2006 August

Love Thursdays-Little Sisters

August 30, 2006 by Queen of Spain 21 Comments

She adores her brother. Breathes him like air. Follows him as though he were the second coming.

Some days he notices her. Some days he tolerates her. Most days, he’s annoyed with her. And then there are the days when he adores her. And you can see the joy in her eyes from her brief, yet powerful, moment of triumph.

Yet she continues. Always no more than a step behind, and always defiantly mastering whatever task he has deemed too hard for her to accomplish.

She is his stalker. She is his minion. He is her everything. She looks at him in a way she looks at no one else. Not her Mom. Not her Dad. Not her Uncle. Not even Elmo.

They are siblings in every sense. Brother and sister. Oil and water. Always together, yet never touching. Always right on top of one another, yet never touching.

Always together.

Join Love Thursdays!

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Princess Peanut

The Booginator

August 29, 2006 by Queen of Spain 25 Comments

I like to think of the blogosphere as my own, big, personal confessional.
I blather, you make me feel better. Or you make me laugh. Or you get me so pissed off I write more. Whatever. All I know is I tell you everything and somehow come out of it feeling clean.

So why stop???

I have a problem. A really, really big problem. And with school just around the corner, bringing with it the snot party of snotty snot goodness, I need to talk.

I can’t stop picking my kids’ noses.

I refuse to let them cry themselves to sleep-calling the practice “barbaric” and “lazy” parenting, yet I will hold my kids down, against their will, and pry boogers out of their noses while they scream bloody murder.
Yeah, I don’t get it either.
I like it. I like to dig in there and get out a real crusty one. I like to get my fingernail way up in their nasal cavity and jimmy the goo and crust clean, almost smiling at the “pop” when it breaks free from skin and hair.

I can’t stop.

The poor, poor little Peanut currently has a slight runny nose. Just enough to create booger, but not enough for constant tissue. The Perfect Storm, if you will, of goo and crust that makes that hard, green, gob on her inner, tiny, nose hole.

I am her torturer.

I can’t stop.

It’s no surprise I’m not a fan of runny nosed kids. They just look dirty.So it goes with my manic, stepford crazy, clean wife thing pretty well. The problem is ¦I will let them walk around with chocolate, cheese, and yogurt on their chins all day. But get a booger? Oh, hell no. And BAM, I’m on it.

I can’t stop. Help me.

Filed Under: Princess Peanut, Stepford Crazies

Let There Be Light

August 29, 2006 by Queen of Spain 10 Comments

I like to romanticize my life in hoop skirts, corsets, and pantalettes. I can swoon with the best of them. Take gentleman callers, tea, and dance in a large hat.

But leave me without electricity for 12 hours and I’m in tears, praying to a God I don’t believe in, to deliver me from this hell of no air conditioning, television, internet, cold beer, and light.

I have no doubt that without modern conveniences I would have died, twice, in child birth and been left in the attic with my stepford crazies to count the swirls in the wallpaper.

The first few hours of powerless life here in suburbia were a novelty. We played games, swam in the pool, danced and sang silly songs. And after the novelty wore off, it was all about survival.

Lord of the Flies with teddy grahams and lukewarm juice. Puppets were sadly replaced for Jimmy Neutron and the off-off-off Broadway show bombed. The Royal Palace smelled of smoke from a nearby wildfire and entirely too stinky candles found stashed in the garage.

The afternoon heat became unbearable. The kids, more than restless. The Mom ¦medicated.

We took refuge at the Olive Garden for lack of knowing where else to go, and became the family that everyone stares at.

Mom in her sweats, dripping with sweat, and a dirty (pink) baseball hat. Daddy fresh from work and juggling two children content to play musical chairs/laps.

Eat, juggle. Drink, juggle. Retrieve toy from floor, peel off pepperoni from pizza, blow to cool, quickly take bite of own food, juggle, sip, repeat.

The drinks were not big enough. And the explanations of “we have no power at home”? brought faint smiles from wait staff and patrons.

Somewhere around 3am the house sprang to life. The air conditioning blared, the TV’s clicked, sweet, sweet power hummed and buzzed.

We can even watch the freak ass Doodlebops today. I just wish to bask in the glow of the TV, open and shut my cold fridge, and lick my laptop.

Hoop skirts are overrated.

Filed Under: Royal Pain

Turning Off the Mom

August 27, 2006 by Queen of Spain 25 Comments

You know the hot date with your husband isn’t getting off on the right foot when you’re doing u-turns and on the phone with 4-1-1 trying to find the restaurant.

annoyed and saying things like “Goddammit, Erin” and I’m desperately trying to make lame jokes in an attempt to relieve the tension. You know, only to further annoy the husband.
We had babysitters. We had showers. (what? Sometimes that’s harder than it seems with two kids) and we had an anniversary gift of cold hard cash to fund our night of kidless debauchery.

But we couldn’t find the fucking restaurant.

Of course it was exactly where we thought it was and we had passed it several times, but when it comes to hidden Italian places in Suburbia that have changed their name and tucked themselves into the only corner of a strip mall not visible to those living in this town for the past 7 years, people are bound to be late.

And after some calamari and wine, I begin to push the kids and the, “I wonder if the baby tried that stair jump thing she does when I’m standing in front of her with her grandma and has cracked her head open, because I forgot to warn grandma that she sometimes jumps from that one, particular stair? thoughts out of my head.

And I relax.

Mostly.

Then came the martini bar, and two grey goose with blue cheese olives, and I’m actually hitting up the owner of the place up for his babysitter info.

I’m so sad.

I can’t get out for one night with my husband and just relax. No. I have to get drunk and pester the barkeep about where he found his really good babysitter that he takes on vacation with him and oh, can I have her number, and you pay her how much? Cool and let’s exchange info and yeah, we’ll have one more drink so you can tell me more about your babysitter!

I suck.

I think when the baby weans (whenever that is) the Kaiser and I should take a short vacation. But that thought already has me feeling guilty.

I. Can’t. Shut. Off. The. Mom.

Filed Under: Stepford Crazies

Holding Court-the letters

August 25, 2006 by Queen of Spain 43 Comments

Dear QofS,

Aren’t you worried your daughter will grow and be disgusted by your open dicussion of her “rubbing” on toys? Just you wait until she can talk back. I bet you she will move out before she is 18.

You are an idiot,

Gem

Dear Gem,

I am sure open and honest discussion about masturbation scares the hell out of you. Buy a vibrator and get back to me. I’m guessing your kids are repressed and seething or rebelling by fucking animals.

All my love,

QofS

Erin,

You don’t know what you are talking about. Hummers are trucks, just like a million other types of trucks on the road. My Hummer even goes off road. And my girlfriend thinks it is HOT. You are just upset that you can not afford a Hummer. What do they pay writers these days?

Jim

Dearest Small Dick Jim,

Your girlfriend is using you. Let me guess, you also have a cartoon character tattooed (or tribal armband?) on your shoulder, you listen to Korn, and you mysteriously always seem to be rooting for the winning team? You drive that Hummer, but still have the same couch you pissed on in college, right?

Sweetie. I’m the Queen. I could buy and sell you. Twice. But I’m sure it would bore me, so I’ll have my pool boy dispose of you.

Kisses,

QofS

and last, but not least…

Queen of Spain Blog,

You are not cool. Your swearing does not make you part of the popular crowd. You are just trying to get attention and I think you are sad. Your writing is marginal. Sometimes you are funny, but you have not been funny in a long time. Stop trying to be Dooce.She gets hits and you get 200 uniques a day. that is nothing.

r40Jr

Dear R40Jr,

Umm…ok there IP 24.155.22.118 why the 10 page views today? 8 yesterday? 16 on Monday and 4 last Friday? Admit it. You love me. And you are my bitch.Smooch,

Queenie

Filed Under: Holding Court

I humped Big Bird

August 24, 2006 by Queen of Spain 10 Comments

Our affair was a long one.

He was big and yellow. I couldn’t refuse.

It started when I was about two. Laying around, hugging him. I soon realized laying on him felt good. And grinding him felt even better.

What he doesn’t know, is that he wasn’t the only one. I also humped a big bunny. A white kitty. A Pooh Bear. I think Bird would be devastated if he knew that my masturbation went beyond his yellow fluff.

I was the whore of the stuffed animal kingdom.

30 years later. My daughter is having her own affair. She likes them red, and of the monster variety. She calls him “MoMo.”

I’m not sure what she sees in him, other than he’s squishy in all the right places, with big, bulging balls on top.

I liked them Big and Yellow. She likes the Small and Red. I hear they both live on the same Street. Small world.

Clits Up, baby girl. Clits Up.

Filed Under: Princess Peanut, Royal Sexlife

Royal Housekeeping

August 23, 2006 by Queen of Spain 7 Comments

I love it when a plan comes together.

As many of you might have guessed, some amazing things came out of the BlogHer conference. And it wasn’t all booze-fueled. Ok, most of it was…but not ALL of it.

Something that I am OVER THE MOON excited about is the Blogher Relief Network. This is where we, as a blogging community, get to give back. More details to come.

Sarah makes her Blogher debut today. Sports (and fitness too) whooooo hooo!

And Troll Baby has launched what might be one of the most powerful, raw and real blogs out there called Motherless. Check it out, and bring a hanky.

Filed Under: BlogHer, BlogHer.org, blogher06, Feeling YaYa

The Post Where I Cuss, But Only For Emphasis

August 21, 2006 by Queen of Spain 75 Comments

My father printed my Huffington Post piece for my grandfather. And used a Sharpe to do this to “all that cussing.”

An uncle caught my post and called my family to say “She’s a great writer! I had no idea! But does she have to swear so much?”

And lest we not forget all of the super swell commentors over there, who seem to think because I drop f bombs, social services should come haul my kids away.

Bad Mommy. Bad Mommy.

Does it make you uncomfortable that a mother swears? Nevermind that I didn’t actually do it in front of my kids, because there have been a handful of occasions where I did let a few less than polite words slip out. And nevermind that, by all accounts, I rock the mommy-thing.

When my Dad called to relay his creative editing for my grandfather and tell me all about my uncle…I laughed. And then I explained that mommyhood just ain’t what it used to be.

Motherhood is ugly. Motherhood is hard. Motherhood is dirty.

And yeah, motherhood means that Mommy says “FUCK!” sometimes when the pot roast burns. If you’re looking for “oh gosh darn!” or “fiddlesticks” I think my mother-in-law might be available.

Troll Baby’s Karen (whom I adore for many, many reasons-but mostly because she stood next to me at a bar and said “why can’t I fucking get a Molson, eh?”) got some shit because of this infamous and hilarious video of her son, in which he may or may not be mimicking someone in his household. Cute little bugger with his “friggin wegos, beeeyoch.”

Apparently her children and my children will be sharing stories of their foster homes.

I’m just curious here, but where are the FUCKpolice when Daddy drops a wrench? Spills his beer? Watches football? Loses his keys?

Would it make you uncomfortable if I told you Mommy has a better jumpshot than Daddy? I know, I know, couple that with the swearing and I’m sure you think our family is a lost cause.

But if you’d shut up about my alleged bad example for just a minute, you’d find this next generation of mother all around you. She’s on the bike with all the tats. Watching too much NFL coverage in preparation for her fantasy draft. Finding ways to remove Gitterdun from her head. Oh, and Haiku’s shit. (no, really…actually Haiku’s about poop)

It’s been said that poor writers use profanity to make up for what they lack. I use it because it’s dirty. It’s hard. It’s real.

And that’s my life.