They’ve upped my medication. The Stepford Wife Crazies came out a few weeks ago and hung around long enough to have everyone around me nod their heads in agreement.

Yeah, she’s losing it a little-again.

The good news is we now seem to recognize when I’m losing it a little. Sort of. Lazy Ass Wife still in front of the computer? Check. Lazy Ass Mom calling CheezIts and sprinkles lunch? Check. Sudden, manic, fan cleaning at 1am? Check. Laundry at 2am? Check. Falling asleep with kids at 845pm? Check? Lack of showering? Check.

So today I got 30mg of Paxil instead of 20mg and immediately got a headache.

Then I baked zucchini bread.

PINK zucchini bread. Because I can’t bake anything without at least one fuck up. Which means I thought the red food coloring was vanilla and thus, pink bread. Stop making fun of me long enough to go look in your pantry and notice those stupid black, tiny bottle look a whole hell of a lot alike. Shut up. So what if I made pink bread? I’ll tell you all right now it’s breast cancer awareness zucchini bread. Suck on that.

So as my brother complains that he doesn’t want to eat pink bread, I notice everyone is laughing. Huh. Laughter. That’s a good start.

They tell me that these damn antidepressants can just stop working. Or your body adjusts to them. So I hear that tweaking your dose or type is normal. Whoo hoo. Normal. There is word I don’t hear often.

As I type this, Count Waffles just informed me he doesn’t have superpowers anymore. He says they just fell out of him.

Huh. My magic pill powers just kinda fell out of me too.

So as I pretend to hunt my office floor for missing superpowers, I’ll also try and pick up what has survived this postpartum. Dust it off one more time. And hope 30 is a magic number.

When the Count can fly again, we’ll go get us some of the Breast Cancer Awareness Bread too. See, now you totally wish you had some.

“Mommyblogging is a radical act,” is a phrase, coined by Alice, near and dear to my heart. I wasn’t even there when she said it…but I love her for very clearly putting into words exactly how I feel about blogging.

To be fair, I should say that “Mommyblogging rocks my fucking world” might be a more appropriate phrase for me. Or “Mommyblogging Lets me Talk about Other Women’s Stinky Snatchs'” or something. But you get the idea.

Sure, I post silly things. Sure, I will go on and on about preschool or teething, or sex with my husband. But every once in awhile, I post something that someone else “gets.”And that is where the “radical” part comes in. Suddenly it goes from the Queen spouting random crap to Queen connecting with other people. The kinds of people that have vaginas and children and Paxil in their medicine cabinet too.

Suddenly I am not alone. And suddenly I can speak my mind amongst friends. That is what I really want to get at here. The whole “speaking my mind” thing.

Not too long ago Her Bad Mother did a great post on the whole MommyWar thing. Which one of us hasn’t gone off on that in one way or another, I ask. And I commented that I really liked it when we all got down and dirty and fought about it. I said it means that we have arrived, and it is the next step in gender equality. Debate. Discourse. Battles.

Apparently I said something either so incredibly retarded or so way off base or so, maybe, thought provoking that it prompted yet another post.

So here we have a very large group of women discussing how to discuss what we are passionate about. Such is the nature of us broads. We can’t seem to just debate and argue. We have to talk about how we debate and argue. No wonder my husband is so exhausted.

But for better or worse, this is how we are. And this, I believe, is what sets us apart from those men who will wrestle to the death. We’ll talk to the death. They will fight to the death. Unless, of course you touch my kid or my chocolate martini…then I too shall fight to the death.

What many of you may not have noticed yet is that our audience is growing. And with that, comes a greater responsibility for us to say something. It’s no fluke that the brilliant women of the blogher conference launched their ad network with the mommies. As it turns out, we’re HUGE. And we’re being read everywhere.

I recently was syndicated with the Santa Maria Times (who then dropped me after that infamous blow job post) and I have a hush-hush/wink-wink/nudge-nudge lunch discussion in August with a MAJOR corporation. And MAJOR would be an understatement.

We have power. We have voices. That means we now have a responsibility. Like it or not. And we are now bringing our debates, our battles, our fears, our passions, our everything to the forefront of discussion in America and the world.

What are you going to do?

I challenge all of you Mommybloggers to use that power sometime before blogher to post something BIG on your blog. Write about postpartum. Write about child abuse. Write about adoption. Write about abortion. Write something other than those “bubblegum” posts. Just once. OR, write a bubblegum post you know will mean something to some other mom out there.

What YOU are writing and what YOU are saying is resonating SO MUCH with others that PR firms, advertisers, and major corporations are taking notice. Conferences are getting MAJOR sponsors, and millions of other mothers and women are finding friends, communities, help, and comfort in YOUR words.

Don’t stop talking. Don’t censor yourself. And DON’T stop fighting.

So what if we fight like girls. I say ding that bell and throw me in the ring, because the world is watching. And listening. And reading. And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to use this opportunity to say exactly what I want. To debate and fight about it and to respect all those who dare jump in that ring with me.

The Kaiser worked very hard on this film. And I am damn proud. DAMN proud.
Also looking forward to adding Johnny Depp the framed movie posters in our office. One for every film my man has a worked on.

That wheel/mill/fight shot??? All Kaiser baby. Didn’t even know some of that was digital, did ya’???

Per AP via CNN:

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) — Johnny Depp’s boozy, woozy buccaneer Jack Sparrow has plundered the box office, with “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest” taking in a record $132 million in its first three days, according to studio estimates Sunday.

Disney’s swashbuckling sequel sailed past the previous all-time best debut, 2002’s “Spider-Man,” which took in $114.8 million in its first weekend.

“Dead Man’s Chest” also did nearly three times the business of its predecessor, “Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl,” which took in $46.6 million over opening weekend in 2003.

The sequel surpassed that total in its first day alone, taking in $55.5 million Friday to beat the previous single-day record of $50 million, set last year by “Star Wars: Episode III — Revenge of the Sith.” With $44.7 million on Saturday, “Dead Man’s Chest” also became the first movie to top $100 million in just two days.

It’s taken me all of two weeks to realize my son NEEDS to go to summer school.

Or Mommy’s head will explode.

I never thought I’d be the mother that sent her kids off to do something simply because they are driving her crazy. I even looked at those mothers with the stink eye when they would tell me Jr. absolutely had to be enrolled at the preschool’s summer camp.

What selfish bitches. It’s summer. You don’t need to send your kid to glorified daycare in the summer while you get a pedicure.

Cough. Cough, aaaahem.

Yeah, about that…um…I was wrong.

I actually called the preschool director over the 4th holiday begging for a spot for Count Waffles. BEGGING. I’ll take anything. Any day. Any time. Name your price. Just take my pride and joy from 9am to noon. Please. For the love of all that is holy…take him. Entertain him. Give him something better to do than watch me drink my coffee and wonder if I can justifiably give him a pail of water and a spatula and call it a “fun, outdoor, water project.”

As luck would have it, we’ve had visitors and holidays and swim lessons to occupy our time these first, few, school-less weeks. But I can see glimpses of just how ugly things will get if there isn’t some sort of structure this summer.

Naked, popsicle-streaked, bored, napless children will abound. They will clamor for park trips and be disappointed when I say “no.” It’s 106 degrees and the slide will, literally, burn your ass. ( I don’t want to talk about how I discovered the slide-from-hell-that-is-a-lawsuit-waiting-to-happen, but let’s just say I still have marks)

They will either be clothed in a wet bathing suit or their sticky birthday suit.

Shampoo and soap will be optional. The pool does the job, and who’s going to see them anyway?

And I will fall into a very lazy summer of “cleaning” (I picked up the toys, but ignored the large juice spill in the kitchen) and “educating” (yes, watermelon seeds can be spit even further if you use your tongue thusly) and “bending the rules” (sure, you can dig up that entire pile of dirt and pour it over your up-side-down bike as long as you walk through the sprinkler later).

So go ahead and give me the stink eye. But I’m sending my kid to summer school so I can go get a pedicure. I might even hire a babysitter too.

Can’t blog now. Having too much sex.

Browsing Fark as usual today, I found a link to the Prairie Muffin Manifesto.

And because I can honestly say these women exist in my family, I tried to read all of it with an open mind.

And then my mind exploded.

While I can get behind their love of their God, their families, and their simple life…they lose me at “2) Prairie Muffins are helpmeets to their husbands, seeking creative and practical ways to further their husbands’ callings and aid them in their dominion responsibilities.” Ok. Fine. I support my hubby too. Help him however I can. But the problem is I can see where this little rule is going…

“9) Prairie Muffins do not reflect badly on their husbands by neglecting their appearance; they work with the clay God has given, molding it into an attractive package for the pleasure of their husbands.”

I’m stuttering now, and spitting a little. “Not reflect badly on their husbands” ??? “For the pleasure of their husbands”?????? Hellllllooooooooooooo Tom Cruise? Yeah, there is a group of women I’d looooooooooooooove to introduce you too. Yeah, the PM’s. Yeah…they are TOTALLY brainwashed, so I’m sure they would jump onto whatever snake oil you are hocking these days. Sure, all you have to do is be their husband, and they will do whatever you say. Seriously. Yeah, just like Katie. Uh-huh….

And then there is

“17) Prairie Muffins place their husbands’ needs and desires above other obligations, arranging their schedules and responsibilities so that they do not neglect the one who provides for and protects them and their children.”

In other words, the man comes first…you bitches have to wait.

“18) Prairie Muffins are fiercely submissive to God and to their husbands.”

And then it gets really good. Put down all your drinks now, because this one will make liquid come out your nose:

” 19) Prairie Muffins appreciate godly role models, such as Anne Bradstreet, Elizabeth Prentiss and Elisabeth Elliot. They do not idolize Laura Ingalls Wilder (Little House on the Prairie) or Louisa May Alcott (Little Women); while they may enjoy aspects of home life presented in their books, PMs understand that the latent humanism and feminism in these stories and in the lives of these women is not worthy of emulation.”

Because we all know that reading Little Women makes you want to grow up and be like Jo. And if you grow up and be like Jo, you’ll be educated and happy. Oh, wait…I mean you’ll be a childless lesbian. And that Laura Ingalls Wilder? Whore. LOUD MOUTH whore.

Which leads me to:

“22) Prairie Muffins try to maintain a peaceful environment for their families by keeping their voices quiet and their tones gentle as much as possible.”

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

I’m sure if every man had his wish all women would be quiet, submissive, and as pretty as they could be all the time. We wouldn’t want them outspoken, or independent, or self confident…why, that would only lead to…lead to….um…..why exactly is it bad?????

Oh yes, because then men might not actually be in control.

Ladies, I really hope you are happy women. I truly do. I also hope you examine exactly why you are submissive. God is not an excuse for ignorance.

**updated at 748am PST. He’s retiring. The Queen is crying.

I’m trying NOT to vomit. Or get all worked up. But rumor has it that Monday’s news conference called by Wings management is in regards to the future of Captain Steve Yzerman.

I’m finding it hard to breathe. I haven’t been able to really, truly talk hockey since the Wings season ended abruptly. It’s not that it took me this long to get over getting knocked out of the playoffs. It’s not the lack of Cup this year. It was the uncertainty regarding Yzerman’s future.

I can’t put into words what this athlete, in particular, means to me. Other than he gave me a reason to sit with my Dad and watch countless games. To go and see live games. To talk until after my bedtime with my father about the Wings strengths, weaknesses, and their chances at the post season.

As a young girl, my father played hockey every Thursday and Sunday night. After his games, he always went to the bar. Around 2am I would hear the car pull up. The door close. Then the trunk close. The snow would crunch with footsteps and I would hear the creak of our back door.

My excuses varied from night to night…but I always managed to find my way out of bed and into the kitchen. I needed a glass of water, a snack, whatever. Just so I could sit with my Dad and talk hockey.

He would smell like smoke and beer and be more talkative than usual, simply because he had a few in him. He would always empty his hockey bag as we talked. If it was the dead of winter, he would put his gloves on the radiator to dry and try, jokingly, to rub them in my face. The smell of your father’s wet, smelly, hockey glove is something you never forget.

He would tell me stories of how Joey Kocur and Bob Probert went golfing with his buddy Jerry last week, and Joey still had open sores on his knuckles from that fight in Toronto last month.

He would tell me how Stevie really banked one home in that OT against Chicago on Thursday and how he saw a guy when he was 17 use a move like that, but not quite as smooth. He would tell me all kinds of things about Yzerman, simply because I was a 14-year-old girl and Yzerman was the hockey equivalent of Ricky Schroder.

I would nod and ask a question here or there. Just to keep the conversation going. And eventually, my dad would notice the clock and tell me how mad my mom would be if she knew I was up and send me back to bed.

I have no idea what the Wings will say at the presser. I have no idea what Yzerman will do. I just know, that this is my Jordan. This is my Bird. This is my Montana. This is my Aaron.

Do I want him to retire? To play just one more year? Should I think about what is good for the game? The league? His health?

I don’t know. And it sounds like Stevie wasn’t so sure either. A decision was to come within days of the season ending. Then weeks. Then by the draft. All deadlines passed. Me still unable to think about the future yet. I really hope this decision comes at the news conference. Limbo is no fun. I need to either move on, or gear up to try and get to the Joe one last time to see Stevie Y play.

Maybe I’ll talk my Dad into going. Not an easy feat for a daughter in California and a father in Florida. But for this game. This player. I just might try and make it happen.

Crossposted at Draft Day Suit

…Because I have a 3-year-old glued to NASA TV. And when I say glued, I mean he’s simply watching the thing sit on the launch pad. No one is talking. Nothing is happening. It’s just sitting there.

So NASA, get this one right or this Mom will kick your ass.