In which The Maven defends what's hers

"Maven! Put the chips down. Drop them NOW!

Good. Now back away, slowly.

That's it. Now I'm just going to reach over and carefully grab the bag to put it away in the pan...

What are you doing with that fire poker? Stay back! STAY BACK! NO, DON'T! ST..."

*thud*

*~*~*

Oh, hi there! Nice to see you. I was just washing up.

The sharp stick thing in my hand? Oh, that. Yeah. I was just having a little fire. Want to come in and sit for a while? Just follow that trail of... ketchup. It'll lead you straight in there.

Three boys. Ketchup. You know. Heh.

It's funny you showed up completely unexpectedly without calling first or anything like most people would. Why did you do that again? I was interviewing a personal trainer this afternoon. I was checking to see if he was.... Uh, is... a good fit for me and my lifestyle.

He just... left. Like, a few minutes ago.

It didn't work out so well, unfortunately. Turns out that we're not in agreement on certain key issues. He says lentils and I say chocolate. He says they're not the same and I say chocolate comes from a bean, so what's the difference? He calls that semantics. Semantics! Can you believe that? He's far too black and white in his thinking. I bet he became a personal trainer because he likes to torture fat women. His fat mother probably beat him with a spatula or something.

What are those in the fire, you say? ... Oh! Those. No. They're not running shoes. They're environmentally friendly logs. You can buy them at Walmart. They're made with rubber and vinyl so as to burn extra clean. Did you think I was actually burning sneakers? You're so funny!

Want a drink? How about some chips? I just have to wash the ketchup off the bag.

Did I mention I started my period today? No PMS symptoms whatsoever! I'm not even moody. Isn't that amazing?

Uh, listen. I said some chips, ok? You might want to save me some. Just sayin'.

Bonne fete, mon petit Gutsy

That was my awesome French. The Maven may be a freak, but she is a cultured freak.

Freaks who mate with Geeks produce freaky geeks, which is not a very nice way to describe my children. Instead, I pleasantly refer to them as gremlins. It sounds so much more loving, doesn't it? It flows off the tongue and floats lightly in the air like the scent of flowers on a spring day.

I just puked a little in my mouth saying that.

It should stand to reasong that I am feeling a bit emotional right now as today is Gutsy's sixth birthday. Remember him? He's the one who thinks his big brother should shut his piehole. He's a boy after his mother's heart with those sweet words.

I always tell the gremz that I love them all differently. That's the politically correct term usually applied by parents to say they prefer one of their kids over the rest, but surprisingly that's not what I mean.

I love Intrepid because he's the first. Firstborns are always amazing without ever having to do anything special. I know, because I'm a first. I'm also an alcoholic and drug addict, I'm horrifically fat, I procreated at nineteen with a baby daddy who wore leather and had purple hair, I'm so liberal my conservative mother has to take Benadryl just to be in the same room as me... and yet I'm unexplicably adored. The only reason for this is that I'm the first. Isn't that amazing? Intrepid is a fantastic child in his own right (all my doing, of course) but he doesn't even have to be. He could pretty much suck as a human being and still be the apple (or maple fudge) of my eye.

I love Spawnling because he's the baby. He's also really cute and chatty and funny, but none of that matters. He will always be our baby and thus will be coddled and smothered his entire life. He will never be able to take a bus alone, stay over at anyone's house or, heaven forbid, grow any pubic hair. He's a baby forever and ever and that's why mommy loves him.

So where does Gutsy fit in? Not the first and not the last, but the middle child. What's so special about being in the middle, anyway? Not much, to be honest. In terms of birth rank that is definitely the short straw. So, to compensate, Gutsy decided he would make his birth as miraculous as the first by making sure I didn't get pregnant for a very long time. For those of you who don't understand the birds and the bees (shame on your parents), I shall explain what happened:

*~*~*

Once upon a time there was a magical kingdom filled with princesses. They lived in Castle Ovarium. Once every twenty-eight days a princess would be chosen to leave the castle and travel into the magical world of Fallopia. There, she would meet a white-tailed knight for a blind date. If all went well, they would travel down to Las Uteras, find a 24 hour chapel and get married. It was the way things had been done for many years, and the way it was intended to be for years to come. Every princess sat anxiously in the castle and eagerly awaited her turn.

Every princess but one.

One day, a beautiful princess named Gutserella was summoned to leave the castle walls. A wreath of may flowers was created for her and a special dress picked out by her chambermaid. Her steed was saddled up and waiting in the courtyard. Her grand moment had come.

"I'm not going," said a stubborn Gutserella.

"But, you must!" replied the chambermaid. "Sir Spermalot will be here in a few hours. There's not much time, my lady!"

"No. I'm playing Webkinz! I almost have enough money to get my dog a lawnmower!"

"Do you not want to meet your prince in shining armour? You must go now. You game can wait."

"No it can't! This is a limited edition item and it's only offered this week. I can't leave now. I can't! I WON'T! I DON'T WANT TO AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!! YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!" screeched Gutserella while pounding her fists on the desk.

The chambermaid was quiet for a moment. "... I hear he has a great personality."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! He'll never be as special as this lawnmower!!!"

It took over four years for Gutserella to finish playing Webkinz. Thankfully the knight was very patient.

THE END.

*~*~*

And that is how children are made.

Wait. No. Hang on. That's how children who come from PCOS resulting in secondary infertility are made.

And that's how Gutsy was made.

I love him because he's always been the little princess. He's like that rock star who goes on late because it creates a stir. He was conceived when he wanted to be, of that I have no doubt. And he arrived with flare; with a gush of water so intense you'd think the Hoover dam exploded in the family room (and in the bathroom, and in the computer room, and later on in the hospital...). He wrapped his little umbilical cord so tightly around himself that they had to cut him out, and he screamed the mightiest scream at the injustice of being halfway out of his warm womb.

He had the biggest cheeks I'd ever seen; so big, in fact, that I feared the weight of them might pinch his nose shut when he would lay on his side. So big that I secretly hoped they wouldn't stay because they were sort of funny looking. (When a mother says that you know it's bad. We're supposed to think our newborns look perfect.)

While Intrepid and Spawnling are so similar in many ways, Gutsy has carved his own path in life. Intrepid writes stories, Spawnling listens to the stories and Gutsy draws up plans for the giant robot he intends to build over the winter in our basement. You can't tell him he won't be able to do it. He simply won't believe you. You are wrong.

He will not do something if he doesn't want to do it. He'll throw a tantrum for an hour and then do it, but only because he's tired of throwing a tantrum and suddenly the thing you asked him to do seems more appealing. He'll eat vegetarian 99% of the time and yet tell everyone who listens that he's not a vegetarian. That's so punk. He's a rebel and the chicks are going to dig that. I figure if his rebellion consists of finding Big Mac containers in his car I will count my blessings.

The Sister and Chemgineer watched Spawnling and Intrepid (in other words they played Rock Band and ate pizza, which honestly sounds like the best night of my life) while Geekster and I took our often overlooked middle child out for a special birthday. He took forever dressing and undressing his new stuffed friend at Build-A-Bear. I felt like I was in the Village People dressing room. First the thing was a police officer, then a soldier. Finally he decided on a moose with light up Christmas antlers who's dressed in a karate outfit.

He called him KARATE, despite our bests efforts to redirect him.

Originality is not his strong point, ok?

Happy birthday, Mr. Gutsy. You're six and amazing and I love you so much. Thank you for being a diva princess, a Barbie-loather, a karate-moose fan and a stubborn old goat who dreams of giant robots. You keep my life interesting. I used to be sad when I thought about how hard it was to get you here. That stopped a long time ago. What's there to be sad about? In the end you are here, and we're all better for it. Every tear and every pain was worth it because in the end, we have you.

Special you.

Somewhere deep in Fallopia they're throwing a kick ass party right now.

(Photo credit: The Sister, who I'm starting to believe is now 'the talented one'. Good thing I'm firstborn or I might feel a wee threatened.)

Gutsy's Bump and Maven's Payback

I must be getting calmer in my old age. Either that or highly insensitive. I vote for both.

I got a call from the school this morning. Apparently Gutsy's forehead hooked up with a rock and created a large, purple egg. The secretary wanted me to come have a look at it and decide what, if anything, the follow-up should be.

Being a concerned parent, my first thought was that I was going to be late for Spawnling's dentist appointment at this rate. So I asked the secretary if she thought it was something I would have to take him home for because, you know, I'd reschedule with the dentist before coming by if that was the case.

Look, it's not my fault. Intrepid took the shock and awe out of childhood injury for me. Between my formidable impact with a car at the age of thirteen and his femur snapping, tree falling experience last year, things like rocks to heads aren't as terrifying as they maybe should be.

I should have been freaking out.

I should have been worried sick.

I should have dropped the phone and run to the van in a panic.

Instead I asked if he was speaking, if he was dizzy, if he was vomiting and whether or not his pupils were the same size. The answers given were satisfactory, so I dressed Spawnling in matching clothes, put on some mascara and lip gloss, and then went to the school.

What a terrible mother. I bet there are people all over the interweb that are dying to see me get my just deserts for that. I would tell them not to worry because the story isn't even halfway over yet.

So, my Higher Power, who has the best sense of humour of any deity I've come across, decided this would be a good time to learn me some lesson.

I brought Gutsy home not because he was dying of a head wound but because I know I wouldn't want to walk around school with what looked like a conjoined twin on my forehead. It's called empathy and I surprisingly have a bit of it lying around for special occasions. But seriously: The poor kid looks like he has a third eye just above his nose. It's a little mutant-ish. There's no question he would have made the other kindergartners cry and earned a less-than-flattering nickname. So, being the nice mom I am, I put on Ghostbusters and made him some popcorn in the name of sheltering my little Hunchback of Notre Dame from the townspeople.

We were home for about an hour when the phone rang again. This time it was Intrepid. He wanted to come home because he was *cough* *sniffle* sick *cough*. He sounded pitiful on the phone. Not quite real sick, but more like a runny-nosed kid who didn't want to give his oral presentation in the afternoon. I couldn't very well say no after bringing Goose Egg Gutsy home, could I? Of course not. That involves follow-through and tough love that I'm way too lazy for. I packed the wee gremlins into the van and took them to the school. Again.

But wait. There's more!

They say things come in threes. Who are they? The weird superstitious people that I laugh at, that's who. They're so crazy, those people. They figure if they toss some salt over their shoulders and knock on Ikea press board furniture that life will be kinder to them. I pay them no attention. I just smile and nod and make the finger circle around my temple when they're not looking.

That's pretty judgmental of me, isn't it? It most certainly is. And do you know what happens when you're a horribly judgmental individual without a leg to stand on? Your littlest son - the one who was happy and carefree while his sickly and injured cohorts were making their way out of the school for the second time - runs into a post and hits his face so hard that he falls down.

Then he cries... And he cries... and there's nothing really wrong with him, exactly, but he's tired and has a bit of a cold and your Higher Power is smiting you for your smugness. It's payback time, Maven. That's what you get for being an insensitive mother and nasty human being.

But I did make a pit stop at the Tim Hortons and picked myself up an extra large coffee to make up for all the horribleness that happened to me today. My sons were sick. My sons were injured. My day was sidetracked.

Oh, did I mention I'm self-centered? Want to know what self-centered gets me? Just as I was putting the finishing touches on this blog, Spawnling - who woke up a little while ago for seemingly no apparent reason - pooped out the side of his diaper and down his leg. I now have that lingering fecal smell on my hands.

Good thing I spoke at my AA homegroup meeting tonight or he probably would have barfed on me, too.

Exercise is gross

I really need to start exercising again. Once upon a pre-Spawnling, I ran 4km every day. Now I can run about a block before I'm huffing my asthma pump like a giant wussy girl.

I used to do yoga. Now my stretching involves reaching the top cupboard to grab a bag of chips.

I used to lift weights. Now I lift handfuls of peanut M&Ms.

I used to do pilates with weighted balls. Now the only balls I touch are... *ahem*

Never mind that.

I've lost 12 pounds. It used to be 14, but now it's 12. How did I gain back two pounds?

Don't be daft. That was a rhetorical question.

The truth is, I've been slacking. In my warped little mind (key word: little) I've convinced myself that eating vegetarian is all I need to do if I want to be healthy. What I've also told myself is that most candy is vegetarian, so it's okay to eat it. A lot of it. Maybe too much of it.

Okay, okay. Definitely too much of it.

In another attempt at denial and self-destruction, I've concluded that exercise isn't necessary when you're living a balanced vegetarian lifestyle (key word: balanced). About the only balancing going on is the neat trick I do where I have a bowl of buttery popcorn on one knee and a bag of Reese's Pieces on the other.

Well no more, people. No more. For I have some excellent motivation.

The Butler Did It hooked me up with a pair of gorgeous grey chords. They were free, which makes them even nicer. All I had to do was show up at her place and raid her closet to get some sweet hookups. The only problem? They're a little snug. Not a lot, but I may be tresspassing somewat into Camel Toe Village. This is an unacceptable crime. I must turn and walk away from the village, leaving all camels and their toes there.

So, I shall set a goal of five pounds. That would be lost, not gained, just so we're clear. Five pounds down in one month. It will be a tricky task, fraught with birthday cakes (two gremlin birthdays in that time period) and Christmas goodies. But I shall persevere, in the name of sexy grey cords. I will be a smoking hot bitch who camels run away from because they're so ugly next to her. My husband will say 'Hellooooo, nurse!' even though I am not in the medical profession. People will envy my motivation and tell me how awesome I am again, because quite frankly the fact that I'm vegetarian isn't earning me kudos anymore. Nobody cares because it's old news. I have to up the ante again and make more changes so that I can get compliments again. How unfair and somewhat attention-whorish of me.

I think five pounds is a very reasonable goal. I just need to start moving again. Walking, pilate-ing and all that other stuff I'm going to dread doing every morning.

Thank goodness coffee is a diet food, even with cream in it.

Yes, even with cream.

We're going to make a special exception, alright? Don't argue with me.

Stop looking at me like that. Don't roll your eyes.

I mean it; i'll beat you with my new cords.

An Open Letter To My Abandoner

My dear friend Pixie,

I'm writing in regards to your recent decision to abandon me for a cruise. I realize this was planned before we became good friends and prior to your realization that I'm wickedly cool. However, I think you should have canceled it. Honestly, I don't know what a stupid boat has on me. I mean, I talk more than a boat and I smell better than stinky ocean. You won't spend a week with me and then cry when you get your Visa statement. I don't sway you around until you puke in the corner of a ballroom. Furthermore, I'm both funny and hilarious, which are traits you don't often find together, especially when also using the word 'ship'.

There are other things you should consider: The food you eat at my house is less fattening. You could have hung out here for much less money and not gained 10 pounds in the process. Looking hot and hanging out with The Maven? Is there a better vacation, I ask you? Also, I don't give you skin cancer like your friend Mr. Sun. Oh, and Mr. Sun doesn't write in a blog, does he? (If he does I bet it's quite boring: "Today I shone, just like yesterday... and the day before that.. Output is up 10%! The ice caps are melting...still. And today a boy held up a magnifying glass and burned an ant with my help. That ROX! LOLZZZ!!")

In short, you made a huge mistake. You will miss me and your trip will suck. But that's the bed you made (well, the people there made it for you) and you will have to sleep in it (uninterrupted, several nights in a row). I will, however, be too busy with all the fun things I have to do around here to give you a second thought. I'm going to rake leaves and write out a meal plan for the week. I'm going to go on playdates and hit up playgroup.

Come to think of it, I don't exactly have time to spend with you anyway, so I suppose you picked a good week.

I guess we can still be friends.

Sincerely,
The Maven (Who still has Geekster, The Butler Did it, Jobthingy, Coffee Fairy, Impossible MOM, Lovebucks, Fallout Girl ... and even my parents to talk to this week. Yeah. Mom and Dad! Who's envious now?)

We did it, we did it, we did it, yay!

I have to be honest with my American counterparts.

Over the last eight years I haven't liked your country very much. It's crowded, it's dirty (do you have any idea how big your ecological footprint is?) and it's full of fat cat politicians who only think of themselves and their oil-drilling buddies. You've seen them around: They all have curly mustaches, top hats and cigars, and their bellies are the size of a keg of beer. They wear suspenders. They cackle while they count their change. They kick puppies.

They're bad people and they're friends with your president. That's made me say "The United States" with much disdain, sort of like if I was spitting out poop. I've spent nights wondering how Al Gore can keep preaching environmental revolution to people who obviously prefer profits and McMansions over breathable air.

Oh, don't get me wrong: I like a lot of individual Americans. I just haven't trusted or respected you as a collective (the Borg are a collective too, you know). And now I can admit that, because everything has changed.

Last night you showed me that you you can go from suckage to awesome in 2.8 seconds. That you can actually live up to your reputation as the country to watch. You rocked my world more than Coldplay.

More than freaking Coldplay! I mean, nobody rocks me more than them.

Thank you for going out to vote in record numbers. Thank you for choosing the right candidate to lead your country and the world. I melt when he speaks. I believe what he says. I know he will change our world. If he ran a cult I would most likely drink his Kool-aid. He's amazing and he's giving me hope for all of us that I haven't had in a long time.

Huge props to you, America. To celebrate, I will no longer refer to you as 'Amurkans' because, after January 20th, you will no longer have a president who can't say it right. Wasn't the entire electoral process worth it just for that?

Oh, and he also said "nukler wepunz" which made me want to tear my ears off.

Congratulations, America. I am so proud of you. And I know what I think matters to you very much. You're welcome.

When Crazy People Stalk Me

Yesterday I made a deal to buy some used winter tires from a really nice family. I saw their ad online, emailed them, spoke to the husband, agreed on a price and confirmed that those were, indeed, the size of tire my van used.

Then, two hours later, I emailed him again to tell him that I was wrong and that I actually needed a bigger size, that I am a giant dumbass and that I hope he gets another buyer for his tires ASAP.

Basically, I wasted this couple's time because I never bothered to double check the size I needed before jumping in with both feet. Nice of me, right? Right. Dragging other people down with impulsivity is what Mavens do best.

Wouldn't you know that today, less than 24 hours later, the Karma Monster would appear and give me a good dose of you-shoulda-known-better. I knew it would come in some form, but expected salmonella or something instead of what I actually received. Instead of puking my face off, I came home to find a special surprise in my inbox.

My favourite blog stalker is back with a different yet frightingly similar biblical name. I've reported him to Blogger twice and he has switched accounts at least that many times so that he may hound me and other 12 step people who blog. This time he made 22 spammy comments on my last post because he thinks it will make me stop going to AA meetings, which will invariably save my soul from the devil.

Apparently AA meetings turn members into zombies that drool and stink and yet somehow have the brain capacity to kick Jesus to the spiritual curb and worship the devil. Allegedly, if you turn your life over to a Christian lifestyle (I'm guessing his idea of Christianity, which is a special version reserved for crazies), God will miraculously cure your alcoholism and you'll never have a drinking problem again. Better yet, you don't have to become a shape-shifting reptile (he really did call me that once) with a forking tongue and a penchant for virginal sacrifices.

I know my skin is a little dry in the winter, but I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm reptilian. And about the closest thing I have to shape-shifting powers would be a nifty ability to change my undies every day.

But the thing is I really like AA. It's kept me clean and sober for over 17 years. And another thing: I'm *gasp!* not religious. Yeah, that's right: I went there. I do not worship any particular deity or any deity's family members. I am a spiritual human being who, get this - and I learned this in an evil 12 step program - I can respect other people's beliefs, too!

So, even though I think my stalker is a few fries short of a Happy Meal, I respect his beliefs. I do not, however, have to like his spam. Therefore, I have now turned on comment moderating. So, while I might have to endure his psychotic ramblings hidden behind biblical quotes, you will not.

You're welcome.

Now I am, ironically, off to a meeting.

(Also, Americans, if you like me and you want me to keep liking you, you'll vote Obama tomorrow. Kthxbi!)

What happens on a sugar high

It's funny how, when I'm looking for a topic to write about and staring at a blank blog post window, a topic finds me.

Just a minute ago, Gutsy and Intrepid were in the playroom watching some lame television show about cyborgs that I can't understand to save my life. A Barbie commercial came on. Something about a magical princess castle.

"I'm buying you that for your birthday," I heard Intrepid say to his nearly six-year-old brother.

"No you're not." retorted Gutsy.

"Oh, yes I am. I know how much you loooove Barbie," taunted Intrepid. In this house one tries not to toss around the "B" word too much unless one is purposely attempting to start a fight with a sibling. "Look! It has pretty sparkles and a pink horse! You love pink Barbie things, right Gutsy?"

By now you could hear the tension in Gutsy's voice "No I don't! And you're not buying that for me. You're lying!"

"No, really! I've been saving up my allowance all year to get that for you. I'm sure you'll have so much fun with it!"

It took Gutsy a second to process what was just said. Then, victoriously, he shouted "It hasn't even been out for a year! So how could you have been saving up for it, huh?"

The victory was short lived. "Gee, Gutsy, you know a lot about Barbie stuff! Have you been keeping track of all the new things and when they come out? Aww, that's so cute!"

".... Moooooooooooooom! Intrepid says I like Barbie!"

If I keep this in perspective, this has been a very tame sugar-filled, post-Halloween day.

The Tale of Two Mavens, Part III

(You'll want to read Part I and Part II first, otherwise this will suck even worse.)

The coffee shop was crowded with patrons who were out and about on a Wednesday night. Men and woman alike, awaiting drinks and chatting loudly as soothing music played.

The Princess removed her shawl and let her hair fall out of her favourite scrunchy. She looked about accusingly, glaring at anyone who dare glance her way. What were these fools doing out on a weeknight? Didn't they have commitments at home? And if not, didn't they have laundry to catch up on?

Yet, she was here without the creatures who needed her so. She had been a horrible mother and ran off into the night once they were sleeping. Would the Prince know where their sippy cups were, or where the jar of gecko eyeballs was if one of them needed a late night snack? What if Gutsy woke up with a bad dream about not being able to conquer the world with rage and hate and really sharp claws? Her heart was suddenly filled with guilt, a flood of tears about to cascade down her cheeks.

It was then that she saw the symbol that was stamped in wax on the letter. A bag of useless and yet oddly enticing crap sat perched on a table. She saw a silk scarf dangling out the side and had a strong desire to try it on to see if it brought out her eyes. Next to it, a book prominently featuring an indecently clothed couple about to kiss looked like the type of trash one would read if one wasn't busy making bunny face pancakes with chocolate chips and a little bit of jam but not too much and definitely no peanut butter because that's gross and nobody will eat them and they'll all start crying and miss the coach to school-type breakfasts every morning.

This must be the table, thought the Princess, as she put on her worst casual smile and began strutting over, nearly tripping over someone's chair leg and catching herself just before becoming part of a Grande Decaf Mocha With Princess Face Latte.

A group of vibrant, smiling women sat around the table. They were drinking designer coffees with no little ankle-biting demons in sight.

"Smart, Beautiful and Terribly Popular Princess!" declared an uncloaked pixie-like woman.

The Princess glanced over her shoulder to see if there was someone there. She looked to her right, to the left, and even at the ceiling. Finally, a realization dawned on her. "Oh! You're talking about me! I haven't been called that in a very long time. I'm just a Girl now. Well, a Princess, but none of that other stuff."

The women at the table looked at each other knowingly before the pixie-like one with the short, blond hair stood up and held out her hand. "Welcome, then, Just a Princess. I'm Pixie, leader of T.H.O.N.G, or The Horde Of Naughty Girls. We're an organization dedicated to restoring memories of women in... your situation. Please, have a seat. Would you like a drink?"

The Princess took a seat between two lovely women. They had matching clothing and their hair was did. Highlights, even. She pointed to whatever the brunette was having and said "I'll have that, I guess."

"Sure thing, hon," said pixie, and called over to a gentleman behind the counter. "A half-sweet, soy chai latte with cinnamon, extra hot." The gentleman repeated the exact same thing to another man in a green robe who stood in front of a contraption of metal and heat. A forge, perhaps? The green-robed man repeated the order back and proceeded to make a lot of noise with the contraption until it produced a cup filled with sweet-smelling liquid. He then called out the order a final time as he set it on the bar.

"Merlin is such a whiz at what he does," declared a thin, readheaded woman across the table.

"Why do they repeat the same words over and over?" asked the Princess. "Can't they just write it down on the side of the cup or something?"

"They do, but repeating it makes the incantation more powerful. The more they say it the better the drink is. Besides, doesn't it make you feel special that what you want is said out loud? Totally worth the four pence!"

Weird, thought the Princess. What kind of whack job place is this? Out of anywhere in the kingdom we had to come to a Starre Bux. They're so fringe. I guess that's why there are only 438 of these in the kingdom.

Pixie made her way back to the table with the hot beverage and placed it before T.H.O.N.G.'s potential new member.

"Just a Princess, this is an important moment in your life, the Prince's life and for all your subjects. If you agree to drink this magical potion - the ingredients within grown in legendary warm climates and brewed by specially trained Wizardly Baristas - your perception of the world will dramatically change."

Distracted by the lack of usual distractions, it took the Princess a moment to reply. "Oh, um, sorry. Yeah. Got it. Uh-huh. Dramatic change and stuff. Anyone know what time it is? I wonder if Spawnling is crying for me yet. It's been, like, twenty minutes or something."

Pixie sighed and looked at her T.H.O.N.G. sisterhood. "It's worse than I thought. The spell over her is strong." The others nodded in agreement, their lip gloss perfectly reflecting bits of candlelight as they did.

"Is there any hope for her? Maybe she needs something stronger, like a double espresso." offered the brunette with auburn streaks and great nails.

The Princess stood up and started to put on her shawl. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. This is some kind of mistake. I have a family at home that needs me. Three boys. Three. That's a lot of need right there. They want food and clean clothes and help with their homework and a drive to their sparring lessons and their helmets polished before the jousting tournaments and a fresh supply of pickled swine tongue surprise every weekend and... and... I just have to go home, okay? You might want to do the same before your family gets upset with you, too. Oh, of course! You don't have a family or you wouldn't be out. My apologies."

"Actually, we all have families, Just a Princess." said a calm and steady Pixie.

"...But, but... You're out... without your hoofed ones? Without holding on to their tails so they won't eat someone's dog at the park? You're lying. Mothers don't do stuff alone."

"No, they usually don't. But we're trying to change that; to start a movement. For too long we've been living for the creatures who are born to us. The ones who implant themselves in our wombs and feed off our life energy. We believe we can have a simbiotic relationship with these beings instead of a parasitic one. That we can live in harmony, striking a balance between our needs and their own."

Shocked and in utter disbelief, the Princess began to back away from the table. "You, you heathens! You speak blasphemy! No woman should be anything but a humble servant to those she brings into the world. What you're saying will send you straight to hell, I tell you! As the Princess of this kingdom I won't stand idly by while you destroy the fabric of family life. I shall have my guards seize you! I shall burn all your books about romance and other silly fantasies! We shall demolish every Starre Bux in the name of homegrown values! And I'm totally going to key your ride on the way out and you can't do anything about it because I'm the damn princess. Neener neener!" With that, the Princess turned and started making her way across the now silent establishment.

Suddenly, Pixie called out: "Do you remember being invited to parties that didn't involve loot bags? Think, Just a Princess. Please. Just try..."

The Princess stopped dead in her tracks, for in the darkest recesses of her mind, she faintly recalled seeing invitations with her and the Prince's names on it instead of Intrepid's, Gutsy's or Spawnling's. The more she thought about it, the more she recalled: appetizers, new shoes, rock music with swear words, dirty jokes, gag gifts...

"Quickly, Pixie! It's now or never!" cried a voice from the T.H.O.N.G. table. In an instant, the grande half-sweet soy chai latte concoction was in the Princess' hand. Before she could think about it, our heroine took a swig of the steamy hot beverage and scalded her insides. But nevermind that because something else was happening (and she would probably get a sexy husky voice for a few weeks anyway. Painful, but sexy.)

The Princess felt very strange, indeed. She ran into the bathroom (rather, over to the chamber pot behind a curtain in the corner, but it's nicer to call it a bathroom) and had a look at herself in the mirror.

"Oh. My. Freaking. God. What the hell am I wearing? A red shawl over a green sash and a grey gown? Hello, this is the year 1525 calling. We'd like our outfit back, please. And what's with my hair? Is that grey? Princesses don't have grey hair. Your tax dollars pay me to look hot. I do NOT look hot right now!"

Pixie smiled a wide grin. "Our work here is done, ladies. Why don't we give the Smart, Beautiful and Terribly Popular Princess some space before she beheads us? I'm way to pretty to be beheaded. Besides, I just had my skin exfoliated..."

*~*~*~*

The next morning, Intrepid made his way down to the kitchen in an absolute tizzy. "Mother! I can't find my horn polish. Where is it?"

"And what's this crap we're eating? These are not bunny face pancakes, and I think I see peanut butter!" a disgruntled Gutsy chimed in.

"Oxen blood! Oxen bloooooood!!" raged Spawnling.

Sitting calmly at the table sipping something chai-ish, their mother put down her book with two people making out on the cover and smiled warmly to her podlings. "Intrepid, your horn polish is where you left it. Gutsy, I made you toast because we're out of jam and this book is too delish to put down anyway. Spawnling, your oxen blood will be squeezed for you in a minute, right after this chapter. Eat up you guys and have a great day at school. Don't sacrifice any neighbourhood cats today, ok? Mrs. Huntington is still upset about the last time."

The boys could have thrown a tantrum, but instead they nodded, ate their non-bunny-faced breakfast, hugged their mother and made their way out the door. What she had said came with a tone and look they had never seen in her before. "Drat," said Intrepid once they were outside. "T.H.O.N.G. got to her. Now that mother is free she's going to make sure the rest of them get lattes and start thinking for themselves. This is bad. The kids at school are so going to kick our asses."

"This is pretty good toast," said Gutsy.