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

Advertisements

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