I am all weepy and sooky girly today.

No reason.

Just wanna cry.

Got to work this morning and S asked me what I have done with my hair today. It looks different, says he.

I take that as: ‘What the fuck is going on with that rats nest on your head woman! You are in some dire need of some hair dye/a hairbrush/a total head transplant!’

Diesel lets me know that my Humur Blogs application was rejected because I didn’t follow the procedures and put the button on my blog. With profuse apologies.

I take that as: ‘Excuse me? You think you are funny? Here is the link for the dictionary definition of funny, best you read that. And while you are at it I am entering you in the Darwin Awards…..’

I casually mention that I am in a bad mood and ‘steer clear or this biatch is gunna blow’ to my friends, family and workmates. They all ask me if I have my period. Well yes. Yes I do. SO WHAT!!?!?!?!

I take that as: ‘You psycho chick. Looks like you are going through Menopause real early. Nice knowing you, we are all going on extended vacation. And if you call and it sounds like we pick up, that is just the housesitter…..’

A couple of people suggest watching a sad movie when I admit that I just feel like crying. I feel sad. With. No. Reason.

I take that as: ‘ Put a movie on loud. That way the neighbours won’t hear your screams when you start stabbing yourself in the temple with an icepick to dull the pain. And hopefully induce some tears.’

MPS comes home takes one look at me and suggests he pick up takeaway for dinner.

I take that as: ‘You useless fat cow. Sitting there on your fat arse. Lets fatten you up and see if those udders can produce milk.’

Boo plays this:

Or click here.

Over and over and over. He has played it so much that my foot is tapping even when he pauses it for a minute and I know all the words off by heart. He has taken to placing his laptop right near my head.

I take that as: ‘I will play this over and over until Mummy loses her mind and starts to cry.’

Yeah. That’ll do it.

Feel better now.

Now where is the fucking chocolate.

I am a stupid bint.

And it is MPS’s fault. Cause nothing is ever my fault. ‘Bout time he learned that.

So after a large ARRRGGGHHHH and a slap around the head for MPS, I am here to whine tell you what happened.

Yesterday it was hot. You know the drill, bad tempered Kelley, sweaty breasticles, hogging standing in front of the airconditioner with my skirt over the vent, kinda day.

And precious little sleep this YEAR. (sounds so much more dramatic than the last few nights doesn’t it) cause of the tiny terrorist and his stealth Ninja moves.

Moo and I were slapping each other in frustration working on a little project and I was over playing at Aussie Bloggers. There was a thread about web safe colour tools or somesuch, click here to see it, and Moo and MPS were SQUEEing all over the shop at the thought. Especially the Firefox extension Colorzilla.

So being the wonderful person and kind mother that I am, (lets not mention the fact that I wanted it for what I was doing OK? Lets concentrate on my wonderfulness and selflessness as a wife and mother cause then I can blame my family for this sad little tale) I downloaded it for them.

But I needed to restart Firefox to install it.

Now my Firefox apparently has a little bug in it. That MPS keeps saying he will fix. When I quit and then restore session it opens every-freaking-window that I opened in the last whatever. There is no rhyme or reason to it. It can open things that were closed days ago. Or not. Who knows. Like a Firefox lucky dip. But it also opens every window 2-4 times. Lucky Dip again.

Now before anyone starts berating me. Yes, I know I shouldn’t have 4 windows open with 8 tabs each. I know I should be more organised and not leave so much shit open. So shut up. It is not my fault. See the second sentence of this post.

So I restart Firefox and go on my merry way. Delete the duplicate tabs.

Delete the draft version of Bugs, Injuries and Doctors Appointments.

No idea why that fucker was open. It was the draft without the pretty pictures.

Before I hit delete I thought, hang on, might just delete the content cause I am totally computer stupid and don’t know if I delete the draft if it would affect the completed version….

Hmmmm.

I continue my evening. Finally fall into bed around 2am.

This morning I log on. Moderate the newbie comments (thanks for commenting! I big pink puffy heart you all!!) and then think, hmmmm I wonder how many comments that last post has? I hardly ever look at the actual blog, except to swoon over that pretty pink button and the Blogger Choice award buttons ;), so I have a wander around.

What the FUCK?

Where is the post about the nits, swing collapsing on Boo (and by the way, poor little mite has a huge bruise across his shoulder blades. Dodged a bullet there my lovelies. If it had fallen on his neck, or his face, I honestly don’t think he would still be here….) etc etc etc.?

IT. IS. GONE.

I deleted it.

Stupid bint.

I mean MPS is a bastard. And my neighbours asshats. And that guy walking along the street out the front. And my 3rd grade teacher. And Osama Bin Laden.

And it is EVERYONE else’s fault. And I hate them all.

Oh, but not you my lovelies. I <3 all of you of course……

And of course I don’t have a copy of it. And of course I have no idea what I wrote cause it was just a brain dump. And of course I am mightily peeved cause, well, it makes my blog look messy.

And I hate messy.

So the lesson? Whip MPS’s arse till he fixes the fucking thing. Never EVER delete anything to do with my blog. And take some time to learn what I am freaking doing.

Anyone know of a WordPress for Dummies?

Fuck me dead.

(he he he, that’ll go down well with my new p0rn status, hey Mountainmama? ;) )

The tiny terrorist was with me shopping today.

And they were putting out the Easter Eggs. On a stinking hot January day.

Easter-fucking-EGGS!

The kid was begging for one. Well, 1. you can’t eat dairy and those sad-excuse-for-chocolate eggs only have one ingredient derived from nature and that is dried cow lactation and B. Christmas was like a freaking week ago!

On New Years Eve, when I was stocking up on my shit-load-of-junk-cause-I-am-alone-on-my-anniversary-AND-New-Years and wine I saw these:

hot-cross-buns.jpeg Hot Cross Buns.

And the florist is flogging Valentines Day shit.

FMD.

This is insane.

Who in their right mind would buy Easter Eggs at this time of year? When the bastards would melt to a gooey mess before you even reached the car, let alone the river of freaking chocolate it would turn into before the car air conditioner kicks in.

And where would you keep them for Three. Freaking. Months. Dickhead?

And the true insanity? The thing that actually makes me want to scream because of the madness of it all?

The Christmas decorations are still up in the streets.

So while you are munching down on your overpriced, fake chocolate, you can look at all the purdy lights and Santa’s.

As I said before.

Fuck me dead. The world is going to hell in an Easter basket. Might go to the shops and see if I can find me a Halloween costume for the ride.

It is an attitude.

I had a conversation with some work mates today.

We were talking about New Years Resolutions.

ALL of the women wanted to lose weight.  Big, small, round, petite.  ALL of them had resolved to lose weight this year.

The guys wanted to do stupid shit.  But they are guys, so we belittled them and then ignored them.

Anyway.  One of my best girls at work (the same age as my mum) was telling us about WHY she had resolved to lose weight this year.  She was walking down the street with a couple of very slim friends.  All around her age.  A teenage boy whistled at her friends  and then looked at her and said ‘But not you’

I was gutted for her.  How disgusting.  How humiliating.  Wish I had been there, there would have been some Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to the spleen action goin’ on.  In heels.

She went on and on about how disgusting, fat and horrible she was.   The others were all saying the obligitory ‘No you are not!’ ‘Your so pretty’ all the usual shit we say to each other and not really mean it.

Cause women are bitches.  They truly are.

I sat there in silence.  They all looked at me.  Silence is not normal for me.  They were wondering what I was going to say to make her feel better.

‘Do you ever feel sexy?’ I asked her.  With my serious face on.  You know the one.  The one you reserve for the kids when you really really want them to listen to you.

She laughed.  The other girls laughed.  The guys leaned in closer.  They weren’t really listening, but heard the word ‘sexy’ and were all of a sudden interested.

‘No I am serious.  Do you ever feel sexy?’

‘Of course not.  I am nearly 60!’

‘So?  I feel sexier now than I did when I was 20.’

‘Yeah, but you are only in your 30’s’

‘Sexy is an attitude.  Not an age’

WHY do women feel that to be sexy they have to be a tiny, young, blonde girl with big bazookas?

I feel sexy.  Well not tonight sitting here sweating  glowing in an old tshirt. But I felt sexy today.  When I pulled on some killer heels with a pencil skirt in a gorgeous material that felt like it was kissing my legs.

I felt sexy then.

Fresh nailpolish and silky glossy lipgloss makes me feel sexy.

Lacy underwear makes me feel sexy.

I am a woman in her 30’s.  Past it by most standards. I am overweight.  I have a tummy that I despise.  I get zits.  I have wrinkles popping up and a requirement to dye my hair.  Most nights I don’t get my beauty sleep.  And. You. Can. Tell.

But I can pull on some clothes that make me feel good, put a slick of gloss on my lips, style my hair and I can feel like a million dollars.

I walk taller.  I smile more.  I get more attention.  I get male attention (not that I am looking for that, but it is a nice little ego boost!) and compliments.

These things don’t happen when I am feeling frumpy or ugly.

Everyone is sexy.  Everyone is attractive.  It is an attitude.  A state of mind.

A decision.

It is about confidence and feeling worthy of others attention.  It’s about knowing what your good features are and ignoring or playing down the bad.

It’s about feeling comfortable in your own skin.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am no Angelina or insert-sexy-actress-chicky-babe-here.  I know that.  I just know that when I feel sexy, confident, whathaveyou people treat me better.  They are nicer.  And in turn, I am nicer cause I feel good.

And of course MPS likes it when I feel sexy *snigger*

What do you do to boost your confidence?  What makes you feel sexy?

Guys you can answer but it cannot involve blow up anything, movies or the internet…..

Public toilets.

Just before Christmas we went to the girls presentation night (yeah they are smart, rool smart like, comes from the postman, no not the postman he is like 90… that really hot guy at the video store…. wait he is like, 20, so he would have been 3 or 4 when Moo was conceived….. eww, eww, eww…. move on Kelley, move on…. Must have skipped 6 or so generations, yeah that’ll work) and as it was eleventy billion miles away, by the time I got there I was in serious need of a bit of micturition* action.

So I waddle to the loos. Oh yeah, I was in dire need baby.

Open the door, place looks relatively clean (it is at an Arts Centre so hard to tell what is rubbish and what is art) so I go in, thighs quivering, cause I have to be desperate to use a public loo.

The place is empty. I pick a stall and, well, you know….. I am not going to spell it out to you, I am sure there are plenty of sites on the net you can find if you want more intimate details. Pick someone wearing a black knee length skirt and fab shoes to make the experience more real.

OK, now we have got rid of the freaks, where was I?

Oh yeah, thighs a-quiver, find stall…..

Someone walks in. And picks the fucking stall RIGHT NEXT TO ME! Eight hundred empty stalls and she plonks her fat arse next to mine.

And starts farting.

Oh yeah. Long melodic stinky bastards from the hounds of hell. Something crawled up her arse, or was inserted, and was decomposing.

The door opens. Someone else walks in….

and you guessed it. Right. Next. To. Me.

And she starts sighing as she is urinating. Real happy kinda sigh, ifyouknowwhatImean.

I guess she really likes to urinate. A lot. Cause she went for ever.

Tinkle, sigh, tinkle, sigh.

Her friend on the other side of me playing the trombone with her arse.

Me in the middle with stage fright. And thinking, I am so blogging this. While holding my nose.

Why, oh, why do people DO that? When you go to the doctors people do anything to ensure that there is a chair in between them and a stranger (and a whole fucking row if I am there with Boo, cause apparently flapping your arms and singing are communicable diseases) but when it comes to a public loo, the more intimate the better.

Especially if you need to move your bowels. Come sit next to me and share.

Now I do know that sometimes there is only one available, or even a line (guys are so lucky, they rarely have to line up to urinate) and that is fine. But when the room is empty, give the chick next to you some space OK?

I have considered making a sign. ‘Out Of Order’ for the stalls next to me if there are plenty vacant. Or getting me some bouncers to stand either side of the stall. While I am at it one to wipe the seat for me too, maybe warm it as well….

Or, seeing Boo is about to graduate to adult nappies (diapers) perhaps I should just swipe a few of them should the need arise?

* I googled the spelling (cause I wasn’t sure, but I was right. Cause I am awesome) and got this. OMG I am peegasming all over the place.

‘Post-micturition convulsion syndrome, also known as piss shivers, pee shivers, peegasm or whiz willies, is a phenomenon in which one feels a shiver running down the spine following urination.[1] The shiver can produce a brief twitch, which is a form of myoclonus.’

from Wikepedia. Click here to read the whole ‘article’.

****************

Those of you looking for the foul spewing of venom I promised on Aussie Bloggers yesterday, you will be disappointed. I have decided not to post it. It was too nasty and if MPS the person it was directed to read it I would be divorced in trouble….. I was really really pissed. I am glad I decided to wait till I had calmed down before posting it. Thanks Wendy from FIA. You made me think twice…..

……..I reflect on the year passed.

A Whoa Nelly Fuck-me-dead kinda year.

The year started badly. Really really badly.

And got steadily worse.

But I don’t want to dwell on it. I will just say that MPS is a lucky fucker that I didn’t stab him in the eye with a fork while he slept. Cause that woulda taken some es-plaining. ‘Sorry officer, I was eating steak in bed and I kinda slipped….oh, what’s that? You read my blog and know that I have only ever cooked steak once in my life and did it in a fit of channeling June Cleaver? Well, I was cutting the steak up for my husband, who is bleeding from the eye socket over there….. who am I kidding? Slap those handcuffs on me baby, here use mine, they match my shoes…..’

But I did a lot of running the cold tap while he was in the shower….. bwaaaa haaaa haaaa

So I will think about the coming year. The kick-arse-fan-freaking-tastic Year Of Kelley.

No resolutions. My family resolve every year to break my resolutions, bastards, so here is some for them. Entitled:

Chez Magneto Bolds 10 Commandments.

1. Thou shalt not sit on the toilet with the door open, fan off, and use all the fucking paper without replacing the roll.

And no freaking using-up-to-the-last-square-and-then-ripping-some-off-the-new-roll- so-you-don’t-have-to-replace-it shit. Or I will whip you with the toilet brush. Just after I have cleaned the toilet.

Oh, and while I’m on the subject. For all that is good on God’s green earth FLUSH! There is nothing worse than someone else’s piss splash back.

2. Thou shalt not complain that you have nothing to wear and then empty your floordrobe in the laundry, expecting The Almighty Mummy to wash it all. Including the shit that is still freaking folded. Be warned, you pull that crap and I will return it to your room. After I have farted on it.

3. Thou shalt do what I say. When I say. End of conversation. I can rain war and pestilence and no freaking phone credit or internet access on your arse.

4. Thou shalt not touch Almighty Mummy’s computer. Unless given permission. And asking me while I am half asleep or before my first bucket-o-latte does not constitute permission. I am not held responsible for anything I say during these times. Or when I am holding new shoes. I am speaking in tongues, not saying yes to you.

5. Thou shalt open freaking EYES or move shit when looking for things. Standing in the middle of the room waiting for said item to jump out at you will not work. Unless it is the back of my hand. That’ll work.

6. Thou shalt put away clothes properly. This does not mean the end of the bed or on the floor. Unless it is in your own room. Then I don’t give a shit what you do as long as said clothes do not end up back in the laundry. See Commandment #2.

7. Thou shalt not ask for money within 6 hours of saying no to the Almighty Mummy. The Almighty Mummy has a looooooong freaking memory. Any reference to elephants will end in tears. Yours. When I take away your ipods and replace your Emo music with my favourite techno. (this will be hard to enforce as we actually like the same music)

8. Thou shalt do homework before playing on the computer. Oldest infidel, you are in VCE now. You have homework every night. Yes you do. I will ring your teachers. And invite them over. And they will come cause I can be very persuasive. Infidel-that-was-born-second (cause apparently ‘middle child’ fucks up psyches or somesuch. I prefer using my own methods) you don’t get off easy. Your friends got more honours than you did last year. What the fuck? I don’t care that you got six A’s and the rest were B’s. More study for you. *snort*

9. Thou shalt not walk in the room and start talking at me when I am blogging. This really really pisses the Almighty Mummy off. You will walk in, kneel on the floor with eyes averted until your presence is acknowledged. Wear knee pads. It could be a long wait.

10. Thou shalt love everything that I cook. And then praise the Almighty Mummy for her culinary prowess, even if it is soup. From a can. That you reheated yourself. I bought the bastard and you will bow to me.

11. Thou shalt not stand in front of a full fridge and/or pantry and bitch that there is nothing to eat. I am not a fucking mind reader and the store doesn’t stock ‘I don’t know’. I asked. They don’t. Have an apple.

Yeah, yeah, that was 11. But do you really think any of them will be followed?

I would be happy with just number one. OMG would I be happy with just number 1. Of the number 1’s and 2’s. Yeah that would be good.

Happy New Year my internet lovelies. Now go forth and resolve to resolve tonight. And then pop back here and let me know what you decided to give up do to make 2008 better so I can hold you to it and tease you mercilessly when you break the resolution by 1pm on the first of January cheer you on.

Mwwwaaaa! Looking forward to spending 2008 with you.

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