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

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.

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?

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.