Monday, September 30, 2013

How fantastic is this....

"We Are Brothers" By Baddy Paris and Rufus Starlight. A Best Man Song.
I've been married 3 times and never saw a best man song like this!

Holidays! Thank the Lord!

Reading that headline, it may sound as though I’m about to embark on a fabulous journey.  Maybe I’m off to Greece again like last year…  Sigh no; not that lucky.  The joy I am experiencing is due to school holidays and that means I am kid free for two whole weeks. 
In reality, holidays started last week so I’ve existed in a relatively stress free domain for a week.  Well, more like it was restricted to the normal stress of having the Squeeze walk around the house dropping things wherever he is standing when their usefulness is finished.  No amount of training seems to be able to rectify this.
It took a week and two bottles of Frabreeze to air the spare room out – seriously, that kid is stinkier than anyone I’ve ever known.  His doona and pillows were shoved in the wardrobe so I did no more than open the door and throw sprinkles of frangipani oil on them before slamming the door again.
So Saturday rolled around and the room smelled normal and the Squeeze was packing for a week down the coast.  Just the Squeeze and Kid in technology heaven – and it is heaven, at least for the girl and I.
In the typical organisational skill-less land that they live, the Squeeze had arrange for the kid to catch a train but when the train fell several stops short, the poor little poppet couldn’t get his arse off the train and catch a bus.  He had to call Daddy to go pick him up and bring him home which meant by the time he had chauffeured Little King home, there was no packing or preparation for the coast.
In my world, you pack during the week before.  You have a spread sheet and document everything you know you’re going to need and check it off as it goes in the case.  Case…  Ha!  Last week we went to Torquay for my sister’s birthday.  I came out with a glossy black overnight case – which I had put his toiletries in but left the packing of clothes to him.  As we were leaving, he strolls out the front door with his clothes packed – in two plastic Coles bags.  I just rolled my eyes.  We picked up my brother from the airport on the way and he just shook his head and laughed.  My sister and her husband looked down at his bags in mock horror when he walked in.  I’ve just learned to live with it really.  He is a strange beast is the Squeeze.
So I hand him my overnight bag so that he can pack which elicits a laugh and start the “Saturday morning clean”.   The Squeeze goes off to start gathering what he will need and Little King races for the television, laptop and phone in hand, attempting to download the new iPhone OS and God knows what else while he has internet.
Now that I’ve fumigated the spare room, I move up there to vacuum and make up the bed in anticipation of the boy on my side, flying in from Perth, which incidentally, also has my stress levels rising.  He is no picnic either I’m afraid, but at least he is transient and I can suck it up for a week!
The kid is hovering near the router, I’m not sure how he figures that’s going to make it go faster; the Squeeze is lugging armfuls of crap to the car and tossing it to the boot (nothing like packing!) and I open the blinds and windows in the spare room and drag my Meile into the centre of the room only lurch to a stop as I spy a big patch of red ink smudged into the brand new carpet of the brand new house we are in.  My stress went up a couple of levels – to muttering point.  Loudly.
I speak to the Squeeze about it but all he wants to do is shove his hands over his ears and sing so he doesn’t hear the words.  He doesn’t want to deal with it (he never does which is why I am in this mess)… ‘It’s not ALL over the carpet – there is just a large smudge’ but he neglects the part where it is basically as soon as you open the freaking door. 

It’s red ink on cream carpet!  So I shrug.  What the Hell do I care?  It isn’t my bond and I’m not cleaning it.  I’m not even going to try.  It can rot there.  Rot I say!

Having no joy with the Squeeze, I go downstairs and say to the Kid “there is red ink over the carpet upstairs…”  And he looks at me with his dead eye glare.  Either he is slightly autistic or just trying to be annoying, but all I get is a stare. 
“Do you get what I’m saying..?” I finally ask? 
I should think “Wow.  Sorry.  Didn’t realise.  Want me to try to get it off?  I’ll make sure I don’t leave pens on the floor next time…  I’m really sorry.”  Any or all of these would have been appropriate, but he just continues the dead eye stare.
I finally give up, creeped out by the dead eye stare and go back upstairs, this time to find more snot on the wall.
My stress went up a couple of levels – to screaming point.  I want to go down stairs and smash this kid in the face.  Instead, I go down and with a voice that is so frosty I’m surprised the furniture doesn’t crust up, I tell the Squeeze to get up there and clean the snot off the wall.  I’m not happy and he knows it.
The Kid comes out for something and I say “why is your father up there cleaning snot off the wall again..?” to which I get (you guessed it) dead eye stare.
Then mercifully, they leave.  I want to cry with happiness.  I love the Squeeze but his constant weakness regarding the Harridan is ugly.  His inability to ram the truth down her throat sticks in my craw.  Not seeing the requirement to bitch slap this horrible, snot wiping kid is sucking the life out of me and our relationship and it’s pointless to even discuss it with him anymore.  He just can’t deal with either of them – even to save our relationship; and there is a little piece of me that thinks that if it isn’t important enough to him to change things in his life, man up, then it isn’t important enough for me to stay and put myself through the Hell that this kid is.
So Grand Final day went by without my beloved Cats getting to play so I watched ‘Moses’ as I drank red wine, ate pizza and cleaned the house; then warmed myself by the glow of “clean” that night.  This morning when I left for work, it was still sparkling.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

School Holidays!!

It's school holiday time and the Harridan has already begun her campaign to foist this kid off onto me for extra days.  WTF - over my dead freaking body!  So the insults, demands and manipulation begins.

Tonight I wrote my own letter to the bitch and forwarded it to the Squeeze to send.  Of course we all know that he'd rather chew off his left testicle than actually anger the cow; which has it's own alarm bells...

Still, I thought my letter was pretty good really!  I was relatively polite, which is more than she deserves.

Dear Harridan.

I know the concept of thinking of someone other than yourself if relatively alien to you, however; I wanted to point out several things regarding the school holidays.

Let’s address your repeated demands that I collect The Kid as soon as humanly possible – ie:  Saturday…   For the record, amongst your insults and delusional drivel, you appear to have forgotten the facts so I reiterate them for you now…  In English, with punctuation – which is more than you ever offer me.

My partner has your child more often than you do.  No easy feat either, given you have brain washed him into refusing medication, using deodorant, washing his hands/hair/clothes or even demonstrating the basic civility of pressing the toilet button.  She has moved homes and agreed to the terms we outlined – and you agreed to them; even as I outlined that I would under no circumstances be dropping everything to adhere to your demands.  These were the terms.  End of story.

For the record…   I’m not changing the terms so that you get an extra day with whatever lesbian assemblage you are currently sitting around the camp fire singing with kumbayah.

You can attempt to toss that mantle of “everything I do is about the kid” around your shoulders, but at the end of the day – you argue to be rid of him as often as possible.   I can almost hear your reply – yes, what about the kid – but as I already told you; he didn’t even want to go to the beach for the whole week I have taken off, so as per usual, this isn’t about him – but about you.  It's always about you.  Always has been.

For the record, your style of manipulation is old and transparent.  I don’t need you to tell me “The Kid wants to watch the grand final with his daddy” or “what about play time” etc.  News flash.  He is 16 years old.  Seriously… Play time?   And you wonder why he doesn’t bring friends home…  Are you trying to breed a serial killer!!??

At the end of the day, it is about this.  I am going to the beach for one week – as we agreed upon.  No more.  You bombarding me with and insults isn’t going to change that.  Your constant, yet fake, holier than thou attitude wore thin years ago.   Now it’s moved into downright irritating.

So… Let me finish by saying:  “shut the fuck up you delusional bitch”.

Your “ex-husband (thank the Lord) 

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Hitler. They name is Me!

Sometimes I love going to work.  This morning, I received an email from a guy I work with to a link for a Hitler sketch generator – it happens to be one of the funniest things I’ve watched in a long time and here I have a generator to create my own.

Yeah.  Like I'm going to get any work done for the afternoon.

Can’t wait until I get it and can upload…

Don’t worry.  You’ll see it here first!

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Romantic Dates. Ummm what are they..?

So after deciding to avoid blogging re the peniewhacker, I was left to wonder just what the Hell I’d blog about now when the Squeeze assisted. 

He muttered the word 'date' and then we were off to head out on our own.  Trust me, ‘us’ time doesn’t come along very often…  So we headed off to Chadstone to grab something to eat and then see a movie all smiles at getting out on our own.

I should have known before I agreed that this was never going to be ‘romance – they name is Squeeze’, mainly due to the fact that he is crap at it.  Still, I live in hope.

So much for hope.

It started with “can you grab the tickets online?” – like this idiot isn’t online 24/7 and could have easily accomplished the task.  Of course if he actually logged on to do it, that would mean he would have to pay for it, and we can't have that.

In the car on the way, I mention that since I purchased the tickets, he is on lunch.  Anticipating what this means to him, as opposed to what it means to me; I continue on to say that maybe we should head to Oakleigh so that we can get something decent to eat, prior to going to the movies. .

Yeah, they have burgers, pancakes and Nando’s at Chaddy.  They have all sorts of stuff that is going to enter my mouth, pass my gullet and then head for my ass and as per my post this morning, I’m kind of trying to avoid that.

He hums and hars and we end up in Chadstone anyhow.  So he swaggers to the counter with my pre purchased tickets (like some romantic guy, taking his woman to the movies) and then it’s off to find some lunch.

We twist and turn through corridors and end up in the food court.  I mention that long ago, a friend of mine had seen a cockroach in one of these places and I’m not doing lunch in a food court.  So we compromise, noticing a place off to the side, with what appears to be relatively real food (no cockroaches in the window at least) and it looks clean enough.

I felt a little bit guilty because there seriously wasn’t anything you could get that was going to make me feel like I’d stuck to my promise to watch it, so I settled on a focaccia and we moved into one of the red fake leather booths with me determined to eat slowly and no matter how good it was, stop when I had eaten enough.

We were just starting to actually begin some kind of conversation when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of brown skit across our table.  I jump to my feet, holding my plate and the Squeeze continued eating while watching it do a 360 in the middle of the table.  The Myers sales woman in the next booth rescued me by grabbing it in a serviette and removing the body – but of course, my hunger has now dissipated.

So I watch the Squeeze eat, feeling sick but also a little grateful that my diet had stuck, albeit thanks to a critter.  Then we head for the movie.  I have no idea what it is even about but soon found out it was some slasher pic called ‘You’re next’.  Lots of blood.  Zip romance.  More blood.  

Yeah.  I’m living the romance dream.

Living the dream.

Suck it up my darling…

I’ve decided my own blog is becoming a boring rant about the bane of my existence – the peniwhacker and I’m stuck in the predicament for the time being so I guess I just have to suck it up my darling; and plan for a future that is peniewhacker-free.    

So I plan to cease the rants for a while (unless I positively have to via him provoking me) and concentrate on life in general!

So…  Life in general.  A month or so ago, after arising from my near death experience (yes, this is an exaggeration…)  I suffered a series of horrible shocks.  I looked in the mirror.  I looked at my bank account.

Let me explain.  The bank account is an easy answer.  I’m what is loosely termed as a spendthrift.  Wow, that was almost cathartic…  Like standing up and admitting to be an alcoholic (which I’m not but I will admit my wine intake impacts shock 1 and 2)   So, I have decided that I’m not going to be that anymore.  I’m in spending lock down.  I don’t care what passes my by – I’m not buying.

The mirror is a little more dependent on my somewhat unlucky circumstances.  The process of my brain problem is quite simple.  I spend a month or so in total denial that my shunt is going, mainly because the shunts intermittent plunges into a useless piece of junk allow me to have a glimmer of hope that it will correct itself.  You’d think I’d learn by now because it didn’t correct the other fourteen times, so I’m not sure while I continue to clutch at that straw.

During that month of ‘delusion/denial’ things are winding down.  I’m literally like an old wind up clock that is approaching wind up time again so things start to fall by the wayside.  It takes all the effort I possess to get out of bed and go to work, let alone worrying about my nails or if my legs are waxed.

Then we have the five or six weeks in and out of hospital which means all exercise stops and food intake escalates in between days of starvation awaiting surgery.   Your family worries about you and in a family of “puddiepies” like I come from, we cure worry or stress or illness with cooking.  We give.  We love to give; and what better to give one another than tasty little treats.  Every day when Squeeze and my daughter would come to see me, they would bring a handful of lollies.  You may be thinking that no one tied me to the bed and stuffed them down my throat, and you’d be right; but let’s face it.  My will power was as deflated as the rest of me by then.

So let’s get back to the shock of looking in the mirror.

I had to force myself to take stock.  Stare myself down.  It wasn’t pleasant.  I looked like a bloated, aging woman with a bad haircut.

Sometimes that shock is required as it propels you into action.  So I’ve started a six month plan.  I went on the 7/2 diet (2 days a week I am restricted to 500 calories but the rest of the time, I’m supposed to be able to eat what I like.  I’m in the middle of testing that “what I like” theory because the first 3 weeks I lost 3.5 kilos – but I was being ‘careful’ on the 5 days.  This week, I literally ate what I liked and didn’t lose anything.  Having said that, I didn't gain either, so that is okay.

This could be due to that diet plateau around the three week mark but I guess we will see this week!  I feel better after the 3.5 kilo but I’d like to keep going.  I don't need a new look.  I've got oodles of clothes - I just have to teach my body to get back into them!

I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do about my hair.  I’ve had it cut, but seriously – there is no hiding a huge hunk shaved out of the back of your head.  Neurosurgeons should have to do a semester in ‘cut and style’ if you ask me; they may have brains as big as a basketball, but they’re seriously crap hair dressers.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Want to Play with Me?

We’ve had the kid all week – it’s such a joy.   The chest rattling cough persists.  For a kid whose ‘body is his temple’…  Good bacteria and all that velvet wearing crap – he is sick more often than any of mine who were immunised and had antibiotics during the rare moments in childhood they required them.

My daughter sent me this link the other day.    

My God; how perfectly a two second clip can sum up this kid.  And yes, it does sound that horrible.

I’m sure he will continue the duck cough through next week – although it’s one of those magical ones that is not leaving germs nor are any of us able to contract it.  It’s a miracle…

The highlight of this week was hearing the kid want to slink off home for the afternoon on Thursday, as it was ‘parent teacher’.  The Squeeze, muttered something about the kid staying at school to do homework but I knew he would capitulate, (as did the kid) and so in fear of him creeping through my stuff, I left my desk drawer partially open and photographed how I left everything.

This may sound weird to the casual reader however; when I sent a text to the girl later that day, she replied with "you mean like I left the strategically positioned slipper at my door so I'd know if he went in my room..?

When I got home, the kid and Squeeze had skipped off to parent teacher with the Harridan and the first thing I did was check out my drawer; only to find it now tightly closed.  I tried not to instantly jump to conclusions, so I asked the Squeeze later that night what he had been fossicking through my desk for, to which he was honestly mystified.  Not him obviously.  So I asked why the kid had gone through my desk as I didn’t want him in our room.  Sorry, but our domain is off limits.

I was immediately met a “don’t be ridiculous!’ (could this guy be any  more delusional if he tried..?)  So I mentioned that things were not as I left it and anyone creeping through my stuff was, in short, disturbing.

At off times I have a vision of this kid dressed in his mother’s ‘velvet’, wig on head and holding a butchers knife above his head – so the thought of him anywhere near my things is just wrong.

Already this week he had broken our usual routine by running to the sofa to move in on our “Suits” night.  Usually, it is the Squeeze, my daughter and I watching while we chat and laugh while the kid masturbates or strangles kittens up in his room.  This week, the kid ran to place himself in my daughters spot.  So she went upstairs and I sat, body turned to the other side of the room and being creeped out with him sitting only four feet away and slightly behind me…  He didn’t say a word.  He didn’t laugh or cry or gasp.  He had ‘nothing’.  He always has nothing.  He is in fact, the emptiest person I have ever met.

But back to my desk…  The Squeeze decided to go upstairs to ask him (and of course, he isn't going to lie) and then proceeds to come back down and say “no, he hadn’t been in our room.”  Oooookayyyy.  So once again, I am a liar?  Or delusional…  Or stupid… Or forgetful...  Maybe just mistaken?  It doesn’t matter what; obviously once again it is me – never Mr Creepy.

Monday, September 9, 2013

My Body is a Temple

Every so often I get an email that gives me a bonus.  It’s all I can do not to send a text to my daughter to say “we are on champagne tonight!” And do a jig around the kitchen.

Today, the Squeeze forwarded a teeny weeny email to say “no kid tonight”.  That’s it.  I’m telling you, extracting information from this guy is like pulling teeth.  So I reply with one word:  ‘why’ to which he replies ‘sick’.

I couldn’t resist the needle of “boy, for a kid that figures his body is a temple, he gets sick more than any other kid I know. 

This is not an exaggeration; its the unvarnished truth.   He does put it over that idiot he calls mother.  If he shuts one eye and squints with the other she's whipping out the thermometer.   But hey, when my kids were too “sick” to go to school, there was no sitting up watching television or on the internet, pausing in between to stuff their faces.  I went with the “too sick to go to school, too sick to get out of bed” routine.  The kids hated it, but we had sickies down to a minimum.

It doesn't say much for the velvet ideal of not having antibiotics and not sullying their perfect bodies and good bacteria.  Seriously, this kid is sicker than anyone I know!  Granted, it could have something to do with the lack of hygiene.  I mean if you can't wash your hands after holding your penis while in the loo, I'm not seeing them get washed after some flu ridden classmate has coughed and spluttered over everything!

Still, a night off!  Yay!

Sunday, September 8, 2013

School Holiday Psychosis

Even though I have put our agreement in writing; even though I remind the Moodle of the terms prior to the school holidays coming around – I expect the Harridan She Devil and Shellfish Controlling Bitch that is his ex-wife – will attempt to fob “her” responsibilities off onto me – all the while, putting hand to heart to declare that everything she does, is for the kid – yeah – I know… you are mopping your brow due to all that you give…

In anticipation of Hell, I keep an eye on things.  The Squeeze won't mention anything to me unless he absolutely has to; which means he will attempt to circumvent our agreement rather than set the Harridan down – and he will do it when he figures it is too late to change it.

Of course this kid is a manipulative little darling who wipes snot on my wall as if to say “in your face bitch!”  There is no way I’m going to forget the terms.  I won’t have him here for one second more than I have to.  Still, just so that I know and can ready myself for the usual bullshit, I try to keep an eye on what is going on.  If I ask, I get the same statement "no dramas..."  No drama and Harridan don't fit in the same universe.

So the Squeeze – at my prompting tried to have things organised for the week he is taking off to have the kid - off site, down the beach.

He got this charming reply:

“You r having Kid for whole week. Your week with yr son 
One week since 2009 -not bad
How could you turn into one of those dads that dont spend playtime with their kids 
Enjoy this time and put them ahead of yr boss for once 
Work with Kid and what ever week hes not filming go to beach

Righto….  Does this psychotic bitch not understand that her holier than thou crap is pretty hard to wash when I am basically raising her kid..?  When I have him more than she does?  And when she is pushing hard for us to have him more..? 

Does she really not see that “I am mother;  I am perfect.” doesn’t wash when it is obvious to the world what pathetic mothering skills she actually possesses..?  As I’ve said previously, I’d have rather stabbed my eyes out than have handed my kids over to someone else to raise.  Let alone someone I know doesn't want them.

Still, her totally delusional reply that we haven’t had the kid since 2009 is a ridiculous lie that can be proven wrong in a heartbeat – so what is the point…?  

I sent the email and reply to my sister who replied:

A) She NEEDS to be slapped down with facts
B) She's a teacher?? She is barely literate! I would have a conniption if she was teaching one of my imaginary kids 
C) Playtime????    Seriously???   He's 16.  Is she TRYING to raise a serial killer?

Frankly, I love the word conniption (and have blogged about it previously…)
Also, I have often commented on her caveman series of uggs and grunts that seem to pass for English. She butchers the English language more than I could imagine was possible.  Illiterate cow.

And ahhhh.  The old “playtime” line.  I couldn’t have said it better myself and in fact, my sister’s comment was a replica of exactly what I felt when I read it.

No wonder this kid gives me the creeps when he is sitting behind me.  Next thing I know he will have on a wig, mummy’s dress and be stabbing me!