Mommies don’t get sick days.

I think that’s the hardest part of the whole thing.  No matter how sick/tired/crazy you are, there’s still some kids who need their asses wiped and whatnot.

I’m so sick all I can do is lay in bed and cry because I need help so, so, so badly today and Mister left for work at 6:30 am, and so here I am with Girlfriend who NEVER. STOPS. TALKING. and Homeslice who makes endless suicide attempts and then falls down and cries.

AND THEN I get to go to work for 8 hours after suffering through the day with the kids.

Plus it’s 92 degrees today, humid as a motherfucker, and we have no air conditioning.

I so don’t want to be me today.


What’s your sad story today, Queefies?  Come to Crissy’s pity party, but after the bitching and the whining, I want you to tell me how you’re lucky.

When I feel really crappy and I’m feasting on triple chocolate misery cake, I like to tell myself how lucky I am I’m not a woman  who has to live in fear of soldiers busting in and gang raping me and then driving a bayonet through Homeslice.  I’m lucky that I have a job to go to.  I’m lucky that Girlfriend is smart and has lots to say.  I’m lucky that I have 7 air conditioners that we choose not to use.

I’m lucky I have all the Queefies to talk to.

I’m 36.

I feel every single last second of 36 this morning, Queefies. Pole dancing class kicked the ever lovin’ shit out of me. I’m bruised and battered and I feel like I’ve been gang raped from gripping the pole so close to my crotchals and then sliding down it.

It’s the sliding that does it, you know.

And the gripping.

So, for my birthday today, the first thing I would like is to not feel gang raped.

The second thing I would like is this bike:

The picture is too big for the page but fuck it, it’s my birthday.  Anyway, it’s the Electra Karma 3i.  It’ s totally badass and I don’t ride bikes but I don’t care.  I would ride this bike until the wheels fell off.  And my crotchals won’t even hurt from the seat because pole dancing class will toughen me up really good!

I ask for a variation of the same bike every year and every year Mister acts like he’s going to buy it for me, but he doesn’t.  He’s such a crybaby about the mortgage.  It bores me.

Little does he know, I can go and dump that same amount of money at Target in a single afternoon and come home with baby diapers and hair conditioner and more short sleeved v-neck tee shirts than you can shake a stick at.

That’s a funny expression isn’t it?

I don’t think I’ve ever shaken a stick at anything.

Waiting for me right now is a bag from Victoria’s Secret, which is a gift for Mister and not really for me at all.  I haven’t opened it yet, but I’m pretty sure there’s no bike in there.

I’ve gotta run now, Queefies.  I have to go open my new thong underpants  now.

PS: I don’t really like thongs because  HAVING A STRING UP YOUR ASS ALL DAY IS NOT COMFORTABLE.  I’m 36 now and so it’s okay to stop pretending thongs don’t suck.  I feel so incredibly liberated having admitted that to the Queefies I think I’ll say it again!


I’m sure I’ve shattered some fantasies, whatever.  I’m in my late thirties now.  I can do that and not even care.

PSS: for my birthday, Girlfriend says she’ll do what I ask her to do the first time I ask.  That’s pretty much the most awesome present ever!

I had no idea what the World Cup was until about 15 hours ago when I finally broke down and asked Lynne what it was.

I thought it was a sailing competition but apparently it’s tennis. Wait. Soccer. It’s soccer. Is it?


Okay, it’s either soccer or tennis but not sailing. That’s the American Cup. I know that.

Why do they have to call them all “cups?” Can’t they call just one of them a “trophy” so the rest of us have a prayer at keeping them all straight?

Some of them are “bowls,” right? Like the Rose Bowl. I like that one because they have that nice parade on tv. That’s a float competition, right? They want to see who can hot glue gun the most sunflower seeds onto a float and make it look like stuff.

I think I will write a letter to the cup people to tell them my suggestion. I’m sure they didn’t realize how confusing it is.

I’d like to say that I don’t know what all these cup things are because I’m very interested in other, more smartly things like space elevators and string theory and, of course, superstring theory, but it’s not.

I just don’t give a shit.

So yeah.

GO CELTICS! Well done, or whatever.

So did I ever tell you guys about how this one time I found myself at a Public Enemy concert with my friend Suzi?


That’s us at the beach together rockin’ some coordinating bikinis and matching scrunchies just a couple of weeks before the concert. We were two of the littlest Miss Blondies you ever did see and so you can imagine how we fit in with the Public Enemy crowd in the early 90’s, right?


To get ready for the concert, we put on our new outfits from Gap, straightened our hair with her clothes iron, and debated whether or not pearls (I shit you not) would be cute with our outfits or if they were too much for Public Enemy and we decided that pearls are never a mistake so we went with it.

Pearls.  To Public Enemy.  We sure did.

How we wound up there in the first place is sort of interesting, actually.  Our boyfriends at the time were two spoiled trashy little East Side rich-boy types who thought they were players. They were walking past the Providence Biltmore Hotel when they saw Public Enemy going in and they totally spazzed and were all like “HOLY SHIT IT’S PUBLIC!! ENEMY!!” and so Public Enemy gave them tickets to the show instead of shooting them.

I think they were just waiting for later to shoot them.

So there we were, four preppy white kids in spiffy Gap and Ralph Lauren outfits, two of us wearing pearls for chrissakes, in a sea of black people who were wearing all black clothing and sort of all moving together to the music and saying all the words. They were fired up, you guys. It was a pretty extraordinary thing to witness, actually, except for the two Miss Blondies who were massively drunk on Mind Erasers humping one another and shouting “FIGHT THE POWER!!!” in the middle of that dark sea of oneness.

We were having a marvelous time, but accidentally making a mockery of the whole thing, I guess.  One nice lady came over and said something like “y’all are crazy.  You’re gonna get killed!”  And then we looked up and our dates sort of had a circle of guys around them, kind of like they were also gonna get killed too. It was as if nobody cared or even knew that we were personally invited to the concert by the performers themselves! WTF, you guys? I thought we were cool. Before I knew it, my boyfriend had me over his shoulder and Suzi was over her boyfriend’s shoulder and we were out on the street after waving “bye-bye” to the bouncers who patted us down on the way in.

I think we were probably there a total of 15 minutes. We went back to the East Side where we drank Amstel Light and had lovely dinner at a bar called Amsterdam and I threw up calamari in Suzi’s BMW.

The End.

So there it is. That’s my Public Enemy story.

And on the Toy with Mes I have for you My First Pole Dancing Class = Hilarity

Ya-ta-da-da!!!!!!!!!! I’ve been dying to tell you guys that I’m a pole dancer now!