Posts published during July, 2006

When my kitties do it, they typically tussle around the living room. When Blogher’s get together, the cat fights happen online.

And the proverbial fur is a-flyin’ my friends.

It was the post that sparked a thousand “oh shits.” Last weekend, even before the festivities had officially kicked off, Blogher was buzzing. Someone had done the naughty, naughty—someone wrote that they hated mommy bloggers.

*Cue that hissing sound Mom makes when she’s mad*

So I have this policy. Although sometimes I’d *really* like too—so.hard.to.bite.tongue.here—I don’t write about bloggers I dislike. We have the same hobby and even if I feel their banal writing isn’t worth putting in a cage for my gramma’s parakeet to crap on, I’m not gonna say shit about it here.

But I will say “shit” here.

A friend of the haus asked me what I thought about Mommy Bloggate. I thought this was an interesting question being as I’m not a mother … but I could likely be considered a mother f*-er.

Thinking long and hard about this, I have to say censorship sucks. If there’s one place you should feel free to make catty comments while sitting in your undies (*hem* yes, I am rocking the Blue Mondays), it’s on the Internet.

That being said, I’m not particularly thick-skinned, (probably because I’ve split my pants in public more times than Lindsey Lohan’s had a nip slip), so I tend to eschew topics that will alienate large percentages of my readership, and concentrate instead on more crowd-pleasing fare—rectal exams, farts and boners, for example.

Plus the thing is, if I was going to attack someone in the blogosphere, I sure as hell wouldn’t go for the bloggin’ mommies. Those mothers are EVERYWHERE. I wouldn’t be surprised if—in an attempt to quietly take control of the WWW—they had some sort of alliance forming, a Mommy Mafia if you will.

I’d be afraid if I said something mean about the God Mothers, they’d send Sister Celeste out to hide by my basement and break my kneecaps. Or at the very least, she’d spank my ass with a spoon and put me in the corner.

Another reason I don’t mess with the mommies is that they have these fantastic powers. While I can only get it to shoot from my nose, mommies can get milk to spray out their breasts!

Tell me that’s not fantastic.

I mean, I can’t get my boobs to fill a B cup, and there are moms out there using theirs to nurture new life!

Oh who am I kidding, I can barely rock the A … but still, moms + boobs + controversy = I kind of love it.

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And what do you think dear hannihaus readers? I know we have a good mix of Mommies and Nonnies here—1,2,3 comment!

8 comments

Pish Posh

When I was a little girl, my dad always told me I could be anything I wanted to be. And I really believed this.

So when I decided at age 9—after reading tons of A.A. Milne and Joan Aiken— to become a writer, it didn’t seem unfathomable that 14 years later that’s exactly what I’d do—make a career of writing.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, people actually pay me to write. Crazy, non?

Now if only I could get paid for eating organic raisins and smelling like a dirty hippy—then I’d *really* make bank.

But anyway, realistically, this be-anything-you-wanna-be mentality can only take you so far. While I’m sure it would be utterly fabulous, I could never be a Solid Gold Dancer or globe-trotting male model.

I simply don’t possess the requisite funk and junk, respectively.

So when I read today that Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham is penning a new book, I pretty much crapped my pants.

Where does this one get off writing a book?

By her own account she’s never even read one.

In 2005, the British twit was quoted as saying, “”I haven’t read a book in my life. I haven’t got enough time…” This is an interesting statement coming from someone who published her own autobiography in 2002(!).

Seriously, asking Posh Spice to write a book is like asking a shaky, old granny to wax your hoo hoo—it’s probably possible, but it’s not a very good idea.

But there again, neither is wearing assless chaps in public. But that didn’t stop Posh.

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Posh spice: when she’s not writing books, she’s out roping steer.

Happy Assless-Chap Friday everyone!

And now an impotent message from your mistress:

On my way back from LA, I made a little pit stop in the Lone Star state.

It occurred to me whilst driving through downtown Houston, it’s amazing that Bob Dole had to take his search for an effective solution to erectile dysfunction nationwide.

(You’ll all remember Senator Dole as having hawked Viagra across the 50 United States in the late 1990s.)

Yes it’s inconceivable that the Kansas Senator couldn’t find an Erection Specialist in his neighboring state of Texas.

After all, I did.

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Tell me you guys didn’t miss the tomfoolery while I was on vackay.

You’ve heard the wacky rumors, now it’s time for the truth.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, LA did indeed steal my soul. But I made some quick negotiations with a man in a speedo (AKA Rockstar Brother) and he brought me to the airport.
palm_tree.jpgAnd now—like Paris Hilton’s herpes outbreak—I’m back! (Feel free to get giddy everyone.)

LA, if you’ve never been, is pretty great. The second largest city in the US, it’s teeming with beautiful people, beautiful beaches, and big, beautiful fake boobs.

Forget about this City of Angels crap. The Los Angeles I know and love could best be described as the City of Titties.

And that alone makes it awesome.

In addition to enjoying the constant sighting of fake-ass funbags, I also got my kicks cruising the strip in Rockstar Brother’s sweet mustang convertible.convertible.jpg

With the top down and the wind in our face, we careened through Malibu, Manhattan Beach, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica and Sunset. With seemingly reckless abandon, we did like the locals and cut people off, switched lanes without signaling, and blared obnoxious music emo, nu metal and Bon Jovi as loud as we could.

In most places, this type of behavior would be called “driving like an asshole.” In LA, however, it’s just called driving.

Another thing that’s unique about LA is its high percentage of celebrity inhabitants. Rockstar Brother told me that in six weeks living in LA, he’d yet to see any famous folks. I informed bro bro that the winds of celebrity spotting were a changing—I felt we would see several celebs while I was in town.

I told my brother this because—I must confess—I have psychic abilities…

Plus, I signed up on TVTickets.com to attend a live taping of The King of Queens at Sony Studios in Culver City, CA.

In case you’re wondering, you should be jealous. Not only did I get to see Jerry Stiller do that voodoo that he does so well, I’m going to be famous! Listen for me on the laugh track of The King of Queens episode entitled, “Major Dysfunction.”

…I’ll be the one that sounds like a snorting pig.

poom_thai.jpgAnd finally, in a segment I’d like to call “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Poom”, I want to tell you about Hollywood eats and entertainment.

No trip to Tinseltown would be complete without a stop at the Hollywood Walk of Fame. While traipsing down Hollywood and Vine I saw Jimmy Hendrix, Chris Farley and Harrison Ford stars’.

It was ‘aight.

Afterwards—hungry from all that fame walking—Rockstar Brother and I decided to get some eats at a place called “Poom Thai Cuisine.”

me_and_bro.jpgWe picked the place partly because Rockstar Brother had never eaten Thai before, but mostly because “Poom” sounds a lot like “poon.”

And I think poon is funny.

But anyways, LA was awesome.

Many thanks to the ‘Rockstar for putting me up. And many thanks to Tara Reid for having the courtesy *not* to show up at any beaches where I was chillaxing.

For all you voyeurs —-> click here for pics of my escape to LA.<----

Kiss My Face olive oil soap (fragrance free, allergen free): $2.00
Crystal fresh deodorant (made from salt, without harmful perfumes and metals): $5.00
Brazenly accusing the hubs of being seriously stinky in the body odor dept: Free
Realizing—post pit sniff, (both his and hers)—it’s you who stinks … it’s you who smells like the dirty hippy you are: Priceless.
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In other news, because I’m pretty sure they haven’t smelled me on the West coast yet, I’ll be heading out to Hollywood tomorrow. Watch out tinseltownians—me and my rockstar brother will be loose on the streets of LA.

If anyone wants to hang with us or has suggestions for eats and entertainment, let me know.

Some of you probably woke up to the sound of music playing on your alarm clock radio. Still others opened your eyes wide to the happy noise of chirping birds or a sloppy lover’s kiss.

I, on the other hand, was shaken from my slumber by a loud, HORK! HOOOOOOORK!

It seems my darling children, the kittinks, used to being fed at the ungodly hour of 6am were unhappy that Mommy decided to sleep past 7.

Taking matters in to their own hands … er paws … the terrible twosome decided to make their own breakfast…

in my bed …

with their vomit.

Yes, nothing says “good morning sunshine” like watching your cats expel—and then eat (again)—the contents of their last night’s nutritious dinner … especially when they do it on your pink cotton sheets.

When asked what her brother’s barf tasted like, Bella Donna Bad Girl said, “Tastes like chicken.”

This makes sense, being that 12 hours earlier, that’s exactly what Stinky Sphynxy was shoving in his enormous chicken pot pie-hole—kitty stew made with broiled bird.

And I wanted to be angry about the upchuck—I wanted to be mad about the spew on my Serta…. But I couldn’t.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, today there will be no hateoration about the kittink’s high jinks.

There will be no retribution for their early morning antics.

In deed, I will not lay lame blame for my twin angels’ all-you-can-(re)-eat barffet.

After all, there are few things in life more pleasurable than having breakfast in bed.

… Plus they licked up the nastiness before I had a chance to *really* get miffed.

But I digress.