You Might Be Lucky

Because you might be lucky.

by Wendy Elizabeth Horikoshi on Sunday, 16 October 2011 at 12:44

A couple of days ago, I had to head off to a painful interview with immigration, out in Shinagawa, on Gilligan's Island.  They have a jail conveniently located at the top of the building, for Gaijin who are in violation of any kind of visa law.  No trial or jury. If they find any mistakes in your visa, your mistakes or theirs, you have a good chance of being incarcerated, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, or have time to tell your nearest and dearest.

Go directly to jail.

The place creeps me out.  I am not a criminal, have never been in jail, I have always been employed and I pay my taxes.  Just being non Japanese inside this building gives you a highly elevated sense of how much the Japanese government hates you being here.

As I got off the bus, there was a very loud, very obstructive protest going on in front of the building.  The place was saturated with noise.  It was ear splitting, and I could not for the life of me understand just what they were saying, or even what the protest was about.

They screamed through mega phones, they waved hand made signs in our faces, they blocked most or the front entrance off.  The cops were not seen to be in attendance.

I remember thinking if it was a bunch of Gaijin making that much noise, the cops would be all over us like ants on a jam sandwich.  The protesters were all young Japanese people.  They were very angry about something.  I am pretty sure it didn't concern me.

It's a few days later now, and I have had a think about that protest.  They were left in peace to shout their anger and outrage against something that clearly affected their lives.  They were not called idiots, or insulted or arrested, or manhandled.  They were not corralled by the cops, tasered or tear gassed.

It just so happens, that for the most part here in Japan, people have the right to protest things they don't like, or don't agree with, and want to register their discontent about.  Protest is a potent social outlet of anger and a sign of public disharmony.

So, I feel kind of lucky to live here, in a place where you have a good chance of NOT being beaten or jailed for making a public statement about your feelings in the form of protest marches and rallies.

I may never know exactly what those people were protesting.

That's OK, as I said, it probably didn't really concern me.  Even if I don't agree with whatever it was, I still support their right to show their disgruntlement.  I notice in today's news, and on lots of peoples twitter and Facebook feeds, that calling the protesters names, trying to make out that one whole group of people that they disagree with are stupid, or uneducated or crazy and do not deserve anyone's attention seems to be a new sport.

Journalists, who are supposed to be unbiased, have lowered themselves to a level of name calling and character assassination.  They either have no shame in showing their vast political bias, or they tow the company line to a sycophantic level.

It amazes me how in the year 2011 people seemed to have stopped trying to think for themselves, and that's a worry.


I have seen it when people speak out about the Tea party.  If that many people are alarmed at the political direction of a country, then why are they not given any respect? I have seen just as many people want everyone to dismiss and ignore the Occupy Wall street rally.  The police have turned violent at that one.

Why ?

ALL of these people felt so strongly about their concerns, that they went out to protest.  They organized friends and family to register their worry publicly.  Yet the ridicule they have received in the media is astonishing.  Authorities have been very strict in trying to shut down the Wall Street rally in particular.

Protests in the past few years, about things like gay marriage (for or against) abortion, the ordination of gay priests and female clergy, prayers and hot lunches in schools, bullying, freedom for Tibet, and internet censorship by Governments, have all been given media coverage and people refrained from personal attacks on the protesters themselves.  No one called them names in the networked news shows, or insulted them to their faces in interviews.  People debated the issues in question.  This seems to have gone right out the window.  Insults and name calling does not equal calm debate.  Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent. The best reply to unseemly behavior and insult  is patience and moderation.  But that dosen't make ratings, it seems.

If you live in a place where you have a right to protest, then you are lucky.  Many don't.
I regret not finding out what those people were protesting about outside of Immigration.
If you see a protest about something, take the time to ask the people about it.

Question yourself everyday.

Make sure you think for yourself, and  KNOW why you have the convictions you do.  The only way to do that, is to listen to another side of the story, even if it isn't one you agree with.  ESPECIALLY if it isn't one you agree with.

If you are surrounded by like-minded friends and Yes-Men all the time, how will you know your arguments for your beliefs will endure logical debate?

Put away your generalizations and your petty insults.  Turn off the network news programs.

Have your opinions been challenged lately? Or do you sit behind your PC/TV in your own little comfort zone?

Lady Gaga's Revenge........

The other night, I was just getting off the bus after a long day at school.

It's turned bitterly cold here, and even though the weather channel keeps threatening us with snow, it never seems to arrive, so things just get colder and dryer, until you feel as though your ears may snap off in protest, when you forget your hat.

Now as you may or may not know, we have moved countries a couple of times, and just as a precaution (my husband isn't comfortable dealing in English)  I have given The Boy a mobile phone.

He is only 8, and I know it seems a bit early for such luxuries, but it is very useful.  If I am going to be late, I can call him directly, (because he isn't allowed to answer the phone at home, if he gets in before I do) and when he is at the park, or has walked a friend home, and I want to know where he is, him and I can check in.  

He can also call his Grandparents, and Me and his Dad  (and we can call him)  for free and talk as long as we like, so it's worth the 20 bucks I month, I reckon.

He is fairly responsible, and he knows only to call me when I am at work for  an emergency.  The Daddy is home to fetch them from school when I work late (about 4 days a week out of 6).

So I am getting off the bus.  I have forgotten my hat and gloves, and I am trying to  wrap my scarf around my head, like an old woman, so I don't lose my ears to frostbite, when my phone rings with The Boy's designated ring tone (The Super Mario Theme) and I put the icy thing to my ear and say "Hello!??"
His breathy little voice whispers,

"Mummee! You gotta help me!" 

and all sorts of dreadful things flash through my mind.   I have been at work all day, and The Daddy has been in charge.   

Has he forgotten to fetch the Duck from Kindy?   Has he fallen asleep and burnt the house down? Is he hurt??  Is The Boy locked out!??  Where is The Daddy!!?
 
Shunny continues with his urgent message, which is,

"How do I kill Lady GaGa? She can fly and she keeps beating me"

I think " Wait, Lady GaGa can fly??" 

So I ask what are you playing (I can here game music  in the background, and a voice, just like Lady Gaga that keeps saying  "Aaahh! OOfff  Ooof! Hya! Do you like that!??  Do you LIKE THAT!!?")

He says he is playing Street fighter, Capcom Versus Marvel.

I am now thinking "Lady Gaga is a Marvel character?? Apparently she is hard to beat, because she can fly. Who knew?"

I am not quite home yet, but I'm sure they  are all suppose to be :

1. eating dinner.  OR


2. doing their homework.  OR

3. in the bath at some point. 

THIS is what happens when you leave The Daddy in charge....

Luckily, the mystery was solved when my friend, Mary sent me a message that said : 

"Okay I know who Lady Gaga is" 

• • Yep Miss Mary De, that's her alright. 

     

    The Boy is actually playing online (the Daddy bought a new system) with someone over the other side of the world. 

    Also, I don't know how to beat lady Gaga. 

     http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcRJUbb_lz2dNcdwbOIfkpPnNCd2bNT8iHt4SGMRzGrC181KkV4JB9cnEPbr5w

     

    I am home now, and it was only the sound of game music that saved me from a Mummee Meltdown, when the phone call started with a panicky little "Mummee! You gotta help me!"

Train Train Train.

 I am on trains and buses a lot.  Mostly trains.  My job takes me to all the most far flung, and some times scenic stations of Honshu, mostly inside (but sometimes waaaay outside) Greater Tokyo.

I probably travel about 15 hours a week on public transport.  Thank goodness it's EXCELLENT here in Japan.  I gave up my car last year, and really haven't missed it much.

I was on the train with Head Butt Boy again this morning. Him, and my evil nemesis, Skeevy Gaijin-hating Oji were squaring off. 

If you cast your mind back, you may remember about three weeks ago I saw the PERFECT Bankstown kiss executed on the train, when a Salaryman shoved a Rocker (now known as Head Butt Boy) out the train doors, and got a beautiful headbutt to the forehead for his touble.

At the time,  I peeked over the top of my book to see the argy bargy unfold before we got to Shinagawa. 

All the other passengers slid away, moving well back from the violence.  It's not often you see proper punch ups on Tokyo trains, despite the crowded carriages, not so many people lose their tempers and throw a wobbly.  

I am from a fairly rough part of Sydney, and you can have it on my authority that Salary men here in Tokyo can't fight for shite.  

It's a ritual.  It consists of them getting drunk, wrapping their neckties around their heads, going red in the face and getting too loud.  They stand metres apart, and wave their hands around, and shout obscenities at one another  (sometimes throwing a kick into thin air), but they don't throw punches.  

Usually.

When HBB turned and planted one on the offending Salaryman, I did a tiny fist pump and let out a silent little "YES!!" of triumph.

I felt a bit guilty, as I am not into violence, but I get pushed , shoved and belted around a lot on the train, by these guys in suits who think they are the only people on public transport that really matter. 

They won't let old ladies or people on crutches sit down, they ignore or push past pregnant women, and sit in the Silver Seats (designed for the elderly, handicapped passengers or those pregnant or with small children).  

They then pretend to go to sleep.

It gets up my nose.

 

This morning, Skeevy Gaijin Hating Oji once again found me. 

I try to get on a different carriage every day to avoid the prick but he seems to find me all the bloody time.

 

When ever the train is over crowded he shuffles next to me and does one of three things. He will constantly make the "oh look what a big nose you have, and look!   You have big biiiiig boobs! herrr herrrr herrrr!"  gestures or he yells out random English in my direction, so everyone turns and glares at me for the whole commute. 

The worst thing he does is when I change from foot to foot  balancing on the moving train, or I lean out of the way to let someone get past.   He slides his leg into the space where my foot needs to put itself down again.  If the train is really crowded, there isn't any room anywhere else for my feet to go, no where to step,  I am on one foot.

Last time he pulled this little number, everytime I tried to put my foot down on the floor, he would boot my ankle, almost sending me flying. I did this one foot & one hand, bent over balancing act for 10 full stops until Shinagawa. 

 

It takes an extraordinary amount of energy not to do my rag, and punch him in the throat. 

I have tried to eschew violence, because I am an angry little white woman, and one of these little dolly bodied people may come to some serious harm if I go postal. 

 

This morning, he started to make fun of Head Butt Boy, and made a grab at his guitar case.   Although the train was crowded, becuase I ignored this mornings performance of "shouting random English at Wendy" Skeevy Oji decided to change targets. 

Aaaand got a head butt to the cheek. 

When I got off at Shinagawa, I gave Head Butt Boy a big cheesy.

 

If the cops ask me, I'm saying the Oji swung first.

What's for dinner, love?

So,  The Daddy has been home all day, and I have been at work, but there is nothing in the house for dinner.   

This not really big news, it happens a lot.  I wonder what his to-do list is, sometimes, as today he went shopping, but only bought cake and new shoes.   I baked cake last night.  He needed another one?  Couldn't find anything for dinner?  We are going to eat the shoes?

He helpfully texted me from the train to work that KFC is on sale tonight.  It's the 28th, which is said Ni Wa (chicken) in Japanese.

I am not a big KFC Japan fan. 

In Oz, it's fine.  They have spicy chicken, put chicken salt on the chips, you can have corn, potato and gravy, if you want it all to be drumsticks, the smiley-paper hatted staff are there for you.  

In Sydney, but NOT in Tokyo.

There is just no potato and gravy to be found anywhere on the KFC premises here.  No substitutions will be made.  No popcorn chicken, no chicken bacon cheese burger, NO ZINGER!

Where I live out here in Bum Crack Kodaira, they don't even put salt on your chips.  Heathens.

 

I told the boys to get ready. Duck has done his nails, and is currently wearing a T-shirt and a pair of his older brothers grandpa underpants.  It's 3 degrees Centigrade outside.

 

His Duck nuts are free.   I know this because he is dancing around the living room, waving his hands like Lady Gaga so his nails are dry when we go out.

 The Boy is choosing which belt goes with his new jeans.  I am starving hungry, and I am thinking "Just shoot me now, we are never going to get out of here...."  but after about a half an hour, pants-less Duck has been convinced his nails are dry enough to attempt re-pantsing, and The Boy has finally decided on the silver studded belt and white and silver tennis shoes.  

KFC Kodaira is a smoke filled, garishly decorated cave.  I don't go very often, and I hate eating in.  The cigarette smoke does my head in.   They have a smoking area that is three walls of glass, in the middle of the room, with the air conditioner helpfully positioned so as to blow second hand smoke through the other parts of the restaurant.

Boy  takes FOREVER to order.  He has to look at the whole menu and discuss the merits of each item.  He takes his fast food choices very seriously, and also painstakingly fills out every. single. customer comment card.  In every place of business we visit, no exceptions.  

Duck only eats things that are green, or have green wrappers, or green writing on them and wears green clothes.  Spinach is apparently never included in this deal.  I dunno why. 

His pyjamas, strangely,  are a lurid, hot pink with little green flowers all over them. Every morning his father either has to bodily pin him down to remove the pink PJ's, or gives up and sends him to kindy dressed like Flower Power Barbie, with his school clothes in a plastic bag for Keiko Sensei to sort out.  She also looked after The Boy when he was at that kindy.  He used to strip off his clothes and wear skirts and aprons from the dress-up box all day.  I don't believe she gets paid nearly enough money.

Fifteen bucks later and we are upstairs, with greasy chicken, salt free chips, an orange juice and a violently toxic-green coloured cup of melon soda, for The Duck.

While attempting to eat my chicken, The Boy grills me about the service, the food, the cleanliness, the speed, the friendliness of the staff.  He double checks my answers for the service card, and listens to me bitch about the cigarette smoke.

He agrees they need a fourth wall or a door on the smoking section.

 

I look around, and the place has been re decorated.  It has one and half metre sized heads of strange white people, some with bewildered looks, some quite menacing, lining the walls.

The guy on the wall directly opposite me looks like he is angry, and has a gun.  He has a mad look in his eye.  The woman on the wall next to him looks stoned.  Maybe she is a hostage?  These huge menacing scenes are not helping me eat my chicken.  None of the people on the walls are eating chicken.  Or chips. They are just staring. And not eating.

The Be Bop Boys who hang out in the smoking area, (and are there every single time I have ever been there), have lit up, and I have stinging eyes.  My mouth tastes like greasy chicken and cheap cigarette smoke, I tell the boys it's time to get a wriggle on.

FINALLY they finish the last of the chips, and get their coats on.  I am dreaming of snuggling under the kotatsu, perhaps turning it up to high, as there is no washing up to do, and Boy has ACTUALLY done all his home work.

We get down stairs, and as I go to say goodbye to the counter staff, The Boy pulls the manager aside to tell him EXACTLY what Mummee said about the cigarette smoke.  Oh geeze.....

Two years ago, on The Boys first day at big school.....

I am currently having trouble controlling the public nudity displays by The Duck.  He seems to take No Pants Friday VERY seriously.

I am fairly sure my Japanese vocabulary is not sound enough to explain the bouts of public streaking that have been occurring, if I am stopped by the cops.  Number One Son's translation skills leave a little to be desired.  If the conversation does not revolve around trains, Pokemon, Mickey or the bloody Wiggles, there are usually large gaps in the information I receive.

And then there is the casual shop lifting.  It happened when Shun was a little baby  (he has stopped now, thank the Gods), but The Duck has taken it to masterful new levels.

Shun would just lift stuff at his eye level, whilst in the stroller, and it was usually sparkly or pretty, and easily returned with a large and embarrassing apology.  Most stuff like lip gloss or hair clips had the shops name on the back.    It was sometimes hard to part with his loot, as it was all very fashionable. He has very good taste :)

The Duck it waaaay more inventive.  Yesterday he charmed a waitress into giving him free stuff, played with her hair, admired her earrings, flirted with her a little, and when we got home, I found he had lifted her security tag.  ( I put it in their mailbox late last night, under the cover of darkness, may the Gods forgive me)

Couple of weeks ago, I bought a tube of fairly expensive skin cream from our local U.S pharmacy.   I use it on all of us, as the weather is very dry, and we all have chapped skin and the kids  got a little sunburned as well.

Everything in that shop costs a bomb.  It is priced like it's made from diamonds and unicorn feathers.
When I got home from the shops, I found the ENTIRE DISPLAY from a nice brand of nail jewels with little mirror attached, tucked into the bucket of the stroller.

How am I going to return it???

I have kept it hidden from my Mr, but he is sure to find it soon.

How did he get the whole thing off the shelf, without me or his brother or anyone else in the shop noticing??  He is not yet 2, would the shop manager believe me if I told her the truth?  It's getting to the point where I dare not take my eyes off him, the little cat burglar.  I don't want to get banned from any more shops.

He has the face of a bloody ANGEL.  He really looks like he would never do anything bad.  Big brown eyes, Loooong black lashes,  little Ducky face, charming smile, wonky little Ducky run, sweet little voice.

No one suspects he has the makings of a Master Thief.

Should I start saving for University or bail money?

In other news, Number One Son is having a rocky start to school here.  He isn't as popular amongst his classmates as he was in Oz.

He really believes he should be much more powerful in his social circle, so he has taken to insinuating himself into the good graces of the Lunch Ladies, who have fallen for his charms, and now submit to his lunch box demands.

No wonder the other kids are upset!  He gets special treatment, and ALWAYS gets picked for lunch duty.

At his year-end ceremony The Duck was quiet and well behaved until the EXACT moment Shun made his short speech to the school.  Duck let out an ear-splitting scream, and wailed Papaaaaa!  Noooooooo!  just his Dad went up to collect Shun's certificate and shake his hand.   Everyone glared at us.

Then when we went to The Boys commencement ceremony, The Duck sunk his sharp little teeth into my hand as we were singing the school song.  I still have a mark on my thumb.  It was only a thin sliver of self control that kept me from giving him a clip around the ear in public.  We were gawked at for bloody hours, and I was either ignored by the staff or spoken to as if I was retarded.   You know, how people look right in to your face and speak reeeeaaalllly slowly?  They always have a stupid smile on their mugs when they do it, too.


God I love the Japanese and their passive aggressive Gaijin fear.  I need a badge that says,
"Yes, I am foreign, thanks for remarking.  No, I am not deaf or simple, just not Japanese."

The day culminated in The Boy telling me I needed to smarten up my act, and go to the shops to buy things to make me look "more Japanese" like the other Mums.  He also narrowly missed out on a clout to the head.

I wonder where these items are that will make me look more Japanese?  Black hair dye perhaps?  Something to lop off most of my nose, bum, boobs and opinions?

Maybe I could buy a spray from somewhere to mask these things?

It took a whole two days for me to calm down enough to have a conversation with The Boy about Freedom, Individualism, Racial prejudice and just being fcuking rude and thoughtless to your Mum in public.

He has said he is sorry, and has displayed actual remorse without threats from me, which means he is either becoming more reasonable and mature, or he has learned to fake sincerity surprisingly well.  I choose to align myself with answer number one.



Thursday and Friday, The weekend's poor cousins

Thursday and Friday, Saturday and Sunday's poor cousins

by Wendy Elizabeth Horikoshi on Sunday, 09 October 2011 at 12:25

I'm a teacher, and I work on the weekends.  This has the advantage of having a couple of days during the week off, but it really has it's down sides, as well.

Yesterday was Duck's Undo kai (sports day in Japan).  I work from 9am till just before 11:30 on Saturday, and completely missed my little Duck's first sports day.  They get to dress up (he went as a cowboy)  and there is a parade and games.  He won a medal (I think everyone did) and I only know this because I raced from work to see the last part of the parade stop, and the end notes of the songs dying away.  I got to see the photo's.  It sucks on days like this to be the one who never has weekends off.

I am always racing at top speed on my bicycle or telling a taxi driver to Go! Go! Go! trying to get somewhere fast on these occasions.   Graduation speeches, school festivals, sports day, Kindy picnic, I am always the one who arrives late, puffed out, not dressed properly (I wear a suit, and sometimes a dress, as I teach in colleges and businesses, it's hard to play soccer in a dress, and dig sweet potatoes in a suit with no gardening gloves.)  I am pretty sure my dry cleaner hates me.

I try to make up for all this missing time by being a sporadic June Cleaver Mum.  You know?  Leave it to Beavers Mum?
She always had cookies just from the oven,  perfect dinner on the table, sandwiches with the crusts cut off.  Her kids seemed never to have last nights pizza for breakfast while on the back of the bicycle as she raced them to school before the gates shut.  I don't think she ever sent her kids to daycare in their pyjamas with the breakfast in a sealy bag, or put a sleeping child on the bicycle kiddy seat to go out, because she didn't have the heart to wake them up when they'd had a late night.  I bet her kids never had late nights.

I suffer from working mothers guilt.
And probably unreasonable expectations of real life, due to excess TV watching in my younger days.

I have five jobs.

Both of us work, and we play relay races with the kids.  When I come home, my Mr. hands over the baton to me, and picks up his bag, and is out the door before I can even say goodbye, have a good day.  Most of our parental conversations are on our mobile phones, at toilet breaks or in between classes.  If I don't hear his voice all echoing because he is hiding out in a bathroom cubicle when he talks to me, I think something must be wrong.  He finishes at midnight, and I occasionally see him in person, around two in the morning.  Or maybe it's just a dream.  I see him asleep, he sees me asleep.  It's not an ideal situation, Y'know?

I am the queen of stealth conversations.  I live in a town in Tokyo that has very strict rules about talking on your phone in public.  Kodaira is about 80% old people.  The will glare, spit, and tell you off for having a whispered conversation on a bus or train, and more times than I care to remember, have I been berated publicly over the bus loudspeaker by the driver for answering my phone's buzz (because it's my husband or the kid's school calling)  and "upsetting" the other passengers with my one-sided English conversation.  I'm really rude like that, how I disrupt Japan, with all my talking, breathing, and basically just not being Japanese.

I was at Costco the other day, and they had tiny Blue Tooth headsets for 25 bucks.  I bought one, and wear it as an earring constantly.  I put a book up to my face when it rings in my ear, and now the worst that people think of me, is that I am a bit thick, so I must read out loud.

Yesterday, as I got to Undo Kai at the end, we went to lunch Viking (smorgasbord).  Boy and Duck noted that they have never seen Toffee Apples in Japan.  In one of my finer June Cleaver moments, I nipped out to buy apples and sugar, and whipped them up five of these  yummy Autumn things.

June Cleaver probably wouldn't have let them eat Toffee Apples for dinner, though.  Hey, they had a big lunch right? ;)

It's what's for dinner!
MMMM shiny!

When your life needs a little sparkle....

I live here in Tokyo. 
Back in my home country I am very ordinary.  No one ever stares at me, or  uses me for random English language practice on public transport.  I can read all the labels, I don't have to guess the ingredients to food, and people don't actively cross the road to avoid me, or clap their hands in amazement when I eat with chopsticks.    In Tokyo I am a figure of much fascination.  Every little thing is a minor puzzle to be fathomed out (I can't read Kanji)  so just walking around takes quite a bit of energy, and feels like challenging experience, at times.
I just realized I lead an extraordinarily dull life in fact.   The day before yesterday my make up bag went to God.  I was heart broken, I loved that bag, and I took it everywhere with me. I was beside myself.

I keep my emergency lollies in it, in case I have a hypo and I have already eaten my emergency banana (I have hypoglycemia, and I have a designated Banana Case that I carry everyday, to stop it getting squashed in my bag) and The Duck actively mines in my back pack for sweets, abusing the zip on my little net bag until it finally bit the big one.

It came from a big 99 yen store, that has since closed down.

Now, I am not particularly cheap, but I am fairly poor, so I lamented the fact that now all my girly stuff was running wild and unchecked inside my schoolbag. Tampons touching my banana, the lid of my lipstick going astray, and drawing on my paper back novel as I walk to the shops, my head ache tablets getting into everything, and leaping out unbidden when I looked for something else.

Gods, it was horrible I tell you!  I was cranky for days and days, all my things higglety pigglety in my bag.  I hate having a disorganised bag.  I feel people judge you when you have to rustle for too long, trying to find something.

My friend saw my misery, and like a true gentleman, offered to let me have his bread maker as a hostage in my house indefinitely to ease my pain.  There are many lovely things about Japan, but proper bread seems to be a mystery to these people.  Japanese bread is soft, sweet, predigested muck.  When I go to the park and feed it to the ducks, I often have pangs of guilt about what I may be doing to their health.

I have had several dreamy hallucinations of eating real crusty bread in slices as thick as my hand, perhaps containing actual whole grain flour, and (Gasp!) seeds and other bits!! Lashed with butter and slathered with Vegemite, then I woke up, and remembered I don't have the bread maker yet, I only have products resembling a bread like shape in my house (that is where the resemblance to actual bread ends) and my make up things are still on the loose inside my back pack (sigh).

On the way back into to Tokyo from Yokohama, I spotted a new 100 yen shop in Takadanobaba, and with hope in my bosom, I rushed out of the station and scoured the shelves for a replacement make up baggy.

I found an Okaaaaaay replacement (it's not beautiful, but at least my tampons and my banana have separate lives now). The real reason I feel the need to write about this with breathless excitement, is that they have a WHOLE SECTION of nail art products all for around a buck each.

I scored a bunch of glittery nail pens and polishes in beyoootiful colours, two bottles of monomer liquid, brush cleaner, acrylic powder, a natty little dappen dish and some other goodies all for under 20 bucks. God I could live there.

Now everyone in my house has a mani and pedi (it's the last day of my 3 day Summer hols) except The Daddy, but he has to sleep some time....THE DUCK & I HAD MANNI／PEDI'STLADY BUG TOES

· · Share · Delete