Archive for the 'Crissy's House is in an Idiot Colony' Category

Yesterday was my Friday and thank jeebus because I’m ty-id. And I’m very excited because I’m on vacation next week. Mister and I both took time off so we could hang out and relax and have some fun!

NOT.

I’m going to take care of the kids and try to get some stuff done while he installs 3 new windows (suck my dick, Historical Society. I get what I want.) and replaces the clutch in his car and starts work on the patio so he can finish the deck so we can move the gazebo so we can put in a swing set.

You’re really glad you’re not Mister right now, aren’t you?

We’ve been doing what we can to make our dreams for the house a reality, and also we’re trying desperately to gentrify our neighborhood, but so far, it’s just us and the Richard and Micheles and we’re meeting some heavy resistance from the Earl and Maudette direction.

They have a dumptruck now. They park it right in between the RV and the motorboat full of old tires but in front of the flatbed with a pickup truck on it.

Also, they got a puppy! So now in addition to big, stupid Tequila dumping in our yard, the puppy comes over too. It dug a hole under our fence so it could come and play with Alice.

Their daughter gave birth in an ambulance outside the house yesterday morning.

Last night, Homeslice kept waking up because they rented some sort of bulldozer thing and were loudly bulldozing the shit out of their backyard until about 11:00. Can’t they bulldoze quieter for shit’s sake?

I wish I were making this up for comedic effect, but I’m not. It is all so very sadly true.

I love Earl and Maudette though. I really do! They’re actually very sweet people and without them, there would be nothing to look at while I make dinner. I love when Maudette stumbles around on the roof of the RV with a ciggie in her mouth, and a beer in her hand. I don’t know why she does this, but someday I will video it for you. It’s very entertaining.

Also, Earl is kind of sexy. Michele sees it too. If I were going to have sex with one of the neighbors, it would be Earl and not say, Ted from the paint store. He’s creepy in a “I’m so nice and artificially calm you just know I’ve got a retarded gimp chained up in the basement” kind of way.

But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and Earl and Maudette’s son, not the one with all the nails and the rabbit cage, the other son, Sonny McHotSon, is a little sexy too. Plus, he’s a very hard worker with a shirtless landscaping business (hence the dumptruck and other farm equipment).

And poor Mister can’t handle all the patio stuff by himself!

Well, he could, but he can’t really haul stone for the patio with his Subaru in one trip.

And so, because I am a good and loving wife, I went over to Earl and Maudette’s house to ask Sonny McHotSon if he could help Mister out. His dumptruck has “stone work” written right on the side there and so I took it upon myself to wear my new capri pants and my new tee-shirt with the pink unicorn on it (because everyone knows landscapers like unicorns) and my Very Berry lipstain that Drew Barrymore says is super sexy and I went over there to talk to him.

I know.

You’re welcome, Mister.

And I was all “hey, Sonny” and he was all “hey” and he said he’d be happy to help out, and I may or may not have postured and/or rolled around on the hood of his landscaping truck with my thong hanging out of my low-rise capris, and I may or may not have accidentally brushed against his crotchals when I left, and I may or may not have put on my best Mrs. Robinson swagger either. I mayn’t have.

Or I may’ve. I can’t remember.

I’m just looking forward to watching Sonny McHotSon take his shirt off in my yard.

Maybe his dad will come over…

PS: In case any of you feel bad for Mister that I’m lusting after the Farm People next door, don’t. I caught him and his friend out in the backyard with a pair of binoculars pointed at the single mom’s house. They were “looking at the roof.” At night.

Next time I feel like running away, pour me a drink, would you?

My battles with Mister and Girlfriend are so typical, and I know that, I just forgot to mention that yesterday.  For me though, it’s not that Mister’s an insensitive douchewad (although he can be at times.  As we all can), it’s that he’s a guy.

Here’s what I think happens to us, all of us.

We live in an interesting time where we are trying to re-define some gender roles that our parents began to re-define when we were little kids.

Here we women are, no longer so much relegated to the kitchen and responsible for 100% of all the household duties and childcare.  We are educated.  We have goals that belong only to us and have nothing to do with our husbands and children.  Many of us have to work outside the home because surviving on only one income is impossible.

We owe our mother’s generation a heartfelt “thanks mom” for standing up and saying “FUCK. THIS.” And they went on strike (I remember the day my mother did it.  We were beside ourselves.  We thought she was crazy.) and they said “it shouldn’t have to be like this.”  And they made it so.

As girls, this became a part of our idea of what it would be like when we grew up and had families.  We know we shouldn’t have to do it all.  The problem is, our husbands and partners grew up watching their dads come home from work, crack open a beer and dig into a lovely dinner our mothers prepared (while grumbling and popping pills or drinking wine or sometimes smashing dishes and locking themselves in their rooms and crying).

Our mothers have helped re-define motherhood and womanhood, while at the same time showing us how to pull off our traditional roles, the guys haven’t had that experience.  They’re lost.  They find themselves in a sea of roles that they have to learn for themselves.  They are burdened with having to figure out how to be husbands and fathers in a whole new way to a whole new generation of women who expect equal partnership.

There are growing pains.  There are resentments.  There is jackassery.

I always try to remember to say “thank you” when Mister does the laundry or the dishes or changes a diaper.  I want to encourage such behavior because he is doing his part, but if I don’t leave Mister a list of what needs to be done, he plays video games because he assumes everything is under control even though the sink is full of dishes and the floors are gross and there’s piles of laundry.  He’s just not tuned into that stuff.  He simply doesn’t see it because he’s not programmed to think it’s his job.  We recently had a fight about that.  I went to Target with Homeslice so he could get stuff done without her being in the way, and when I came home, he was playing Zelda in the basement and the chores were untouched.  I asked him why he wasted that time and he was incredulous.  He said I needed to “take responsibility” for it because I didn’t give him a list of stuff to do.  I thought it was pretty obvious what needed doing,  but he  just didn’t see it.

OR! That’s just an excuse to be a shit ass and Bill Cosby was totally right about men being smart because they screw up household chores purposely so they won’t be asked again.

I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt on that and just say they’re clueless and we need to teach them how to sniff out a shitty diaper and how to see a pile of laundry.

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ve just had too much academia crammed up my ass, but I want to believe that men want to be equal partners in all things domestic and that they don’t want to be married to overburdened, exhausted, frigid, shrews.

Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe they’re all shitbags.

I don’t think my husband is purposely being a dick.  We just have to learn how to share the responsibility equally instead of the house being primarily my responsibility and him “helping out.”

I also need a full-time j-o-b so I actually have ground to stand on here…

This is like, way too huge an issue to deal with in a single blog post, but there it is.

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.

Well.

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.

YES.

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

Have you guys ever had the urge to just stand up at your desk and just shout “MOTHERFUCKER!” for no reason at all other than to just do it?  Maybe because it would feel kind of good to just let the crazy out a little bit?

This is why I’m just a little bit jealous of people with Tourette’s Syndrome.  They get to just walk down the street and sneer something like “PISSFACE!” at somebody and there isn’t shit anyone can do about it.

Lucky bastards. 

It must feel good sometimes to just come out with it, you know. I’m sure having Tourette’s Syndrome pretty much sucks ass 90% of the time, but that 10% when it doesn’t must be pretty freaking sweet.

I don’t know where I’ve been lately.  I was sick and now I’m a little better even though I’ms till coughing up lung chewies and can’t taste or smell anything yet.

My brain is just tired still.

I’ve got some juicy, juicy, JUICY gossip but I can’t tell you guys about it and that’s frustrating me a little bit. I’ll probably tell you about it tomorrow after I’ve had a chance to twist it enough so you get the story without getting the story so I don’t get in trouble and get banned from my neighborhood. Not that getting banned from my neighborhood would necessarily be a bad thing, but if I can’t get to my house, I can’t write this blog so you know.

You don’t want that to happen. Probably.

Anyhoodles, I’ll be back tomorrow to tell you A story without telling you THE story.

Or something like that.

I’m confused. My head hurts.

OMG, you guys. Remember this bitch from a post I wrote last year?

So yesterday Crissy drops Girlfriend off at The Sandbox Preschool and there’s this bitchmom with a baby in a carrier and Girlfreind goes over, stands on her tippy toes to peek into the carrier and says “Oh your baby is soooo cute!” and the bitchmom whips the carrier away and says “Don’t put your face near her face! She’s had two colds already this year!” And girlfriend sort of just looked like…”huh?” And Crissy was present for the whole exchange and can say with 100% certainty that Girlfriend’s face did not come anywhere near bitchmom’s baby’s face and so WHAT THE FUCK WAS HER FUCKING PROBLEM?

Crissy thinks that would have fixed her wagon quite handily.

Well.

Speaking of wagons, guess what she rolled up in yesterday?
YES.
MY Volvo wagon.
It’s new. And shiny. And i’m jealous.
And she’s about 6 months pregnant with baby #3 (somebody’s been making her husband vewy, vewy, hap-py!) and she’s totally not an EPC.
She’s something else entirely.
She’s a…Mrs. Fancypants.
A Mrs. Fancypants, dear Queefies, is perhaps the antithesis of the EPC because unlike an EPC, Mrs. Fancypants has a J-O-B and no SUV. She drives an Audi or a Volvo or a BMW instead because she’s very refined, you know. She’d never be caught dead in a pair of sweatpants with JUICY written in sparkles across the ass.
She’s always very put together and looking lovely for work in her outfits from Ann Taylor. There are three of them at Girlfriend’s school. There’s this one who is apparently very good at giving Hummers (I should probably ask her how many she had to give to get the Volvo), a TV reporter, and one who makes wedding cakes. Fancy ones.
They teeter through the ice and snow in stiletto bitch boots every morning looking just as perfect as perfect gets, and I’m not sure how I feel about them as a group. But I know how I feel about this particular Mrs. Fancypants.
I don’t think I like her very much and here’s why:

#1. That incident last year with the baby in the car seat really stuck in my craw.

b) I kind of liked her last winter. I told her she looked hot in her boots, and then she was pretty nice to me when I was pregnant. She always asked how I was feeling. That was nice. It’s probably just because she herself wanted to be in my condition (dear lord, WHY?)

#6) And then a couple of weeks ago, I heard her talking about being pregnant and starting to show, and the woman she was talking to (who, btw, is neither an EPC nor a Mrs. Fancypants. She’s a Breeder.), declared that she should be well into her 6th pregnancy(!!!) by now and that there must be something wrong. I threw up a little bit in my mouth when I heard that.

f) Yesterday I walked in behind her. She had a stranger with her, and she introduced this stranger as anyone? anyone?

“THE NEW NANNY”

And she said it super-loud so everyone would hear her. The NEW NANNY looked like she wanted to crawl under a table. I would never introduce someone that way, would you? I’d probably say something like “this is our friend Karen. She’s going to be helping out and taking Girlfriend to school from now on.”

I think that was really bitchy of Mrs. Fancypants.

And that, dear Queefies is why I do not like her. She has my car and now she has my nanny and she doesn’t even respect her. Also, her hair is always perfect and she can walk on ice, 6 months pregnant wearing stiletto boots.

What is there to like about this woman?

Absolutely nothing.

PS: Today is a Toy With Me day! Mister got flashed at the hairdresser a couple of weeks ago! WTF? Sluttery At The Salon
Happy hump day! (I really hate it when people say that.)

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.

SOLIDARITY BROTHERS AND SISTERS!

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.

So the plan for the weekend was to paint the kitchen and the lavette and my friend Rachel told me that nobody says “lavette” anymore and so my first question is what do you call it? A powder room?  A half-bath? The room where you pee and then wash your hands?

…?

And of course, we don’t just paint shit in this house.  It’s more like “since I have my paintbrush out, I should replace the toilet and the sink and the faucet and get all new everything” because we’re not really big fans of keeping things simple around here.  In fact, if there’s a way to make things harder and more complicated, that’s  pretty much what we do.

And so we went to the toilet store.

And Mister is kind of a big fan of the toilet.  As a matter of fact, he’s working on a coffee table or a bathroom reading book or whatever that has all pictures of toilets and men’s rooms in it.  It’s very important to him, the toilet.  And so he SAT ON THE TOILETS IN THE STORE TO TRY THEM OUT.

I was sort of mortified by this.

What?

I get mortified by things!

Why is that so hard for you to believe?

And then he had Girlfriend do it too, and Homeslice and I just sort of stood there, agog.  We didn’t know what to do and so I yelled at Mister to stop sitting on toilets in the toilet store and I said something like “why don’t you just pull your pants down, too!?! You’re not supposed to test them out in the store!”  and then some woman who had spent the past 10 minutes selecting just the right towel rack from a shelf full of IDENTICAL towel racks shouted in her Rhode Island accent “YES YOU AH! YES YOU AH! IT’S VERY IMPAWDINT!  I spent six months of my life making sure people got the right toilet!”

huh.

I have questions.

1) Why did she shout at me?

b) Why would anyone spend 6 months of her life fitting people for toilets?

4) Would you sit on toilets in the store?

f) Do I have poop issues or is it weird to sit on toilets in the store?  I mean, Home Depot keeps them way up high.  I imagine that’s to keep people from using them.

10) Right?

So I thought we’d do something different with our Christmas lights this year:

And I thought it might be fun to have blue lights because it’s Girlfriend’s favorite color, but now that I look at this picture, I think my little cherry tree looks like the Ghost of Christmas Past is waiting to show me what an asshole I am.  Either that, or it reminds me of that episode of The Bloodhound Gang when there was a mysterious glow coming from the garden and everyone thought it was a ghost, but it was really a bag of fertilizer or something.  Either that or it looks like Jesus is coming to kick Santa’s ass for stealing his thunder.

What do you guys think?

 Loading ...

PS: It’s Toy With Me day!  Tiger Woods is a Total Amateur.

I know you already know this pisses me off to no end, but I saw it yesterday on the way to work and I just…I’m disgusted.

The EPC’s do it, I think, to remind us all how they are ladies of leisure and they want us to know they’re going right back to bed after they drop the mini EPCs off at school but WHY  DO PEOPLE THINK IT’S OKAY TO WEAR PAJAMAS AND BEDROOM SLIPPERS OUT TO THE GROCERY STORE AT THREE IN THE AFTERNOON???? (or any time for that matter)

Seriously. And then I was at the doctor’s the other day and this fucking hugely pregnant asshole walked in with messy hair, dirty old beat up HOMER SIMPSON slippers, and TWEETY BIRD pajamas that didn’t fit over her belly, which was hanging out of her shirt and she was sporting the big dark line and everything.  EW! I weep for her unborn child.  WEEP.

I can already see the kid drinking soda out of a baby bottle, but I won’t get started on that rant (today).

ahem.

When did it become acceptable to do this?

I understand pajamas are comfortable, but really?  So are yoga pants.  So are sweat pants.  Wear a fucking Batman costume for all I care, but wear CLOTHING! One of my neighbors wears a sports jersey, sports themed pajama pants, and a baseball cap every. single. day.  That’s her uniform.  She has one Fancy Dress Up outfit consisting of a tie dye Grateful Dead tee shirt and black sweat pants with the elastic at the bottom.  I don’t think she has a job and she seems pretty proud of that because there’s no better way to advertise your uselessness than wearing your obviously slept in pajamas and slippers when you mix with the rest of productive society.

What scares me is in a few years, there will be another level of “comfort” that people insist on.

What’s the next level of comfort after pajamas, Queefies?

Anyone?

Anyone?

NAKED!

People are going to start going out naked and then I’m going to have to burn my eyes out with acid.

Who’s with me?

I don’t want to burn my eyes out with acid, you guys.

And before any one of you dirty birds (Mister) says that it will be wonderful when people start going out naked, let me remind you what most people look like.

Right?

You don’t want to see that.

So, what I propose is this:  every time we see some loser hanging around in pajamas and slippers out in public we punch them in the neck and throw shoes at them.

We have to stop this before it gets worse, because it will.

Mark my words!

You know how when you come out of Target and some ass clown has parked a Porsche SUV sofuckingclose to your car that you don’t know how he/she managed to get out of the driver’s side door, and you realize there’s no way you’re going to get your baby carrier back into your car unless you violently and with great force open the door and smash the shit out of the Porsche SUV’s door because your car is old and you don’t give a fuck anyway because you’re a total badass and then you struggle and fight to cram your baby seat into your car and the baby’s eyes are are open super wide and she’s all “what’s happening to my chair?” and you finally get it in there but OH NO!

The pretty paint on the Porsche seems to be damaged.

Huh.

It’s a shame, really.

And then, just in case you were going to miss an opportunity to really stick it to the ass monkey, you might have no place to put your gum after you’ve finished with it and so maybe you stick it under the door handle.

Maybe.

Or maybe you just wish you had a piece of gum because that’s what you’d do with it if you did, which maybe you don’t and so you make a mental note to always have gum from now on.

And maybe you’re so fucking fed up with people being assholes that you drive all the way home feeling pretty satisfied that you just showed one of them what’s what (sort of).  And maybe you even had some fantasies  about what you’d do if they came out to their car whilst you were struggling with your baby seat, and maybe you felt sad that you never took those Ninjitsu classes like you always wanted because you know a ninja would never put up with that shit and so you make another note to become a ninja because it’s up to us to teach them, Queefies.

One dicklicking cuntburger at a time.