ramblings


I have to go all Lady MacBeth on my ever expanding arse.

The chocolate in the fridge is calling me. Serenading me. Tantalizing me with its sweet chocolately goodness. It’s silky rich texture. Delicately caressing the inside of my mouth with it’s sweet velvety smoothness.

Melting slowly on my tongue as I gently suck on the squares.

Shit. Chocolate makes me horny.

What is it about chocolate that makes me swoon?

Why does it go so well with my other addiction, coffee?

Why, oh why, have the healthy eating Gods forsaken me?  Why do I have to succumb to the seductiveness of the evil cocoa bean?

And MPS knows the effect the evil bean has on me, so he ensures the fridge is full of it.

Like crack to a crack ho.  I am a cocoa ho.  I have to have my fix and it is staring at me every time I reach into the fridge for a carrot.

Oh how can I resist you….. especially the jumbo sized dark chocolate Toblerone.

*shudder of pleasure just typing that*

The After Dinner Mints

The Lindt balls in various orgasm inducing flavours

The blocks of dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate…

THE CLINKERS, OMG the CLINKERS!!!

Shit, even the freaking dark baking chocolate is whispering sweet nothings from the pantry.

Why don’t the carrots whisper to me?  The baby spinach, capsicum and sprouts?  The fruit is sitting there mute.  Not a word of lust from those fuckers.

But the chocolate?  It is calling my name.  In a dark sweet bald headed six-pack-on-top-of-his-six-pack ebony skinned guy kinda way…… and his voice is silky smooth.

*swoon*

But I have to resist you.  Oh lover, I do.

My arse is expanding.  And that is not a good thing.  My desire for you is causing me to see numbers I don’t like on the bathroom scales.  I considered throwing the scales in the street and sucumbing to your every present seduction but I must be strong.  I need to get rid of you from my life.  Even though all you have ever done is exist for my pleasure.

No back chat.  You sit there waiting, always waiting, just for me.

No mess.  You just wait for me to lick the wrapper clean.

No demands.  You just whisper your presence and I am drawn to you.  Weak at the knees, wanting you.  Needing you.

You never disappoint.  You are perfect.  Always.

Sigh.  But I need to sever all ties.

I need to escape from the grasp you have over me.

I need to cleanse myself.  Scrub myself clean.

Shit.  First I have to get rid of the chocolate scented body wash……

Out, damn’d chocolate! out, I say!

Now excuse me I have a hot date with a packet of Clinkers I am going to eat a carrot….

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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.

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…..

……..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.

So I was in the shower this morning defurring.

And cleaning the shower.  And deep conditioning my hair. All at the same time. Cause I am a woman and I can multi task  like that.

And I saw this:

leg-crap.jpg

What the fuck?  Yeah, it is a shocking photo but 1. I really didn’t want to look. 2. Boo has a thing for legs and if he saw me taking photos of my leg then he would want to do a freaking power point presentation about it and take it to school for show and tell and C. isn’t it humilating enough to post a photo of your leg with freaking red shit all over it without breaking out the bloody floodlights?

My grandma has that sorta shit.  How did something like that end up on my freaking inner knee cap place?  Yeah, like it has a name.

It is right on my leg where I rest my laptop.  Leg bent, laptop resting, opposite foot tapping ‘hurry up, hurry up, the tiny terrorist is occupied for 5 fucking minutes let me get a quick post/comment out before he starts his reign of terror again’ tattoo.

So what is it? Radiation poisoning from my MacBook?  Bloggers inner thigh?  Laptop-itis?   Is there a support group I can join?  A magical creme?

Amputation?

So I am starting to look like my freaking eleventy hundred year old grandmother in the nursing home.  Better check my chin and upper lip for Nanna hairs.

On second thought.  Lets not.

I know you have been waiting for the update on last night.

I see it in my stats. Peeps popping in to see if there is an update.

Well guess what!?

Nothing happened.

The freaks didn’t show up.

Sure, they were around, hiding in their bushes and peeking out their windows, but apparently unless you are in your garden working up a sweat lady like glow, they are not interested in coming out.

Or maybe they were scared. Scared I might confront them.

I contemplated wearing gardening gloves and my garden clogs. Even bringing out the awesomely noisy hedge trimmer to try and flush out rev head man. But thought better of it.

Do I really want to speak to these people? I think not. I am not fluent in bogan nor do I know what to say to someone who’s sole purpose in life is to watch others.

Oh, there were some interesting things that happened. 3 doors down lives a chick from my work. Her son befriended Boo. I coulda diagnosed that kid in 3 seconds of meeting him, so I guess he met a kindred spirit.

Apparently there has been much discussion about how often I leave the house. I considered telling them that I was a crack delivery ho and was just waiting for the giant syringe and pipe to attach to the top of my car. Just like Dominios. But mine is Crack-n-ho’s.

But I didn’t.

I contemplated telling them that my girls are escorts and I was just the taxi.

But I didn’t.

I did ask why on earth anyone would be noticing how often I left the house.

Apparently the freakshows across the road have been keeping tabs. I was unaware that I left the house, on average, 7 times a day.

Well fuck me dead, looks like my carbon footprint aint gunna be reduced by just buying the family smaller shoes…….

There was discussion on why we have a bigger bin than everyone else.

I contemplated telling them I was sleeping with the mayor. Or was supplying him with Bindeez Beads. Or because that is where we hide the bodies.

But I told the truth. It is because Boo is still in nappies.

‘Oh,’ they said ‘OK’, read that-kid-is-worse-than-we-thought.

They all feigned ignorance when I apologised for the screaming in the middle of the night. Apparently no one hears Boo’s blood curding screams. Or his salsa music, Bohemian Rhapsody or Hi-5 all played at 3am while he is painting his walls in shit and toothpaste.

But they notice when I leave the house, they know I like to turn the music up (no where near the levels of Boo in full flight) when I am ALONE , how the fuck do they know when I am alone? Oh that is right they are fucking monitoring my every move…. and that we keep ‘late hours’.

But no-one notices when Boo screams.

Honestly, they all seemed pretty nice. But I don’t know why they are keeping tabs on me.

They should be keeping tabs on the young couple that moved in recently. She is no more than 19, Moo knows her from school, and how the hell did they afford to buy that house?

Methinks SHE is the one supplying the mayor with Bindeez Beads.

You know them….. previously seen in such posts as:

Letter to my neighbours….

and

Bugger off will ya?

If you have not read these posts before, click on them to catch up.

It’s OK, we will wait……..

A few weeks ago a strange looking couple came to my door. It was 8pm, a bit late for the Jehovahs Witness suits, but they were clutching trifold papers. So I opened the door ready to give them a piece of my mind for interrupting my TV time.

Turns out they were my neighbours. Who would have thought that he survived all this time and he actually had a wife with hair the colour of Santa’s suit?

They were inviting us to a Block Christmas Party.

‘Now we know that Boo has dietary issues, so just let me know what he likes to eat and I will get it’

I gave her a dark look. What the FUCK? I have never seen this woman before, I thought her husband was dead in front of the television for Christs sake, and she knows that Boo has ‘dietary issues’ and HIS FUCKING NAME?

‘How do you know that?’ I start scanning the ceiling for bugs or video cameras and my mind races back to the times when there were no kids in the house and it was just me and Mario-porn-star……. OMG!!!!

‘Oh we know Sue and we drove her out to your parents house a few weeks ago to pick up the oven….. Your mother is such a wonderful woman with everything she does for you and surviving breast cancer and caring for your father…….’

Oh PUL-EEEESE!!!!

So tonight we finally get to meet our neigbours. The ones mentioned previously, the new family across the road (next door to the freaks) the chick down the road who it turns out is in charge of approving Boo’s funding, the freaky goth who used to go to school with Moo, and the old bloke who apparently owns half the block.

And there will be alcohol. And cricket.

I will update later. Should make for an interesting post methinks.

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