I hate shopping. I haaaaate shopping. I’m not going. And you can’t make me.

The Princess’s first Thanksgiving. And the Count’s first Thanksgiving two whole years ago. Wow. Time does fly.


Mostly I’m thankful for these two turkeys. But I’m also very thankful the doctor called. And I don’t have cancer. Whew. Now let’s eat!

**** The Kaiser’s edits to this post are in bold italics***
I’ve been wanting to blog about this for a long time. You know, long- as in I’ve only been blogging for 3 months now- long…but you get the idea. I stopped myself a couple of times because I was a little afraid of being randomly discovered by, lets just call them the Others.
The Others are the “other” half of my family. My husbands half. And its only half of his half. Thanksgiving makes me think of them more than any other holiday, because, well, they get a little nutty on Thanksgiving.
I need to give you some back ground before I really get going.
The Kaiser’s family thinks I’m ethnic. I’m a (or was) blonde, white, Polish Catholic girl from the burbs of Detroit. But, none the less, they think I’m ethnic. Its the Polish thing. But I’m no more Polish than any of the rest of you mutt Americans are Irish or German or whatever. And its the Catholic thing. Even though I’m no longer a practicing Catholic and have more issues with the church than I can count on one hand. I’m Catholic.
Well, I found out quickly that they don’t grow many Catholics (or African Americans for that matter) in the hills of West Virginia. I learned not to call the Kaiser’s church stuff “mass” because I got the stink eye. There is also this whole thing about “supper” and “dinner” and how they are not the same. And “hollers” and “fixin’s”–you get the idea. And I also learned that we were entering into a “mixed” marriage. Hellooooo waaay back machine. And that was only the beginning.
Some of the Kaiser’s relatives did not attend our wedding. There would be alcohol and dancing. Some of those that were nice enough to make the trip excused themselves after dinner. Baby Jesus hates dancing. But he really, really hates drunken break dancing and fish swallowing (I could do an entire post on the wedding, but I’ll stick to family right now) and my Polish Catholic Polka, beer drinking family. Kevin Bacon did not have it this hard with John Lithgow. BUT despite my grandfather once yelling “TAX ALL THE CHURCHES!” infront of the Others, everyone played nice and it was a fun time.
Anyway. The first Thanksgiving after we were married (which would have made it Thanksgiving 4 years ago or so) the newlyweds traveled to West Virginia. I kept asking questions about what we’d eat and where it would be and who would be there and what I could do. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
“Wait. Thanksgiving isn’t at someone’s house?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand. So its at a hall?”
“Sort of.”
“So its at a separate room of a church?”
“Sort of. You’ll see.”
After driving through what can only be called NOTHING for about an hour, we turned a few corners and there was this building. In the middle of NOTHING. Apparently people lived nearby. But I really don’t remember any houses.
The place was decorated with everything you would imagine. Crepe paper turkeys on the table. Streamers. Leaves. Pumpkins. Etc. There was a buffet table of food. And about, oh 40-60 friends and relatives. Mostly relatives. I think.
Now, in my family, Thanksgiving involves beer, turkey, and football. For the Others, it involves a whole lot of praying in a circle. And many, many recitals by some very talented kids and their violins (violins? VIOLINS? They’re called “fiddles”. Sheesh) and stuff. All songs about baby Jesus. And then more circle praying. And then more songs about Jesus. And then more circle praying. And then some separate circle praying while holding hands. And then more Jesus songs. I’ve never heard so many renditions of 3-year-olds singing Jesus Loves Me. All of this would have been much more amusing and a lot less uncomfortable if I had a drink. Or three. But unless we smuggle a flask…this is as dry as it comes.
Oh, yeah there were also some very specific prayers about being thankful for those who have come from “far away” and how they will hopefully “find Jesus in their hearts” someday soon. Newlyweds. Were looking at you.
This was not Thanksgiving. This was a tent revival. In rural West Virginia. And my blonde, feminist, liberal, Los Angeles Ass was smack dab in the middle.
Fast forward to today. And I can’t help but think we can’t go to that Thanksgiving. With our kids. Ever. Its his side of the family’s big reunion every year (No it’s not, that’s the 4th of July. Doy). BUT, even the Kaiser’s mother has said its become more of a revival than a Thanksgiving. And she’s not real comfortable there.
I’m picturing Count Waffles wanting to join the rest of the kids. But right now he sings “Buffalo Bob Only Ate Baked Beans.” We don’t say grace. So the whole circle praying thing would be nothing more than a big Duck Duck Goose game. And I have no doubt in my mind he’d say “OH MY GOD” more than once. He said it last night putting toys away (thank you Mom).
My military chaplain brother-in-law, his wife, and their two kids fit right in. Their halo’s shine in the WV sun. They’ll be up there belting out Jesus Loves Me with the rest of them.
My kids will stick out. And I mean STICK OUT. Not the day to put Princess Peanut in her “Women belong in the House…and the Senate” t-shirt. Or to pass on the Count’s “anarchy in the pre-k” onesie to whatever relative is having her 5th kid soon.
I know I’m horrible for thinking this…but I don’t really want my kids to have to go there. And stick out. I’d rather we just visited this side at a different time of year. Or should we just go one year and cross our fingers the Count doesn’t drop an F bomb during circle prayer #3?
I’m all for exposing them to different things…but I think they’ll get enough of that on any given trip to West Virginia.
Thanksgiving and the Others is just really extreme.

Ok, as of noon Pacific time, my sitemeter tells me over 80 people have stumbled upon my blog searching for “Queen of Spain” or “current Queen of Spain.” Over half of those hits came from “university” websites across the country.

So is there some bizzarro college internet scavenger hunt going on I don’t know about? Are you all working on some Royal Spaniard thesis? Someone help me out here.

Oh, and here’s something to help you out. I demand credit in your footnotes:

Information on the current Queen of Spain can be found by clicking that highlighted part.
Queen Sofia looks very nice.

See there, on the right…Actual Queen of Spain…she, and I’m just guessing here, does not blog.

Now..see me…down here??? Not an actual Queen.
Just called Queen of Spain because I once flipped through a bridal magazine, picking out what type of engagement ring I wanted with some friends. When I landed on an obnoxious rock the size of Rhode Island, with gaudy details on the sides and exclaimed “I like THAT one!” THIS GUY said:
“Who the fuck do you think you are? The Queen of Spain?”
and I replied…
“Yes.”
And on my left hand sits a ring very similar.

Good morning blogging world. I’m going to stand on my soapbox just a little today, because Laurie over at Stranded in Suburbia has an amazing post everyone should read. Laurie is my girl. She’s from my hood. And she and I seem to click when it comes to our political leanings. But all that aside, she actually tagged me on Sunday and I will complete that mission in a minute. But first and foremost, YOUR mission is to go read her post this morning about her friend Tabby. I know many of you who read my blog have children, and I hope her real life story may strike a chord.

From Common Sense About Kids and Guns:

Every eight hours a child or teen was killed in a firearm-related accident or suicide in 2001.
On average, 4 children died every day in non-homicide firearm incidents from 1996-2001.
From 1996-2001, more than 1,530 children were killed in firearm accidents. .
On average during each of the last 10 years (1992-2001), 1,273 kids committed suicide with a firearm each year; more than 145 each year were kids under 15-years-old.
40% of American households with children have guns.
34% of children in the United States (representing more than 22 million children in 11 million homes) live in homes with at least one firearm. In 69 percent of homes with firearms and children, more than one firearm is present.
28% of gun-owning households with children do not always keep guns locked in a secure place.
In 72% of unintentional deaths and injuries, suicide, and suicide attempts with a firearm of 0-19 year-olds, the firearm was stored in the residence of the victim, a relative, or a friend.

Now, on with the tag…

Rules of the game:
1) Delve into your blog archive.
2) Search the archive for your 23rd post.
3) Find the 5th sentence, or the closest to it.
4)Post the text of your sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas.
5)Tag 5 people to do the same: (I think I’ll skip the tagging this time around)

“…And this comes only a day after I recalled the story of how the Kaiser held me down and then farted on me the first time he introduced me to his friends.”

How’s that to lighten the mood????

You know the kids you see at the grocery store…the ones dressed as Batman or Cinderella months after Halloween??? Well, add mine to the list, except he’s wearing my not-so-cheap Poleci dress. No, the Count isn’t cross dressing. He’s flying.

Back in the day before two kids and one income, I bought a gorgeous, sheer, fire engine red Poleci from one of the little boutiques here in SoCal. It was back in the day when I also thought money grew on trees and my debt would just magically disappear.

I wore the dress on my honeymoon. The lightness of the fabric made it flutter in the Tahitian breeze. The dress and its fabric still flutter, to be sure. But its now hooked to the back of my toddler. And if you hum the Superman theme song, he’ll run from one end of the living room to the other, over and over again, with that red, red Poleci flying behind him.

It just seemed to make more sense to me, as I grabbed it off the hanger and helped it onto my son, that he wear it, instead of just letting it sit in the back of my closet. I’m guessing there are a few childless women out there cringing right now. And you same women might swear on your Malono’s that you’d NEVER make that same decision. But I promise you, when your almost three-year old is tugging at your pants wanting a cape…and you rifle through your closet looking for anything appropriate, you won’t even think twice about that silly red dress. And how it looks a million times more fabulous on your toddler than it ever did on you.

Not really. I just wanted to sing that in my head. Sorry.

Yup. Another wildfire in sunny California. North of Los Angeles. But not our north of Los Angeles. This one is west of us.

All the fire trucks and constant news coverage means our phone rings a lot with worried friends and relatives making sure we’re ok.

It also reminds me of Count Waffle’s latest and greatest obsession: sprinklers. Or, to be exact, “pink-or-lores.” The kid dreams about spinklers. He talks about them all day long. And he’s noticed they not only come in the lawn variety, but the ceiling variety as well. Which means a trip to the grocery store tends to include a 20 minute monologue on every single sprinkler on every single aisle in every single department.

“Oh, Mamma. Look at dat pink-or-lore by da apples.”

“Mamma! Mamma! Look at dat pink-or-lore by da fishes! It beautiful!”

Yes, the kid thinks sprinklers are beautiful.

Walks, as of late, take an hour a block because he must (and I really can’t emphasize MUST enough here) touch every single sprinkler on every single lawn all the way down the street. Think about how many sprinklers are on your front lawn. Enough said.

I had the privledge of being around when a good friend of the Barron Family got a phone call from Cruz’s heroic Mommy, telling her the little guy’s counts have gone from 49 to 638 overnight! So whatever happy thoughts everyone is sending upward, please continue.

This means Cruz can be breastfed, once again. His favorite source of comfort while he goes through this fight.

As a breastfeeding mother, my heart sank and I felt ill when I found out they had to abruptly stop nursing a week or so ago. I can’t imaging having to suddenly and unexpectedly take away the one thing that never fails to calm and soothe my children. Let alone take it away while battling painful mouth to rear end sores as a result of aggressive treatment. But I was told Cruz’s mommy had her “boobies out and ready to go” just awaiting the final ok from a doctor. I am constantly in awe of the power of nursing and the comfort, closeness, and healing it can bring. For those of you who have managed to breastfeed, even briefly, my hat’s off.

Updates on Cruz can be found, almost daily, on his website.

I was also in awe today of my little Count Waffles. Despite my worries about his emerging aggressive boy behavior, he has the biggest heart I know. He willingly and happily handed over one of his favorite toys because he wanted baby Cruz to play with it in the hospital. I cried tears of joy that Cruz’s condition seemed to be improving and that my little boy understood another little boy was sick and wanted to help. Even after his father and I made sure over, and over again he understood that his toy was not coming back. Goodbye and safe journey to Harold the Helicopter. May Cruz spin your propeller twice as much as the Count.