2006

Let’s Just Say…

October 25, 2006 by Queen of Spain 43 Comments

Hypothetically, you have a teenage son, a young teenage son.

He has a girlfriend.

You have most of the neighborhood over yearly to have some cider and snacks, then everyone goes out trick or treating from your doorstep.

Most of the group is 1-3 year-olds and their parents, a few 10-12-year olds and a two to three 14 and 16-year-olds.

The girlfriend has announced she’s going to be a HOOTERS girl for Halloween. She’s going to wear a HOOTERS shirt (apparently not belly bearing) and shorts to the trick or treating, family event.

You:

a) have no idea what to do

b) tell your son it’s inappropriate and leave it at that

c) tell her she’s not welcome unless she doesn’t dress like a whore

d) talk to her parents

e) do nothing

f) ????

Filed Under: Holding Court, Queenie Backup, Royal Family Outing, Royal Hooters

I Like Sucking On My Toes

October 24, 2006 by Queen of Spain 17 Comments

People like you make me cringe. No only was your comment about
Absolutely Mindy immature and nasty, but unnecessary as well. Is that the example
you hope to set for your own kids? Is it so hard to just turn the radio
off? Absolutely Mindy has won many awards for her show and does not need a
‘Mommy Blog’ to brag about them. Hope you feel good about yourself.”-Ashlie

I still hate Absolutely Mindy. I hate her. Her voice makes me want to pull all my hair out. Pour acid on ears. Shun XM kids forever because they employ someone who’s voice makes mothers kill themselves. And that is the nicest thing I can say.

Should I have talked about pulling out vocal cords? Probably not. Does she still suck? Yes.

Ahhhemmmm

My apologies to Ralph’s daughter, Fiona.

Apparently Ralph enlisted the help of his daughter for his new videos on Playhouse Disney. How the hell was I supposed to know the girl jumping around next to Ralph was a relative? From my angle, she just looked like a very conservatively dressed dancer. On speed.

Of course I do not believe she’s at a bar drinking scotch with the now fired Melanie, formerly of PBS Kids Sprout. Her Dad is a rock star; she’s totally shooting up heroin in Hollywood.

Cough. Cough. Cough.

Rest assured I am usually pretty fair and balanced. And to prove myself, I’ve just finished a lovely chat with Genevieve of Choo Choo Soul. She and the crew will be rockin’ the Queen of Spain blog next week promoting the ITunes release of their kick ass kid’s songs. That totally makes up for making fun of a teenager and some annoying radio personality.

Filed Under: Royal Pain

Sunday Torture, that’s what memories are made of…

October 23, 2006 by Queen of Spain 12 Comments

Sandstorm.
Heat.
Car exhaust.
The stench of stale popcorn.

Dust in our eyes. The children’s eyes. Crying, dusty children.
Walking. Bumping. Walking.

Go this way. No, that way. Over here. Let’s go over there. Go this way. Hold my hand. Give me your hand. No, the other hand. Go this way. Don’t touch that. Don’t throw that. Give me your hand.

Walking.

Chugga. Chugga. $36 for a dusty, hot, short train ride that was really a tractor that went in a circle. Chugga Chugga.
Crowds. Music. Crowds.

Where did all these locals come from? When did our town get this big? And why does that large woman NEED two wagons of pumpkins?

Poor, hot, sad ponies with happy, sometimes crying, bouncing children.

SMILE JUSTIN. SIT AND SMILE NOW WHILE I TAKE THIS PICTURE OR WE WILL GO HOME WITHOUT THE PUMPKIN!

Climb up the hay. Climb down the hay. Climb up the hay. Climb down the hay. STOP THROWING THE HAY! Climb down the hay.

Walking. Bumping. Balancing. Two pumpkins. Two children. Zero hands. Crying. Walking. Bumping.

Filed Under: Royal Family Outing, Uncategorized

Sex Ed., Queen Style

October 20, 2006 by Queen of Spain 16 Comments

For the first time my loving husband raised an eyebrow at one of my recent parenting decisions.

He wanted to know if the children were in the room during this week’s open up and spread ’em exam at the OB/GYN.

Not only were they in the room, but they had lollipops and front row seats.

And why shouldn’t they? They see my crotch and it’s bits daily. Both my children know what tampons are and where they go. They’ve seen the insertion. They’ve played with the string.

My loving husband casually mentioned that maybe, just maybe, Count Waffles is nearing an age where he should be left out of these family outings to view the vagina. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for him to learn a little less about his mother’s love hole.

I laughed at the Kaiser. And said, “Where should I put them next time? The hallway??” And while my husband is pretty open about these things, I could tell he wanted to say more…but stopped short of actually asking me to refrain from bringing our son to pap smears. He just wanted to plant the seed in my brain that our little boy may not want to remember his mother’s crotch later in life. He just wants to spare him that horrible mental image.

Point taken. But I’m also not going to have it be some big mystery to him. Or some HUGE deal. It’s a woman’s body. No biggie. There are the boobies and there is the crotch. The end. I can’t imagine I’ll be bringing them to pelvic exams for much longer. Or maybe I will.

Think of it as a homeschooling version of sex ed. I could make textbooks and everything. Queen Crotch 101. Then we’d have Kaiser Penis 101. Poo-hole (in honor of a certain St. Louis guy who plays my beloved Detroit Tigers tomorrow) 101. The Noise in Mom and Dad’s Bedroom 110. Birth Control or Death by Queen 102. Princess Eggs and Count Sperm 200. Soon to be followed by Please Be Gay 300. And Back Seat Manners 305.

What? Like you wouldn’t totally take one of my classes. The Art of the Blow Job is for those of you working on your masters.

Filed Under: Royal Vagina

Oprah, Obama, and Me

October 20, 2006 by Queen of Spain 11 Comments

Gunky is afraid of the wackos. The Kaiser and Sarah are afraid of Oprah. So I’m graciously posting my Huffington Post piece from this week right here on QofS. Enjoy. Comment at will. And a special note to Sarah, my longtime, real-life friend who’s wedding my husband made an ass of himself at-Barack is MY boyfriend.

Mine.

When my pot roast is simmering in the oven and my husband’s suits are sufficiently pressed and hung, I occasionally take a break from teaching my children bible verses and the evils of baby killing Democrats to catch a few minutes of Oprah.

Sorry, the laughter overtook me there for a minute.

Actually, after I’ve finished blogging about my fantasies of killing Elmo, whipped up yet another “I don’t think this has transfats, but it might have mercury” dinner, and wrestled the remote from the SpongeBob addicted 3-year old, I catch a few minutes of Oprah.

Today’s guest: superstar Senator from Illinois Barack Obama. Oprah is talking to Obama about the possibility of him running for President in 2008. And I’m ignoring the cries of “WHERE IS SPONGEBOB!” to hear the answer.

A daytime talk show host is pushing politics on her show…and this mother is not only listening intently, but sitting on the edge of her seat to hear the banter.

Welcome to the new spin on campaigning, and the new breed of Mom voter. Get used to politicians and their wives on Oprah being watched by educated homemakers with tattoos and outspoken opinions. Get used to this making many people uncomfortable.

Just like my use of swear words gets me hate mail, I expect this down to earth Senator, and hopefully our next President, will get attacked for sitting on Oprah’s couch and chatting about kids, mothers, and politics.

What many may not understand, or refuse to accept, is that things are not what they used to be. Mothers can be former reporters turned naptime activists hell bent on changing the word through swearing on their blogs and energizing voters. Future presidents can be mixed-race Jr. Senators, talking about the “Audacity of Hope.”

I can be passionate about the PTA and defeating the GOP. I can be educated and have tattoos. I can be like many, many other mothers I know and not fit into your box.

And it seems, so far, a rookie politician with a “funny name” may not fit into that box either. He can make appearances on Oprah and travel to Africa. He can reach across race barriers and seem to have the charisma to give hope to the mother of two in California and the urban, minority male in Chicago.

It is time to forget the box. From homemaker to lawmaker not only do we NOT fit inside, we’re forcing YOU to rethink your stereotype of mother and of politician. We’re forcing YOU to not only think in black and white, but the many, many shades in between.

According to Women’s Voices. Women Vote. 20 million women did not vote in the last election. That’s 20 million women.

I’m guessing Oprah can reach a few of those 20 million women. I’m guessing Mommybloggers can reach a few of those 20 million women. I’m guessing the honesty and hopefulness of a young Senator can reach a few of those 20 million women.

I’m guessing YOU had better redefine that tiny box of yours to include 20 million different kinds of woman. We’re not clear cut. We’re not all Donna Reed. We’re not all what you think a woman should be. What a mother should be. What a sister should be. What a daughter, aunt, girlfriend, or Oprah watcher should be.

But we sure as hell can vote.

Filed Under: Queenie Backup

Mom’s Not Dead, She’s At the Spa

October 17, 2006 by Queen of Spain 30 Comments

I’m watching a giant chicken harass Elmo.

Something about Elmo’s perpetual perkiness is killing me right now. I want that chicken to eat Elmo. I want that chicken to crunch him like a cracker between his flappy beak.

But, of course, Elmo can’t die. When Count Waffles asked what happened to the Little Mermaid’s Mom and Chicken Little’s Mom…I gave him the Kaiser’s answer, “They are at the spa.” If the wee ones were to actually watch Elmo be crunched into tiny, red pieces I’d have some explaining to do. I suppose I could say the chicken was just making a puzzle out of Elmo to put together later. Or that Elmo was just pretending to be hurt. We’re big on pretending these days. Just this morning I pretending to eat an ice cream made of blocks and cars.

mmmmmmmmmmm yummy plastic wheelie goodness.

But there are days when I just don’t have the energy. I don’t have the energy to come up with fun games. Or smiles when I am asked, for the 50th time, to put a shoe on. Then take it off. Then put it on. Then take it off. Then put it back on. Only to take it off.

Some days, I want to knock the children out with cough syrup, wear big heavy boots so I can’t feel the toys under my feet, drink 3 martinis, do illegal drugs, have wild sex, and forget I’m a Mom. Not because I don’t want to be a Mom. Not because I want the kids to be gone forever. But for just, one, brief moment…I want this job to be temporary, not constant. I want to not be responsible.

Of course, that will never happen. Motherhood is forever. The responsibility is endless and the whining and crying and tugging and needs never stop.

Although I’m really excited at the possibility of hate mail from those last few paragraphs (I’ve gotten some really great ones lately…did you know I was an evil baby killer??) I dare any of you to deny those fleeting thoughts in your own parentbrains.

And while I may dream of drunken debauchery and no responsibility, I’d never actually do it.

Instead, I silently root for the giant chicken to eat Elmo. To tear him limb from fuzzy limb. Then to dance on his head to some old school nasty rock while he downs a fifth. I picture myself partying next to him. We eventually hold a bonfire with the rest of Elmo’s body. Others join us. The chants of ELMO DIES! ELMO DIES! don’t stop even when the cops try and bust up the fun. FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE! yells the crowd as we throw more booze on the fire and get naked and piss on things.

Or maybe I just need to take my over active imagination to the spa. Not that spa. The real one.

***I’m over at The Huffington Post!

Filed Under: Stepford Crazies

My First Time

October 15, 2006 by Queen of Spain 15 Comments

Poke.
Poke.
Poke.

…and it was over.

I jammed my little fake pencil through those holes, watched the chads drop, got my sticker, and then proudly walked out of the local elementary school. I was 18. And I had voted.

As part of Women’s Voices. Women’s Vote. I’m telling you all about MY first time.

Just as important as the first time I voted, was what lead up to that vote. The foreplay, if you will…
I turned 18 on December 10th, 1992. I woke up that morning and registered to vote. Then I went and got a tattoo. No lie.

I couldn’t wait to vote, all revved up watching Clinton win that November and just missing my big chance to make my vote count in a presidential election. I was editor of my high school newspaper, and I thought I knew how to change the world with just my vote.

Ok, bad example. But my point is I was psyched. And, xxxxxx years later (you do the math, I’m tired) I’m still psyched. Because as much as I’m disgusted with the current state of politics in this country, I still have hope. I still know my vote will mean something. I am still making my voice heard.

Make yours heard this November. 20 million women DID NOT VOTE in the last election. That can not happen again. Spread the word and blog your first time.

Filed Under: Queenie Backup

Our Friday Nights Are NOT What They Used To Be

October 14, 2006 by Queen of Spain 13 Comments

See for yourself. *and be sure to stick around to at least :10 in when the Kaiser gets his groove on.

Filed Under: Royal Sillies