Oh come ON! It is funny! Dude will have to grow a thick skin if he wants to date my daughter… Oh and I have a question.
On Sunday morning Moo came to me and asked if The Boyfriend could come over. She is sick with the Man Flu (cause dramatic princesses don’t get colds, they get Man Flu but WORSE!) and had taken the day off work to wallow in her own self pity.
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.
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya…
Last week we went on a ‘team building exercise’.
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.
It is always ominous when you get a phone call from the school…
So I was sitting here, all innocent twittering about the ENORMOUS spider that greeted me in the hallway this morning that MPS disposed of by flushing it down the toilet and I am too scared to go to either loo cause what if the fucker is like that puppy in the UK that the kid flushed and it lived and then it would crawl up the bowl and bite me on the derrière and OMG I wonder if Boo’s nappies will fit me or maybe I should just go find a clean public toilet which is totally an oxymoron and I love that word, when I got a phone call from the girls school.
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.
Letter to my eldest child
Dear Eldest Child,
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.
I had a post all done and then Wordpress 2.7 ate it as punishment for not upgrading yet. Or maybe it knew I should be writing THIS post instead. Fucking omniscient bastard.
So I had this long post about this and that and a little bit of whatever and was trying to wangle some way of putting this into the post:
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
