I Curse Jason Calacanis With 10 Daughters

My husband nearly fainted when we found out our second child was going to be a girl.

Dead silence on the other end of the phone.

Weeks earlier my OBGYN thought he saw a penis and the look of relief on my husband’s face told the true story. Everything is going to be ok, it’s a boy.

Then a checkup a few weeks later showed vulva, no penis, and terror struck. TERROR.

His fears included, but were not limited too: will she get knocked up at 16? Will I have to kill all the boys that like her? Will she be ugly, pretty, smart, stupid? To this day he’s hoping our striking daughter needs glasses, braces, and is covered in hair.

He thinks if she’s hairy, the boys won’t bother her. He would also prefer she be gay.

Why? Easy, he’ll tell you that he is a man. He knows men. He knows how he was at 13, 16, 19, 25, 35 and he wants his daughter to have nothing to do with any of it. Period. End of story.

What my husband fails to realize is he married ME. With any luck my strong, vagina-having, self will make sure my daughter is prepared for the boys, the body-issues, the confusion between what matters more: her mind or her looks.

Which leads me to yesterday, and the can of penis worms opened by one Mr. Jason Calacanis, and his search for a replacement for Veronica Belmont, host of Mahalo Daily.

I logged into Twitter to see several people had mentioned my name to Jason as a possible replacement. Hmmm, I thought. Must investigate more. I’m not exactly a Calacanis fan after his ‘make me the #1 twitter-er’ bribe, but had been willing to listen to all those who said he’s actually a decent guy.

So I checked it out-Veronica looks like she’s done some fun stuff with the videos, totally not techy (that I can tell) but entertaining. A few minutes into my snooping and Gary Vaynerchuk twittered that Jason was live on Ustream taking suggestions for a new host. I clicked on over. I’m not really sure I can accurately describe what I found, so let me just copy and paste my twitter stream:

QueenofSpain They are going over these girls based on looks-seriously. I don’t want ANYTHING to do with that crap. It would be an Erin SMACKDOWN

QueenofSpain and I love how they all just ASSUME any of these women are just DYING to get a call to work for @jasoncalacanis

QueenofSpain Am I wrong? Am I the only one who is watching this? Sad. Sad. Sad. And RIGHT THERE is the problem with women in tech. RIGHT THERE

QueenofSpain because the guys filling in, or the guy and @calacanis is such a HOTTIE? I mean, they must be, if they are on MAHALO VIDEO

QueenofSpain I love how that’s a requirement for the girls. @lons did you submit photos too?

QueenofSpain Ugh. I feel sick after watching that for too long. Olive branch totally taken back. I don’t give a crap what he’s done.

QueenofSpain @themacmommy hell no. Not a chance in HELL. I’ll stick with organizations that actually show a bit of respect.

QueenofSpain @GeekMommy don’t be. was a great education. seriously. I mean that. all that buzz about women in tech in the fashion section? yeah. i get it

Basically I tuned in to see Jason Calacanis and his ‘JasonNation’ look at photos, declare there shall be ‘no schlubs’ and discuss the hotness level of each candidate. Jason did stipulate the candidate must have brains (how nice) but needed to be easy on the eyes.

Let’s just review who I’m watching currently in and around the web, shall we?

Lon Harris is the current co-host of Mahalo Daily.

Robert Scoble

Jeff Pulver

Jason Calacanis

Shel Israel

Loren Feldman

Steve Garfield

Gary Vaynerchuk

Those are just off the top of my head, there are many more. Now let’s go ahead and guess how many of that group would have gotten to where they are if being ‘easy on the eyes’ were a requirement? Not all Brad Pitt up there on that list. Turns out, and it’s funny really-it is their CONTENT that matters.

I’m not sure if Jason Calacanis or anyone in that chat room (with the exception of Gary who is respectful and has proven himself as such) gets what they are doing when they make looks a requirement, when it’s clearly NOT a requirement for the men.

The only way I can possibly think of to make the CEO and ringleader understand is to curse him with 10 daughters.

5 super model daughters and 5 less than perfect daughters. I’d like him to see first hand the opportunities they are afforded, the heartbreak, and the double standards they face. I’d like him to feel the pain of his daughter as her brilliance in tech and web are overlooked for a less-intelligent woman with a better rack. I’d like him to watch as his beautiful daughter is paraded on a video blog to be masturbated to by 40year-olds in their mother’s basement. I’d like him to sit all 10 of them down on the Calacanis family couch and explain Daddy’s requirements for the next Mahalo Daily host.

Whomever you hire, Mr. Calacanis, I hope she’s qualified, brilliant, and kicks your ass.

I’m Running Out of Energy

So yeah, I’m a little annoyed. That’s me using grown-up words because I’m on my best behavior here. But this one is personal (when aren’t they, you say…)
Many of you know I’ve been working on yet another mystery project for BlogHer. Well, cats out of the bag, as it were…and I’ve been busting my rather round buns on Election ’08.

BlogHer Co-Founder Lisa Stone has a very calm (something I don’t do well) and rational (something I do from time to time) post asking our community what they want/would like to see over at BlogHer for Election ’08. The part in her post that reads:

“Oct 2007:
-BlogHer invites Candidates Clinton, Edwards, Obama, (Democrats) and Giuliani, McCain, Romney and Thompson (Republicans) to answer Voter Manifesto questions on-camera, including an offer to fly to the U.S. location of the candidate’s choice and be interviewed for 15 minutes by a member of her or his own political party, by either Editor Morra Aarons or Editor Mary Katharine Ham (also of Townhall.com). No candidate accepts.
-BlogHer co-sponsors 10questions.com, a techpresident.com initiative co-sponsored by The New York Times and MSNBC.

Nov 2007:
BlogHer re-invites candidates to answer Voter Manifesto questions on-camera. No candidate accepts.
-BlogHer members submit questions to 10questions.

Dec 2007: BlogHer re-invites candidates.-Candidates John Edwards and Mike Huckabee submit answers to 10questions.com. Candidate Ron Paul also agrees to participate, according to the site.
– Sen. Obama tours Iowa with Oprah Winfrey and his campaign launches “Women for Obama”:

The parts I highlighted up there? “BlogHer invites, BlogHer re-invites, BlogHer re-invites…” yeah, that’s me. And by “re-invite” it was, Erin busting out her long-ago-used news reporter skills to annoy campaigns. Of course I did a bit more than that too (my technical term here is PRODUCER and Field Reporter) the gist of it is me being told over and over and over and over again how important women are in this election yet being denied over and over and over again by every single presidential candidate running’s email, phone, or email and phone aide type person.

Annoyed. Yes. Yes I am.

We were handing them 7.6 million blogher readers on a golden blogher platter (while using our Butterball potholders, of course) the majority of them the WOMEN THEY WANT TO VOTE FOR THEM and interest by the candidates has been, shall we say…less than enthusiastic. We even offered them hosts from their own parties (Morra Aarons-Mele and Mary Katharine Ham, why YES you DO see them on CNN).

And I wonder why I still have to write about feeling ignored as a woman voter. By being patronized because Obama and Oprah have teamed up. By once again feeling like I was patted on the ass and sent to go cook in the kitchen. They can market to us, sure…but can they just TALK to us? We’re women, we want you to sit down and chat along WITH your stats and stances. We’re WOMEN, we want you to answer the tough questions about healthcare and education AND Iraq. We’re not afraid to talk about the economy and choice. Hell, one of you running is even ONE OF US, and is well aware we are no longer just reading the Style section and worried about whatever it is our husband’s tell us to worry about.

I also know one thing, deep down to my Queenly toes…these candidates will get possibly the fairest interview and most diplomatic handling that is currently on their agendas. Bar None. BlogHer has made sure of it, BlogHer is alllll about it, BlogHer tends to roll this way with EVERYTHING. So not only is this a great opportunity to reach their target demo, it’s one of the safest interviews they’ll ever have. Will we pitch softballs? No, but they’ve seen our Voter Manifesto, they know what we’re asking.

One thing keeps sticking with me throughout this whole, frustrating process-Oprah has 8 million viewers, BlogHer has 7.6 million readers.

We’re a nonpartisan dot com.

Yes, I’m annoyed. And quickly losing faith in this election process. I really want my faith back. I really want to believe.

I’m annoyed. And I’m waiting.

Go take the BlogHer survey. Make your voice heard.

Demand they pay attention. Our questions will NOT be ignored.

Thunder Thunder Thunder (on Sunday Sunday Sunday)

Down here in the wiles of swampland Florida, it rains a lot. Correction, it storms a lot.

When you’re just a wee one who has grown up in storm free California, things like thunder tend to make you poop your pants.

My little guy is scared shitless of thunder. Its been cracking and booming since we arrived in the sunshine state sending my 4-year old diving under blankets about 3pm, daily.

Of course he is comforted and hugged and told the loud booming noises are nothing more than “people” bowling. (we said angles back in my day and I’m fairly certain my mother said “people” due to the number of times my husband and I have discussed religion with our families and why we’d like them to refrain from mentioning it to our kids) So the “people” are up there bowling bit still isn’t sitting well with my son, and my father starts down a road I’ve seen so many fathers, grandfathers, and uncles march down before: oh, don’t be a baby…we need to toughen you up!

Two guesses how that went over with me.

Now I realize every man is afraid his son will be a pussy. Every uncle, grandfather, father, and male in the world seems to think it’s perfectly all right to nearly scold a little boy over his fears.

I don’t.

So, men of the world. Fathers reading my blog, random males that came by to oggle my tits…explain to me why I don’t knock Gramps into next week? I did everything, stopping short of calling the grandfather of my child a bully to be ignored, in front of my child.

How, men of the blogosphere, do I handle this?

Penis Envy

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.

Sulking for Bup

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.

I WILL you to give me breastmilk!

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.

Yes, that is exactly what you think it is

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.


I’m not so sure.

Xmas Swag

I love it when my man listens.

The man knows what I like

Uggs Roo

…and then I made the mistake of asking my dear, wonderful, superb gift-giving husband if he had any gifts to show the blogosphere:

Had you tuned in 3 seconds earlier, you'd see Aaron's Penis

And yeah, the kids got some crap too. Too much. Including that fucking Elmo I swore I wouldn’t buy.

All of that said, I’m not sure there is anything better than watching your own children wake up on Christmas morning and react to Santa’s bounty. Seriously. NOTHING. BETTER.


Jesus is a GIRL

Count Waffles the Terrible is adamant that Jesus Christ is a woman.

Apparently the preschool, preholiday puppet show included “a baby girl, a donkey, star people, an angel, clouds, and a blue guy.”

When I tried to tell my little guy that I was rather certain the “baby girl” he spoke of was actually a baby boy, he stopped me.

“No. No. Mom. No. It was a girl. I saw it. It was a girl.”

Funny I didn’t even question the inclusion of “star people” or a “blue guy” in the nativity, as far as I know there aren’t any scientologists at our preschool. Or smurfs. But Jesus? A GIRL? Hell yes that got my attention. Seeing as one of my favorite feminist cartoons depicts a nativity scene with everyone peering into the manger and exclaiming “IT’S A GIRL!”

Later on in the day I asked the Count again why he thought the baby in the manger was a girl. And the feminist household I covet had it’s image shattered into pieces, by a 3-year-old;

“Mom, I knew it was a girl because all she did was cry and whine.”


So in the spirit of the season, please, please, please, go listen to this wonderful rendition of O Holy Night. Sung by some guy. Please, promise me you will listen to the end. Promise me. Now. Then return here and tell me how much you love O Holy Night and Jesus as a woman.

Proof! Men Are Idiots!

Men. Duckcamps. Whatnot.

That phrase is a censored version of the usual “Boys Are Stupid” that Sarah and I exchange all too frequently when speaking about our husbands.

Figuring we’ll do a pretty good job at fucking up our sons in many other ways, we decided we needed to ditch “Boys Are Stupid” in favor of some sort of code that wouldn’t make the little men around us actually grow up thinking we found them stupid.

That’s just good rearin’ of the chilrin’, ya’ll. (blow bubble-POP! and scene)

For those of you who have read (not seen the movie) The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood, you know the men often hideout in the duckcamps to get away from the crazy women. Or to avoid changing diapers and actually scrubbing a toliet. Whichever.

Somehow “Boys Are Stupid” was changed to “Men and their duckcamps.”

With all of that explained, I would also like to offer you a definition from Wikipedia:


A beard is the hair that grows on a man’s chin, cheeks, neck, and the area above the upper lip (the opposite is a clean-shaven face). When differentiating between upper and lower facial hair, a beard specifically refers to the facial hair on the lower part of a man’s chin (excluding the moustache, which refers to hair above the upper lip and around it).

My idiot husband seems to think he must make a conscience decision to grow a beard in order for it to be called a beard.

He’s obviously high.

The man fails to shave for 2 days and he has significant scruff and the children recoil when he goes to kiss them. 2 weeks and he’s got a full on beard. 2 months and he’s a lumberjack.

But this man o’ mine seems to think that just because he’s lazy, that does not mean he has a beard. Simply natural facial hair.

And he actually argued this with me tonight until he was blue in the face. Well, the face that I could still see under his pile of black and gray mass of tiny, piercing, needles of death.

Turns out, he says, what is on his face now IS actually a beard. Because he chose to grow it. All the other times, he was just lazy. Translation: ALL THE TIME.

I’m still really tired and jetlagged and busy with the things I mentioned in an earlier post that I still can’t tell you yet (hopefully today, I swear)-so can you all lay the smack down on him for me, please? Send him back to his duckcamp or wherever.

I also offer up some photos to show you what he says is “not” a beard, just lazy shaving weeks.

Say goodbye, Miss Junior USA (and hello to Karl)

I had to fight the urge to buy the Required Suburban Mom Uniform today. I wanted capri’s. I wanted yet another dull colored t-shirt. Practical, durable, tough, boooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnng, My inner junior miss wasn’t having it.

Why is all the cool stuff regulated to the junior section? I like tattoo-ish designs. I like bling. I even like me some low-rise. (Not ass-crack low-rise, just make-my-butt-look-smaller low-rise) Shopping today for the upcoming BlogHer conference, I realized that I could either dress like a teenager or dress like a school marm. Sure, I am trying to be classic in my 30’s. But why do I have to sacrifice any sort of style???? As a 31-year-old mother of two, am I allowed to be hip? Sexy? Not Stifler’s Mom -whorey…but subtle sexy.

I know this will come as a shock to my husband, who trips over my overstuffed closet and drawers daily…but I have nothing to wear. I’m not saying that in the, I have a closet full of crap I CAN wear, but choose not to wear way…I’m saying, I really have nothing to wear. Sweatpants and a tank top will not cut it in San Jose this weekend. And it occurred to me recently that I could either wear pre-children work clothes from 2002 that are too big, or I could wear post 1st child skinny clothes that are too casual for a conference.

I had to shop. For ADULT clothes. Not go to playgroup clothes. Not get dirty in the sand at the park clothes. But honest to God, adult clothing.

It wasn’t easy. But after two hours of hell on earth, including more shades of khaki than any one woman should ever try on, I emerged victorious. Crisp, fresh, tailored, skirt and blouse combo (did I just say “blouse?�). Hint of flash. Tons of style. I am the freaking Queen afterall. Can’t show up somewhere calling yourself the Queen looking like one of the help.

This is also a very longwinded way of me introducing a guest post. Karl wrote me weeks ago with a little post on we women and our clothing. I’ve been putting off posting it forever because #1 It’s fun to mess with Karl. I mean, he is a GUY going to blogHER (we all want to know your REAL motives) and #2 My site has been going through some wonkiness since the move. And #3 the Kaiser isn’t keen on any man chatting up his woman. It’s ok Karl, just buy the Kaiser a drink. Or five.

Ecru and Aubergine
by Karl Erikson

I was chatting with one of my bestest buds, Hilary, the other night. And as usual, the topic trains were zooming by quickly. We spoke about the porn film I’m producing (“Desperate Bukkake Ass Queens of Orange County”), about how use of the word ‘w00t’ should be reason enough for capital punishment, about euphemisms for genitalia (I’m still really pushing for “yabbamango” for the ladies), and about clothing.

Ladies, what is with the clothing? Don’t get me wrong, I love each and every one of you and I could look at you all day long in your various states of dress and undress. Seriously. But why the need for so many articles of clothing? I’ve had my share of girlfriends. And girl friends. Hell, I’ve even been married. I’ll just never get the fascination with apparel.

To me, it’s about the practicality. I have a closet (one) and a dresser (one). All the clothes I own could fit into a large suitcase. Even if I threw the five pairs of shoes in. I don’t need anything more than that. Underwear, tee shirts, shorts – that’s pretty much my every-day wear 90% of the year. I live in Florida. I also have socks, polo shirts, jeans, a few pairs of Dockers, a couple of suits, and ties. Oh, and shoes. That’s it. I’d show you a picture but you might freak out if you’re not used to seeing crime scene photos.

The beauty of having such a small selection of clothing is that I can be ready to go anywhere in just under three minutes flat. Movies? Typical shorts and tee shirt and sandals. First date? Polo shirt, Dockers, and loafers. First date at a really, really nice restaurant? Add a tie. Reading scripture at church on Sunday? Suit and dress shoes. Simple. I don’t have to freak out and deliberate. I’m decided, dressed, and driving in minutes.

But with women it’s different. It’s as if women ENJOY freaking out and stressing about what they’re going to wear. I can’t figure it any other way. Many of my female friends have more than just a walk-in closet. They’ve got adjunct closets in other rooms, too. And the closets are color freaking coded. “These are my ecru blouses, my yellows, my salmons, my reds, my aubergines…”

STOP. You had my eyes glazing over at ecru.

I have two pairs of jeans, no shit. Two. How many do you own? Hilary tells me she has five. I think that’s a really low number for a woman. I have friends who have dozens of pairs. Not dozens of pairs of pants, no. Dozens of pairs of just jeans. That’s friggin’ obscene, though I do kind of get turned on by the prospect of having so many pairs of jeans that I could do laundry maybe twice a year and get by just fine. What? I have three dozen pairs of underwear, I could totally make it happen.

This is a direct quote from our chat the other night, in which we debated the “need” for color-coding closets: “Well, when you have 40 pairs of pants and like 60 tops.” HUH?! Forty pairs of pants?

See, this is a major difference between men and women. Let’s say I have forty pairs of pants, just for the sake of ridiculous argument. If I’m walking through Sears or Clothes Whores USA and I see that they have pants on sale, I say to myself, “Well, I already have forty freaking pairs of pants” and I just keep on walking.

Not ladies. The idea of enough clothing doesn’t register with you. Women have some sort of brain defect that makes them say, “Ooh, 15% off. Those pants would go so well with that top I saw at Top Heavy, if I just pick up those flats I saw at Foot Fetish.” This is why getting ready for most of you requires at least several hours, plus a few weeks of pre-planning. You’ve got to go through the two bedroom closets, plus the closet in the study, the guest bedroom, and the entranceway.

Me, I enjoy not needing to consult Google Maps to find my fucking shirts.

So maybe you can explain it to me so that my feeble male mind can understand it. What is it with all the clothes, ladies? Wouldn’t it just be easier if you pared the wardrobe down to nothing but French maid outfits and Catholic schoolgirl uniforms? You know, the essentials.