What A Washout

I knew it was going to be a rough day when I got out of bed to find I could barely get out of bed.

The ‘leg day’ of the previous day was repaying me in pain with no payoff of a positive kind just yet (what can one expect, I guess, having been to the gym but once in the past 2 years).

So I staggered into the bathroom, reminiscent of the floppy fish foot experience of 6 years ago (part of the reason for my lack of gym time), dragging my sorry self in for my morning ablutions.

I thought I was being clever utilising my time on the toot to rub some menthol based anti-inflammatory cream onto my aching extremities…only to be faced with the fact that I still had to, well, er conclude my business with at least one menthol-coated hand (I did have the forethought to use my left hand for the pain rub, leaving my right to wipe). But then I had the dilemma of pulling up my pj pants again, or walking like a cowboy to the shower in case I rubbed pain relief cream where it would in fact cause extreme pain…

Settling the matter with the latter, I entered the shower and whimpered as quietly as I could in case I woke my slumbering family (why are they always asleep at these crucial times I do not know).

Dried and dressed and ready to face the day I hit the highway for my early morning commute. As the sun hit the windscreen it dawned on me (literally and figuratively speaking) that the car didn’t get the bath it was supposed to over the weekend. The kids drive a hard bargain when it comes to chores and I was thinking of a less expensive choice.

Since I still had time, I decided to do what I’ve done on many an occasion, and zip through the 24-hour carwash down the road. It’s never busy at that time, and the distance of my drive to work ensures the duco gets a decent blow dry.

This time I wasn’t alone in my cunning plan, the car wash also doubles as a dog washing centre and there was a woman already there doing the shampooch thing.

Given that I didn’t have an exorbitant amount of time, or money, I chose the budget Express Wash.

Oh the irony.

At first the machine wouldn’t accept my shiny new note, and kept insisting on giving me change in return. On the third attempt, a coin made a break for it and rolled underneath my car, leaving me short.  So I reversed my car, got out and under the driver’s side to retrieve the errant dollar and try again.

Success?

Not so fast.

The word “Enter” lit up so I did as the sign said, and also came to a “Stop” when told to, albeit a little crookedly alongside the safety rail at the wheels.

The carwash bay doors swung inwards and shut in front (an important point to note), and the L-shaped washing bar of the machine swung into action. So far, so good.

After an initial rinse the machine proceeded to spray the soap all over my grotty little vehicle, then started the next rinse.  After a minute or so I realised that the right rear panel of my car must’ve been particularly dirty, or the thing was stuck.  Another minute or so of spraying in the same spot, I decided the thing was definitely stuck, but so was I. (I mean, who hasn’t seen those videos of people getting out of the car in the car wash and copping a washing of their own?!)

It was when the sign light went out altogether, and the spraying ceased to a half-hearted squirt I became concerned for my predicament.  It was 6.40am, I was seemingly stuck in a carwash, with only one other person around, and like the movie says: In space (or inside a car inside a carwash), no one can hear you scream.

Thank goodness for modern technology- present carwashing company excluded- I searched on my smartphone for the number on the off-chance that there was someone onsite (or even up) that ran the place.  Nope, voicemail, informing me of the staffed hours (from 10am!) and to leave a message about any issues with the equipment. I briefly informed them there were indeed equipment issues, where and when I was calling from, and think I ended with a frustrated “Dammit” before disconnecting. I did not leave my return number so am not expecting them to get back to me as promised.

Here I consider my options:

#1: Sit in the car until someone shows up (only 3 and a half hours later!)

#2: Give it another minute or so in case it starts up again (maybe I wasn’t the only one having trouble moving this morning).

#3: Get out of my car and see if I could in fact get my car out. The front way was a bust, the aforementioned inward-opening doors were not in my favour.

I gingerly opened my door and stretched out the back, giving the washer bar a prod to see if it would start moving again – ready to dive straight back into the car if that was the case (I’d already had my shower thankyouverymuch). It stayed stuck.

So I gauge the distance between my tyres and the safety rail down below, and the gap between my car and the bar at the back. I figured it was worth a shot in view of Option #1.

I put my window down, pull my mirror in, and put the car into Reverse. Boy those rails are close and tricky to navigate backwards! Happily I have a little SUV so I went slightly off road and onto the rails to ease her back. Next I summon my superhuman strength that seems to show in times of stress and physically push the machine out of the way so it doesn’t take off my mirror.

Both me and my car made it out in one piece, although half my car was covered in suds (the right rear panel mind you is absolutely gleaming!)  I see as I start to make my way out of the carwash centre that there was now another car lover in the bay next door now, using the one hose I could’ve commandeered to clean off the shampoo.

But by the time this sudsy saga played out I was now running late for work, and the budget Express Wash had cost me dearly.

Next time I’ll just pay the kids extra to do it for me.

Jx

© 23 January 2017

Gifted and Talented

There are some people in life who are naturally talented. Gifted in ways others can only imagine.  Maybe they’re athletes who simply excel at any sport they try. Perhaps academics who just ‘get it’ the first time they attempt problem solving of any kind.  Occasionally there are those who seem skilled at carving out a career. Or musical geniuses.  Many, many examples. 

Then there’s the rest of us. The ones who discover we can in fact do certain things we never dreamed possible. Not necessarily with the same sort of success. And only if the circumstances are right. 

We’ve all heard stories of superhuman strength in times of high adrenalin- parents dragging kids out of crashed cars, people holding up heavy objects to prevent injury to others, and me, when I saw smoke coming out of our dryer...I was able to fling the thing out the back door (where it landed -ignominiously for it-upside down). Took two men a lot of grunting to put it back in place when they came to assess it (and surprisingly, it works once again, albeit with a few dents and scratches). 

To a lesser degree it’s how I found I could indeed dance Gangnam Style, after stepping on something sticky on the kitchen floor and being entirely unable to get it off simply by shaking the offending foot. So I stepped on it with the other foot trying to prise it loose without the need for me bending down, only to have it stick to the other side. Hence my horsey dance on alternating feet, to the absolute amusement of my offspring. Did either of those offer to assist? They who are much closer to the ground than their mother, and much more flexible? Not at all. 

It’s kinda like the Spider Dance- you know when you unwittingly walk through a web and start shaking all about trying to get any offending insect off. Voilà!  Instant Breakdancer Extraordinaire!  (Or have I just shown my age and should instead say “Twerker”?) And always with an audience when you least want one. 

Or to take the above example one step further, when Incy Wincy decides to drop in while you’re behind the wheel- you suddenly develop precision driving skills akin to any Formula One racer, trying to get off the road quickly and safely in your blind fear of the thing falling in your lap.  Pity the kids are too young to have a license and can’t take the wheel while you’re trying to find where Wincy went. 

Being summertime here, in a country that claims almost every conceivable venomous creature, there are Spider Dances and precision drivers everywhere you look at the moment.  Numerous social media statuses are stating close encounters of the creepy kind, and not all of them end well. Usually the creepy crawly comes off worse. A friend of mine even said the most romantic thing her husband did for her on Valentine’s Day was to hunt down a Huntsman in her car, and remove it. Everybody now: “Awwwww”. 

No one in my house is fond of the things. My Beloved does his best to rehome the non-nasties and ensure quick if not painless death to others. I’ve been awoken more than once by a tremulous voice from the toilet in the wee small hours calling out for bug spray (and you thought “Redback On The Toilet Seat” was just an old Aussie country & western song)!  But my girlchild takes the cake when it comes to arachnophobia.  Whilst perched alongside me on the bed the other evening, she all but climbed out the window when something fell from the ceiling, right onto Daddy’s pillow.  After careful inspection I realized it was a dead Daddy Long Legs (ironic?) and went to get some toilet paper to pick it up. In either her fear or enthusiasm to assist me (the Jury’s still out on that one) she flicks the thing off the pillowcase and sent it flying Lord knows where, so then I –the aforementioned inflexible mother in the story – had to bend down to the floor looking for it lest it is rediscovered during the night. We’ve all had those experiences and don’t need an encore just now thanks. 

But the helpful thing about this episode was that I rediscovered an ability to not only see my toes, but touch them too; a skill I had thought long-gone.   

So there’s something to be said about finding some inadvertent abilities, and while I may never attain the heights reached by some of those outlined at the start, it’s good to know there are untapped talents still hidden within. As long as the dodgy ones don’t show up with an audience around. 

Jx
© February 2014

The offending (and offended) machine

Driving Myself Crazy

I have decided that there is no such thing as the perfect car.

At least, I haven’t found it yet and I’ve been searching for the past four months. Perhaps it’s just not in our budget.

What I have found is a bunch of lemons that could never make lemonade even with all the sugar in the world.

I have also found some of the dodgiest car dealers that ever prowled the planet.

Sad to say, there’s a good reason that used car salesmen keep turning up in lists of professions we trust the least.

Aside from the misguided males who seem to think that a female isn’t interested in anything aside from the colour when it comes to choosing a car, I have also come across the fellas who actually believe that you’ll fall for their charms and buy the first vehicle they show you, even though it’s the wrong size, wrong shape, and definitely the wrong price.

And just quietly, I’ve found that if you know more about the car than the ones trying to sell it to you, it’s time to take the exit ramp.

So there’s been a lot of desktop research going on, not only to narrow the selection for the next family bandwagon, but also what to look out for once you take the next step and set foot on the lot.

Oh and there’s nothing like taking a car for a test drive to strengthen the bonds of the family ties.

Yes, the times I have managed to drag my Beloved and offspring along to check out a likely contender, it’s taken twice as long to get the specs on the car, let alone start talking turkey about buying the thing. If it’s not the kids dashing off in different directions exploring every open door in the showroom, it’s my Beloved spotting something else entirely across the lot and throwing that one into the mix, just to add to the confusion.

Mind you, I have discovered that having the kids tag along can work wonders with any less-than-up-front salesmen…they’re usually so keen to see the back of you all that the usual sales-talk game-playing is kept to a minimum and they’ll tell you what you need to know pretty quickly.

On the flipside, it’s hard to haggle over the trade-in when your children blow your bluff about how good your car really is. No good telling the dealer it runs like a dream when the kids in their inherent honesty remind you about that clunking sound it makes.

After all that, even if you find something that suits, ya gotta go with the to-ing and fro-ing of the figures as both sides try to get the most out of their money. And can I tell you how frustrating it is to get “this close” to driving home the deal, only to reach a roadblock where neither side will move any more.

It’s almost as bad as finding your dream car described on one of those car sales sites, and then finding out it’s sold before you even picked up the phone.

Oh yeah, 4 months is a long time in the search for the perfect car.

But I’ll keep walking the walk and talking the talk and we will hopefully reach a satisfactory conclusion before one or both of our current modes of transportation break down once and for all and leave us stranded somewhere even the roadside assistance won’t wanna come (my Beloved and I are placing bets whose car will go first).

Best case scenario, I will finally win that elusive lottery and be able to simply cruise into the caryard of choice and take two, thanks, in matching colours, if you don’t mind.

Which reminds me, research on that has shown that I might have better luck if I actually bought a ticket once in a while…I only hope the car makes it to the newsagent to do so!

Jx
©2009