I HAVE SUPERPOWERS

Not really, but I’m a little tipsy, so I feel like I do.

In an honest effort to up my alkeehall tolerance level before BlogHer rocks the house, I had two, count them, TWO martini’s tonight. I’m such a freaking cheap date. Seriously. What does two drinks cost now-a-days?

Anyhoo, wanted to tell you kids about my kid, the boy one, and his superpowers. He found them yesterday morning in the driveway. His superpowers. Found them just sitting there on the driveway. So he did what any kid would do. He scooped them up, stuck them into his bellybutton, and went on with his day. Said, “There are my superpowers� scoop, sucked in his gut, and kept walking.

Here is the really fun part of that story…it was the Kaiser who saw it all and got to relay the whole thing to me. I love when crap like that happens and Daddy-who-works-ungodly-hours gets to be the one to see the supercool shit. That makes me happy.

Did I mention I swear EVEN more when I’m drunk. If that’s possible.

And about this whole meeting bloggers in real life thing…am really not nervous. Excited, but not nervous. Wondering how I will sneak out to nurse and not drink too too too much to get blogged about later (that freaking queen of spain, had TWO, count them TWO martinis and then went back to her room and NURSED her baby…we should call child protective services) because I KNOW I will end up flashing all of your cameras and I NEVER photograph well (hang on …the boobs photograph ok, the face, not so much) and I’m paranoid that I will not have any editorial control over your blogs. I like control. Yes, that’s one of my many therapy issues. Shut up, I’m getting better.

Anyway, that was my little way of saying one week left until we all meet. And seriously, will you guys know me, or will I need to wear a name tag or crown or something?

p.s. I know you guys are already over my tits because I totally gave you a HUGE picture of them a few posts back and it was like…eh, QofS’s tits again, no biggie.

Technical Difficulties

Ok, so there are a few little bumps here with the new blog. Hang in there with me, please.

In the meantime, ponder my latest theory:

Douching. Our mother’s generation douched. Our generation does not douche.

Boob Jobs in Suburbia

3_011_hoot_copy.jpg

My nipples are, in fact, elastic. They have been tugged, bitten, stretched, smushed, and even flicked.

The top of my breasts have stretch marks. When they are filled with milk the marks are silver and white and blue. When the milk is low, they wrinkle and dip.

My breasts are never the same in size. Each day, each hour, at any given time the can be as deflated as balloons three weeks after the party. Or hard as rocks. Or both, at once.

They have been forced into hard labor. Put to work in the trenches where they meet the demand of little mouths, eager to feed. They have done their duty. They continue to serve, like good soldiers, as the youngest tugs and pulls and twists and nurses backwards. Upside down. From the side. From the top. From the bottom. On the couch. On a chair. In bed. In the car. In the mall. At the doctor’s. At Target. At the vet. In the bathroom. At a party. In the library. On a plane. On trains. In boats. In the pool. On the floor.

Purple hearts. That’s what I would give my breasts if I could. They were called to action, saved me in many a situation, did their job with pride and lactating swiftness, and never failed when the war was wearing on. And on. And on.

As you can imagine, they’ve suffered heavy damage. HEAVY damage.

And once the little one finally unlatches for the last time, I have the option to bring these warriors back to their once-glorious state.

After years of floundering on the subject, I finally think I’m at peace with my decision. Yes, they deserve to be restored. They deserve to look like they once did. They deserve their former glory.

Although I have not fully reconciled why I feel a need to restore my breasts to their pre-breastfeeding state, or exactly how I will approach the issue with my daughter and son, I know I want them back where they were. That’s all. Not bigger. Just back where they were. Even. Up.

My husband already has a plan to purchase this reconstruction. And when I mentioned the subject he laid the plan out for me, detailed and ready to implement.

Instead of getting upset he thought about it so much…I was actually flattered. When it comes to my chest he’s like any other man, but the money issue is no small feat. And he’s the tightwad in the family.

I am confident that I can give my children healthy views on their bodies, self image, and confidence without compromise concerning my fake tits. Options. Options are available to women. And this is MY choice.

Make no mistake, when I go under the knife I’m doing this for ME. ME ME ME ME. Moi. Me. Not the husband. Not society. ME.

And in the meantime, while they continue their service to the greater good…I just might go get them a new bra. And some lanolin. Maybe a hot shower. It’s nearly naptime and the baby is teething.

Back to the trenches.

To all the men I’ve beaten down before

There is nothing like a snarky woman in your fantasy football league to spice things up.

Try three. The girls and I are officially part of the Blog Pound League some Daddybloggers and Draft Day Suit bloggers put together. And while Sarah and Gidge really know their football, my NFL knowledge is above par, yet still lacking. So I am resorting to Guerrilla Warfare.

The boys have already started talking smack. And if there is one thing I do really well (hey, hey…out of the gutter there boys-but you’d be right on that too) it’s speak to grown men like they are helpless children. I’ll start with the usual verbal assaults, but don’t think I’m above a long monologue about my period and tampons just to make you weep and beg for mercy.

You boys know that women never play fair. So expect me to cheat and catfight my way to the pot of gold in this league. I’ll have you quitting because your WIFE won’t let you play with that bitch anymore. Is that PORN on your computer again? Did it really come from that GIRL in your fantasy league??? Oh yeah, I will stoop that low.

So I figure with the boys out of the way, my only real competition is the gals. Sarah will put too many Bucs players on her team to be a real threat. I’m hoping Gidge gets overwhelmed with the whole “has a job� thing and misses some key transactions.

That just leaves me. And my ample breasts. Which I will use and abuse in order to win money. And fame. And glory.

Oh, and Sarah…I totally blame you for my new obsession with fantasy football. You’ve created a monster.

BlogMe: Pieces of Fizzle

BlogMe She’s better than Angelina Jolie.

Eyes

Why?? Because she’s adopting from Ethiopia AND blogging it. She’s Fizzle. And you are about to learn more about her than you’ve ever wanted to know.

I had my first Fizzle encounter when she kindly left me a few comments here and there. Then I noticed she also liked Mocha. So I KNEW we’d hit it off.

Now that I’m reading her very funny and very well written (and she even uses naughty words) blog How The Urbanites Adopt, I think I just might be in love. And want to adopt right along with her. Because if the Kaiser needs anything in his life right now, it’s me getting to know a woman adopting a child from another country. My husband is doomed, and this would be a whole lot easier if he would just admit it.

But back to Fizzle. She’s cooler than you are. She watches more K-Fed than anyone should. And she’s obviously one hell of a person. She thinks she can take me in a race…but I have a secret-(my big toe is totally just a ugly as hers, which means I can run too) But I’ve also seen her arms, and, um…dude, she could probably kick my ass. Or bench me. One of the two.
As part of the uberfabulous BlogMe, here is Fizzle’s all important interview:

What can I learn about you in under 5 minutes? When did you start blogging and why?

I am a tri-geek (part of the network), who’s a sweatpant fashionista and in love with two ingenious and yet mentally challenged dogs. I drink more than a triathlete’s supposed to, cuss too much and am in the process of adopting our first babe from Ethiopia, albeit procrastinating on the paperwork.

I began blogging when training for an Olympic-distance triathlon and raising money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. My husband dared me to keep a blog so family and friends could keep up with my progress. Who am I to turn down a dare? I kept the comments off before I gained the courage to hear what my readers had to say.

Arms of Steel

During this time, we’d decided to adopt, and as I read other writers, I felt like I might have a unique voice to add to the mix. Thus, I became the incognito Fizzle and began to chronicle life as me.

Why did you choose to share that piece of yourself in a photograph?

I chose three separate pieces of me. Eyes, arms and toes. None of which I’m overly in love with, but they tend to be revealing.

I chose the eyes because I’m a surreal observer. Surreal. That’s the word I used, I stick by it.

Give me two minutes observing a group and I can figure out whose sleeping with who, whether you like your wife, which couple hosts the swinging cocaine parties and what woman will steal my man when I’m wide-eyed at the chips and salsa table.

Those biceps were selected for the sheer amount of change that’s gone on to achieve them. Those babies are not only the result of a year’s physical work toward a half-Ironman, but they symbolize the change I went through to think of myself as an athlete, the mental changes I had to undertake to be a part of groups seeking similar goals and doing something not only for myself, but becoming a leader for others. It’s been an amazing journey, difficult and hard, but with much gain and for a strength that has nothing to do with benchpressing.

Now the toes. Cobra toes, as they’ve been labeled. Back in the day, when I lived in Mexico, my best friend was the king of yo’ momma jokes. A group of college students sat around our kitchen table in Guadalajara, drinking Patron and Fresca, and he would make my big toe a special guest.

“Your toe’s so big, you get a pedicure at Earl Schieb�.

The TOE

My retorts of, “yo’ momma’s so cheap, she got married for the rice� weren’t nearly as popular.

The alienness of my toes was attention grabbing. The toes are my ugliness, and I love it. They add at least a size and a half to my shoe size, are capable of thumb wrestling and stretch out too far in sandals, but I wriggle that big, fat-ass toe in pride.

How do you feel about meeting bloggers in real life? Are you nervous?

I’m honored to be in the circle of these blogging greats. They’re creative, intelligent, honest, driven and entertaining. Especially The Queen of Spain. I come from a far more humble and muted online existence and am curious about meeting these ladies who I read with regularity. Do they really talk about sex and vaginas all the time? Do they come carrying diapers full of their children’s poop? Will they relate to a non-mommy athletic alcoholic?

I’m not sure I’m in their league, but the great equalizer is a bottle of wine, a race on my Cannondale — perhaps not an equalizer (you blog better, but catch me now, biyatches) –and a warm, fun-loving personality.

I think I can hold my own.

So soon we’re going to meet each other at BlogHer.

Important question. How do you party?

I’m down to get my groove on. I’ve got my dance shoes lined up. With room for my big toe, of course.

Are you and your blogging persona the same person?

To a certain degree, yes. I can write more honestly about my perceptions of life at How the Urbanites Adopt than I can express in real life. My family has no idea I keep a blog. This leaves me free to talk about them openly.

And yet, there’s the freedom from proof (or, clear throat, rearranging the details) on a blog that allows my inner exaggerator to let down her hair and dance barefoot all over the truth. Plus, I’m actually very private. I can’t imagine sharing with the blogosphere that I live in St. Petersburg, Russia.
Oh, did I let that cat out of the bag?

So now that you’ve learned all about Fizzle, go see what Troll Baby has to say about ME!!!

And to keep the BlogME madness going, I’m tagging Shash, Finslippy, Dooce, Sweetney, and Fussy. Because I’m a biyatch like that-just like Fizzle likes me.

Shiney New Blog

mhouse 006.jpgThe Queen requests you update your blogrolls to reflect the change. Yes, that’s www.queenofspainblog.com.

The Queen also admits she has no idea how to work this wordpress thingy. So she’s off to shave her royal poon instead.

As you can plainly see, she’s already f’d up the photo sizes. Not to mention the post that was here a few hours ago, plugging the UBER fabbbuuu BLOGME (oh, lookie there, we made a link) craziness that will occur on Monday.

IF we (that’s the Royal WE) can figure this out by then.

I will be at Blogher and DotMoms this weekend. Just for the hell of it, I may post at Draft Day Suit, too. Kick off the new homebase blog with a bang.

I love the smell of clorox wipes in the morning

They’ve upped my medication. The Stepford Wife Crazies came out a few weeks ago and hung around long enough to have everyone around me nod their heads in agreement.

Yeah, she’s losing it a little-again.

The good news is we now seem to recognize when I’m losing it a little. Sort of. Lazy Ass Wife still in front of the computer? Check. Lazy Ass Mom calling CheezIts and sprinkles lunch? Check. Sudden, manic, fan cleaning at 1am? Check. Laundry at 2am? Check. Falling asleep with kids at 845pm? Check? Lack of showering? Check.

So today I got 30mg of Paxil instead of 20mg and immediately got a headache.

Then I baked zucchini bread.

PINK zucchini bread. Because I can’t bake anything without at least one fuck up. Which means I thought the red food coloring was vanilla and thus, pink bread. Stop making fun of me long enough to go look in your pantry and notice those stupid black, tiny bottle look a whole hell of a lot alike. Shut up. So what if I made pink bread? I’ll tell you all right now it’s breast cancer awareness zucchini bread. Suck on that.

So as my brother complains that he doesn’t want to eat pink bread, I notice everyone is laughing. Huh. Laughter. That’s a good start.

They tell me that these damn antidepressants can just stop working. Or your body adjusts to them. So I hear that tweaking your dose or type is normal. Whoo hoo. Normal. There is word I don’t hear often.

As I type this, Count Waffles just informed me he doesn’t have superpowers anymore. He says they just fell out of him.

Huh. My magic pill powers just kinda fell out of me too.

So as I pretend to hunt my office floor for missing superpowers, I’ll also try and pick up what has survived this postpartum. Dust it off one more time. And hope 30 is a magic number.

When the Count can fly again, we’ll go get us some of the Breast Cancer Awareness Bread too. See, now you totally wish you had some.

Mommyblogging is a Radical Act

“Mommyblogging is a radical act,” is a phrase, coined by Alice, near and dear to my heart. I wasn’t even there when she said it…but I love her for very clearly putting into words exactly how I feel about blogging.

To be fair, I should say that “Mommyblogging rocks my fucking world” might be a more appropriate phrase for me. Or “Mommyblogging Lets me Talk about Other Women’s Stinky Snatchs'” or something. But you get the idea.

Sure, I post silly things. Sure, I will go on and on about preschool or teething, or sex with my husband. But every once in awhile, I post something that someone else “gets.”And that is where the “radical” part comes in. Suddenly it goes from the Queen spouting random crap to Queen connecting with other people. The kinds of people that have vaginas and children and Paxil in their medicine cabinet too.

Suddenly I am not alone. And suddenly I can speak my mind amongst friends. That is what I really want to get at here. The whole “speaking my mind” thing.

Not too long ago Her Bad Mother did a great post on the whole MommyWar thing. Which one of us hasn’t gone off on that in one way or another, I ask. And I commented that I really liked it when we all got down and dirty and fought about it. I said it means that we have arrived, and it is the next step in gender equality. Debate. Discourse. Battles.

Apparently I said something either so incredibly retarded or so way off base or so, maybe, thought provoking that it prompted yet another post.

So here we have a very large group of women discussing how to discuss what we are passionate about. Such is the nature of us broads. We can’t seem to just debate and argue. We have to talk about how we debate and argue. No wonder my husband is so exhausted.

But for better or worse, this is how we are. And this, I believe, is what sets us apart from those men who will wrestle to the death. We’ll talk to the death. They will fight to the death. Unless, of course you touch my kid or my chocolate martini…then I too shall fight to the death.

What many of you may not have noticed yet is that our audience is growing. And with that, comes a greater responsibility for us to say something. It’s no fluke that the brilliant women of the blogher conference launched their ad network with the mommies. As it turns out, we’re HUGE. And we’re being read everywhere.

I recently was syndicated with the Santa Maria Times (who then dropped me after that infamous blow job post) and I have a hush-hush/wink-wink/nudge-nudge lunch discussion in August with a MAJOR corporation. And MAJOR would be an understatement.

We have power. We have voices. That means we now have a responsibility. Like it or not. And we are now bringing our debates, our battles, our fears, our passions, our everything to the forefront of discussion in America and the world.

What are you going to do?

I challenge all of you Mommybloggers to use that power sometime before blogher to post something BIG on your blog. Write about postpartum. Write about child abuse. Write about adoption. Write about abortion. Write something other than those “bubblegum” posts. Just once. OR, write a bubblegum post you know will mean something to some other mom out there.

What YOU are writing and what YOU are saying is resonating SO MUCH with others that PR firms, advertisers, and major corporations are taking notice. Conferences are getting MAJOR sponsors, and millions of other mothers and women are finding friends, communities, help, and comfort in YOUR words.

Don’t stop talking. Don’t censor yourself. And DON’T stop fighting.

So what if we fight like girls. I say ding that bell and throw me in the ring, because the world is watching. And listening. And reading. And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to use this opportunity to say exactly what I want. To debate and fight about it and to respect all those who dare jump in that ring with me.