Queen of Spain Blog

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.

I’m having a crappy Mom week. I’m not sure if it’s the post partum or just summer vacation setting in. Whatever the reason, these kids of mine…are getting on my nerves.

Everyone else is getting on my nerves too. It’s not them. It’s me. But nothing is rubbing me the right way lately. I feel like I can’t do anything right, from choosing foods for the kids, discipline, to spending too much money and not keeping up with putting away clothes. And I have no tolerance for anything. At. All.

Can’t keep mac and cheese on your fork? Don’t cry to me.
Don’t like the way I clean? Do it yourself.
Need yet another juice box? Are your arms broke? (I actually asked that of the Count yesterday…he replied, “They not broke, Mamma, they just tired and want you to get it.” Hrmph)

Some days the weight of taking care of a family is more than I can handle. I don’t want to do laundry. I don’t want to cook breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I don’t want to pick up toys. I don’t want to drive to swim lessons. I don’t want to change diapers. I don’t want to schedule appointments. I don’t want to help wipe your butt.

But then I realize I also don’t want to get out of my pj’s. I don’t want to brush my hair. I don’t want to take a shower. Or leave the couch. I will, however, realize at 3am all of these things actually need to be done and get out of bed and clean the carpet.

Post Partum can suck it.

Thus starts another round of therapy. I was really hoping this was over. Apparently not.

Ooooh! Dora is walking like a Robot! Can you walk like a Robot?

I can’t, Mamma. My feet are too white.

There is a reason I can clearly remember ever single time my mother cut my bangs. They looked like ass.

And despite swearing on dull kitchen scissors that I would never do the same to my offspring, well, um…

You see, there were these few, stray hairs on the Peanut. They were getting in her eyes, making her blink, rub, you know…act all addict. I figured I would just trim those few, stray hairs. Snip Snip clip clip and we’re done.

I appreciate that you are all still reading, seeing as you know where this is going. And you really would think that years of having my own bangs trimmed by my own mother would teach me. I ain’t never been no good at no learnin’.

So now that I have one of the Bay City Rollers for a daughter, I suppose I should go invest in some barrettes. Not that she’ll keep them in her hair. But I like to pretend I can fix this. I’m very good at pretending.

It should just be a law that I am never allowed to “do” anyone’s hair. It never turns out well. There was the time in college I helped dye my friend Ray’s jett black hair red. It never occurred to us black doesn’t dye well without first making the hair not so black. Not too long after that, I heard that you could dye your hair various hues if you used Kool-Aid. I couldn’t get my red, green, purple, and yellow streaks out in time for a job interview and had to beg a hair salon to get me in after 400 washes with Palmolive (which was supposed to take it out) did not work.

Kool-Aid and Palmolive! For all your haircare needs! And the warning lights never flashed for me why?????

Now I pay oodles of money to have someone else do my hair. I think I owe the same to my children.