Queen’s note: I am aware many of you can not comment. Blogger has been having issues, and I will leave this post up so everyone gets a chance to say what they want. It’s not some vast, left-wing conspiracy to keep you from showing Ann Coulter love. If you are really hard up to scream at me, feel free to send me an email at queenofspainblog@yahoo.com, just keep in mind I reserve the right to publish any and all emails to show the world what a moron you are.

I figure if Ann Coulter can theorize that some 9/11 widows are enjoying their husband’s deaths, then I can, at least, theorize that Ann Coulter is a bitter, evil, bitch because she does not shave her stinky snatch.

Both theories are absurd. Both are below-the-belt remarks. And both are potentially written simply for shock value.

But I do think a stinky snatch makes for a cranky woman. A cranky woman who would be better to spend her time getting a good wax or shaving her cooter, instead of spouting off on various subjects.

I’d like to be first in line to wax Ann. The joy I would get from pouring hot liquid on her nether regions and tearing it off would be indescribable. I won’t even charge her. In fact, she can charge me.

But back to the issue at hand. It seems Ms. Coulter believes some of the 9/11 widows have gotten a bit too political about the whole thing. Much like Cindy Sheehan, apparently.

I have to ask this, though…if the death of a loved one isn’t reason to get political, or be an activist…then what is? Anger over gas prices? Frustration with your taxes? Is money the only good reason for anyone to become involved and vocal?

I can’t think of a better reason to thrust yourself into the limelight than to fight for and speak up for those you have lost. And yes, it will make you a target for criticism. But it should make you a target for your stance on the issues. Not for your pain.

Many people are bashing Ann Coulter for her latest remarks (written in her new book) saying things like “shame on you,” and the like. But I’d really like to take it a step further and use the same, no-holds barred attitude and language that she uses;

Fuck you Ann Coulter. I think you crave attention because your nasty cunt emits a foul odor. You are profiting from the pain of women. Women. Widows. You are a sad representation of smart women around the world. I’m sure you are thrilled to see people like me fueling the fire. Attracting more attention to your little book than is needed. But know that there is a huge portion of women (even the stay-at-home Mom, blogging variety) that are here to call you out on your little ploy.

I will not be buying your book. And if someone thinks I have taken something out of context, I will be happy to read a copy of your book if mailed to me.

I’m not afraid.

There were things you could have told me about motherhood that I would have never believed.

For instance, you could have said “Poop really won’t bother you that much after awhile” and I would have looked at you disgusted. I mean, it’s poop, of course it’s going to bother me.

The other night the Kaiser had to fish something out of a pee-filled potty and I was laughing at him for being such a wuss. I mean, it wasn’t like it was a shit-filled toilet, so I really couldn’t see what he was being so squeamish about.

Pee, does not bother me. Poop, does not bother me.

You also could have told me that I would have a battle of the wills with my children over some very simple things, silly things, and I would have-again-laughed at you. Stoop to my child’s level and try to negotiate? Nope. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.

HRH Princess Peanut has, as of late, insisted on holding something (a toy, a pen) while nursing. No biggie. Except for today.

A battle of wills ensued.

I lost.

Yes, she’s holding a stroller.

Go give some love to the Violet and Slipshop clan…they added a baby girl this morning.

We love her already! And I can’t wait to meet her in July. Violet and I go back a little ways…well, its hard to explain-but let’s just say I’m glad she’s my friend, even if she’s not my sister-in-law.

So as I sit here in my brand new “Sexy Nursing Goddess” nursing shirt…what is the FIRST thing I notice about the new mag cover with the Jolie-Pitt bambino????

Angelina is wearing a nursing bra.

Thanks to the Kaiser for sending me the link…because he knew I’d be mad if he didn’t share.

It pays to have a man knee deep in celeb gossip at work.

Let’s just say there is this family with a pool. And since it’s about 103 degrees where they live, they are in said pool a lot.

Let’s also say their mother is, well, she’s lazy. And she sees that the pool cleans her children rather thoroughly.

And let’s just say that the mother recently realized she hadn’t actually bathed her children with actual soap or shampoo for, um…awhile.

Would you think she’s a horrible mother?

And, how often would you expect her to actually use shampoo and soap on her kids? I mean, does chlorine count as soap? Both have chemicals, right?

My mind is a big mess.

Within the past 24 hours I saw an old college friend, took a tearful phone call from my best friend in Michigan who had just given birth to her first baby, found out a relative is pregnant, talked to a cousin, and spent too much time looking for cheap flights to Detroit.

My mind is such a mess I’m considering spending stupid amounts of money to fly across the country, with two wild children, with no husband to help, to see people who may or may not care that I’m there.

What is wrong with me?

I’m blogging because I don’t know what else to do. I can’t make a decision to save my life. I want to see my family and friends and their new babies and my babies meet their babies and I want to just go. But I don’t want the emotional luggage or annoying relatives or annoying high school friends or questions about nursing or cosleeping or my hippie hollywood california life.

It exhausts me, the love hate relationship with Detroit and the people there. It’s my home, but it’s no longer my home. It’s such a big part of me…yet no longer a part of me.

I have a horrible headache. And heartache. I miss people. I miss the children they’ve had that I’ve never met. I miss the family that never calls me, that never visits me, that has never met my daughter.

Why? Why do I care?

I’ll go, I’ll spend money, I will make an effort to see people and they will pick on my parenting ideas and my lifestyle. They’ll ask about high housing prices and treat me like shit when I finally give in and tell them how much we spent on a house. They will kiss and hug my kids and claim they will come out and visit us, but won’t call until Christmas. And I’ll come home, exhausted, wondering why I went and why I spent money and why I love them so much.

I’ll meet one night with my high school friends. We’ll exchange polite conversation about jobs and homes and lives. But really they will be eying my clothing, jewelry, and wallet. And making backhanded compliments about how I left and they stayed. They’ll tell me about the local sports bar, their husband’s hockey or softball nights, and how things really are great and exactly the same for them as it was for our parents.

I’ll see those friends who actually do call. Or email. And we’ll cry and wish we had more time together. And I’ll see the people I actually WANT to see…but not have enough time with them because of all the people I HAVE to see.

The children will go native. Sleep in strange houses, and be accosted by relatives, be force fed more sugar than they can handle. They will run around like crazy kids because it’s a vacation and they haven’t napped in days. And won’t remember a thing they experienced in Detroit later in their lives.

And I’ll come home, exhausted, wondering why I went and why I spent money and why I still love everyone there so much.

Or I won’t go at all. And sit here and wonder about going.

It’s funny, I bought that Dixie Chick’s cd the other day. The first song is called “Taking the Long Way Around” and the first line is

It’s not a slam. I think some people take it that way. It’s just some people stayed and some left, and there is a divide. But there are those of us that left and didn’t forget.

I think that’s the part those who stayed don’t get. We didn’t leave YOU, per say. It wasn’t personal. But I guess, in a way, it was.

So now I’ll sit here and wonder what to do. Suggestions are welcome. Because there is nothing worse or better than going home.

I made the mistake of going to the mall the other day.

I am, officially, the oldest person on earth.

How do I know this? Easy…two teens walked into a store as I was walking out, and they had obviously raided my closet. I mean, my closet from when I was 14.

Big earrings I can handle. I can even, if I squint, manage not to vomit at the turquoise, ripped, off the shoulder shirt with the Flashdance tank-top under.

But what I will not tolerate. And what I CAN NOT HANDLE…

are the ACID WASH jeans.

I really wish I were kidding.

I told the Kaiser about my acid wash run in and he said, very casually,

“Oh yeah, acid wash is totally back in style.”

When pressed further on his sudden fashion trend knowledge he informed me that he
“works in Santa Monica” and “sees people.”

What the hell?

I’m not sure which is more disturbing, my husband being up on the whole “acid wash” thing, or the whole acid wash thing.