2007

Stick Your Pampered Chef Up Your Ass

January 22, 2007 by Queen of Spain 182 Comments

Raise your hand if you have to go to a pampered chef/tupperwear/naughty lingerie/home accent/wrought iron sconce I don’t need/and/or/candle party in the next few weeks.

I’m done. I’m not going. I’m not buying the crap to help you out or to stick in my guest bathroom.

I’m not going for the food or the free drinks or the mingling with other women I only know from seeing them at some school function last winter.

I’m not going to throw a party so you can get the extra large hurricane vase and I can get a 20-percent discount.

I’m not going to ask the same people I ask every single time to come. And I’m not going to go to their parties because they’ve run out of new people at work to invite.

I’m not going to feel obligated to buy something cheap so you can get your discount. I’m not going to make people I know feel obligated to buy something from me because I bought at their last party.

I’m not going to be tricked into thinking I need 2 dozen plum scented votive candles. I’m not going to buy yet another measuring cup that can’t seem to measure the solids or the liquids correctly after the first dishwasher safe cycle.

I’m not going to feel bad, either.

Stop the madness.

Filed Under: Royal Decree, Royal Rant

The DotMominator

January 19, 2007 by Queen of Spain 12 Comments

Come over to DotMoms today and say “hi!”

When you are done, get your SecondLife up and running because we’re having virtual cosmo’s on the beach!

I created a spot where we can all hang out and chat, laugh, and spend some time together online. We can use my beach property as a spot for us bloggers to connect in real time, and not just in the comments of our posts! It can be our own chat and meeting area and everyone is welcome.

If Second Life is confusing you, just get going and IM “Queen Tureaud” and I’ll send you a teleport to my place. Then I can help you fix your hair and get you clothes and stuff.

Come to Rancho VonMotorhead where the beer is cold and the neighbors have hookers and the Queen finally got her dog!

Filed Under: Queen Tureaud

Wild Weather in Los Angeles

January 17, 2007 by Queen of Spain 16 Comments

Dear God,

You are scaring me. Please Stop. Thanks. QofS

Filed Under: Royally Screwed

Lifestyles of the Weaned and Famous

January 16, 2007 by Queen of Spain 17 Comments

All before her second birthday.

Filed Under: Princess Peanut

My Second Life is Just as Boring as my First

January 14, 2007 by Queen of Spain 19 Comments

Second Life is crack.

If you think blogging is crack, I recommend you run screaming from SecondLife. I am fairly certain children set things on fire in my house while I created Queen Tureaud ( a name that took me FAR too long to choose) and explored the 3D realm.

The problem, other than ignoring everything and everyone around me for hours on end, is that I did absolutely nothing in SecondLife.

Wait, that’s not true, I watched a hockey game for lack of knowing where to go or what to do.

I was offered a job as a dancer in a strip club, but I declined and went and watched a hockey game.

Story of my life.

I assume there is more to this 3D world thing than sex and hooking up, but I’m just not sure yet. Maybe you guys can point me to places on SecondLife that don’t involve me pole dancing or sitting at a slot machine? Maybe not.

Either way, if you’re looking to kill a good, oh…week, go check it out. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. Once you get past trying to make your hair not look like a muppet and wearing something other than what you might see on your local hooker you might even learn to fly.

Not that I did. My 3-year-old was GREAT at it…jumping canyons and shit. Me…um…I fell on my face many times and even landed on some guy from Switzerland who wasn’t too happy I didn’t want to go somewhere and cyber fuck him.

Consider me your dealer. And when you get there, don’t make fun of my stripper hair. It was the best I could do.

Filed Under: Queen Tureaud

You can call me Mrs. Jumbo

January 12, 2007 by Queen of Spain 15 Comments

If you ever make fun of my kids, I’ll squash you like Dumbo’s Mom.

That’s my new motto.

I just made the mistake of watching Dumbo with my children, and I firmly believe Mrs. Jumbo had every right to kick the shit out of those dorky kids. Mrs. Jumbo is my new hero.

Every time I have ever watched this movie I was so concerned for Dumbo that it didn’t occur to me the suffering Mrs. Jumbo was going through while in Elephant Jail.

I also don’t think I’ve watched this movie since I’ve had children. Big mistake.

For those who haven’t seen it in awhile (or ever) Dumbo the big eared kid gets teased by some jerk circus patrons and Mrs. Jumbo smacks them silly. She gets thrown in the clink and Dumbo is left to try and make sense of the world with no friends except a mouse named Timothy.

Once Mrs. Jumbo is incarcerated I can’t concentrate on the movie. All I can think about is Mrs. Jumbo,worried to death about what happened to her kid once they dragged her away. Is he being looked after? Does he have food? A warm blanket? Did anyone hug him and comfort him while he mother was being locked up?

Sweet God in heaven if I were Mrs. Jumbo I don’t know what I’d do. Knowing those other bitch elephants wouldn’t step in and care for my son. Leaving him out there, alone in the big circus world.

Can you imagine being torn from your children and locked away without any knowledge of their wellbeing or welfare? Maddening.

Ok. Enough.

I’ve never really been a collector of trinkets or things (shut up, my dear Kaiser husband…regular things don’t count) but I honestly think I may take more of an interest in anything with Mrs. Jumbo.

She deserves the recognition.

Mrs. Jumbo. I’m with ya’ sister in motherhood- in spirit and in ass size.

I also think she should be our new mascot. For all us “naptime activists” and mother’s with causes, Mrs. Jumbo shows we won’t take any shit and will fight if you mess with our kids.

We might have to do something about that homely pink hat she wears, but otherwise…Mrs. Jumbo rocks.

Filed Under: Royal Decree

Penis Envy

January 8, 2007 by Queen of Spain 23 Comments

The men are in hiding.

Count Waffles the Terrible is sleeping in a tent in the living room.

The Kaiser has been on the couch.

Houseboy (my brother) took the day off work after a 3am scream session had him tossing and turning.

She pouts. She pleads. She even tries to buy some breast time with kisses.

But the pouting only lasts so long and the sweeter-than-honey attitude is dropped when she asks for a snack, and when given a snack decides its not good enough. The Kaiser had to duck as orange slices wizzed past his head. I nearly lost an eye today to olives.

Weaning. Good times. Gooooood times.

Did I mention my tits are the size of my head? Oh, and hard as bowling balls? And not even regular bowling balls-but those rock ones Fred Flintstone bowled with.

And the bandaid? That serves TWO purposes…she understands the “bup” is “all gone” and they have “boo boos” and it also keeps her from latching-on unexpectedly in the middle of the night or otherwise. They leave lovely skin tears on my nipples.

I’ve also been close to vomiting from the pain. And just reaching for cereal today made me cry.

I haven’t even tackled the emotional part of this yet. This is my last baby. I am done breastfeeding forever.

By far, breastfeeding was the most amazing part of my motherhood experience. These children were attached to me and part of me in so many ways for so very long. But I don’t have time to think about any of it. I don’t have time to be sad or to get weepy. This has to be done. And it has to be done now, not the night of my surgery. I can’t, as a decent mother, leave my unweaned child with her Nana and Daddy to fend for herself while I lay in a hospital for several days. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I would be so worried.

No. I have to do this myself. I have to make sure she’s ok. I have to make sure she can go to bed and drink enough milk and be stable before I am admitted. I just have too.

I’ll deal with the sadness and mourning later. I’m sure there will be much crying. I’m sure I’ll freak out on my poor husband at some point. I have no doubt I’ll pick up stray dogs and cats from the freeway. If only I see some. I always HOPE to see some so I can save them, yet never do.

It’s a good thing spring is coming. I need to grow something. Anything. Weeds. I need to cry and plant and dig and wonder about all the babies I never had. About all the things I could have done. About all those tiny hands and feet and lips that will never suckle from my breast.

I don’t think I’m particularly good at this Mother thing. I don’t think I’m bad, either. But what I do think, down to my very core, is that it is what I am supposed to be doing. What I was meant to do. What I am here to do. And while there is still much work to be done, a very large part of those early years are officially gone. I don’t know if I thought there would be small ones around here forever-if I would always need the nursing pillow or the tiny, tiny diapers. Or the tiny nose sucker thing. Or those little nail clippers.
It all became such a huge part of my life that I never stopped to think it would soon be gone.

I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to do any of this. I want to peel off this bandaid and bring joy to my daughter and myself and let the milk flow. In many ways, it’s like letting the baby years flow. Just drag them out.

I had to trade in the Johnson&Johnson Babywash for real kid shampoo recently, and it nearly killed me. I miss that smell. I miss they way they looked at me while nursing. I miss the way I could pat their heads or play with their hair or pick their noses while they sucked. They would stay still. And we would just be.

Now she’s mad and everywhere. Healthy, but annoyed. He’s so confident and strong. He asks big boys to play and plays along even when they don’t want him around.

It’s funny. I started posting to try and amuse you and myself with the fun around here. And somehow I just got very…well, whatever. At least I can admit I really like showing the internet my boobs. If only I were 10 years younger I would show you everything. Inside and out. That’s just me.
Surgery is on the 30th. I have no doubt my strong daughter will have no trouble with any of this by then. She’s like that.

Me.

I’m not so sure.

Filed Under: Men and their duckcamps, Princess Peanut

Of Cabbages And (pre)Cancer Cells

January 7, 2007 by Queen of Spain 28 Comments

I write this with cabbage caressing my tits.

The stank of what I normally associate with my grandfather’s cooking, my mother’s horrible diet soup, and St. Patrick’s Day is wrapped, snuggly, around my chest.

This cabbage is my only relief. I would hump this cabbage if it were a person, that is how much I adore it’s leafy goodness.

So why do I have veggies on my boobies??

We’re weaning.

I’m not happy. The Princess really isn’t thrilled. But Mommy needs to have her neck cut open in a few weeks and at almost 2-years-old, it seems silly to put it off.

My son thinks the doctors will be beheading me and then reattaching my head to my neck. He is concerned I will “talk to the rest of the body” while my head is off.

In reality, my thyroid will be dying. Alison once offered a funeral and I believe I may take her up on that nice gesture. The Chief of Head and Neck Surgery over at UCLA will have the honor of navigating my neck. His job is to make sure all the bad stuff comes out and I can still deliver a newscast like a pro when all is said and done. He took care of Wayne Newton’s pipes, and what’s good enough for Wayne is good enough for me. Danke shen you very much.
I get an all insurance paid stay at the lovely UCLA Medical Center which may only be about 35 miles from my home, but will take loved ones at least an hour to travel. The Queen Mother if flying in and will make sure my house doesn’t turn into Lord of the Flies.

Adding to my severe engorgement are migraines and sinus issues from hell due to 85mph winds-in Southern FREAKING California. The headaches are the good part. I have a large patio umbrella in the bottom of my pool and the table was only saved by it’s varnish.

How does one go about getting an umbrella out of the deep end while swaddled in cabbage leaves???Ã‚Â

So please forgive my blogging respite. Once the head and tits are under control, I’m sure I’ll be writing all about my anxiety over dying on the operating table and if the Kaiser will then (and only then) let the children have a dog.

Let’s not forget the drama that is weaning a daughter. My son cried. My daughter is trying to manipulate me.

Stay Tuned.

Filed Under: Princess Peanut, Queen Mum, Stepford Crazies