My Second Life is Just as Boring as my First

January 14, 2007 by 19 Comments

Second Life is crack.

If you think blogging is crack, I recommend you run screaming from SecondLife. I am fairly certain children set things on fire in my house while I created Queen Tureaud ( a name that took me FAR too long to choose) and explored the 3D realm.

The problem, other than ignoring everything and everyone around me for hours on end, is that I did absolutely nothing in SecondLife.

Wait, that’s not true, I watched a hockey game for lack of knowing where to go or what to do.

I was offered a job as a dancer in a strip club, but I declined and went and watched a hockey game.

Story of my life.

Queen Tureaud (that's me) in SecondLife

I assume there is more to this 3D world thing than sex and hooking up, but I’m just not sure yet. Maybe you guys can point me to places on SecondLife that don’t involve me pole dancing or sitting at a slot machine? Maybe not.

Either way, if you’re looking to kill a good, oh…week, go check it out. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. Once you get past trying to make your hair not look like a muppet and wearing something other than what you might see on your local hooker you might even learn to fly.

Not that I did. My 3-year-old was GREAT at it…jumping canyons and shit. Me…um…I fell on my face many times and even landed on some guy from Switzerland who wasn’t too happy I didn’t want to go somewhere and cyber fuck him.

Consider me your dealer. And when you get there, don’t make fun of my stripper hair. It was the best I could do.

Filed Under: Queen Tureaud

You can call me Mrs. Jumbo

January 12, 2007 by 15 Comments

If you ever make fun of my kids, I’ll squash you like Dumbo’s Mom.

That’s my new motto.
Mrs. Jumbo, my new mascot

I just made the mistake of watching Dumbo with my children, and I firmly believe Mrs. Jumbo had every right to kick the shit out of those dorky kids. Mrs. Jumbo is my new hero.

Every time I have ever watched this movie I was so concerned for Dumbo that it didn’t occur to me the suffering Mrs. Jumbo was going through while in Elephant Jail.

I also don’t think I’ve watched this movie since I’ve had children. Big mistake.

For those who haven’t seen it in awhile (or ever) Dumbo the big eared kid gets teased by some jerk circus patrons and Mrs. Jumbo smacks them silly. She gets thrown in the clink and Dumbo is left to try and make sense of the world with no friends except a mouse named Timothy.

Once Mrs. Jumbo is incarcerated I can’t concentrate on the movie. All I can think about is Mrs. Jumbo,worried to death about what happened to her kid once they dragged her away. Is he being looked after? Does he have food? A warm blanket? Did anyone hug him and comfort him while he mother was being locked up?

Sweet God in heaven if I were Mrs. Jumbo I don’t know what I’d do. Knowing those other bitch elephants wouldn’t step in and care for my son. Leaving him out there, alone in the big circus world.

Can you imagine being torn from your children and locked away without any knowledge of their wellbeing or welfare? Maddening.

Ok. Enough.

I’ve never really been a collector of trinkets or things (shut up, my dear Kaiser husband…regular things don’t count) but I honestly think I may take more of an interest in anything with Mrs. Jumbo.

She deserves the recognition.

Mrs. Jumbo. I’m with ya’ sister in motherhood- in spirit and in ass size.

I also think she should be our new mascot. For all us “naptime activists” and mother’s with causes, Mrs. Jumbo shows we won’t take any shit and will fight if you mess with our kids.

We might have to do something about that homely pink hat she wears, but otherwise…Mrs. Jumbo rocks.

Filed Under: Royal Decree

Penis Envy

January 8, 2007 by 23 Comments

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.

Me.

I’m not so sure.

Filed Under: Men and their duckcamps, Princess Peanut

Of Cabbages And (pre)Cancer Cells

January 7, 2007 by 28 Comments

I write this with cabbage caressing my tits.

The stank of what I normally associate with my grandfather’s cooking, my mother’s horrible diet soup, and St. Patrick’s Day is wrapped, snuggly, around my chest.

This cabbage is my only relief. I would hump this cabbage if it were a person, that is how much I adore it’s leafy goodness.

So why do I have veggies on my boobies??

We’re weaning.

I’m not happy. The Princess really isn’t thrilled. But Mommy needs to have her neck cut open in a few weeks and at almost 2-years-old, it seems silly to put it off.

My son thinks the doctors will be beheading me and then reattaching my head to my neck. He is concerned I will “talk to the rest of the body” while my head is off.

In reality, my thyroid will be dying. Alison once offered a funeral and I believe I may take her up on that nice gesture. The Chief of Head and Neck Surgery over at UCLA will have the honor of navigating my neck. His job is to make sure all the bad stuff comes out and I can still deliver a newscast like a pro when all is said and done. He took care of Wayne Newton’s pipes, and what’s good enough for Wayne is good enough for me. Danke shen you very much.
I get an all insurance paid stay at the lovely UCLA Medical Center which may only be about 35 miles from my home, but will take loved ones at least an hour to travel. The Queen Mother if flying in and will make sure my house doesn’t turn into Lord of the Flies.

Adding to my severe engorgement are migraines and sinus issues from hell due to 85mph winds-in Southern FREAKING California. The headaches are the good part. I have a large patio umbrella in the bottom of my pool and the table was only saved by it’s varnish.

How does one go about getting an umbrella out of the deep end while swaddled in cabbage leaves??? 

So please forgive my blogging respite. Once the head and tits are under control, I’m sure I’ll be writing all about my anxiety over dying on the operating table and if the Kaiser will then (and only then) let the children have a dog.

Let’s not forget the drama that is weaning a daughter. My son cried. My daughter is trying to manipulate me.

Stay Tuned.

Filed Under: Princess Peanut, Queen Mum, Stepford Crazies

The People Under the Stairmasters

January 4, 2007 by 17 Comments

I had to shield my children from paparazzi when we left the gym today.

I’m not kidding.

Turns out a certain Miss Blonde Just Divorced from a guy who’s name rhymes with Dick frequents my gym and just happened to be working out with a new trainer who everyone assumes she’s screwing.

Trust me. They are not screwing. The assistant working out with/next to her wouldn’t allow it. And the guy is clearly just a trainer thrilled to have been given the opportunity to sculpt Daisy Duke’s ass. You can tell they are not screwing. Trust me.

Maybe everyone really wants to see a photo of Miss Blonde wearing black stretch pants and a black tank top and a black hat pulled so far down you can’t see her eyes as she dashes from the gym entrance to a waiting SUV (driven by Daddy?). I can’t imagine why, but maybe they do. Maybe they want to see it so much that when I leave my gym, it’s necessary for several cameramen to be smoking, swearing, and leaning against their car hoods as they nearly block traffic on the small, suburban side street.

Sure I joked with them and told them to make sure to catch me in a good light…but they can go away now. My Hollywood Suburb gets it’s share of C D and B list actors as residents and shoppers. A certain Mrs. Nearly Killed Her Kids in a Drunken Car Wreck Everyone Knows Her As Kirk Cameron’s Annoying TV Sister nearly plowed my family and I down in Target not too long ago. She’s a maniac with a cart, let me tell you. And she apparently is always in a hurry. But that’s it. That’s the kind of celebs I like in my town. The ones you recognize, but not enough to really bother. Like the time Mr. Isuzu and I got our prescriptions together at Longs.

The ones that DO NOT attract the sleazy photographers that linger on my town center drive.

So, Miss Blonde, I’m not sure what you are doing here or why you’ve decided to frequent our quiet little city, but whenever you finish filming whatever it is you are filming here, feel free to take trainer boy and get the hell out.

If you’ve actually moved here, may I suggest the 24 hour fitness on the other side of town?

Crossposted at The People Under the Stairmasters.

Filed Under: Stepford Crazies

Here’s YOUR chance to do the Hump

January 2, 2007 by 11 Comments

My almost 4-year old son thinks pigs work.

He thinks swine put on little hard hats and take a lunch pail down to the factory every day and punch a clock. It’s there the little piggies sit at desks and type on computers and make the bacon that we, the humans, eat.

He firmly believes it’s the pig’s job to go to work and make our bacon. In his mind, the cows make the milk and the pigs make the bacon. I see the logic.
I’m fine with this. At his tender, innocent age, I am totally fine with not correcting him. I’m not setting out to lie to him. If he were to ask, I would try to explain that Porky and Co. don’t really make our bacon, but I can’t say I would describe or travel down the “we eat the pigs” path. Wee wee wee all the way home.

It’s this life of “half truths” or vague concepts that got my husband to thinking. Not too many days ago my other half was pondering exactly what we would tell the children if they were ever to walk in on us “doing it.”

He thinks we need a plan. A pre-discussed discussion. He thinks we need to be prepared on the off chance the baby monitor, door knobs, locks, and overall hearing fails us and we get caught F’in like rabbits.
At first I laughed at him. I totally brushed off the need for a game plan should an offspring interrupt us mid-hump.

Then I thought about it. Could I really say we were “hugging?” No, because as anyone who is NOT a virgin knows, sex looks nothing like a hug.

What do we say we were doing? We can’t really take the “making a baby route” since we’re not and then one of the kids will expect a sibling at some point. We can’t go with “wrestling naked” as I can totally see my kids then wanting to wrestle naked with us. ALL THE TIME. It would be the new family past time. Friends would come over to play and my children would want to wrestle them. Naked.

Do we even try to explain what we were doing? Do we gloss it over with “kissing and tickling” and hope they buy it? At this age, they just don’t understand enough to really try and explain sex. Which I don’t mind doing. I have no problem with discussing sex and everything that goes with it when my children can understand. I’m not worried about my daughter. She’s just too little to realize. But my son. Oh. Boy. Did I mention he’s nearly 4? That means questions. GOOD LORD IN HEAVEN the questions.
…but why do we have sex?

…but why do you have to lay like that?

…but why do you make those noises?

…but why are you putting your penis there where Mommy pees?

…but why does Mom have those things the police use on the bad guys? (kidding, kidding)

All I’m saying is the actual explanation may just be too complicated for his brain, but anything else might be too simple.

So, on the Kaiser’s advice, I am asking you-my blogging buddies, to please tell us how to you deal with a child’s questions after they actually “see” sexual intercourse???

I have my suspicions that this entire conversation between my husband and I was just his way of hinting that we need to go have sex. And he may very well be surprised to see his hint went so far as to become a blog post. Or not. Because we all know the man gets more blow jobs than any husband on earth.

So maybe the question should be…what if we get caught doing that??? Mommy is just checking my throat? Like the doctor does? But with Daddy’s….nevermind. Stick to answering the sex question.

Filed Under: Royal Sexlife

2007

January 1, 2007 by 8 Comments

Happy New Year Baby Girl!

“Happy New Year. Now LET’S GO!”

she's done

Who are you going to kiss at midnight?

“YOU Mamma.”

My Guy

…and then my husband kissed my son, my daughter, and then me-twice.

Yeah, I’m good with 2007.

Filed Under: Royal Family Outing

Hello Illinois. How are you today?

December 30, 2006 by 26 Comments

Well had you told me I was on the FRONT PAGE...
I can’t believe the STRONG reactions I’m getting to the letter I wrote to Michelle Obama.

Maybe it’s because everyone is on vacation. Maybe it’s because you all have a mother. Maybe it’s because we all want the chance to change the world. I don’t know.

Mullato.org is protesting me (although, Dude…not even ONE email yet, nice protest Sparky) and I’m even being accused of being (gasp) a REPUBLICAN trying to discourage Senator Obama from running. Those of you who actually know me just spit your drink on your keyboard.

After all of this craziness, I’ve only come to one conclusion: Motherhood is hard fucking work.

You can’t even write about some of the decisions a mother makes without stirring up a shitstorm. Smack my ass and call me Caitlin Flanagan, because now people are debating “changing the world or protecting the family.”

Nice.

But that really is what all of this is about. It’s about being a mother. Do you go with showing your children just how big of an impact you can make on the world? Do you take the safer route? It’s about choices. And the millions of choices that go with motherhood. Breast or bottle. Work or home. Cloth or disposable? It. Never. Ends.

My letter to Michelle Obama was nothing more than my sympathy and empathy for having to make yet another motherhood decision. And as we all know, what is best for one family is not, necessarily best for the next.

I still breastfeed my 21-month old. That is a choice that I get shit for. But it works for my family. Sure, it’s not an oval office issue or anything, but it’s an issue none the less. And it seems we women get shit for any decision we make on any motherhood issue.

As a mother, and a mother with a rather LOUD speaking platform, I will happily get the back of ANY MOM for their decisions. It’s time for the world to SHUT THE FUCK UP and remember it’s the mothers who sacrifice, suffer, and agonize over those decisions.

I just spent 10 minutes wondering if I should let my son have another juice box. 10 freaking minutes. And that was over a juice box. And don’t even get me started on the runny nose he currently has and which, if any, medication I will give him for it tonight.

The talking heads and pundits can make fun of me all they want, but how soon they forget photos like this, and this, and this. It’s easy to dismiss a “self-described Mom” when she’s showing support for a fellow mother, but it’s not so easy to dismiss all the mothers, wives, and children I see in those photos.

So mount your protests and do your best spin on my very honest letter. Just keep reading. Because the Mom voice will stay loud, and we’re making the decisions that rock the world-whether you like it or not.

Filed Under: Queenie Backup
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