things that irriate me


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.

For the bathroom Christmas tree.

*sob*

The inmates have revolted.  And pissed me off royally.

They are all like ‘Ew I don’t want it scratching me’ and ‘I am sitting on it’ and shit.  Well I suppose the shit is a fair point, but the smell would be masked by the pine freshness.

And people pay good money to have a pine fresh arse.  And then there are those bidet things.  Same thing really, give you a good cleaning but with the added bonus of a Christmas scent.

I don’t see what the freaking problem is.

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Sure it is close, but for fucks sake, wouldn’t it be nice to be hugging a tree while you defecate? I’m sure Al I-invented-the-internet Gore does, and he got a prize or some such out of it.

They all loved it when I made this: 

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Mr Hanky the Christmas Poo.  I wore it on my head for a staff Christmas Hat party at Mario-porn-star’s old station.

Well now they can make their own and hang it on the tree!  Ungrateful bastards.

Sure, some could say ‘Well Kelley, you could have gone out and bought the tree and then it wouldn’t have been too big for the space’ and I would say ‘Fuck off.  The bastard spends 18 hours a freaking DAY sitting on that crapper, he should KNOW how big the space is!’

So now, as I lament the demise of my bathroom tree and the promise of a pine scented v-jay-jay, I am plotting to hit the stores tomorrow to buy a not-as-fabulous-unscented fake tree.

Cause I am going to have a freaking bathroom tree God-damn-it!

As God as my witness, I will never go bathroom treeless again!

cut to theme from Gone With The Wind….. *snigger* wind, get it?  Get it?  Oh, bugger off…..

I went to a blog today. Not a blog that I would normally frequent, but the person commented here so I wandered on over.

I remembered that I commented on a previous post and thought I would see if there was a reply.

And my comment was not there.

I know I commented. The blogger was asking for advice. I gave my opinion. In a very nice no-swearing-involved way. But perhaps not what she wanted to hear?

That has pissed me off.

If you put a question out to the blogosphere, you are asking for opinions. You will get ones that don’t necessarily align with your views.

But you suck it up.

I could be a biatch and say who this person was and their pathetic desperate attempt at more readers question. But you know who you are. I will not bother to comment on your blog again. My time is worth more than that. I have people to despise and shoes to drool over.

OK. Got that off my chest. Feel better now. Will do a proper *snort* post later.

But for your entertainment here is the lunch box that Boo has made me.

lunch-box-outside.jpg

Yes, a huge freaking storage box.

lunchbox-inside.jpg

The sandwich is ham, mustard, pepper, cheese, mayo and the lettuce from the rabbits cage. I am soooooo freaking thankful that I saw him get that lettuce. I am trying to distract him so I can chuck out the sandwich.

I am NOT eating that shit. Nup. I have done it before but not when it has rabbit spit all over it.

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!

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…….

Movember is moving along and the growth on DH’s face is slowly progressing from dirty smudge to what-is-that-on-your-upper-lip.

mofoto.jpg

And the great No-Sex-For-You-Come-Back-One-Month continues…….

And now he has to wear a silly hat to work on Wednesday to raise money for some other cause.

And he can wear the bloody thing on the bus. That’ll teach him to total his freaking car and then let it rust in the yard cause he couldn’t be bothered doing anything about it. Asshat.

Ooooh, that’s an idea. An asshat.

Better get the craft box out.

Mel from Freak Parade‘s post about her son shaving his butt with her razor prompted me to share that Boo has found every freaking hiding spot for my toothbrush.

Those are not hip with the happening thang. Boo likes to scrub his arse with my toothbrush. Everyone elses brushes are out on the counter in a lovely little ceramic pot that my grandfather made me. Mine? It is now…. wait… I’m not telling you. You might let it slip to Boo, cause you want my breath to smell like arse.

So these are the directions for a squeaky clean arse, according to Boo.

1. Make sure Mummy is really REALLY busy or is on the computer…

2. Enter bathroom and lock the door. QUIETLY. If Mum hears the door being locked she will come running.

3. Take a doona with you. Ensure it is one that has just been disinfected.
4. Take a freaking HUGE dump in the toilet. Ensuring to spray all sides of the toilet.

5. Unroll a couple of rolls of toilet paper. Chew up a few and throw on the roof (distraction tactics)

6. Finish doing the business and wipe arse on doona and towels and wall.

7. Bring out mums toothbrush that you found from its hiding spot.

8. With one leg resting on the side of the bath proceed to scrub arse.

9. When mum opens the door, look at her incredulously saying ‘whaaaaat??’

10. Then say ‘Oh Sorry’ like you don’t really mean it and continue with the arse scrubbing while Mummy races to the sink to scrub her mouth out and put toothbrushes on the emergency shopping list.

Kid is a bastard. An adorable, cuddly little spawn of the devil.

Just got home from work. Home early to clean up and open the windows to get rid of the smell of excrement before picking up Boo.

Got an email saying my blog looked different and ‘Aren’t you doing NaBloPoMo anymore?’

Huh?

I look at my blog (how many of you actually look at your own blogs? I hardly ever do!)

And everything on the sidebar is GONE!

And the tiny terrorist was puttin’ on the stealth Ninja moves last night.

And the widgets page was open…..

You connect the shit covered dots. Cause they are not gettin’ cleaned off the walls right now…. my blog, my baby, she is broken! And the HTML that I worked out all by my self is gone and I have to try and work the fucker out again….

So I am sitting here tearing my freaking hair out cause I cannot for the life of me remember what was on my blog in the first place and a comment comes in about a post I did aaages ago.

Hmm, methinks, what is all that about?

And it turns out that Girl, my wonderful Girl of the teach-Kelley-new-swear-words gang at Fertile Mertile has awarded me a perfect post award for Sleep. The whingy post I did about Boo not sleeping and flinging insults at the internets.

oct07.jpg

I have no idea why she thought that was a perfect post. My fav post is Letter to my Neighbours, only because every time I see that kid next door I picture her Polly pocket….. Bwaaaa Haaaaa Haaaaa!!

But she did and she gave me an award. Thank you Girl.  I am overwhelmed.

And then I remembered. I have another blog bling given to me by Three Ring Circus.

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Yeah, I am a little late for Halloween… but treats are year round aren’t they! And she said the sweetest things about me *blush*  I have to tag others.  So consider yourself tagged.  I always share my treats with everyone!

And Lightening tagged me for the Picture Me Meme just to see my shoes *swoon* shoes…..

Will take photos of them tonight.

Oh happy day.

AND THEN the phone rings. DH has been offered ANOTHER JOB. Two companies are fighting over him now and he hasn’t even completed his IT course. The second job was offered after DH did work experience there yesterday.

So despite the blog being hacked, and the solidifying fecal murals, today is a good day!

I will be thinking of these things as I am knee deep in fairy cakes this evening readying for Moo’s birthday party tomorrow.

It’s that time of year again.

Mo-freakin’-vember!

DH has decided to join in the frivolity of Movember again this year. No kissing for you buddy. I hate him with a mo because he looks like a mobster and it plays havoc with my skin.

But worst of all bad porn music plays through my head when ever I see him.

Or, ‘I ‘ave come to clean zee pooooool’

His facial hair grows so sloooowly that he just looks scruffy for the first few weeks. Like he needs a good scrub down.

Wa waka wa waaaah.

Shit. Everything sounds like a porn line now.

Not that I know what porn is like of course.

What a lovely first post for my NaBloPoMo. Gunna get tons of people scrambling to read my posts.

In their underwear.

While waiting for their brown paper packages to arrive in the mail….

Not that I know what that means of course.

 I wrote this this afternoon.  While I was white hot with anger.  I considered deleting it, but thought better of it.  I considered toning it down a bit, but thought, no.  So will I regret it after hitting the publish button? Perhaps……

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

I am sitting here shaking with anger.

Oprah is on  and that fucking moron Jenny McCarthy is spouting her sons recovery story.

I want to reach through the TV and wring her fucking neck.

Do you REALISE the damage you are doing!

MOMMY FUCKING INSTINCT.  If she says that one more time I will lift the hulking enormous television and throw it through the window.

So, Ms McCarthy, all the parents without ‘recovered’ kids (apparently Autism is like being hit by a bus, you recover and then you have a little boo boo – WTF!?!?!) just don’t have MOMMY INSTINCT. MI for short.  I am sure she has trademarked that one.
OMG.  I just don’t love my kid enough.

My son is GFCF by default. LOOOOOOOOONG before the Autism was diagnosed he was milk free, LOOOOONG before I heard of the ‘autism diet’ we were trialling gluten free.

My kid did ABA, speech, OT, no artificials etc etc, but my kid is still Autistic.  He will always be.  The shit and toothpaste all over my walls is freaking testament to that.

But if I had MI ™ and a little more love for my child, he would be cured.

Oh Jenny.  You, my dear, are delusional.  Sitting there with your Pob (just like Miss Posh) talking about your son being broken In. Front. Of. Him.

I look at that kid and I CAN SEE THE AUTISM!  I thought he was recovered.  I hear the echolalia.

‘He says the most amazing Budda things’?  You fucking idiot.  He is mimicking.  It is echolalia.

He is clearly maturing.  It is clear that the therapy has made a difference.  ABA does that.

Now she is talking about the MMR, apparently she had a little voice tell her it would cause Autism.  Apparently the seizure her son had  was preceded by the ‘little voice’.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

My phone is going to be ringing off the hook tonight.  I will be inundated with people asking me to help them recover their kids.  Any one have Ms McCarthy’s phone number?

My son was diagnosed with Classic Autism.  Classic, no language, screaming day and night.  I was told he would never have functional language or toilet train.  I was told to take him home and love him.

He is now doing amazingly.  Thanks to therapy.  Thanks to hard freaking work.  But he still has Autism.  He will always have Autism.

He is not recovered.  You cannot recover from something that is – in my view – an inherited neurological condition.  Minimize the  extreme behaivours, work on other issues.  Some kids will respond to therapy, some will not.  Regardless of how much MI ™ their mothers have.  Regardless of how much they love their child.

I read a book once that the mother basically beat her child every day and then sent him to boarding school.  Now he is ‘recovered’.  Do we endorse that shit?  No.

I am sure that diet, supplements, therapy etc etc etc have helped numerous kids.  Maybe even thousands.  But in my opinion (remember I deal with parents with children on the spectrum every day so I have some experience) if your child is ‘cured’ then they were never on the spectrum in the first place.

The other chick, Holly Robinson whatever.  Her I like.  I agree with every thing SHE said.

But that McCarthy freakshow needs to be gagged.  But first bitch slapped.

And Oprah.  How could you.

Now excuse me, that child that I obviously didn’t love enough to cure needs me to go and wipe his arse.

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