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

Well, Queefies.

After years of loyal service, we have retired Sasha.


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


She drove both Girlfriend and Homeslice home from the hospital.

She rescued Vivian.


She kept us safe.


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.


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.


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.


Black Swan? Really?

So I went to see Black Swan with The Rabbi last night.  It was okay.  I like the ballerina stuff and the costumes and makeup were gorgeous, and I’ve always secretly wanted a pair of toe shoes of my very own, so seeing those made me very happy, but the ending?


The Rabbi and I both burst out laughing at the last line because the ending was just so piss poor.  It was so stupid we couldn’t help ourselves.

I know we were supposed to be moved? Or something?

Now, granted, I had just consumed an El Presidente Margarita at Chili’s and she had a DIY Bourbon and chocolate ice cream milk shake (DIY means you order a plain drink and pour booze from your flask into it under the table, fyi) (I must get a flask) and so maybe we were feeling a little silly.

Or maybe the movie was a little cheesy and we didn’t understand what all the hype was about.

I like to think we are budding movie critics and I can see us like a drunken Siskel & Ebert sitting up there in the balcony passing judgment and flasks of bourbon.

That will be us.

PS: I drove her manual transmission car home because she made me do it and it was EASY, leading me to believe that Mister’s car is a dickhead.

Okay, so guess what?

We (I) are (am) officially looking to replace old Sasha Saab with a new (ish) one!  And in preparation for that, I have been practicing (okay, we went out for half an hour) driving a manual transmission because I will not let it beat me, people.

I will drive a manual transmission and it will be fine and I will DOMINATE THE ROAD.

And so I did it.  I drove the scary WRX up and down hills and I speeded all over and everything and all it took was a little Xanax to get me to stop panicking.  I only stalled like, three or four times which for me is a really big deal as every attempt I’ve made at this has been a total disaster.

You all remember this, right?


(if you haven’t seen that video, you really need to so you can appreciate fully the depths of my driving dysfunction)

But this time, with a little 0.5 mg of Xanax, I’m smiling and driving and having fun!

I am driving Mister’s car!  I’m doing it and I’m not panicking!

And the children are unafraid!

Homeslice was perfectly at ease with her Hello Kitty purse in her lap (which we take everywhere with us–”BAG? BAG? Eh! Eh! Eh!), and Girlfriend didn’t complain even once that “mommy is making it bumpy!”


She did have a few concerns when a lot of smoke filled the cabin after I stopped on (and tried to start up) a particularly steep hill. She complained that it “smells like dog shit.”  I’m very proud that my daughter has inherited my potty mouth. Maybe someday she’ll be a famous blogger just like her mother.

On second inspection of this picture though, it appears that she’s shamelessly trying to suffocate a horse in a plastic bag. Perhaps she’ll be a famous serial killer instead.

Only time will tell, Queefies.

So we haven’t bought anything yet, but we’re looking at one of these babies which I fully intend to plaster with hippy bourgeois bohemian bumper stickers about not eating animals and marriage equality and having abortions and stuff like that. It’s the only way I can drive a station wagon and live with myself. I have to embrace smug middle class hippyness because otherwise it’s just a station wagon and I’m admitting I’m a mother with a bunch of kids and a dog that’s too big to fit in something sassier and cuter and I’m not sexy anymore.

I think I want one in blue or silver though.  I will never own another black car.  They look like crap all the time.

So that’s the news.  We are officially looking for a car, meanwhile putting a car payment aside for a couple of months to make sure it’s comfortable for us and that I can continue to purchase food and heat and diapers with wild abandon like I’ve been doing.

In other words, I am very excited and I cannot wait to get into my new(ish) car and crank up the volume and drive the shit out of that thing all the way to Whole Foods!

Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, girl You’re a pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty girl Pretty, pretty Such a pretty, pretty, pretty girl

Hey Queefies!

Happy Tuesday!

If you ask me, Tuesday is just Monday’s older, whore sister.  Nothing is better on Tuesday.  Nothing at all.  It’s really not that much closer to Friday and so it still blows monkeys.

I do not like.

Wednesday is kind of a douchewagon and Thursday is like, moderately annoying. Friday is okay. We order take-out on Friday. I can deal with Friday.

But despite it being Tuesday, I am actually in a pretty decent mood today.  I am as surprised by this as you are.  I was driving to work and “Beast of Burden” came on the radio and I was suddenly aware that I didn’t want to kill anyone. I think I might really like that song.

It would have been ultra luxurious to have listened to it on non-blown speakers, but we can’t have everything, can we?

So. What else?

I spent a little time working on my Zombie Prom Halloween costume on Sunday. It’s an orange prom dress with a red and orange floofy tulle skirt. I splashed blood all over it and some mud and some chalk-y gray water. It looks like hell. And Mister fixed the garage door wearing a tuxedo he found at Savers. Everyone must think we’re nuts. I had blood spattered clothing hanging on the line to dry, and Mister was walking around like Lurch.

We’re the balls, pretty much.

We’re having a party on Saturday and everyone is coming. We even hired babysitters to run the kid’s party in the porn basement. You can come too, if you want. I’ll be the one across the street hiding under Michele’s bed. You’ll see my bloody orange tulle skirt sticking out because lots of people give me The Anxiety. Even when I know them all.

What are you going to be for Halloween? What are you bringing to my party?


The Wanda dog people blew me off for the fifth time, so I think I’m all done there after 8 weeks of trying to get this one dog. I found a Giant Schnauzer that we might want and we might meet her this weekend if the guy I’m supposed to call for an appointment ever answers his damned phone.

Does anyone have any experience with Giant Schnauzers? My research tells me they’re kind of assholey. I don’t want/need an 80 lb assholey dog. Maybe this is the non-assholey variety of Giant Schnauzer?

We’re thinking of getting a new car! FOR ME!!!!!!! Because I’ve only been asking for one for 8 billionty years. I think we should wait until after Christmas though because a car payment plus Christmas means I’d have to sell an awful lot of panties.

And finally, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet. Some of you might know her as Bat Cave Twidget. She’s been around a little bit here and there and she’s a funny lady. She’s a friend of a friend who I now like more than the original friend (just kidding, Valerie!)

You need to go read her blog because she’s a crazy dog lady, and she’s been helping me figure out my way through the rescue dog thing and also, I kind of made her start a blog and so now I need to bring her some Queefs.

God. Could I BE any more boring today? Seriously. What the hell?

Go read Bat Cave Twidget. The story about her birthdays will make you want to hug her.

Patty-O, etc.

*this post is like, 15 posts in one, so if you want to read it in pieces that would be perfectly fine*

So we did it Queefies.

The great big gigantic patio/deck project is all done.  Mister is pretty much a super hero and as usual, he built the whole thing with his dick. He’s got a few small abrasions on it, but that’s just because patio bricks are kind of rough. I mean seriously, he’s not THAT strong. Let’s not be nuts here.

I helped, of course.  I hauled wheelbarrows full of gravel and sand and brick.  I’m so proud of myself though you guys because I must have moved a ton or more of gravel and about a ton of brick and like, an assload (that’s a standard measurement, right?  Assload?) of sand and I didn’t get tired and I’m not sore and I didn’t even cry.  I thank my girl Jillian for all of that ass kicking. Also, it’s because I’m fucking awesome.

And then after that whole project was done, I planted a mimosa, an oak, a dogwood, and two hydrangeas.  And then the Richard and Micheles came over and I got totally absolutely undeniably hammered from just two glasses of wine, but that didn’t stop me from having more wine and then after that some tequila and then I felt horrible mommy guilt for putting Homeslice to bed in a dirty dress with sand in her diaper, but it turned out okay because she woke up and I got her into some proper pjs and wiped her down with a washcloth.  So I didn’t have to wake up at 3am and beat myself up over it. Instead, I woke up at 3 am and felt guilty for worrying about it so much and for burdening everyone with my mommy neurosis.

I fucking rule.

Anyhoodles, that was our weekend.  We worked like dogs.

OMG!!! I didn’t tell you guys!
The dog officer came and took Maudette’s puppy away!

The dog officer came and took Maudette’s puppy away!

I was standing there washing dishes and watching the little fuckface dig holes in my new mulch, when the van pulled up. And I was all “take the dog! take the dog!” and the dog officer got out and lured him over to her. She saw me in the window and asked who he belonged to, and when I motioned in Earl and Maudette’s direction, she nodded and said “this little guy is coming with me” and it was just like one of those moments when Mr. Wilson catches Dennis doing something naughty and he’s thrilled to pieces. And then I was all “TEQUILA ATTACKED ALICE!” and then I ran into the house because I didn’t want to get caught talking to the dog officer because remember I’m scared of Earl and Maudette and Tequila and the puppy.

They got him back, and I nearly ran over the puppy who was running around in the middle of the street on my way home from work last night, so clearly they’re not afeared of the dog officer and/or are slow learners and/or they don’t give a shit.

She wears too much mascara, the dog officer does.

So the yard is ready for the Birthday Extravaganza on Saturday.  It’s already way out of  hand.  There’s a lot of people coming.  Like, a lot.  So you can probably come too.  I won’t notice because there will be so fucking many people.

Here’s a picture of me getting bombalooed on my new patio:


And today is Girlfriend’s birthday!!!!

She’s 5! 


The story that’s not actually a story except it TOTALLY is one! But not in the sense that you think I said it is. Only it’s completely true mostly. I’ve even confused myself at this point.

On Tuesday morning at around 5-ish, Mister followed me into the bathroom while reading his blackberry, and he’s all “you wanna hear something totally fucked up?” So I’m all “of course!” because I love fucked up stories, even at 5 am when I have to pee. Who doesn’t? And he proceeds to tell me that he saw a facebook update from a friend of his named…we’ll call her Monica, who expressed some trepidation about trying something new, and one of the comments was from a guy named…we’ll call him…Playa. And Playa said to Monica that she’ll do fine and not to worry and Mister recognized Playa’s picture as one of our neighbors (who we all always sensed was a little bit of a douche but never had any proof) and sent Monica a message asking her how she knows Playa.


Monica was all “oh, I dated Playa for a month about half a year ago. He’s a nice guy.”

And so the reason why this is a story at all is because Playa happens to be married with two little ones and about a half a year ago, Playa’s wife was miserably, hugely pregnant with Homeslice’s little friend, HomegirlAcrosstheWay.


And so Mister is all “Oh SNAP! I see you, Playa!”

To make it a little worse for Playa’s poor wife, who is a pretty nice person, Monica is a Hottie McHotterson and Playa’s poor wife was so uncomfortably pregnant at the time (or she had just given birth) when this all took place it just makes it worse somehow. Douche-ier or whatever.

So now we know something very naugh-tee about one of our neighbors and it gets kinda good for me and Jesus is totally hooking my shit up because he always has a new BMW (license plate says “NO EGO” I know, right? My. ass.) and what does Crissy want more than anything in the whole wide history of forever and a day?

That’s RIGHT!

And so I think I might ask to borrow it sometime because YES.

PS: It’s a TWM day, so go check it out: My Brand Of Feminism Includes Chivalry

Today we’re writing letters to some people about various things.

This morning I had some sort of lunatic idea that we’d go do our Target run BEFORE school.

I know.



I don’t know what I was thinking.

I actually could have made it, but it would have been rushed, and I kind of like to take my time at Target.  I like it sort of slow and thorough, like a good lover. So I’m actually writing a blog post instead of sitting here eating cookies until it’s time to leave.   I ate two before I realized I needed to find something else to do.

Homeslice is actually occupied right now.

Cheerios have changed my life, you guys.  For realz.

I’m going to go make Sexy Time with Target after I drop Girlfriend off at school.

Maybe that’s why we don’t have that Volvo.  I do Sexy Time with Target too much.   Maybe I’ll have to start my campaign soon.  Mister will be getting The Hummers  so I can get The Volvo.  My question is how many Hummers do you guys think it takes to equal a Volvo?

I don’t want to get screwed in this deal.


See what I did there?  Screwed? Sexy Time?  Hummers?

That’s why I’m the Queen.

Anyhoodle, I checked my facebook this morning and some nice person (you know who you are) has informed me that DOOSH IS GETTING HER OWN HGTV SHOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I so, so, so need to have The Crissy Show.

Please leave your comments containing outrage and incredulousness below.  Try to include the words “Dooce sucks” if you can.  It’s awesome for my stats.  Doocebags apparently have nothing better to do than sit around googling “Dooce sucks” and then insulting the blogger who dared utter it.

I like to play this game every once in a while and then see my statistics spike up for a couple of days.

Aaaaannnnndddd we’re done here.  Cheerios, while wonderful, sadly don’t contain a sedative.  (mental note to self: write to the Cheerios people and suggest frosting Cheerios with Valium.  This is brilliant. This will get me on Oprah for sure, proving that Doosh isn’t so special after all.  I’m specialer.  Like, way.)


So here it is. Mister worked really hard on this new theme, and we struggled with the colors. We’re (I’m) not totally sure we (I) love them like this, so that might change at some point. But he didn’t pimp slap me when I kept saying the colors weren’t right, so tell him his balls are pretty and touch him on his bum a little. He likes those things (even if you have to lie about the balls part because let’s face it. Balls aren’t cute).

Today Homeslice and I will have adventures on the East Side of Providence over at Monica’s, and then at Whole Foods. All the fancy stuff is on the East Side of Providence, you know.  And then tonight, we all go across the street for our weekly Pot of Crap dinner with the Richard and Micheles. I’m making pizza, it’s very exciting.

Try to control yourself.

I’m just concerned about the drive over to the East Side because I’m like 85% sure we’re going to die in a car crash. Just this past week, I’ve been run into the ditch THREE times by 2 asshats who were texting and came over the yellow line and nearly hit us head-on, and one stupidcuntbitchasshat who decided to drift into my lane without even looking when I was right next to her. Yes.  I was trying to pass her because she was doing 45 in the fast lane on the highway with her head resting on her driver’s side window.  What the fuck, woman?  She could have killed Girlfriend and me!  Homeslice was on the other side. She probably would have been okay.  But when I beeped the horn at her, she didn’t even notice.  She didn’t even take her head off her window.

So, I’ve decided that my next car will be one of these:

Sexy, right?  That’s actually the sexiest picture I could find. It’s not the BMW,but you know what?  At least we won’t all die in this car because some fucktard was texting his girlfriend.   And you see where the fog lights are mounted right there on the front?  I’m going to take those out and have Mister Macgyver some kind of flame thrower arrangement so that when somebody tries to kill us, I can burn them.  He’s totally brilliant at ghetto rigs.  He can do it.  Once he figures it out, he can do your car too.  It’s up to us to teach them, you know.


btw, this is my official announcement to Mister that he’s buying me a Volvo.  He doesn’t know yet.  He’s going to be Very Excited.

Like, $45,000 exciteds.

PS: We don’t actually have $45,000 for a new car.  I’m just feeling like a rich lady because I made $130 selling my stuff on eBay last week, so clearly we can afford a new car.

PSS: I’m not good at math.

PSSS: That’s why I think I might have to bust out my feminine wiles for this one.  It’s going to take some convincing.

PSSSS: By feminine wiles I mean promises of blow jobs and steak every Friday night.

PSSSSS: I’d watch the comments section if I were you.  Just sayin.’

PSSSSSS: If you don’t help support my cause, I will totally ban you from this blog.

I don’t know what he thought I would do when I found this, but I’m blogging about it because let’s face it…I have no idea where I was going with this.

Oh haiiiii! Sorry about yesterday. I totally flaked–thought it was Sunday.

Not really.

I didn’t. I knew it was Monday, but Homeslice didn’t give a rat’s ass about your needs and I tried to explain to her about being Hottest Mommy Blogger and how it’s exactly like being President Obama except way more important, and if she doesn’t let me write to the Queefies there might be a Major Incident, but no matter how I tried to convince her that you needed me more, she wasn’t having it people.


And so I didn’t post.

I’m wicked, wicked, wicked sorry.


And then last night I was just sort of toodling around on Mister’s Flickr page (working in a library is hard, you guys) when I came across this:
which I did not know existed and I can only assume he made it while he should have been out purchasing a new car for me (now my old car has a stitch coming out of the seat and it’s probably very dangerous to drive it like that) with the hundreds of millions of monies (from the gambling) (and the prostitution ring) (and the cocaine) I know he has stashed somewheres.

(You’re holding out on me, Mister. I know it. You. Mother. Fucker.)

and so that is why he has yet to receive a hand job.

Sorry, but a dishwasher just isn’t good enough, especially since it was purchased with MY MONEY that I MADE by writing words on the Internet.

So yes.

That was my weekend.

How was yours, since it’s Tuesday and we’re all just focused on surviving until Friday around 5 ish now?

PS: I almost forgot to tell you about how I went shopping at Forever 21 for a dress to wear for my dinner with MELISSA LIIIOOOONNNNN (say that just like Oprah does it. Go, LIII-OOOO-NNNN!!!! and then blow your nose with a $20 bill.) next week and I found something very cute, but I’ll probaby get my period because I always get my period on/around Thanksgivingtimes, it’s part of my gift, and I’ll have to wear a berka instead of my cute dinner dress but that’s okay. Melissa understands and also I think she likes Berkanians. That’s what you call the people from Berkaland right?

PSS: I hope you appreciate the amount of effort it took to write a blog post this morning.  I mean seriously, where’s my handjob?

Riding in cars with boys -OR- Mister wants to put in a rear facing car seat just for me.

Remember this picture from yesterday Queefies?


And the Very Serious Faces we’re wearing?

Well, it ain’t because we’re mentally preparing for Ikea.

It’s because we’re fighting.

Because that’s what we do in the car.

We fight.

And it’s not that we’re having a disagreement about money or Sexy Time or the raising of the little childrens or the gambling or the Chinese hookers or the blow (okay, well sometimes it’s the hookers, but only because they leave glitter all over his clothes it’s a bitch to get out) (Seriously, it’s all over the washing machine.) (It’s a mess!).

(I’m going through a parentheses phase, yes?)

We fight because I think Mister drives like shit, and he disagrees, but quite honestly, I don’t understand how he can think he’s a good driver when he’s passing people at eleventy hundred miles per hour on the right hand side, waiting until the last possible second to get over and then having to force his way in, and refusing to let other cars get in front of him even if it means getting into an accident because whatever you do, don’t let that motherfucker in, bro.

You da man, Mister.

You da man.


Mister: What?

Me: I don’t want to get there dead!

Mister: …?

Me:  You’re driving like an asshole.  Do that when your children aren’t in the car, would you? DON’T YOU LOVE THEM????

Mister: Mind your own business.

Me: I’m sorry.  Dying in the car is my business.

Mister: One of these days, I’m gonna turn your seat around, I swear to God.

Me: One of these days, I’m gonna just start taking a separate car and when people ask why we never show up together, I’m gonna tell them it’s because you’re always at the ASIAN MASSAGE.

Mister: I’m sure everyone will believe you.

Me: I’m sure they will.  You look like the type.  By the way, you have glitter on your cheek.

Mister: Whatever.

(wipes cheek self-consciously)

Me: Seriously!  Cut it out!  You’re gonna kill us!

Mister: Actually,  I’m hoping it’ll just be you.

Girlfriend: Will you two just shut up? I can’t hear the radio! Daddy, slow down, Mommy BE QUIET!

Mister: FINE!


And then if we’re lucky, we get there before I have an anxiety induced seizure, but you know what is sooooo annoying? Just to make my head explode, he drives the rest of the way veeeerrrrryyyy ssssssslllllooooowwwlllyyyy and I can’t say shit to him because I just yelled at him for going too fast.

It makes me stabby.

Someday there’s going to be a situation, Queefs.


Mark my words.