things that irriate me


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.

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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.

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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……

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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.

So after school today Boo and I went to a discount store.  We go ‘somewhere’ after school everyday and Wednesday is usually the corner shop for a lemonade but today we mixed it up and went to the discount store.  Karma?  Fate?  Just bad freakin’ luck?

So I hobbled around looking for Boo, cause of course he decided today was the day to finally get some independence and go looking around on his own.  Three times.  So we were there longer than usual.

Get to the checkout and the chick is having a deep conversation with her friend and ignoring us.  Boo is getting titchy, so I let him have an icypole from the oh-so-freaking-convenient freezer in the checkout line.  He is starting to cover his ears and squeal from the horrible off key CHRISTMAS musak and all of us in the line are getting a little peeved.

She turns to me.  ‘Hi!  How are you!?’ like nothing happened.

‘Yeah, fine’ I replied, when what I wanted to do was slam her over the head with the phone.  In hindsight I probably should have, cause it would have bought me a minute or two.

Grab my purchases and Boo’s hand and limp, painfully, outside.  I was soooo lucky to get the park right out front. As I get to the car my phone rings.  I put my bag on the bonnet and standing at the drivers door answer it.

It was my Mum. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at the warehouse.  Boo ran away from me….’

SLAM!!!!!!

A humungous 4 wheel drive comes careening into the park next to me and slams into my hip, flinging me into the drivers side door.

Does he stop?

No.

He keeps going and slams the passenger side mirror into my back and leaves me inches between my car and his.

‘He fucking HIT ME!  A car just drove into me and FUCKING HIT ME!’ I scream in disbelief into the phone.

‘Yeah, OK, calm down.  When will you be home?  I am at your house waiting you know’ comes the response from Mother of the Year.

‘Mum.  I just got hit by a car!’

Then the guy in the car and his stupid woman stare at me and he yells ‘You stupid fucking bitch!’

‘What!!!  You hit me you idiot!’

He and his chick hide in their car.

‘Kelley???  Kelley???? Are you coming or not’ my mother asks me.

*boggle*

‘Yeah.  I will be there in a minute.’

So I yell some obscenities at the dickhead, Boo is in the car and is absorbed in singing to his reflection in the passenger side window so didn’t hear, and drive home.

Get in the driveway and Mum and Dad are waiting.  I am still seething.

‘What’s your problem?’ my oh-so-caring Mother asks

‘I just got hit by a fucking CAR!’

‘No need to use that tone and language with me!’

I unlock the front door.

Mother of the Year smiles at me.

‘My new kitchen comes tomorrow! Isn’t it exciting?!’

‘Yeah, great.’ I mumble rubbing my hip and wondering if it is bruised and thanking my lucky stars that I wasn’t turned sideways or the fucker would have run over my fractured toe.

‘Well you could show a little enthusiasm Kelley.  After all this IS a big deal for me………’ and she went on blabbering, but I tuned out cause…….

I GOT HIT BY A CAR and her new kitchen is more important…….

And people wonder why I am so freakin’ unbalanced……

Was having a productive day.

Had a plan.

Had a million things to do and the energy and motivation to just do it……

Notice the past tense?

I was replying to an email when my Spidey senses perked up.  Boo is up to no good.   I look over my shoulder and see the pantry door covered in texta.

He had turned my pantry into a digital clock.  Quite creative really, but that is beside the point.

I had Too’s friend standing over me, muttering something, but I was ignoring him cause I am cranky at him for 1. calling here reverse charges from a freaking mobile phone, from ANOTHER STATE three times last week, and 2. inviting Too to the movies and then ringing me last night to tell me that I have to take them and pick them up!

Anyway.  I dodged around him, determined to catch Boo in the act so I can scold him.  As I went tearing around the corner I got my toe caught up in my yoga pants…..

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for those that don’t know what they are…. mine are exactly the same.  See the way they flare out at the bottom? Stupid freakin’ things.  I’m gunna sue!!!

And now my big toe is blown up like that bloated feral biatches face from the other day, purple and sorta bent to one side….

AND it is the toe I broke during the take-the-bed-apart-with-a-hammer-in-bare-feet fiasco back in ’98.  The same day my washing machine broke down and every door handle in the piece of shit Ford snapped off while heavily pregnant with Boo so I couldn’t have any drrruuuuggggssss!!!!

So here I am, whacked out on anti inflammataries – paracetamol makes me need a nanna nap – on the lounge with a ice-stick thingy that in my giggly semi conscious state looks surprisingly like a dildo, slamming down coffee and lamenting everything I was going to do today is lost.

But the worst thing of all.  The one thing that would send me crying in the corner? The fact that I can’t drive our manual car? That the laundry is full of the kids school uniforms that need to be washed, hung out on the line etc etc? That I was going to make my super special spaghetti sauce that takes hours to make?  No…..
My toe is so fucking bent and bloated there is not ONE pair of shoes that I can wear.  I will have to go barefoot or wear slippers or something…..

Now that is just truly tragic.

On Wednesday Girl was talking about the biatches in the schoolyard (and they are biatches babe, I agree with Buns, you little hottie, you) and I felt for her.

I hate being snubbed. I want everyone to like me. And if you don’t, I will fret about it. The vestiges of being a painfully shy child. Autism beat that out of me. The daily fighting with everyone to get what Boo was due has made me stronger.

But there are some women in the schoolyard that snub me. They are not the Muffia, they, believe it or not, actually like me. I guess I am their little charity case. Talk to the Mum with the kid with the disability…. yeah whatever.

The particular mothers I am talking about are what we affectionately refer to as ferals. The rough, wharfy voiced too-tight-tracksuit-wearing, um, trailer trash???? You know the ones, their kids are called Shakira and Shapelle and sporting a three day old snail trail of snot across their faces? And they all have that laugh, the one that makes you whip ’round and say ‘What the freaking hell is that?’

And no-one owns shoes.

Yeah, those ones.

I have tried to chat with them. When they are alone, they are fine. All chatty and ‘hows it goin’. But get two or more of ’em together….. well I am not longer worth talking to.

Ferals are snubbing me.

I actually talked to P (Boo’s teacher) about it. Oh, how he laughed. Asshat. Then asked me why I cared.

I don’t know.

I am not interested in talking about what they talk about, I don’t want their dirty kids crawling all over me and I wouldn’t invite them over for coffee…

So why do I care?

Cause they are judging me. Because I don’t come to school barefoot, I wear fabulous shoes. Because I don’t smell like eu de BO, but perfume. Because I don’t scream across the school yard ‘Get back here you bastard or I will thump ya’ ( although sometimes I want to). Because I brush my freaking HAIR…

hmmmm, who is judging who? But I try and talk to them. They sneer at me. I walk to the classroom and pass them sitting on the steps and they go quiet and stare.
The other day I was standing in the hall waiting for Boo to come out of class. One of the ferals walked in, alone. I said hi, she said hi. We did the small talk thing. She asked me if I thought it was going to rain on the weekend.

Then one of her mates lumbered in. She turned her bra-strap-disappearing-into-her-fat back on me!

‘So ya recon it’s gunna rain on Sat-di’ she yelled to her mate. 2 feet away from her.

Isn’t that what she just asked me?

‘Dunno. Betta put up the tent just in case tho. Gunna be a freakin’ awesome party. Kids are pumped. Everyone comin’?’

‘Yeh. Most’a da kids in da class’

Huh? ‘most’a da kids in da class’? Boo didn’t get an invite. Boo plays with the less feral of the two’s daughter. The one holding the party.

Boo has her on the top of the list of invites to his party.

Boo is not invited and the fucking feral broadcast it in front of me!

The lumbering mate announces ‘I gotta pee’ and shuffles off.

Feral no 1 turns to me. Smiles.

‘you know’ I smile sweetly at her ‘I heard that it is going to be lovely weather on the weekend. I don’t think you will need a tent. The kids will probably knock it down anyway’ saccharine smile again.

Apparently it is supposed to rain. Apparently there are strong wind warnings and the chance of hail.

Apparently some woman in fabulous shoes will be doing rain dances……

Yeah?

Well, she started it!

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