This morning, a gorgeous friend of mine sent through an email with a fabulous looking cow-print suitcase that would be absolutely perfect for my travels that I dream about so much, but never actually get around to doing, and offered to organise it’s purchase for me, should I so desire (and have the funds to deposit into her credit card account. Quite rightly!)
I also hope that it will inspire Coca-Cola to offer me loads more opportunity for travelling to exciting destinations as a Live Positively Ambassador. Or, the reverse; that I will have something to pack my shit in when I am required to travel.
As it stands, my desire to outright own this marvelous piece of usefullness far outweighs my fiscal means of doing so. And my websites have been hacked so I lie on the floor in the foetal position and cry a lot. Also. lying on the floor is aiding the severe sleep deprivation I encountered last night.
Extraordinarily pissed off and with an exceptionally long to do list that I am unable to tend to, I put a call out for Mad Cow Birthday Fund donations (as it is my birthday in two days) so that I may purchase this most coveted article. Also, not only do I get the piece, I also get something I really, really want for my birthday.
It may go a long way to eleviating my desire to have a tantrum when I receive something that is almost but not quite what I want or need for my birthday. In two days.
Unable to do much more than that, I succumb to playing with and entertaining my children, making them walk up the street to purchase some more things they want but don’t need, out of their own pocket money. And some basketball shoes for Godzilla, which accidentally comes out of their combined pocket money but they don’t realise. So I don’t draw it to their attention.
Chippie sleeps, so I don’t have to get anything for him.
Dinner consumed, I persuade kids to have a shower so I may luxuriate in a hot bath on my own. Chippie has other ideas, refuses to get into shower with older brothers, and, to be honest, I don’t blame him. He plays his Stand Up And Throw Self On Mummy Then Pinch Her Nipples Really Hard game, whilst Grumpy goes off to get some bread, milk and cat food. But first, he gives me a kiss goodbye, slipping on the floor and headbutting me in the nose, instead.
Chippie then partakes in a bout of Repeatedly Headbutting Mummy In the Face until he tires of that and starts jumping on me again. My rescuer off purchasing much needed provisions, I am left to wrangly slippery wet toddler out of bath before some serious damange is caused.
School holidays, thus movie night at home as this devoids me of need to yell at them to go to bed at a reasonable time, or think of something to do.
Popcorn made, sort self into as comfortable a position as possible on the two-seater couch with four others sitting on it, endure being repeatedly smacked in head by a cow and settle down to watch the movie. Then I may commence my “get to bed” routine, which usually involves mummbling things like “go and brush your teeth” about 963 times to Godzilla and locating Monkey Boy in my bed.
Godzilla’s teeth brushed, and him wandering aimlessly around his bedroom trying to recall what I’d just asked him of him, I notice him chewing something. Something small.
I squint my eyes and ask “What are you eating?” as all manner of things rumble around in my mind. The mints that have been rolling around in the bottom of my not-recently-used handbag, and potentially several years out of date? A peice of popcorn that fell out of his boxer shorts when he went for a wee and he’d subsequently picked up off the bathroom floor? A Twistie he’d located under the couch cushions, that, given we haven’t purchased Twisties for something in the vicinity of 8 months, would explain how he could be chewing, yet not making any noise?
“Nothing,” came the not unexpected response.
“Yes you are. You’re eating soemthing. What is it?”
“I don’t remember.”
(This, actually, would not surprise me in the least.)
“You put something in your mouth and you’re chewing on it and you can’t remember what it is? I don’t believe you. What are you eating?”
“No, seriously. I hate being lied to. Tell me what you are eating!”
If you don’t ask, you don’t get.
And if you don’t ask, you don’t get told.
Sometimes, it’s a good idea not to ask.
(And if you’d like to contribute to my Birthday Fund so I get something nice for my birthday this year, please feel free 🙂