For a while now, I’ve had a bee in my bonnet about the lack of free shit coming my way. Like, I was eating Vietnamese spring rolls with my friend the other day, and she asked me what free shit I’d scored recently. And I was, like, not much mate (by which I mean, nothing). She told me about her friend who’d scored a free fancy car to drive around for a year, for the simple reason that she has 12,000 Facebook followers, or something.
And then I was talking to another friend, and telling her about seeing Vietnamese spring roll friend, and she goes, “Oh yeah! I saw Vietnamese spring roll friend at the launch of the six-star hotel in the city. That was a great night; we had a great time – YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN THERE.” And I’m, like, DUDE. I don’t get invited anywhere. I don’t get given anything. I’m not bitter about this, because it’s not why I started blogging, but – okay fuck it – I’m bitter about it. WHERE IS MY FREE SHIT?
Let me explain. When bloggers get to a certain point, they’re considered influencers rather than mere bloggers. Influencers get free shit. Influencers get paid to casually pose with Subway sandwiches on Instagram, and say, “oh yummy”, or some shit. You would not BELIEVE what influencers get paid. Like, a couple of years ago, I was involved in launching and marketing a new app aimed at parents. To get the message out there, we paid a shiny mummy blogger a shit-load of money to post a picture of herself casually using the app, saying “oh yummy”, or some shit. I was aghast at the amount of money paid to this shiny mummy blogger, and when I say aghast I mean jealous, obviously. Why won’t someone pay me a shitload of money to casually pose with an app? Or just give me a free sandwich? I’m not fussy, just poor and hungry.
I’ll tell you something: today I discovered the reason that I’m not paid shitloads of dollars to casually pose with baguettes. Today I discovered that I am the least PR friendly mummy blogger in the land. Somehow – don’t ask me how – I’ve become one of the WA ambassadors for Cupid’s Undie Run, a run (on February 19) aimed at raising funds for the Children’s Tumour Foundation. I’m pleased and proud to be a part of this fundraising enterprise – a friend of mine has a granddaughter with NF, and anything I can do to help raise awareness is worthwhile, as far as I’m concerned.
Today, there was a photo shoot for the local paper. It did not go so well. The photo shoot was at 12 midday, on the other side of Perth to where to I live. The first issue arose when I took the kids to our local café in the morning to meet my Grandad for his 85th birthday. Frankie painted me with ice-cream and then turned his attention to himself, and obviously I hadn’t brought spare clothes, so that wasn’t the greatest start, us both being covered in Bubble o’ Bill. Then we drove for an hour. By the time we arrived in Fremantle, I needed a wee. I needed a wee so bad. I needed a wee so bad that I couldn’t even buy a parking ticket because if I thought about coin distribution for a single second I’d piss myself, end of story. I was hopping. I dragged the kids to a café, towing Frankie and Alice behind me. “Watch me run in slow motion,” Frankie shouted, to which I didn’t even respond, because if I even thought about responding, I’d piss myself. I mean, that’s not ideal, is it? Covered in ice-cream and urine for a photo-shoot with a local paper? Not GREAT, is it? I ran into a café, asked to use their toilet, and they were, like, oh, it’s occupied, it’s around the corner, if you go now you might be able to intercept the previous urinator – you’ll know her because she’ll be holding a big fucking spoon with a key on, and a look of relief. Well I’ll tell you, the previous urinator must’ve been waxing her legs in there, or something, because I actually considered pissing in a plant pot, my need was so great. Finally, she came out, and I had a wee (in a toilet), and that was all fine thank you very much and PHEW.
Half an hour before the photo shoot, I met up with my friend Jo and her little boy Ollie. My kids fucking love Ollie, but he does bring out their wild side. When I say wild, I mean that on the way to the pub (where the photo shoot was taking place), the kids all stuffed those catkins (you know, the long things that fall from trees that aren’t leaves or branches) down their pants and paraded down the street going LOOK AT MY WILLY. And then Frankie got his ACTUAL willy out, and I had to issue stern warnings before we went inside to meet actual grown-ups and do actual grown-up things without our genitals exposed. And that would’ve been FINE, if the grown-ups hadn’t brought a massive stuffed penguin along. The kids went fucking nuts. Ollie wrestled the penguin to the floor. Frankie wrestled Ollie wrestling the penguin. Alice wrestled Frankie wrestling Ollie wrestling the penguin. This went on for a solid 30 minutes. At one point I found myself shouting, “Just let Ollie hold the penguin’s flap,” and then turning to one of the grown-ups present, and saying, “Flap? Flipper? Wing? Arm?” (He said flipper, but I still say wing.)
It was a fucking disaster. The kids were like wild animals. I had to halt the photo shoot to try and help Jo stop Frankie and Ollie pushing each other into a busy street. I mean, that’s not particularly professional, is it? I said FOR FUCK’S SAKE, which definitely makes me #prunfriendly and also a #badmother, official.
The upshot is, my heart’s in the right place, but my professional demeanour is not. I’d love to help you out with your PR/marketing strategy, but I’d only fuck it up. I’d still like a sandwich and a free steam mop, though.