It is the last day of the school holidays.

Boo is stimming his heart out, pacing up and down the house screaming ‘WE ARE MAKING A COMMERCIAL NOT A FREAK SHOW! (I have no idea) and has music he has created on Garage Band on loop turned up to eleven making my ears bleed.

The cupboards are bare of any food I can eat because food I can eat is the food HE likes to eat first and then he will attack the entire contents of the fruit bowl for afternoon tea. And then noodles.

The airconditioner is turned up high because being summer it is hot as hell and I am exhausted just watching him pace incessantly with his arms flailing.  At least I don’t need to put the fan on with the breeze he is creating.

I feel guilty that the only outings the poor child has had this school holidays have been are to the doctors, to watch me get blood drawn, back to school shopping and that one rather jarring experience where he had to accompany me and a nurse into the toilets at pathology to get my heart monitor removed.

C’est la vie.

We are both so ready for the routine that the school year brings.

An hour ago I got a call that we have secured partial funding for his second day at a fabbo program, so now he has high school 3 days and a social program 2 days.  It is not exactly what we hoped for (like FULL funding and for the entire year, but we will work it out) but at the social program he gets to do all sorts of wonderful amazing awesome things and I have a little more time to fight for funding.   HUZZAH!

Like I have done for the last 20 odd years (OMG THAT FUCKING LONG!?!!) I have spent the last week getting everything ready for the first week back.  Rewashed the uniforms so they were nice and fresh, checked out school bags and lunch boxes/drink bottles, checked books and school supplies.

Boo size14 v my size9

He needed very little.  Shoes, a few visual art diaries, a fuck tonne of pencils and art supplies and a pencil case.  No fucking covering of books!  Praise glory be.  That had to be the worst of the worst jobs.

Tonight he is going to be a nightmare to get to go to sleep.

He will be awake most of the night.

He will be a monster to get up in the morning.

I will miss the shit out of him all day and he will be a complete butthead when he gets home, a mess of exhaustion and held in stims and ticks from an overwhelming day, yelling between gulps of two minute noodles and huge bites of cinnamon teacake that I will undoubtedly make him because it is his favourite and I will miss the noise and bigness of him from the last six weeks at home.

And everything will go back to normal.

Well as normal as things get around here.

Are your kids back to school yet?

Are you SO FUCKING READY?

Haven’t done one of these fuckers in a while.

My house is in desperate need of a clean and I have some chick coming over tomorrow morning for a meeting about The Awesome Program that Boo is in one day a week this year (gotta find funding for the other day yet but that is a whole ‘nuther whine) and I can feel my body protesting with every movement of every muscle so PERFECT OPPORTUNITY FOR BAKING MOTHERFUCKERS!

Last night was hotter than the underside of my boobs in a polyester bra, so when I got up Boo was still laying sprawled out on the bonus sitting room lounge as is his want on super hot nights.  And as always he was wrapped up like a burrito in a doona with a fan blowing full speed on his back. What is with that shit?

So in order to get some help with the cookie prep, I made a lot of sighing and clattering noises and when he rolled over I was all ‘OMG GOOD MORNING! Get me the eggs’

Because any fucker that decides to sleep on the couch just off the kitchen has to help with the cookie prep.  Its in the instructions.

Enough of the witty banter, trying to be like all the professional baker bitches.  Here is the fucking recipe.

I was going to mop the floor but this seemed to be a more appealing use of my time peanut butter choc chip cookies.

360g S/R flour
1 tsp salt
170g butter, room temperature
125g peanut butter
200g brown sugar
100g sugar
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
400g mixed choc chips – I used 250g dark and 150g white cause that is what I had open

Preheat the oven to 180c.  Or as Boo calls it ‘Mum’s signature temperature’

Get any lazy fuckers laying on nearby couches to help with prep.  This means get all your ingredients ready beforehand.  Use this as a teaching opportunity, talk about measuring ingredients and how Americans are fucking annoying with their fucking up recipes with their stupidhead measurement systems and how you have to convert all your fucking recipes to motherfucking weights now because they are such stupid heads and how it is so much easier if you clean up as you go.  And watch how said lazy fuckers clean themselves up all the way to their bedroom and shut their door and ignore your calling them to come back and help no matter how many times you call them to come back.

Whisk the flour and salt together with a fork and set aside.

Mix the ever loving shit out of the butter, peanut butter, brown and white sugar until they are light and fluffy and the noise of the mixer drowns out all of your swears.

Change beaters, have a seat, resist a little nap, check your emails and see that work has emailed you and the adrenaline from that little mind fuckery gives you the energy to go on and continue with the recipe. HUZZAH!

Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing in between additions until incorporated into the mixture and then add the vanilla.  Mmmmm vanilla.  Remember to make Moscow Mules. (related because the vanilla reminds you of the vanilla vodka you had but hated, but then you bought some more vodka the other day… and you have limes. And ginger beer.)

Turn the mixer on lowest setting and spoon flour mixture in until completely mixed in.  You may have to turn the mixer off and scrape down if you don’t have one of those beater blade thingies that do it for you.  Time savers are the bomb diggity.

Stir in chocolate chips by hand.  Or spoon.  Probably spoon is more hygienic.

Drop I dunno… cookie sized? dollops of dough – it is pretty soft so you can’t roll it but it keeps it shape –  on baking paper lined sheets and bake in the oven for 10 minutes.

They come out super soft so you need to let them sit on the trays for 10 minutes or they will fall apart.

Come back into the kitchen 11 minutes later and find this:

There were really fucking pretty ones, so these are the runts.  The ones Boo deemed the rejects.  Imagine how good the BEST ones looked.  DELICIOUS.

Don’t imagine how my floors look though.  Fuck it.

P.S. Dollop the rest of the dough on a tray and chuck in the freezer for a few hours to harden.  Then chuck them all in a ziplock bag.  Then you have cookies ready to bake EVERY DAY.  Ready for when your workplace sends you mindfuck emails or your floor needs cleaning or you are on your fourth rewash of a batch of towels that never seem to make it to the damn line…

{source}

I hurt myself writing that title.  Are extra vowels the new exclamation marks or something?  Did I miss the memo?

And Jesus Christ on a New Years detox when the fuck did then and than become interchangeable?

Do I just need to calm the fuck down and drink a liver cleansing smoothie that will do nothing but clean out my toilet bowl?

God knows they need some attention.

Am I not drinking enough Apple Cider Vinegar? (please stop emailing me that it will cure me, it wont but thanks for caring)

Have I spent so much time holed up in my house snuggled up under my blanket that everything I learned? learnt? learnered? … hold up OMG WHICH ONE IS IT?

Holy shit… is this how the zombie apocalypse happens?

Probably.

P.S. out of all of them it is the then and than shit that really gets me… I MEAN THE FUCK people? They are two completely different motherfucking words.

chillin’ in my fav cubicle no.6

Yesterday I was sent to hospital with a suspected heart attack.

No, wait, hear me out.

For the last couple of weeks I have had a steady chest pain with intermittent OMG WHY IS THIS PAIN TRYING TO KILL ME smattered with panic attacks and a touch of tingling lips and tongue and fingers just for shits and giggles.

And I put all that down to medications and Christmas and people pissing me off and just general me-ness, but then after a few weeks of this shit I thought maybe I should go to the doctor.

So I went to my doc and he lost his damn mind.  And sent me to the hospital because well SHIT KELLEY IT IS YOUR FUCKING HEART and the Professor that we don’t speak of anymore took you off all your anti stroke meds and you like had a stroke and shit.

MPS drove me to the hospital and I was all ‘um, sorry about this’ and I handed over the letter from my GP the nurse took my BP and then I got a bed like right-a-fucking-way.

Well shit.

They hooked me up to machines and took MORE blood and I gave a little tutorial on the medical ID on the Apple health app while they oooohed and aaahhhed at all the shizzle wrong with me and tried to connect the medication to the condition.  Funner than anything you played over Christmas.

Except for Cards Against Humanity.  I am pretty damn horrifically awesome at that. *hangs head in shame*

The nurses and doctors and orderlies were all amazing and someone came and took me for my x-ray and told me dirty jokes all the way and I am not fucking with you the X-ray dude was waiting at the door for us and I was in and out in like 2 minutes and back in my cubicle thingy before the nurse even knew I was GONE.

What the hell?

And just as they were going to admit me the doctor came racing in with my blood and xray results and discharged me.

Walked in at 5pm and out at 7.15.  A-fucking-mazing.

Oh, I guess you are wondering what is wrong… yeah.  I didn’t have a heart attack, YAY ME!  I have an inflammation of the cartilage in the rib cage called costochondritis which hurts like a motherbitch but won’t KILL me so extra bonus points for that.  Dude pressed on my chest and I nearly flew through the roof and he reckons it was from all the vomiting. Maybe. Probably. Who knows.

This shit just happens, and as we all know shit tends to just happen to me.

So now I have this thing I can’t spell let alone pronounce and a damn fine reason not to wear a bra.

Oh, and not a heart attack.

HUZZAH!

I didn’t do much on New Years Eve, our wedding anniversary.

You?

I spent most of the night watching movies – Bridget Jones Baby and Sausage Party – and a new to us TV series, Baskets (8/10 so far) and my head in a well situated cake cloche vomiting up some not so delicious the second time around aged cheddar dip and chips before I retired to the bathroom for the real fun.

Same as last year really.

I was hoping to be whisked away to an island holiday and be worshipped for the goddess that I am but the tickets must have got lost in the mail along with all of our motherfucking Christmas presents that still haven’t turned up.

Whatevz.  We still have many more days in this glorious new year that people on Instagram and Facebook tell me is bright and shiny and new and going to be THE BEST EVER, if you just block all the references to Trump and Syria and Paleo Pete.

Simple.

I don’t make New Years Resolutions any more because, well HAVE WE MET?  Heh, so I just ride this life by the seat of my non existent pants and drag you guise along for the ride.

So lets go.

Ride on motherfuckers.

Lets not talk about that because o.m.g. I can’t.

Here at Chez MB2 we had a fabulous Christmas, literally one of the best ever, but considering last year MY GOD, I was fucking determined that this year was going to be fucking AWESOME.

I spent Christmas Eve like this:

Vietnamese coffee in the spa while everyone else was inside. No fucks given. 

And then playing Cards Against Humanity in my wet bathers and a wrap.  That game is horrendous. *evil laugh*

MPS and I were awoken at arsecrack thirty by Too who broke in an open door to come for breakfast and wake us all for present time and mimosas.

Santa only came to Boo.  Because he doesn’t come to adults but it seems Boo is an exception.  Maybe it is cause he has his own tree.

I was SPOILT ROTTEN!  With Pandora out mah wahzoo!

A dog.

one day…

Netflix.

finally

and a throne for Archie.

the fuck

I like this adult children shit. (Guess which gifts are from MPS?)

Boo took it like a champ that his stuff from Homestar Runner didn’t come even though I ordered it fucking 6 weeks ago (STILL WAITING) and loved the shit out of his record player.

As did I.

And yelled about Santa for not getting his presents exactly right and I was all ‘well maybe you need to be more fucking specific then and a tad grateful cause Santa doesn’t usually come to 6ft 5 man mountains omg‘

Then we wandered over to my parents where THEY did the cooking and I just sat around basking in the fact that even though I was up at arsecrack thirty, there was no stuffing stuffing up the arsecrack of a bird.  SO GOOD!

I ate far too much and paid dearly but damn… I didn’t have to cook.  Bliss.

Then back home for more spa-ry goodness. *sigh*

And more chilling.  With NETFLIX.

HUZZAH!

In reality it wasn’t an extraordinary day, there were no fireworks nor were there any extreme gift giving.

Just everyone in my immediate family sitting around a table sharing a meal and given our lives that is a mighty fine feat.

The text I got from my parents that night pretty much sums the day up…

Chillmas achieved.

How was yours?

It has been a hard year for a lot of people this year.

I am saying nothing.  Lest I poke the bear.

So this year for Christmas I have decided to just chill.

Chillmas if you will.

And given that it is going to be hotter than Santa’s arsecrack after he crosses the equator in that snowsuit I reckon I have made the right decision.

Some of the ‘chillmas’ has been thrust upon me with my doctor not scheduling my iron infusion and my iron count being 4 meaning I am so fucking chill I am practically comatose, but also I am just fuck it I want to have a relaxing happy Christmas this year.

A Chillmas.

I have bought presents for people that they have asked for so I KNOW they will like them.

(despite the fact that half the fucking things didn’t arrive even though I ordered them 6 motherfucking weeks ago… breathe… Kelley… breathe… they will like them eventually)

I have handed the Christmas lunch duties to my mother and said I don’t even want to know, don’t care what everyone is eating as long as I don’t have to prepare it.

(and I don’t want to hear about it either)

Chillmas motherfuckers.

Everyone that is visiting is going to get a huge hug and a direction to feed themselves.

Chill.  Mass.

This Christmas is going to be awesome.  And Chill.  And the happiest ever.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Festive Festivus, Glorious Hanukkah, Have a wonderful week, I love youse all.

x

Oh the tears you guise, the TEARS.

This last week has been chock full of lasts and tears and rehydrating sessions because OMG THE LASTS.

There were minor lasts like last physio appointment and other minor players that slip my mind because *weeps*

Monday was Boo’s last speech therapy appointment for the year and he came bounding out with his speechie who I have not met yet* He formally introduced us and I died there on the spot from pride in my boy.  DIED DEAD.

Then I dropped him off at my parents to go to my last doctors appointment for the year to find out I need a whole heap of shit done that I don’t want.  DO NOT WANT.  Fucking stupid body.

Tuesday was the last day of mainstream school for the year and Boo was a big huge stimmy mess afterwards and I had to hand over a surprise 100 bucks for a new school jacket.  Ouch.

Thursday.  Still can’t talk about Thursday. Tears every damn day still.

Saturday was his last day of swimming with his awesome one on one teacher.  Six years of every Saturday morning this dude has tried to get this child to wet his hair.  Six years and this boy has refused.  But they have fun and exercise and Boo adores him.  But the guy has quit and we have to accept it I can’t and I am desperately sad.  We haven’t told Boo yet.  After Thursday I just don’t know if I can.

Sunday was supposed to be the last Respite Sunday and Boo was looking forward to having some time jamming on his guitar after a hard week.  Dude cancelled.  Tears.

So many lasts.  Too many lasts.

I think Boo is OK, I am sure as shit not.

But I will be.  Maddie comes home tomorrow.

*Boo goes during school hours with his aide and I pick him up at the end.

For 5 and a half years

2 hours a day

3 days a week

1800 kilometres a month

1 tank of petrol a week @ $70 per week for 300 weeks (DO NOT add that shit up)

(I did. I weep)

A new car

A dead cow (yeah, I killed it.  MPS showed me photos afterwards. We never told Boo)

Many one sided conversations

Some enlightening conversations… one extremely memorable

And now it is finally over.

Boo is in the kitchen making his last after school snack after his last day at the specialist school and we survived all those years of travelling.

I have a lot to process about my feelings about this.  Probably a lot to say.

But right now the worst part is over.

HOLY HELL all that fucking driving.

Thank fuck for that.

And just to put the icing on the cake, Boo, who for the last year said he hated the SHIT out of this school and was dropping out never to return, burst into heaving tears halfway home and made me turn around and go back after picking him up. We arrived, a blubbering mess of tears and snot and hugged our favourite support staff and then finally left that Gah-forsaken town never to set foot in the place that bras and soap forgot again.

Done.  So done.