Happy Anniversary Mister! I’m glad I didn’t push you off the Empire State Building.

Morning Queefs and Queefettes!

How was your Thanksgiving?  I gained two pounds.  Yay.

Clearly, the stench of rotting mouse did not deter me whatsoever.

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That’s pretty much what I’ve looked like every second of every day for the past four days.  I have no idea why I gained weight.

My brother was around this year, so that was good.

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That’s a picture of him right there. Also, my mother’s head.

Here’s me touching Melissa Lion’s ass (for those of you who maybe thought I was lying about it–oh ye of little faith).

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We’re cute in our matching outfits, yes?

And that about sums up the weekend.  It was eventful as hell.

And today is our 7 year wedding anniversary.

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This is the only picture I have for you.  It’s from the reject pile so naturally, it’s the only one Mister scanned into the computer.  I do not know why.  His mind is a mystery wrapped in a conundrum surrounded by a haze of pot smoke and Valium or whatever.

And to celebrate, Mister is staying home to take care of the little children because I’m sick.  I’m always sick at this time of year.  I was sick on our wedding night and the day after, when we left for our honeymoon, I had some sort of monkey disease and The Bloods and all I wanted to do was sleep, but it was 13 degrees in New York City and so MISTER MADE ME WALK EVERYWHERE in the freezing cold while I died to death of monkey flu and The Bloods.  We had a huge fight at the top of the Empire State Building and I really, really, wanted to push him off the edge but there’s a fucking huge ass fence there.  He got lucky.

So, yes.

Good times.

Fond memories.

I’m going back to bed.

PS: Happy Anniversary Mister!  I’m glad I didn’t push you off the Empire State Building.

PSS: How awesome would the end of Sleepless in Seattle be if the little kid threw the lady over the edge?  I should write movies, I swear it.

Who’s making stuffing? Who’s bringing pie? Who’s gonna stick his dick in the mashed potatoes?

My dinner with Melissa Lion and her Fancyhats  was lovely last night and they’re adorable and fun and you’ll be very proud of me you guys.  I was not Party Asshole (as far as I know).   I’ll tell you more about it later (I TOUCHED HER BUM AND IT WAS MARVELOUS!) (Come to think of it, maybe I was Party Asshole.  That was not appropriate behavior, probably.)

Anyways, there’s probably nary a Queef to be seen on the eve of a major holiday, but I’m over at Toy With Me today talking about Sex Positions I Won’t Be Trying.

PS:  If you leave the best comment today, you will WIN A VIBRATOR!!!  No shit.

I’m going to be completely honest with you. This post is a nightmare.

Late last night I got home from work and I was wicked tired you guys, and I’m fighting a cold, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. I think Homeslice was already in bed, or on her way, when Mister stood over me while I was laying on our bed and he was all “Don’t accuse me of making this up because I didn’t, but…”

And I interrupted because I just. knew. he was working in yet another request for a blow job, I could just tell by the way he was looking at me, and so I was just like “WHAT? What is it this time?” And he was all “I read a study that said women who swallow semen are happier.  It also prevents preeclampsia.”  And then I was all “that’s nice.  You’re full of shit. I’m still not blowing you. I don’t give a fuck about preeclampsia, and I’d rather be sad.”  And he was all “that’s harsh.  Fine.  Don’t believe me, but I have the facts to prove it.” And I was all “only a bunch of horny science nerds would decide to do that study.  Who funds this shit anyway when there are people still dying of Cancer?” And he was all “maybe they discovered it by accident while looking for a cure for Cancer.  Don’t mock what you do not understand.”  And then the rest of the conversation is sort of a blur because I think I fell asleep.

No.  I’m sure.

I’m sure I fell asleep because this conversation wasn’t even interesting enough for me to stay awake long enough to find something to throw at his head.  Seriously, did he expect me to just be like “OMG! Who knew that all this time, happiness was just a cum shot, a gulp, and a shudder away?!?  Hot damn, boy!  Pull your pants down and give mama a little dose of happy!”

Go sell crazy somewhere else, Mister.

AnyCrissyabruptlychangesthesubjectbecausethiswaswayfunnierinherhead, so tonight is the night that we go to Boston to meet with Melissa LIIIOOOONNNNN and her Very Special Fancyhats!!!  I will be wearing a cute sweater dress, as will she, because apparently that’s what you wear when you meet other bloggers.  Melissa and I know this instinctively.  It’s what I wore last year when we met Chris and Ari and Dingo and Lauren except this year, I’m not knocked up so I can drink an inappropriate amount of wine and probably be Party Asshole.

I’ll keep you posted.

Wolverine wants to kill Mister. I’m so jealous I could spit.

So I came upstairs from doing yoga yesterday and Mister said to me “I have a stalker.  He wants to kill me.” And I was all “WHAT?…lucky.

And then he told me the story of how he commented on some nice lady’s blog where she had written that her husband was pissed at her for writing about him and so forbid her from writing anything about him ever again, good or bad, and Mister said:

“If you can’t write about your husband, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say he’s got some insecurity issues he should be dealing with.  Hell, I provide a good portion of my wife’s blog fodder. In return, she poses for pictures which end up as flickr fodder. We have a system.”

WELL.

That was about a month ago, and Mister forgot all about it until he got an email yesterday morning that said this:

“If your gonna post to my wife about me watch what you say. I come from a fighter history and love to play with my fists. So fuck off and follow someone else. People don’t get that on the other end of a computer a person exist. If this was said in my presence it would get bad. Have you heard the song Walk from Pantera? Thats how i prepared for my cage fights and pre football games. If i hear from you again there will be a problem and i will take the next step bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Uh-huh.

The next step being what?  Flying out here so he can play with his fists on Mister’s face? That makes sense. That’s what anybody would do in this situation. Absolutely.

The Internet is very serious business, you know.

And poor Mister was confused and he wasted like, five whole minutes backtracking to figure out what the guy was even talking about.

I’m so jealous!!

This whole thing makes me sad because of all the shit I say and how much I could potentially piss somebody off–Escalade Pajama Cunts, stupid people, circus clowns, republicans, assholes, Jesus freaks, Doocebags, people who suck, sweaty lesbian fitness gurus (I say that with all the love in my heart, Jillian), woodchucks, etc. NOBODY HAS EVER THREATENED TO KICK MY ASS BEFORE!

Sure.  I’ve got hecklers, but all they ever do is come over here and they’re all “meh-meh-meh.  youR abitchhh!!1!!!! meh-meh-meh. You’re blog isnt’ even worth trashing.” ( It has come to my attention that that might actually be true). I mean come! On! Internet!  You can do better than that.  I know you can!

Quite frankly, I’m hurt. All Mister has to do to get awesome death threats is make some random comment on some lady’s blog and all hell breaks loose (eventually…later on.).  And what’s worse is this is the guy’s facebook picture (edit: it is no longer the actual facebook picture):

It’s FUCKING WOLVERINE!

Unbelievable.

All I can say is that if Wolverine decides to catch a plane and brave Holiday Travel Season to come and show Mister his Super Cool Villan Claws I have to warn him.

I don’t care a fig about “cage fighting” or “pre football” and Mister doesn’t only know that song, he can play it on the guitar.

With his dick.

I do TURBO JAM, BITCH.

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You may have heard about it, but probably not.  It’s too hard for “cage fighters.”  See those gloves I’m wearing?  They have weights in them for extra POWER.

And don’t forget MY GLADIATOR OUTFIT, SPORTS FAN.

American Gladiators

You don’t want me to play with my giant padded stick thingy on you.

No sir.

So, come on you guys.  Don’t any of you want to kick my ass?

Maybe just a little bit?

Anyone?

Please?

This makes me angrier than it should, probably.

I know you already know this pisses me off to no end, but I saw it yesterday on the way to work and I just…I’m disgusted.

The EPC’s do it, I think, to remind us all how they are ladies of leisure and they want us to know they’re going right back to bed after they drop the mini EPCs off at school but WHY  DO PEOPLE THINK IT’S OKAY TO WEAR PAJAMAS AND BEDROOM SLIPPERS OUT TO THE GROCERY STORE AT THREE IN THE AFTERNOON???? (or any time for that matter)

Seriously. And then I was at the doctor’s the other day and this fucking hugely pregnant asshole walked in with messy hair, dirty old beat up HOMER SIMPSON slippers, and TWEETY BIRD pajamas that didn’t fit over her belly, which was hanging out of her shirt and she was sporting the big dark line and everything.  EW! I weep for her unborn child.  WEEP.

I can already see the kid drinking soda out of a baby bottle, but I won’t get started on that rant (today).

ahem.

When did it become acceptable to do this?

I understand pajamas are comfortable, but really?  So are yoga pants.  So are sweat pants.  Wear a fucking Batman costume for all I care, but wear CLOTHING! One of my neighbors wears a sports jersey, sports themed pajama pants, and a baseball cap every. single. day.  That’s her uniform.  She has one Fancy Dress Up outfit consisting of a tie dye Grateful Dead tee shirt and black sweat pants with the elastic at the bottom.  I don’t think she has a job and she seems pretty proud of that because there’s no better way to advertise your uselessness than wearing your obviously slept in pajamas and slippers when you mix with the rest of productive society.

What scares me is in a few years, there will be another level of “comfort” that people insist on.

What’s the next level of comfort after pajamas, Queefies?

Anyone?

Anyone?

NAKED!

People are going to start going out naked and then I’m going to have to burn my eyes out with acid.

Who’s with me?

I don’t want to burn my eyes out with acid, you guys.

And before any one of you dirty birds (Mister) says that it will be wonderful when people start going out naked, let me remind you what most people look like.

Right?

You don’t want to see that.

So, what I propose is this:  every time we see some loser hanging around in pajamas and slippers out in public we punch them in the neck and throw shoes at them.

We have to stop this before it gets worse, because it will.

Mark my words!

Honestly, you’re probably better off not even reading this.

So on Tuesday morning I came downstairs after behaving on Monday night like it was a Saturday night (are you following this?) and drinking way, way, too much wine during Pot of Crap Dinner That Didn’t Actually Involve Eating any Crap Until We Were All Drunk And Cleaned Out My Snack Cabinet with The Micheles to find this:

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Fabular Rumm was not totally trashed by the little children

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which was a tremendous relief to me because there’s nothing worse than spending an hour on your hands and knees picking Barbie shoes and sticky bits of lollipop out of the rug.  Fuck that.

What disturbed me, Queefies, is this little gift left for me by Big Pussy, who we will refer to from now on  as “Crap Bag”

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What.

An.

Asshole.

And he thought he was being helpful by motivating me to get off my ass and post my first DAILY STYLE photo.  Ya-ta-da-da!!!!  There it was.

(See?  I told you guys you didn’t want the stuff you make anywhere near my deadvomitmouse pictures.)

And so I called Mister because when there’s a dead mouse in the middle of your living room and you have a hangover, you’re going to need some support.

Me: Benny killed a mouse, ate it, and barfed it on the rug.

Mister: Yeah?  You gonna clean it up?

Me: NO WAY!

Mister: You can’t let it sit there all day.  Clean it up.

Me: Can’t you come home and do it?

Mister: You want me to come home from work to clean up a dead mouse?

Me: Oh my god THANK YOU!!!! YES!!! HURRY!!!

Mister:  I don’t think so.  Get some rubber gloves and some paper towels and pick it up.

Me: No.

Mister: I have to go.  Deal with it.

Me: HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME????  YOU DON’T LOVE ME!!!!

But it was too late.  He had already hung up on me.

Clearly, Mister is not very supportive of me during Times of Crisis and if you can, please remind me to write that down on my divorce papers right after “chronic masturbator” and “steals my clothes.”

So I did what anyone in my situation would do.

I left the house and went to Target.

And I shopped up and down and all over and then when I had bought all there was to buy, I had to go home and face the deadvomitmouse.

Dun-dun-duuuuuhhhhhh…

So I went into the dining room and looked at the mouse from a safe distance and tried formulate a plan for how to remove it without having to enter the room or touch it and coming up blank I called every friend I could think might be home and nobody was (thanks a lot. Cunts), and so then I really had to face deadvomitmouse.

ALONE.

Dun-dun-duuuuuhhhhhh(version 2.0)….

So I got Homeslice all situated in her exersaucer

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That’s an exersaucer for you uninitiated people.  I don’t know if I spelled it right.  I don’t care if I spelled it right because I’m really just excited I remembered what it’s called.  I usually just call it “the thing.”

And I put on Mister’s gigantic rubber gloves because I’ll be damned if I use mine on something that gross and I got out the paper towels and my salad tongs and a Wal-Mart bag and I put on my sunglasses ( I don’t know why but I felt I needed eye protection) and I wrapped a scarf around my mouth and nose in case the mouse had really died of The Black Death and not by Crap Bag at all and I went into the living room.

And I put the paper towels on top of the mouse and started to reach for it with the tongs but then I got grossed out and I shrieked and jumped away and called Mister back.

Me: I can’t believe you’re making me do this.

Mister: STOP CALLING ME!

And then he hung up on me A SECOND TIME!!!!

I can’t believe it either!

So after a lot more shrieking and jumping around my living room going “ew!ew!ew!ew!” I finally managed to do the deed with no help from anyone and without even throwing up.

But I’ll tell you what.  I’ll remember this, Mister and Crap Bag.

Next time either of you want a little pussy petting you can fucking forget it.

I don’t know what he thought I would do when I found this, but I’m blogging about it because let’s face it…I have no idea where I was going with this.

Oh haiiiii! Sorry about yesterday. I totally flaked–thought it was Sunday.

Not really.

I didn’t. I knew it was Monday, but Homeslice didn’t give a rat’s ass about your needs and I tried to explain to her about being Hottest Mommy Blogger and how it’s exactly like being President Obama except way more important, and if she doesn’t let me write to the Queefies there might be a Major Incident, but no matter how I tried to convince her that you needed me more, she wasn’t having it people.

Selfish.

And so I didn’t post.

I’m wicked, wicked, wicked sorry.

STOP YELLING I SAID SORRY SHUT UP.

And then last night I was just sort of toodling around on Mister’s Flickr page (working in a library is hard, you guys) when I came across this:
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which I did not know existed and I can only assume he made it while he should have been out purchasing a new car for me (now my old car has a stitch coming out of the seat and it’s probably very dangerous to drive it like that) with the hundreds of millions of monies (from the gambling) (and the prostitution ring) (and the cocaine) I know he has stashed somewheres.

(You’re holding out on me, Mister. I know it. You. Mother. Fucker.)

and so that is why he has yet to receive a hand job.

Sorry, but a dishwasher just isn’t good enough, especially since it was purchased with MY MONEY that I MADE by writing words on the Internet.

So yes.

That was my weekend.

How was yours, since it’s Tuesday and we’re all just focused on surviving until Friday around 5 ish now?

PS: I almost forgot to tell you about how I went shopping at Forever 21 for a dress to wear for my dinner with MELISSA LIIIOOOONNNNN (say that just like Oprah does it. Go, LIII-OOOO-NNNN!!!! and then blow your nose with a $20 bill.) next week and I found something very cute, but I’ll probaby get my period because I always get my period on/around Thanksgivingtimes, it’s part of my gift, and I’ll have to wear a berka instead of my cute dinner dress but that’s okay. Melissa understands and also I think she likes Berkanians. That’s what you call the people from Berkaland right?

PSS: I hope you appreciate the amount of effort it took to write a blog post this morning.  I mean seriously, where’s my handjob?

OMG! Sorry! Better late than never though, right?

Sorry this post is late and probably nobody is going to read it but whatevs. I swear these kids are going to be the death of this mommy blog (ironic, yes?).  I need to put a better lock on their cage.

So, this morning, when I dropped Girlfriend off at the school (and this has happened twice now and so that makes it a non-isolated incident) and I held the gate open for an EPC and she was totally just going to waltz right through it, without acknowledging me or anything, but I sort of positioned myself so that she had to look at me, and I forced her to make eye contact with me, I don’t know why, and then she said “thank you.” BUT it was begrudgingly, Queefs. Very begrudgingly, like she was scared that if she didn’t say “thank you” I might touch her or breathe on her or maybe even hurt her with my crude words.

You never know.

You can’t be too careful.

And she said “thank you” in this voice like…I don’t even know what. 

It’s hard to describe.

Maybe think of how Mrs. Howell

would look if you just goosed her, and then pinch your nose and say “thank you” in your best Valley Girl voice.

It’s exactly like that, only coming from someone who wears velvet-y track pants with  “JUICY” written on the ass.

The fuck’s wrong with these people, Queefs?

I guess what we can take away from all of this is that the EPCs are scared of me. 

I have them exactly where I want them.

Now I just need a plan.

Only I don’t know what I’m planning or why.

But those are just details.

So, yes.

A PLAN.