I am a mole and I live in a hole.

I’ve been meaning to make an appointment at the GP to have my moles checked for a while.  You know how it is – you should get around to it.  You know it makes sense and prevention IS better than cure, but let’s face it, deep down your shit scared it’s something slightly worse than a freckle, so you leave it for another year (or seven).  It’s made worse by the fact that the ones that I need checking the most reside on my back, so I can’t see them on a daily basis; so they get another stay of execution.

UNTIL, I was asked to be a bridesmaid.  A strange catalyst to get my arse to the GP, but I’m vain and there was one mole on my back that looked like a rice crispy and the dress I chose for the occasion showed my crispy off to full effect.  It was time for Colin (as I affectionately named him) to pay the piper.  He deserved to be named.  Granted, it probably should have been a slightly more hardcore moniker – Colin sounded like he wore jumpers and worked in Accounts. 

I eventually made the appointment and it was agreed that Colin would be given his marching orders (and take a mate with him for good measure and just to make my experience as uncomfortable as possible).  As I mentioned, Colin resembled a Rice Krispy - well it was more like a rice crispy riding a mole. Colin was the 'Valdimir Putin' of moles, shirtless and riding into battle on his trusty mount. 

I didn't want Colin overshadowing my bridesmaids dress. I didn't want small children nibbling him when they got a little peckish. For all his greatness, Colin was kinda gross. 

Whilst I sat in the waiting room, I penned an ode to Colin. 

Colin, my Rice Krispy chum, the time has come to say 

Adios, Sayonara, au revoir, G'Day,

Your services are no longer needed

So pack up and on your way. 

I look forward to a future of backless dresses with no more Colin shame. 

So off I marched to the Doctor and

He was pretty glad I came. 

Not for him a common cold

Or a script for happy pills

He got to remove my Colin 

With lots of needles and drills. 

I am quite sad to see him go 

He always had my back 

But bridesmaid dress, here I come

And all that's is left is Colin's little crack. 

I was given local pain relief and laid on the bed as Colin and his mate were removed from my back.   It was a quick and relatively painless procedure and within 30 minutes I was out the door with stitches where my former Russian leader lived. The itching though!  Even after the stitches were removed, it was as if the evil ruler left me with an ongoing irritating legacy.  And to add insult to irritating injury, Colin’s mate was potentially pre-cancerous!  What a liberty.

Cutting Room Floor

After watching an episode of the Graham Norton show this evening, I can proudly declare that I have something in common with Oscar winner Jennifer Lawrence.  Who knew?  The glamorous American film starlet and I – middle aged Mum of 3 who volunteers as tribute every morning to run the gauntlet with life (and generally hearing a cannon every third hour). 

So, what is the common theme you two share? I hear you ask.  Is it the shared invitations to Hollywood parties?  Is it a mutual friendship with Bradley Cooper?  An ability to be clumsy in public?

Well, yes to one of them, but apparently, we have both been involved in a photo shoot and the results of the shoot being binned immediately, never for publication!  Hers was for the internationally renowned brand Abercrombie and Fitch, whereas mine was for my University.  Jennifer’s brief was for a sporty, carefree shoot; however, she became too competitive and engrossed in the sport.  Her face transformed from ‘playful model frolicking on the sports field’ to ‘aggressive major player who will stop at nothing to win the point’, complete with red, sweaty face and flared nostrils.  Not quite the A&F brief allegedly.  She mentioned that her Agent had years later contacted Abercrombie and asked why the photos were never published as part of their campaign and they simply replied with copies of the photos – no explanation was even required.

Following my successful completion of the OnTrack program last year (a bridging course to enable mature students and those who didn’t perform well in Year 12 to enter University), I responded to an email asking for positive experiences with the program.  I eagerly replied, citing my story of how I ended up enrolled in the course whilst only originally going to get my roots touched up (story for another time!) the Uni replied, inviting me to come along to a photo shoot, TV interview and voice recording for potential radio and press ads!  I was scared, but equally excited.  I never do things like this!  I’m usually the one in the shadows, watching my friends in the limelight, enjoying the attention.

Embracing new opportunities outside of my comfort zone, I headed into the City for the appointment. 

My face was airbrushed!!!  I literally had foundation applied with the aid of an air compressor!  It was awesome!  I answered questions.  Fluffed my lines.  Repeated answers until they sounded somewhat coherent and left with a voucher for my time and the promise that if we ‘decide to use your images, we will be in touch.’  It was a big line up.  The two participants prior to my interview where the Mayor of a major town and an ABC newsreader.  I didn’t hold much hope.  The crew all made lovely comments; that I was articulate and carried myself with more confidence than the newsreader, but I felt I was punching well above my not yet even undergraduate weight.  It’s fine.  I enjoyed my experience.  Even if I never get to have my face professionally airbrushed again, I have achieved airbrushed loveliness.  I explored new experiences.  I have been interviewed on camera.  I have ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed’ with the Mayor. 

Although, my disappointment was highlighted when I was taking the kids somewhere in the car one day and who should I see plastered all over the back of the bus, but the ABC newsreader!  It appears he also has his own Billboard!

I WANT TO BE ON THE BACK OF A BUS (rather than just looking like one!).  This devastated me more than anything.  I may have missed my only opportunity in life to be featured on a mode of public transport.  

I only hope that they are saving the best til last and will wheel me out when the current Year 12s completely fuck up their ATAR endeavours and plaster me on the back of a bus then.  I can only hope that I’m currently in large scale production in a bus advertising house near you. 

Andy Warhol said that everyone gets 15 minutes of fame.  I want mine on the back of the 587.  I would die happy if I could have a selfie taken with ‘bus me’.  It's a shame 'Jim'll Fix It' is no longer to fix anything, I would have penned a strongly worded letter.

Happy I tell you.

The M.O.T

I’m forcing myself to have an M.O.T.  This amount of exhaustion can’t go on indefinitely.  I’ve given it a good shot.  As Winston Churchill himself said ‘When you’re going through Hell, keep going!’ and I have…….the days have turned into weeks, into months and even into years.  I’m knackered.  My bed is my most favourite place in the whole world!  If I get a spare hour in the day with nothing scheduled, I crawl back under the covers and set the alarm for a nap!  Surely this isn’t normal?  So I made an appointment and pottered off to see the ‘ever changing’ multi-cultural GP at the local practice. 

I don’t have a good run of luck with GP’s if I’m honest.  From the ‘WOAH! Where is this bite exactly!?’ as I dropped my jeans to show the Canadian GP my bite wound (inflicted by my OWN bloody dog!), to the ‘you have very nice eyes’ comment from the Iranian GP that was about to conduct my pap smear to the same GP on another occasion telling me that I’d have ‘no problem finding a man to f*ck me’ after my marriage split and how on another occasion he told me that he ‘pops a viagra and f*cks like a train all night!’ Get the picture?  If Carlsberg made GPs…… I wouldn’t get one! I’d get the cheap, goon version!

So I made the appointment online and then the stressing started.  I REALLY hate going to the Doctors.  I’m not a hypochondriac and would rather bury my head in the sand than have any preventative stuff done, but I am an ADULT.  I am being RESPONSIBLE.  I am too FUCKING TIRED for all this shit!  I rehearsed my concerns and also wanted a mole check (which I have been putting off for approximately 25 years (see above!)).  International GP was nice.  I reeled off my concerns.  Depression can cause extreme exhaustion apparently.  He asked me the questions for the ‘are you depressed today’ quick crossword test.  I think I passed.  Apparently, given the level of stress I am under, I scored well.  He asked if I had any suicidal thoughts.  I asked if homicidal counted?  He laughed and said no.  I explained that I deal with things through humour.  There’s always hope – he smiled – and if hope doesn’t work – there’s bed….with blankets and if you pull them tightly enough over your head, the monsters can’t get you!

He suggested a blood test with ‘the works’ and wrote down more abbreviations than I’ve seen since Darcie’s Future Directions Evening.  I Googled them all later in the evening, but still didn’t understand what most of them meant.  He gave my moles the once over too.  Nothing to be concerned about, but there’s a couple I would like removed.  I have one like a rice bubble that’s very unattractive and I’m sure they keep appearing like a midnight constellation.  Mystic Meg could probably work out a birth chart based on my mole alignment, so ‘off with their heads!’.  It’s a simple procedure that he does in the surgery apparently, so once he’s back from his month long, GP holiday, I will book in and have my mole in a hole removed.  Just in time for summer and for me to burn the shit out of my skin all over again.

So I went for my blood test whilst I was there.  Somehow we got talking about donating bones from hip replacements and giving them to dogs(!) on to pigs ears and how expensive they are.  I made the comment that it wasn’t very fair for the pigs, there must be fields full of them with lopsided glasses having lost an ear.  I suppose they could try contacts, but how could you insert a contact lense with a piggy little trotter?  Inevitably, the phlebotomist looked at me like I was completely nutty – another day, another look of WTF?

The facial!

I actually won a voucher!  Ms ‘I never win anything!’ actually won a prize!  Not unfortunately for alcohol though – but for a beauty treatment.  Yikes! It could have been worse; it could have been for an extreme sport or something equally hideous, although to be honest, a spa treatment for me was not something to be relished.  AS soon as someone says the word ‘relax’ to me, every unanswered question from the last five years comes flowing back into my head.  ‘Who actually replies to Reader’s Digest ads?’ ‘How can I lose so much hair and not be bald?’ ‘Do penguins have knees?’  My head feels like a human game of ‘pong’, battling the thoughts from one ear to the other until it disappears though my ear, like weird mini-golf.

So I sat on my prize for eight months.  I toyed with the idea of a booking, but always chickened out, until one day, I felt brave and called to book.  I could hear the whale music playing in the background and I almost hung up, but managed to mumble the word ‘facial’ before I lost courage.  I didn’t realise there were as many options available as letters in the Greek Alphabet – I’ve only got one face!  I randomly yelled ‘yes!’ just to get her to stop reeling off options.  The appointment was confirmed, I was headed for Beautician Hell/Heaven.

The smell of essential oils hit me as soon as I opened the sliding door to the salon.  What even IS an essential oil?  The only oil I see as essential is used for cooking chips.  

I could feel a headache coming on already.  Maybe I was allergic to Ylang Ylang….

I was given a clipboard and asked to complete a questionnaire with all my personal details from medical history, skin care regimes, through to favourite colour.  I should have arrived 30 minutes earlier for form-filling.  I ticked boxes for my Country of Origin, admitted to my medical shortcomings, had my varicose veins photocopied and was let to the treatment room.

There is something slightly disappointing about a therapy room with a polystyrene suspended ceiling; like ruining an expensive outfit with cheap shoes.  This is the view that your clients will have for the best part of an hour; couldn’t you splash out on a plaster skim and a splash of colour?  It didn’t help that there was a water stain in the corner.  It was distracting.  I felt like I was in a psychiatrist’s office and would be given a choice of ink spot options to choose from when I departed. 

Thank you for choosing us for your organic, hypo-allergenic, blood taken from endangered bee’s knees facial treatment today.  In the mouldy stain on the ceiling could you detect: 

a) a koala; 

b) a very sad rabbit; 

c) a Ford Focus.

However, the room was warm, candle lit and pleasant enough.  There was a treatment bed with a sarong and pillow laid out artistically.  The therapist smiled at me and told me to strip down to my knickers and wrap myself in the sarong and she would be back with me shortly.  STRIP??  KNICKERS??  I’m only here for a facial!  I was panic stricken, but like the sheep that I am, I followed orders.  I felt very vulnerable, wrapped in a flimsy piece of cotton looking at my clothes in the corner flicking me the V sign.

We started with a foot soak and a leg massage.  SHIT!  I haven’t shaved my legs.  Stupid me!  Why didn’t I think to shave my legs? Oh yes, that’s right…. I was COMING FOR A FACIAL!!  Will she also be inspecting my bikini line?  I am rocking koala ears.  It might not be the ‘bikini line of choice’ for the likes of the Kardashians, but I think you’ll find most time poor suburban housewives in the suburbs choose this look from all of the available styles; leg warmers from the waist down.

My feet were soaked and scrubbed and we rinsed and repeated.  All very nice.  Then I was asked to lay face down on the treatment bed with my head through the donut hole in the middle.  My sarong was laid out over me, bum exposed to the elements (well, the suspended ceiling and the risk of Tom Cruise falling through in a ‘Mission Impossible’ style).  It was a fine line between relaxing enough, but not quite enough to let my nose run and drip onto the therapist’s socks; trials and tribulations of having a treatment with a cold.  Maybe they should have added this question to the checklist when you arrive and take this into consideration with the horizontal angle of the massage-ee.

I was covered with a warm duvet and stretched and pummelled like a lump of salt water taffy (maybe there was a viewing window with a step and a coach party of school kids were watching).  It actually felt good.  WAIT!  I was starting to relax.  What unchartered territory was this?  I was enjoying it, until she lifted the duvet, exposed my arse to Tom Cruise and asked me to roll over…… moment gone.