Where is my union rep?
I mean, for fuck sakes there has to be someone out there that will help me negotiate with these slobs that keep turning up in this house and calling me ‘Mummy’ and ‘Honey’ and ‘Where is my????’
I have Boo home from school. I have eleventy hundred phone calls to make and spreadsheet thingies to do cause it is the end of the financial year and all.
And Moo pea-ed on the floor.
How fucking hard is it to pick up a pea that dropped from your dinner plate?
So with my best Irish accent, cause every union rep I have ever met is Irish - what is with that? - I present you my list of demands.
DO NOT ever EVER say ‘you only work 3 days a week’. Yes, I work in an office 3 days a week, but I work harder when I am at home cleaning up your fucking mess. So if one of your friends pops over - un-fucking-announced - consider your testicles fair game if you mention this while I am vacuuming and you are lounging. That smile I gave you? It wasn’t a smile, it was me contemplating whether bunneh’s eat testicles raw or roasted.
When you go to the bathroom and the roll of toilet paper runs out, it is not acceptable to leave it on the floor. Pull that shit again and I will pack it in your lunch bag. With your sandwich inside it. To keep it protected like. Oh and I might have to dip it in the toilet first, just to keep your sandwich moist.
It is not a good idea to just throw your clothes on the floor of the laundry room. I spent hours sorting your fucking washing and if it is on the floor it is not sorted, therefore will not be washed. But I may use it to clean the toilet.
If you want to be driven somewhere there is a right and a wrong way to ask. DO NOT come up to me all ‘come on Mum! I need to be at whatever in five minutes!’ cause that will just piss me off and lead me to give you ‘the look’. Give me fair warning and do nice shit for me and I may slow the car down enough for you to get out without breaking a limb.
When you are finished with a glass or plate, put it in the fucking dishwasher. Not in the general vicinity of the dishwasher, inside the fucker. How hard is it? Do you need me to write you a procedure? Cause I am kick arse at those bastards, I do them all the time at that place I go to when I am not cleaning your shit up or driving you mooching arse around.
School notices will be signed between the hours of 5pm and 9pm. Not thrust under my nose while I am sleeping and dreaming about hunky firemen having their way with me, or wiping your brothers arse.
But most importantly, just pick up your own shit! I know that you don’t give a flying fuck what this house looks like but for some reason the Child Protection Services do. And if Boo keeps up that screaming in the middle of the fucking night that he has gotten so fond of, they might just pay us a visit.
I will be able to explain the shit encrusted walls and front door but that pea on the floor might just get your arses hauled away…
Um, on second thoughts, carry on as you were. I will be hiding in the pantry with a block of chocolate and a bottle of Vodka planning my European holiday.
Popularity: 52% [?]
Getting back in the saddle
I am totally out of practice.
For the first six months of this blog I posted every single freaking day.
Sat down, brain dumped and hit publish.
Now I sit here thinking and fretting and wondering if what I have to say is good enough. Will people read it, will my lovelies like what I have to say.
Will someone snort some sort of substance out their nose or share my pain.
The number of subscribers intimidates me. The quality of posts I read makes me feel inadequate or make me shake my head in wonder. Fifty comments on a shopping list? Like seriously? Fuck me dead.
So I am asking you for a little help to get back in the saddle. To ride this bloggy thing like a prostitute with a crack habit.
Next week the kids start school holidays. So like the wonderful caring engaged mother that I am, I will post every day next week. I mean, shit, I will be here with them. Breathing the same air and stuff. What more do the little bastards want? I have plenty of ‘nothing to eat’ in the pantry and tons of ‘I’m bored there is nothing to dooooooooo’ electronic gadget, toys and games lying around the place. And there is the breathing the same air thing…
So I am thinking I will do one of those memey carnival link-to-the-person-that-thought-a-cute-little-name-up things each day. You know like WTF Wednesday or Fuck-me-dead-who-thinks-of-this-shit-Friday or whatevz.
This is where you come in, help me. I need one of these things for every day next week.
And someone to explain the rules to me like I am a child. Use little words. All my big words have been used up intimidating arsehats that have pissed me off this week.
Ta. Thanks. Smootches.
Popularity: 42% [?]
So I am sitting here drunk.
On a Saturday night when the Damn Emos are not here and Boo is getting rather tired and I could be hanging from the chandelier - if we actually had one, don’t think those down lights are particularly sturdy especially wearing my hooker boots and sporting a whip.I am Plurking with my biatches.
And twittering with MPS, sending suggestive tweets knowing full well he can’t respond cause Moo is following his tweets.
Tonight I have managed to:
Get 3 of my biatches drunk with me. And convinced one to start drinking at 9am to keep me company.
Pondered getting a personal trainer that takes off his clothes for every rep. Rawr.
Convinced my girl ‘The cat arse licking plurk whore” to commit a crime. Vandalizing her local neighbourhood.
So somewhere in Australia people will be walking past the evidence of a drunken night of Plurking…
And MPS is not impressed at being called a ‘husbo’ bwaaaaa haaaaa haaaaaaa! He is the designated drink pourer tonight.
Admitted to getting kicked out of Maccas for spurting a HOT fudge sundae out my nose.
Drank nearly a whole bottle of Absolute vodka by myself. With Red bull, thanks Huckdoll and cranberry juice again thanks Shamelessy Sassy. I love you my biatches.
Thrown a block of chocolate at the television cause fucking Jessica Simpson is on that stupid Proactive ad AGAIN.
And then dropped to my knees and apologised to the chocolate whilst picking up every crumb and eating it. Ten second rule you know…
Got slapped by Maria for bitching at her for no fucking reason but that I am rather tipsy. So I tell the world Maria is teh awesome.
But BoxBoy is still an arse.
And cranberry and vodka is now officially my favourite drink. Besides Latte. Cause I will always be a slave to the latte.
And I think in the morning I will be regretting this post. And the cranberry vodka…
Blame Leigh and Genaine. This post is THEIR FAULT!
I will post something with more substance when I can actually see the keyboard…
Popularity: 51% [?]
smell like a monkey….
Yesterday was MPS’s birthday.
The day of the birth of the pain in my arse my husband.
When my father was his age he was a grandparent.
Shit, MPS, you are oooooooooooold.
He had his heart set on an iphone. I twitter teased about taking him to Sydney to go to the opening of the Apple Store. I also threatened to buy him a household appliance.
So the bastard went out and bought himself this:
A 16gig ipod touch. At four-fucking-hundred and fifty dollars.
And here was I feeling all guilty and shit and making him an iphone cake, and contemplating favours… favours boy. You know what that means…
But you went and bought yourself a present. So meh. I’m all sleepy like.
Boo serenaded him with
Happy Birthday to you
You live in a zoo
You look like a monkey
And you smell like one too…
Happy Birthday MPS, when I stop seething and get over the fact that we can’t eat for the next month, I may consider giving you that present.
And no photos of the iphone cake. Cause it looked like crap. No, it looked like some bastard had eaten a shit load of licorice and crapped on a cake board. With candles.
Popularity: 44% [?]
Dont you hate it when..
You are writing a post in your head standing in line at the supermarket. And you are *gaffawing* cause you are cracking your own shit up, cause it is that funny, and everyone in the line is looking at you like you are the insane woman that is, at any moment, gunna shove her hand down the back of her pants and start flinging excrement around the shop?
But you are all ‘yeah bitaches, I am as funny as hell, just wait till you read this shit on my blog. You will snort a fucking steak out your nose’ (still waiting for someone to step up to that challenge yo)
Man I crack myself the hell up.
Then you get distracted by the shiny or the purdy shoes in a shop window or some feral in a pair of Ugg boots. You get home, unpack the groceries, clean the shit off the walls that your own little mad man has flung and then sit down to write this funny as shit, no funnier, post…
and you have totally forgotten what cracked you up.
Or it doesn’t look as funny written down.
Yeah. I hate that too…
psst, I am posting over at Aussie Bloggers today as well as making MPS’s birthday cake for tomorrow. Making it extra soft cause the elderly need soft foods right?
Popularity: 44% [?]
Mika is stalking me.
Mocking bastard Mika Stalker-man.
So I got on the scales this morning.
Then I went to the loo. Stripped naked, took off all my jewelery and hair tie and got on the scales.
Stood on one foot. No difference.
Got off, did a little jig to rearrange things. That same freaking number staring at me.
Then I went into the kitchen gathered up my hair, laid it on the kitchen scales, decided the fuckers weren’t working and subtracted 2 kilos from the total on the bathroom scales.
Still not a number I was hoping to see.
They must be broken.
And some bastard is shrinking my clothes. Cause my jeans weren’t that ’snug’ a few days ago. Well they were snug, but must have been in the process of being freaking shrunk by the arsehat that is shrinking other items of my clothing.
I pondered this while eating a donut. With a glass of water of course cause that nullifies the calorie content of the food consumed with it. Sheesh, to I have to teach you people EVERYTHING?
And that Mika bastard? Everywhere I go that high pitched squeal follows me.
Trying on clothes in a local boutique (they were tagged wrong of course, damn I wish they would get it right!), fucking Mika on the musac crooning ‘Big Girls, you are beautiful!’
Waiting in line for my extra large double shot skinny latte and contemplating a Texas muffin. Bastard screaming in my ear ‘diet coke and a pizza please, diet coke I am on my knees’.
Sitting at the drivethru with eleventy hundred teens all talking and squealing at the same time in the car, contemplating drowning my sorrows in a bag full of fries. ‘Walks into the room, feels like a big balloon’
You trying to tell me something you little turd?
Driving to school to pick up Boo. ‘ You take your girl and multiply her by four…’
‘IT IS A FUCKING BREATH MINT YOU BASTARD!!!’ I scream at the radio. Even with the windows wound up a pedestrian whirls around and stares at my car.
OK. OK. I am carrying a little extra padding. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Mika. I swear I will wring your scrawny little androgynous neck.
Tomorrow. I will start my diet lifestyle change tomorrow.
I have to finish the donuts first. Cause there are starving children in Africa and shit. So I can’t, like waste food you know.
Now where am I gunna hang my clothes if not on the exercise bike?
Popularity: 46% [?]
