Wax on...wax off. Mr Miyagi never mentioned this...

There has been much interest in my follicular adventures. In other words, did the freezing gel work for getting a great bikini wax?

In a word, yes.

HOWEVER....heed the warning from my previous failed attempts. Moms, if you have teething gel and are planning to use this...don't. Trust me. I tried that. Okay, I know it seems like I am a little obsessed with grooming the netherworld, but I ...well, there's no but. I am. Anyway, there's a problem with teething gel - it's really liquidy, and it's flavoured.

What's wrong with that? I'll tell you what's wrong with that - it drips EVERYWHERE, like places you do not want to be numb, and let me just say, that is a truly Odd Feeling. And not only are strange parts of you numb-but-not-really-numb, you now smell like a popsicle.

Not that there's anything wrong with that! I'm just saying. It was...uh...not great. The reason I don't just get completely shit-faced and do it is that I'm not "precise" at the best of times, and can easily talk myself out of something invovling pain of any sort so I can only imagine that I'd come out of the salon fully disgraced. It's just the kind of thing I can't ask anyone else to do. This is a DIY if there ever was one. There are things I will outsource, and things I will not.

Even though Andy once took a photo of a sign that said, "No Pubic Access" because he thought it was funny, it's totally real for me.

Nicola's Birthday: Wherein I buy the wrong balloons, no cake, and steal medical supplies

I am now firmly commited to hosting all future parties while shockingly drunk.

The day started out perfectly actually. I was calm. I was in control. I bought the loot bags and asked the nice man at the store to please fill up eight balloons with helium so the adults could have fun later. Now the nice man really should have checked that I know how old my daughter is. But he didn't and therefore negligently trusted that I would know this and therefore buy balloons with the correct age on them. Later, while sitting in the bathroom with all the helium-filled balloons (there's a story behind that too!), I was wondering why there's a baby stroller on them...and blocks...and....why does it say, "Happy 1st Birthday!" ?

Aw, shit. In telling Andy about this, he said, "Of course people will notice but they'll be polite and say nothing." Isn't it better to have someone say, 'Hey, doofus! Don't you know how old your own kid is?!" I thought so too.

Nic wanted her party at the bowling alley. I can't imagine anything more dreadful, but if that's what she wants, then so be it. It's really the least I can do since I've failed spectacularly at balloons. The bowling alley seems like a great bet because they provide all manner of prepackaged nitrates to go with the party. They even provide cake. Don't they? They do. I could have sworn they said they do. They don't. HOW CAN THEY NOT PROVIDE CAKE?

Now, there are many reasons I married Andrew: his endless tolerance, his ability to fold laundry with baffling precision, but most of all - the way he kicked into emergency mode and managed to produce a customized Finding Nemo cake in under thirty mintues. The kids were starting to ask me, "What do we do next? Why isn't there cake?" and I started speaking in a higher and higher pitch with each question.

And so, in desperation I said, "IT'S TIME TO UNWRAP PRESENTS!" Ahaha! Yes. Okay. Stand back, now everyone give her some room....ow! No, don't put that in your mouth...please...wait! Who's this from? Do we have a card? Is there....oh....say thank you, Nic....I don't know what it is either but you're very lucky to have it now SAY THANK YOU dammit! Have you ever seen one of those documentaries where the pride of lions takes down a zebra? Same thing. It's like a hurricane of tissue paper and small appendages.

Meanwhile, it would appear that Rachael is happily opening some other kid's presents. (There are eight birthday parties happening here on this day...ahahaha.) I'll just say, "Yeah, I don't know where her mother is...how embarassing, eh?" Ha. ahem.

And in the end, it's like I always say, "It's just not a party until somebody bleeds,". Rachael takes a tumble and her forehead meets the gravel with nauseating force. Once I get there, she's bleeding so heavily from her wound that it's gone right down into her eye - so that's the first thing I see. I scoop her up, rush her into the bathroom, where Andy and I try to figure out the source of the blood, and I start directing social traffic, and stuffing my feet into my shoes.

Andy looks at me notedly and says, "Be cool," which at this point is like telling a maniac with a loaded weapon to "fire randomly". He insists that I at least change my shirt before we go to the hospital. Roo and I are both wearing white and therefore, we now look like extras from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Now, I'm all for style - at all times. But a hospital emergency room is that one place where, the worse you look, the higher your status. We didn't wait more that three minutes. (In fact, I think some of the other patients actually winced when they saw us stagger in.)

They put some freezing gel on her wound so the doctor could poke around in there without her screaming. I said that stuff must be great for getting a killer bikini wax. They looked at each other and said, "Never tried it," so of course I said, "Can I ?" She gave it to me* with strict instructions that I did not get it from her. Andy shook his head at this and whispered, "You are SO weird,".

In all, Roo was pretty happy because she got a Dora the Explorer sticker out of it. Andy was acting calm JUST TO PISS ME OFF, I know it. And Nicola feels responsible because she's the one who actually dropped Rachael on her head. A little guilt is good for the soul, I say. But only to an extent because today, she's been overly protective of Roo. "Yes, I know she has Playdough on her fingers, honey, it's okay....yes, she might put some in her mouth...but it's green Playdough so it's probably healthy."



*And yes, of course I tried it.

Bud

My next-door neighbour, Bud, died. She was so lovely. We couldn’t have had a better neighbour and we will miss her very very much.

Bud and I had countless conversations over the porch railing. We may both have been hanging up our washing, or just enjoying the weather, but she always had a kind word for us, a genuine interest in the children and in everything that was going on around her. When we moved here, all it took was a brief chat over the balcony to know that we were warmly welcomed to this neighbourhood – and that came from Bud.

Before long, she put three-year-old Nicola on “Tomato Watch” – a job which inflated our daughter with a proud sense of responsibility. Nic’s job was to watch the tomatoes and tell Bud when they were ripe. We were always the lucky benefactors of her bountiful garden and there were few sights more welcoming than Bud’s smiling face at the back door holding an armload of fresh tomatoes. The week before she died, Bud gave Nicola twelve dollars for looking after her plant while she was on vacation. Bud was clearly a lady who understood children, and their desire to be trusted and respected. She did this so beautifully and effortlessly.

With or without Bud’s permission, Nicola unofficially adopted her as a grandmother and was bursting with happiness when she was invited to sit on Bud’s kitchen counter and watch her make jam, or to go next door to pick up her special Halloween package prepared just for her, or an extra-special birthday card, sweatshirts from Hawaii and teddy bears from Reno. No one went unappreciated by this lovely lady. She very sweetly remembered our nanny with gifts of chocolates and cards, and never missed an opportunity to tell us how much she liked living next door to us. We can only hope that she knew the feeling was very much mutual.

When baby Rachael appeared as her newest neighbour, Bud welcomed her with open arms, a ready smile, a beautiful peach-coloured dress and most of all, the offer to babysit at any time. Bud would often come over to sit with Rachael while I went to fetch Nicola from somewhere. On the day she died, Bud was enthusiastically enjoying some joyful moments waving and laughing with baby Rachael at the window. Having seen her thus, I hope that she was so at peace when she sat down to rest that her final living moments were happy.

There is joy in remembering. And comfort in the awareness of our good fortune to have had our lives touched by hers, even if briefly.

We will miss her.

Suckage

I gave a presentation today. The workstation looked just like this. I did not however.

I like to think I looked decidedly more feminine, and not nearly as excited about radiology.

My presentation sucked big hairy goat balls. And I'm not just saying that - I think one of the images actually was goat balls - well, the inside of them anyway.

Is daily discouragement good for the professional soul? Is it wrong to chant, "You knew I wasn't that smart when you hired me, so it's like, totally not my fault, okay?".

Thought so.

That Was Easy!

Gosh! What the hell was my problem? This is so easy! All I have to do is press, "Publish Post" and it's done! I have blogged.

I....have made fire!

Actually, the hard part is getting over the fear that nobody actually reads this. And therein lies my neurosis - I crave feedback, acknowledgement and comments in general. How utterly "actor" like of me.

You know why I really and truly haven't blogged for six months? Would you believe - a self-induced coma? (Although that isn't that far from the truth.) Okay here's the truth: I write all day. But I write soul-crushingly dull RFPs. There is no creativity encouraged when describing the calibration of greyscale monitors on diagnostic clinical workstations. It's a great job - it is. But...there's too much of me that wants to point out to the hospital execs who actually read these things that said monitor calibration makes after-hours viewing of porn all the better. I'd be fired instantly. They also don't want to read about the less common, and somewhat startling uses of an endoscope.

Perhaps I'm looking at this wrong: this IS wildly creative because somehow, I must describe the topology of someone's nasal cavity in a way that makes it seem less gross than it actually is.

They don't let me say, "snot" in RFPs either.

Sheesh.

Wonderfully Pointless

I'm baaaaack! Helloo? Anyone out there? I decided after six months of full-time working, Who Needs Sleep?

Not me.

I mean, so much weirdness has been happening in my life that it's weirder still that I'm not blogging it. I have been nurturing the egotistical fear that everyone I know will actually read this and then I'll be exposed as an imposter at work and they'll discover that I don't study back-end computer architecture in my spare time. They'll discover that I don't think pure and happy thoughts day in and day out. They'll find out that I am...flawed.

Ah yes. And that I think the Potter Puppets are the funniest thing I've seen in a long time. (See, if I can watch that four times in a row - I have time to blog!) I called Andy in to see this brilliant snippet, and he smirked. Didn't even laugh. Pffft! Then he said,

"That is so you."
"How so?"
"It's just...not particularly funny, but wonderfully pointless."

And that, dear readers, is the reason for my triumphant return to the blogosphere.