“Just for you, Tom, I’ve donned my Mission Impossible outfit to play with you a final game of Peek-a-boo!”
Let me preface this post by stating that I’m not a crafty mum (well, not crafty in the aesthetic sense). I like it when other people do it, but I don’t love to do it. So when Scout announced that her school was having an “Indian in the Cupboard” dress up day, I went into brainfuck mode. I’m not familiar with the book or the movie, and there is quite the dirth of female characters, apparently.
I went as Pocahontas for Book Week, waaaaay back in 1982, and my crafty mum went to town with the costume – beaded headband, authentic hairstyle, meticulously beaded hessian bag for a dress and sandals. Oh, and some dark makeup to make me, look, well, native American.
For Scout, who ended up going as the Indian’s wife, I plaited her hair, stuck a feather in it (leftover from a grown-up 90′s dress up party) and dredged up a tooth necklace made of wood (from whothefuckknowswhere). She wore some lip gloss to make her look, well, Native American. Apparently the character from the book wore a red dress, so she wore red… stuff. Not a dress. And boots! Don’t all native Americans wear black leather boots???
Occasionally, I wish I could have just a day of dreamy Stepford mummydom, where I bake cookies for my family, wear pearls and full face of makeup to the supermarket, and spend a couple of hours beading a hessian bag for my girl’s “Little Indian” costume. Then the moment goes and I’m back in the wobbly wonderland of my fake-awake reality which is far prettier anyway. Even if Scout doesn’t get to wear a scratchy potato-bag as a dress.
The mix of kids at the school was half “Indian”, half “Cowboy”. At least her outfit was marginally more authentic than the girl who came dressed as a “Cowgirl” dragging a (plastic!) AK47.
The sun came out for like, 5 seconds today. 5 seconds of blissful warmth before it piss-anted itself back behind a freezing ice cloud and a grey spall inched across the land. It got me thinking, what the hell do you do with a 2 year old when your freezing your arse off and just want a hot coffee and something to entertain your pre-schoolage child(ren)?
Well, happy wife, happy life, so Husband developed this app just for me – WhattheFuckshouldidowithmykids.com. OK, he didn’t, but it’s just as well he did! Righto, so it’s shameless husband-promotion and all that, but it is a nifty app that’s iPhone compatible for the times you are out and about and in a bind!
I took Scout to meet a well-respected Kid’s talent agent today. I am not bursting at the seams to get her into acting by any stretch, but thought it might be a fun thing for her to do. The mandate for SS1 was “just be yourself”. Cough. Splutter. She’s 6, so I wasn’t expecting her to burst into song or flip out a Shakespearean soliloquy, I just wanted her to be, you know, Herself.
“Herself” made an appearance about 10 minutes into the interview (after she’d duly answered a bunch of questions and smiled obsequiously for the 3G). Sitting on the chair, she flicked up her legs and spread them as w i d e as she could (mercifully, she was wearing her school trackies). She does this at home and gets told off for it, but I wasn’t expecting this aspect of Herself to be so, ahem, Herselfian.
I asked her to keep her legs closed. She starts picking her nose. I glare at her and shake my head sharply, while trying to remain engaged in a non-creepy mum way to the agent. Bored with picking her nose, SS1 comes up and sits in my lap and starts playing with my scalp, perhaps to check for nits? Annoying, so I ask her (nicely! Sort of nicely!) to sit on the chair for FIVE fucking minutes, without actually using the word fucking.
I’m sure my eyes started to twitch. The agent, a lovely woman (shockingly she used to be a “plus sized model” – she’s like, a size 12. I would KILL small animals to be a size 12 again. OK, maybe not the cute ones.) wrapped up the interview well ahead of the prescribed 30 minutes.
I wanted to scream “but she has this, like, AMAZING personality! Hey, Scout, tell her your joke about One Direction you know, the one about, uh-huh, you know about One Direction you tell that SOOOOOOO well just tell the JOKE!!!”
Fast Forward a week, and Scout has bloody well been accepted to the agency (still deciding whether to accept). Apparently she was “chatty and confident” and seems “self-assured”. Well bugger me with a fish fork (actually, don’t), I KNOW she is chatty and confident and self-assured, but I’m still not sure how the agent saw that up her nose.
Whenever I’m having a shitty day, I can thank Vanity Wonder for dragging me out of despair into a lovely dreamworld where people pay 15 grand to have a butt that looks 10 times bigger than mine after a couple of months of bingeing on peanut butter cups and hot chips.
A real pet peeve of mine is people who park in the middle of two parks, leaving maybe half-a-car space between the car at the back and the one in front of them. This seems to happen a lot outside school and it shits me to tears. I usually throw a greasy or two at the Offender, but there is clearly no acknowledgement that any misdemeanour has occurred.
It’s like they’re hedging their bets, or meandering around in their own little world where car parks aren’t precious and the school bell doesn’t ring at 3.30 on the dot and no-one is desperate to find a park.
On the plus side, I’ve become an epic reverse parker. Epic. People’s sphincters tighten when I’m reverse parking. Check it.