Whinefest (Part the First)

Sometimes you just want to kill people. And I don't mean that literally, Mr FBI/MI5 or which ever government agencies might flag me for that. I mean just pure GAH!

None of this is in any order of irritation/whine/bitch, it's just as they come to mind, as they flow off the grey matter and onto the great big cyber lump that is the blog.

Names may or may not be changed to protect the innocent.


The Wrong Number:
So this morning on the way to school, my mobile rings. Not only do I not recognise the number, but it's also international. So I ignore it. And ignore it. And ignore it every time it rings the following dozen times. Eventually, because I'm just feeling all GAH! already, I answer it. Someone jabbers at me.

"I only speak English"
More babble
"I'm sorry, you've probably got the wrong number" I say, rationalising, that this person is trying to contact someone that not only speaks Italian, but is expecting so many attempts at a call.
"I calla from da Italy" he says in 'English'. I say 'English' because his accent was so heavy I could hardly understand it.
"I think you have the wrong number" wondering for a minute if it's a certain crazy Italian I know having a laugh. L0tars, if that was you, I'll kill you. Anyway...
"Meester Terrrry? I calla from da Italy" he says again.
"No, I'm not Terry nor Mr Terry, you have the wrong number.
"Dis da numba I have for da Meester Terrrry. Do you have da numba for longa?"
"This is my number, and it's a new number (I know, I checked), so you're dialling wrong."
"Oh, itsa okay, I'm a sorreeee."
"No worries, thanks, bye"

Fifteen nano seconds later, the phone rings, Italian number. "You've still got the wrong number".
"Meester Terrrry?"

Rinse and repeat three times before I switch Mr Mobile to silent.

And no, I won't apologise for my Italian accent impression.


Damn Kids: The Boy
It's the weather, I swear to all that is good and pure, it must be the weather. My little cherub that is Jaysen has just been Mooder of the Year this last week. Everything you ask is "hang on" or "in a minute" or an outright "no". It's not just him; I've noticed a few kids in his class are talking the same way to their parents, so if it's not the weather, it's a nasty case of airborne Shitbagitus going around school.

Case in Point: This morning at 7am, I get up, and he's on Jo's computer, killing all that is evil in Unreal Tournament. He's in his boxers.
"Morning little man" I offer in way of greeting, as I do every morning.
"Make me breakfast" is the reply. I offer a "pfft" and give him The Daddy Look, but he doesn't see it, too engrossed in winning. I saunter off to have a whizz and a shower, come back in, and he's not moved. By now, it's 7.30am.

Yes, I had to wash my hair.

"Jaysen, get dressed and breakfast"
"I don't wanna go to school" he replies - still not looking at me.
"Tough -" I reply, leaning over to hit pause, which gets me a glare "- now go get your clothes on and get breakfast."
He stomps off, huffing and puffing, so I kill his game. Don't care if it's not saved or whatever, his loss.
"I can't find any boxers" he says.
"They're in your drawer" I reply, knowing the next question/statement will be,
"I've not got any socks" he calls upstairs.
"In the basket. The basket full of socks." I call back down, grinding my teeth. Bear in mind, the clothing hunt occurs every morning. Socks and Boxers are ALWAYS in the same place, trousers are ALWAYS where he left them (ie, somewhere at random between the front door and his bedroom), and shirts are ALWAYS hanging up. But I digress.
He comes back upstairs (stomping) and starts whining about how school is unfair, how Tam gets to stay home, how it's boring and blah blah blah. Till he sees Jo's computer is on her desktop and not a paused game of Unreal.
Cue more bitching and more whining, and he sits on the sofa watching cartoons in a huff.
I just fuel the fire, remind him to get breakfast and to get a move on.

The joy continues right up till the moment he says bye bye, and goes through the school gate.
Daily.


Doctors Are Evil
It's no great secret that my previous GP was a bit... Well, we'll call him "off his game", when a closer representation would be something along the lines of sandwiches missing from picnics , or being as mad as a box of frogs. While he had told me many times what "could" be wrong with me, I was never told, "Mr English, here is a diagnosis for your issues."

I should point out too, that Previous GP was also struck off the medical register for "Outdated Practices". Which I won't even go over because, you know, it's just more whining.

So, New GP; He's young, hip, knows his shizz and is a smart button. So when I tell him what could be wrong with me, he gets a form, scribbles on it, and says something that involves my least favorite words.

Blood Test.

I am not a needle person. Tattoo needles; no problem. Piercing needles; piece of piss. Bodily-fluid-removal/adding-needles; whoooole different kettle of fish. In a different ballgame. I'm the man that goes for a flu shot, and leaves with a concussion. I'm the man that goes to have stitches and a tetanus, and leaves with an accident report card.

So yesterday, while trying to fix Celestes computer (yet another story), Jo texts me. "Mum will be here in the morning to take you for your blood test".

Impending doom. That's all I feel.

Last night, I did NOT sleep. When I did manage to doze off, I had nightmares of needles, bloods being drawn and all sorts of generic nastiness. I felt like turds this morning, I've picked my fingers into oblivion. Jo's mum arrived bright and early, we pack off into the car, and head to the hospital. It might as well have been Barad-dûr for all I cared.

The Pathology department is always busy. The doctors of the area seem to send everyone up there at random, plus the preggers people waddling in for their tests. The average age, I should add, is about 826 years, thanks to the horde of old cronies (+partner) that live up there. The waiting system, akin to a butcher, is take a ticket, wait for your number.

Yes, "Your number is up" does spring to mind.

Screen Display upon arrival: 31
Ticket Number in sweaty hand: 61

Shit.

Like a deer trapped in headlights, I sit in the waiting room; Jo is being ever so supportive by counting down for me "Ooooh only 14 to go" BZZZ "Oooh 13" BZZZ" Just 12 - not too bad is it..." Tam is trying to entertain me by running around and acting cute, while Jo's mum is corralling Tam so she doesn't escape into the bowels of Basildon Hospital.

58, 59, 60.......................... 61.

So I go in, Jo follows, and I sit in front of one of the blood sucking vampires phlebotomists. I hand her my form, she pulls forth her sword and Jo interrupts. "Has he told you he's scared of needles" The woman smirks and answers no, giving me that awwww but you're a big boy. You want a lolly pop? Jo then adds "Did he tells you he sometimes passes out?" Vampire Queen stops and looks at me with that look only a woman can give. "No, he didn't, but you really should tell us that sort of thing."

Yes, I know I should tell, but it's really not manly is it.

So I get impaled on her spike and she asks if I am ok. I can't talk, my tongue is lost somewhere in Bermuda. My eyes are cold, and the room is very pretty and spinny. Plus, the dead giveaway is the Cold Eyes. My eyes get cold when I am going to drop. Jo is telling me to stay with her and the leech is working hard to JustGetTheDamnBloodAndGetTheFreakOut.

After she drains my gallon of blood, I sit, whoozy as hell, trying to relocate my tongue, and after a minute, she kicks me out. I survived in a manly fashion, but now feel sick and headachey.

Just for a doc to look at it and shrug.

Oh, and to rub salt in the wound - I had to starve for this test, no food after midnight (because I am gremlin thing) and nothing to drink after 3am. The Pathology lab is through the small cafe in the hospital.


Damn Kids: The Girl
Tam is well, truly and fully rooted into her Terrible Twos. Seriously, this child has done everything BUT murder, and even then, I wouldn't put it past her. She's good at hiding evidence.

For example. I get in last night, and where Jo is still The Hobble Queen, she had Tam and Jaysen go downstairs and get some cereal. I don't know why they wanted it after dinner, but hey, better than whatever else they wanted. Jaysen tells Jo that Tam spilt some cereal. Jo tells Jaysen to leave it for Sally.

Anyway, I get in, take two paces into the darkened hall and hear *crunch* from underfoot. Cereal. Through the hall, up three or four stairs, and covering the kitching and dining room. A virtually full box of cereal, scattered. Sally sits on the stairs looking down at me, and her expression says "Piss off, I ain't eating that"

Well what good are you then. So I crunch through to the kitchen, get the dustpan and brush, and crunch through to the hall, and sweep my way through the ground floor of the house. Golden Balls, how I hate thee.

Yes, Golden Balls, that is what they are. So the get caught by the brush and roll away.

Aside from cereal incidents, Tam also loves to play with toys. Yesterday after lunch, Jo went upstairs and tidied up Tams room. She had strewn stuff all over the shop, so Jo cleared it up. 7.30pm rolls around, and the kids go to bed. Both of them dick around at bedtime something chronic, but last night, Tam had bigger plans. She wanted to surpass herself...


That, dear reader, is Tamsyns room. But wait, there's more. Not content with covering 94% of her own bedroom in toys and junk, she moved up the food chain:


And that is Jaysens room. Full marks for being thorough. I can't get into either room without stomping on something.

And I'm not even going to detail her wanting to do everything by herself. I mean cooking, and carrying hot/sharp things and generally throwing an arsey strop fit if she's not allowed. Nor will I cover the highdive bombing run she performs on me in bed at random. Nor the stroppy kicking/pitching/scratching she performs occasionally.


And to make things even more interesting, this isn't actually everything. Not yet. I've not ranted about idiots online, idiots around me, nor the inlaws, nor the washing machine repossession, not even computers and technology or anything else that is just hacking me off. But I will... Oh yes...

Now if you will excuse me, I need to wash up in order to make myself a cup of tea and some toast.

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7 Responses to “Whinefest (Part the First)”

The Special Zipper said...

Wow .. and I'm only half way through. I need two sessions to get through this post.

g-man said...

Whew! all that and a cup of tea. Kids are pigs, all of mine are no exception.

Oh, I though of something for you yesterday on your sunglasses post ... If ever confronted again in like manner, you can say "They are called SUN glasses, not WARM glasses." :)

Em's way said...

Trying hard not to laugh, as your life is scarily close to mine at the moment, right down to blood tests and stroppy toddlers, though in our case we substitute stroppy Jaysen for a stroppy teeneage Mike!!

seriously hope you have had a better afternoon and the kids chill out and give you a break xxxx

Me said...

Tam and Bekah should get together sometime.

It'd be the end of the world.

Laney said...

So, you've had a good day then Dan?

*sniggers*

Posh Totty said...

As someone said to me today ... "well arnt we just a ray of fking sunshine" ... hehe!! :op

Gail said...

heheee ....

yep thank you again for confirming to me why I never want kids in my house lol

xxx

ps... some of my rooms stil look like that thoughhhheee