So, today's been a busy day here in the Land of QoE. First and foremost, it's The Queen Mother's birthday today. Her gift request - a container of my homemade guacamole. No, really. So that's what I gave her. (I am going to her house tomorrow to eat half of it. Shhhhh - don't tell)

[Flashback to this past Friday, as my mother and I are dusting in her computer room ... "I really like your blog, but I think if you write anything about me, you should call me The Queen Mother. But you know, that's just a suggestion."]

POF was finishing up a job and didn't get home till just a little bit ago. He came in, he was excited to see the Minion, and the feeling was mutual. He had given the furry minions a brief hello, but we were distracted. He was holding the boy, doing his best to work on some wings from Hooters that he'd brought home (no lie people, the Daytona sauce is AMAZING - and I don't even really like chicken wings). He's holding the Minion, telling us about his day, asking about ours. Well, apparently we weren't paying enough attention to the precious baby girl.

That's her and her crazy brother there at the top of this blog. She is my most precious angel, My Baby Goose, and she is e-v-i-l. Also hateful and demanding. Sometimes she smells like pancakes and we can't figure out why. She eats poop and if she deems you worthy of a cuddle, you will be asleep within minutes. She will be 15 in July and I love her more than I can even say.

So, in an effort to get her point across that Hey, Peasants, you are not paying attention to My Needs here, I have to go OUT, she pranced in and took a big shit, right in the middle of the kitchen floor. It was awesome, and totally hilarious. In a really disgusting kind of way. That's my girl.

That wasn't really how I planned to start this post, but it was too amusing not to share.

This past weekend, my Godmother was in town for a brief visit. (Hi Godmother! *waves*) She is in the military and has what one might call a commanding presence. She's also all of 5 foot nothing, so this makes her intimidation even more outstanding. She was always sorta bossy, but she has tolerated my horrible jokes about her lack of stature since I was like 10, so that's cool. Big manly military men quake in their manly military boots in her presence (or at least I like to think they do, cause it amuses me). She's also an Indian.

While POF's family is of the more laid back, Plains variety of Indian - you know, they own casinos and either wallow in their lust for the firewater, or go the other way and found churches, but either way pretty much a peaceful lot - Godmother is a Mean Indian. Of the We Will Scalp You In A Heartbeat variety. I think this has something to do with the fear factor mentioned above.

Cause really, what would be more awesome than a tiny Indian woman in a uniform scalping an insubordinate underling?

Besides all this, for some reason we can't quite fathom, she's also a conservative Republican. The Queen Mother ... is not. She's basically one Pro Choice petition away from being on some sort of government watch list for the Left. I was going to make some sort of joke about being a hairy legged, braless hippie, but well .... never mind [love you Mommie Dearest]. Politics is something they just cannot find a middle ground on. And boy, do they love to push each other's buttons. They've been friends longer than I've been alive, so they've had many years to perfect their skills.

And naturally, it was bound to happen. We were having a nice chat about New Orleans (Godmother considers it home, and I was discussing the trip POF and I made there several years ago). Which of course led to the whole Pre-Katrina and Post-Katrina comparison. Then came the Katrina stuff itself. And then, out of the blue, there it was. Politics. Buttons start being pushed, and they are off.

Now, left unchecked, this could escalate to shouting and go on for hours. It's like a sport for these two. But by golly, we were not going to have a family brawl on this day, during such a short visit. So I forcefully, but still nicely, told The Queen Mother to let it go. To stop. To leave it alone.

She didn't listen.

So I had no choice. I had to get her attention. I walloped her one on the shoulder blade/back area. After her exclamation of pain, she shut it. I didn't hit her THAT hard, I swear. She is convinced that she will have a big purple bruise to show for it. I am waiting to see it. I don't believe it.

But in the event that I did commit maternal abuse, I vow to post a photo of my crime, along with an apology. She didn't mention it today at dinner, so I think she has recovered nicely. Stay tuned for the results.

I am sure she's hoping for a photo to add to her collection. It will go right next to the hot tea burn over her boob that looked like a shark.