It really sucks when you can’t phone it in.

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.

It’s my birthday today! EW!

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.

Stuff you didn’t know about your friend Crissy

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!

Blow Jobs are like flowers for boys.

So I’m skulking around the Internet and I can’t help but notice how many people are writing these long emo Very Special Father’s Day edition posts about their fathers and babydaddies and I’m just like, really?

Am I supposed to cry?  Because I don’t do mushy and sentimental, and I think all those cards they have over at the store are stoopid.

In fact, somebody should shit on Hallmark’s coat just because they’re so lame.

How about a card that says “Happy Fathers day to the guy who gave me life and an anxiety disorder.”

Or “Happy Father’s day, motherfucker!”

Or, if you live in my house, “Happy Father’s day, Daddy! Please wear pants.”

You want to hear my Very Special Father’s Day edition blog post?

Here goes.


I was going to give Mister a blow job for father’s day but he decided to go to a Melvins concert in Boston instead because my blow jobs aren’t better than the Melvins.

The end.

Oh, and the kids gave him new summer shoes so he can stop wearing crocs now, and a camera bag to replace the old cat hair covered duffle bag he’s been dragging around everywhere he goes and embarrassing the crap out of us.

So yeah.  Happy belated Father’s Day to all you babydaddies out there.   I hope you all got blow jobs or at least gifts that will make you less of an embarrassment to your families and no lame greeting cards.

It’s Wednesday, motherbuckets!

So we bought this swingset for Homeslice and Girlfriend, right?

And it took us a long time to find just the right one for just the right price with just the right quality and we were very excited to show the picture to Girlfriend and what does she say, Queefies?

“It doesn’t have a lot of stuff to do.”

Um, excuse me?

There’s a playhouse with a fucking veranda, three swings, a rock wall,  a picnic table, a sandbox, and a slide.  It’s nicer than our house, really.

Maybe Mister and I will live out there instead because apparently, she wants Disney out in the yard and anything less is unacceptable.

Clearly,  Girlfriend is spoiled to death, so to toughen her up a bit, we’re not going to put mulch under the swingset/palace.  We’re gonna put rocks like we had when we were kids.  My swingset was made of metal and it had a couple of swings and some monkey bars and a trapeze and that was it. It was not made out of some nice non-splintery cedar with rounded edges.  There was no playhouse, picnic table, veranda, etc.,  and if we went too high on the swings, the back would come out of the ground and we spent entire afternoons trying to get the whole thing to flip over.  I think my brother actually did once.  I can’t remember.  And instead of this “playground grade mulch” we had rocks to land on and if you fell off the monkey bars because you were clowning around like a dumbass, you got fucking hurt and it was your own fault for being stupid and you learned not to be a dumbass anymore.

Kids today are soft.

And so we spent half a billionty monies on a swingset that we want more than Girlfriend does.  Homeslice is pretty excited about it, but she’s only just recently discovered how much fun a ball is, so you know.  She’s easily impressed at this point.

And it’s a Toy with Me day today!

Come find out why I’m wearing these ridiculous socks!  Surra de Bunda–Punched by an Ass


A super exciting opportunity for the Queefies!!!

Cisco sent me this totally awesome little flip camera in exchange for my blogging about their What If Your TV Could… contest.

Isn’t it cute? I had the option of either keeping it or giving it to one of you people, but I’m a greedy whore bag so you know, you lose.

But!  The good news is that you could win something way better than a flip camera. They’re asking consumers to submit creative ideas about what they wish their TV could do and by doing so, you could win an opportunity to win a Grand Prize of $10,000, as well as the opportunity to receive one of 3 $500 gift cards for the most viewed videos.   All you have to do is submit a short video explaining what future capabilities you would like to see on your TV.

That’s it!

All you have to do is go here to view all the other submissions and to submit your own video.

Here’s our video! You need to go and watch it if you love me at all. You know our videos always rock, right? And for the love of sweet baby Jesus leave a comment, give it stars (to the left under the video), and add it to favorites (the heart to the right of the stars).  I think it needs all of those things in order for it to be in the running.  It won’t take you more than two minutes to watch the thing and press the buttons.

You’ve got two minutes for the Crissys, doncha?  Of course you do!  You want to see us get a new heating system for the ultimate in glamor, right?

And if you don’t really feel like making a video because you don’t need $10,000, that’s fine with me because I’ll have less competition, so you can just leave your ideas in my comments section.  Just know that telling me your ideas won’t get you shit. You have to go tell them. On video.


If your TV could do anything, what would you want it to do?

PS: if any of you guys make a video, I wanna see!  Link me up, dude.

I found Jesus at Saver’s

I went out for dinner with Michele last night you guys.

It was the first time I had any kind of food I did not plan, shop for, and prepare myself in weeks and it was glorious, although we could tell Amy Our Waitress was disappointed in us because we had a couple of salads and some waters with lemon. Her face totally fell when she realized she was waiting on two lame ass pussies instead of a couple of gals goin’ out for a calorie fest,  Cosmos, and casual sex with moderately attractive younger men.

I don’t know what she was thinking because we were both wearing cardigans.

Also, it was Ruby Tuesday’s. If I’m going to go out and carry on, I’m not going to do it at Ruby Tuesday’s. I only go there for those fucking delicious croutons and that pasta salad they have with the peas in it. I love that pasta salad.

We did manage to redeem ourselves with Amy Our Waitress when we ordered chocolate cake (one piece to share, of course) and two decaf coffees.

I know, I know. ROCK ON!

And after that decadent dining experience we went to the Grand Opening of a Saver’s!

Shut up.

I’m almost 36 years old. This is my idea of a good time. Don’t ruin it.

And that, my dear, dear Queefies, is where I found Sad Jesus on VELVET!


NOW you’re jealous.

Pomp and Circumstance(es)

Today we’re talking about Girlfriend’s graduation.

But first you have to look at this picture of Homeslice on her birthday:


“das right bitches.  I’s eatin’ some cake. Whachu doin’?”

And then Saturday was the graduation and it was at 10am at the Schmuckytown Pubic Library and it rained which meant that it would be inside.  Here is the sweaty line of sweaty people. See if you can pick out the EPCs–sort of like Where’s Waldo? only with Escalade Pajama Cunts instead of you know, Waldo.


But I’m getting ahead of myself here because before we got there, there was all kinds of kerfuffles because I am the one in our family who has to get everyone clean, dressed, fed, packed, and ready to go and Mister kind of just wanders around like there’s nothing going on and he doesn’t know what he’s wearing and he doesn’t know we’re leaving or what time the thing is even though I told him 55 times per minute and he’s polishing camera lenses and having a sip of juice and I’m apoplectic (Holla Melissa Lion!) and sitting in the car with the kids and he’s still in the house looking for whateverthefuckhelooksfor and it’s 9:36 and we still have to pick up my mom and one day I’m going to have a stroke trying to get out of the house on time.

But we got there eventually and waited in that there line you saw.

Do you guys remember how Girlfriend felt about dance class?



Well, how do we think she felt about being paraded around in front of all those people in that great big line up there?



That Guy on the Left looks like he’s getting ready to punch her in the face, “Hulk, ANGRY!” Seriously, his face is doing something weird there, like he’s about to morph into something wicked fucked up.

And she wanted me to save her but her teacher put her in a headlock kept her walking the line:


I didn’t save her because she has to learn how to not be such a pussy, amiright?

Girlfriend needs to sack up and deal.


And yes, but no.

She had a big dance number to perform and she had to at least try to get over The Pussyitis.


Or, you know, not.

They were supposed to be doing We Go Together from Grease, but no.

They just…no.

A couple of them did a few little things toward the end there, but for the most part they all just stood there like they had just downed a bunch of Quaaludes.

Nobody says Quaalude anymore. I’m bringin’ it back. You heard me.

And it was just as well because I kept having emotions and I sort of lost it when they sang When a Child is Born in sign language. It was fucking beautiful, okay? And then again when they did a little ballet scarf dance thing to Time to Say Goodbye.

Right? Are you kidding me?

Fucking Satan would have lost his shit, I’m telling you. Even That Guy on the Left was a little misty. I totally caught him “HULK, sad.”

But now I have an official Graduate of Preschool.


That’s the school principal, Mrs. Jeannie. Girlfriend adores her, but I still had to go up with her to get her diploma because she was so not going up there by herself even after a pep talk from her teachers. She was just like, “fuck that noise, you bitches are crazy.” But she didn’t say that.

And we just found out that they passed a vote for all day kindergarten this fall. I’m the only person I know who’s not overjoyed.


I’m not ready for Kindergarten, Queefies.

PS: Today is a Toy with Me day. In a rare serious moment, I’m telling a story of trauma that I’ve never told you guys before. You should come and read it: Catcalling–Creepy or a Compliment?