Burn Baby Burn

There are times in your life where you can sit back comfortably and say "Well I'm never doing that again!"

This is not one of those times.

Seeing how I can't sit comfortably at all.

But I'm never doing that again, all the same!

The 'that' that I am talking about is falling for one of those Group Buying sites, which purport to offer bigger better bargains on a whole host of needful things.

Foolishly my hips and I thought I needed to try the new body-shaping salon at our local shopping centre.

It sounded promising enough (well they always do don't they?) Save 70% on Two Sessions where "you could lose centimetres" from a chosen body part, without anaesthesia, scars, and no discomfort, if you can believe the hype.

I should've known something was up when the store itself wasn't actually named on the voucher, simply 'Shop 21' at the given address. Next hint was when I called the listed number and got an answering machine: "Sorry we can't take your call right now, but please leave a message and we'll get back to you." Again, no name, so no message from me.

Attempt number 3 proved a little more positive and I got to speak to an actual person- albeit one with a very strong accent.  I tentatively booked in for the next day.

Came the day I headed for the address, clutching the precious piece of paper that promised so much and trotted along with my hopes and my head up looking for the elusive 'Shop 21'.

I was received with great welcome and the offer of Chinese Green tea, which I respectfully declined...I was keen to start losing those centimetres!

Shown into a cubicle barely big enough for the bed, I was told to remove my jeans and lay down.  At least I think that's what I was told. So that's what I did. On her return the friendly little female fired up the machine destined to do the dirty work. Next thing that should've suggested this process was probably not recommended by doctors were the words 'Explosive Speed Grease' exploding across the front of the thing (What the hell?), but no, having spent my money with the rest of the Group, I was determined to suck it up, or at least let the machine do it for me...

First step, squirting cold conductor gel onto my flabby bits, followed by a gentle soothing massage with probe number one whose ultrasonic pulses start attacking the fat cells inside (the Radio Frequency mode).

Sorry, did I say 'soothing'? The thing emitted such a painfully high pitch while it worked that I was sure dogs from surrounding suburbs would come running to see what all the fuss was about. Either that or disappear in the opposite direction. Which is what I should have done. 

The sound was a strange robotic chime that went straight to the very centre of my hearing centre, which is a whole lot worse than it sounds (think Dentist drill times 100). It set my teeth on edge, and apparently also had a similar effect on my muscles as the friendly little female had to remind me to "Relax". (Guess she couldn't gently massage my gluteus maximus while it was maximised...) Trying to follow her instruction to "Enjoy the music" I had to tune out the squealing in my head to focus on the easternised version of a popular song: Simon and Garfunkel's 'Sounds of Silence'. (Does that sound like irony to you?)

Phase Two was a heat treatment designed to start breaking down the fat cells, ready for easy removal by the body (the delightful sounding Fat Cavitation). Unfortunately, the aforementioned female didn't reapply the gel and I started leaping off the bed every time she hit a dry patch of skin with the heat probe. "Solly! Solly!" she said as she then squirted enough gel to cover the necessary bits...along with my undies, the towel attempting to cover what remained of my modesty, and the bed itself. So now I'm lying there, butt in the air, in a puddle of cold conduction fluid. My only saving grace was that I had worn the 'good' undies.

Having survived Phase Two it was onto the final step- Lymphatic Drainage- a mini vacuum cleaner type attachment that promised to somehow start sucking that fat right outta there.

By now I was way beyond relaxation, way beyond enjoying the sounds of silence, and much more in tune with my body saying it was not at all happy with my choice today.

So I wasn't particularly peeved when the friendly little female told me that my two hips equalled two sessions and my voucher was now used up. I walked out of there a lot faster than I walked in, and was indeed starting to 'feel the burn'. So much for 'no discomfort'! Unfortunately, I kept on feeling the burn well into the night (rather like sunburn on the inside), despite drinking the recommended water, and applying cool packs to the affected areas. By 5am, I was totally over the sensation, so here I am, sitting on a cold pack, dosed up on painkillers, with just as many centimetres as I set out with.

So no, I am absolutely, definitely, positively, and painfully never doing that again.

And as for Group Buying, methinks I have been well and truly burned.

Jx

©2012

Kits in the Kitchen

There's a drum kit sitting smack bang in the middle of my kitchen at the moment.

We're talking bass drum, snare, tom-tom, and a hi-hat.

Why is it in my kitchen?

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

If you ask my Beloved, that is.

If you ask me - well, I actually can't post my reply here, being a PG-rated site and all.

See, our daughter, aged 8, has joined the school band. And after in-depth testing of rhythm, tone, and embouchure, the music teachers in their wisdom decided that the instrument of choice for our girl would be the glockenspiel ... and drums.

Coming from a fairly musical family, I get that she has some natural aptitude. I mean to say, you could pretty much set up a band of any sort using members of our family, across multiple generations. And anyone who knows us will tell you that any time any number of us are together out comes the guitars and gear and the jam session begins. It's the Irish in us coming out. To be sure.

But glockenspiel?

And drums?

Most kids get given one instrument, however our teacher decided to use Miss V as a guinea pig and have her learn two at once. Kinda like a one-woman percussion section.

When our son joined the band he got the trumpet and followed in my (brief) footsteps as cornet player in the school band, back in my day.  Happy to say I didn't embarrass myself when he brought the thing home and could still make a noise, even though it was one that may have had the 'Great Satchmo' Louis Armstrong turning in his grave (I would say 'Rest In Peace' but that's not likely with us on the trumpet).

So when our little girl decided she too would try out for the band, we expected her to get a similar thing, maybe some 'girly' instrument like the flute.

But no, glockenspiel and drums it is.

So glockenspiel and drums are what's taking up residence in our residence. Albeit in the kitchen.

Thing is, there's not a lot of space at our place. The 3 bedrooms are already filled with bodies and bits. And the living room is no place to make music that could wake the dead.

Unlike my father when we were young, we're not about to kick kids out so that there can be a dedicated 'music room' (sometimes I swear he'd escape in there just to drown out the arguments of three feisty females crammed in one small room).

So we're attempting to clear out the old garage, where many a great muso has had their start.

Unfortunately we didn't do so before we brought the drum kit home. It couldn't stay in the car, even though the cymbal was playing its own catchy little jazz beat every time I hit a bump (tcch tch tch tcch tch tch tcch). So my Beloved brought it in and dumped it in the kitchen.

You try making dinner with a bass drum between you, the stove, and the cutlery drawer!

I can only say the beating of the skin was somewhat louder than the curses that came out each time I booted the bass, or caught myself on the little lugs en route to the dining table (which incidentally, has a trumpet case sitting on it for some strange reason).

After a number of drum solos inadvertently performed by each member of the family in their turn taking dirty dishes to the sink, I asked my Beloved when he envisages the kit and kitchen might part ways: "As soon as we get a decent spot cleared in the front room to set it up," is his not-so-promising reply.

Looks like I'm going to have to fine tune my footwork if the family expects to be fed on a  regular basis between now and then.

And if you can't stand the beat, well, stay out of my kitchen!

Jx

©2012