Nanna Naps (for real)

Have you ever woken up after a nanna nap as an actual nanna?

I have accepted and embraced bed hair as a part of my daily fashionable life. But recently I seem to be subject to the symptoms of ‘bed skin’.

Each morning I wake up from my bed battle with fresh linen scars. It’s hardly my beauty sleep when I have artificially aged overnight with bed wrinkles galore. I am not an animal!

When I say I have slept like a log it means that I have actually logged my sleep. Yes, my body has documented my slumber with bed sheet imprints and a fossilized face.

Where I used to spring out of bed like a super slinky, now I gradually flop onto the floor like an unused concertina. Every morning stretch produces a honky sounding chord. Enter McDuff from ‘Johnson and Friends’.

Upon closer inspection of my morning reflection I notice that my upper chest is actually a MAD magazine fold out. Woman of many cleavages. Sometimes the bed sheets cut so deep that it looks like my face is folding over and actually engulfing itself.

After an immensely deep sleep (the kind full of astro-travel adventures through every dimension in non human form) I briefly become unrecogniseable. It’s as though I have not fully re-entered my body from my soul vacation. On such occasions I actually change race and wake up Mongolian. As the day progresses my eyes slowly pries themselves open like dead pippy shells on a hot day.

Well, you snooze, you lose.

Till death do us Part Time Casual

One of my favourite things about myself is that I couldn’t get a job at McDonalds. 

Really, where do you go from there? I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that I would rather practice the piano than serve fries.

As a result the manager said I didn’t seem committed enough. I had visions of walking down the aisle toward Ronald McDonald. The groomsmen are out of control, The Hamburglar stealing all of the Holy bread and that Grimace doing those crazy Grimacey things like……. What does he do? What is he meant to be? An overweight personality-absent purple lump doesn’t make me want to order a McFeast. Apparently Grimace lost some weight recently and became Barney the Dinosaur. Perhaps there’s hope for me yet.

I had actually completely forgotten the McDonalds rejection until my sister recounted the event to her English friends.

“Peta couldn’t get a job at McDonalds!” Roars of laughter.

I suppose it is hilarious. I am just not McDonalds material.

Eventually I scored a job at a discount store called Bargain Mania. Yes, anything with ‘mania’ in the title has to be a winner. My boss, Ashok, always manned the till until he needed a toilet break.

“I’m going to convenience”.

It took me a long time to work out that ‘convenience’ was the toilet. For ages I thought he was relieving himself at a 7 Eleven convenience store.

After awhile Ashok started saving me some of his delicious home-made curries to eat out the back. I enjoyed the back of the shop. It was like having a break in the trenches before facing the Bargain Battleground out front. It was probably just as hygienic as a trench, dust puffs, balancing boxes, rejected reject shop items from a bygone era and a suspected mutant insect rodent creation lurking about. Once I was caught in a box avalanche and I was unconscious for an unknown amount of time. Ashok let me go home after I vomited in the sink.

Whenever a customer would ask for a particular crappy product I would say,

“I’ll check out the back”. Then I’d just stand out there for a while until they eventually left. If they remained I would always return with a completely bent candelabra covered in thick dust.

“Nope, can’t see any, but how about this thing?” We never did sell that.

Apart from displaying our quality Elvis themed rugs my favourite section was the ornaments. It was full of dolphin, butterfly, unicorn and wolf figurines, indeed a plethora of inspiration for large unemployed lady tattoos. The wolf figurines had two legs and three heads, and all of the unicorn horns had been snapped off. Ashok would make me superglue the heads back together and return them to the shelves. I decided to glue random bits together for my own amusement. My best creation was a Snow White head on a Bulldog body, a match made in heaven. (Pictured)

Discount stores attract a wonderful array of people. There were some regulars, lady who looked like she lived in a beehive and conversed loudly with no one, the man who looked like a pencil and never bought anything (not even an eraser), and the angry lady with the worst penciled on eyebrows I’ve ever seen. Maybe she wasn’t even angry but her fake eyebrows made it seem that way.

One day an old lady came in with a loose fingernail and wanted me to cut it off for her. I only had giant blunt craft scissors. Anyway, nailed it.

What dreams may come?

The night following Robin Williams’ death, my Dad popped in. He’s dead too, so when I say, ‘popped in’, I mean in the form of a dream. I knew he would. He was my Robin Williams. Whilst his humor touched us more than he knew, reaching across the boundaries of age and the father/daughter dynamic, he had a dark side. Who doesn’t? But sometimes the light doesn’t come back on. It flickers for a while and then it fades, completely. Back to black.

Recently a psychic confirmed that he intentionally caused his own death. We’d always suspected. My sister found him, photos scattered around his room, phone off the hook, furniture knocked over, small change scattered across the kitchen table. We eventually found over 40 empty bottles of whiskey hidden throughout the house, and downstairs a large box of empty Listerine bottles. Correct, he was an alcoholic, but one with fresh breath!

Why can’t we see our own light sometimes? It doesn’t go away, it dims. But it only dims to us, the dimees. Others see it, and they are touched, more than you know. Your aura shines forever. Don’t underestimate your light, please don’t. It’s not just your life. Nanoo Nanoo.

Good Food Hunting

The trouble with grocery shopping is that we are spoilt for choice. Perhaps spoilt isn’t the right word. I don’t feel spoilt, I feel invaded by choice. Invaded because of blaring false fonts and ridiculously tiny fine print on so many variations of what is essentially the same thing.

When the first Homo Sapiens were acquiring food they just needed to kill that one woolly mammoth passing by. There were not several woolly mammoths standing shoulder to shoulder with separate signs labeled, ‘organic’, ‘fat free’, ‘salt reduced’, ‘RSPCA approved’, or ‘Now with viagra’. It was just one unlucky woolly mammoth. Food and clothes in one, may I add. When collecting berries they were not clumped together in packets spelling out, ‘All natural’, less sugar, ‘more antioxidants’. They’re either going to poison you or not, no refunds. That’s it.

When I was little milk magically arrived on the doorstep in glass bottles and it was delicious. It was always milk movember for me. These days I end up in a fluorescent chilled corridor facing a wall of dairy dilemma. How much stuff is in milk? It’s milk! Skim, Goats, Almond, Soy, Rice, Oat, more calcium, easy to digest, omega 3, full cream, reduced fat and smart milk??? What do I do? What would the Neanderthal in me do? Yes, probably poke and prod the products then grunt in frustration until the expiry date. Milk, I just want to trust you like old times.

So I eventually chose the easy to digest because you assume all of the others are difficult to digest and no one wants that. Why isn’t there a litre carton that says, ‘MILK – now with more chemicals and enhanced whiteness!’ Oh wait, that’s toothpaste isn’t it. We all want that whitening toothpaste which doesn’t seem to whiten. Where is the toothpaste for pinker gums to offset the whiter teeth? Then I need the fake tan to make my teeth look even whiter, but before you know it I look like an Oompa Loompa with a laser beam grin. Pow! I’ve never actually used fake tan, I much prefer to just draw extra freckles on myself. “Check it out everybody. Yeah, I get sun. Take that!’

I do, however, moisturize, because you know, who doesn’t want to fight the made up 7 signs of ageing? Quick, take out your moisturizing guns and fire them at your face, lady raptors! But how do you choose a moisturizer? Maybe I should buy the one labeled, ‘Redefining’, since my face looks like a melting Salvador Dali clock lately. If I apply the night moisturizer in the day will I fall asleep? And perhaps if I use the face moisturizer on my legs my knees may become noses. Soothing, hydrating, Vitamin E, Aloe Vera, then on the back of the bottle is an endless list of unfamiliar chemicals contributing to the white ooze. Where’s the immortality disclaimer?

So far I have 3 items in my shopping basket. I chose a basket because I only required a few things. Of course, after an hour I end up lugging around the contents of small shipping container. Damn, should’ve opted for the wheels, but then trolleys have a mind of their own. You know, there’s that one wheel that insists on traveling in the opposite direction, like it’s possessed by some kind of sinister trolley spirit from beyond the car park grave.

It turns out that ‘Self Check-out’ isn’t a large mirror where you can look at yourself. So instead I usually opt for the ‘name tag with hands’ to check-out my groceries. They ask how I am without wanting to know the answer, then enquire if I have Fly Buys, which aren’t feminine hygiene products with wings. So don’t give them that.

The transaction usually requires a short game of poker with my credit cards, then I end up paying with casino chips from the night before. It’s ok, they’re gluten free.

Downwards-Facing-Dork

Due to the immense popularity of yoga I hadn’t tried it till recently. Of course, if anything is popular we, as in me or in this case I, think it comes with a lame label. But you know, perhaps I’ll somehow become best friends forever with my body. So I found a yoga mat sitting around the house and took it as a sign to take tap dancing lessons. Of course not. There is something a lot less daunting about exercising within the confines of your own home habitat than in a public exercise zoo. In fact, the vision of attending a yoga studio propels images of myself as one of those inflatable tube men that flail around at car yards and remote B grade businesses. (AKA Mr Blowie) You know, I’d rather not hit anyone in the chops with my uncontrollable spaghetti limbs. Also I have the balance of an intoxicated sloth on high heel roller skates.

After downloading one of the many yoga apps I stretched my way through the routine of poses. In keeping up with the virtual lady instructor I seemed to lose track of my breathing, hence drooling on the yoga mat below. My ‘Downward-facing-dog’ rather took the form of a defeated canine with rabies, ‘Downward-frothing-dog’. Of course the following day I reaped the outstanding benefits of not being able to move my arms, stomach and nostril hairs. Work it, Tin Man.

I persisted with day 2, managing all maneuvers mentioned, until my yoga mat was hijacked. Cat pose had manifested itself at my feet. At least I wasn’t in Cobra position.

Grand Pricks

Driving brings out the worst in me. I wonder why. I should be grateful that driving a car saves so much time. Traveling by foot would take far too long, as would riding a donkey with amazing suspension or even a horse carriage at full throttle. “Woah there, Nelly!” That’s a horse name right? Or are elephants called Nelly, or expired rappers? Vanilla Ice gives great piggy back rides.

Driving is a privilege we’ve become far too well accustomed to. We’re in such a rush hour after hour. As soon as we get behind the wheel everyone else is behind enemy white lines. They’re simply in the way. And we’re so high and mighty in our car armor. But whose going to come and get you, the ever so conveniently timed modern day slow coaches, the peripherally challenged, the distracted texters, the ever-present four wheel drives maneuvered by tanned crustaceans with posh children cargo, a plate full of P’s, the tradie with the wandering eye at the red light, the cab with his own road rules? Who cares?

We beep, we curse and we gesture. We’re so speedy to hurl abuse. Well, I’d like to be the first to say, “Tremendous u-turn! Excellent indicating! Here’s a six pack for letting me in! High five on the first time reverse park!” But even if I did yell these compliments out I would unintentionally come across as a sarcastic wench. Oh well, road rage against the machine.

Fly Me to Vermouth

Each time I fly economy class it seems to get smaller. Perhaps airlines should suck all of the insides out of passengers so there is just enough room for our skin to be strapped into a probably not life saving seatbelt. But that’s ok because we’d just be skin. Minimal impact. No need for the indestructable life jacket and a whistle then. I wear these around all the time anyway, just incase I trip over on the street at 900km per hour. Safety first.

When space is so limited it’s always enjoyable when someone reclines into your face. Planes may be packed with safety items but the seat in front really needs an airbag attached. And this is topped off by the passenger behind you playing an aggressive game of tetris against the back of your head. You’re sitting in an epileptic MRI machine. Even if you’re a people person you will make someone on the flight your enemy. Well, that’s what eco-enemy does. If you’re savvy an exit seat is an excite seat. Legs rejoice! But in the unlikely event of an emergency you need to do that thing you didn’t listen to when the flight attendant briefed you in a half serious, condescending way. Hopefully, not a descending way.

In the name of comfort, airlines provide extra things to unintentionally get in your way. Here’s a pillow and rug you won’t use and also have nowhere to put. And that thing you sat on, that was earphones, as effective as two cotton wool balls on a head band. Perhaps you remembered your technologically fashionable noise canceling headphones though. May I recommend you use them to mute the roar of the flushing airplane toilet. The sound is so frighteningly piercing that you need to use the flight facilities again.

Oddly enough, there are some people who can sleep on planes. Good luck to them, the folded over, open mouthed, snoring passengers who dreamily flop around within their 5cm radius. Well done. In order to fall asleep on a plane I would actually have to be a corpse. Last time I tried particularly hard to enter a slumber. Sleeping pills, neck pillow, blindfold, sounds like a good time if you’re an overworked Hollywood actor.  Of course I looked like a paraplegic ninja turtle but it was worth a try. Nothing. I can turn off all of the electronic devices but not the one in my head. My flight is boreding. I suppose I can always put off the jet lag with jet lager.