It’s my second week as a real, full time fancy copywriter and social media maven at a web development, PR, advertising and marketing company. I work for my friend Gina who is so much fancier than your friend Gina I can’t even tell you.
Can you believe this shit? It’s dreams coming true here, people. DREAMS COMING TRUE.
And we had to hire a babysitter for Homeslice and guess what?
SHE DOES THE DISHES AND THE LAUNDRY AND OMG SHE DUSTED!
I have a maidlaundressnanny.
I just need a whore and all my dreams will have come true. All of them.
This sure beats the Great Brain Tumor Crisis of Early 2011, I can tell you that much.
So yes. I am a real writer with a real job and stuff now. I kind of miss the library, but it’s more the people than the job. That job was boring as hell. Now I’m really busy all day and I get to wear cute clothes instead of the dingy corduroy pants I bought at Saver’s that I wore to the library. The people at my new job are super nice and everyone is so helpful and its totally okay to say “motherfucker” so obviously I fit right in.
Basically, I’m on cloud nine these days and I have to go now because I need some more fancy lady clothes and I have to buy them online because I’m sooooo busy being Queen.
I love you, Queefies!
OMG and PS: I’m up on the Toy With Me’s talking about my vibrators again:
So yesterday I went into Target to return some stuff Girlfriend got for Christmas that was either too big for her to wear or had too many little pieces for me to pick up off the floor. They took the toys back without a problem, but the little yoga pants and the sweater were handed, nay, shoved back to me as if they were made of dog shit. The woman was all fucking kinds of snotty and said “ma’am, I cannot take these things back in such poor condition.” And I’m all “What do you mean? The tags are all on. These things have not been worn!” And she was all “We cannot put these things out on the floor like this. They’re COVERED in hair.”
Okay. First of all, there was probably a total of four Pig Pussy furs on the little yoga pants and ONE white poupon of lint on the sweater. Nothing was in “poor condition” and I certainly hadn’t wiped my ass with the stuff like she was implying I had. She didn’t even fold it, she just balled it up and shoved it at me.
So then I was all “so all I have to do is go home and lint roll this stuff and you’ll take it back?” And she was all huffy and was like “If you want.”
I left because there were about ten other Target customers in line behind me patiently awaiting their snotty attitude and their dog shit handsies backsies. Mister told me I should have put up a fuss, but I didn’t want to be rude to the other people. I didn’t want to be THAT Target customer and have everyone hate me. I’ve had enough haters lately, thankyouverymuch.
I took my list of stuff I needed from there and left the store WITHOUT BUYING ANYTHING!
That will teach them! I could have dropped $100 in there easily, but I did not because they’re dicks and I hate Target now.
I’ve been meaning to break up with that place for a long time and now I’ve had enough!
WE’RE THROUGH, TARGET! DO YOU HEAR ME? All. FUCKING. DONE.
Now that I don’t shop there anymore, I might be able to afford to buy myself a fancy car and I will drive by the store and shout rudeness at Target and they will probably cry because they miss me but I will just turn up the radio on my fancy car stereo and not give two shits.
So I was just sitting on my bed with Homeslice looking at some books and magazines when she picked up the Victoria’s Secret Holiday catalog and pointed to the chick on the cover and said “mommy!”
I did not argue with her even though I’m so much hotter than that chick.
And then she picked up Better Homes and Gardens and pointed to the turkey on the cover and said “daddy!”
Mister, apparently our daughter thinks I’m an underpants model and you are a turkey.
So we’re going to start with the thing that’s bothering me the most and work our way down to the mildly irritating and/or totally stupid.
First up we have Homeslice’s lymph nodes in her little groin area. The one that was swollen over a month ago is still swollen and now there’s another one right next to it that keeps getting bigger although it’s still smaller than the other one. And then sometimes they seem to be almost gone, and then sometimes they swell back up again. I’m hysterical. I think I’m going to bring her back to the doctor because my anxiety disorder is pretty much demanding a blood test at this point even though she’s acting perfectly fine and healthy and has no fever and the swellings don’t hurt her at all and the original one hasn’t gotten any bigger than it was since it first appeared. But then I think maybe I won’t have her tested because I’m really scared of the blood test BECAUSE WHAT IF SHE’S REALLY SICK?
I need to know but I’m really afraid to find out.
And I’m giving up on the dog adoption situation. I had an appointment with a guy last night and he was supposed to bring 2 dogs for us to meet, but then it was just one dog and then he changed the time and THEN HE DIDN’T SHOW UP OR BOTHER TO CALL TO TELL ME HE WASN’T COMING OR ANSWER HIS PHONE.
This is a totally different organization than the other one that blew me off like this FIVE TIMES. They still haven’t returned my call after blowing me off the fifth time. It’s been two weeks.
I guess doing this to people and not respecting their time and the fact that adopting a pet is an EMOTIONAL thing and telling someone they will get to meet a potential new family member and then not even having enough respect for them to tell them you need to re-schedule and instead just letting them clear an entire day or a whole weekend and then completely blowing them off like they don’t matter is the way to run a dog rescue.
They’re always whining about how hard it is to be volunteers and that they have lives, you know, and that people need to be patient and blah, blah, blah, WHAT ABOUT ME? AM I NOT A PERSON TOO? I also have a life and I’m trying to do the right thing by adopting a homeless animal, but I’m getting treated like shit by these people.
I don’t understand.
I’ve learned a lot about people through this experience and it’s not good news, you guys. It’s not good news at all.
So, I’m giving up because I can’t deal with the disappointment and heartbreak anymore.
And moving back to Saturday night having gone to bed late after our Zombie Prom, I woke up at 3 in the morning feeling sticky and wet to discover that Alice had thrown up in our bed, under the blankets, and that I had been sleeping in it. At first I only noticed that I had slid my foot into something, so I checked it out and it was a HUGE pile of super-chunky something. I didn’t know what the hell it was, so I got out of bed to take a look and determined that it was some sort of really putrid contents from something (ass? stomach?) and so I limped into the bathroom to wash my foot off and re-group a little bit.
Mister got up to scrape what he determined to be vomit off the bed when I noticed that my back felt cold and wet, too. I had barf chunks stuck all over my shirt and I had left a trail of them behind me on the way to the bathroom. I had to take a complete shower and rinse the chunks out of my pajamas while Mister stripped the bed.
It took two trips to get all our bedding down to the basement washing machine, Alice following me the whole way and throwing up more little piles of goodness as we went.
It was…very special.
I never got back to sleep after that, so I basically got about 3 hours in before all the specialness was discovered.
That was the second night of sleep deprivation because on Friday night, we went to my friend Gina’s annual Halloween party and when we got home, Homeslice was wide awake and hanging out with the babysitter. She never went back to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time.
That was also a Very Special Evening.
We won best couple’s costume at Gina’s party though, so that was something good riding on the shitwagon that was our weekend.
So this past weekend we went to a party which was sort of like a big meet-up for all Mister’s camera friends, who are affectionately referred to as “Camera Gays” around our house.
Here’s a picture of just about everyone at the big gay camera party:
They are not to be confused with the Woodland Gays though. The Woodland Gays are totally different because they’re creepy and they live in the woods. The Camera Gays, while sometimes found in the woods, are not creepy (mostly), they’re just obsessed with their cameras.
Everyone was walking around with these very fancy and impressive looking pieces of equipment in their hands, and every once in a while, someone would fondle the camera a little bit, snap a picture, show it off, and move on. Come to think of it, it was almost like a bunch of gay guys with their little dogs on a sunny Saturday morning at the dog park, except the cameras weren’t wearing sweaters that coordinate with their owner’s sweater (usually).
The Camera Gays love to talk about their pet-cameras and they’re all like “wanna see my camera? Oh, I’d like to touch your camera, I want to zoom your lens, oh, that’s a nice lens, can I screw your lens into my camera and push the button and take a picture, oh, yes, that’s very nice, do you like my dynamic range? Isn’t that nice, and what about my soft box? Don’t you wish you had a soft box like mine and look at all my flashy flashes and my wide angles! Would you like to touch my memory stick? What’s that you say? You want to take a macro of my what…?”
And it went on like that as the Camera Gays fondled each other’s cameras (which we all know are symbolic of their penises) and it was sort of weird for me because everyone knew who I was and has read this here blog, and not only did they know who I was, but they knew everything about me and have even seen me in my underwears!
It was bizarre, so naturally my first instinct was to ask for some wine immediately and some jackass, some joker, some smartypants, some cad, gave me non-alcoholic wine! But don’t worry Queefies! I sniffed it right out and insisted someone bring me something worth drinking, because either that was grape juice or I’ve got a tolerance like a motherfucker. Or, both are true.
Anyway, I’m a little disappointed because what with all those Camera Gays at the party, nary a one took my picture unless you count this one with my big, giant mouth open because if I’m not drinking a glass of wine
I’m usually stuffing my face because OH MY GOD THERE’S TOO MANY PEOPLE! EAT THESE MAGIC DORITOS AND DISAPPEAR, CRISSY!!!!
Are we feeling my highlights?
You can’t count this one because Mister is in it and it does not showcase the Many Faces of Crissy:
And Girlfriend and Homeslice were there too, and Girlfriend thought it would be fun to beat all the foreign people in the ass with a bat.
And so she did. Repeatedly. For longer than it was cute. I guess she has a penchant for New Zealand accents.
The end.
PS: Have you ever watched your kid doing something and thought to yourself “somebody should stop that kid from doing that thing she’s doing” and then you realized that YOU are the one who should stop that kid and it’s just like “aw, crap. Can’t someone else do it for once?”
PSSS: For the rest of the pics, please go see Ben’s post! (He’s a really good photographer too. Go buy a print from him!) <<<Mister totally wrote that, but that doesn’t mean anything. I think he’s having a bromance with Ben. They’re always admiring each other’s stuff if you know what I mean.
Wake up at 5.
5:15: Suck down horrible tasting coffee before giving up 1/2 way through despite desperate need for caffination because it tastes that bad. It was like someone jerked off in my coffee. Fuck you, Dunkin Donuts. FUCK. YOU.
5:58 have two minutes to put on work out clothes, brush teeth, and check email. Computer crashes. Skip email. Put on work out gear and get ready to do Brazil Butt Lift for toned,tight, and high bum bum guaranteed!
6:02: Pick up toys from work out area. Cannot find Brazil Butt Lift DVD.
6:07: Locate Brazil Butt Lift DVD, put into player, DVD does not work.
6:07.5: Chuck piece of shit Brazil Butt Lift DVD across the room.
6:09: Sit on the floor and cry.
6:15: Settle for Turbo Jam instead, begin workout.
6:30: Mister leaving for work, hands Homeslice over to me.
6:55: Have paused Turbo Jam approximately 7 times to pull Homeslice off couch, dining room chairs, kitchen chairs, and train table, wipe Girlfriend’s ass, get her a pre-breakfast snack, and find “cup.”
7:15: Head upstairs for shower. Drag Homeslice kicking and screaming into the bathroom with selection of toys which she ignores in favor of standing with both hands on shower doors while screaming.
7:30: Dry off, get dressed in mis matched skirt and tee shirt from giant pile of laundry still waiting to be put away since motherfucking Saturday, change Homeslice’s poopy diaper while she writhes, twists, screams, and kicks at my face with shit on her heel. Brush Girlfriend’s hair while she screams bloody murder and Homeslice climbs up my leg, also screaming.
7:45: Homeslice finds horrible coffee left on my nightstand and dumps it all down her dress, my comforter, my bedskirt, and the floor.
7:47: Change Homeslice’s dress, mop floor, strip bed.
7:49 Discover that while I was cleaning the coffee mess, Homeslice has opened a bag of cotton balls and shred them all over the place. There’s also one in her mouth.
7:55: Girlfriend, for some reason, has taken off all her clothes and gotten back into what is left of my bed. I now have to fight her to get her to put them back on.
7:57: While fighting with Girlfriend, Homeslice finds the 1/2 full beer Mister left on his nightstand and dumps it into a basket of library books.
8:00: Wipe down and fan out library books.
8:20: Prepare and serve breakfast. It actually goes okay.
9:30: Go back upstairs to gather laundry. Pick up basket, carry down to first landing. Back up stairs, carry Homeslice down to landing. Pick up basket, carry to next landing. Go back up, carry Homeslice, repeat three more times until laundry is finally at washer in basement
9:55: Clean cat box, find that he’s eaten a good length of satin ribbon, gather Mister’s dirty dishes and empty beer cans from basement, collect Girlfriend’s shoes, get laundry out of washer.
10:15: Repeat stairs procedure and head out to clothes line to hang clothes out. Pull Homeslice off deck stairs approximately 897 times, give or take. Stop her from eating chalk. Stop her from walking through Alice’s Meadow Muffin Mine Field.
10:50: Go out to the garden to pick 8 million cherry tomatoes. Put 8 million cherry tomatoes into large silver bowl, while stopping to pull one out of Homeslice’s mouth about every other tomato.
11:00: Homeslice trips and falls into the bowl of 8 million cherry tomatoes, spilling the entire thing and sending them rolling all over the garden.
11:30: Re-collect tomatoes with Girlfriend’s help. Bring tomatoes in to sink to wash, open under sink cabinet to throw away paper towel and bottle of cleaning solution tumbles out of cabinet, onto floor and spills everywhere. Cleaning solution not safe for hardwoods. Douse floor with water while keeping Homeslice at bay with foot. Fail miserably, must now bathe Homeslice to get cleaning solution off her hands and arms and legs after she splashed in it.
12:13: Blogging about my morning which has been pretty typical actually while Homeslice, after a busy morning attempting suicide, is asleep in her organic freeze dried bananas. Girlfriend is having croutons and pickles for lunch and I’m totally understanding why those moms in the 1950’s were shit faced by 1:00.
I don’t follow BlogHer too much because I don’t have time to follow anything anymore, not even my own blog. I don’t know much about the conference because I don’t have $300 for a ticket, never mind leaving my family for a few days to stay in a hotel room with a stranger who may or may not be a total cuntwad.
That is so not my scene.
But everyone is so, so, so into it. Every summer the Internets are abuzz with excitement over BlogHer, so maybe I should be too?
I wouldn’t have even known I was nominated for anything if Toy with Me hadn’t told me about it. And now I sort of want to go just to see what all the fuss is about, but the tickets are sold out, of course, and have been for months now. Even if I could afford one, I still couldn’t get one. So I contacted them yesterday (I had to sign up for an account so I could do that) and told them it’s me, THE QUEEN OF EVERYTHING (except BlogHer tickets) and I said they need to send me a ticket so I can come accept my award and give my big speech and everything and do you know what they told me?
Either I can try to buy a ticket from someone who doesn’t want theirs anymore, or I can take this one volunteer spot that just opened up. In other words, I’d have to work for two days to earn my ticket.
Can I ask you something, Queefies?
Did Kate Winslet have to volunteer at the Academy Awards?
Did we see her selling popcorn in the lobby or handing out paper towels in the ladies room?
Nay, nay.
We did not!
SO WHY DOES THE QUEEN HAVE TO WORK FOR HER TICKET?
I’m calling SHENANIGANS! on that and so in protest, I’m not going. Instead, I’m sending Kathy Griffin to accept the award on my behalf. They can just show my picture on the screen and that’ll be fine. And if there’s some stroke of incredible fucktardery on BlogHer’s behalf and I am robbed of my Humor Voice of the Year title, she’ll stand up, chuck double birds at all of BlogHer and tell everyone to suck her dick, just like I would do if I were there.
I’m just going to have to be happy with that because I just don’t have the time, money, or the energy for anything else.
PS: Our friend Dingo is also a finalist. Go hug her,slap her on the ass, and shout “WELL DONE! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!” at her. She’ll like that.
Since Sunday, our computer died so thoroughly that even Mister cannot resurrect it (I’m at work right now, fyi), I have had Lady Days for approximately 8 days, Mister and I were both stung by bees, I have a weird monkey flu that makes my throat/chest/tummy/lower back area so tight and painful I can barely breathe, plus I have a fever that makes me snuggle under my blankets on a 90 degree day with no air conditioning.
And now today, I have an itchy rash where my bee sting was, Mister’s bee stung foot is all Frankensteinish and swollen but the dude at Urgent Care said there’s not much he can do about it, I’m still sick and now my ear and throat hurt, Girlfriend has a fever, AND MOTHERFUCKING FRANK ATE MY FUCKING VEGETABLE GARDEN.
The little jerk was actually in there when I went to dump my compost into the bin this morning and I was all “GET OUT!” and the bold motherfucker just stood up in his back legs, looked at me, and kept eating my broccoli!
Can.
You.
Imagine?
And so again I hissed “Fuck! Off! FRANK!” and off he did not fuck! He just stood there looking at me like “yeah? What are you gonna do about it, lady?”
So you know what I did about it, you guys?
That’s right!
I SHOOK A STICK AT HIM!
He finally scurried away and I was able to survey the damage he did to the tender vegetables I have been nursing from seed since MARCH!
He took all my broccoli, cauliflower, basil, cilantro, romaine lettuce, and sunflowers.
And all I can think about is how badly I want some orange nail polish.
Sorry. I’m not dead. I’m…I don’t know what I am, actually, but I’m at least alive enough to tell you about an awesomesauce contest I’m having!
Because of this picture:
the people over at Vajazzling.com have sent me 5 DIY VAJAZZLING KITS!!!! to give away to you fine people! I am sorry, however, to report that none of them say “JUICY” on them. But there are star bursts and butterflies and some sort of supernova thing and WHO DOESN’T WANT A SUPERNOVA on her twidget?
Nobody doesn’t want a supernova on her twidget, that’s who. It’s just like, whoa. Impressive.
Also, I don’t understand why these things are just for girls, so I’m opening this contest up to the fellas, because fuck it. We need all the participants we can get, amiright?
Vajazzling: not just for pussies anymore. It’s for dicks now too. You heard it here first.
So, what you have to do to win one of these fine DIY Vajazzling kits is write a wonderful Haiku about Vajazzling. It can be funny, or touching, or sweet, or emo or whatever. I don’t care. I just have to think it’s deserving of recognition. Just remember that I’m educated in the ways of the poem, so no pressure but I know what I’m looking at. I guess the boys can write about Manjazzling because it doesn’t make sense for them to write about Vajazzling when they’re really going to Manjazzle, right? Unless they’re trying to win the kit for a lady friend. Then they can write about Vajazzling and it’s okay.
Are you still with me?
So do yourself a solid and sit down with your pencil and your paper and write me a Vajazzling/Manjazzling Haiku and hopefully, by this time next week, your crotch will be a hell of a lot sparklier because right now, if we’re all being honest here, it’s not that pretty.
You have one week. Winners announced next Wednesday! And don’t worry. You have almost zero competition because the Internet has all but dried up and died.
HAIKU! Or a limerick!
I just decided you can do that too.
Haiku or Limerick, or both if you want.
You choose.
