And me, being the easily distracted chick that I am, basically forgets straight away.

So here you go my lovelies, the bloggers version of Propofol, the UPDATE POST!

(too early for MJ jokes?  Oh, my bad… cause I’m bad, I’m bad, you know it…)

So what happened with Moo and the unwashed jumper?  Did she contact her local Human Rights advisor?

The jumper was washed eventually.  When I was good and fucking ready, but it had to be washed cause it was a school jumper.   I did fart on it before I threw it on the floor of her bedroom though.  So I still win.

Who won the damn competition that you ran?

No-one.  Cause I suck.  But I will make it up to you.  Eventually.  Cause I suck.

Are you going to finish ‘Anatomy of a brain fart’ and update us on how you are going with the whole recuperation thing?  And what about that Marburg/Sports injury thing?

I will eventually get around to filling you guys in on what happened.  Even almost 4 months later I am not up to it.  The arm thing comes and goes but I can’t do a fucking thing about it cause of the whole brain fart thing.  My appointment with the neurologist is on July 20 (after 3 months of waiting) and hopefully we will get some answers then.  And I will let you know.  Maybe.

And the ninja!  What happened to Too after the whole forgery ninja stealing her clothes thing?

I know you would love to hear that the ninja stole her bedroom.  And when I told the chicks at work they were all DAMMIT WOMAN why didn’t you call us and we would have helped you.  But I was unable to rise to the occasion cause at that stage I was barely able to wipe my own freaking arse, let alone lug a loft bed out of her room.

So I did the next best thing.  I sat her down and told her how disappointed I was.  How I relied on her to tell me the truth.  I pulled the stroke card (what?  She started it!) and asked her how I was ever going to be able to trust her again.  And to please just go to her room cause just seeing her made me sad.

Two hours later she came out crying and apologised and was fucking devastated.

MUMMY FOR THE WIN!

(and yeah, I felt bad and told her what I had planned to do and she was all ‘you totally should have mum! That would have been awesome!’  And it would have been.)

As punishment I made her clean her room and then took her out and bought her a pair of these.

Fucking AWESOME Doc Martens

Poor child.  She should have the Dept of Childrens Services on speed-dial.  Or ask her sister to hit her up with the number of the local human rights activist.

So, whats the deal with MPS?  You were all ‘he is not here and living with my parents’ and then nothing.  And then you mention him in posts and on twitter and we are all WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WOMAN?

Yes, we separated.  It was for a month or so.  It was hard.  It was necessary.  He is back home and we are working through the issues.  Sorry, I am gunna plead Forrest Gump ‘that is all I have to say about that’.

Do your kids/family/friends read your blog?

My girls know about my blog, they tease me incessantly about it.  Until I buy something like fucking AWESOME Doc Martens or Christmas presents with the proceeds and then they are all ‘you rock the internetz mum’

Or words to that effect.

They tell me they don’t read it.  And if they do in secret, I bet they are washing their eyes out with bleach after the last post.  *snort*

Other than that, MPS is the only person IRL that knows about my blog.  And I like it that way.

Your workplace sounds horrific!  How are things going at work?  You work with some real arsehats.  Where do you work and can I come and visit you?

Work is work.  Everyone has their issues.  In reality I enjoy my job, but the good days don’t make for good blogging - I kicked arse and everyone thinks I am a GODDESS - that sort of thing.  If everyone was nice and awesome and shit I would be totally bored.

But no one really gets the whole internet thing.  Well those I work with anyway.  The other day I nearly busted a blood vessel cracking my shit up while writing a letter that stated ‘All your assets are vest in us’ and not ONE FUCKER got the reference.

(and if you don’t get it, I don’t think we can be friends anymore)

I am not telling you where I work.  But I am hugely important.  And I can bury you if I feel the need.  But apparently there are laws and shit preventing me from doing that.  Well, quickly anyway…

Can I have your address so I can send you stuff?

A few awesome people have sent me things in the mail that have made me squee in delight.  But I know them well enough to divulge my PO Box addy.  I am not giving you my address so you can peek through my windows.

Well not until I can get some decent sleepwear anyway…

Why don’t  you read my blog?

You see it is like this, I DO visit all your blogs.  I am subbed to everyone that comments here.  But I just haven’t had time to comment regularly what with the working and teenagers and Autism and cooking and sexing and being awesome and shit.

(literally shit peeps.  We have Boo on a trial of A2 milk.)

I love each and every one of you.  And I squeeeee when I see you comment.  And I have the perfect email reply in my head and all the good intentions in the world and then I suck.

So the short answer is, I DO read your blog.  And I will try and be better at commenting.  Now get off my fucking back already Ron!

If you got this far without needed CPR and a martini then I applaud you.  And I leave you with the fucking AWESOMENESS of Web Site Story.  Yeah, you have to click through.  But it is worth it.

Something to obsess about.  Cause that is how I roll.

So I have replaced that disgusting habit with two things, that unfortunately I cannot do whenever I want lest I get arrested or be unable to fit through the door.

Sex and food.

As you do.

Thankfully, Australia is currently in the grip of MasterChef mania, so I am all about showing off my culinary skillz.

And Matt is enough to make me NOT think about sex for at least half an hour (for fucks sake dude, wash your damn hair and look in a fucking mirror.  WHITE pants?  WHITE? *vomit*)

*shudder*

So I have been trawling the internetz and dusting off the cookbooks and getting down and dirty in the kitchen with my knife. Laksa and kofta, indian curries and chimichangas, parfait and lemon fucking ANYTHING, have graced our menu of late.

Mouthgasms, followed by the other… *snigger*  makes Kelley one happy girl.

Now excuse me MasterChef is on and I have a Quarter Pounder something gourmet calling my name…

P.S. I am indulging in a little Margarita madness tonight and answering your burning questions of late.  Like what happened to the Ninja colluding Too?  Did Boo murder me with an axe?  What happened with MPS? and Did Moo’s jumper ever get washed?

If you have any burning questions and I have left you hanging, unable to sleep at night, now is the time to ask.

While I am drunk and horny.

OK, just drunk.  I keep looking at that pic of Matt.  Bitch PLEASE!

As I drove into work the announcer declared that it was to be 20C today but don’t get too used to it, it is only the calm before the storm.

At work the topic of conversation swung to the lovely weather and the birds congregating in the trees outside our window.

It is only the calm before the storm some said.

Oh, they have no idea.

At Christmas, Boo decided that he was going to make a movie.  The Power Rangers Christmas movie.

In July.

Boo has talked about nothing else for the last SIX MONTHS.

This person will be this character and they will say this and wear that.

And in a couple of hours it will be the first of July.

And I have to break my boys heart when I explain to him, yet again, that all the kids from school are not coming to make his movie.  That Steven Spielberg and the whole staff of Pixar are not coming and I was unable to secure an empty movie studio to film his movie.

And the spinoff series.

He made some props today.

A six foot tall bow and arrow, a spear and an axe.

A storm is brewing people.  If you need me I will be cowering under the bed.

Dreaming of one day holding you in my hands, gently stroking my hand down your shaft.

My whole body shudders at the thought of owning you, possessing you, waking up knowing that you are there waiting for me.

Today I decided to take the plunge.  To give in to my desires.

To possess you.

Right now you are waiting for me in the other room.  I cannot wait to release you, like a gift to myself, grab hold of you and get you down right dirty.

Oh lover.  How you satisfy me.

Worth. Every. Fucking. Cent.

Kitchen shit turns me on.  What can I say… *snigger*

Now excuse me, my lover and I are about to go and get hot and sweaty in the kitchen.

This morning I was backing out of the driveway to take Boo to school.  We were discussing the virtues of building a rocket to get to America quicker than an aeroplane, cause I had a dream that I went to America to stay the night at Bossy’s house, but she had to take her dog to the vet so I ended up staying at Lotus’s (Lotus’? Lotuses? Lotii’s? Whatever, bewbgirls house…) and we went to a field to pick Reeses Pieces from sunflowers.

Cause that would be awesome.

Boo didn’t like the idea of being cooped up in an aeroplane for hours, hence the rocket theory.

Anyway…

We were chatting and I was being an excellent driver and looking out all my mirrors and driving slowly down the long driveway wondering what shoes one would wear to pick Reeses Pieces from sunflowers, when I came to the end and saw the postman/postlady/postfucker waiting to the side behind the six foot fence that obscures my view.

I waved and she/he/fucker shook its head like I was not in fact an excellent driver but a hoon barrelling out of the drive hoping to hit a puppy or an old person with a walking frame or something…

And I ask you, what is the sport in that?  It is only 5 points if you hit an oldie with a walking frame.  Twenty points if you hit a jogger. Especially one wearing these:

tool

I resisted the urge to flip the bitch on her motorcycle ON THE FUCKING FOOTPATH at 10 to 9 in the morning on a foggy day, lest she decide to not deliver my mail or spit in it or some shit and then as I was driving down the road and looked back in my mirror and it is still fucking shaking its helmet covered head I realised that all the mail I get is bills and bad news and I should have hit the bitch and then reversed over the motorbike.

I reckon I would have got the keys to the city or an Order of Australia or a free donut and chocolate malted milkshake as a thankyou.

Apparently, The Boyfriend had an accident and was all cut up.  Split lip, black eye, the whole shebang and needed to be comforted by Miss Pathetically !!DYING!!

I was a little concerned, cause I am not a total heartless bitch.  Until I found out what happened.  Then I was all Bwaaaaa haaaaa haaaaaaaaaa! *deep breath* bwaaaaaaa haaaaa haaaaaa

My reaction didn’t go down well.  But I ask you, my lovelies, is this not fucking hilarious or what?

It seems that The Boyfriend was having a hot shower.  The fan in The Boyfriends bathroom is not working.  The Boyfriend was a little over come with the ’steaminess’ of the bathroom and passed out giving himself a black eye and a split lip in the process.

*snigger*

Moo fawned all over him like he had 2 weeks to live or something, not that he was a big girly man that can’t handle a little steam.

Meh.

The next morning MPS was having a shower and called out ‘Kel! Help! The room is too steamy, I feel faint!’

*snort*

Moo was not impressed.

Fucking funny shit or poor baby got a boo boo traumatic event?

And now for my question.  I wandered over to Feedburner, I don’t go over there often cause well, apparently there are stats and shit there and I just don’t wanna know.  Ya know?  Anyhooha, I went there and noticed this:

The circles and boxes and arrows are my little addition.

And I am all  WTF?  What is with all the feeds?  How the hell do I just make them all one?

Somebody?  Somebody?

So to recap:

Is The Boyfriend just a big girly man or victim of a horrific accident that is not getting its due from the heartless Mrs Moo? (and yes, the fucker calls me Mrs Moo.  Fucker.)

and

How do I get all my feeds into one?  Cause it looks messy, and messy makes me uncomfortable.

The senior managers go on this shit all the time.  Sometimes it is to a flash hotel overlooking the city lights, others an island on the Whitsundays.  On one of these junkets they decided that in order to lift moral they should throw a few shekels the way of the people that actually do the fucking work and send us all on a day out.

A day to let us get to know ourselves and each other a little better.  With free food and a little OMFG WE ARE DOING WHAT NOW? thrown in for good measure.

The memo sent out stated it was ‘rustic’ and to wear comfortable shoes.

Okay then.

So I wore jeans, a lacy top and these adorable cute little Mary Janes with red stitching.  That totally went with my bag.

And a wrap.  You know, for just in case we had to stand around outside waiting for the bus or something.  It IS winter after all.

I need to interrupt this tale to say, I grew up in the city.  I live in the country, but I am a city girl.  I don’t do ‘dirty’ or ‘rustic’ or ‘camping’ or ‘instant coffee’ or any of that sort of thing.  Roughing it to me is a 4 star hotel…

So anyway, we all pile into a bus and drive the hour or so to our destination.

We drive up a dirt road and I look out the window and quip ‘Oh THERE it is!’ pointing to a tin shed with no walls on three sides.  I am giggling as I turn to my workmates and they all look at me like I have lost my mind and tell me that yes, it is and why are you grinning like a loon?

The look of complete abject horror on my face sent the bus load of officeworkers that have lived in the country for their entire lives into hysterics.  One even choked on her own spit.

Cause she is classy like that.

We piled out of the bus, I am still thinking this is a horrible joke when the doors open and I see plastic garden furniture set up in the required U shape of our meeting room.

Wood chips on the floor.  Tin roof with SKULLS of DEAD ANIMALS hanging along with rusty dangerous looking (what I surmised) farm equipment.  A fucking DANCE FLOOR in the corner and plastic mugs next to a jar of generic brand instant coffee.

I. Am. In. Hell.

There is plastic up against the walls, blowing in the arctic winds and a huge fireplace the size of my lounge room burning with a fucking TREE in it.

Our senior manager is running around taking photos of everyone - probably as proof we turned up -  and every single pic is of me looking at the roof.  Checking for spiders.

By now my feet are iceblocks.  My wrap is wound around my body and the only source of warmth is the forest ablaze near the door or *shudder* instant coffee.  The trainer smiles sweetly and informs us we are about to take a personality test.

Fucking brilliant.

By now I am ready to cut a bitch, but I do the test and answer the questions the way I know they want them answered and I come out as an introvert people pleaser and pray that someone, anyone will come and save me from this horror.

Or at least has some rum to take away the pain.

We have lunch - apparently that is what they called the slop - and then are informed that we are to take on MORE work with less time and hey, we are getting new desks!  Half the size of the ones we have.

Oh fuck me dead.  What?

But the true horror was to come.

A team building exercise.

Oh yes.

I was teamed up with 3 others, one of which is the girl that sits near me that never ever stops eating.  And likes to pretend that she knows what she is talking about by talking really loudly over everyone just regurgitating what someone else has said.

We had to throw an egg without breaking it using straws, string, balloons, tape and paper.

I designed an aerodynamic tee-pee construction with the egg tightly wrapped in tape with a cushioning lightly inflated balloon inside.  It was fucking awesome.

The others tied fully inflated balloons to it to make it float.

???

We lost.

And fucker face stuffing idea stealing bitch told the manager that she designed the aerodynamic tee pee of awesome.

I lost my fucking shit.  In a professional way of course.

And now she is not speaking to me.

So, despite the freezing ninja arachnid infested instant coffee OMFG say what are we doing now personality testing floor covered in bark that could totally catch fire if the forest rolled out of the loungeroom sized fire pit 8 hours sitting on garden furniture, I think the day was a success.

Now if I could only get the bitch to close her mouth while her face is in the food trough, life would be totally sweet.

First of all a little background.  For those not in Australia, the majority of schools require that kids wear school uniform.  I love this because not only does it save a boat load of money but it just saves the hassles of early morning ‘where is my?’ crap.  If your child needs to be out of uniform for any reason, a note needs to be sent to school.  Too has been wearing jeans to school and told us, when confronted, that it is fine…

You can see where I am going with this, right?

Long story short, Too has been producing a note for being out of uniform EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR OVER A MONTH.

A note that I haven’t written.  Nor has her father.  But we have signed…

As the notes have been getting more and more bizarre, the school decided to give me a call.

Apparently they start off plausible enough with ‘Due to the situation at home…’ probably a letter that was written in March when I was in hospital and the people that live with me thought that I took the washing machine with me or something… meh.

But todays note?  Todays note had them wondering because apparently…

Ninja stole her uniform.

Ninja.

Stole.

Her.

Uniform.

(don’t forget peeps, don’t be pluralising the Ninja.  They will go all crazy on yo arse)

After I regained my composure, I promised to deal with the situation tonight and hung up.

I immediately called MPS to ask if he had been writing notes for Too.  He had not, but when he told his workmates of our daughters forgery and deception, they gave her a standing ovation.

Now I have to deal with this when she gets home.  With a straight face.

I am considering going into her room and removing everything BUT her school uniform.

Sorry Too, ninja stole your bedroom.

Household domestic duties

I am writing to you today in reference to our conversation this morning, 16 June 2009, when you expressed your dismay at an article of clothing not being laundered.  I understand your dissatisfaction stemmed from your belief that your needs were not being met by a member of our household, triggering my letter to you today.

Under the Geneva Convention ‘rights of a child’ (as Part 1 Article 1 states: ‘For the purposes of the present Convention, a child means every human being below the age of eighteen years unless, under the law applicable to the child, majority is attained earlier’, so this would be YOU for the next couple of months anyway) the adults of your household are required by moral and lawful grounds to provide you with adequate food and shelter, also ensuring that you have the means to acquire an education to the standards set by the country of your origin.  There is no provision that states that specific articles of clothing have to be laundered to your satisfaction nor that any other member of the household must psychically appreciate your requirements.

Upon researching your grievances, I came across ‘laundering’ but I don’t believe this pertains to your issue, as it refers to laundering of children and I am of the understanding that you prefer to bathe without the assistance of the person who which you hold this grievance.

Given the opportunity to reflect on your inference that I am in fact ‘lazy’ for not making the particular item available to you in the state you believe you have a right to find it, your general demeanour around the time of your statements, and my desire to live up to the expectations of my offspring, I have made available to you:

• a copy of the Geneva Convention and United Nations Declaration of the right of a child, with relevant paragraphs highlighted for your convenience. It is translated into many languages but alas, not Emo nor spoiled fucking princess

• clean drinking water from the tap

• nutritious food for you to prepare to your liking

• a box of laundry power

• the phone number of the local taxi service

• and a huge fucking BITE ME

And, on request, I can issue you with detailed instructions on how to use the washing machine (again), the oven (again), stovetop and microwave.  The offer to kiss my arse is readily available also.

If you have any further questions or requests please forward these in writing to someone who gives a flying fuck, or consult with your local United Nations representative, whose number I would provide if I wasn’t so goddamn lazy.

Up Yours,

Awesome Mummy esq.

stolen from here

Cause it cracked me up, but Wordpress 2.7, in its wisdom decided that when I hit ’save draft’ I was in fact saying ‘fuck this shit, this post is utter utter crap and I need to START ALL OVER AGAIN’ and I was all ‘Meh to you Wordpress 2.7, I am not in the mood for upgrading or whatever and now I am going to go and sulk on Twitter and then try and clear some of the elevently billion posts in my feedreader…’

And while I was crying over the sheer volume of posts I haven’t even read, and a nasty little voice in my head was saying MAAR, Kelley, MAAR*, I saw my girl Maggie.  Maggie who wrote this awesome guest post the other day.

So I popped on over and saw this post and KNEW that Wordpress 2.7 was wise.  This is what I needed to post about.

Maggie’s baby Violence UnSilenced is up for a BlogLuxe Award as an inspiring blog.  Personally I think her personal blog is a contender for this award, but she has asked us to vote for Violence UnSilenced, an amazing place for survivors of Domestic Violence,  where both men and women can share their stories,  find information and know that they are not alone.

Go now and vote for Violence UnSilenced.  Please and thankyou.

*to save the inevitable questions MAAR = Mark As All Read