So I may or may not have just taught my son how to throw soft objects into the blades of a moving ceiling fan.
I got a very stern look from the Kaiser. This is the man who taught the boy to say “smell the love” after a fart…and he’s giving me a stern look.
Projectile stuffed animals and soft balls are so much more acceptable than “smell the love.”
The Kaiser and I are freaks. Anyone who knows us, knows we’re not normal, average, or otherwise. Yes, I’m talking sexually, so all family can close this page right now…it’s going to get very graphic.
Ahem…
I’m curious, though. I have this feeling we’re not the only freaks around. My neighbors have yet to come over for a cup of sugar and a blow job, but you get my meaning here. I want to know about your sexlife. Come on, you know this is a safe place. No one will know if you leave me a comment. I just need to know that the Kaiser and I are not the only ones out there.
Let me be more specific: We’re not going to donkey shows in Tijuana or anything…but lately we’re talking threesomes and one night stands and anything and everything under the sun. Whatever turns us both on, and whatever we are both comfortable with. And yeah, we’re comfortable with A LOT.
Ok, stop judging me right now. We’re having fun. Remember fun? When sex was more than something you did once a week if you weren’t tired from the laundry and dishes and carpool trips. When sex was more than…how quick can we undress and do it before a child screams because the DVD is skipping downstairs. When sex was exciting and heart-pounding and really, really hot.
We’re older, we’re more responsible, and we’re not afraid to experiment. The kids are older, capable of sleeping all night, and babysitters can sure as hell come over so we can go out. Sure I’ve no longer got the body of a 19-year old. And I have no doubt my stretch marks are just SUCH a freaking turn on…but at least I’m putting it out there.
Go give your man a blow job. Ask him what he thinks about you bringing home another girl…maybe even use one of those stupid princess tutu’s we all have in the toy chest to tie him to your bed. Go find a DVD that you KNOW does not skip…or call a babysitter. Hell, call a babysitter and go fuck in the back of your minivan.
If you are REALLY feeling it, take a lover. How hot is your mailman?
You know you want too.
Then come back and tell me-because I KNOW we’re not alone.
…because this is how ALL theme park trips MUST end…
Since I’ve returned home from New York, I’ve tried several times a day to blog.
To tell you about my sex life.
To tell you about my monster children…and how angelic they were for their father and horrific they are for me.
To tell you about being away from my kids and husband and how it’s made me more sane.
But I can’t seem to write. I’ve been cleaning, and cooking, going to the gym (I know…shocking), making plans for a weekend double birthday bash at Disneyland, planning a date night with the Kaiser, and sowing seeds in the spring garden.
So since I can’t seem to put together a sentence this week…tell me what you’ve been doing. Or offer some writing exercises, because I’m stuck.
🙁
Dear Transportation Security Agency,
Do you have any idea the fear I had boarding a JetBlue flight from NYC’s JFK airport to Burbank, land of Jay Leno, California???
You see, as you know (because I called you 6 times)I lost my California Driver’s License somewhere around Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building. I had no intention of losing my only photo ID. It was not some sort of ploy to make your life harder. It was not some sort of trick to keep you on the phone with me, a frantic mother of two, while you should be out tracking terrorists and hijacking people’s toothpaste and water bottles and, oh yeah-as I learned, jelly sandwiches. We all know how terribly explosive those Smucker’s people are. Smucker’s just sounds evil, I agree.
Anyway, i admit I was a bit of a pain in your ass. You see, I wanted to make sure I could, say, get home from New York. I had gotten to New York so, silly me, I wanted to get home from that great city.
Your nice agents assured me it was possible to return home, as planned. All I needed was two non-photo forms of ID. That’s it. They didn’t have to be originals. They could just be faxed to the hotel. But, I was told by your really well informed agents, there must be TWO pieces of faxed paper, and they both must contain the copies of two government issued documents. I was told this could be my social security card, my birth certificate, my marriage license, my divorce decree (not that I have one), or something like that. This, I was told, was the ONLY way I was getting on that plane home. The ONLY way I would ever see my wonderful husband and darling children again.
It’s not like I could rent a car without a driver’s license. Its not like I could use my credit card for a train ticket without a photo ID. No, I needed those two forms of ID, and my adoring Kaiser went through closet after closet, box after box and came away victorious.With two children tugging at his pants, he faxed the documents to the hotel. I waiting in a long line at the front desk and, eventually, walked away with the holy grail of paper.
I held the envelope tightly in my hand while I went up 10 floors to my room. I tucked the envelope away in a safe spot, awaiting the time and date of my return flight. I called your agents again and again…and maybe again. I needed to be sure these documents, tucked between my panties and my pj’s…would be my ticket home.
Yes, the agents told me…over and over. The documents would be fine, but they would be scrutinized. I would go through a more formal search, and I would be allowed to board the flight if my documents were in order.
Finally, the time came. With documents in hand I approached security…shaking. The Kaiser was on standby, waiting to hear if I made it through. Friends were on standby, waiting to come get me if they needed to, and my mother was on standby, convinced this was all a ploy to stay on vacation longer.
Security looked at my boarding pass, asked for my ID. I explained the situation and handed them my envelope of precious documents.
They didn’t even look at them.
Not a glance. Not a…hmmm…let me see what we have here.
Nothing.
I kept trying to hand security types my papers…someone needed to see these. SOMEONE needed to LOOK at my PROOF that I was NOT a terrorist.
Hello…ANYONE WANT TO SEE THESE?????
NO takers.
Not one.
Just thought you should know.
Way to keep us safe, asshats,
Queen of Spain
So what’s a California girl to do in rainy NYC with NO photo ID???
Go to a Knicks game, of course.
Yes, I’m in New York City for BlogHer Business and I’ve lost my driver’s license. Everyone has been very helpful, not at all bitchy and flippant like the many movies and shows about New York have lead me to believe.
Truth is, the Kaiser has to find all kinds of documentation in our Los Angeles home that then must be faxed to this hotel before I can board my flight back to the West Coast on Saturday. So I’m being really nice to the New Yorkers in the event I’m stuck here forever. Which would be fine. Because the food is really good and the original Macy’s in right down the block.
My mother thinks this is all just a ploy so I can get my stay away from real life extended. I would agree with her, if it weren’t for my son’s birthday. You see, I get home on Saturday…when he turns 4. I have to be there. I MUST be there. I can’t miss my child’s birthday.
Everyone start a Kaiser chant now please…FIND THAT STUFF. FIND THAT STUFF.
Today I kissed my children goodbye, hugged and kissed my husband goodbye, and boarded a very full flight.
I sat next to an obnoxious woman with a terrible perm, draped in an awful, black, mink coat…she shoved her tabloids near my arm rest and popped her gum. We flew just like this, across the entire length of the United States.
I landed in a cold airport, and was driven by a nice Polish man to my hotel. I ordered some food, had a drink, took a bath.
Not once did I feel guilty for having left my children. Not once did I feel like I should call, or return home…or even send an email.
However, I feel guilt for NOT feeling guilt.
What a terrible thing. To feel guilt over not feeling guilt. Here I am, in New York, on business and I am feeling guilty for not feeling guilty. Devra, oh Devra…Help me.
For those who do not know, Devra is the foremost expert on Mommy Guilt. Qualified to speak on the subject, despite those credentials having been left out of a recent Washington Post story including her name and her wonderful book. None the less, here I am, 3,000 miles from my children, away for the FIRST TIME EVER (except for the birth of one and my recent surgery) and I am not worried. I am not feeling pain or longing.
Oy. I’m a terrible mother.
Maybe tomorrow I will miss them horribly. Tonight, I just want to sleep in peace, for the first time, alone, in 4-years.
Dear Wendi Aarons of Austin, Texas,
I puffy heart you.
QofS
http://www.scribd.com/doc/14124/Maximadness
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