Almost every day at lunch break, my friend Pam and I go for a power walk. We go up and down and all over the east side of Providence wearing our work dresses, statement necklaces, tights with boot socks still pulled up to the knee with our sporty shoes on.

We are fancy.

We almost always end up at Rite Aid for somethingorother; many times it’s chocolate and tampons.

The same cashier is always there. Her name is Joanne. We see her every single day and she never gives any indication that she’s seen us before. It’s been nearly four years. There should be some sort of rapport by now, but nope. Nothing.

We’re just two more customers to get out of her way so she can go back to sticking orange clearance stickers on hideous bottles of nail polish and expired boxes of Cheeze-Its.

At first, Pam and I were hurt that Joanne doesn’t want to be friends with us, but then Pam had a revelation and diagnosed her with Facial Blindness which we thought was a thing that only existed on Arrested Development, but turns out it’s the real deal and Joanne’s got it.

This works out for Pam and me because most of our purchases are embarrassing–especially the purchase I made last week.

You see, I’ve been having some irregularity issues because: 40.

And I have a friend who’s a doctor and she is kind enough to humor my hypochondriacical tendencies. She instructed me that 1) it’s not colon cancer and 2) to take a probiotic and some Citrucel. So, I had the probiotics and had already started taking them, but had to pop into Rite Aid to get the Citrucel.

Whilst purchasing said Citrucel, I had an incident.  It was loud, proud and quickly filled Rite Aid with the smell of probiotics doing noble work.

I was the only customer in line.

It was undeniable.

Oh god.

Pam wasn’t with me that day, so I had to endure the entire walk back to work choking on my own laughter to the point of sputtering and gagging, bag of Citrucel swinging expectantly at my side.

So, this is why I’m actually glad that Pam had diagnosed Joanne with Facial Blindness because I can still go into Rite Aid and know that Joanne has no idea I’m the one who did it.  In fact, she may not remember it at all because who knows what’s she’s got going on upstairs?

She’s somewhere in her 50’s and she’s a cashier at Rite Aid. ‘Nuff said.

College ain’t for everybody, guys.

If Joanne were able to recognize us, I would ask her to sign a HIPPA because the things Pam and I purchase would certainly warrant such a thing.  Pam and her husband, Ethan, are on the baby train and Joanne was very helpful in determining if the buy one get one free sale applied to both ovulation predictor kits AND pregnancy tests.  It did.  Hooray for Pam!

And since Pam is still not with child (sad face here), Joanne won’t think anything of it when we go in for tampons and chocolate (for the one billionth time).

Only Joanne knows how much chocolate Pam and I consume in one week. It would disturb anyone except her because she doesn’t remember we just bought three bags of M&M’s yesterday and we’re back for more a mere 24 hours later.

Even Monica the ninjarapist (that’s ninja-therapist not ninja rapist, although she’s badass enough to rape a ninja and get away with it) knows Joanne since her office is across the street.  We talked about it in therapy and she agrees.  Facial blindness is the only answer.  We also considered professionalism but quickly ruled it out because sometimes we like to be mean because sometimes being mean in private therapy is very therapeutic.

Anyway, my only regret from that day is that I didn’t say: “I hope that’s the last asshole you hear from today.”

Hindsight is a bitch.


So the other day I was getting out of my car after work and when I opened the door, I was hit in the face by a powerful smell.

It smelled like a swimming pool full of semen, you guys.

I’m not talking about that delicate whiff of it you get in the spring time when the cum trees are in bloom. It was more like what it must be like to be on the “catching” end in a Japanese Bukkake film.

As I walked into the house, I made a mental note to tell Hippymom Supernanny that if she’s going to be filming porn in my driveway while the kids are napping, she needs to hose down a little better because seriously?

I mean, what she does during her break time is her business, but mop up woman, for the love of god!

But I forgot to mention it to her and thank goodness I did because the next day I noticed this sticking out of the mulchy area that frames the driveway:

Oh, hello! And, EW! Whatthefuck?

As I got closer I realized this was where the smell was coming from.

There is a penis mushroom that smells like Japanese Bukkake porn growing in my yard.

So I yelled to Mister “THERE’S A DICK IN OUR YARD!” and he ran outside with his camera and took that picture for the Queefies because who would believe that The Crissys have penises growing out of the ground at their house?

Actually, if you know us, this is completely believable, but anyway.

I felt very protective of our penis mushroom because I was afraid that the guy across the street, Captain Underpants, had a blog and that he would see it and he would post about it on his blog first. But then I realized that was silly because Captain Underpants only cares about swearing “fuckingcocksucker!” at his car and shoveling snow in his undershorts. Oh and he wears his soccer gear just for shits, even when there’s no game.  So, I’m pretty sure I’m the first one in our neighborhood to blog about this.  Also, I’m not sure Captain Underpants is what you’d call a reader never mind a mushroom identifier and certainly probably not a writer.

I’m just being paranoid, but can you blame me?  Penis mushrooms are very special.

And it looks really nice next to the statue of Mister.

And of course we looked it up.

We are truly blessed to have such a marvelous thing in our yard.

Thank you, Satan.

Only I make it with garbanzo beans because sausage is yucky. And, I’ve had a loaf of rye bread rising since yesterday so tonight’s dinner, while comprised mostly of cabbage and bread, will be pretty kick ass and Polish-y.  Not to mention that we don’t even have $30 in our bank account right now so even if we wanted to eat something other than cabbage and bread, we couldn’t.  I’m also just now wondering if I have Sauerkraut in the pantry because I’m fucked if we don’t.  I could prolly scrape up enough change from around the house to run out for a can of that, I guess.  Just don’t tell Mister I bought anything, okay?

Being po’ sucks ass, you guys.  We tried to re-finance our house, and as it turns out, we can’t do it because we are upside down because the fuckers who bought the gigantic, gorgeous old house behind us got it for a song and it really hurt our property value. We now owe more than the house is worth.  Last year, we were up $100,000.  Sucks.  But the good news is that we can still pay for our house and if we have to have cabbage soup sometimes at the end of the week on mortgage check week, so be it.  There are worse things.  Like we could be out there pooper scooping and making a lively Shadoobie Stew out of Alice’s ultra processed dog food.  Now THAT’S how to reduce, reuse, recycle, amiright?  And if we get another dog, that’s more food for us!  It’s like money in our pockets!

You’re not hardcore, unless you live hardcore.  I’ve been telling you guys that for years.

Actually, I’m totally informing the next dirty hippie I see that we do that, and also that we fertilize the garden with the contents of my Diva Cup.

I love watching people slowly step away with their hands out in that “I don’t want any trouble, I’m just going to back away quietly” stance.

It’s cute, and it makes them go away.

Did you Queefs know that Mister is 1/2 Polish and I’m 1/4 Polish and so that makes Homeslice and Girlfriend….what?

Polish + some other crap.

Is my math right on that?

I’m not so good with The Math.

What I do know is that at this very moment Homeslice has a handful of Girlfriend’s hair and she (Homeslice) is shrieking like a Howler Monkey because she wants to sit next to me and Girlfriend is in her way. Ironically, Girlfriend, in an attempt at self-defense, is beating Homeslice in the face with the book The Philosophical Baby.

The Polish are a jealous, violent, and shrill people.

On second thought, I’m not sure feeding them the food of their ancestors is such a great idea after all.

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


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.

So yesterday was interesting because I was sitting at my kitchen counter minding my own business when my brother came in.

Somehow, as he sat down next to me, he woke up the computer and what popped onto the screen but some Ass Porn Mister left up on the desktop. Without missing a beat, my brother picked up the bottle of Wood Glue that Mister left on the counter right next to the computer and said, “you never told me Ken had trouble with his wood!  It’s because he’s using the wrong thing!  This will never work! You want it less sticky! What a dumbass.”

And then we laughed and talked about how our parents are wet blankets and are always trying to ruin our lives with their “advice” and their “concerns” and then he told me my dad was in the hospital for chest pain.


Like, when were you gonna tell me that, fuck face?  And so I called Papa to get the story and he didn’t know anything yet, and I’m just picturing my dad walking into the ER, having driven himself there because everyone knows that’s what you do when you think you’re having a heart attack is go for a drive, about 100 lbs overweight eating a bacon sandwich with a ruby red face and well? It’s amazing they didn’t just bust out the crash cart right there at the registration desk. He’s never had a heart attack before and that is surprising what with his short temper and his love of all things meat.  Or ice cream. Or chips.  Or cookies.  Or anything that Tastes Good.

But he didn’t have a heart attack, you guys.  It’s a pulmonary embolism.  A really big one. And he has The p-newmonia too. He’s going to be in the hospital all week and when I called him, he was cranky as ever. He’s going to be fine. If he has the strength to complain that he’s going to be out of work for a week, he has the strength to not have a heart attack or a stroke, depending on if the clot dislodges and where it goes if it does.  So that’s my story about my dad almost dying but not quite yet so hold your condolences. I’ll keep you posted.

Let’s see…what else?

Oh, Girlfriend did a classy move. She decided to make friends with that little Twattington who gave her a hard time on the bus last week. They’re best friends now. I stayed up all night trying to figure out how to handle the situation and she knew the whole time exactly what to do. I guess I’m doing a decent enough job with this whole parenting thing. Who knew?

And Homeslice just woke up, so I gotta run.

It’s a Toy with Me day!

The Permanipplelipilis

Love you guys!