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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I don’t like May.

I don’t like the verb and I especially do not care for the month.

Bad things happen in May.

Big bad things and small bad things.

I always get sick in May.

MPS was retrenched in May.

Things I can’t speak of… always, inexplicably, in May.

It is like The Universe is asking permission… Mother May I?

I was hoping that this year would be different.

The seasons seem to be completely fucked up and despite the fact it is only a few weeks until Winter, the trees are only just starting to turn firey red and gold and drop their leaves.

So maybe it is still only April.

Maybe we can skip right over May and whisper my thanks to Mother Nature for having my back.

Maybe that blackness that is being painted over me in thick globs will slip right off and we can hide it under the fallen leaves that make me smile with their beautiful phoenix colours and crunchiness underfoot.

Maybe, if I am strong enough, if I wish hard enough, May might not happen.

May is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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Every year, a couple of days before Mothers Day, I get asked what I want as a gift to symbolise the thanks of my family for feeding, cleaning up after, and loving their punk arses all year.

And in true Mother Martyr style I say something fucking stupid like ‘your love is enough’ or some shit and end up with a fucking toaster* or a box of chocolates from the 2 dollar store.

Idiot.

And then I remember scraping shit outta their underpants and piss off the floors and I’m all MOTHERFUCKING DIAMONDS!  But it is too late because Not Quite Right doesn’t do refunds**

SO this here is a list of shit I want for Mothers Day and how I want it to go down.  I am aware that The Damn Emos are too lazy have other commitments on The Day Of Worshipping She Who Brought You Into This World, so looks like MPS and Boo will have to do double duty.

Especially when darkness descends and MOTY turns up and demands her dues.

*sigh*

Dear Family which actually means MPS,

First up, BREAKFAST.  Please pre-prepare as much as possible the night before so I don’t die of starvation waiting for my fabulous breakfast, complete with hot coffee and cold juice.

That I will Instagram the shit out of.

Boo’s Mothers Day Stall presents:  Please ensure that he has wrapped them in some way, and don’t forget the card that he told me he made.  It will be in his bag.  Or still in his locker at school.

ACTUAL MOTHERS DAY PRESENTS:  I am aware that we are going to the city the next day and OF COURSE you shall be showering me with gifts and attention then {and we have just shelled out a BILLION DOLLARS to send this OMG WILL HE EVER STOP GROWING child to camp with new everyfuckingthing} so I shall keep my requests to a minimum.  As a precaution I have bought a grey robe, it is on the desk in the office for you to wrap if you forget to get me something.  But you won’t.  Will you????…

Ahem.

• Bed socks.  I love me some soft fluffy bedsocks.  Size 9-11. Check the label.  2-8 are too small.

• Happy flowers.  Yellow daisies are my favourite.  P.S. I have lots of vases to fill.

• Cuddles without asking.  Duh.  It’s one fucking day, would it kill ya?

• Dark Chocolate covered strawberries.  Because they are a pain in the arse to make and I am worth it.  Right?

• A CLEAN HOUSE.  I know I ask this every single year but this time I am serious.  No mess.  Anywhere.  Capisce?

• Massage my feet and paint my damn toenails.  Cause they look like shit and no depth perception and a nail polish brush is a recipe for losing my fucking shit.

• Stay in the damn room with me while we are entertaining MOTY.  None of this ‘I need to go to the toilet’ or cleaning the kitchen or hiding in your room googling pictures of Selena freaking Gomez’s legs, shit.  I NEED BACKUP cause Dad is no help he is just so damn happy HE is not in the firing line for a change.

And that is about it.  Not a lot of moolah, just a whole lotta effort.  Because you love me.

Pretty much sums up what being a mother is like.  Without the cleaning of bodily functions.

You are totes welcome.

The best mother and wife in the world.

* and while yes, we do need a new toaster, that is a household gift and when Hallmark brings out a Happy Household Day card we shall buy shit for such an occasion.  IN THE MEANTIME we need a toaster.  Lets buy one.  Happy Tuesday.  

** totally exaggerating for comic effect.  My family wouldn’t buy me a gift from a store that sells out of date shit.  WOULD THEY!?!?

Do you have a list of things you want for Mothers Day or are you all motherfucking Earth Mother Zen and actually don’t care if you are not spoiled like is your Hallmark Given Right?

The absolutely, positively, definitively, all encompassing, once and for all list of what I want for Mothers Day. HOT TIP: Print this shit out. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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I don’t do sick very well.

Give me an exotic disease or something randomly weird and I will rock that motherfucker, but a cold or flu and I am as pathetic as I look.

Dry and flaky lips.

Dry and flaky nostrils.

Sore throat and achy joints and *cough cough cough* hold me?

I can’t remember the last time I was sick like this,  looking and sounding like a motherfucking Walker from The Walking Dead that we are currently crushing on and watching numerous episodes a night.

Waking myself with my ragged breathing thinking one of the fuckers has broken in.

I went to work today and infected my workmates tried valiantly to soldier on.

I am pretty sure that the entire office let out a sigh of relief when I announced I was throwing in the towel, heading home to hide under a blanket watching Don’t Be Tardy for The Wedding until it was time to pick up Boo.

Speaking of that adorable little butthead, he just texted his father to let him know I was sick and that he should pick up some Maccas for dinner to make me feel better.

I am sure there was no ulterior motive there. Much.

So I will lay here and pray to all of the deities that I get better asap, cause I don’t have any sick leave and I can’t afford another day off without pay.  And hope like fuck that Boo doesn’t get this because of the whole no pay thing if I have to stay home to look after his sick arse, and he has school camp FOR TWO WHOLE NIGHTS OMG OMG OMG next week and as much as I adore the kid and would do anything for him, mummy and daddy need a couple of days off.

Bow chicka bow bow.

*cough splutter zombie moan*

Got any miracle cures that don’t involve alcohol?

completely and utterly pathetic is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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A couple of weeks ago, I sat in the doctors office with Boo getting a refill of our various medications.

Scripts in hand I took a deep breath and asked the question I have been meaning to for years.

Could I get a disability parking sticker for Boo?

The doctor reached into his drawer and pulled out a pen.  Those novelty pens that big pharma give out to doctors so they will prescribe their wares.

He handed the pen to Boo, just like he always does – I am sure he saves them up for him, this doctor being the type that I suspect has a list of prompts for each patient.  Mine is ‘how is your mum?’ (grrrrrr, she is his patient too), Boo’s is ‘Here is a pen, just for you because you are an artist’ – and expressed surprise that I didn’t already have one.

I dropped my list of arguments I had been obsessively folding and unfolding, reasons why we so desperately need this flimsy blue and white laminated card, into my open bag and watched him fill out the form.

‘You have problem?  Tell them to call me!’ He exclaimed.  Picking up the phone handset for emphasis.

And today that blue and white card came in the mail.

I will admit my eyes welled up.

The relief unexplainable.

No more scoping out car parks for the safest spot.  A spot where there is no traffic.

A spot close enough to the doors for a quick escape if it becomes all too much for my overwhelmed boy.

A spot where I don’t have my heart in my mouth as he flings open the door, mentally calculating how much it will cost to repair the car next to us if he buries our door in theirs.

This flimsy laminated card opens a world to us.

The ability to go places without the stress of the car park looming, before and after.  I can relax somewhat, not ever hypervigilant trying to keep one step ahead of my flighty oblivious boy when parking on the street.  Never doing a full shop cause I need one hand to hold onto him, or be able to chase him if he takes off.

This flimsy laminated card is more for me than it is for him.

Along with my phone and the freedom that affords me when he is not in my care,  I am one step closer to having a ‘normal’ life.

Well the kind of normal I want, anyway.

Little things are the biggest things. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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{source}

It is quite apt.

Poetic even.

The clinical description of the start of a panic attack.

But when you are in the moment it is any thing but.

My body has taken to thrusting me into this state of hyper arousal before the arsecrack of dawn has even had a chance to bend over.

Deep in the inky blackness, my eyes fly open and I am sure that I am hanging over a metaphorical cliff, about to die.

I try to reason with myself but my brain is having none of it, I am going to die somehow and none of your stupid logical thoughts will prevent that.

I feel like my chest is being crushed.  I struggle to breathe.  My heart jumps out of my body and bounces around on the bed, spurting my panic all over the crisp white sheets with every beat.

I stare at the 5ft tall Emerson quote on my wall designed to calm me the fuck down and try to focus on the words, or even just the shapes of the letters.

Eventually the feeling subsides.  I can feel my blood pulsating through every part of my body.

Even my hair, my nails, the tip of my tongue.

I concentrate on every body part, and as I do they start to relax.

Sometimes it is just my arms, legs, each individual toe that needs to be swaddled and calmed and gently coaxed back to sleep.

Sometimes every atom needs to be called by name.

Just like the panic attack that preceded the calm, there is no way of measuring.

It just is.

This is new, the night time attacks, normally they strike as I am getting ready for work.

In the bathroom.

AFTER I have had my fucking shower.

So inconvenient.

Because I always have to have a reason for such things, I wonder if it is related to tripling in decibels of my snoring or my struggle to get my blood pressure above 100 or the fact that I am so. fucking. tired all the time I want to go to bed with the sun.

Or maybe, and this is probably more the case, just the fact that I am constantly searching for a reason for such things is causing me stress.

I am my own worst enemy.

Especially in the dark.

Impending doom is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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Especially you.

Never forget that.

x

Something we all need to learn to do. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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I am a girl with three names.

Three last names that is.

I am known by my maiden name, a town in England.

I am known by my married name, a long Hungarian name that MPS’s father adopted when he came to Australia.  A name that was more Hungarian than his real name, to enable him to fit in better with the Hungarian immigrants rather than his more Polish sounding last name.  A name that I have to spell over and over again and then explain the origins.

I am known by my husbands ‘stage name’.  An Anglosized version of his name, easier for listeners to remember and recognise.

Three last names.

When I was brain farting in hospital, every shift change I would approach the nurses station and say ‘Hi!  I am Kelley LongHungarianName in room 5 with the naked farting elderly lady that is collecting her own pee.  Just letting you know that I may have calls and visitors for Kelley TownInEngland or Kelley AnglosisedLongHungarianName, so if anyone comes in looking for a Kelley that would be me.’

And they would look at me like I had a brain injury or something.

Ahem.

Before MPS and I finally got married cause I was goddamn sick of having to say ‘Yes, I am Moo LongHungarianName’s mother and Yes MPS AnglosisedLongHungarianName IS their father and YES I do have a different last name.  Is it really that hard?  Just call me Kelley forChristsSake!’ I tried to pretend that it didn’t matter to me.

It didn’t matter that people just assumed, because of my age, that all my kids had different fathers.

It didn’t matter that I would have to explain over and over again that LongHungarianName was MPS’s real last name and that was why the kids had LongHungarianName and I had TownInEngland cause who needs a damn piece of paper to prove commitment?

Nineteen and pregnant and he didn’t leave town is enough commitment, innit?

When we moved to another country town back in the year when the planes hit the towers, we decided to change ALL of our names to AnglosisedLongHungarianName so it would just be EASIER.

We got all the papers, enrolled the kids in school under AnglosisedLongHungarianName, changed my name again for the second time in eighteen months and then promptly forgot to lodge the name change documents cause the effulent hit the airconditioner and my world spun on its axis when Boo was diagnosed.

And we moved back to where we came from to access services (that we are still waiting for 12 years later) and we all went back to LongHungarianName and AnglosisedLongHungarianName and TownInEngland once more.

So here I am, still the girl with three last names.

Once I hated it.  Now I use it to my advantage.

TownInEngland not so much anymore… but it pops up every now and then.

AnglosisedLongHungarianName is very convenient for bloggy shizzle and instances where they INSIST on a last name and I just can’t deal with the whole ‘OMG how do you spell that and where is it from?’ and ‘are you Japanese?’

Seriously.

LongHungarianName however, is fucking PERFECT when signing documents and letters to clients. I only use my first initial and rarely get phone calls challenging me cause they can’t pronounce it and just ASSUME that I am not going to speak English.

Jokes on them.  Morons.

So while having three last names used to drive me batshit-run-down-the-street-screaming-Iam-a-teapot crazy, now I think it is pretty cool.

And my poor postie has just given up.  As long as it is addressed to this address he is going to deliver it.

Cause thanks to blogging I have added ‘Motherfucking Princess’ and ‘Queen of fucking Everything’ to the list.

The girl with three names. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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Today at work, I opened a program on my computer that I swear on my life I have never seen before.

Yet I had a login and password saved which autofilled indicating that I have.

Today I was trained in work that I have never done before.

Yet the procedures written to teach others how to do this have my name on them, indicating that I was a damn fucking expert at some stage writing the training materials.

I hate this.

I hate having to try and explain it over and over again when I don’t even understand it myself.

I hate the rolly eyes when I just give up and say I had a couple of strokes and this shit happens.

I hate that someone will invariably point out that I learned something new only last week or that I remember how to do so and so.

So I should remember how to do everything else.

I hate that they infer that I am selective in what I remember or worse still, lazy.

Or that this happens to them all the time and I just have to concentrate more.

Or shouldn’t I be over it now?

I hate that I automatically pretend that there is nothing wrong, making it so much harder on myself when I can’t take any more.

When the fog descends and my brain shuts down and I get to the car park and can’t remember how to drive.

Or simple words elude me.

I feel the shame burning on my cheeks.

Embarrassment that I can’t remember simple tasks.

Humiliation when I recall one thing but not another.

Tears of frustration sting my eyes.

I don’t want people to feel sorry for me.

I don’t want pity or even sympathy.

Fuck, I don’t even want special treatment.

I want the brain cells back that the strokes stole from me, I want a magic pill that will cure the PTSD or at least restrict the effects to a couple of hours every other Sunday.

I want the old me back.

Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

EDITED TO ADD:  This is not just about my work colleagues… it’s about friends and family, service workers and teachers.  But I would also like to point out that there are some wonderful understanding people – even at my workplace that get it.

Mostly.

I hate this. is a post from: MagnetoBoldToo!

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