterics? It only makes you laugh harder. That was us.

My sister needed to go to the toilet, and if you’ve ever used an aeroplane toilet and you are female, it’s not fun. If you are a male, I suggest you try this so you know what I’m talking about …

  • Grab a cactus in a pot and put it on the roof of your car on a gravel road, and have your mate ready to accelerate behind the wheel. (Not that a toilet seat is a cactus, but the pain of sitting in someone else’s urine puddle comes mighty close for a woman!)
  • Climb onto the roof of the car.
  • Now pull down your pants – no part of your clothing can touch the floor or it becomes soaked in a complete stranger’s filthy DNA. So you need to balance the clothing between your knees and ankles.
  • Now squat backwards and hover your nether-region just above the cactus, trying not to let your dangly bits touch the prickles.
  • Now … yell out to your mate to hit the accelerator on that bumpy road.
  • Then stay in that position for 30 seconds!

Now you know what it’s like for a woman going to the toilet in an aeroplane. Anyway, back to my story …

So my sister goes to the toilet and the “occupant” forgot to lock the door. She walks in to see a poor Indian lady “hovering” in the above position. She looks at my sister with sheer terror on her face as Sister quickly reverses and shuts the door. She scurries to the next toilet.

Now it’s my sister’s turn to be in the “hovering” position. Whilst suspended in that state she notices a vile stench permeating the cubicle. She can feel bile bubbling in her innards, but manages to hold it in. “What is that smell? It’s not coming from me”, she thinks. She looks around the tiny room and her eyes focus on an object on the floor. She focuses on the “log”. It’s a big brown turd! Just resting there. On its lonesome. She can’t help it and she starts laughing uncontrollably. She pictures this …

A poor soul high above the midnight clouds. Hovering over the same toilet in the same cubicle. And just when their “object” was about to leave their body, turbulence strikes! And the “object” starts swinging like a pendulum. Left. Right. Left. And all of a sudden it’s hanging by a point mid-swing, and then it’s released! It flings off and somersaults over the top of the stainless-steel bowl and lands on the floor. Intact.

My Sister runs back to our seat with her hand over her mouth. By the time she tells me her story, we are both out of control. We have gone mad. We are over-tired!

It was the funniest way to end our 4 weeks abroad.

© CEW 2015

The massive spider that scared us to death

Close up of big hairy spiderIt was a pitch-black night when my boyfriend and I spotted the massive hairy spider walking up our windscreen.  It stopped.  Our eyes focused on the big dark silhouette at the same time, yet neither of us spoke.  I kept driving, eyes darting from it to the road.  Boyfriend remained silent.   I didn’t think to put the windscreen wipers on to flick it off.  I didn’t know if it was on the inside or the outside of the car.  So I waited until it started to walk again, then I would be able to tell by its leg movements if it was “in” or “out”.

It started a slow ascent further up the windscreen.  OMG!!!!  It was on the inside of the car!  I heard a high pitched woman’s scream – then realised it was my boyfriend. I was driving and didn’t know what to do – I just knew I had to get out of the car.  I swerved off the road and managed to stop my car before it nosed into a ditch.  I left the engine running and headlights on, threw open the door and ran down the lonely road.  My boyfriend ran past me.  His bravery was … noted.

Hands flapping in anxiety and jogging on the spot I said to him frantically “Go and kill it!”  He clutched my arm “I c c c c can’t” he stammered in terror.  “Did you see the size of that th th thing?”  I’m not into violence, but I felt like slapping him upside of the head with a dead fish.  “What will we do?”  I asked.

We anxiously clutched each other.  In the distance we saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle.  Would anyone stop for two people in the night?  I thought not.  I told him to go hide himself in the ditch and I would pretend I was a lone stranded woman.  Maybe a “brave” white-knight would come to my rescue.  But my brave soul wouldn’t let go of my arm.  So we stood there.  Waiting.  Together.

We were lucky that my car looked abandoned and the two people clutching each other in the rays of the headlights looked terrified.  The approaching car stopped.  Two young men got out and asked if we were ok.  “Spider” I said, pointing.  They burst out laughing, showed no fear and went to inspect the mammoth hairy beastie.  It was a mongrel of a thing, at least the size of a dinner plate!  {Ok, not really, but you know how big a huntsman can get right?  No…well they are also known as “giant crab spiders” so just image a spider the size of a crab!}

I thought they would take the spider out of the car and spare its life.  But instead, one of them took off his shoe and smacked the spider.  Dead.  I watched as a big burst of puss-like substance oozed down the window.  The carcass suspended on the glass for a moment then dropped to the dashboard where it remained.

Oh, “What happened to the boyfriend?” you may ask.  Well, I married him.  And he has since learned to kill spiders.

© 2015 CEW
Reposted from my old blog site

Image courtesy of: stockvault--spider-web138344

 

The sausage casserole that was BANNED for life

Cartoon chef holding a casserole

“It’s just a sausage casserole. I swear it!”

Warning:  This post contains a seemingly x-rated image – but it’s really a sausage casserole!


I froze.  My new young husband was choking, red faced and making the noise our cat makes when hacking up a hairball.  But this was no hairball, this was my sausage casserole!  I unfroze and leapt towards him, thwacking him on the back between the shoulder blades with the heel of my hand.  Thwack,  Thwack.  He stilled for a moment.  “Is the casserole nice honey?” I asked hesitantly, trying to smile, which resembled more a grimace.  We all know that God didn’t bless me with the cooking gift.

He raised his fingers and started pulling a long clear looking thing out of his mouth which must have been flapping down the back of his throat.  He kept pulling, and pulling.  It was kinda long.  He held it up in front of me.  Oh, it definitely didn’t look good.  He glared at the long transparent object dangling from his fingers with a look of sheer horror.  He turned to me, the limp “thing” swinging from side to side as he raised it up even higher.  My eyes followed it.  Left.  Right.  Left. Right.  “What.   Is.  This?”  he asked. “Well, I know it doesn’t look like it should be in there…” I stuttered.    “Why is there a … condom … in my dinner?” he asked.

Oh my dear goodness gracious me!  It did sort of look like one of those.  I had a flash-back to the recipe.  Oopsie! I realised I should NOT have skipped the step where is said to partly boil the sausages  which would cause the skins to loosen and they should be peeled off before adding to the casserole dish.

“It’s a sausage skin!” I proudly announced.  If I looked confident maybe he would think it was part of the recipe.  But no.  I was banned from EVER cooking a sausage casserole again.

20 years later

It was time I jumped back on the sausage casserole band wagon.  We had two strapping sons now with big appetites and I was a lot more confident in my cooking, despite my kinship with kitchen disasters.  To get around my life-long ban from cooking sausage casseroles I would be “clever” and cook a – CHIPOLATA CASSEROLE!  {If it was really a sausage, it would be called a sausage, now wouldn’t it?}

The aroma from the slow-cooker which had been on for 8 hours was absolutely mouth-watering.  I knew my men would be impressed with my culinary skills this night.  I had cooked enough to feed our family for two nights.  Clever me!

A work colleague popped into my home for a meeting and we sat at the bench top.  Even he couldn’t resist the tempting sausage-scent and asked if he could peek under the lid.  Like a couple of naughty children we lifted the lid – and I’m not sure which one of us was the most embarrassed!  I shut the lid quickly and felt my face heat up and my glasses fogged.  He burst out laughing and said if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he would never have believed what he’d just seen.  I swore to him it was just my secret Chipolata Casserole!

Later that evening it was time to dish up my feast.

x-rated looking sausage casseroleMy husband and our boys, aged 20 and 18, were crowding the bench like hungry cave men, bellies grumbling.  I paused with my hand on the lid, hoping it looked better than the last time I peeked.  I ever so slowly lifted the lid.

Three men jumped backwards with pained expressions on their faces.

I lifted the ladle and they backed away even further, all muttering at the same time that they were not hungry any more.  They all refused to eat my Chipolata Casserole!  I don’t know why, it was mighty delicious.  It fed me for days.  They are traumatised for life.
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site

 

 

The crazy chook with insane eyes

Quote FOR FAST ACTING RELIEF TRY SLOWING DOWNDo you know that crazy-confused feeling where you run around in circles like a chicken with it’s head cut off chasing its tail?  See how confused I am!  You know what I mean, right?  And when the episode has ended you wonder what just happened?  This is me.  Really, it is.  It has begun.

My first episode happened not long ago.  I was home alone, grateful now that my sons and husband were not witnesses to my madness.  It all started with the ringing of my cell phone, or mobile phone (as we call them in the Southern Hemisphere).

Gazing at my aging reflection in the bathroom mirror I heard the familiar tinkling of my cell phone in my bedroom.  I walked to my bedside table and reached out – but the phone was not there.  It started ringing in the bathroom.  “I must be going insane” I chuckled to myself, returning to the bathroom and walking a bit faster this time.  I checked the vanity.  No cell.  Feeling only slightly perplexed I heard the familiar ring in my bedroom once again.  For a split second I wondered what eerie force was at work in my home as I hurried back through my walk-in robes into my bedroom.  I scanned the bed this time.  No phone.  Is there a pesky poltergeist at play here?

Waiting with anticipation for the next ring I honed my mother-ears towards the next ringing to gauge the latitude and longitude of said phone.  {ring ring}  My head spun around, eyes focussed.  “It’s in my robes” I deducted and I lunged towards the jacket I’d worn yesterday squeezing the pockets.  But alas, within a few seconds, I heard it ringing behind me again.  Aha!  I’d finally worked it out.  My phone was in the study, which is opposite my bedroom.

I stomped to the study, quite fed up with myself, eyes crazily scanning the desk, around the computer, under papers, searching.   {ring ring}  This can’t be happening.  It was behind me again, back in my bedroom!  I ran back now, knowing the phone would flick to voicemail soon.  Moisture was gathering on my brow and my frustration thermometer was rising.  My head snapped to the right, eyes honing on the sound as I heard it ringing in the study again. “WHAT’S HAPPENING?” my internal voice screamed to myself.  What strange powers has my cell suddenly accumulated that it can disappear and reappear at will?

But this time I stopped.  I stood still.  I closed my eyes and bowed my head in utter concentration.  And I listened.  It was like slooooooow motion.  My breathing calmed and my heartbeat slowed.  {rrriiinnnggg rrriiinnnggg}

I heard it.  I felt the vibration.

In the back pocket of my jeans.

I just missed the call.  I sat on my bed.  Home alone and confused.  Was this the beginning of the loss of my mind?  I was almost 50 at the time.  Was I over the top of the hill descending down the other side into middle-age and menopause … and madness?  Is this menopause?  I hoped so, because if not, it just might be the beginning of insanity or dementia.
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site

 

Hissy Fit Frenzy

Bull looking over back fence says Dont Mess With MeWarning: Do not read this post if you want to believe I am a nice controlled Christian woman. Because you will be sorely disappointed. This is the first occasion in my adult life where I have had a crazy uncontrolled hissy-fit frenzy. It may have something to do with “that time” of my life. Or not. Maybe it was just a bad tempered me.

I came home late from work on a Thursday night (about 11.00pm) and as I drove up the drive-way I heard the doof doof doof of VERY loud music. “If that’s my boys, I will wring their bleedin’ necks” I thought. But it wasn’t, there was a party happening over our back fence … on a Thursday night?? When we all have work the next day??

My husband said he’d already told them to turn down the music and they did. For 5 minutes. He said to me “You’ll have to do something about that music”. Me?? That’d be right. They all whinge when my assertive head emerges, yet call on it when the tough stuff has to be done and they don’t want to do it themselves. Yes, the three men of my house turn to the woman when the “big guns” have to come out.

But I refused. They could deal with it … for once.   They didn’t.

When I was in bed at around midnight, something happened to my little tired annoyed brain. Doof doof doof. It was getting louder! My eyes snapped open, staring at the darkened ceiling. I felt my arm lift up of its own accord and it slowly pulled the doona back. I arose; like a sleeping vampire that had finally tasted its first sip of blood and felt life pulsing through its system – and it was about to be let loose.   I put my glasses on. I put my slippers on. And walked to my back door. I opened it, and left it opened. Like a sleepwalker I moved towards the back fence. I climbed as high as I could. I scanned the crowd of nicely dressed young adults. Nobody had seen me. Yet.

I breathed in deeply and inflated my lungs to maximum capacity, then bellowed like a roaring hormonal beastie … “EXCUUUUUSE MEEEE!”  Doof doof.   I said it again. And again! Finally, the crowd of gaping young people had noticed the big woman towering over the back fence, bed-hair-bun piled crookedly and sliding down her head like a mammoth testicle (I haven’t perfected the messy bun look), in her billowing baby blue floral pyjamas, with the bright orange ear plug sticking out of one ear. I was glad about their shocked expressions. I had their utmost attention now, didn’t I? I should have realised that the two long loose escaped tendrils of my curls were not the only things that seemed to be swinging over the back fence. But I didn’t.

I pointed at two girls “YOU TWO, TURN THAT MUSIC OFF!” They didn’t move. “NOOOOOWWWWW!” They ran for their lives. The music stopped. I pointed to another “YOU! GO AND TELL THE OWNER OF THE HOUSE TO COME HERE – NOW!” I found I couldn’t stop. I seriously couldn’t stop. They were all looking at me. “WE HAVE TO GET UP AT 5AM IN THE MORNING. DID YOU HEAR MEEEE?? 5. BLOODY. O’CLOCK!” Yep, I lost it big time and even swore; much to my shame. I think I said a couple more sentences along the same lines, but I can’t even remember now. Two young men suddenly ran towards me with their arms reaching up.

They were jumping up and down with their hands extended towards me, telling me to calm down, it would be alright, and the music would stop now. As I was screeching at them like a crazed banshee I must have been trying to get closer to them; and these two heroic young men ran to stop me toppling into their garden bed. That would not have been a good sight for the young man on his 21st birthday. The old lady (compared to their age), with her head buried in their garden bed, with floral clad blue legs kicking in the air.   {Shudder}

A sense of peace then enveloped me. I calmly said “Thank you”. And like a retreating meerkat, my head descended, never to be seen again.

I now have to live with the shock (and terrible embarrassment and guilt) about what made me act like that. I’m supposed to be a Christian. Can people really go “crazy” and act out of character? Or is it our real character that breaks out because we can’t control it in a moment of weakness and vulnerability? I just don’t know.

Being a Christian now means I will need to make this right, somehow. An apology is in order, me thinks. Damn it.
©2015 CEW

 

I fought a bidet. I lost.

toilet bidet squirting waterI had a fight with a Japanese toilet and I lost in a most spectacular fashion!  I’m not talking about their public toilets that are a hole in the ground which one must squat over at one’s peril … and pray one aims in the right direction.  I’m referring to their technologically advanced electronic toilets.

Just before I went to Japan on business I had a crash course in protocols and Japanese customs.  I would be “home-stayed”, meaning I would live in the home of a Japanese senior official (of equal status to me).  I would bathe in the bathwater first as the honoured guest (before the rest of the family would use it), I should never write on a business card (an insult) and there would be an official exchanging of gifts (etiquette), just to name a few.    But nobody told me about their toilets!

I arrived at my host family’s home where the whole family greeted me dressed in their finest. There was a lot of bowing and head nodding.  They did not speak English.  I did not speak Japanese.  We spent the afternoon sitting in their lounge room.  Smiling.  Nodding.  And smiling more.  It was very formal.  I eventually excused myself to use the water closet, which they’d pointed out to me earlier.

The Incident

I opened the little door to the little throne room and stepped over the threshold.  This was no ordinary toilet.  This one had an electronic control panel!  Wow, I could be in the Starship Enterprize.  The only thing I recognised in this room was the toilet seat – ye auld familiar friend.  I took care of my afternoon ablutions with the deflating of my overextended bladder and took a moment to contemplate my day, chuckling at the electronic panel.  What were all the buttons for with Japanese writing on them?  I recalled being told that some toilet seats are heated in Japan so you could heat your toosh on a cold day.  I was at the bottom of Mt Fuji where is snowed, maybe it was a fancy heating panel, thought I.  I stood and righted my clothing and went to flush the toilet.  My hand suspended in mid air … there was no button.  I surveyed the top of the toilet, the sides, I even glanced at the ceiling {well, you never know!}.  I was baffled.  I couldn’t find the flush button anywhere.

I could hear the theme song from Jaws in my head as I slowly turned to glance at the control panel.  Oh please Dear Lord, not the control panel!  Was I supposed to push one of those buttons?  I thought…yes.  But which one?  I studied them carefully.  I noticed there was a blue button and a pink button.  My logic won out.  I deduced that if you are a boy you push the blue button, and if you are a girl you push the pink button.  Problem solved!  I am a girl.  Pink button it is!  I pushed.   Silence.

Just as I was contemplating my next move I noticed a steel rod descending from the back of the toilet bowl. What is that?  I’d never seen anything like it.  I bent and peered closely at aforementioned steel rod.  It halted.  I inched closed, and still closer, face peering at the alien appendage.  What in the …..

A huge gush of water under high pressure blasted me straight in the face, hosing my contact lens out!  I went into a panic because the water did not stop!  It was blasting upwards like a burst fire hydrant.  Without thought I grabbed it with my hand, and still, it would not stop.  Now the water was spraying all over the room and gushing out between my fingers.  The floor was flooding, water was running downs the walls, my hair was dripping, and my clothes were wet.  I COULDN’T STOP THE FLOW!  Should I wrench the rod out?  Using my other hand I began wildly hammering the buttons on the control panel.  Thank goodness … the water finally stopped.  My breathing was fast and shallow, a sign of my distressed state.

I stood there stunned for long moments.  Gathering my courage around me, and with a wildly fluttering unfocused right eye, I walked back to the lounge room where my host family awaited.  I walked into that room looking vastly different from when I left.  I needed to explain what happened, but how, when we did not understand each other’s language.  I was never good at Charades, but you should have seen the way I explained what I’d just done.  It was an Oscar winning performance!

I stayed with this beautiful family for the week.  I’m sure I will be remembered as the strange Australian who cleansed her face with their bidet.  They will be remembered as the family who made the strange Australian who couldn’t use a toilet feel at home, despite her most embarrassing moment.  EVER!
©2015 CEW

 

Originally posted on my old blog site.