Queen Drafts Dreamy Teamy 2007

I’m such a fucking GIRL.

I say that with pride. I say that, also, with some disdain.

Our fantasy football draft was tonight (the Blog Pound) and in the late rounds I got stupid and ended up with the All-American, Hunky QB team. I didn’t mean too. But in the end I was feeling frisky and silly and when that happens my teams tend to suffer. I pick the guy who’s wife just got cancer. Or I pick the guy who’s Mamma died and now he’s playing for her. Or I pick my cutie pie, Notre Dame, QB- freshfaced and and ready to get his ass handed to him.

I know better. I KNOW who to pick, I’m no draft rookie. But FUCK if I don’t DO IT EVERYTIME.

I know the boys count on this. They thrive on this. However my GOOD picks usually sustain me to beat 99% of their penis-toting asses, ok so last year it was like 75% of their asses, either way. Anyway here is my team:

Brady, Tom QB NE

McAllister, Deuce RB NO

Parker, Willie RB PIT

Stallworth, Donte’ WR NE

Boldin, Anquan WR ARI

Muhammad, Muhsin WR CHI

Kaeding, Nate K SD

Steelers, DST DST PIT

Pennington, Chad QB NYJ

Quinn, Brady QB CLE

Davenport, Najeh RB PIT

Jackson, Brandon RB GB

Gonzalez, Anthony WR IND

Cooley, Chris TE WAS

49ers, DST DST SF

Sarah always seems to squash her girl when she drafts. I don’t know how she does it. She manages to NOT draft Bucs (her beloved team) even when they are having a good year and remind me how my bathroom was once Honolulu Blue. God help me for being from Detroit.

Anyway…my point here, you know just after Women’s Equality Day, is I need to find a way to turn off the girl and turn a the war-mongering, testosterone warrior woman on draft day. OR maybe I just need to care MORE about my fantasy team winning. I do. I do Queen of Spain Fantasy Football Team. I CARE. The same way I care when I hit a jumpshot over a guy’s head…is the same way I care about Fantasy Football…fuck if it doesn’t feel reeeeaaallllly good to beat a boy. Many boys. A whole league of boys (and Sarah) and their “I think I know it all” ways.

Seriously, if you would have seen this guy’s picks you would KNOW I know more about football than he does. And this one…all talk and spreadsheets (but just might be one of the better smack-talkers). OH OH OH, this guy? Defends Matt Hasselbeck and his wife, sister-in-law (either way got VERY upset when we started to pick on the Hasselbeck FAMILY)and should therefore just be disqualified *yes Elizabeth, I’m looking at you…and you best be breastfeeding this one, you hear me bitch?*. This guy only beat me last year because McNabb got hurt. I don’t want to talk about it. Still. This guy drank scotch all night and his late picks look worse than mine. I’m rumbling with this guy somewhere along the 405, he joined us this year with some swagger so we all know that means he ain’t got no game. This woman’s husband is nicknamed Bump…so he loses automatically, although he had one of the best lines of the night. I’m just too drunk now to remember it. Oh, and this idiot didn’t show, so there was a 20 minute discussion on whether or not to give him Michael Vick. And then this guy who barely said a word, so he might as well not have shown up. And then, of course, there is my dumbass husband who didn’t even draft for himself.

So with two Patriots on my team I’m doomed to root for those fucks and implement my plan to have Tom Brady’s next baby. Oh, and make this guy take me to a game. Cough. Cough.

God I’m glad its football season again.

Too Drunk To Blog

Karen and Erin

The Rumors (or RUMOURS for those Canadians out there) Are True

It’s not enough that we blog together and cause chaos all over Second Life…So Karen aka TrollBaby is getting on a plane (she hates those) with a passport and leaving her country and coming to mine.

The itinerary is as follows: Get silly, drink, get sillier, drink, get girly, get silly, drink, drink, drink.
I’ve lined up the babysitters, booked the spa, gotten out the patio furniture for drinks by the pool, and even shaved my pits. All for Karen. She deserves it.

Let this post serve as a warning to everyone in the blogging world and the second life realm: Queen and Duchess are on the loose in Los Angeles, someone will end up getting a drunk IM, or phone call, or subjected to reading our incoherent blog posts.

Karen is still accepting Dares over on her blog for a great cause, if you like…I’ll throw myself in to help get the $$. So go ahead and dare both of us to do something. Together. (yes, we do have a surprise joint post planned-it will involve something we go to together…but that’s not a dare)

In the meantime, I have hockey tickets…for those who know me well enough you understand I may throw up from the sheer excitement of it all. I’ll be the one in red and white in a sea of Ducks. We’ll be behind Hasek to the left for the 1st and 3rd. Look for the crazy, screaming girl yelling things like “HIT HIM YOU IDIOT!” and “GET IT OUT OF THE ZONE!” and I have no doubt security will come warn me at some point for threatening Snoop Dog. I mean really…Ducks…ooooh, scary….(note the sarcasm). Believe it or not, after 32 years of being a Red Wings fan this is my first playoff game. MY FIRST. I know you guys don’t care so I will shut up now…but understand I MIGHT PEE MYSELF I’m so excited.

So in review, dare Karen and I to do stuff for a good cause, and Go Wings. OH…any bloggers or SL’ers from the greater Los Angeles area are invited to contact us to join in our romp.

Must go empty bladder now.

As if I don’t have ENOUGH trouble keeping her from being a lush, with no top on…

…so I was walking through Mervyn’s (yes, large department store chain…I’m NAMING you…come and get me you bastards) with my family this weekend when I saw a Junior’s PJ display.

Just to review, juniors are, generally, NONadults. This would mean they certainly can not vote, or drink, or do many things for themselves that do not require their parent’s permission.

Being the lounge-wear fashionista that I am (that’s my new way of saying ‘sweat-pant mom’ like it?) I had to see what the kids were wearing in the PJ department.

Here’s where things got fuzzy for me, because I ended up in a blind rage tantrum, making the rest of the shopping experience kind of hazy. I know I yelled more than once “ARE THEY KIDDING?” and I also demanded the Kaiser take out his cell phone to take a picture, to which he replied “but I have no camera phone…” despite my continued insistence he TAKE a picture NOW.

Anyway, what could have possibly set me off in such a tizzy in a public place such as…let me say it AGAIN…MERVYN’S????
Captain Morgan’s rum and Jack Daniel’s whiskey PJ sets, marketed to junior GIRLS.

At Mervyn’s. That’s right, I’ll say it again…liquor pajama pants and t-shirts for junior girls. Because nothing says “I’m Daddy’s sweet and innocent little girl” like “Gotta a little Captain IN YA??”

Cough. Ahem…

I realize I have a martini in front of my children. I realize their Dad BBQ’s with a beer in his hand. BUT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY DON’T MARKET YOUR BOOZE TO MY DAUGHTER UNTIL SHE’S AT LEAST OLD ENOUGH TO FUCKING BUY IT.

Cough. Ahem.

I’m so tired of this. I’m so tired of finding out some asshat company thinks it’s ok to sell my 5-year old a padded bra to boost that cleavage. I’m so tired of seeing those whore-bag Bratz dolls with their blue eyeshadow and thigh highs. I’m so tired of booze companies trying to sell pictures of their bottles on pj pants to my preteen, like its all in good fun.

If anyone is going to teach my daughter to be a cocktail swilling hussy, it’s ME-not you idiots. So lay off. Geez, that is sooooooo the mother’s job, not yours.
I think I shall go write nasty letters to Mervyn’s and Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels now. You know, because I need to yell at someone.


(and YES, I DO kiss my mother and my children with this mouth—pppppppffffffffft)

Monday Confessional

I have a confession. I am ashamed, I am mortified, but those who know me well will probably only shake their heads.

I love Christmas music. I love it so much it makes me cry.

I listen to it in the car. I secretly can’t wait for Thanksgiving, because I KNOW that at least one adult contemporary station will start playing it 24/7.

I sing Bing Crosby and Madonna versions of the classics to the kids in my minivan and weep. They look and me like I’m insane, but who the hell doesn’t???

But my problem goes deeper. Despite my amazingly indie husband and his vast music knowledge, I love me some “night time love songs” and Chistmas schmaltz crap-o-rama. At the heart of the matter: I am just NOT cool. I like to pretend I’m cool, but I’m not. Sure, I’ve got the tattoos and the Uggs and the current event knowledge, but at the heart of it all I’m a HUGE dork. There is no other word for it…I’m a DORK.

Give me some Yo La Tango and Rollins Band vs. some crap Anita Baker and Luther Vandross and go ahead and guess which way I’ll go. Sure, I’ll TELL you how much I love my hubby’s super hip choices, yet secretly I’m pining for that A/C shit.

And I know it’s shit. I do. I just can’t help it. It makes me all teary and happy and Julia Robert’s Movie happy ending. It does. I know, I know, it’s so sad. You might as well just throw some chick lit and chocolates at me and call me a lost cause. Despite my best efforts to be deep and meaningful and all edu-ma-cated and crap, I’ll take Gone With the Wind and Sleepless in Seattle over some flipping documentary any damn day of the week.

I suck. And admitting it is the first step.

Now you know the real me. Go ahead and pick on me, my husband does. As do all those who know and love me. But try and take my Vanessa Williams and I’ll beat your ass.

The Queen has left San Jose

There is a stretch of Interstate 5 between Los Angeles and San Jose that will be scarred forever as a result of the Queen of Spain’s trek to Blogher ’06.It started with multiple stops, one on a dirt road in front of a tractor dealership, in a desperate and very tense attempt to stop the siren wails of one darling daughter. It ended with the Queen, topless, contorting herself in front of a car seat, jamming a tit into a baby’s mouth while the Kaiser drove 80 miles an hour.

And all of this was well before I drunkenly bitched at Dooce.

Make no mistake. Blogher 2006 was the year of the Mommyblog.

The Mom Army* had numbers this year and that really, really pissed off some women. All the panels talked to us. All the sponsors and corporate reps were courting us. The daycare was busy and the breastfeeding room quiet and thoughtful.

And while I stumbled to figure out “why all the hate?� I realized it’s all cyclical. Just because we were the media darlings this year, doesn’t mean women political bloggers or community assistance bloggers won’t hog the limelight next year.

You may not have liked that we were getting attention for posts on diapers and our ovaries, but keep in mind you don’t get anymore woman than mother. They go hand in hand. So make room for us and quit your bitching. You’ll get your turn. And if you don’t, just ride our coattails.

Speaking of bitching. Yes. It’s true. I marched up to Heather Armstrong and wanted to know why there seemed to be a disconnect between the first wave of mommybloggers and the second wave. I was not eloquent. I was not without slur. And being the Queen that I am, I went on and on and made no sense, all while spilling my free zinfandel on the shoes of those with mouth agape around me.

I think I redeemed myself, or at least clarified myself, at the following day’s Mommyblogger session.

Intentional or unintentional, we have formed a very close, strong community through mommyblogging. And I now rely on that community.

Everyday I share my virtual cup of sugar with my mom neighbors. Every day I feel less alone. Everyday I laugh my ass off at our silliness and joke about blow jobs and antidepressants and yes, pasties (Her Bad Mother, I’m looking at you)
As we gain in popularity, I really don’t want to lose that. I really feel that’s what makes us…well, us.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a fucking clue what to do about it. For those of you looking to expand (myself included) do you have a plan?

And before I get too serious, yes…there was debauchery and drunkenness and even a criminal element (blame Mocha, I had NOTHING to do with it). But I’ll save that for later. I gotta leave you hangin’. Because, you see…I missed most of EVERYTHING because Count Waffles and Nana got sick on Saturday.

Self fulfilling prophecy, I guess. The Kaiser partied downstairs while I wiped snot and administered children’s Tylenol. 24-hour Mom.

Part two, later. Including my hand holding with Arianna Huffington and my new girl crushes on Lisa Stone, Mir, and Grace Davis.

*IzzyMom is the clever one who made up Mom Army. I’m so not that clever.

On the road

Is there a patron saint of roadtrips with kids? I nominate St. Elmo of the Street.


We pray to you, St. Elmo, giver of bad grammar, seer of talking doors, to guide us safely to San Jose.

Make our trip free from diaper explosions, screaming explosions, tire explosions, temper explosions, “why? why? why?” explosions-explosions of any kind, really.

Oh, mighty Red One, give my husband the patience to deal with two children, a drunk wife, AND a mother-in-law. See that he is rewarded, nightly, with booze and bj’s.
We ask that you give the small ones slumber. Lots and lots of naps. And an overwhelming sense of calm. Zen, really. We ask you make the children zen until, at least, Sunday night.

We ask that you give Mommy a guilt-free weekend with friends. That she not be compelled to check the status of her children or their caretakers. We ask she also be given a new liver, once the fun is over. And if you see fit, no headaches or other post drinking symptoms. Please make her witty, charming, marketable. Or just witty and charming.
Elmo, hear our prayer.

San Jose, here we come.


Not really, but I’m a little tipsy, so I feel like I do.

In an honest effort to up my alkeehall tolerance level before BlogHer rocks the house, I had two, count them, TWO martini’s tonight. I’m such a freaking cheap date. Seriously. What does two drinks cost now-a-days?

Anyhoo, wanted to tell you kids about my kid, the boy one, and his superpowers. He found them yesterday morning in the driveway. His superpowers. Found them just sitting there on the driveway. So he did what any kid would do. He scooped them up, stuck them into his bellybutton, and went on with his day. Said, “There are my superpowers� scoop, sucked in his gut, and kept walking.

Here is the really fun part of that story…it was the Kaiser who saw it all and got to relay the whole thing to me. I love when crap like that happens and Daddy-who-works-ungodly-hours gets to be the one to see the supercool shit. That makes me happy.

Did I mention I swear EVEN more when I’m drunk. If that’s possible.

And about this whole meeting bloggers in real life thing…am really not nervous. Excited, but not nervous. Wondering how I will sneak out to nurse and not drink too too too much to get blogged about later (that freaking queen of spain, had TWO, count them TWO martinis and then went back to her room and NURSED her baby…we should call child protective services) because I KNOW I will end up flashing all of your cameras and I NEVER photograph well (hang on …the boobs photograph ok, the face, not so much) and I’m paranoid that I will not have any editorial control over your blogs. I like control. Yes, that’s one of my many therapy issues. Shut up, I’m getting better.

Anyway, that was my little way of saying one week left until we all meet. And seriously, will you guys know me, or will I need to wear a name tag or crown or something?

p.s. I know you guys are already over my tits because I totally gave you a HUGE picture of them a few posts back and it was like…eh, QofS’s tits again, no biggie.