You know how grumpy I get when I’ve not had enough sleep? Well, Maxi and Midi took over the entire bed last night and I was too tired to do anything about it. I’m so tired I can see through Time (to misquote my favourite Simpsons quote).
So today was a right barrel of laughs, with me and all 3 minxes snarling at each other. Midi was on a mission to drive us all round the bend. She pushed the baby, stood on her big sister, kicked anyone who came near her, threw her toys, refused to eat, whined constantly about being hungry, woke Mini up early this morning with a tantrum, woke her again when she’d only had 15 mins nap with yet another tantrum. Sheesh. As for Maxi, ‘whine’ just does not describe properly how whingey that child has been. As for me, I was so bloody angry with the world in general that I avoided all human company till I got an appropriate caffeine level happening, at approximately 1500hrs.
We had a very brief respite over lunch, when I coaxed the
brats demons little devils horrors minxes little lights of my life <ahem> to eat their food through downright bribery.
“Guess what CBeebies theme tune this is? Nah nah nee-na-na! … ok, take another bite and I’ll hum some more … nah nah -nee-nanana …still not got it? One more bite and I’ll do the words … ‘something-something-outer space… far away from the human race’
<screams while jumping up and down> “Space Pirates!”
“Clever girl, P, you’re the champio-ni. Right, here’s another. If you take another bite of sandwich”
We spent 45 mins like that. Midi seriously impressed me with her speedy recognition of Balamory and Gigglebiz. I impressed both girls with my extensive repertoire of kids’ theme tunes. Mini was impressed that I’d obviously let them watch far, far too much tv and would shortly allow her to, too…
On the come-down from such jolliness, Maxi sang the Fifi and the Flower-Tots tune. I choked at her perfect rendition of: “Fifi! And the Flowerducks! Fifi! Forget-me-nuts“. I guess that’s how she interprets Jane Horrocks’ accent.
Other bad grumpiness today: I noticed that the beautiful pink Quinny Buzz cosytoes I stupidly shelled out for to go with my shiny new Zapp Xtra (I didn’t need it – I wanted it. Vain old fool) has a stack of unravelling stitching. I’ve emailed pics to Mothercare, but I guess they only have my word for it that it was like that out the packet. We’ll see.
More grumpiness: I’ve been deluged with messages (ok, I’ve had 5) from people in Europe and the USA asking if I’d send my eBay stuff to them when it pretty clearly states that I (ok, The Boss) will send to the UK only. I try to explain nicely that it’s because it costs so much money to send a properly-insured and tracked parcel that it’s just not worth their while when they’re buying a baby bottle, or something. So I get ticked off when I get messages demanding: “Spain. Postage???????????????” And one young lady from the USA who asked how much postage would be. And how much would that be in US Dollars. And how much would that be on the day of the sale? (I’m incredibly talented, but I’m NOT PSYCHIC!! And bloody learn to type ‘currency converter’ into Google, you airhead).
Worse grumpiness: -> (follows below. Long)
I’m shortly to feature in an article by a nice freelance journalist in a ladies’ magazine. I suppose it’s effectively a review of some products and exercises, and will feature some gruesome ‘before’ and better ‘after’ pics. I agreed to do it because (a) why the hell not, it sounded like a laugh, (b) there would be a little fee, and (c) a photographer would come to make me look great for the ‘after’ pics. Did I tell you how vain I am? But I also know it would take more than a single photographer to make me look great.
Anyway, I wrote loads of notes for the article and will be interested to see how much is my text, but that’s ok – I’m a compulsive writer anyway, and the little fee will be fine recompense. I got a cheeky email from the magazine asking me to do my own photos, so I did, as best I could. It was a terrible experience, but hey, it was 2 hours out of our long lives.
Today I got an email back asking, can you do the photos again? Except like this, and like that, and wearing this and that, and can we have them by Monday? After taking my fingers off the p-i-s-s-o-f-f-y-o-u-c-h-e-e-k-y-n-u-t-j-o-b keys, I wrote a long email back explaining why I wouldn’t comply. I figured I was possibly writing to a daft wee girl fresh from school who has no idea of the sheer trauma I went through. She wrote it like I could just stand up from the keyboard, pop upstairs and take 7 or 8 perfect shots. Just in case, I went into detail to re-educate her into the life of a normal woman.
I generally look like Chewbacca, so it takes a lot of time to put on make-up (after I’ve found the bloody stuff), do my hair, find some smart clothes, check they fit, iron them, occupy the kids, move the furniture to get some space, take half a million photos off the wall to get a blank background, find somewhere to put them that the kids can’t reach, get The Boss to take some pics, scold Maxi, move Midi’s head out of shot, take more pics because you can see I’m yelling at Maxi, remove Mini’s grubby fingers from my clean clothes, notice chocolate stain, remove clothes, realise I have no others that fit, try to scrub chocolate out, decide to hold leg at funny angle to hide chocolate stain, yell at Midi, separate Midi and Maxi, re-motivate The Boss, check photos, realise I look hellish and The Boss has been holding the camera wonky, start again, find it difficult to smile while all 3 minxes are howling their heads off and The Boss is scowling at me ….<sigh> I think you get the picture. So I’m just a tad angry at the request to ‘just’ do some more (like, the entire shoot wearing different clothes, doing different poses and WEARING HEELS….! I haven’t worn heels in over 2 years, for God’s sake!)
Oh yeah, and as well as write the article they want me to take all the photos for it? And give up a whole day’s time when I’d normally be knitting to sell items to pay the bills? And they’re going to pay me how little again…?! I suppose what’s going to happen now is that the lass at the magazine will get her mate to pose for some shots, they’ll use my words and I’ll not get a sausage. Hmmm, I suspect The Wrath of The Trout will be unleashed.
Gosh, I’m too cynical!