Archive for the 'You're NOT hardcore, unless you LIVE hardcore' Category

Hey, Queefies.

I’m thinking about getting a tattoo only I don’t know what it’s going to be or where I want to put it.

I think it should prolly go somewhere that’s easily hideable, so when I’m wicked old and stuff I don’t make the nursing home staff throw up every time they have to change my bum.

Like, nothing would be worse at that point than to have like a big tramp stamp that says “JUICY” on it.

That would be an unfortunate and ironic mistake, I think.

I thought about getting it on the back of my neck so I can hide it or show it off according to my whim.  That’s where it might end up, but  I don’t really like tattoos.  They look really great on other people, but I’m not sure I’m A Person Who Gets Tattoos, ya know?

Like, am I that girl?

Next thing you know, I’m getting my clit pierced and hanging around with dudes name “Bug” and “Razor.”

That’s what happens to girls who get tattoos isn’t it?

Seriously though.  What business do I have getting a tattoo at 37?

I must just want one now because I work with The Young People and most of them are tattooed.  I want to be Fancy Lady Who Works With The Young People And Gets Tattoos or some such nonsense now.

OMG!  Speaking of people who think they’re fancy but they’re really not, have you been watching Real Housewives of New Jersey?

WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?  Every last one of those people is a disgusting pig.

What’s wrong with that one girl’s hairline?  It’s half way down her face! Or is that just a really unfortunate eyebrow situation? If I were her, I’d totally buy myself a new hairline with all that money.  Instead, she buys stupid looking shit to put in her kids’ hair.  Why does she do that?  I think it’s because they got her hairline, but she’s not fooling me, Queefies!

You can’t make up for bad genetics with ugly barrettes, moron.

Just like you can’t fix stupid, you can’t fix cave woman hair.

That’s what I always say.

I’d better be careful though because these people are like animals. For all I know, Lady Guido Hair is going to come and tear my extensions out of my head if I had any but I don’t SO TAKE THAT LADY GUIDO HAIR!

I win.

Anyway, who gets a tattoo at 37?   I do.  (Possibly)

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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!

So I went to see Black Swan with The Rabbi last night.  It was okay.  I like the ballerina stuff and the costumes and makeup were gorgeous, and I’ve always secretly wanted a pair of toe shoes of my very own, so seeing those made me very happy, but the ending?

Really?

The Rabbi and I both burst out laughing at the last line because the ending was just so piss poor.  It was so stupid we couldn’t help ourselves.

I know we were supposed to be moved? Or something?

Now, granted, I had just consumed an El Presidente Margarita at Chili’s and she had a DIY Bourbon and chocolate ice cream milk shake (DIY means you order a plain drink and pour booze from your flask into it under the table, fyi) (I must get a flask) and so maybe we were feeling a little silly.

Or maybe the movie was a little cheesy and we didn’t understand what all the hype was about.

I like to think we are budding movie critics and I can see us like a drunken Siskel & Ebert sitting up there in the balcony passing judgment and flasks of bourbon.

That will be us.

PS: I drove her manual transmission car home because she made me do it and it was EASY, leading me to believe that Mister’s car is a dickhead.

People give you stuff!

It’s true!

Since I found out about my not not tumors, I have been showered with gifts (okay, only three, but three is still more than zero which is what I was getting before)!

Mister bought me an MP3 player which I have yet to figure out. As soon as I conquer driving his mean machine of a car, I’m totally going to figure that sucker out and then I’ll be cool like everybody else from 2005. It’s a really basic and cheap one called “Sansaclip.” Is that the stupidest name ever or what? It’s not sexy like an iPod or anything and it’s clear it’s not even trying to be. Seriously. They could have called it…”the cheapest MP3 player ever” and it would have been better. “Sansaclip.”

Bloody hell.

It’s almost as stupid as naming your blog “Crissy’s Page.”

Seriously though, I think I could have come up with a better name for it than “Sansaclip.” I would make a brilliant marketer because I know when somebody is giving something a totally fucked up name. Like, what about this dust rag I saw at Marshall’s the other day:

Your Monday eyes are not fooling you, Queefies. Someone has named a dust rag “FANNY.”

Maybe I’m not like most people, actually, we know I’m not, but I don’t like the idea of dusting my dining room table with a Fanny.

Marketing people, CALL ME!

And then my friend, The Other Kristin who is watching Homeslice at this very moment (holla!), brought me a bottle of wine with this card she made on it:

“so i totally stopped by walgreens and the bastards did not carry congrats on your 10 non cancerous tumors cards. i know… the nerve right? so i made one for you, but i suck at writing poetry, so this is it. this is all you get. no cute little limerick or rhyme or whatever, just a picture of what i think the inside of your head might look like.

oh and mike thinks you should name them. he is willing to help you out if you don’t know what to name them. he was thinking dopey, happy, sneezy, bashful, grumpy, sleepy, and doc. or that maybe you can name them after jon and kate’s kids.”

She said she wished I had been there to see the look on the guy’s face when she asked him to attach that card to the wrapped wine bottle. She said she was all “what? She’s not gonna die!”

And then The Melissa Lion knitted me this awesome kitty hat because I had found one on Etsy and I wanted it but it was too expensive, so she made me one!!!

Isn’t it a miracle???

How people like, knit things, is beyond me, but here it is, on my head and I can’t wait to wear it to work. I wear a hat and scarf all day at work because I get cold. I also drink hot water because there’s only so much tea you can drink and I can’t fathom putting anything cold in my body.

Does anybody else do that? Drink hot water or is that just a brain tumor thing?

Mister now has a request for Melissa. He would like her to knit him this hat:

Anyway, if you don’t have any brain tumors, I highly recommend getting some because people just start giving you stuff.

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.

Just when we thought we were pretty much the classiest bunch of assholes on the Interwebz, we are not, Queefies.

We have been outclassed by this young lady who is clearly a very, very, big fan of mine:

Which one of you guys did that?

WHOSE  FANNY ARE WE LOOKING AT HERE?

I’m touched, really.  I mean, I know you love me, but to express your love and devotion to the QOFE in such a way just…it warms the cockles, really.

I’m overwhelmed.

Thank you, anonymous Queef.

Kisses,

Crissy

PS: Why haven’t any of you other guys done this yet?

DO YOU NOT LOVE ME?  I’m beginning to question your devotion at this point.  Say it loud, say it proud, “I’M A QUEEF!” or at least have it tattooed on your bum.  It’s the least you could do after all the years of entertainment I have provided you.

So we’re going to start with the thing that’s bothering me the most and work our way down to the mildly irritating and/or totally stupid.

First up we have Homeslice’s lymph nodes in her little groin area.  The one that was swollen over a month ago is still swollen and now there’s another one right next to it that keeps getting bigger although it’s still smaller than the other one.  And then sometimes they seem to be almost gone, and then sometimes they swell back up again.  I’m hysterical. I think I’m going to bring her back to the doctor because my anxiety disorder is pretty much demanding a blood test at this point even though she’s acting perfectly fine and healthy and has no fever and the swellings don’t hurt her at all and the original one hasn’t gotten any bigger than it was since it first appeared.  But then I think maybe I won’t have her tested because  I’m really scared of the blood test BECAUSE WHAT IF SHE’S REALLY SICK?

I need to know but I’m really afraid to find out.

And I’m giving up on the dog adoption situation.    I had an appointment with a guy last night and he was supposed to bring 2 dogs for us to meet, but then it was just one dog and then he changed the time and THEN HE DIDN’T SHOW UP OR BOTHER TO CALL TO TELL ME HE WASN’T COMING OR ANSWER HIS PHONE.

This is a totally different organization than the other one that blew me off like this FIVE TIMES.  They still haven’t returned my call after blowing me off the fifth time.  It’s been two weeks.

I guess doing this to people and not respecting their time and the fact that adopting a pet is an EMOTIONAL thing and telling someone they will get to meet a potential new family member and then not even having enough respect for them to tell them you need to re-schedule and instead just letting them clear an entire day or a whole weekend and then completely blowing them off like they don’t matter is the way to run a dog rescue.

They’re always whining about how hard it is to be volunteers and that they have lives, you know, and that people need to be patient and blah, blah, blah, WHAT ABOUT ME?  AM I NOT A PERSON TOO?  I also have a life and I’m trying to do the right thing by adopting a homeless animal, but I’m getting treated like shit by these people.

I don’t understand.

I’ve learned a lot about people through this experience and it’s not good news, you guys.  It’s not good news at all.

So, I’m giving up because I can’t deal with the disappointment and heartbreak anymore.

And moving back to Saturday night having gone to bed late after our Zombie Prom, I woke up at 3 in the morning feeling sticky and wet to discover that Alice had thrown up in our bed, under the blankets, and that I had been sleeping in it.  At first I only noticed that I had slid my foot into something, so I checked it out and it was a HUGE pile of super-chunky something.  I didn’t know what the hell it was, so I got out of bed to take a look and determined that it was  some sort of really putrid contents from something (ass? stomach?) and so I limped into the bathroom to wash my foot off and re-group a little bit.

Mister got up to scrape what he determined to be vomit off the bed when I noticed that my back felt cold and wet, too.  I had barf chunks stuck all over my shirt and I had left a trail of them behind me on the way to the bathroom.  I had to take a complete shower and rinse the chunks out of my pajamas while Mister stripped the bed.

It took two trips to get all our bedding down to the basement washing machine, Alice following me the whole way and throwing up more little piles of goodness as we went.

It was…very special.

I never got back to sleep after that, so  I basically got about 3 hours in before all the specialness was discovered.

That was the second night of sleep deprivation because on Friday night, we went to my friend Gina’s annual Halloween party and when we got home, Homeslice was wide awake and hanging out with the babysitter.  She never went back to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time.

That was also a Very Special Evening.

We won best couple’s costume at Gina’s party though, so that was something good riding on the shitwagon that was our weekend.

(huge version here)

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.

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

I’m usually stuffing my face because OH MY GOD THERE’S TOO MANY PEOPLE! EAT THESE MAGIC DORITOS AND DISAPPEAR, CRISSY!!!!

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.

Shhhhh!

Lynne and I are going on a stakeout. We spent all day planning it yesterday.

This is what we’re wearing:

Except we got so excited planning it, we forgot why we were going on a stakeout. I doesn’t really matter though because just getting a chance to wear some pretty kick ass outfits is justification in and of itself as far as I’m concerned. And we can hide in the bushes and then, at that critical moment, we can jump out and shout “AH-HA!!!”

That’d be cool.

Also, we’ll bring snacks like Ring-Dings and Twinkies so we have them in case we get hungry because if you leave a stakeout to go do drive through you could miss the thing you’re staking out and then you’re fucked.

Maybe we’ll just pick some random person’s house and just go hide in their bushes. It would be a shame to waste our outfits and delicious snackfoods.

Let’s see…what else did I want to tell you guys?

Oh!

I’m trying to find a babysitter for Homeslice for one day a week and it’s harder than it seems, you guys.

Remember the scene from Mrs.Doubtfire where Daniel calls Miranda and does all the voices to scare the shit out of her?

That’s EXACTLY what it’s like!

They’re all either

Too religious: One lady gave me her entire religious history and then was just like, “oh, and I love children!” I can’t have her turning Homeslice into a CATHOLIC. “Ev-ry sperm is sa-cred, ev-ry sperm is great, if a sperm is wa-st-ed, God gets quite i-rate” is not my favorite nursery rhyme.  NEXT!

Too illiterate:  If you don’t know the diff. between your and you’re then ur not smart enough to take care of my kid.  Is it too much to ask for some basic literacy skills?  Yes.  Yes it is.

Too young and stupid:  Your profile pic should not be of you making SEXYFACE with your cleavage hanging out. Save that shit for MySpace, kay sweetie? I cannot stress this enough.  Also, see above re: your/you’re.

Too foreign:  You know how I feel about  foreign people, right? Too much yucky white guilt when I have to shout en espanol at my nanny. No GRACIAS!

So maybe I won’t be getting a NEW NANNY like Mrs. Fancypants after all.

I found the perfect lady on a babysitter finder website thingy.  She’s 58, has 10 grandchildren, has been foster mother to 14 kids and won Foster Mother of the Year in 2007. I want her! But she’s not getting back to me because obviously she’s also a cunt. I spent $30 to get her email address, the least she could do is tell me to fuck off so I can stop fantasizing about Mrs. Doubtfire babysitting my kid.

HOLY SHIT!

THAT’S WHO WE CAN STAKEOUT!

And we can jump out of the bushes at her and hold up Homeslice and shout “why don’t you want to take care of my baby??”

Wait.

I just remembered who we’re really staking out. We’re supposed to stakeout the Facilities Manager over at Schmuckytown Pubic. She’s got men coming and going all day long and we think she’s running a whorehouse out of the basement. She’s such the type, too.

Homeslice pretty much says “cup” for everything and so Mister thinks we should have taught her “smurf” because it can describe anything and it wouldn’t make people look around for cup when what she really wants is something else entirely. It happens a lot. It’s kind of a problem.  Especially when the closest cup contains vodka and you give it to her before you realize.

It only happened twice, SHUT UP SHE’S FINE.

At least with “smurf” it could mean anything and we can keep guessing until we get it right and perhaps not alcohol poison her.

Also, I’ve been trying to sell some baby crap forfuckingever and nobody wants it, so I posted this ad on Craigslist and the only people emailing me are people saying I’m funny and that they’re sorry they don’t want my crap. The least they could do is flag it for “Best Of” because if I can’t sell my baby crap, I could at least become famous on Craigslist. (That was a hint, people. Go forth and do.)

Aaaannnddd it’s a TOY WITH ME DAY! It’s about smurfy smurfs smurfing. Enjoy!

Why is love and sex for the disabled such a taboo subject?