Stop and smell the fabric softener

After my flood of tears last week due to Hope starting school, I woke yesterday morning with a spring in my step. This would be my first true child-free day. As I work Tuesday to Friday, Monday was the day formerly known as 'Mama-Hopey day".

I started the day with a brisk cardio workout with my brother and set about getting the before-school regime underway. After shooing the girls off to their carers (teachers) for the day, I headed to the closest Muffin Break, grabbed a tall, skim cappuccino with no sugar and went to get my roots bleached.

Unlike most women, I actually hate getting my hair done. Aside from the fact that I suffered a severe allergic reaction a few months ago to the bleach, I still go through the torturous 5-weekly-motion of having poison applied to my scalp. I hate reading crappy magazines, I hate making idle chit-chat with the hairdressers and I HATE having my head massaged.  But, what can I say, I'm vain.

Three hours later, my middle-eastern dark, curly hair was stripped of colour and coerced by a hot iron into some semblance of a straight hairstyle.

Now what to do? A leisurely lunch? No, on a carb free, fat free, protein rich diet. Shop for clothes? Not until those stupid 5 kilograms are dissolved. Walk around aimlessly doing grocery shopping and sample lychees and smoked hams? YES!

Grocery shopping usually entails a mad dash with three very demanding kids all wanting to clamber into the trolley and throw anything within arms reach into the mountain of food. Sometimes they fight over who will 'stack' the vast array of coloured tins, other times fight over who got to pick the ice-cream last week. The crescendo climaxes when we get to the deli counter and I ask them the same question, "What do you want for your school lunches?" I don't know why I bother, as they never answer me. They DO however ask, "Mum, can we try some of that ham? Can we try the cheese?' As I try to hide my embarrassment, they nearly fall over themselves to reach the free morsel from the kind plastic-gloved hand of the deli assistant to pop the treat into their mouths. I don't know why or how this frenzy gets into them, but it's as if they haven't seen food before.

Anyway, yesterday was different. I slowly meandered the aisles, actually reading the food labels. Had a nice chat to the fishmonger who doesn't eat fish and picked the 'luxury' dog food for Pepe the Poodle. As I got to the dishwashing/laundry liquid/cleaning products aisle, I proceeded to unscrew and sniff EVERY single fabric softener, disinfectant and dish washing liquid. What wonderful scents! Potpourri, exotic frangipani, green tea and pomegranate. I was in a bit of a daze. It wasn't until I reached three quarters down that I noticed a woman looking at me with a very perplexed, slightly scared look on her face. It then occurred to me that maybe my actions weren't exactly normal, but I was getting such pleasure from sniffing away, I didn't realise I looked a little crazy.

My next stop was the butcher. As I perused the cabinet for the weekly special, (Chicken Breast, $6.99/kg) I was unware that the chemical induced euphoric smile (brought about by my aforementioned sniffing) I flashed the young 20-something strapping young thing might be taken as a sign of flirting.
"Looks like someone is having a nice day"
"Oh, yes," I replied.
"I could tell by your beaming, beautiful smile (wink, wink, eye-brow wiggle)"

I couldn't help but giggle like a school-girl when I asked for some "breasts", He played along asking me how many "breasts" I'd like and how I wanted the 'breasts' packed in bags.

"One breast at a time," I replied, and then hurriedly adding it makes it "easier to handle them at.'
As I paid, I wondered if the young butcher thought I was a complete dill or if he got his cheap thrills chatting up mums.

As I ambled along with my laden trolley, I was stopped by a gorgeous young lady offerring to sell me anti-wrinke cream.
"You know, you have beautiful skin, but you should really start thinking about using our product before you turn 30. You're about 28 -29, right?'
I literally scoffed when I told the size 6, porcelain faced beauty that I was 35 AND a half. I left smiling that this girl mistook me for a woman in her late 20s. But, that cheerful thought did not last long. Panic punched me in the gut, so hard I nearly doubled over. I'd be 40 in 4 and a half years.

FAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRKKKKKKKKKKKK