It’s not easy to look at this page, I’m sure. There is the lavender hue. The big fucking tiara in the corner. And usually some sappy photos of children on the latest post.

The first paragraph almost always says “fucking,” or “vagina,” or “suck it.” And you really can’t escape sex talk or diaper talk or the fine art of shaving your whoo-ha.

Which is why I am your dirty little secret. The place you click when, apparently, you’ve had your fill of those other blogs. Or, as I was told..those “real blogs.”

If Dooce and Finslippy are your morning coffee and newspaper, the Queen of Spain is your ice cream and Star.

I think I’m going to take that title and run with it. I don’t mind being your “Poor Mom’s Fussy.” In fact, I think I’m going to revel a bit in being called the “tabloid” of Momblogs.

…because we all know that you might skim your newspaper, but you MUST read every little detail about the Queen giving oral sex to the Kaiser and being interrupted by screams from the baby monitor.

I’ve touched on this subject briefly, but I’ve been asked to expand…so here goes:

Cheerleaders can suck it.

I realize I can be a total girly-girl when I want too. I like pink. I wear it (oh, the horror!) I make the Princess wear it. I am teased endlessly by Sarah, Gabe, and the Kaiser for my need to have rhinestone shoes, clothes, purses, etc. They will tell you it’s “bedazzled” but I know better.

I like leopard print. Boas. Hats. Gloves. Anything that makes me feel like I need a martini in one had, one of those long cigarettes in another, and a silk robe with pink, fuzzy, high heeled slippers.

Tiaras are for everyday wear. And if I could pull off saying “Daaaah-ling” without sounding like a bad actress, I’d say it daily.

Now that all of that is out in the open, I can also say, without hesitation…I fucking hate cheerleaders. And if the Princess decides to join cheerleading, I’ll die. Die. Right there on the spot.

I don’t so much hate every girl that is a cheerleader. I have some friends that dabbled. But you see, I was a basketball player. And as a basketball player (4 year starter on varsity in high school, then I just got high in college and forgot to play) cheerleaders are my sworn, mortal enemy.

So I’m really afraid that Princess Peanut will inherit my love of all things girly, and skip my equal love of sports.

So I’m trying, in my own way, to make her aware that girls kick ass on the field and on the court, and playing with a dollhouse. This weekend’s attempt at brainwashing included dressing her in her pink Los Angeles Dodgers PJ’s with a pink Detroit Pistons hat.

I don’t know why, but it totally made me feel like I was succeeding in starting her off right.

Now, some of you may argue (at your own peril) that cheerleading is, in fact, a sport. It might be, I don’t know. I don’t pay enough attention to it. Unless Bring it On counts. But as a young lass, I would do my hair for 45 minutes before a basketball game, and then intentionally “miss” a pass during warm ups to make sure a cheerleader got nailed in the face.

I would lobby our athletic director endlessly to kick the cheerleaders off our sidelines during games. We didn’t need them. They got in the way. They were annoying, etc. And by my senior year, they only appeared during the playoffs. I was a forced to be reckoned with. And extremely annoying. I am sure the poor man gave in just to shut me up.

Of course, when I severely sprained an ankle my junior year (played in OT with tears in the tendons and everything-yeah, I’m hardcore) I got a cast.

A pink cast. With bows.

I’m not sure the root of my cheerleader hate. I think it is as old as time itself. Sport girl and Dance girl just don’t get along. They use their hips to shake in front of crowd for “motivation”-I used mine to blockout some Amazon woman under the boards.

So if my little girl decides on pompons and spanky pants instead of a uniform and high tops…She’ll be kidnapped and deprogrammed and forced to watch Hoosiers for 48 hours straight, eyes held open with tape if necessary.

Pink tape, of course.

You’ve always wanted me to guest post.
So here’s my first try at it:
Bow chicka chicka bow wow!
The Kaiser

Sorry for the interruption. I started this post and left it up on the computer. Someone hijacked it for a second there. Anyway…back to what I was saying…

I’m having a Madonna/Whore problem. And it does not involve gummy bracelets or lace gloves.

I go from Mommy-Snuggled on, Singing, Lulling children into sleep, cradling, rocking, nursing, and doting to-QUICK! Run down stairs, whip off clothes, turn the monitor on full blast, the-kids are-actually-asleep-why-are-your-clothes-still-on? Didn’t you hear me I said the KIDS ARE BOTH ASLEEP! If you want to DO IT we need to DO IT NOW!

How do you go from Mommy to SexPot in 0.3 seconds?

Not to mention, still remaining somewhat Mommy so you can hear any whimpers from the monitor.

Physically, getting naked is easy. But we’re halfway through with the fun before I’m really transitioning from Mom to Wife. Madonna Whore. Madonna Whore. Madonna Whore.

And how do the husbands deal with this? I mean, the Kaiser just watched me breastfeed the baby for an hour and suddenly I’m getting nasty on the office floor. Is that a mental handicap? Or can men just block that out easily?

And dare I even mention the interruptions? Midway through, ahem, oral…WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA from the monitor. I run back upstairs, emerge after 15 minutes, and the “fun” continues. Or does it?

I realize there are things like “parent only” beds and “foreplay.” Whatever those are. But I don’t have TIME for that kind of thing. Even if the kids were in their own beds in another room, the baby still wakes up. The Count still coughs and wakes himself up randomly. Or needs water. Or needs “just one more hug.”

That means I go from “don’t worry honey, there are no monsters in the closet,” to “FUCK ME HARD!” in a span of 3 minutes.

Maybe this dilemma is as old as men, women, and children and there really is no solution. I’m thinking of Native Americans sleeping in tents. I mean, did the kids have their own tent? Were Mom and Dad sneaking off into the woods every night and bending over a rock?

Pioneers…Covered wagons. There was sex on the trail, right? Did the kids just cover their ears? Did Mom ever reach orgasm, or was she too busy worrying about Junior asleep 3 feet away?

Madonna Whore. Madonna Whore. Madonna Whore.

News you should know….go see me at Blogher today.

And for those who don’t want to be in the know, and prefer mindless entertainment:

The Kaiser and I have successfully ended the dry spell here in the Royal Kingdom, but not without laughter. I told him about my horrible day yesterday while we were, ahem…undressing. His response? “It’s about to get a whooooooooooole lot better.”

I’ve decided all men are really just 16-year-old boys.

The Count farted in school this morning and told me “Miss Debbie does not think ‘Smell the Love’ is funny, right Miss Debbie?” The Queen exited the classroom with a red face. The Kaiser will pay.

HRH Princess Peanut has learned where her eyes are located.

p.s Sarah is scanning old photos, and she’s finding some REALLY GOOD ONES of my Kaiser, circa early 1990’s. Enjoy.

If you have a park better than THIS one in our neighborhood, call me out. Because this park, smack dab on the Pacific, kicks your park’s ASS. That’s right, I’m still ass kicking.

We went to Santa Barbara this weekend and had a ball. There is nothing like a good Santa Barbara outing to lift the spirits and get you happy. Except for the fact that Count Waffles the Terrible has a new alter ego: Captain No Pants.

Potty training (which is going really well -knock on wood- by the way) means his pants are on and off…a lot. But he prefers them off. His sister follows suit and declare herself “Naaaa bababa!” which translates into NAKED BABY! Which must be said just like that…in a scream. You also need to throw your hands in the air.

Anyway, everyone has been naked around here a lot more lately. Which is great for potty training, but not so great when it’s been the coldest and wettest spring in Southern California in recent memory.

So today, we’re trying to go to playgroup…but Captain No Pants is refusing to put pants on. Much like this weekend when we wanted to leave for Santa Barbara and I couldn’t get him to put pants on.

“Can’t we go to the zoo with no pants, Mommy?”

Costumes, capes, hats…I can handle. But how the hell do I get out of the house when kids have NO PANTS???

I’m off to wrestle a 3-year-old now.