Not Autism can’t control impulses due to sensory over-stimulation, more fucking little shitness.

MPS made him an omelette to his specifications.  However it was not in a timeframe that Boo felt was acceptable.  The time frame being AFTER we had finished dinner, of something he was quite welcome to partake, but chose out of comfort or stubbornness to have his requisite omelette.

Dude loves him some omelette.

So the omelette was made and then subsequently thrown in the bin in a fit of defiance.

Then removed from the bin and thrown at the chair.

And then he touched the TV.

Woah Nelly, NO ONE touches the new bigscreen while Mummy is watching Masterchef.

So Sir ShittyLiver was sent to his room.

When he was allowed out he was full of piss and vinegar and then sent himself back to his room (cause no one tells Boo what to do, even if it means he has to punish himself to assert his will) via Too’s.

He hoisted himself up on her loft bed and heaved a sigh.

‘My parents are annoying me!’

Awwwwwww.

He is becoming a Damn Emo.

I am so proud.

Good thing we don’t have a puppy.

And MPS ain’t home.

But, when this happened firefox logged me out of google reader and as I was huffing and puffing and being all surly about the damn inconvenience I noticed there was a list of ‘popular’ feeds.

After scrolling through endless copies of my blog posts (you know, cause I am so uber popular and awesome and shit, derr) I found some stuff that made me gaffaw.  Mainly because it was toilet humour.

Cause that is how my inner 12 year old rolls.

Like the family that lost their dog.  And thought it perfectly reasonable to leave a trail of urine to lure their puppy back home.  Seriously, you have to wonder about the thought processes of the adults in the family to think ‘hey!  Everyone else puts up lost posters and drive around looking for Fluffy!  How about we strap Billy to the back of the car and drive around while he leaves a pee trail!’  and then little Mary was all ‘Muuuuuuum! I want a turn!’ Family’s urine bid to locate dog - via BBC

Perhaps they have been reading about urine power.  I was particularly interested to read, when interested means OMG head explosion, that personal electronic devices could be urine powered.  And you KNOW where my head went with that…and then I read further. ‘One molecule of urea, a major component of urine, contains four atoms of hydrogen bonded blahblahblah‘  Wait.  Back up a second science dude.  Urea?

Fuck me dead.  There is piss in my face cream.  My face cream brings all the dogs to the yard.Urine: A ‘Clean Energy Source - Discovery News

Then there is the tale of the two Russian chicks.

There is the chick who holds the world record of the strongest vagina.  Apparently she heard ancient chicks inserted wooden balls in their ‘intimate’ girly bits to strengthen muscles.  So she used glass balls.  As you do, cause I would much rather glass shards over splinters any day.  Meet the worlds strongest vagina - Scanner.

Not to be outdone by her fellow Ruski who yelled a bear and scared the shit out of it “Tatiana had attacked the bear from behind and dragged it away, she then shouted at the animal so loudly that it fled into the forest.” Russian woman beats a bear barehanded after it attacks her husband - MosNews.com

They definitely breed their chicks different over there.

And to end this bizarre little ol’ post I will leave you with a little edumacation.

How to open a banana like a monkey.

Go do it.  You know you want to.

Long day was looooooooong.

I woke this morning after the most vivid fucking dreams of murderers and evil doers being all evil and shit on my arse and dragged said arse to work wearing jeans and flat shoes.

And every fucker was all ‘what’s with the flat shoes?’ and ‘Jeans?  Where is the usual Kelley glamour showing off your stunning legs..’ and I am all get away from me smelly old man, I don’t care if you were in ‘Nam, I have negotiated my way through a mosh pit with a Black Russian and a straw, I will end you.

I fought demons and evil doers in a dungeon with my sword.  AKA a team of arsehats in a meeting room with the lash of my red pen.  OMG how I adore my red pen.  So symbolic when you are tearing infidels work to pieces, waving my Style Guide and Law Books and screaming BOW TO MY BIBLE BITCHES!

By the end of it I was so sick of the sound of my evil cackling own voice I was looking forward to going home for a touch of quiet surfing of the old internetz.

Ha!  School holidays.  Dammit.

I had barely set foot in the front door when the phone rang.  It was the neurologists office saying they had a cancellation (I have been on the emergency waiting list for almost 3 months) and could I make it there in 45 minutes.

Sure, says I.  Not a problem.

Cue mad running around the house to locate MRI’s and CT’s and referral letters.

It is only a 20 minute wait (I really should have gone to the loo beforehand after the 2 extra large double shot lattes in the smackdown meeting) with the bottle blonde in a Marilyn Manson tshirt staring intently at the Who magazine, while her two rangas ‘Skye’ and ‘Misty’ fend for themselves.  Skye seems fascinated that her little sister, who is probably 3 months old to her 18 or so months, bounces so well when she drops her repeatedly on the floor.  ‘Sk-eyyyye, Misty don’t like that’ Blondie whines, as she turns the page of her magazine.

As I sit there pondering who of the trio is in fact seeing the neurologist, the doctor calls my name.

In a nutshell, I did the right thing in messing around with the timing of my old lady meds and I need to slow the fuck down.

And get more sleep.

And go on a relaxing holiday.

So I am thinking the perfect solution is that someone needs to organise a babysitter, and someone needs to find a 5 STAR hotel with room service and all the bells and whistles, and someone needs to book said hotel/motel/whatevz for TWO NIGHTS late checkout, and that someone needs to make sure that everyone is organised and happy and whatever so I can look oh so surprised that someone would do something so wonderful for me.

mmmmm, this place fits the bill

And I would be all oh you shouldn’t have.

And someone would be all oh but you deserve nothing but the best for you *insert flattering phrase here*, now get into your pyjamas and climb into this huge king sized bed and watch whatever you want on this big screen tv with 100’s of cable channels while I peel you a grape and rub your feet.  You don’t have to lift a finger except to adjust your tiara or open these gifts that I have so thoughtfully bought and wrapped so beautifully for you.

Let me light these candles that I brought with me to delicately light the room while you sip your wine and eat these handmade truffles.

And I would be all wow, I really am a princess.  Now fluff my pillows.

But of course, someone would say, anything for you.

And then my neurologist would be all good job MPS someone, good job.

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.