Wheeeeeeeeee!!! I’m back, bitches!

Well, not entirely and not exactly the way I’d like, but bitches beggars like me can’t be choosers, can we?

So I’ve highjacked my bro’s extra laptop which just happens to be the same make/model of my own beloved feckered up the arse laptop. Apparently I whined about my lack of puterism just enough that my bro practically threw his extra at me in an attempt to shut me the feck up. It worked! Wheeeeeee!! Ten  years ago, I would have put on a huge production, acted all offended and such, but now? Shame? What’s shame? Feck the shame, ’cause I’ve got a puter that works, babes and babelettes!

Let’s pretend it’s Tuesday and we’ll just go with the random theme, shall we?

Little Man has met with the therapy dog (Buddy) twice now. He has gone from squeezing himself into the smallest, furthest corner of the room when Buddy enters, to eventually putting his hands on Buddy’s tail and back. We still have to check for dogs within a 2-km radius here at home when we leave the house, but the idea is that eventually his ease with Buddy will translate to less stress around unknown dogs.

Have I told you how much I’m loving all over our psych for Little Man?? ALLLLLL OVERRRRRR, dooooods. It’s a good thing I don’t swing in that direction (though my hair stylist does – have I told you that before? I must tell you about her – she’s a hoot! Wooo hoooo -tangent anyone?), ’cause if I did, our psych would be my, well, um, first, shall we say? Not that she’s particularly hot or anything, but she’s totally helping my kid and I HAVE to love all over anyone who can help my kid.

All of this said, I “fecked” and “Geedammit-ed” several times in the car today because I am in a constant state of walking on eggshells. This kid can rage with the best, babes. RAGE. Fecking rages. We’ve had a bunch of those lately. Basically, not enough sleep equals way too many upsets and bullshits. Aye.

That said, I went to my doc this afternoon in the hope of finding some relief from the headaches I’ve been having every day for three weeks. In my best Arnold Swartzagoverner voice, “it’s not a tum-ah.” Well, not yet, anyway. I’ve got some tranquilizers (up to 6 per day, baby – wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!) and if I’m not better in two weeks, they’re going to do a head-o-botomy. Ok, not really, but it sounds like I could be in for some innnnneresting tests. I went through this back when I was a young teen. Headaches that wouldn’t go away and wouldn’t be relieved by Tylenol or Advil. Just another way I’m fecked up, basically. Whatev’s. It’s all good.

Little Man is registered to attend our local private Christian school in the fall. I say this with a tinge of relief and a heavy dose of anxiety. I’ve been stressing my ass off (ack, I wish! more like stressing my ass astronomically large) about the decision and what full-day SK will mean for LM, but our psych (hi there!) has a great plan and I’m going to try to roll with it. Ok, you’re right. Kia doesn’t roll with ANYTHING. Let’s pretend I do though, ok? It makes me sound like I’ve got my shit together.

So yeah. We’ve been interviewed by the principal, a board member and presented to the entire board and they’ve decided that we’re just the kind of feckered up individuals they’d like to take thousands of dollars per year from, all in the name of education under God’s eternal light. Or some shit like that. Oh? What’s that you say? I sound cynical and not at all spiritually sound enough to send my kid to a Christian school? I know! It’s crazy. I even came out and told them that I have no idea where I stand (though I’m leaning toward Bitter Sister of Christ) spiritually right now and they still want our money  me. I’m guessing they’ve found out about my fantastical craftiness and my aura. I’m pretty sure that’s it. Yeah, it’s the aura. Even though I talk thru my ass 90% of the time, I’ve got a rocking aura. People like me. Poor feckers. They have no idea. (Or, if I’m being more realistic, they probably think they can A) save my ass  or B) extort  lovingly extract more money from my in-laws, who are founding members and already throw lots of money at the school. )

I’d love to update you with every little detail of my life. You know, the mess in my family room, the yeast infection, the books I’ve been reading, the sex I’ve been avoiding, etc. But I can’t! I’ve promised myself that I’ll try to visit some of your blogs tonight and actually return some lovin’ for a change.

I’ll leave you with this: Little Man’s latest project is to load up the shelves in his room (which happens to be decorated in an insect motif, because he actually LOVED the fecking bugs 2 years ago) with animals (fake) and reptiles (also fake) who EAT insects in the hope of somehow driving the (fake) bugs from his bedroom. Is it wrong that I find this whole exercise entertaining and HIGHlarious?

I promise (thought my fingies might be crossed behind my back (yes, I can type with my tongue, in case you’re wondering)) to get my act back together and post regularly again. I’ve missed you all, my lovelies.

 

Kia

Spacebar

still

feckeredupitsarse.

Mettherapydogyesterday.

He’scalledBuddy.

Rubyhasapparentlytakenasabbaticalorsomeshit.

Buddyrocks.He’saspectacularlylazy,laid-backlittlefecker.Loveshim.

LittleMan-ism:

LittleManmadeHubsaFather’sDaygiftatschool.

On

it,

hewrote,”Mydadishandsome.He’s93yearsold.”

Onthewayhome,LMmused,”Mommy?Isn’tMrs.A(histeacher)superold?”

“Howoldissheexactly,Mommy?”

Me,”Ithinkshe’s77,honey.”

LittleMan,”Oh.Ibloodygotdaddy’sagewrongthen,didn’tI?”

Me,”Yes.Youbloodygotitwrong.”

Ahem.

Myapologies,dearlovelies.

Myputerstilldeadandhubs’shitboxhaslostitsspacebar.

ISOmissyouallandhopetoreturnsoon.

Lotsofbusy-nessaroundhere.

Registeringforschoolinfall,interviews,householdstuff,etc.

Threemoreschooldaysleftandlonglongsummerahead.

Pleaseprayformyputer.

Boyhasbeendemon-likeforanentireweeknow.

He’snotgettingenoughsleepandispushingallofmybuttons.

Ihavethreatenedtoslitmythroatdaily.

I’mhopinghedoesn’tcallmybluff.

Let’s just pretend that I haven’t fallen off the face of the blogiverse, shall we? Mmmm thanks.

Little Man has entered the world of kid-dom. Like, over night. While I tried to kiss him like crazy tonight on his delicious little cheeks and on the back of his scrumptious neck, he defiantly proclaimed, “EW! Mommy, STOP IT! Just stop it! That’s gross.”

To which I replied, “Enough of that. I’m your mommy and I’ll kiss your beautiful little self as much as I want. So there.”

His new outlook reared itself as such, “…and STOP calling me ‘beautiful.’ I’m not ‘beautiful’ (he spat out the word like it was poison). I’m a MAN.”

Gads. WTF?

The last I’ve heard from my bro in law is that my computer seems to have been corrupted. Do you think perhaps it’s all the “fecks” and “shits?” How is it that I’m powerful enough to (insert finger quotes) “corrupt” my computer and yet, no matter how hard I try, I can not, for the LIFE of me, corrupt my child?

Gads, if I didn’t succeed last weekend (visualize: lots of rages and melt-downs (Little Man) + lots of sobbing and swearing (Kia) = tumultuous environment at chez Good Enough) in corrupting the boy man, I don’t know how I ever will.

Lastly, as I still hate the hell out of this Kia-forsaken piece of shit that I’m typing on and thus want to keep it short, I’ll leave you with a reminder that Hubs, myself and Little Man, will be meeting with a therapy dog on Thursday morning. Should be interesting. I’ll try to update after the fact, but I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for said update if I were you.

Love and cuddles and shit,

Kia

It’s bad enough that I had to use Hubs’ shitty laptop while on vacay. It’s WORSE when I come home, excited (probably moreso than is normal and sane) to use my own ‘puter, and find out that the fecking thing is being an asshole and won’t even boot up.

I promise I’ll be back as soon as my asshole ‘puter allows it. Pinky swear.

Kia

P.S. Hubs’ laptop used to be his mother’s. It fecking smells like her, I swear. Must go disinfect fingertips. Stat.

I wish I were kidding. WTF?

A few millionof you have expressed concern that I’ve been gone for so long and that perhaps I’m dead. Much to the chagrin of my innumerable, ok, 3, 4, 5,  enemies, I’m very much alive. Very very wet. And somewhat cold if we’re going into great detail. But alive. WTF, peeps? Florida suffers a drought until Iarrive. Mother FEcking Nature butters me up with an awesome first week of the weather one would expect in the F.L.A. during May then she kicks me in the ass with the fecking flood of 2009. WTF?

Yes, my lovelies, I’m the Canadian chick who travels to Florida for two weeks in May and has to buy a fecking jacket on week two lest she freeze her nips right off her boobies. It didn’t help matters today that when I talked to my father on the celly, he informed me that he was sitting outside this afternoon and had to go indoors because he got too warm and couldn’t stand the heat. WTF?

I shall stop my bitching now, but only long enough to tell you that I’m having a fantastical time with the famn damily despite the flood and I’m indeed alive.  I’ll leave you with a few choice phrases uttered by the darling Little Man during the course of this vacay:

“Mommy, it’d just be better without you. You ruin all my days.”

(Today, at the Clearwater Aquarium) “That dolphin show was stupid. It was loud and not as good as the other aquarium. If dolphins are so smart (we’d conversed about the great intelligence of the dophins earlier) why can’t they put on a better show?” My deepest, sincerest apologies to the peeps and dolphins of the Clearwater Aquarium.

(LOUDLY at the pool) “Mommy, why do all these other people (there were 3) have to bother us while we’re at OUR Florida pool?”

(While awaiting dinner at a trashy wing/titty restaurant – and I use the term “restaurant” very loosely – don’t ask how I got conned into this.) “There sure are a lot of girls in here. They really like us, don’t they daddy?” (As I said, do NOT ask.)

Love and giggles and shiz,

Kia

My life has been so fecking random of late, I think I should resort to random bee ess every day of the week. Feck. Visit Keely if you want to play along with the random schtuff.

*Took Little Man to the doc yesterday ’cause he’s still coughing and puking and sniffling, ten days later. They masked him up like a Pig Plague infectee and proceeded to tell me that he’s just got a long-lasting strain of some random virus that isn’t the PP. I believe strongly that God is punishing me for my previous mockery of the PP and its name. I don’t care. I will not stop. Oink.

*Hubs leaves for Florida (he’s driving) on Thursday morning. Lucky bastard.

*Little Man and I are due to leave on Saturday. You know, if we’re not snorting and oinking by then. I’m basically quarantining the two of us until it’s time to leave. We better fecking be healthy by Saturday or I will slaughter all of the world’s swiney snorters myself. Down with the pork fat!

*I’m stuck at 21 pounds lost. I binged and (unintentionally) purged a lot  of Chinese food on the weekend. Not the authentic, shark cartillage soup with dim sum type of Chinese food. We’re talking the Cake kind. Chicken testes and fried rice with mushrooms and egg in it. WTF is up with the egg in the rice, anyway? There’s egg in the rice and yet no egg in the “egg” rolls. Oh, and don’t forget the gelatinous reddish-orange goo that you pour all over the top of it all. Yum. Anyhooz, I ate a lot of it and then I shat a lot of it. I think I’m on to something here: a whole new way of performing a cleanse.

*Have I mentioned my kid is sick? Fecking karma is always biting me in the ass.

*Have I mentioned that we’re packing for our vacay and I live with two OCDer’s? Have I MENTIONED THAT????!!!! Mother of fecking gee. Packing with these two in the house is a fecking nightmare. God, I can’t believe I didn’t ask for Xannies when I was at the doc’s office yesterday. I’m a bloody saint, for shiz. Either that or just certifiably moronic.

*As I type this I’m sitting in a corner, rocking myself back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. As I do it, Little Man is standing three feet away from me saying, “Watch this, watch this, Mommy! I’m a bird,” and trying to fly, over and over and over afeckinggain. It’s only 9am and I’m already sitting here trying to remember the best technique for wrist-slitting. Is it horizontal or vertical? Hold them up or hold them down? Please don’t answer my questions. They’re rhetorical. So far.

*And how are you, my lovelies?

Kia

 

My thoughts are anything but coherent today so I’ll just stick to some bullets of joy and frustration.

*If one more person, when I tell them that Little Man has OCD, replies, “Oh, yeah, well we all have our quirks,” I will instantly fecking implode.

*I LOVE LOVE LOVE our psychologist. Sorry, LM’s psychologist. If I were that way inclined, I’d so kiss her and like it. She’s that  wonderful. Hubs and I met with her today, sans Little Man, and as soon as we mentioned that the dog thing was getting beyond  ridiculous, she went into her colleague’s office, came back 30 seconds later, and told us that we have an appointment with a therapy dog the first week of June. I think she said the dog’s name is Ruby. All I can say is that Ruby better be a real gem. Get it? Ruby? Gem? Never mind. I’m sick and delirious, obviously.

*Little Man had a complete meltdown last night because I had the nerve to change his bedtime routine. Know what the dreaded change was? I bet you can’t guess…

Are you ready?

Make your mouth into an O and cover it with your left hand while raising your eyebrows. Now gasp…

I put his water bottle on his night table instead of his bookshelf.

…this would be the point in the story where you pick up your phone and start dialing the OC-fecking-D police and report me. Tell them to bring a straitjacket. Actually, two.

Yeah. It’s like that.

*Today there was another meltdown when I apparently drove home the wrong way. Supposedly, I always drive home from school along one particular route on Thursdays. Today is Thursday. I drove a different route. I didn’t even fecking know  that I always  drive a certain path on Thursdays and yet it’s apparently a fecking law that I do so, punishable by extreme meltdown if said law is disobeyed. Go feck a donkey. How does he even fecking keep track  of this shit? That’s just messed up.

*This last thing isn’t OCD-related, but it’s the cherry on top of my day so you’re going to hear about it anyway. When I bathed Little Grumpafeckingsaurus after dinner tonight, a trickle of water went near  his ear and he had a meltdown of epic proportions (do you sense a theme yet?) because he’s obviously dying of the world’s worst ear infection like, ever, and don’t I know better? I apparently (according to LG – see above) should have known better than to make  him go to school today because he’s practically “dying” of an ear infection and if he does indeed die, it’s all on me.

I have twenty minutes now to read a few blogs before Grey’s Anatomy starts. Ready, set, go!

Kia

In the words of a wise Little Man, I’ve got The Sicks. Seeing as I’ve been hosed with numerous sneezes by said Little Man in the past few days, it’s not really surprising. I’ve got me some chills, a fever, lots of snot and a sore throat. I’m hoping it’s not the Swine Flu though I’ve been known to resemble an overfed hog at times.

Snort.

Achoo.

Oink.

Achoo.

Yes, I realize  that my giggling and snorting does in fact make me a twelve-year-old boy, but every time I hear “Swine Flu” I giggle just a little bit. Then I pee in my pants for a second. Please, don’t send me hatred and shit. I know this is a real problem and very dangerous but really? Swine Flu? How can I not (oink) snicker just a little?

God will probably strike me down with the Pig Plague any minute now.

Kia

P.S. Lots of rain again today. Yes, lots of worms, too. Fecktacular, really. And this is why I’m sick: I might  have been seen on my porch this morning, slightly mocking Little Man’s Worms Are Going To Take Over The World Dance.

13 – The number of sleeps until our Florida vacay starts.

3 – The number of days I’ll be babysitting my dad this week.

21 – The number of pounds I’ve lost and seem to be stuck at.

37 – The age my WiiFit told me I was this morning.

35 – My actual age.

Wait. What?! 35?!! How the feck did that happen? I’m so old. When  I was 10, 35 sounded like a foot-in-the-grave age. Gads. At least I’ve reached this ripe age and haven’t yet been imprisoned or fingerprinted. There’s that, right?

15 (at least) – The approximate number of pairs of swimming goggles I have purchased for Little Man in the past few years in a (vain) attempt to get him to put even part  of his face in the water.

0 – The number of times, so far this illness, that Little Man has coughed until he puked. So far. This is progress, peeps!

0 – The number of times I’ve been on my treadmill in the past week, due to some strange pain (yes, literally) in my ass.

30 – The number of minutes I plan to be on my treadmill tonight and walk through the pain ’cause I’m a tough one that way.

19 – The number of you who will probably roll your eyes when you read the above statement and shake your heads, saying “Kia is SO full of shit.”

2 – The number of times Little Man has cried today because there was a bug of some kind within 50 feet of him. Summer this year is going to be so much la-la-la fun. (Envision me skipping gaily while I say this. Stop laughing or you’ll pee your pants.)

Are you in the mood to put your mumbers on the table for all the world to see? If so, steal my button, link back to me, and let me know  you’ve done it so that I can add your linkage here.

These peeps have already put their numbers on the line:

Sweet Life

Hurricane Riley

Everyday Adventures

Three Channels

My Crazy Life With Boys

Elastamom