I normally am not a Sunday morning comic girl (what? I like the food and local sections) but I happened upon Frazz this morning, and well…food for thought:
Maggie Gyllenhaal is my HERO

I could not possibly be more grumpy today-so I suggest anyone not in the mood for one hell of a Queen rant, get the fuck off the blog now.
Cough.
Actress Maggie Gyllenhaal whipped out a tit and let her kid eat in public. You know where it goes from there. Sarah wrote about it over at Strollerderby and the comments range from “why are we talking about this again?” to “you boob feeders are sick-os” or something like that.
Of course, Sarah (being my real life friend) knows just how much this sets me off into a blind range and made sure I took at look at the article. My eyes rolled into the back of my head and I quickly became possessed not to mention obsessed with exacting my revenge on those fuckheads of the world who seem to think I should breastfeed in a closet, in a bathroom, under a blanket, or not at all when their ignorant eyes are watching.
Let me expand on my Strollerderby comment, if you don’t mind:
Seriously? We’re going to fight about this again???
Fuck your blankets and fuck your bottles.
Go Maggie. The rest of you can suck my tits. I’m so not in the mood to have this discussion for the 1000th time.
Get the fuck over it. It’s just a boob.
It’s just a boob indeed. JUST A MOTHERFUCKING BOOB. I’ve written about this issue so many times now that I seriously do not know what else to say to all you asshats that seem to think my tit exposed to feed my child is baaaaaaaaaaad. You are a moron. End of story. (yes, this is a very well thought out argument, can’t you tell??) You are also forcing me to resort to drastic measures.
I’m here to make sure you get the fuck over seeing tits. Maggie, this is for you.
Suck it.
*****updated: It seems my tits have inspired others to do the same-in support of breastfeeding moms! Karl was first to whip em out in solidarity! Join us, won’t you? Post and I”ll link to you here!*******
Keri has joined the fun.
So has Summer!
And my favorite Violet!
For those who can not post a photo on their own blog, I will happily do it here!
I’ll be the old lady in the funny hat
Long ago, over a decade now, when I lived in this other place and was this other person, I thought it mattered.
I thought it mattered who I knew and what I wore. I thought it mattered what I drove and how I walked. Who I called, who I saw, where I lived.
I still call this place my home, and I still call many of these strangers “friends.” Odd, considering my family spends its nights on another coast and these strangers never call.
Today, I looked out a window at a white covered lake. I put on a funky orange hat, mismatched gloves, and thick boots. I crunched through fresh snow with my children, like a child. My hair static filled and flyaway, my face rosey and flushed.
I did not care.
Its odd to come “home” to a foreign place where so much of your life you cared, only to find yourself older and indifferent. Where so much of your life you calculated, only to find yourself carefree.
There is a piece of my heart that remains here, but it no longer beats as loud or as strong. It now ticks, and thumps, and sometimes skips as my little ones tell relatives they just met of their inherited quirks.
Part of me was never fully comfortable here. Everyone knew it. I was teased and joshed for being different. Never enough to alienate me, but always enough to make me eccentric. When I left the mid-west for California, no one was surprised. Although many believed I would eventually “settle down” and come “home.”
As I play here with my children, despite my age and despite my having found peace…I am still asked when I will return. When will my husband find work here and when will I move my life and my loves to this place they seem to think should ground us all.
I don’t harbor them any ill will, as I did in years past. I don’t even really answer anymore. I just put on my funny orange hat, remind my children we will leave for home in a few days, and give them hugs as if to squeeze my new found peace and confidence into their puzzled little bodies. You see, they too are different here. They are my children, so they are automatically branded. So be it. They simple nod their little heads and struggle to wear “snow pants” and “mittens.” They laugh and attempt to run and ask questions that make the locals laugh. Why would my child know what a “sled” might be?
They have no idea the conflict in my heart over this land, these people. The love and the hate and the longing to belong somewhere and to something that never fully accepted me. They will never know. What they will know, is the pride of being different. The joy of experiencing new things.
And the freedom of a funny orange hat.
A HILL-uva lot of Guilt
Senator Barak Obama was 35 miles from me this week and I got myself a ticket and tried to get there.
Didn’t happen. The rally occurred Queen-less, while I stayed home with two sick children, but I would have liked to have gone and held a sign and showed my support for the senator from Illinois.
That left me feeling guilty. The guilt has been creeping up on me slowly since the smooth talking Obama entered the race and now it’s weighing right on top of my glass-ceiling breaking head.
Have I betrayed my fellow women by supporting Obama? Should I be rallying behind Hillary??? Is this lifelong feminist throwing away the first, legitimate chance at seeing a FEMALE in the white house???
Given the gravity of what is going on the world today, this may seem like a silly and frivolous thought on my part. Just vote for the best candidate, and the hell with everything else. That’s easy to say, but hard to do when you’ve dreamed your entire life of seeing your gender as the leader of the free world.
I not so secretly hope Senator Obama loses the nomination, Senator Clinton wins, and then I can feel as though I supported my beliefs and realized a dream through Hillary.
What a terrible thought, but I am trying to be brutally honest.
Maybe I should just get on the Edwards bandwagon and pretend I’m not affected by dreams of a first African-American or female President. Maybe I should just, once again, find a nice, white, safe male to support.
Hrumph.
No. No. I think my best course of action is Clinton/Obama ’08.
A girl can dream, can’t she???
Crossposted at the Huffington Post
The Twat Isle (of Eden)
I hate going to the feminine needs aisle anywhere.
I’m not embarrassed. I’m not shy. I just hate when that ONE old man in the store ends up looking for Old Spice in that aisle on accident while you painstakingly decide between the supersuper have a happy period Kotex or the heavy/super Always max.
Sigh.
So why all the twat talk? Let’s just say I had to be taken to the doctor by my husband this morning due to…um…complications from the catheter during my surgery.
I swear I’m the only one in the world with an infection in her pee hole from having her thyroid removed. $10 to anyone who can find me someone else.
Anyway, it was doctor day because we then took both kids and they have the ear infection/sinus infection winter blahs with an added bonus of bronchitis for my little princess peanut.
Armed with cranberry pills and orange flavored amoxicillin, I’m ready to announce that Karen over at Swank has been kind enough to, once again, indulge me in a redesign which you, my faithful reader, will get to see very soon.
It’s beeeeeeeeeauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful, if I do say so myself. The great and powerful Kaiser finally bestowed upon me his time and artistry and whipped up a lil something. Of course he made Sarah’s header eons ago. But I’m not keeping track. Really, I’m not.
The design will also include some very exciting Second Life information about my money making fun in the virtual world. Virtual world, real MONEY.
My business partner and I have been buying and selling virtual real estate and making some bank. Let’s just say our first deal TRIPLED in profit. He’s boy wonder and I’m the eye candy. Because in Second Life I totally get to be eye candy.
The really fun part is I plan on bringing you guys along for the ride. I’m counting on you. The Queen has a virtual castle in which everyone is welcome to talk, surf, ride jetskis, pet the monkeys (I’m not kidding) and meet each other in real time. For real talks. Having real fun. Ask Gidge….she’s living in my castle and having a blast.
You can advertise your blog at my pad. You can network with the likes of Arianna Huffington and Speaker Nancy Pelosi. Or you can go have cybersex with my neighbor. You can even buy land next door and set up your own place and we can all live in one, big, happy, Mommyblogging commune.
We’ve named the island the Isle of Eden, and in honor of my blogging friends I commissioned an AMAZING piece of artwork (because I can do that in second life…) that an amazing female artist painted to represent YOU. YOU my blogging friends. The artist has been reading our blogs (as part of her research) and she made this piece to be the focal point of our virtual girls night out space.
It brings tears to my eyes.
So grab some cranberry juice (just in case) and join me, won’t you? I’ll show you the piece and then we’ll go to an all male review.
Women Bloggers ROCK
As many of you know I’ve been recovering from major surgery and am full of piss and vinegar (as my mother would say) over a million things, none of them important.
I’m irked no one can hear from the kitchen because my voice is so weak.
I’m irked there has been limited chocolate available to me.
I’m irked Brett Favre isn’t retiring.
I’m irked when anything, even my shirt, grazes my neck bandage.
But all of that changed and my mood went from hating the world to loving the world with the postman. Or lady. Or postal person. Who knew mail could change your life?
People I have never met have taken time out of their lives and baked me cookies.They were packed in a box that arrived split with the contents mushed. But Gidge made one hell of an effort to get the blue, churched shaped cookies to my door. Yummy broken melted cookie goodness.
They felt my chocolate pain and sent the most wonderful box of amazing chocolates ever assembled. EVER. (this was added tonight, as they just arrived! Those Ninja Poodles are so dead on when it comes to getting my taste right ;))
They’ve felt my screaming pain and sent me a whistle.Which is now shrieking it’s whistling goodness across the house. I am the Queen Referee and everyone is in the penalty box.
They’ve sought me out to talk about my missing thyroid, answered my insane questions about sleeping with an incision, and exercised patience as I’ve felt less than the writer I try to be.
Thank you. All of you. I love you guys. And that’s not just the pain killers talking.
Oh, Anna Nicole
I guess we all saw this coming.
Poor girl never got her act together. I have no idea why, but I always liked her.
I realize that’s ridiculous. She was not the smartest. She used sex to get ahead. But it was all she had. Literally. I always gave her a pass.
Britney never will get a pass from me, but Anna Nicole always did.
I’m an enigima enigma.
I think I always thought of her as the really stupid, “bad” version of me. Life out of control. Drugs everywhere. Boobs all over the place.
Rest in peace Anna Nicole.
The Virtual Thyroid Funeral
Laundry is done. Bills are paid. Dinners are frozen. Loose ends are tied.
It’s time for me to check into UCLA Medical Center.
Please conduct a virtual wake for my thyroid in my absence.
If anyone wants to guest post for me, that would be super swell too. I’m also accepting gifts.
Email me at queenofspainblog@yahoo.com
In the event I die, I’d like you all to start claiming my things now. Who wants the pool boy?
Don’t forget me while I’m gone.
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