Dear TSA

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.


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.


NO takers.

Not one.

Just thought you should know.

Way to keep us safe, asshats,

Queen of Spain

Stick Your Pampered Chef Up Your Ass

Raise your hand if you have to go to a pampered chef/tupperwear/naughty lingerie/home accent/wrought iron sconce I don’t need/and/or/candle party in the next few weeks.

I’m done. I’m not going. I’m not buying the crap to help you out or to stick in my guest bathroom.

I’m not going for the food or the free drinks or the mingling with other women I only know from seeing them at some school function last winter.

I’m not going to throw a party so you can get the extra large hurricane vase and I can get a 20-percent discount.

I’m not going to ask the same people I ask every single time to come. And I’m not going to go to their parties because they’ve run out of new people at work to invite.

I’m not going to feel obligated to buy something cheap so you can get your discount. I’m not going to make people I know feel obligated to buy something from me because I bought at their last party.

I’m not going to be tricked into thinking I need 2 dozen plum scented votive candles. I’m not going to buy yet another measuring cup that can’t seem to measure the solids or the liquids correctly after the first dishwasher safe cycle.

I’m not going to feel bad, either.

Stop the madness.

Let me clear my throat…

Once again I’ve written a piece over at the Huffington Post, and once again many readers are taking it completely the WRONG WAY.

Because I have spent time wondering what Barack Obama’s wife might be thinking, I’m being accused of being “creepy,” a “white bitch,” and my personal favorite “tacky.”

The point of my post was to tell Michelle Obama that whatever their family decides to do, there are many of us out there that will support their decision.

Just to be clear, YES, I want Barack Obama to run for President. Yes, I think the first woman president (Hillary) or African American president or ANY president could be the target of hate groups. YES, I think a black man or woman would be at an even bigger risk. If you think there are not nut jobs in this country, you are living in a fantasy world. And if you think a woman or the first black president wouldn’t be a prime target, you are OUT OF YOUR MIND.

I’m sorry, but how can the Obama (or Clinton) family NOT weigh that as they decide?

YES, I do think it would change the world if Obama ran and won. Simply because he would be a FIRST. Just like Hillary could be a FIRST. That changes my world. That changes HISTORY.

Go ahead and stick your head back in the sand if you think racism and sexism are things of the past. And believe you me, that elephant was not brought in the room by me, it’s been there since the beginning of time. I’m just putting it in the open because ignoring it is retarded.

And for the record, I hope I would be brave enough to change the world if given the opportunity, what I’m saying is I wouldn’t begrudge the Obama family if they decide not too.

Do I think a woman or African American President would die if elected? Dear God, I hope not. I hope we’ve come far enough that it would never happen. But we’re all stupid if we didn’t acknowledge it’s a very real possibility.

Whew. I feel better now. Thanks for hearing me out. I was just losing my mind with some of the comments over there. My letter to Michelle Obama was meant to show her that as a mom, I understand. And that she has my support. Not to be creepy or tacky or evil or overly worried about a family I don’t personally know.¬† I worry about many things. And this is one I just chose to write about because, again, as a mother I can’t imagine what she’s thinking.

It takes special people to change history. I hope they are these people, but it’s a heavy burden. One I’m not sure I could carry. Could you???

Shopping Sucks. The End.

I’m the kind of person that finishes her Christmas shopping before Halloween.
Which is why finding myself at Target this morning at 9am, with 7000 other shoppers made me want to kill myself. Right there in the holiday aisle. Dead.
As an added bonus, the Starbuck’s inside the Target was closed. Some crap about some broken machines or something. Yeah. Right. So now there are 7000 uncaffeinated, pissed off shoppers at 9am. Most with non-school aged children still in Pj’s. Mine included. Although Princess Peanut upped everyone by adding her pink monster slippers to the mix instead of regular shoes.
After braving the hell on earth that was a store this close to the holidays, I can only tell you that all you need is The nice people over there gave me a gift card to make my life easier and guess what? It worked. I got my Dad his gift in all of 20 minutes. Shopped, shipped, and done. Without setting foot in an evil, crowded store.
Normally I’m not a fan of Sears or Kmart, but this time of year, you just can’t go to Pottery Barn for everyone. And as it turns out, they have some really good deals. I like to pretend I can get everyone expensive electronics and all brand name everythings, but who are we kidding here?
If you are stuck for something, they’ve got it all in one place over at and you won’t have to fight for a cart or walk around aimlessly or spend too much money. OR carry your pink footed, cranky, PJ-wearing toddler while you push a cart through hundreds of other caffeine-needing mothers just trying to grab those few last stocking stuffers and rolls of paper.

I am on the couch nursing a migraine. I blame the shopping. Just do what you need to do online. Shopping sucks. The end.

Air Hurts

Asthma. Motherfucking asthma.

Ever wrestle a child to force him to breathe? Count Waffles the Terrible has asthma and he thinks his inhaler is a device made specifically to torture him. He’s had to breathe through the tube all of 4 times since last night and I can already see this will be our Waterloo. This will be our Battle of Gondor.
I started with the always helpful bribe: Candy? A happy meal? Toys?

No go.

I moved on to threats: No candy. No happy meal. No toys.

No go.

Then I pulled out the big guns: Your sister can stay next to you. She gets to play with you. I will not make her leave.

No go.

The Kaiser suggested suffocation until he was forced to inhale, but despite my large arms, I’m not sure I can pin the boy down, plug his nose, and keep the tube positioned so he breathes medication and not air. I can’t even pick the kids’ boogers anymore. I know, I know, it kills me too.

The good news is we haven’t had any attacks. Yet. But we’re really sick of the night time and now day time cough thing. All night. All day. All night. All day. All night. All day.

aheh. aheh. aheh. aheh.

All night. All day. All night. All day.

It’s enough to make you have more than one martini every night. Repetition is a killer.

So we’ve gone from a seasonal teaspoon of meds before bedtime, to a teaspoon all year round, to a teaspoon and a pill, to just a pill, to the new and improved pill and inhaler.

Fucking allergies. Fucking nature. Fucking man made pollution.

Down with trees!

Down with industry!

Down with inhalers!

I’m open to advice from any of you who may have children with asthma. We’ve got the humidifier. I’m all for logging our local oaks, but I think my neighbors might get upset. We’ve already got a Prius. I suppose we could move, but then I wouldn’t be able to buy him meds.
Am I going to have to rip all my carpet out and throw all the stuffed animals away? I am, aren’t I?

And is it legal to strap a kid down and plug his nose? Probably not.

Down with asthma.

Poppin’ ‘Em Out for Jesus

You know there is something wrong with the Christian movement when they start breeding an Army.

If you need to bulk up your numbers to please your God, have a baseball team to be a good wife, or simply are submissive to the “head” of your household because you see yourself as a “domestic warriors in the battle against what they see as forty years of destruction wrought by women’s liberation: contraception, women’s careers, abortion, divorce, homosexuality and child abuse…” come sit next to me and let’s have a talk.

First deary, get yourself some books. Not the one with “Holy Bible” on the front, or the ones you see on the shelves at your local Christian book store…but some actual books. I’m sure my commentors can name a few to get you going. I’m going to have to say “The Poisonwood Bible” and maybe a little erotica for good measure.

Next, there is this nifty little thing out there called birth control. I realize you’re not supposed too…but you and I both know that your are batshit crazy from all those kids and all that breastfeeding and all that chaos. One pill. Once a day. Or hell, get a shot. Save yourself first, and we’ll deal with the head of your household next. Which leads me too..

…your asshole husband. I don’t care how much you love him. I don’t care how well he takes care of you and your litter. I don’t care how much you feel you need him. It’s time to stand up. Don’t go along with is plans unless YOU want too. Don’t just nod your head like a good little wife and take it up the ass. God also gave you a voice. If God wanted you mute, he would have left off the mouth. If he didn’t want you to think, you’d have less of a brain. But you and I both know that little voice inside your head is NOT Satan. It’s called reason. Yes. Reason. It’s there to ring little bells when you and I both know you shouldn’t be doing what that asshole tells you to do. That you should be standing up for yourself and making sure you get what you want. He can’t always get his way.

If all else fails, tell him you prayed on it and Jesus told you so. Then email me and I’ll find you a women’s shelter.


*hat tip to Violet for the mindblowing link, What the Fuck, indeed. **Shash  is talking about it too!

Hell (the place I’m going) YES!

“Despite a full century of scientific insights attesting to the antiquity of life and the greater antiquity of the Earth, more than half the American population believes that the entire cosmos was created 6,000 years ago. This is, incidentally, about a thousand years after the Sumerians invented glue. Those with the power to elect presidents and congressmen and many who themselves get elected believe that dinosaurs lived two by two upon Noah’s Ark, that light from distant galaxies was created en route to the Earth and that the first members of our species were fashioned out of dirt and divine breath, in a garden with a talking snake, by the hand of an invisible God. This is embarrassing.” –Sam Harris, Newsweek

Can I get an “Amen” for Sam??

I swear I’m not trying to offend anyone here. I swear to God –snort– it’s that I just don’t get it. I really, for the life of me, do not get it. I want to get it. I’d like to be let in on the secret. But apparently I’m not worthy. Or I’m not trying hard enough. Or I really, really, really am not trying hard enough.

That, in a nutshell, is why I do not belong or believe in any sort of organized religion. And as we gear up for tomorrow’s election, everything seems to be boiling down to the believers and the nonbelievers. The chosen and the damned. Sure, sure…there is some gray in the middle there somewhere, but mostly it’s the followers and the free thinkers. The Republicans and the Democrats. Baby killers against the stem cell preservers.

I’d like to call a truce, but I feel my own life is at stake. My children’s lives. My thoughts, my ideas, my ability to reason.

My son and I spent part of Sunday at a garden center. It was late in the afternoon and there were many customers. Many of them were dressed as if they had just left church, and like every day in our heathen lives, we were in sweats. Dirty, mismatched, Sunday on-the-couch-praying-to-the-NFL-and-not-the-Lord-Your-God sweats.

It wasn’t long before a well meaning (stupid) woman looking at the same glass case of Christmas figurines as my son and I said “oh, someone must have gone to church early today!” My little guy didn’t even hear her, as he was too busy watching red and white striped elves skate magically on a fake glass rink, but I heard her. I heard her and was pissed she just assumed we were Christian. Not that there is anything wrong with that. The Christian part, I mean.

Ok, I’m lying. There is something wrong with it. Something really, really wrong. It’s so wrong and twisted that it has politicians showing off their faithfulness and actually trying sway me by promoting their Christianity. Yeah, I’m getting mailings with that little fish on it. And important issue information on my candidate like where he stands on global warming and which local church he attends.

Oh! Wait! John Doe goes to Christ Loves Everyone But Gays and Women Holy Mother of Bleeding Hearts! Well, fuck his voting record and bending over for lobbiest! He’s one of us! We’re voting for him!

I’m not impressed. You’re going to have to do more than tell me where you attend services to get my vote. I know, I’m such a bitch. Just call me informed.

Maybe I’m batty here, but it seems this country has gone a little Christian crazy. It’s so cool to be into the Jesus these days. I know kids who have actually asked their parents to take them to church. On behalf of all the former kids of the world, I would just like to say “WHAT THE FUCK??”

In my day, we found ways to skip mass and screw in the parking lot. In my day, it wasn’t cool or uncool to be into God. It just was. You didn’t promote your faith like some new pair of shoes. And you certainly didn’t bust it out to win over voters. Or just assume the entire US population was right there with you, dressed in your Sunday best at a Garden Center at 2pm. Because THAT is how trendy it is now, everyone who is anyone has, of course, gone to church on Sunday.

The inmates are running the asylum. Get your asses out to vote tomorrow. Because there is no way in hell I’m missing Sunday football or lazy days in my garden with my son. Not for Jesus, Buddha, Allah, or anyone else. The last time I checked there was still that whole free religion thing going on in the good old US of A. The one that lets you be who you are. Worship who you want. Worship no one if you want.

Go vote. Now. Before they amend that one too.

*Queen’s note: I would just like to say how proud I am of myself for not using this post to say “meth” “hyprocrite” or “up the ass.” Crossposted at the Huffington Post

Save These Women-a call to action

You can not read this story and then choose to do nothing. You are not a heartless bastard.

I read Kim’s post at BlogHer, leading me to Ali Eteraz’s post and my mind began to spin.

I just spent the last hour cuddling my children to sleep after a day of fun…and women, mothers, sisters, aunts, daughters, thousands of miles away are condemned to die for “Crimes Against Chastity.” What the hell does that mean?

I’ll tell you…for some it meant they cheated on their husbands. For others it meant they were raped. Raped. RAPED. And now they are slated to be killed. They get raped and now they will be killed. Lovely. What a freaking world we live in. This morning I got my hair done, and an Iranian women sat in a jail cell waiting to die for having been attacked and abused.

I want to go on and on about it being 2006 and so on and so on, but really, the women’s stories speak for themselves.

Now that you know, you must do something. Go sign the petitions. Go send the emails.

If you don’t go do something about these women, don’t come back to this blog. Ever. Take me off your blogroll and don’t bother spending your time reading stories about my life. I don’t want you here.

And for those that DO take action (a whole 20 seconds of your online time today) thank you.