There's no dignity in a massage chair.

Last night Tina's mum had one of those super swish massage chairs delivered.  We all trooped over there (except J, who was still lolling around on the couch draining the last bit of sympathy for her sick day) and admired this new beast designed to alleviate all manor of aches and pains. Tina had a go first and aside form moan and groans his mother probably shouldn't know he makes, he said it was quite good and that I "should experience it for myself".

I squished myself into the chair and Tina used the remote control to start the thing and after the chair adjusted itself to "know" my body, it started.  It was quite pleasant and very massage-y.  I said to him that I thought the setting it was on was quite strong, what was it? "Seniors" he replied. Uh-huh. Seniors.  There are two things here - one - it was on bloody seniors setting and two - about 5 people were standing around watching me have bits of my body pummeled and probed and squashed. Not to mention the sight of my tummy and boobs wobbling all over the shop.  AND I was very good and restrained from letting Tina's mum hear my sex noises as this chair really does make you moan and groan!

I like the concept of these chairs and am sure they will provide all the massage and relaxation the user needs, I'm just not so sure about someone walking into my house and seeing me sitting in what essentially looks like a space ship pod chair with my hands and feet cocooned in little devices that when activated make escape impossible.

I definitely needed, in fact deserved, a wine after that (N.Z. Sauvignon Blanc).

This picture is strange on many levels. Does she know that he can't escape or does he think the chair is a toilet - his expression certainly points to that.

Time for Wine?

I think so.

In definite NEED of a big bag of wine.

Last night, I was doing some tedious magic wand-remove background-save as Photoshop work and even though I was mentally past it (2 glasses of wine - Semillon Sauvignon Blanc) I still managed to hear the feeble bleeting of J (daughter - first born) who had decided that her earlier reported sore tummy was now worthy of crying and thowing up on the bathroom floor.  I actually ran up the hallway to try and get to her before said throw up landed on the floor, but was too late.

And right then and there I failed at being a parent.

The sight and smell of J's Throw Up® made me want to do the same.  This has never happened before.  I have always been kind of too tough for that, but last night I just couldn't take it. I could barely even calm her down from the throw up tears.  Tina (husband - 10 years), was shocked and then all hissy fitting when he realised there was no way I was going to go anywhere near it. After what I considered a sufficient time, I ventured back to the vomit zone to find Tina with rubber gloves on, the mess on the floor covered over with paper towel (probably excessive, but hey!) and a plan of attack. He handed me a bucket and I took it to J, who was lying in bed, she then looked up at me with pity eyes because she knew I'd failed her. She knew that she'd be getting no compassion from a be-gloved parent with a can of air freshener and a roll of paper towel. Compassion during illness is my job.

While standing there though, with bucket in hand, I saw the all too familiar signs of more vomitous eruptions and shoved the bucket in her face with a banshee scream of "Don't get it on the bed!" I dutifully held her hair back and when she had finished, handed her the box of tissues.  Now that's good parenting!

I couldn't dispose of the bucket contents though and then again at 4.00am when she did it again, but I was certainly compassionate when I forced Tina out of bed to do it.

Is it Time for Wine?

I think so.