It has been a monster HUGE weekend in Casa De Bold.

Boo went to an over night camp with a disability service.

Boo came home from over night camp with a disability service before the actual sleeping over part necessitating us driving over an hour in the dark cold rain setting my Stroke Brain to OMGCAN’TCOPELETSSCREAMANDTHENCRYTHEENTIREWAYHOME and then getting up at sparrows arsecrack to get him back there after breakfast.

But there was FOOD.

Lunch BEFORE we had to go get him on Saturday…

How adorable is the chip basket?  I can’t even handle it.

Browniiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee…

And motherfucking BRUNCH like the fancy ladies in their jogging gear with their jogger strollers and perky fucking ponytails and bitch I am pretty sure you just walked here cause your makeup is FLAWLESS after we dropped him off in the morning.

Baked beans with chorizo for the WIN.

After what was essentially a bitch fight about who gets the least down time, it was conceded that we rarely get to actually LEAVE THE HOUSE, so we spent the rest of the day wandering around shops and buying shit until the credit card started to warp.

And while MPS mopped the floors (cause that shit can’t happen when the 6ft5 toddler who slips on floors and cracks his head open is around, and at $50 a pop for the physio I aint doing that shit any time soon) I set about beautifying our house with our new purchases which included this lamp which I am completely in love with for some bizarre reason.  I have way more ornate and expensive lamps around the place…

But it just makes me smile. It is just perfect for that little corner.

I love you, Lamp.

(I wonder if anyone recognises that disco ball on the right there…)

Tonight MPS will be installing the motorised Disco Ball so the love affair may be short lived.

A weekend of light and shade.

How was yours?

Are you a lamp person too?

P.S. No I am not mentioning the huge scratch a certain enormous toddler that is currently pulling apart my kitchen looking for, what I am surmising is a drink bottle, made down the side of our BRAND NEW 2 month old car whilst bringing his bag full of shit to stay at camp that he didn’t use cause he didn’t stay at camp inside.  No, not at all.  Too soon.  Too fucking soon.

I love Lamp and other adventures. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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Behold, Magneto Bold Too – MB2 for short – the medication.

From Drugs.com

Bwaaaaa haaaaa haaaaa… anxiety.

and the side effects are, according to Wikipedia:

yep.  Totally sounds like my blog.  Constipation AND Diarrhea.  Excitement AND Fatigue.  Insomnia AND Drowsiness.

I don’t know what the fuck I am doing and neither does my namesake medication.

And OMG DOES YOUR BLOG HAVE IT’S OWN FUCKING STRUCTURAL FORMULA OF A CHEMICAL COMPOUND?

I thought not.

I am pretty sure I just won at everything.

When irony is absolutely hilarious. And a little terrifying. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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Days where it is meeting upon meeting, all concentrating on deficits and not achievements.

I dropped my smiling boy off at school and arrived just on time to my first meeting.

A meeting to register my boy for social activities, to get out in the real world – with supports – with people his own age.

Two hours later, after painting my boy as the most horrific child ever to walk this earth (the GIRL is going to be there! THE GIRL AND MY BOY IN A SOCIAL SETTING.  Fuck) to ensure that they are as prepared as possible for anything, I wearily drag myself to the car to go to yet another meeting.

Stopping home for a quick revitalising latte.  And if I am brutally honest I would have killed someone for a stress relieving cigarette.

In the next meeting we talk about puberty and hormones and Boo’s tendency to shout ‘SCANDALOUS!’ when he doesn’t get his way.

And on to hygiene and strategies to get him learn to express his feelings.

Finishing up with an impromptu one on one in the carpark with his worker talking about strategies to deal with THE GIRL.

I want to shout to the world that he is fabulous and wonderful and hilarious and brave and adorable and caring and has the wickedest sense of humour in the world and PLEASE OH PLEASE CAN WE FOCUS ON THAT JUST ONCE?

But we have to focus on the negative.  His awesomeness is not an issue.  His awesomeness is WHY these people want to help him but it is so fucking hard when all we are focussing on is this small part of the whole.

Home again, just enough time to stare blankly into the pantry for something to eat before leaving again, and finding nothing.

Triple shot latte in a travel mug it is!

Get to school and meet with his teacher.  Heads up on the days meetings and strategising about how to deal with THE BOY AND THE GIRL.  And he saw a new OT.  She wants to work with him privately.

Of course she does.  Now I have another round of funding nightmare to break out the hoops for.

*deep exhausted sigh*

My boy wanders in.

‘Hey mum’

We wrap up the meeting and Boo and I walk to the car, where he tells me that he knows where to get the best sausage rolls in the world from, and maybe, one day, he can take me there for a treat.

He is smiling down at me and I smile back.

‘I would like that very much, buddy’

He is the glue that puts me back together.

Days like today break me. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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I am home from work today.

Spending the day in a haze of painkillers and skanky hos from Big Rich Texas (OMG RHONJ returns next week and between this and that I shall have my fill of crazy bitches. HUZZAH!) recovering from my bi-weekly session with Tim the Physiotherapist.

Or as I like to call him Tiny Lucifer.

Dude is like 5 foot tall and just out of nappies, but has the strength of a skanky reality TV ho lifting a car off a pair of Louboutin’s.

And I hurt like a motherfucker.

But, I concede, in the few weeks I have been seeing him, I am not up all night crying with pain and when he tapes my shoulders back – despite the agony – I totally look like that redhead in Mad Men.

It just just not conducive to TYPING or actually getting any work done.

And there is the whole face contorted in pain thing.

Anywhoo, I AM getting better, I am just discovering other areas that I was broken that were masked by the ratfucksonofabitch pain coming from my shoulder.  And Tiny Lucifer is working on those until I threaten to punch him in the neck.

To which he giggles like a school girl cause we both know there is no way I am getting off that table without help.

Because of my tendency to stroke out – BTW yesterday was my second Strokeaversary of my second brain fart and no fucker bought me a donut to celebrate – and I am managing the inflammation with supermarket anti-inflammatories and curse words, it is going be a looooooong drawn out process but, hopefully, some time in the future I will be pain free.

And be able to lift my arms above my head so we can finally act out the scenes in Fifty Shades of Grey.*

Are all Physiotherapists fucking evil?

Have you ever put yourself through agony in the hope that the reward would be worth it?

Can someone come and mop my floors?

* fifty shades of my daughters grey matter all over the ceiling after reading that I am anticipating.  Bwaaa haaaaa haaaa.

No pain, no gain. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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A month or so ago I received 2 Tefal Cook 4 Me cooker thingies for the purposes of disproving the theory that:

One: Husbands are idiots and can’t cook;

and Two: university students live on 2 minute noodles and 2am cheeseburgers cause they can’t cook.

Here is the first tale… it proved and disproved the first theory.

Words completely MPS’s own and do not reflect the awesomeness of the blogger.

The Time & word economic cooker story.

This is all true:

1)   My dearly departed Mum cooked with a pressure cooker *all the time* . It suited Hungarian dishes …

2)   This new Tefal cooker works on the same principals, but is a million times more modern than the cast iron thang that used to scare the shit of of my wife, &

3)   I’ve cooked two meals with this thing and (once I worked out what I was doing), it was easy.

It had me at ‘Hello, I have a colour LCD display’, but nearly lost me with the manual (Mid term essay: Writing proper instructions is a long lost art. – discuss).

I am not a cook, and Kelley hates me asking questions about stuff she assumes I should know about, so I started cautiously. And stopped.

And then asked “What do I do next”.

OK: prepare the ingredients. This is the part they don’t tell you about when they say “meals in 15 minutes”. Apparently preparing is not cooking. That will save this season of MasterChef about 40 minutes per episode …

But I digress. This is me ‘preparing, but not cooking’:

1)   I took a leek

2)   Onion’s have layers – and so do leeks

3)   Parmesan cheese tastes great, but smells like cat piss

4)   All this is after about 45 minutes of not cooking …

The rest was easy – although some of the instructions are as obvious as advice on feeding a baby is to a new mother (It says feed her every 30 minutes, but it takes half an hour to feed, so – do I wait, or just keep feeding until she explodes?).

Spoiler: I worked it out. Here’s how it’s done:

1)   I’m obviously slow at preparing

2)   I thought that was the point …

3)   Waiting …

4)   Cooking starts *NOW*!

Hints:

Take every piece of direction the display gives you literally.

But, when it says ‘Browning for two minutes’ – it’s expecting *you* to do the browning & timing, and then press ok when you’re finished.

(ed note: I actually think this is a GOOD thing. That way if it takes a little longer to make sure the food is cooked all the way through you don’t have to worry about getting out of synch with the machine)

After doing exactly what the machine told me to do (similar to wifely interactions), the meal cooked, and we ate it.

I’m proud to say I didn’t fuck up.

I like this device!

Post Script: The second time cooking, I shaved the preparation time considerably … so much so that when Kelley came in to see if I had finished preparing … the meal was ready!

Editors note: We have yet to cook anything but risotto because HELLO RISOTTO THAT DOESN’T NEED STIRRING and HELLO STRAPPED UP USELESS SHOULDER and it was fucking delicious.

And sure, the book promises 6 minute risotto and it was no where near 6 minutes but it saved a buttload of time and now MPS is psyched to try other recipes…

which is all part of my evil plan.  Mwaaaaa haaaaaa haaaaa!

P.S.  Don’t forget to tell MPS how awesome he is, there is a stroganoff in the book that I wouldn’t mind getting served up this week…

Husbands can cook too. Who knew? A guest post and review by MPS is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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Recently I found myself wishing for Boo to be 3 again.

Back to the days where the only words he uttered were echolalic.

Where meltdowns could last hours.  Resulting in even more hours of us sitting on the floor, limbs entwined to apply as much deep pressure to his body as possible in a human macrame of sorts.

The days spent in intensive therapy, nights researching and creating materials.

The good old days.

…

I have always maintained that teenagers suck.  They are designed that way so they can spread their wings and fly, and as parents we can let them go.

And breathe a huge sigh of relief as we slam the door on their ungrateful arses.

But when you have a teenage toddler things are different.

Right now we have a reward chart on our fridge for our almost 15 year old manchild, saying that if he doesn’t bite or hit anyone this week he can buy a game designed for babies.

Our house is filled with reading materials about puberty and relationships aimed at his developmental age, and while driving home from school one day Boo decided to inform me that if a boy rubs his penis sometimes white stuff called semen comes out.

(I was driving.  I deserve recognition that not only did I NOT crash the car I managed to keep my composure and had a discusion about it.  A motherfucking DISCUSSION ABOUT MASTURBATION ON THE WAY HOME FROM SCHOOL. RESPECT.)

And when he got in the door he raced to his computer to finish the game he was playing on the Sesame Street website.

…

There is a girl at school that wants to come over for a play date.

Her words.  Not mine.

She has pretty eyes.

And boobs.

Her and Boo clash constantly, she teases him and he hits or bites her.

The teachers tell me that they are flirting with each other.  That they have crushes.

My Sesame Street website playing, Blues Clues video game playing, Teletubbies obsessed 6ft 5 baby has hormones rushing through his body that he cannot make sense of.

He doesn’t know what to do with.

He is becoming aggressive.

No where near as bad as when he was 3.  Or even 7.

But with a lot of height and a hell of a lot of weight behind him, throwing a tantrum in the general vicinity of anyone is a lesson in agility.

Get out of the way or else.

Thankfully, everyone has got out of the way.

Except for the girl.

And he gets so frustrated and angry and HORMONAL that she gets bit.

It reminds me of when the little girl I used to look after as a teen, loved her bunny SO VERY MUCH that she couldn’t contain herself and she squeezed it to death.

That the girl and my boy don’t know how to process this teenagerdom, developmentally small children as they are in grown up peoples bodies, means that they are going to react in WILDLY inappropriate ways.

That the girl will be told over and over and OVER again to not say this particular phrase to my boy or he will bite her, yet she will go out of her way to do it.

That my boy will be told over and over and OVER again to walk away and tell a teacher if she annoys him, but time and time again he reacts with aggression and, if pushed far enough, biting her on top of the head.

There is no reasoning.

There is no bargaining.

There is a long road ahead of us trying to integrate very adult urges, into age appropriate responses, in essentially children that are only just learning how to play.

But nature marches on, whether you are ready for it or not.

Resistance is futile.

Classic Autism and teenage hormones. Send reinforcements. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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Sorry for the ABBA bastardisation.  It had to be done.

Since Google reader is about to disappear into the great internet ether, everyone is scrambling to find a new RSS feed reader.

Or not, whatever.

I am currently playing around with Feedly and Bloglovin’.  And to be honest Feedly is winning out cause just the name of the other one makes me make all kinds of rolly eyed faces.  But Bloglovin’ has a feature that I am kinda crushing on.

As you can see in the sidebar there, there is a button of sorts for Bloglovin’.

Click on it.

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

And then tell me you have in the comments and I will follow you right on back.

The good thing about this reader is that other people can click on it to find other blogs to read and follow.

There are even suggestions of blogs like mine.  (Dunno how some of those that are flagged as being like mine would feel about that though)

And then, when google reader is no more, the blogs I read will just be my ‘community’ rather than hundreds of blogs that I cannot remember why I subbed to in the first place.

So friends reading friends, biatch to biatch.

And that is kinda awesome.

Yes?

P.S. If you actually want to move all your feeds from Google Reader to Bloglovin’ (and not start a clean slate like me) you can do that here.  You are welcome. x

Follow me, follow you. It’s the best I can do. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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I seriously couldn’t find an image about a husband being right.  True story.

I am on a kick of ‘fix that shit’, and the current project is my ratfucksonofabitch shoulder.

Those of you that have been around these parts for a while (or are uber archivers *waves*) will know that quite a while back 4 years ago! I damaged my shoulder, but LIFE got in the way, along with a little brain fart 2 days before the surgeons appointment, and then a series of most unfortunate events sorta kinda took precedence over my screaming shoulder.  So nothing got done about it.

And what the heck, I had another one after all.

Fast forward to the last few months, and the shoulder that was doing all the grunt work because of the ratfucksonofabitch useless shoulder, went all OH, HELL NO and decided to show me what REAL chronic pain is all about motherfucker.

So here we are, fixing shit and finally seeing a physiotherapist that I could snap like a twig, and will probably have to schedule appointments around his year 8 exams but has the hands of a 30 year old rugby player on steroids.

Oh it hurts so good.

How does this have anything to do with my husband being right?  Hold onto your panties, I am setting a SCENE here.

Sheesh.

After seeing Doogie Howser on Wednesday, I have had my shoulder taped up and by this morning it was getting to the point where even MPS was suggesting it would be a good idea if I bit the bullet and washed my hair.

Day-um.

(as an aside: I could totally SHOWER with the taped up shoulder, just not wash my hair.  And the build up of dry shampoo was starting to look a little like Magic Sand.  Sexy.)

I have got to the point where I am filled with dread at the thought of washing my hair.  The pain tips the scale around 9cm dilated with a 3 headed baby.

MPS, well aware of the pain washing my hair causes not only me but everyone in earshot, suggested maybe perhaps I could possibly think about but totally only if I want to take my uber pain killers BEFORE my shower to loosen up my shoulders, instead of AFTER my shower when I can barely lift my hand to my mouth to chug those fuckers down before retiring to the couch with my useless arms at my side for the next 10 hours.

And fuck me dead the fucker was right.  The pain killers totally took the edge off and I reckon it will only take me an hour or so to recover.

So, yes MPS, you were right.

And here is the blog post to tell the world.  If I was totally pain free I would bake you a cake.

(probably not, but the sentiment was sorta there)

So has your partner/significant other past or present ever actually been right?

Were you as shocked as me?

Did you bake them a cake or just quietly sulk for a while?

I go back to the physio on Monday and he is going to work on BOTH shoulders.  Perhaps I should book a hair wash at the hairdressers and take a flask of medicinal margaritas…

The one where my husband was right. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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Building up my armour.

Physically and emotionally.

trying to win the war. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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I had the perfect, HILARIOUS post title to describe Mothers Day.

Alas it involved words and themes that I cannot speak of, so completely wasted.

Fuck it.

It was a lovely day, I was spoiled rotten by Boo and Maddie, got a text message that made my eyes leak from Ally and another that made me smile from mah biatch Bettina, and MPS made the most amazing piklets with caramelised banana and walnuts that I want for every meal for the rest of my life.

Pics in the side bar or Instagram.  Check out my earrings Boo got me from the Mothers Day stall.  Fabulous, yes?

Fuckers are HEAVY.  And make me want toffees.  And Boo is so damn proud of himself he wants me to wear them ALL THE TIME.

I busied myself with solving a Rubics Cube that randomly appeared on my ottoman, while my house filled with people, in person and via screen.

Sister in love is having a girl in September.  The family rejoiced.

I got all yellow on one side.

…

Boo is at camp and I am totally and utterly beside myself with freakoutedness.  Is he happy? Is he sleeping? Did they remember to give him his meds?  Is the little bastard even missing me AT ALL?!?!

So the perfect solution was to wander around the city – just me and my fucked up stroke brain – riding up and down escalators that, because of my lack of depth perception, made it scarier than an episode of The Walking Dead mashed with that scene with the velocoraptors in the kitchen from Jurassic Park.*

I am pretty sure you could see my heart bouncing around under my top.  That is probably why people were avoiding me.

That and the heavy breathing.

I continued this behaviour for 3 hours.  And I forgot to buy any macarons.

I ended my adventure with being followed by some fat – I am assuming homeless cause I am an arsehole – dude stalking me all the way to meet with MPS and Maddie.

He fell asleep waiting for me near the exit of the food court while I sat near the ATM’s checking my emails.

He probably wanted my new hand creme from Jurlique.  That shit smells amazing.

…

Last night I got a text message from a friend who is having a shit filled fucked up time – more shit filled and fucked up than you can imagine, just to say that I was on her mind and she hoped I was OK.

And the timing was so exquisitely perfect that then, right at that moment, I was.

Thank you Eden.

Thanks to you I didn’t need that 2nd valium.

…

Every damn day I consider closing down this blog.  Just deleting it all and walking away.  But then where will I whinge cause my family are sick of hearing about it I realise that it is just the state of my mind right now and I will totally regret not doing a flounce post where I out all the bitches. And post a picture of my arse.

Related: I have the number for my work EAP** just have to get the guts to call them.

…

I am thoroughly disgusted and dismayed at the person I see in the mirror.  I am at the point where something needs to change.  I need to eat regularly and better and stop drinking my calories.

After we go out for dinner tonight.  Obviously.  My kid is at camp, mummy needs to get her tapas and margarita on.

And Instagram the shit out of it.

* one would, and rightly so, wonder WHY THE FUCK I would choose to ride up and down escalators as I clearly cannot master the foot/eye coordination to execute such a feat without having to hide in the ladies change rooms with a shirt 3 sizes too small grabbed off the rack outside to enable me to indulge in a mild omgisithotinhereitistotallyhotinherewhyaremyeysleakingSAVEMEFROMMYSELFOMG in private, and one would be wondering the same thing as me.  In hindsight I probably should have not done that.  Or gone to the city.

**Employee Assistance Program – where you can get counselling on the company dime.  I guess it is so you don’t go all postal on their arses.

miscellany is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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