Of course the kids are feeling a bit better, while I’m seemingly getting worse. That means I’m being tackled and groped by small people while I try and rest.

Since the green snot has consumed each of us in it’s own, special way-take pity on me and read my posts over at DotMoms and Draft Day Suit. Also join me in my new found love for Choo Choo Soul and my never ending joy at mocking Kid’s Country Power.

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

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.

I nearly did a U-turn, just for YOU, to snap a picture of my new, favorite river:

The Mighty Withalacoochee.

Ok, so I added the “mighty” part. But if it’s got coochee, you know it’s mighty.

Needless to say, I did not sink my hoochie in the Withalacoochee, as I was too busy trying to meet up with the darling Shash of Diary of a Crazed Mommy on the very last day of my vacation.

Driving down an open stretch of road, sun beating down on your arm, no kids are in the back seat bickering. No husband is next to you navigating.

It’s just you, Pearl Jam’s Evenflow, and 300 horse power, 1994 Corvette.

How fast do you go? Be honest. Not a cop in sight. Not another car or truck in sight. No houses. No schools. Just trees and Withalacoochee Forest land.

I’m not telling you how fast I went. Because my husband freaked out when I told him. And I nearly snapped a photo of the spedometer. But then I figured I’d end up on Fark after the arrest, what with the digital evidence and all.

All I can say, is that I may or may not have hit some triple digits. Easy. But I’m not saying.

And it was well worth it to eat some fantastic BBQ with the lovely Shash. We gabbed like old friends over sweetened tea and some good southern pulled pork. She’s fabulous. And sassy.

And downright adorable. While my tits and waist look really odd. I swear that’s not how they really look.

Wow. “Coochee” and “pork” in the same post and this isn’t about me shaving or sex or anything.

And memories of bbq, manatees, family, and flirty t-shirts at Target had better pull me through as I trudge through new security measures in the wee hours of Tuesday. I’ll be toting two small children, two carry ons (without juice boxes, the joy) and a stroller that I am sure no one will sit in.

We’ll fly over five hours in a tube through the sky and across the country. Then, if there are no emergency landings due to my unruley children and their hagard mother, we’ll land and make Daddy carry carseats, suitcases, strollers, diaper bags, and a stray stuffed doll or two across the hell that is the LAX parking garage.

Home.