NaBloPoMo


Monday marked my 3 month obsession with foray into the blogosphere. Over this time I have had some burning questions that I haven’t asked because 1. I didn’t know who to ask, 2. I was worried it would sound silly asking basic questions and C. well I am a lazy biatch.

So here I am, cap in hand, asking my internet lovelies to help a chick out.

Comments:

Well you are all well aware of my comment addiction. I have that little button on the sidebar that says I follow if you comment. And I do, religiously. But what if the person I am visiting has it too? When does ‘I follow’ become ‘I am stalking you’?

Some bloggers answer comments in their own comments, some reply personally, some do a weekly wrap up answering questions and acknowledging their peeps and others still seem to all but ignore their commentors. Besides the last one, which do you prefer? I tend to comment on a blog and unless they have one of those thingymagigies that emails you every time there is a new comment I would never know if the blogger replied to what I said.

And that brings me to the next question. How do you do one of those thingmagigies on a WordPress blog? How do you turn it on and off on other blogs?

Blogrolls:

Who is on your blogroll? Do you have one? I have been thinking of having a stalker blogroll (my lovelies who comment) if you think that is a good idea let me know and I will pop you on it, and promise not to slap an AVO on ya.

Do you list everyone on your Bloglines (or insert feed reader here) or just the people you read regularly?

How do you find out if you are on someone elses blogroll? Do you reciprocate? Even if it is a freaking weird arse blog you would not normally read?

Buttons:

There are a shit load of buttons out there, technorati, bloglines, google reader (devil spawn I know Meg!) are the only ones I have. Are there others that I should have to add to your reading experience? Cause you know I am all about pleasing the peeps.

Now cause I am all about pleasin’ the peeps I will stop with the questions and present you with todays shoe selection. Freakin’ hot = shoes I can slip off quick.

red-summer-shoes.jpg

Today we went to Officeworks, those that have been stalking me playing along at home will know that we normally go to Officeworks on a Monday, but this week we mixed it up a bit due to some other commitments. As we were leaving one of the staff came up to me. I am thinking ‘Shit, here it is. Don’t come back here anymore, we don’t want you sitting on the office chairs and making the place look untidy.’

Officeworks chick: ‘Excuse me, can I ask you a personal question?’

Me: (thinking) Here we go, she is going to ask what is wrong with Boo and then tell me that she has a cousin/nephew/neighbour/cousins-brothers-babys-daddy with Autism and then I will be roped into counseling another freaking family and it is so fucking hot I don’t wanna think about anything but mopping up the river of sweat between my breasticles and standing naked in front of the airconditioner…. ‘Sure’

Officeworks chick: ‘How many pairs of shoes do you have? I have been watching you everytime you come in for the last year and you always have the most gorgeous shoes on! I really love the red boots’

Me: ‘Not that many, but what I have I love’

Officeworks chick: ‘Well you have great taste in shoes. Can’t wait to see what you are wearing next week!’

I walked out happy. Got me another stalker.

********

Now please don’t get all excited about the fabulousness of the shoes and forget to help me out with my very serious questions! 

Hate is probably a strong word. How about I fucking despise Summer, more than pregnancy hormone induced hemorrhoid’s and even more than when my coffee machine expired.

I hate the Romans already, ahem, Summer. I hate Summer already.  Channeling ‘Life of Brian’ again.

And it is still spring.

Today it was hot.  Freaking melt-the-bitumen-under-your-fabulous-shoes stinking hot.

I don’t take the heat well.  My body is designed for temperatures under 28C (82F) not this ridiculous 37C (98F) for 2 days straight.  AND expecting the same tomorrow.

Let me share some of the things I abhor about Summer.

Flies:  The sticky little bastards that get into everything and join their little friends the

Mosquitos, to make my life a living hell both day and night.

Dickheads that say ‘So how’s the heat?’  Moron.  What do you think?  We are sweating buckets and fighting over the last bag of ice at the supermarket.  So I am thinking it is bad.  Fuckwit.

Stupid people that say:  ‘It’s not so much the heat, but the humidity’  Do you think that makes you sound smart?  History tells us that TV weather people are not the brightest characters. Just spewing what they read from the autocue without any comprehension. Hence you are an idiot, making me more superior than you, so piss of and stop talking to me.

All the humongous fat women that feel it necessary to assault my peepers wearing skin tight spaghetti straped moo-moo’s sundresses.  Get a freaking clue, just because it comes in extra-whoa-mumma-huge doesn’t mean you should wear it. And for all that is good in the world SHAVE those furry armpits!

Oh and invest in some deodorant.  Please.  I will spot you the 5 bucks for the extra super strength.

Boob sweat.  Oh how I hate boob sweat.  The trickling sensation between the breasticles that reminds me of a creeping spider (oh yes, I think EVERYTHING is a spider) that makes me run screaming to the nearest loo to mop up the ‘glow’.

The smell of the school halls when I go to pick up Boo.  The smell of the 12-13 year olds that haven’t quite discovered deodorant (Impulse spray is not a deodorant girls!) mixed in with old textbooks and orange peel.  Bletch.

The endless night.  Oh holy-mother-of-GOD I hate the hot sticky nights.  I am a wrap yourself up in a heavy doona girl, not so much when the mercury is sitting in the mid 30’s (celcius, I am too hot and bothered to convert it for you guys) at 1am.  And I can’t sleep naked.  Not with the nocturnal visitor with the stealth ninja moves, who I am only aware of when I feel the poke on my breast and the exclaimation ‘Why do they bounce Mummy?’

Oh and us insane Australians that swelter in the kitchen on Christmas day cooking a traditional Christmas dinner.  Turkey and roast vegies and all the trimmings and then freaking HOT PUDDING!  WTF?  Are we insane?  Or are we just so totally brainwashed by the American way of life that we have to eat a hot meal when we can fry an egg on the road? (yeah, we are, I admit to hot turkey and freaking-pudding)  And then poor Grandpa gets suited up in the Santa suit, hands out the presents and spends the rest of the day in hospital with heat stroke.

But there is one thing that I like about Summer.  Watermelon and coffee flavoured icecream for dinner. yum.

Oh and shoes.  Yeah, pretties.  Here are today’s.

pink-shoes.jpg

The photo doesn’t do them justice, they are such a pretty shade of pink.  And I have a handbag that matches perfectly!

Whoo Hoo!! A competition at Magneto bold too!

Yeah baby!

Wadda we win?

Well, um, it’s like this…… nothing.

But you get to have the honour of naming the latest edition to the family.

(not one of the hordes of Emo teenagers that seem to have no home, I just call them Thing 1, Thing 2 etcetera etcetera….. except for the ones with eating disorders, they are known as Fat Arse 1 and Fat Arse 2)

We are getting a fluffy bunny on the weekend. We need to name it. We need something better than what my family has come up with and something to put on its Christmas stocking (yeah, we buy shit for our pets for Christmas) other than what will become it’s default name:

Has-anyone-fed-that-freaking-rabbit-today-noooooooooooooo-of-course-not-everything-is-up-to-

me-in-this-house-isn’t-it-NO-you can’t-eat-that-dinner-is-ready-when-I-freaking-feel-like-it!

Ahem.

Boo wants to call it ‘hutch’, as in ‘rabbit hutch’. I think I have been talking about hutches too much around him.

Too wants to call it ‘Padfoot’, three guesses where THAT is from

Moo and I want to call it ‘Jungle Muff’ in honour of the wordsmith extraordinare Girl at Fertile Mertile

and DH, well he wants to call it nothing cause he thinks it is a baaaaaaaad idea.

Yeah, shutup Mario, it’s a bad idea when I SAY it is a bad idea and then you take the blame. Like all men should.

So, we need a name. Leave your suggestion in the comments* and I will see if I can get the HTML queen, Moo, to make you a pretty button for your blog or sumfin’….

I will post a photo of the darling little bundle of joy when we get it some time over the weekend.

*the management of Magnetoboldtoo! reserve the right to choose a name and then change her mind, and then change it back again and then call the thing something completely different.  The management of Magnetoboldtoo! is a woman and it is that time of the month and she is trying to cut down on chocolate.

A common phrase in this household is:

‘you are going to blog about this aren’t you’

my response ‘I fair am.’

Everything and everyone is fair game.

Once on a blog someone mentioned that if a man is right handed his left testicle will hang lower. And vice versa. Apparently there was a study or something (methinks high school boys?)

So I went in to DH. He was asleep.

I lifted up the bed covers to look.

‘Whaaaat?’ came the mumbled sleep filled voice from the bed. Asshat went to bed while I was up with the little turd bouncing off the walls.

‘Which hangs lower, left or right? C’mon inquiring minds wanna know!’

A cloud came across his face. ‘Your blogging about this aren’t you?’

I hightailed it outta there.

The next morning while he was doing his manly duties, making me a bucket-o’-latte, he called me into the kitchen.

‘You know that question you asked me last night?’

I stepped carefully out of reach…

‘Yeeeeesssss?’ I cagily replied

‘Well tell them no. I am right handed and the left is higher’

Cool. Excuse me while I go and update……

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

Speaking of blog fodder and DH.  Here is the latest MoFoTo.

mofoto-13nov.jpg

Edwardo the pool boy has no fear of losing his job.  Nor the pizza delivery guy.

It is less waaa waka waa waa, more waaaat the fuck were you thinking Mario. mario.jpeg

So my husband (DickHead today) crawls out of his death bed, has a shower and seems all happy and bouncy.

I’m all I-said-no-Movember-boy when he shows me how much better he is feeling.

So I send him out to get sanitary napkins for his daughters *snort*

As he is pulling out the driveway I call ‘Get me a present for looking after your sick arse all week!’

Hmmm, flowers would be nice.

Maybe some decadent treat for me to nibble while begging the tiny terrorist to just sleep just a little…

A voucher to my favourite shoe store?

No.

He walks in. Swaggers almost.

‘Gimme my present!’ I yell like a five year old.

He saunters up to me. A huge smile on his face.

And he bought me this.

chocchip-cookies.jpg

Fucking Arsehole.

And he actually said, before I put his testicles in a choke hold,

‘So do I know what my wife likes or what?’

No DickHead. They are your daughters favourite…….

But now so does everyone else.

Sebastian is my hairdresser. I have been seeing him for years. Before everyone else discovered his wonders of the scissors.

I rang today to make an appointment. My hair is too long, too thick, too annoying, too blah. I am sick of trying to put it up and the ponytail falling out from the weight of it. I am sick of getting in the car and getting it caught in the door. I am sick of DH laying on my hair or getting caught in it when trying to roll over in bed.

So I need a haircut. And I need Sebastian to do it.

I ring the salon. Some chicky babe answers.

‘Sorry, Sebastian is booked out until next year, February I think’

‘Noooo!’ I gasp, ‘I need to see him’

‘Well I am sorry, I can put you on the canceled list. What is your name sweetie?’

Sweetie? She sounds 15 years old, is obviously new, and the bint is calling me sweetie?

‘Kelley XXX ‘(obviously my last name is not XXX, but perhaps it should be considering some of my blog posts and the fact that my husband is a wanna be porn star Baa Chicka Bow Bow)

‘Oh, Kelley, um, let me see…… how about 26 November at 3pm?’

He he he, Sebastian must have put a warning on my file saying do-not-deny-this-woman-an-appointment-at-any-costs-she-can-go-postal.

‘Oh! No. Can’t do that. I am picking up my son then, do you have anything on a Thursday?’

Pushing my luck, I know, but what the heck.

‘How about Thursday 6 December at 5.15?’

‘I’ll take it.’

So what if I have to hire a babysitter, beg my mum to take Too to self defense classes, get Moo to cancel her belly dancing class (or go with a friend)….

Mummy is going to be pampered. Oh and how Sebastian can make a girl feel gooooooood!

As a side note: I rang Moo’s hairdresser afterwards and she has an appointment for 2 o’clock today. Biatch.

here are my new shoes

bling-shoes.jpg

You must realise the trauma I am going through to post this.  DH and Boo have got grumbly tummies and there is a permanent green haze enveloping the house.  I have ventured inside from my hidey hole outside to post this for you all, my lovelies.

DH took the photo this morning just before I left for work.

DH ‘What is the photo for’

Me ‘Stop grumbling and take the freaking photo, or I will do it myself’

DH ‘If I angle this camera right, I can see right up your skirt’

Me ‘Not in Movember, buddy’

DH eyeing me warily ‘Do any men read your blog?’

Me ‘What?  Nah, it’s just about housework and cooking and shit.  Nothing guys would be interested in.  Only women blog.  It’s so not a guy thing’

DH ‘So why do you care that you think your ankles look fat in the photo?’

Me ‘Cause women are biatches and I gotta keep the lesbians happy’

DH with a glint in his eye ‘Lesbians?  Did you say lesbians?’

Me ‘Fuck off idiot.  It aint never EVER gunna happen, now give me that camera before you end up with a stiletto in the forehead’

Photo of the shoes. On or off?

In the box or modeled?

Modeled by me or Moo. Too can’t cause she is seriously broken (at the doctors right now), Boo will eat them (or shit on them..) and DH…… well he doesn’t know about them yet.

Oh and guys, you can vote too. Don’t want to be sexist or anything, just guys don’t tend to get excited about shoes, unless that is all the woman is wearing…….

*snigger* this can technically count as a NaPo- whatever post!

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