You Better Not Pout, You Better Not Cry

You better watch out, I’m tellin’ you why…

DADDY IS TRYING TO TAKE A MOTHERFUCKINGPICTURE AND IF YOU DON’T CUT THE SHIT THERE’S GOING TO BE NO CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR I MEAN IT!

It’s Christmas portrait time, Queefies.

It’s one of the most stressful days of the year for Crissy and Mister because omg kids.  If you’ve ever tried to take a portrait of your kids with their shiny happy little faces you know it’s a total fucking shitshow.

We decorate the tree, light the fireplace, set up the camera and the lights, get them into their matching Christmas dresses (purchased weeks in advance in preparation), comb their hair and get them in front of the camera to pretend that we are a functional family.

There’s bribery of the M&M persuasion and when that doesn’t work there’s threats of taking away television and when that doesn’t work Christmas gets cancelled like fifteen times.

Then comes the begging: “Please just smile.  This is not for US, this is for your family!  Auntie Cya and Marcy and Dips and Pop-Pop and Popa and Grammie and Uncle Billy and the people who love you want to have nice pictures of you!  DON’T YOU LOVE AUNTIE CYA? Smile for Auntie Cya! Come on, come on, sit here and smile…good!  good!  YAY!  Happy Kids! AW FUCK! THE DOG’S ASS IS IN THE FUCKING FRAME! GET THE FUCKING DOG OUT OF HERE!”

And then we try again and again and it goes similarly and it’s exactly like herding 147 profoundly retarded cats.

I start sounding like Bill Cosby:  “Come here. Come here. Come Here. Here! Here! Here! Here! Heeeeeerrrreeeeeeeee!!!!”

“Sit down. Sit down. Sit down. Sitsitsitsitsitsitsit.”

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Brain. Damage.

And I look like Jeffrey’s mother:

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This is because Girlfriend knows she’s in a position of power over both of us, so she fucks with us.  She splays her legs out, she crosses her eyes, she sticks out her tongue, she does whatever she can think of to ruin the shot.

She finds it tremendously rewarding to see Mister and me go to Crazytown.

Now, one might question why we do this year after year if it’s such a disaster.

Because if we didn’t, we wouldn’t get pictures like this:

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Have yourself a crappy little Christmas.

Crissy Gets a New Car. Finally Shuts Up About it.

Well, Queefies.

After years of loyal service, we have retired Sasha.

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Girlfriend is totally beside herself because Sasha is a part of our family.

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She drove both Girlfriend and Homeslice home from the hospital.

She rescued Vivian.

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She kept us safe.

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And now, she’s just sitting in the garage, waiting to be driven, longing to feel the wind in her hair once again. Mister and I cannot bear the thought of selling her, but at the same time, we don’t need her anymore. I feel like Henry VIII, tossing aside Catherine of Aragon for Anne Boleyn.

But unlike Henry VIII, I actually feel bad for my douchery. Sasha has always been good and loyal and virtuous. She’s just old now and not very thrilling anymore. It happens to the best of us, right, Queefies?

Remember when Crissy begged and begged Mister for a new car because  all she wanted in the whole wide world was to drive the shit out of some hot little number even though it scared the hell out of her?   Remember the day Mister tried to teach her and it did not go so well, Queefies?

Good times.

But then remember how after a little practice, she got better and felt not quite so scared?

And then years went by and Mister finally let Crissy get her Dream Machine. Crissy made a list of ALL the things she wanted, and after looking for almost two years, we found Anne Boleyn.

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Except her name is Roxanne.

(I have no idea why all our car pictures are in parking lots.  That’s Mister’s department.)

She’s exceptionally fast and nimble.

She’s what they call “a six banger” or something. I told Mister “my new car is a six banger” and he looked at me like I’m a crazypants, but I think it’s because he’s just jealous because I’m fancy now and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

But it’s been a rough month, Queefies. Roxanne and I have been driving everywhere and my commute to work is a pressure cooker.  It’s constant stop and go traffic and everyone is in a hugefuckinghurry.  It only takes a second to recover from a stall, but my fellow commuters are the worst kind of assholes and they start with their horn bullshit straight away.

I’m actually quite brilliant at creeping along at 15mph in 1st gear constantly stopping and starting without stalling (that much).

Needless to say, I had to get a refill on my Xanies just for the ride to work.  But now  I’m finally able to drive Roxanne without panic attacks and pulling over to cry and hyperventilate.

YAY CRISSY!

And poor Mister has been very patient with my obsessive need to keep driving so I can get better. We do not have one of those relationships where the girl is allowed to drive,  so this is clearly killing him.  It’s killing me a little bit too because he gets all bent out of shape when I hit curbs, but they’re the same curbs I’ve been hitting all along so he can just shut it.  I’ve been driving like this for 22 years and I’ve never had a problem. Some curbs are just begging to be hit, amiright?

Anyway, we haven’t had a car payment in about 13 years and so having to pay for a car is new.  I’m considering party bingo or selling “special brownies” to Girlfriend’s Brownie Troop.

We all know how selling my panties went, so I won’t be doing that shit again.

Anyway, so far Roxanne has been worth all the pain.

Zoom zoom, Queefies.

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