Archive for the 'You're gonna shit when I tell you!' Category

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.

I’m not dead yet!  I swear you guys!

I’ve been very busy doing some very BIG things!

I don’t work at the library anymore.  I quit.

I quit because I GOT A FANCY LADY JOB!!!!!

Yes!  I did!

It’s my second week as a real, full time fancy copywriter and social media maven at a web development, PR, advertising and marketing company.  I work for my friend Gina who is so much fancier than your friend Gina I can’t even tell you.

Can you believe this shit?  It’s dreams coming true here, people.  DREAMS COMING TRUE.

And we had to hire a babysitter for Homeslice and guess what?

SHE DOES THE DISHES AND THE LAUNDRY AND OMG SHE DUSTED!

I have a maidlaundressnanny.

I just need a whore and all my dreams will have come true. All of them.

This  sure beats the Great Brain Tumor Crisis of Early 2011, I can tell you that much.

So yes.  I am a real writer with a real job and stuff now.  I kind of miss the library, but it’s more the people than the job.  That job was boring as hell.  Now I’m really busy all day and I get to wear cute clothes instead of the dingy corduroy pants I bought at Saver’s that I wore to the library. The people at my new job are super nice and everyone is so helpful and its totally okay to say “motherfucker” so obviously I fit right in.

Basically, I’m on cloud nine these days and I have to go now because I need some more fancy lady clothes and I have to buy them online because I’m sooooo busy being Queen.

I love you, Queefies!

OMG and PS:  I’m up on the Toy With Me’s talking about my vibrators again:

Je Joue Gi-Ki. Gumby For Your G-spot!

A few days ago, I got a friend request on Facebook from a stranger.  This is not a noteworthy event, I know, but check out his profile picture:

Um.  Yeah.  That kinda makes it noteworthy.

And his philosophy is:  Sex.

That’s it.

Sex.

And all his “friends” are either young girls or pictures of lacy thongs.

He is so barking up the wrong tree with me it’s not even funny!  Think again, buddy!

Doesn’t he know he’s talking to a frigid 36 year-old librarian with a brain full of tumors and a constant period?  He’d probably be pretty interested in the lactation though.  That’s pretty awesome if you’re a sickie.

Anyway, it got interesting after I ignored the request and got a message from him that said:

I’ve just come back from the doctor.  I don’t have just one brain tumor.

I have 10 of them.

I have 10 brain tumors.

The good news is that they are very small and benign and they’re not going to treat them, but just keep an eye on them.  They’re called “microadenomas” and aside from causing annoying symptoms like the boob juice and maybe the sudden and intense bout with anxiety and the weird periods, they are not cause for alarm.

Except now I totally intend to use them as an excuse for any number of behaviors, like, “I couldn’t do the dishes!  I have 10 brain tumors!” or “I cannot WORK, I have 10 brain tumors.”  or ” I cannot give you a blow job, I have 10 brain tumors!”

So now we need to think of a new superhero name for me.  I’m thinking Adenoma Woman or Super Tumor Lady or something much cooler than something someone with a brain full of tumors can come up with.

I don’t know.

Suggestions are welcome below.

Your Queen is going to live and if I may be honest here, I think I’m pretty badass because when I go, I go BIG.  I don’t just get a brain tumor.  I get 10.

Top THAT, bitches.

PS: In celebration, I went across the street and bought a pair of very nice and very expensive boots I’ve been lusting after for a long time.  Also, I sense a HUGE hangover in my future.  Like, tomorrow morning at this time, I should be barely functional.

So yesterday I went into Target to return some stuff Girlfriend got for Christmas that was either too big for her to wear or had too many little pieces for me to pick up off the floor. They took the toys back without a problem, but the little yoga pants and the sweater were handed, nay, shoved back to me as if they were made of dog shit. The woman was all fucking kinds of snotty and said “ma’am, I cannot take these things back in such poor condition.” And I’m all “What do you mean? The tags are all on. These things have not been worn!” And she was all “We cannot put these things out on the floor like this. They’re COVERED in hair.”

Okay. First of all, there was probably a total of four Pig Pussy furs on the little yoga pants and ONE white poupon of lint on the sweater. Nothing was in “poor condition” and I certainly hadn’t wiped my ass with the stuff like she was implying I had. She didn’t even fold it, she just balled it up and shoved it at me.

So then I was all “so all I have to do is go home and lint roll this stuff and you’ll take it back?” And she was all huffy and was like “If you want.”

I left because there were about ten other Target customers in line behind me patiently awaiting their snotty attitude and their dog shit handsies backsies. Mister told me I should have put up a fuss, but I didn’t want to be rude to the other people. I didn’t want to be THAT Target customer and have everyone hate me. I’ve had enough haters lately, thankyouverymuch.

I took my list of stuff I needed from there and left the store WITHOUT BUYING ANYTHING!

That will teach them! I could have dropped $100 in there easily, but I did not because they’re dicks and I hate Target now.

I’ve been meaning to break up with that place for a long time and now I’ve had enough!

WE’RE THROUGH, TARGET! DO YOU HEAR ME? All. FUCKING. DONE.

Now that I don’t shop there anymore, I might be able to afford to buy myself a fancy car and I will drive by the store and shout rudeness at Target and they will probably cry because they miss me but I will just turn up the radio on my fancy car stereo and not give two shits.

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.

Sshhhhhh!

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

Are those public bathroom toilet seats as yucky as you think?

The Dreaded Public Restroom

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

Once upon a time, I had a beautiful Greyhound named Tashi.

She was the love of my life, and I still get all teary when I think about her. I was so devastated after she died that I vowed that I could never own another Greyhound again. And then last week I was thinking about her and how she would have been great with Alice and Big Pussy and Homeslice and Girlfriend and so I made a phone call to Greyhound Pets of America and got an appointment to look at some Greyhounds.

It was EASY. They answered the phone on the first ring and said we could come any time to look at the dogs. Nobody ignored me. Nobody treated me like I was inconveniencing them, and nobody was going to stand me up. No more messing around with these Rescue groups. This is a national organization and they don’t mess around.

On Friday, we picked Girlfriend up from school instead of waiting for the bus to arrive, and made the hour long trip on a cold and raw day. The adoption coordinator kept the kennel at her house, and was very sick that day. She kept having to go inside to throw up due to some heavy medication she was on. She could have canceled, and had good reason to, but she was there with a volunteer, dedicated to finding a home for one of her dogs. They stood out in the cold and the damp with us, discussing and choosing the best 5 candidates out of 28 dogs to show us.

We spent time with each and every one of them, and they were all wonderful, but one in particular hit us all in the chest. This one showered Homeslice with kisses and walked nicely with Girlfriend on the leash.

And when I bent down to pet her, she kissed my face and put her head on my shoulder and leaned into me.

It was all over at that point. AFC’s Allison, fresh off a track in Pensacola Florida was destined to be ours. We went home and started making preparations to bring her home with us the next day. Girlfriend picked out a brush and a fluffy bed.

We even got her a seat belt for the car ride, which, by the way, was pure comedy.

It was exactly like trying to stuff a giraffe into briefcase.

Greyhounds aren’t great at sitting down, and so it took massive effort to get her to sit in our front seat. The adoption lady had walked us to the car and was standing there the whole time watching us trying to stuff this mass of gangly legs and claws into our clown car. She had concerns, I could tell, but she still let us take her.

Allison didn’t stay seated for long and preferred to spend her first ever car ride standing up, panting in Mister’s face and stepping on the center console window controls. When she wasn’t doing the windows up and down, she was farting. When she wasn’t doing that, she was trying to wiggle out of her seat belt to come and sit in the backseat with me and Homeslice and Girlfriend. She was all legs and claws and drool and farts for the entire ride and we had to pull over to re-situate her. And of course there was traffic. And of course, Homeslice thought it might add to the occasion by screaming her head off for 40 out of the 60 minutes. And Girlfriend kept asking the kind of ludicrous questions only a five-year-old can come up with.

We finally got her home and introduced her to Alice, which went well, but as soon as we got into the house and she encountered the hard wood floor, she was exactly like Bambi on ice. Her legs splayed out all over because she’s never been inside a people house before. Shiny, slippery wood is not a surface she’s ever walked on.

She’s still struggling with that three days later, but she’s getting better. She kind of skates from carpet to carpet. We still have to carry her up and down the stairs because she’s never seen those before either. She’s desperately thin with chunks of fur missing and lots of scabs and scrapes just starting to heal from track life. There’s fur missing from around her eyes and behind her ears from where the muzzle rubbed it away, and she’s kind of depressed. This is like a re-birth for her and she needs time to adjust. She hasn’t had one accident in the house and is really good at holding her pees and poops.

We feel privileged to have the opportunity to help her learn how to be a spoiled and beloved pet instead of a money making slave. She is a sweet and gentle soul and we are already madly in love. She’s standing next to me right now with her head in my lap. How cool is that?

Alice likes her, too.

And Big Pussy doesn’t give a crap one way or the other.

The only problem we have is that her name is Allison and every time we call her, Alice comes running, but we’re still calling Allison and poor Alice is like “I’m here! Why are you screwing with me!?! WHAT IS HAPPENING???”

So, we need a new name and you, marvelous Queefies, get to help us. You can vote for up to two names or leave us a suggestion if you think we suck with our old lady names.

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So I was just sitting on my bed with Homeslice looking at some books and magazines when she picked up the Victoria’s Secret Holiday catalog and pointed to the chick on the cover and said “mommy!”

I did not argue with her even though I’m so much hotter than that chick.

And then she picked up Better Homes and Gardens and pointed to the turkey on the cover and said “daddy!”

Mister, apparently our daughter thinks I’m an underpants model and you are a turkey.