I rarely get time alone nowdays.

Snippets of time, here and there to get my own personal freak on.  Sans pants.

Today I PAID Moo to fuck the fuck off and she chose to go to her boyfriends house in the city.  Let’s not think too deeply about that.

Did a little shopping and in the car driving home to get the aforementioned freakage going.

Get your minds out of the gutter, if you know me at all that means washing walls or emptying cupboards of their contents and determining how much I can throw away without raising any suspicion.  But none of YOUR stuff, MPS.  CLEARLY it is totally reasonable to have enough spare parts to build 40 computers in the hall cupboard.  You know the cupboard where normal people keep coats and stuff?  Yeah, THAT one.

For the past couple of days Too has been home, redecorating the house with technocolour yawn.  Finally returning to school today.  So, although I adore my children sometimes, there was an extra spring in my step thinking about being AH-LONE in a home with no noise.

Driving home with the music up loud, I heard my phone.

My heart sank as I pulled over to the side of the road to answer it {which is the RIGHT thing to do people!  Do NOT answer your damn phone while driving} and it was Boo’s aide.

He is sick.  He needs to come home.  He is miserable and laying on the lounge in the reading corner.

Now what makes this oh so extra special is what Boo wrote in his school diary on the first day of school in February.

____ is not at school on this day because he’s sick.  He will be here the next day.

Kinda like when he wrote on the calendar in January that he wasn’t going to go to school on a particular day in August and on that particular day in August he did not go to school because I was racing down to the city to be with my Nanna because my Grandfather had just died.  Three weeks later she would be laying in a coma and the little bastard had predicted that he wouldn’t go to school that week too.

After that I stopped using a calendar.

So now I just need him to pony up the freaking lottery numbers and learn how to vomit in a bucket and not on his mother.

So I am just gunna send you here.

Where I talk about laundry.  Or something.

I can’t remember exactly, I was under the influence of insanity.

and the answer is Mama fart Kelly Clarkson loveheart.

Obviously.

Wait.  You don’t live here.  You are not privy to the minutiae of our lives, save the crumbs I throw at you.

Oh let me drag you in to a world of pain.

Where you are afraid to do anything lest it turn into a new obsession.  A new OMG I HAVE TO DO THIS OR THE WORLD WILL EXPLODE WITH MY PIERCING SCREAMS little Boo quirk.

Oh how I love that work ‘quirk’.  Connotations of sweet little idiosyncrasies that, like in the flush of new love, seem endearing and make that person all the more loveable.

I think I need a new word.  A word that screams I love YOU but OMG please please stop.  Just stop.  For the love of all that is good and holy STOP.

Like if the car door squeaks it HAS TO be opened and closed eleventy hundred times.  Or if the DVD is paused it must be paused and replayed twice before viewing can commence.  If dinner is ready, it isn’t really ready till he SAYS SO DAMMIT!

Back to Monkey kiss Michael Jackson butterfly shall we?

There are certain words that are banned in our household.  These same words are banned at school.  And, if uttered, can get you on a fast track to the red chair outside the principals office.

And they are the words in the title of this post.  These words send Boo, depending on his mood, into a tizz or a full blown, ear bleeding, wear full body armour meltdown.  And the only way to deflect the power of these words is with another – to the casual observer, hell to ANYONE – unrelated word.

Monkey = Mama

Kiss = fart

Michael Jackson = Kelly Clarkson

and as of this week a new one to the mix:  Butterfly = loveheart.

As you can imagine, when He Who Must Not Be Named (HWMNBN) kicked the bucket last year we had to leave the television off and keep Boo away from all shopping Mecca’s cashing in on the barely cold king of baby dangling, lest Boo lose his freaking mind.

And those of you who have been following my drivel will know that the HWMNBN saga has been going on for a while.

Boo’s school had to change the theme of the school concert – HWMNBN through the years – cause the kids took a vote and decided it just wasn’t worth the agonising pain.

So they chose Footloose.  Yeah, thanks for that.

I am thinking that, next time my little darling decides to use bedding as toilet paper or clean his arse with my toothbrush, I am going to get this image:

and stick it to a sweet potato.  Extremely disturbing YouTube clip here.

Oh yeah Boo, Mummy needs a new word.  And right now it is revenge.  Or maybe self preservation.  Or refrigerator.

I am totally losing my mind here.

So yeah, it is my birthday.  *commence fawning now*

The day started off rather meh, but progressively got better and betterer.

As days of a non morning person are often want to do.

Coffee ingested, people dropped where they needed to be, more coffee and birthday hugs from my favourite barista and a bajillion happy birthday messages flooding my inbox/twitter/Facebook.

As the cool kids say, AWESOMESAUCE.

I sat on my every expanding arse for a while reading all the if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be alive and OMG this day needs to be an international holiday and I am the daughter of a Nigerian businessman who was murdered and has millions of dollars stashed in a rotting donkey messages and then my parents arrived.  With PRESENTS.

And Holy Lady of the GaGa, MOTY actually got it right.

Every single year of my life MOTY has managed to get me exactly the opposite of what I like.  They say it is the thought that counts but sometimes I wonder if she actually thinks I am someone else. Like maybe an 80 year old coma patient. Years of fake dayglow tulips {I love REAL tulips} bedding for a double bed {I have a queen} and musk scented bath products {oh how I despise musk}.  And not lets forget the years of regifting and taking back my presents and selling them to her friends *cough cough* her old bomb car that she gave me for my birthday – after her parents bought her a brand new one – and then took back and sold to her friends son *cough cough*.

And all the while my Daddy shaking his head and looking down at his feet.

But this year she managed to hit a home run.  With sparkles and unicorns.

She gave me an album of photos from my childhood.

OMG die from the cuteness

kinder Kelley. Can I get an awwwww...

TWENTY years ago. Check out those shoulder pads baby.

Literally minutes after this was taken I was stalked by a spider with murder in his eyes

And this took my breath away.  THIS I didn’t even know existed.

It is a record, on hospital grade paper towel, of every one of my contractions while in labour with Moo.  Complete with things I screamed out while under the influence of 2 full bottles of happy gas and 4 pethidine shots.  Such gems as ‘If they throw it at me do I have to give birth to Madonna?’ and ‘Why does everyone have first names for last names’ and ‘gimme that gas bitch or you die’.

I cried with happiness.  Which MOTY took as I didn’t like it and then when she realised that I did in fact LOVE IT she told me that she made one for The Golden Child and he liked his so she thought she would make me one.

Way to put a dampener on it MOTY.  Fuck.

Yada yada more emails/phone calls/twitter and facebook adulation, lunch with my parents and Moo, new awesome glasses,

Dinner, hugs, bed.

All in all, a pretty damn awesome birthday.

{phew, scraped in posting on my actual birthday with literally minutes to spare}

Doesn’t time fly biatches.

A year ago today, I was shopping and went blind.

A year ago today, I pretty much emptied our bank account buying fuck knows what.

A year ago today, I was blissfully unaware that in a few hours I would be sitting in the Emergency Department about to go through the most harrowing week of my life.  My will scrawled on a scrap of paper and buried in my clothes.

A year ago today, I was told that I had a stroke.

I know I didn’t finish the ‘Anatomy of a brain fart’.  I just couldn’t.  And to be honest, now my memory is sketchy.  Except for the farting naked Italian woman who emptied her bowels with the ensuite door open I shared a room with.  THAT my fucked up brain chooses to remember clearly.  My nostrils twitching with smell memory.

Oh and she wasn’t always naked.  Sometimes she wore socks.

A year ago today I had no idea of the love and support I would get from you guys.

A year ago today I faced my mortality and came out the other side relatively unscathed.

I am lucky.  I am so very lucky.  Every day, as I take the medications that cost more than the shoes that used to adorn my feet, I am thankful for this second chance.

I have been lurking over at Anissas.  I don’t profess to be her friend, sure we bantered occasionally on Twitter and she is hilarious, but I barely know her.

But what happened to her is like a punch in the guts to me.  This is her second.  She is doing so amazingly well, she is strong and determined. But her second one.  Years later.

That scares the living shit out of me.

So today, a year later, I am going to wander around my house and clean it top to bottom.  A clean house as a birthday present to myself.

Tomorrow is going to be an awesome day.  This time last year will be my yardstick to measure all birthdays.

Cause fuck me dead they don’t get any more crappy than that.

Literally tens of you are already aware of my awesomeness.

You spend your days making shrines to me, lovingly crafting life sized effigies, adorning your walls with my image.

Your prized possession, a cut out of a picture of a lock of my hair.

It is not easy being so adored.

But I soldier on.  I know, I know, I was totally robbed by that Mary MacKillop bitch in being the first Australian saint.  It is a burden I have to bear, but generations to come will right that terrible wrong.

Keep up the crafting though my lovelies, because as of today I am now a FEATURED WRITER over at Craftastrophe.

Karen and Sam literally begged me to come on board with promises of fame and fortune and the opportunity to access more things to point and laugh at.  And I was all ‘OMG PLEASE PLEASE let me write for you I am like totally awesome and I will pay you’ ‘oh, OK.  I will help you try and raise your profile from the measly 3000+ feedburner readers…’

*gulp*

So, do me a solid and get your arses over to Craftastrophe.  Laugh till you pee, tell me I am awesome {so they don’t regret giving me the keys to the joint – and girls I will totally clean up that mess I made} stumble and twitter that shizzle all over the place and if you find any craptacular craftastophes on the interwebs link me up.

Cause that is what the internet is for.  Friendship through mocking the efforts of others.

And to sweeten the pot, I am talking about scrotum.  And everyone loves a little scrotum.

You know how the other day I was all ’sweet! a carpark’ and rubbing your noses in the awesome luck that I was having.

And then I was all ‘well, fuck me dead’ when all our appliances went belly up.

And now I have no idea what to say but thank fucking GOD I didn’t mop the floors yesterday.

That is my front yard.

That is our street.

That is the TV aerial hanging from the verandah.  It took out part of the roof with it.

That is a bowl catching dirty water coming out of our central heating unit. {Pikachu ensuring that the bowl catches it all… *snort*}

And now, after mopping up and a sleepless night worrying that our roof will cave in, I am off to a Christmas Party.

Oh yes peeps, you read that shit right.  A CHRISTMAS PARTY.

The Golden Child is in town and MOTY is losing her shit with excitement.  He wasn’t here for Christmas, so OBVIOUSLY we must partake in turkey and bon bons and showering him with gifts in MARCH.

Schadenfreude my lovelies.  I am getting that tattooed on my arse.

Unless I came back as a very satisfied zombie.  But I am pretty sure zombies are really not that good at clasping and I would drop the dishes and then, OF COURSE, no one would clean that shit up so it would be a moot point really.

I can’t remember the last time I hand washed the dishes.  Probably some time last century.  Because HELLO TECHNOLOGY!  We don’t live in no dark ages or university share house, we are civilised people with a fucking MACHINE that does that shit for us.

{OK, OK some of you may not have a dishwasher and for that I am sincerely sorry.  But what are you?  Fucking AMISH?  A dishwasher is like a fucking basic human RIGHT.}

But now I am sitting here peering into my kitchen full of dishes with a dishwasher that is all ‘blink blink blink, fucking BLINK’ which is dishwasher speak for fuck you biatch, do your own damn dishes.

And to add insult to dishpan hands, the oven is all ‘meh, you want WHAT temperature?  How about I fart out a tiny bit of heat in this corner here and we call it a day?’ and then the washing machine is all ‘what about me?’ and then vomited a fuck load of water onto the floor which seeped into the hallway and the cupboard and THROUGH THE FUCKING WALL into the bathroom and the toilet was swimming in 5cm of water which was AWESOME cause Boo had only just sprayed the general vicinity of the toilet in piss and that, along with toilet paper, mixed in with the water from the machine seeped BACK THROUGH THE WALL and now my entire house is covered in piss scented washing machine water.

AND to add to the mix I can’t eat anything cause I get heartburn like a motherfucker and then cough up a lung and now my stomach is gurgling and I cannot venture further than 5 feet from a toilet and OMG NOW I HAVE A SORE THROAT AND A RUNNY NOSE.

Hence the fuck me dead.

CLEARLY all this means I am going to win the lottery on the weekend.

And we are having takeaway for dinner.  But nothing spicy.  Fuck it.

Boo:  I need you to write a letter to Japan.

Me:  What for dude?

Boo:  *as he wanders off* I need some Japanese people…

*boggle*

And then he presented me with this:

People of Japan!

Listen up! Boo has created a 27 episode show called 北極点戦隊クリスマスのレンジャー. He needs some cast and crew as well. Please supply him with Japanese people starting on 28th Feb ‘10. Here’s a list.
阿部 薫 as クリスマスレッド/アスカ
長澤 奈央 as クリスマスブルー/野乃 七海
三上 真史 as クリスマスイエロー/最上 蒼太
林 剛史 as クリスマスグリーン/戸増 宝児
別府 あゆみ as クリスマスキースー/小津 芳カ
出合 正幸 as クリスマスブレイク/高丘 映士
木下 あゆみ as クリスマスホワイト/礼紋 茉莉花
吉田 友一 as クリスマスブラック/姶良 鉄幹
千葉麗子 as クリスマスムラサキ/リシヤ族プリンセス•メイ
市川 洋介 as クリスマスシャイン/ヒカル
ドギー・クルーガー as Himself/クリスマスマスター
姜 暢雄(the male, if you know what I mean) as クリスマスブワルブライジャー/霞 一鍬
逢沢 りな as クリスマスゴールド/楼山 早輝
伊藤 陽佑 as クリスマスシルバー/江成 仙一
Don‘t forget the arsenal

From the *insert our last name here* Corporation

I iz scared.

Hope they send Ninja.  I hear they rock at washing windows.

Yesterday I went to the optometrist.

Just a little checky checky considering I haven’t been for 3 years and my current old lady reading glasses are kinda making my eyes tired and I hate them with the passion of the billion suns that shine out of my brothers arse.

Ironically, I gotz me the old lady reading glasses when Boo was going in for a check up to see why he does the squinty head on the side flap his fingers in front of his face while grimacing thing.  I could have told them it was just a Booism.  But NOOOOOOOO a school nurse was all ‘hello… this kid needs glasses’ and I was all ‘well fuck me, ANOTHER thing for him to add to his diet’

So I took him to the optometrist.  Because I am a good mother.  And because of said good motherage I allowed the optometrist to check my eyes first so Boo could see what would happen.

I walked out with a six hundred dollar pair of old lady glasses and Boo skipped out all squinty head on the side flap his fingers in front of his face while grimacing Booism.

Suckage.

I have put up with these fuckers for 3 years and decided that I would treat myself to a new pair for my birthday.  Now don’t panic my biatches, my birthday is not for a couple of weeks so you have PLENTY of time to send me copious amounts of gifts and cash and my optometrist has plenty of time to make sure my new glasses are ready in time.  And I think I deserve a pair of glasses that reflect my awesomeness rather than make me look like the crazy cat lady.

When I went in to make my appointment I was served by the most gorgeous flamboyant manchild.  As I approached the wall of glasses he flitted over and squealed ‘Darling! Let me help you!  Oh My GOD they are FABULOUS on you!’  so obviously we were immediately BFF.

I showed him my current glasses, and after he fawned all over my ’simply GORGEOUS’ handbag and shoes his face screwed up when he saw my glasses.  He had to hold himself up on the counter while whispering ‘hideous’ and ’simply ghastly!’

Um.  I didn’t think they were THAT bad…

And then, with the flourish of a Mardi Gras dancer he produced a pair of glasses and gently placed them on my face and stood back.  ‘Darling.  Absolutely DARLING’

So obviously I bought them.  Cause I am a sucker for a gay boy.  Well not LITERALLY, cause well… you know… the whole not having a penis thing.

Ahem.

Fast forward to yesterday when I had my eye test.  After the machine that is supposed to automatically stop just in front of your face and blow a puff of air PUNCHED ME IN THE EYE REPEATEDLY and endless ‘is this better?  This? This? THIS?’ I wandered out with a watery eye and a prescription for stronger reading glasses.

Apparently I have the eyes of a 45yr old.  Which blows but is awesome cause I had the eyes of a 45yr old 3 years ago, so technically they are getting younger.

By the time I am 60 I will have the eyes of an Anime character.

* I never got the attraction to Bette Davis’ eyes.  I always thought that they were kinda weird and poppy outty {medical term}.  Maybe Kim Carnes got too many hits to the head with the supposed to automatically stop just in front of your face and blow a puff of air but punches in the eye repeatedly machine.

Or maybe she didn’t have a faaaaaabulous gay boy BFF to pick out her glasses.