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 ❤ 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?

Dear Mr Toy Manufacturer,

Or can I just call you Capitalist Bastard CB for short? Ta. I assume that you are male, as no woman who does 99% of the present wrapping of the world would be so fucking stupid as to allow toys to be shaped as they are.

Balls I can cope with. I have even managed to wrap a bike. My wrapping skillz are world renown. But how the fuck am I supposed to wrap this thing neatly?

yadayada.jpg    wrapped2.jpg

I mean REALLY CB, what were you smoking when you approved the shape of this thing? And what about this:

car.jpg

And this:

controller.jpg

And while I am at it, why on Gods green earth do you wrap the toys in impenetrable plastic and then not include the freaking batteries? I have to either demolish the packaging and make the kids think that Santa got the gift from the reject bin of Kmart to get the fucking batteries in or on 2 hours sleep and with a hangover that would kill a goat (from the iced eggnog…. mmmm eggnog) wrestle with the packaging whilst my kid jumps from foot to foot begging me to hurry the fuck up. By the time I have finished they have lost interest and eating the contents of their stocking while I am distracted and will not eat the turkey that took me 6 fucking hours to cook I lovingly baked.

I am thanking sweet Jesus that my girls are no longer into Barbies and the like, cause those fuckers are held down with shit loads of plastic ties, pieces of string and other paraphernalia meant to make parents rue the day they said ‘Yeah, lets forget the condom tonight’ or ‘I think I took my pill, oh what the heck’ or ‘roll over’ or whathaveyou.

Now CB, you know we will never let your profits fall cause your wonderful subliminal advertising has us wrestling each other in the toy store aisles for the last whatever-the-fuck-is-the-ultimate-toy-that-year or ringing around the world, or even whinging on our blogs trying to find our child the perfect gift that will be gathering dust by mid January, but I am pleading with you to please please make the bastards easier to wrap? Those of us with OCD tendencies want the tree to look all Martha Stewart before our tiny terrorists little angels demolish it before our sleep deprived eyes. And things that have taken hours to wrap end up looking like the dog has mauled them and make our little perfect housewife eyes twitch and have us reaching for the wine to dull the pain.

I honestly think for the amount of cash we bring your way you could keep us in mind before you approve the need-scissors-machete-every-freaking-screwdriver-and-blowtorch-to-open packaging for your wonderful must have toys.

Oh, and don’t outsource to China. Lead is not part of my kids diet.

Could you pass on a message to the asshats that make ‘clear’ tape? Tell ’em that the stuff is not freaking clear at all and if they need a lesson on what is ‘clear’ means just give me a call and after I have finished ripping them a new arsehole I will read them the dictionary definition.

clear-tape.jpg

Choke on a turkey bone and DIE yours sincerely,

Rocking in the corner with a bottle of wine Mummy.

Me-fucking-oow.

We bought Boo a cubby for Christmas.

This one.

Now look at the picture.  What do you think we get for our fucking $1100.

monsterfort.jpg

The top.

Not the poles, not the sandpit underneath and no freaking way are we getting the slide and God Forbid that ladder.

I am pissed.

But not pissed enough to actually fight for my rights it seems.

Cause I am a pussy.

I was all ‘Oh, OK, I just assumed it came with everything pictured for 1 fucking GRAND for that price.  Can I order them?  Oh, OK, yes I understand you need to take a break.  Sometime around the end of January? No fucking WAY! Well that is sort of…… oh OK.  I can go down and get it from the supplier you say? Not unless they are open between 2 and 3am cause that is the only time I have an opening in my calender. Umm, don’t know if I can do that.  Can’t they courier it up?  Oh, no they can’t then….OK.  I guess that is OK.  Yes I will come and pick up the stupid freaking half cubby ASAP.  Thanks.’

Click.

What the fuck happened there?  What is wrong with me?  No it isn’t OK!!!!

OK, jump on the internet and look up the supplier.  Call them.

‘Hi, I have just bought one of your Forts and it looks like from the brochure  that it comes with everything shown.  But I have just found out it doesn’t so I need to order it.  Oh.  Yes I understand it is close to Christmas, but you see…… yes… yes….. I know orders have closed but if you have them in stock can I buy the elevation kit and accessories and get you to courier them to me? I will have to pick it up if you deign to sell me one if you have it? Can’t you send it up?  I won’t be able to drive a 4 or more fucking hour round trip with petrol at $1.49 a litre when it would be cheaper and easier for me for you to mail it  to get there during your opening hours.   Oh, OK you want my phone number and will get back to me OK.’

Click.

I am such a freaking pussy.

Waiting near the phone.  Hovering over the phone.  Standing staring at the phone.  The cordless phone that I could actually pick up and walk around with.

No they didn’t call.

Mario-porn-star comes home.  Ask him to call.

They have no record of my call.

Fuck.

Will have to try again on Monday.

Oh please God, Allah, Goddess, my wonderful internets, please please make sure that all the bits I need are here in time for Christmas.

I will be good.  I won’t swear for like 15 minutes or something.  Or how about I won’t buy any new shoes for the rest of the YEAR!

Just please make this happen for my little guy.  It will be the ultimate.

Oh and can you help me find this stupid freaking thing:

images.jpeg  It is called Hyper Dash and all the stores are sold out.

It is ALL he wants for Christmas.  He has never asked Santa for anything before.  So if you could organise for it to fall in my lap I would, like, be rool happy and shit.

Ta.  Smootches.

Oh and P.S.  make the biatch who fucked this up for me get a huge zit on her arse forcing her to wear loose pants and stand all day.  Then have it burst painfully.  That would be awesome.

Oh and perhaps give me some balls for Christmas.  Looks like I could use ’em.

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…….

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’

Yesterday I had to take Moo to Centrelink. They sent me a letter saying that now she is 16 she has to apply for an allowance. Oh, and I have to prove to them that she exists. THEY sent ME a fucking letter and now I have to prove to them who she is?????

So we did everything required, birth certificate, letter from the school (which said she was born in 1999 which would make her 8. Idiots.) student ID card, 3 consecutive years of school reports, my Medicare card, my tax details for the last 2 years, my pay slips and filled the forms out online. And then printed out the other 6 freaking forms and filled them out by hand.

We get in there and stand in line. Next to a woman who hasn’t bathed this century. Then we are called up. Apparently the information I got from calling the Call Centre THREE times was wrong. Moo didn’t need to be there (and miss English and her fucking Year 11 EXAM is next week!!!!) and she didn’t need to open a bank account. TWO people on the phone told me that she had to open a bank account to prove that she existed, or have a utility bill in her name. WTF? She is 16 years old! Oh and by the freaking way, you need to fill out this form.

Hang on a second. This is the form that I spent hours filling out online and nearly killed someone in the process cause it kept throwing me out. And apparently because the stupid online form added me 6 times as the contact for Moo, I need to fill out 6 extra forms……

So with gritted teeth and mumbling expletives (not to the chick on the counter, I know it is not her fault) I filled out the fucking forms again.

Then we sat and waited. Weirdly, we were the only ones in the waiting area. Then a couple walked in. The woman huge, with bleach blonde hair and black roots. Huge shapeless stained shirt and a fag behind her ear. The guy, 2 inches shorter, no shoes, tight black jeans covered in cat hair.

Moo looked at me, I looked at Moo. The woman sat right next to me. Chairs empty everywhere. She sat down next to me. The stench was unbearable. And the fucker was breathing through her mouth so the rotting contents of her bowel was assaulting my nostrils along with her body odour.

We finally got out of there. Drove Moo to school and then I took my Dad shopping.

He went to the hardware shop. I went clothes shopping. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I let a tiny little girl serve me. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She kept giving me stuff that was too small or stretched so tightly across my breasticles I looked like a hooker. I bought something just to stop her from coming into the change room all the freaking time. Now I have to take it back, cause I am never going to wear a skin tight lime green tshirt.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

We decided to have lunch in the food court. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I had Indian. From. A. Food. Court. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I am sitting here with a bucket beside me. Stupid, stupid girl.

And I am shitting through the eye of a needle…..

I need coffee. DH used the last of it this morning. And didn’t tell me. Asshole.

Now, do I risk running to the shop to get some more? Should I wear a nappy like that astronaut chick?

Now my stomach is doing that gurgling thing again…….

Oh, man, this sucks.

And Boo found my toothbrush again…….

Furry, vomit covered teeth.  Burning ring of fire.  Caffeine withdrawals. And I am ovulating so zit the size of a planet on my chin……

 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.

Something else that makes me want to run and hide in a cupboard.

I picked up Boo from school, I was a bit distracted after watching Jenny McCarthy on Oprah (more on that later when I calm down a tad) so I just got him and we went to the supermarket.

I was hobbling around with Boo flapping his arms and people staring.  Yeah, asshat, stare all you like I was thinking.

By the end of it I was getting rather agitated.  People were just STARING.  Some smiling and gigling.  One person actually freaking POINTED at me.

Oooh I was really peeved.

I got home, unpacked the shopping, gave my Boo a big squeeze and took off my shoes to give my toe some relief.

Then nature called.  As I got into the bathroom I realised my fly of my pants was undone.

My black pants.

Bright blue lacy panties.

I looked in the mirror.  Yep they were like a freaking beacon they were so bright against the black of my pants.

So people weren’t staring at my Boo.

They weren’t even commenting at my bizzare limping.

They were staring and laughing at the stupid woman who went shopping with her fly undone revealing bright blue lacy panties.

And they are really freaking lacy too.  So they got a REAL eye full.

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……