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.

Why do bad things always happen to good me?

The Universe is conspiring against me.  I think it enjoys me being stressed.

I booked a massage and consultation with a new-age, massage, whole food, Mother Earth, Plinky Plonky whale music, organic hemp wearer today; only to be told (after driving 30 minutes up the road and messaging her to see if it was still OK), that she was sick and had to cancel.

She told me this after appearing from a garage (like Mr Ben).  I guess front doors are over-rated?

Shit happens, I guess.  At least she wasn’t claiming to be clairvoyant and didn’t see it coming. Boom Tisch!

A couple of things:

How is it that I end up consoling HER telling her that it’s OK and it’s only me and not to worry (she was crying because she felt ill – WTF?  Man up love!  I’ve got 3 kids.  I haven’t felt ‘tickkety boo’ since 1996!  Do you see me moping into my Tetleys?)

You’ve come over from Bali (where you split your time).  Bali is hot, tropical, humid.  Perth is currently in the midst of Winter with single figures overnight.  Why are you still dressed in flimsy MC Hammer pants and a singlet??  May be book a consult with me where I tell you to harden the fuck up and put on a jumper!  And SHOES possibly?  You’re ill and you’re standing talking to me outside a garage wearing next to nothing and you wonder why you’re ill? 

I now don’t know if I want to rebook.  Will your massage oil be mixed with nasal dripping?  Not a pleasant thought.  Will my pressure points actually be triggered by your rock hard nipples accidentally?  Why didn’t you come through the front door?  I don’t want a massage in a garage! 

I keep trying these things.  Time and time again I put myself ‘out there’ looking for the key to unlocking my stress and turning off the chatter that is constantly in my head.  Why!?  I’m not a hemp-wearing tree hugger.  I find it hard to clear my chakras.  My purple light of protection needs a new bulb.  I snore during Reiki and scare myself awake.  I still have flashbacks to the hypnotherapist and her ‘turd’.  You’d think I would learn.

I drove home with all the above ping-ponging around in my head, and then I saw a sign.  Overtaking me was a battered Ute with the numberplate ‘No Stress’ towing a trailer with the numberplate ‘Stress’.  So I guess that’s what I need to do – metaphorically unhook my trailer and drive away leaving all the shit behind.

I got home to a poorly teenager and then got a call from the school to collect Number 2 son as he was also ill.  I guess the timing wasn’t right for me to relax.

There’s always next year.

I will make a cup of tea (VERY un-Herbal) and re-watch Eat, Pray, Love whilst eating crap.  

My body is a Temple (of Doom).

What if?

What if you're sent a bowel cancer screening kit and you use a sample acquired from the dog?

You're cancer free, but you'll need worming.

It's the thought that counts.......

One of my pet hates is the phrase, ‘it’s the thought that counts’.

Actually, it’s fucking NOT!

What a piss-poor, cop out, shitty thing to say! 

I was going to book a table for our anniversary dinner, but I didn’t get around to it.  Never mind, it’s the thought that counts!

I had my eye on a lovely necklace for your birthday, but left it too late and they’d sold it. Never mind, it’s the thought that counts!

I was thinking about booking a night away in a hotel to spoil you, but then I spent the money.  Never mind, it’s the thought that counts!

All of the above actually make you a thoughtless prick with a hungry, naked necked, sleeping on the streets, pissed off girlfriend.

I will get the last laugh however when I unplug your life support machine to run the hoover round – or charge my phone.  Oh!  Didn’t I plug your machine back in?? I meant to.  Never mind, it’s the thought that counts!  Have you tried turning it on and off again?

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

The Rapist

So Marriage Counselling with a soon to be ex-partner is fun, isn’t it?  Sat in the same air space as a man with all the personality of an Ebola outbreak for two hours, listening to a woman in ‘sensible shoes’ literally telling you where you’ve fucked your relationship up.  Sorry love, you may well have an ‘ology’, but it’s not from the University of Jimmy Choo and I’d rather have fallen arches and a little fun than a herbal tea in my hush puppies!

I think it takes a certain type of person to be a therapist; twin sets, cardigans, and that nodding action? A Masters with a Major in Bloody Nosey and a Minor in condescension.  Must take an entire semester just to master that; probably another on scarf tying, although they wouldn’t need a unit on shoelace tying as all sensible shoes are slip-on. 

I’m sat in marriage counselling and find myself pitying this woman’s husband.  It must suck to be married to a therapist.  Not for him the luxury of going to bed on a row, oh no… rather ‘let’s talk about our feelings, Bernard; how did we get to this point and what possessed you to get so angry as to throw your plate of spag bol into my Wilton?’  Can you imagine anything worse?  ‘You pissed me off, Barbara, by not letting me watch the second half of Match of the Day, however, I will ‘manage’ my feelings by self-medicating with three cans of Stella and punish you by snoring loudly in your ear all night long, hogging the duvet and farting loudly in my sleep’.  Who needs a degree for that?

Actually, a therapist might be the career for me. I took an online Facebook quiz once and it suggested this, although I nearly reported the page to Facebook as whilst viewing on my phone, the career of choice was displayed as ‘The Rapist’ – can’t imagine seeing a position vacant in Centrelink for that one!  However, I am a naturally nosey cow and I love a good hard luck story.  I think I would combine therapy with membership to a social club where women could support each other and partake in activities to make them feel good about themselves; a manicure, a decent hairdo, a massage, a Dr Scholls catalogue to peruse, crocheting a voodoo doll for beginners.  Self care (and transcendental mutilation) are very important when a women is experiencing a traumatic period in her life.

I think I would particularly enjoy the sexual problems. I have absolutely no formal qualifications for this role (other than an accidental orgasm in 2005 when I brushed against the washing machine on spin cycle whilst trying to locate a missing sock behind the tumble dryer*), but I am always open to hearing about people’s fetishes.  I am now clinically classified as TSG (Too Scared to Google) after the 2 girls, 1 cup disaster of 2007.

It interests me how some people have a total lack of empathy, or are freaked out by phobias.  I guess it wouldn’t do if we were all the same though; hence the need for religion (and Crocs).  I tend to deal with my issues through humour, although the fact that most of the world’s funniest comedians were/are in fact all alcoholics/depressive/manic personalities isn’t lost on me.  Yes, sometimes my humour may be inappropriate, but then again, so would be stabbing a pensioner (it’s ALWAYS a pensioner) with my car keys in the queue at Australia Post.  Which is preferable?  A misplaced chuckle at somebody’s expense, or a five hour wait in A&E, accompanying a pensioner to prevent a lawsuit with their frozen meals for one on the defrost in their wheeled shopping trolley, down wind of extra strong mints, moth balls, pissy knickers and a tissue up the sleeve of their (home) knitted cardy?

Counselling didn’t save my marriage. 

Not even close. 

In fact, it made me realise that I genuinely didn’t want to ‘save’ it.  It was dead; it had died a long time ago; like every pot plant I’ve had in my care since the age of 8 (even with a carefully crafted watering schedule on a calendar taped to my wall).  The death knell was tolling – I could even hear it over the rustling sound of the therapist’s polyester trouser-encased thighs rubbing together as she exited the room.

*that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.