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?”

PSS: It’s a Toy with Me day today!  I’ll get you that link in about 5 hours when the Canadians wake up.  My Mom, My Brother, And The Fishcunt

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.

So yesterday Toy with Me emailed me to tell me that I’ve been selected as a finalist in the 2010 BlogHer Voices of the Year humor category for that story I wrote about selling my panties on Craigslist.

Well.

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.