Archive for the 'Oops! I crapped my pants' Category

So I’ve been doing Brazil Butt Lift:

Because YES!  I WANT TO LIFT MY BUTT!

And I dare say that Leandro Carvalho has way more feminine energy than my Jillian Michaels.

I mean, he even looks more like a girl than she does:

Sure, she has longer hair and more stubble than Leandro, but do a little Jillianscaping and you’ve got a dude.

Look, they put her in a dress once:

She looked really pretty, but then she was like, “OH MY GOD IT BURNS!! GET IT OFF ME!!! GET ME MY TEE SHIRT!!! IMMEDIATELY!!!”

“Ahhh…that’s so much better.  I feel like myself again.”

Have you tried her yoga DVD by the way?

Every time I play it, it rains. That’s how I know that Jillian Michaels doing yoga makes God cry.

Actually, that’s not true. It makes him want to wear a lady’s wig and eat birthday cake.

I kid, I kid. I love my Jillian but yoga is not her forte and neither is being feminine and dancy and sometimes, I just want to be feminine and dancy, and not all butch and diesel.

That’s why I’m really into this Leandro fellow. Not only is the Brazil Butt Lift really fun to do, (particularly the Cardio Axe, which is pronounced Cardio Ash-ay, btw) but it makes me laugh every time he does his “samba tornado” because he’s such a girl. A big, Brazilian girl with stubble and pit hair and a wicked firm ass. And he’s all like “give it to me, Mary!” and “Have fun…show your booty…your bum bum! Don’t be afraid to show what you got!” in his adorable accent.

The only problem is that I am so, so, so not coordinated in the booty shaking, hip gyrating area, and so I look like I’m convulsing more than Brazil Butt Lifting, but I’ve decided it’s all good because I’m having fun. Actually, it’s a lot like when Jillian does yoga. She’s clearly aware that what she’s doing is a total abomination, but she’s not going to apologize for it and neither am I.

If my new Latino neighbors happen to see me through the window, trying my little white girl heart out to do the Lambada moves, and they wind up pointing and laughing and running inside because it’s raining again, so be it.

I, Queefies, will not care because my ass is gonna be spectacular and they can just get an umbrella and shut the fuck up.

OMG. Remember that time I wanted to be exactly like Erykah Badu?

So the other day my good friend MsDarkstar forwarded me an email from someone who owns a private membership sex hotel and is looking to employ me as a once a month blog writer.

YAY!

Woot! Woot!

But not so much with the yay and woot-woot because when I spoke with him on the phone he said I’m “too white” and that his audience is young, urban, upscale and mainly black–think Kanye West drinking Hennessey and blaming it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol.

See? That’s all I know about young, urban, upscale, black folks–they blame it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol. Actually, so do I, so maybe we are more alike my friends than we are unalike? (what poem is that from? High five to the Queefie who gets it without Googling).

Clearly, I’m in over my head with my skinny white ass.

Did Eminem ever fret so? I think not. He’s not from Rhode Island: Home of the White People.

But before giving up, I’m going to give it a whirl because I have managed to fool some people on the Interwebz into thinking I’m pretty and funny and interesting, so maybe I can fool people into thinking I’m young, urban, upscale, and black, too.

Maybe I am *that good* of a writer. This has yet to be tested.

Just in case though, I emailed my only black friend to see if maybe she’d just want the job instead and even she was like “I still say things like get jiggy with it and what up? I can’t do it! Totally not up my alley.” Okay, so if my hot black friend who lives in a city isn’t comfortable, how will I ever pull this off?

So, at the suggestion of a white friend who has a black friend (are you still with me?), I bought a bottle of Hennessey, “cause’ dat’s wass hood” and spent the whole weekend pretending to be P-Diddy.

Other than having a pretty dope collection of new designer sunglasses and several children by different Babymamas, I’m still no blacker than I was, and so I’m still fucked.

The trouble is, aside from my one black friend, I don’t actually know any black people. I grew up in and still live in a part of the country where there really aren’t any black folks around. They’re like, a novelty around here. In fact, when I was telling Lynne about this gig, she looked out to the lobby of the library and was like “OMG! THERE’S A BLACK PERSON IN THE LOBBY RIGHT NOW!! YOU WANT ME TO SEE IF HE’LL BE YOUR FRIEND?” I said “no” because there was no guarantee that he was the right type of black person I need to help me find my voice for this particular gig.

And that was the last black person that either I or anyone else I know has seen in days and now I’ve got a raging Hennessey hangover and nothing written for my Thursday deadline.

Maybe the Queefies can help me. What sort of topics would Kanye West be interested in reading about with regard to having sex in private membership sex hotels? Think Toy with Me only Kanye West is writing it and not me. Or Beyonce, except I’m a much better dancer than she is.

GO! Mama needs a new car and it ain’t gonna buy itself!

Yesterday I was waiting at the bus stop with Girlfriend when a woman in an SUV pulled up to the stop sign next to me and said “KRISTEN!! How are you? It’s me, Shyanna!” And I recognized her a little bit and then she said “You’re Kristen Smith, right?”

No.

I’m not, and when I told her I was not Kristen Smith I could see the disappointment on her face. God, I felt like a loser, but I can’t say I really blame the woman because that Kristen Smith and I look a lot alike and from what I remember, she was friends with Shyanna in high school. People got us confused a lot because we looked alike and had similar names (her last name isn’t really Smith, you guys), but you know what makes this story worth telling you?

Kristen Smith is the Kristen who wound up marrying The Panty Sniffer!!!

RIGHT???

Just when I think that crap isn’t going to come back, it does!

Wake up at 5.
5:15: Suck down horrible tasting coffee before giving up 1/2 way through despite desperate need for caffination because it tastes that bad. It was like someone jerked off in my coffee. Fuck you, Dunkin Donuts.  FUCK. YOU.
5:58 have two minutes to put on work out clothes, brush teeth, and check email. Computer crashes. Skip email. Put on work out gear and get ready to do Brazil Butt Lift for toned,tight, and high bum bum guaranteed!
6:02: Pick up toys from work out area. Cannot find Brazil Butt Lift DVD.
6:07: Locate Brazil Butt Lift DVD, put into player, DVD does not work.
6:07.5: Chuck piece of shit Brazil Butt Lift DVD across the room.
6:09: Sit on the floor and cry.
6:15: Settle for Turbo Jam instead, begin workout.
6:30: Mister leaving for work, hands Homeslice over to me.
6:55: Have paused Turbo Jam approximately 7 times to pull Homeslice off couch, dining room chairs, kitchen chairs, and train table, wipe Girlfriend’s ass, get her a pre-breakfast snack, and find “cup.”
7:15: Head upstairs for shower. Drag Homeslice kicking and screaming into the bathroom with selection of toys which she ignores in favor of standing with both hands on shower doors while screaming.
7:30: Dry off, get dressed in mis matched skirt and tee shirt from giant pile of laundry still waiting to be put away since motherfucking Saturday, change Homeslice’s poopy diaper while she writhes, twists, screams, and kicks at my face with shit on her heel. Brush Girlfriend’s hair while she screams bloody murder and Homeslice climbs up my leg, also screaming.
7:45: Homeslice finds horrible coffee left on my nightstand and dumps it all down her dress, my comforter, my bedskirt, and the floor.
7:47: Change Homeslice’s dress, mop floor, strip bed.
7:49 Discover that while I was cleaning the coffee mess, Homeslice has opened a bag of cotton balls and shred them all over the place. There’s also one in her mouth.
7:55: Girlfriend, for some reason, has taken off all her clothes and gotten back into what is left of my bed. I now have to fight her to get her to put them back on.
7:57: While fighting with Girlfriend, Homeslice finds the 1/2 full beer Mister left on his nightstand and dumps it into a basket of library books.
8:00: Wipe down and fan out library books.
8:20: Prepare and serve breakfast. It actually goes okay.
9:30: Go back upstairs to gather laundry. Pick up basket, carry down to first landing. Back up stairs, carry Homeslice down to landing. Pick up basket, carry to next landing. Go back up, carry Homeslice, repeat three more times until laundry is finally at washer in basement
9:55: Clean cat box, find that he’s eaten a good length of satin ribbon, gather Mister’s dirty dishes and empty beer cans from basement, collect Girlfriend’s shoes, get laundry out of washer.
10:15: Repeat stairs procedure and head out to clothes line to hang clothes out. Pull Homeslice off deck stairs approximately 897 times, give or take. Stop her from eating chalk. Stop her from walking through Alice’s Meadow Muffin Mine Field.
10:50: Go out to the garden to pick 8 million cherry tomatoes. Put 8 million cherry tomatoes into large silver bowl, while stopping to pull one out of Homeslice’s mouth about every other tomato.
11:00: Homeslice trips and falls into the bowl of 8 million cherry tomatoes, spilling the entire thing and sending them rolling all over the garden.
11:30: Re-collect tomatoes with Girlfriend’s help. Bring tomatoes in to sink to wash, open under sink cabinet to throw away paper towel and bottle of cleaning solution tumbles out of cabinet, onto floor and spills everywhere. Cleaning solution not safe for hardwoods. Douse floor with water while keeping Homeslice at bay with foot. Fail miserably, must now bathe Homeslice to get cleaning solution off her hands and arms and legs after she splashed in it.
12:13: Blogging about my morning which has been pretty typical actually while Homeslice, after a busy morning attempting suicide, is asleep in her organic freeze dried bananas. Girlfriend is having croutons and pickles for lunch and I’m totally understanding why those moms in the 1950’s were shit faced by 1:00.

I went to a party and bourbon and champagne invented The Three Girl Chest Bump for your viewing pleasure.

Because me and my friends are cool.

The end.

Happy Monday.

This has been the longest week already and it’s only fucking Tuesday?  This seems impossible to me.  It should be Friday, shouldn’t it?  Thursday at least.

Anyone having anxiety problems and not sleeping?

I am.

Only last night it was thunder that woke me up.  It sounded like the house next door exploded (oh lord wouldn’t that be wonderful?) but it was only thunder and it scared the bejeezus out of me and I sat straight up, gasping, my heart pounding, and never went back to sleep.  I’ve been awake since 2:30 worrying about things that are going on in my life right now and periodically crying my guts out and waking Mister up.

I’m so much fun I can hardly stand to be around myself.

Part of the freakout is anxiety about kindergarten.  I’m freaking out because I’m letting my Girlfriend go out into the world where people can hurt her and I won’t be there to kill them.  What if some little fucker is mean to her?  There isn’t shit I can do.  What if she gets on the wrong bus?  Will she be lost forever?

Is it still cool in Kindergarten to wear a Care Bears shirt?

What about a Care Bears lunchbox, because that’s what I got her.  It has a rainbow handle and sparkles.  Is somebody gonna beat her up now?  When I was in first grade, Justin Lyons had a Star Wars lunchbox and it infuriated me.  I totally wanted to choke him for being such a dork.  I remember telling my grandfather about it, it was that big of a deal.

My lunchbox had Lassie on it which was much cooler, obviously.

I don’t want anyone to persecute Girlfriend for loving Care Bears,  I don’t.

And I’m signing her up for a yoga class and an acting class and do you think that will be too much for her?  Will yoga and playing pretend stress her out too much because that’s so not the point.

These and many other things are torturing your poor Crissy’s tired brain.

Plus, we’ve been to sooooo many parties that the past two weekends have been insanely busy with crap to go to and I haven’t had any head space at all.  I want to go hide under my bed because I’m not that social.  I’m really pretty shy and having to talk to people sends me right to the vodka.

Mister’s been trying to get me to take a Valium, but I’m scared of it because I’m probably the only person who can take a Valium and have a panic attack because I just took a Valium.

Psy-cho.

So yeah.  That’s all I’ve got for today, so I want you guys to tell me what was on your lunchboxes and if you got beat up for it.

I had a Holly Hobby, Lassie, Muppets, Strawberry Shortcake, Barbie and Smurfs.

Now you.

Remember how Lynne and I had an eecards fight about the gayness of Jazzercise vs tap class, and then she challenged me to a gay-off?

Well, I finally went to her Jazzercise class because Pole Dancing is over now, thank Jesus, and you know what?

It’s completely gay and I love it because gay is fun. I grapevined and chassed, arabesqued and some other stuff I forgot the name of, but it was fun and I may have caught a little bit of The Gay because I wanted to touch Lynne’s sweaty bum the whole time.

And after class, the teacher said I “looked great out there” and can I just tell you how good that felt? Because I got nary a word of encouragement from the pole dancing teacher, and I’m the kind of student who will bust her head open just for a “well done! Excellent head busting open!” because I’m a nerd like that.   When I don’t get my teacher approval, I’m a sad kitten.

(Do yourself a solid and never, ever search Google images for “sad kitten.” You’ll want to kill yourself. Twice.)

Anyway, during our last class, and this is totally my fault because I’m an asshole for moisturizing before class which is the #1 thing you DO NOT do before pole dancing class, she kept looking back and saying “after 6 weeks of class you SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO THIS!” and I wanted to shout ” But I CAN! I CAN DO IT!” but I didn’t.  I was too embarrassed to admit that I broke rule #1  and that I was just too slippery to do any of the moves.  Every time I tried to jump up and hold myself on the pole, I’d just go “ssssssswwwwwwwwwwwweeeee” right down.

That pole is ruined forever now.

It’s been Crissy’d.

It’s forever going to be known as “the bad pole” because I don’t think they’ll ever get the lotion off of it. I thought of switching poles, but I didn’t want to ruin all of them, so I chose to sort of stand there and look like a dink  and not get the teacher’s approval I so desperately wanted.

But then Jazzercise Lady gave me the thumbs up and I was happy.

So I’m going to take Jazzercise classes, I think.

I still want tap shoes so badly it hurts, you guys.

Tap shoes.

Swoon.

Lynne won’t go to tap class with me because she say’s it’s stupid.  Maybe I can go with Girlfriend.  She doesn’t think it’s stupid.

Oh wait.

Yes she does.

I don’t care what anybody says.  Tap is cool.  There were almost fisticuffs yesterday at work between Lynne and me because she just won’t admit that tap is completely awesome.

I fully intend to prove how wrong she is as soon as I find an adult beginner’s tap class which is very difficult to do for some reason.  It must be that the Awesomeness Of Tap is intimidating for some people.

PS: This week on the Toy with Mes I have a bunch of random news/wtf? products for you! Random Awesome Stuff in My Inbox

PSS: Starting tomorrow,  we will test out a little idea I had.  Girlfriend is going to have an advice column called “Ask Girlfriend” where you write to her with your non-drug/gambling/hooker problems, and she gives you her advice.  I don’t know if this will work or not, but we’ll give it a whirl.  I just need your questions or this bus ain’t goin’ nowhere.

crissy@crissyspage.com

Yesterday Mister took the day out of work so we could go to this annual party thrown by an Internet Service Provider for all the tech nerds and their families from all the colleges across RI. It’s at the beach, kids are super-welcome (they even provide kid food and a variety of beach toys for them to keep), they feed us an amazing dinner (steak and swordfish with grilled vegetables and roasted potatoes and clam cakes and chowder), and THEY HAVE FREE WINE. All the wine you can drink. And beer. They have beer too. And lemonade and juice boxes and iced tea and water and soda.

This party is kind of the highlight of our summer every year because it’s completely awesome. obvi. They always invite Save the Bay to entertain the kids on the beach, too. Girlfriend loves this part of the party because they drag a huge net through the water and catch a bunch of little sea creatures to put in buckets to look at and learn about and then they bread them and fry em up!

No, they don’t. They take them back to headquarters and perform bizarre “experiments.”

And while Girlfriend was enjoying Save the Bay, I gave Homeslice some Goldfish crackers in her new yellow beach bucket. They were a little bit sandy, but still edible, and this guy came over to me to inform me that there was sand on the baby’s crackers because I guess I don’t look smart enough to notice that on my own, and I was like, “that’s because this is a beach. There’s sand everywhere. Even in my crotch.” And his eyes got really wide like I had just grabbed his junk or something, and he looked at me like “you crazy lady!” and then went to tell his wife what I said. She was all “oh my god! EW!”

I find my entertainment where I can, Queefies. Save the Bay just isn’t that interesting after the 5th year in a row.

But there’s a back story about the guy. I don’t usually just say stuff like that to total strangers. Often. His name is Hugh, and the first time I met him, I called him a “smartass” to his face and avoided talking to him the rest of the party. He’s one of these people who gives you a hard time when you talk to them. Like, everything out of his mouth is some sort of smartypants thing, and you leave the conversation feeling irritated as hell. Nobody Mister works with really likes him and you know what they call him? “F-Hugh.” He doesn’t actually work with Mister though. He’s some kind of contractor. Nobody knows how he’s relevant, but there he is anyway, drinking free lemonade and being a dick.

I saw his shoes on the beach and I totally would have buried them in the sand but his wife was right there with her pig tails and her weird posture. I needed more wine to pull off a semi-lame caper like that.

Let’s see, what else?

I saw the guy who told me that the next time he saw me, I’d have two kids and I was all “no way, Jose! I’m not having another kid!” and then yeah. Two kids, just like he said. Homeslice is totally his fault.

I talked to a very nice deaf lady who ironically could hear me but I couldn’t hear her. I did a lot of nodding and agreeing and she probably thought I was nuts but being odd is sort off my default so it was fine.

I got an unsolicited compliment on my new shoes, which I purchased because Melissa Lion said they’re comfortable and they are! Plus, men dig them and women think they’re cute. You need a pair.

Dansko people, you fucking owe me.

So yes. That was my day yesterday.

BEACH + FOOD+WINE= A LIFE (and a god damned hangover)

I have to go now, people. Homeslice and Henry have gotten into the cat food. They appear to be eating it. I’m not sure what that’s about.

We’ve been pet sitting The Richard and Michele’s dog, Henry, for a week now.

Henry, Queefies, Queefies, Henry.

And Alice doesn’t mind having him around too much as long as he doesn’t get up on her bed which is of course really my bed but Alice likes to pretend it’s hers mostly because she’s a dog and she doesn’t really own anything. Well, she does, I guess. She has a really nice fleece sweater and a life jacket for the boat and a few pieces of bling on her collar there…maybe a couple of drooly stuffed animals but that’s it.

That and a duck feather will buy you a hot dog.

I have no idea what that means.

I’m tired as shit.

I keep almost giving up this blog, but then I don’t.

I tried the Brazil Butt Lift Workout because I heard it wrong and I thought it was the Brazil Blog Lift Workout, but it turns out it’s really for my ass and not my blog. I’m pretty disappointed because this blog is kinda droopy. In fact, if this blog were an ass it would look like this:

It’s hard to have a blog when you have no life. I have my job and I have my pole dancing class (which ends today and I can’t even go) and sometimes I go to Saver’s and find something for the kids from Gymboree for a dollar.

TA-DAAAA!!!

That’s all I got.

Oh, and a new plant.

So, I’m trying to figure out what I can do about this not having a life business.

I kind of don’t have time to have a life.

I signed up for kick boxing class and Jazzercise. I’m pumped for Jazzercise, but kick boxing is sort of a “being dragged kicking and screaming” thing because while I like kickboxing to my sweaty lesbian Jillian videos, I do not want to spar.

I’m a lover, not a fighter, Queefies.

Also, I’m not competitive and I’m likely to let someone hit me just to make them feel good, and because I don’t care if I win stuff that much.

So to recap, I’m excited about Jazzercise, and we’re pet-sitting Henry this week.

The end.

PS: I just thought of something! I have a new phobia! I’m afraid Girlfriend and Homeslice will be abducted by aliens. I keep checking on them at night to make sure they’re still in their beds because next to human predators, aliens are the second biggest threat, you know. So now it’s things that spin too fast, balloons and kites, my garbage disposal, retarded people, smart people, clowns, perverts, and alien abduction.

PSS: I don’t mean to imply in the title that Henry pissed on my floor because he didn’t. He shit in my basement.

PSSS: It is not lost on me that this post sounds a little bit, um, insane, to some of you, but do not be alarmed. My sanity is no more or less intact than it normally is. I’m just tired as shit. I think I mentioned that earlier.

You wanna see my mad sick pole dancing skillz, yo?

Crissy Reviews a Stripper Pole

If you don’t go see this, I feel sorry for you for being so lame.