but Mommy, why do you want me to take a picture of your buns?
Ghetto Cold
February 23, 2007 by 13 Comments
I’m making pizza for breakfast so I can crank the stove.
My thermostat is broke and I can’t bring myself to just turn the stove on for heat. Too ghetto. So I’m making pizza.
MMMMMM pizza at 8am.
What? The furnace guys don’t get here until 9 and I’m not sitting around in the cold.
Yes, I said cold. It’s 52 degrees in my house. I know Karen will call me a pussy, but this Cali girl can’t handle it. Sure, sure…grew up in the gray tundra that is metro-Detroit…but I was never a very good cold person there either. I was the girlfriend you started the car for 45 minutes in advance, not 10. You dropped me off at the entrance and after dinner ran to get the car in the parking lot, while I waited at the bar.
So here I am, taking 5 minutes to get my pizza out of the oven, because I can’t just stand over the warm, open oven. That would be way too white trash.
So instead I’ll pretend to fix the handle. And maybe put in some cookies or something. If you hear about a dead family in LA County, carbon monoxide or something..that’s us.
A HILL-uva lot of Guilt
February 21, 2007 by 8 Comments
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
Women Bloggers ROCK
February 9, 2007 by 15 Comments
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.
Queen Amplification
February 6, 2007 by 23 Comments
As a mother, I have certain rights.
One of those rights is to drink at a playdate.
Another is the right to yell at my children whenever and wherever I see fit.
One of my 57 doctors (yes, I have 57 doctors…all younger than me and all following around the Chief just like on Scrubs) told me I can NOT raise my voice or yell for 4-6 weeks. Flippantly he added “So the kids and the husband get a pass for a good month.”
I didn’t laugh.
This is a problem. This is not going to work. How in the hell does a mother NOT raise her voice for 6 weeks? Just this afternoon the kids were in the playroom getting into trouble and my “please stop jumping on the couch” whisper from the living room was ignored. Or not even heard.
I need a megaphone. Or a microphone. Or some sort of bullhorn. 6 weeks of the Queen not yelling is just not going to cut it.
Email me at queenofspainblog@yahoo.com and I’ll give you my home address. I’ll take anything you’ve got.
Anyone with kids understands how dire the situation will be once the children (and husband) realize they won’t get a good Mommy Dearest screetch-fest when they do something awful.
Thyroids are for Suckers, II
February 2, 2007 by 20 Comments
I talked to the kids every day on the phone while I was in the hospital. They missed me, or so they said.
When I arrived home last night, the Count’s preschool class had helped him make me a sign and it was decorated in hearts-the symbol of love,or so I thought.
The Kaiser and the kids also made me a sign that seems to be colored with care and thoughtfulness, or so I thought.
As it turns out, not only were the kids TOTALLY FINE without me, it seems they were BETTER behaved and happy as clams minus el Mommo.
But it gets better, now that I am home and wanting to hug and squeeze my little bundles…they want nothing to do with me. I look scary, or so I am told. They are freaked out by my bandage and they would be even more freaked out if they caught a glimpse of the frankenmom stitches that are under that wrap.
I look like a gangsta mom that got cut. I look like someone tried to slit my throat. And so help me if anyone asks, I’m saying I tried to kill myself from the stress of two young children and a husband that wanted to PICK UP CO-EDS on the UCLA campus while I was being operated on.
He had the nurse in love with him in 2 minutes. She gave him one of those cool scrub hats to aid in his co-ed hunt. And we all figured the pick up line “hey, my wife is undergoing surgery, got a few minutes?” was a winner.
The only silver lining going on here is I have mass amounts of pain killers and actual real money coming in from my Second Life real estate ventures…which I will tell you more about later.
Just to review: the kids won’t come near me, I look like frankenmom, the Kaiser is picking up Co-Eds, and I hurt.
Boy, my vicoden-laced blog posts are going to be f-u-n. I may even skip the spell checking, you know…to keep it real.
The Virtual Thyroid Funeral
January 29, 2007 by 27 Comments
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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