I'm channelling my inner three year old, my cranky inner three year old, who's not getting their own way today.
I shouldn't really complain. After all I did get to start the day having breakfast out with some of the nicest people I know. Drinking the best coffee in Brisbane is sure to set you up for an amazing day surely?
The problem is that I'm totally OVER work at the moment. I've worked really long hours and some weekends trying to get everything done by their deadlines and I still have at least another ten days of really long hours to go. Why does every lycra-wearing sport have their competition date in the same month? Why can't every child in a trio be the same size so I don't have to draft three different patterns? Why does the coach continue to choose discontinued fabrics so I have to ring her and get her to re-choose? (I should possibly take some of the blame for that one and sort out my fabric samples more often). Why can't the competitors do their routine naked if I haven't had time to finish? Why do I take on so much work??
I can answer the last one. It's because I don't like to say no. It's too hard to say to clients who've come back year after year.
Every year I say to myself that I'm not going to get to this point and every year I find out I'm here again. Talk about a slow learner.
So what would I rather be doing? Reading one of the running magazines that I've been stock-piling for a while because I don't have enough time to read them. Having a nap after lunch because it's cool and rainy and perfect napping weather. Baking some cupcakes because the container is nearly empty and I've got a hectic weekend coming up. Taking the dogs for a walk because Iven's had to do it nearly every day this week.
Poor Iven has really had to take up my slack. As well as walking the dogs, he's had to be more involved in preparing the evening meal. And I've been so cranky at the end of the day that I've been less than grateful about it. It's so, so wrong of me but seriously, how hard is it to cut up the broccoli the right way (big bits, not tiny little ones that overcook) or to make the carrot slices all the same thickness? And don't even get me started on the way he hangs up clothes. Or how he slurps his tea and gulps it too loudly while crunching on a piece of chocolate. Yes, crunching!
Add to that the fact that he didn't read my mind last Friday (oh, I NEVER forget anything) and suggest that he go buy the Vietnamese salad that I really wanted for dinner instead of cereal. The man's lucky that he's still alive.
I am a mean, mean person. (Hang head in shame)
But I'm managing to keep a lid on actually venting the meanness and say something that would show just how petty I can get. And all that suppressed pressure is building up inside just ready to explode in a weak moment.
Actually, I may have let a little bit of it out yesterday on the phone to some poor girl. A few weeks ago my son sent his phone back to be repaired. Or rather I sent it back to be repaired because, apparently I have more time to run around and do errands. I sent it back in the regular post, not registered mail, because I didn't even think of registering it and no one suggested it. And the phone has never reached its destination. My suspicion is that some Australia Post worker who's less than honest has pocketed it (Idiot!! Who'd steal a broken phone?) and now my son is out a few hundred dollars if he chooses to replace it. And I feel guilty because I posted it.
So, to assuage my guilt a little, I volunteered to ring Australia Post and see if anything could be done. I couldn't ring on my land line because that's been out for a couple of weeks and Telstra hasn't been able to catch up on repairs since we had the floods at the beginning of the year. (Don't get me started on that one and how I have to pay extra every bill because it's a business phone just so we'll get priority if there are any issues and how their phone centre is based overseas and has staff whose accents are so thick that it's hard to know if they're speaking English or not)
So I'm on hold for over 15 minutes on my mobile, unpacking groceries with one hand while trying not to think of my next phone bill or the brain tumour that I'm nurturing with all that mobile phone radiation. One dropped tub of yoghurt later (which Toby enthusiastically helped me clean up) I was talking to a girl who helpfully told me that I should have sent it by registered mail (yeah, I know that now) and that no, it wasn't on their list of 'unable to be delivered items' and there was nothing more that she could do. To that I made the helpful suggestion that her company should do better background checks on their workers and wasn't I just so silly for thinking that by spending money to get something delivered, it would actually happen. And I think I ended up the conversation by saying 'well thanks ... for pretty much nothing!'
And then I went to their Facebook page to vent a little more only to have another helpful little person tell me that I should have sent it by registered mail. Great advice and absolutely no help whatsoever.
Do you think that my testosterone treatment is turning me into a grumpy old man?
So I've had my little vent for the day. I'm going to now head downstairs and tackle the leotards that are waiting. And wish that I'd made a stop at the supermarket to buy some chocolate to get me through. I might have to send some subliminal messages to Iven to pick some up on the way home from work. Let's see if he gets them this time.