There is a reason I can clearly remember ever single time my mother cut my bangs. They looked like ass.

And despite swearing on dull kitchen scissors that I would never do the same to my offspring, well, um…

You see, there were these few, stray hairs on the Peanut. They were getting in her eyes, making her blink, rub, you know…act all addict. I figured I would just trim those few, stray hairs. Snip Snip clip clip and we’re done.

I appreciate that you are all still reading, seeing as you know where this is going. And you really would think that years of having my own bangs trimmed by my own mother would teach me. I ain’t never been no good at no learnin’.

So now that I have one of the Bay City Rollers for a daughter, I suppose I should go invest in some barrettes. Not that she’ll keep them in her hair. But I like to pretend I can fix this. I’m very good at pretending.

It should just be a law that I am never allowed to “do” anyone’s hair. It never turns out well. There was the time in college I helped dye my friend Ray’s jett black hair red. It never occurred to us black doesn’t dye well without first making the hair not so black. Not too long after that, I heard that you could dye your hair various hues if you used Kool-Aid. I couldn’t get my red, green, purple, and yellow streaks out in time for a job interview and had to beg a hair salon to get me in after 400 washes with Palmolive (which was supposed to take it out) did not work.

Kool-Aid and Palmolive! For all your haircare needs! And the warning lights never flashed for me why?????

Now I pay oodles of money to have someone else do my hair. I think I owe the same to my children.

Since we all know moving bites, I thought we could play some fun games while we watch the acme moving gals pack my boxes and give the new place a nice shine.

Moving Game #1: Explain the circumstance surrounding this quote:

“Periods and Punching You in the Face. Two totally different things.”

Said by: The Kaiser, to the Queen.
Location: In the Momvan.
Destination: Ikea, Burbank, CA.

The winner will explain the circumstances surrounding the quote in the comments section of this post. Hints may be issued, at my discretion, in the comments section.

Prize: My Kidz Rock mix CD.

Moving Game #2: Guess the height

Below is a photo of the Count’s sunflower. Guess the correct height.

hint: This is the world record.
Prize: an envelope of seeds from this sunflower.

Enjoy. I’m going to go make sure nothing gets scuffed or broken during the move. I’m such a dictator.

Some big changes are underway. And with all the posts about my hippo ass, shaving my crotch, and counting the weight watcher points in ejaculate…I needed this big moving truck.

Sarah is moving too. Stay tuned to both our blogs for the big annoucement!

Ok, at the risk of sounding like the biggest GIRL ever, I really need to get this off my chest:

Holy Crap, soccer players are HOT! Why didn’t anyone tell me this earlier? Seriously. Soccer players kick every other sport in the world’s ass in the “cute boys” category. Assuming that category exists. I guess it does now. I really think if more US women knew this little fact, those network types and marketing types could totally sell the crap out of this whole “most popular sport on earth” thing.

I can see it now, millions of American husbands and boyfriends sitting down this morning to watch that whole US some random country Angelina Jolie visits game, and BAM! Wifey hears through the grapevine soccer players are hotties and the next thing you know men and women are actually -gasp- spending time together watching a game. Sorry, a match.

Wait. Maybe that’s bad. Maybe it would be better if women just had World Cup watching parties of their own. With other women. Then we can drink our girlie drinks and talk about abs on a player and that last bogus red card with abandon.

I realize this makes me look like I don’t know my way around sports. And I’m just another dumb girl watching sports. NOT TRUE. And I can back that up, go ahead and test me.

But I’d be dead if I didn’t notice those cute boys kicking that bally thingy.

CrossPosted at Draft Day Suit

There is a rumor going around that some really smart women are going to be in San Jose at the end of July. Networking. Ass kicking, etc.

But I have a confession to make…

I just want to party.

Don’t worry your pretty, little, feminist heads. I’ll get some work done. Afterall, I have to at least pretend I’m not just there for the wine and daycare.

So not professional, I know. I know. But we Mommybloggers have a rep to uphold. I have it on good authority that those “Mommys Can Party.” No really. That was actually said to me. We’re expected to be the togas to their business skirts.

Far be it from me to let them down.

I realize this does nothing for the Mommyblogger image. You know, the one that isn’t taken very seriously by those serious bloggers who think we are just sucking bandwidth with our non serious issues and fluffy blogspot templates.

Joke is on them, huh? Not only are we having fun discussing diapers and breastmilk…but we’re sucking their ad money.

Can I just let out an evil “MmMmuuuuuuahhhahahahahahahahahahahaha.” Ah, that felt good.

Anyway, I think the Mommyblogger rep is safe because I plan on being at the bar. MotherGooseMouse has a spreadsheet going on what Mommies are showing up when, with whom, and she actually mapquested the nearest liquor store.

I’m not kidding. I have the email to prove it.

So as much as I know I should treat the conference as a chance to learn, network, and pretend I know what a wiki is…it’s really shaping up to be a family reunion, of sorts.

I’m bringing tiaras, tylenol, and if I have too, a pen or something.

See you there.

toga, toga, toga, toga, toga.

It’s 5am Pacific, so seeing as I am totally delirious with lack of sleep, I’ll tell you some fun, Royal Family Facts:Peanut is now insisting on holding a toy, monster truck to nurse.

Count Waffles the Terrible found my vibrator and wants to make it his “special rocket ship.”

Princess Peanut pooped so much yesterday it was between her toes AND in the baby-fat rolls under her chin.

I cut up cantaloupe and then plugged in the camera battery. My tongue is still a little tingly and my arms still are not right after the electric shock.

I actually lobbied the Kasier to use my children’s turtle tent to go camping. And I lamented that it did not have a skylight. I have, obviously, never really been camping.

As I type this, Count Waffles is laying on my arm crying. He doesn’t understand why we can’t go to the store right now to get a hat with a propeller on the top.

I still need a babysitter. Any volunteers?

The Count started swim lessons this week. He said hello to one of the big kids at the pool by saying “Dude! White Dude!”

What are we drinking at blogher and who is buying it for me? And am I the only one wondering how many sessions I can skip and still be somewhat present? I also have a feeling the Kaiser will finally read your blogs after San Jose. You know, because he’ll end up drunk with YOU while I put the kids to bed.

We’ll be in Florida in August. I’ll have babysitters if you want to take me out for a drink.

And the big news: queenofspainblog@yahoo.com -email me over there if you’d like to guest post here. It’s summer and I need to watch the pool boy skim.

The 3-year-old finally saw the movie he’s been obsessing over for months. I love you Pixar/Disney. It was like you knew what would make all the little boys in the world happy. AND you showed a Pirates of the Caribbean preview before hand. When everyone in the El Capitan theatre clapped, the Count got to BEAM with pride and say to Mommy, “They are clapping for Daddy’s new movie!” (Which is also a not so subtle hint for you to go see it. Because we want it to make MILLIONS opening weekend. Go. I command you. Do it. And stay for ALL the credits and when the Kaiser’s name goes by you MUST clap your head off. Scream I say! Scream! Oh, and also get me a poster so I can hang Johnny Depp in my house.)