This is my real address book.  It is not a joke.

It’s left over from 10 years ago from my baby shower invite list.  It’s evolved over time as people have moved and/or died and/or turned into assholes or whatever, but here it is in all it’s glory.

The list lives in a drawer full of other junk I have no idea about and gets smooshed, crunched, ,moved and mashed all year until it’s Christmas time again and I am forced to face it for real to get the cards done.

If you don’t get a card from me, it’s probably because my address book is a pile of ripped up papers.  Please, take no offence.

It’s not you, it’s me.

Organizing this is not really high on my list of priorities, ya know?  It just makes Christmas card sending a real buttfuck of a task, but it’s the only time I think about it, so does it matter that it looks like this?


Mister is the most disorganized person in the universe and even he judges me for it, so it must be really terrible.  I’m failing to see the major impact this has on my life, so I make only the most feeble attempts at organizing it. Last year,  I put a clip on it to keep it all together. That was progress the list had not seen since about March of 2005.  Maybe this year I’ll put it in an envelope?

No I won’t.

Don’t anybody suggest sitting and typing them all in because that is a hilarious.

I have a genius system where, if somebody moves, I rip the return addresses off of the envelope and put it in the clip on top of the  messy pile. Sometimes I just keep the whole envelope because I’m too lazy to rip the new address off. Maybe I cross off the old address, maybe I don’t.  It’s exactly like Christmas card roulette, and I’m ok with it because I like my cards to go on an adventure.  See the old house, perhaps get forwarded to the new place.  Maybe make some friends on the road?

That sort of thing.

So yeah.  If you get a card from us this year, you’d better shit your dick because you are one lucky and special motherfucker (who has probably not moved in ten years.)

Merry Christmas (maybe).




For those of you who don’t know, we have lost Ehpa and Eric. They had to move very far away since Eric does something very specific and artsy and although there are plenty of jobs, and he was in quite high demand, none of them were local. The best offer was a great (and pretty much the ONLY) opportunity for their family, but a total freaking bummer for us.

Not acceptable.

We tried to keep them here.  Eric even considered becoming a mason, doing bathroom tiles if there was work to keep what had become a family and a happy life in Rhode Island together but alas, they had to go. I even tried to talk Ehpa into installing a shower cam, but she wouldn’t do it because she doesn’t love me enough.

Cross country moves are a total dick in the ear. I feel sorry for them.

Xanax and HulkSmash! became our children and Girlfriend and Homeslice’s best friends. The relationship worked in every way and combination imaginable. This is unlike family, who you don’t get to choose but have to live with anyway, we got to become a functional family of our own choosing.

We laughed, cried and consumed alarming amounts of vodka sodas, wine, whatever. We did topless tequila body shots (photos are private, sorry) and we ruined their religion (one that of course prohibited any kind of fun whatsoever) in under 6 weeks of knowing us.

Feather firmly placed in cap for that one.  The QOFE’s are forfuckingreal. Warn your children!

We had Taylor Swift dance parties (we changed the words from “Feeling 22” to “Feeling 39”) and we sang all the lyrics to Cake songs even though we got them wrong a lot, we did what we could to keep up.

(Sans vodka, we prolly woulda nailed that shit.)

We ate Ehpha’s special recipe for floor chicken and choked down many an inadequately prepared dinner multiple times a week.

We Skype and Facetime and text and facebook message, but it’s really hard to have floor chicken that way. Technology, please try to keep up with our needs. You cannot taste the minuscule dirt from Ehpa’s special floor chicken recipe via Skype.

Make it happen, bitch!

Maybe I can replicate it for you guys: basic recipe involves placing a chicken in the oven. Open bottle of wine, drink all of it and only think about it for like an hour until after a full bottle of wine is gone.  After wine-thirty, nobody (particularly Ehpa) is able to remove the chicken from the oven without it getting dropped on the floor. Of course everyone’s floor chicken will taste differently depending on what’s on your floor.

My floor chicken would taste like dog hair, dog pee and sandbox sand.  Her’s had more of a nice spice to it—kinda like a combo of salt and pepper, dog hair and dust.

I feel like eating dirt off the floor is a benefit because immunity systems are being strengthened.

AND dinner is fuckin’ ready for the hungry, screaming, whining masses of children!

Parenting, partying, dinner and immunity strengthening all done in one fell swoop.

Done and done.

Special note to Ehpa: “Happy, free, confused and lonely in the worst way.  It’s miserable and magical.”

Have any of you  Queefies lost your bffs?  how did you deal with that loss?

I wish I could tell you I have some health related updates and answers for you guys, but I don’t.

I still have swollen lymph nodes and I even have a few new ones, I still have boob juice, and I still have double periods. Is that everything? I think that’s everything. Sometimes I forget all the stuff and remember there was another thing in my pile of ailments.

Oh, right. There is now a lump on my thyroid that my OBGYN said is another lymph node. She’s testing for all kinds of stuff now too. I get that bloodwork back on the 18th.

I went for an MRI on the 30th to see about the toomah.

It was okay—the MRI, not the toomah. I don’t know about the toomah yet. I only started crying when they showed me the cage they were going to put over my face before sliding me into the machine. I thought “Open MRI” meant like, you know, OPEN? But no. It doesn’t. It means the sides of the thing are open so you don’t go into a tunnel, but you are still enclosed very closely AROUND YOUR HEAD. Had I known there would be a cage put over my head I never would have shown up for that thing conscious. Instead I popped a Xanax and went about my way, Mister at my side and a guided relaxation CD in my hand.

I bumped into the glass on the receptionist’s window because it was so clean I couldn’t see it. I felt like a Major Asshole. Then I handed her my credit card instead of my insurance card and I only filled out one of the three forms she asked me to do. I handed in INCOMPLETE WORK!

She must have thought I was a moron, so, to cover it up, I told her I took a Xanax. I don’t know if that helped my case or just made me look like a bigger douche.

And then I got into the MRI machine room thing and saw the cage they were going to put on my head and I lost it a little bit. But the guy was really nice and very soothing and he helped me through the whole thing. I couldn’t hear my CD though because the machine was so loud. It kind of sucked being injected with dye with the cage thing still on my head. I don’t like needles.

I hate them, actually. I hate them even more when there’s a thing holding my head still and I can’t see what’s going on.

But I survived it, you guys. I survived it. Mister held my hand the whole time and it took about 30 minutes. I got to see my brain afterward. I’m no doctor, but it looked okay to me. I won’t find out if my actual doctor agrees until the 11th. I guess the good news is that there is a brain in there. We wondered about that, so that’s a relief. Mister made jokes to the MRI guy like “I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on inside my wife’s head for years!” because he’s fucking funny.

I’m just glad he didn’t try to bring his camera because I’d rather not have pictures of me wearing a Hannibal Lector mask and a blue hospital gown. He thinks I’m a bitch for interfering with his art. I just think we can stop at that picture he posted of my placenta and have that be enough of enough.

Other than that scary MRI bullshit, we had a good Christmas which I was able to actually enjoy thanks to the Lexapro starting to work, and a wonderful New Year’s Eve. THE Melissa Lion came with Fancyhats and Archie and stayed the night. We ate absolute crap food almost continuously for like, 10 hours, and drank way too much champagne. Basically we did all the stuff you’re supposed to do on New Year’s Eve except we were all wearing pajamas and didn’t give a shit about our hair. We had a wonderful time together and I’m really sad that they don’t live near us. We would hang with them all the time and Melissa would never hurt me or abandon me. I know she wouldn’t. Girlfriend and Archie totally hit it off and didn’t have one single argument. That’s pretty remarkable because just between you and me, Girlfriend has attitude. But Archie has the same type of attitude. It’s like they were made for each other!

The Melissa Lions didn’t even notice that for breakfast on New Year’s Day I totally bought pre-made fruit salad and then I had Mister cut it up smaller because they always do huge chunks (seriously whose mouth is that big? Are they making it for a yeti?) and then I had him dump it into a bowl and made it look like we made it ourselves when really, no such thing had occurred.


So, in summary, I’m not dead yet, we had a really great holiday season and I faked a fruit salad and fed it to The Melissa Lions.

The end.

PS: The title to this post has absolutely nothing to do with anything except that Mister said it while on the phone with me last night and I thought it was funny, so there you have it. That’s the funniest thing about this whole post other than me bumping into the receptionist window and telling everyone I came across that I took a Xanax.

PSS: Today is a Toy with Me day. It’s one of my last as I just found out that they are changing their format back to doing only toy reviews, so enjoy it while it’s here. I’ll link you up when that becomes available.

PSSS: Why My Vagina Is Steaming

So there I was admiring the artwork in the waiting room of Dr. Jan Penkala, Wookie Doctor Extraordinaire, and wondering what yard sale he got that shit from.

There’s a clown picture apparently painted by a fifth grader, a HUGE photo portrait of somebody’s baby girl that is undoubtedly meant to be the focal point of the room, a sketch of an old fashioned baby carriage, and a pastel elephant holding an umbrella.

These babyish things are punctuated by the long shelf full of birth control brochures. Are we decorating a gynecologist’s office or a nursery here? Make up your mind, Wookie man. You can’t have your birth control AND your babies. Come on now.

I wondered how many times I studied that clown picture while sitting in that waiting area, feeling really nervous because I knew I wasn’t getting out of there without taking my pants off and being violated first.

So I waited and waited. Waitwaitwaitwaitwait and then finally I hear my favorite nurse, the one who calls me “honey” and makes me feel safe, say “Kristen?”

It was finally my time to go into the back where the magic happens. I thought I’d be seeing the good doctor any minute, but there I was, naked from bottoms down with my paper skirt on, waiting some more. I studied the charts detailing ovulation and pregnancy and read the warning label on the light they use to light up the ol’ love tunnel. I tried not to look at the cart full of scary looking gynecological accoutrements. Once I’d looked at everything except that, there was nothing more to look at in the exam room, so I started looking at myself.

I found a little ingrown hair on my pubical area and of course, I picked at it.

Instantly, there was a knock on the door and in walked Dr. Jan Penkala, Wookie Doctor Extraordinaire. As soon as he pulled back my paper skirt, he exclaimed “oh WOW! Have you been operating on yourself here, dear?” And at first I didn’t know what he was talking about but then I realized.

The ingrown hair was bleeding.

Oh, jeezus. He told me to take it easy on myself and kept checking to see if I had stopped bleeding yet.

What we can learn from this experience Queefies is that if there is a way for me to add extra humiliation to an already humiliating experience, I will find it instinctively.

God, Crissy! Seriously!

The rest of the exam went well and the shadow he saw on the ultrasound was nothing, and even though I have a thicker than average uterus, he’s not going to treat me with any hormones. He wants to see more consistently irregular bleeding first. He’s very conservative, so that’s good.

I guess I shouldn’t be too embarrassed though. The man has seen me shit out a baby, so really my pride flew out the window 17 months ago.

But still.

UGH! Rookie mistake.

Also, it’s Wednesday!

Americans Suck At Flirting