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

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.

Do you hate it when the only facebook updates people give are to let you know they’re out having a life and how fun it is?

What the fuck is that?

Like, don’t they have anything else going on in their lives other than vacations and fabulous dinners out with friends?  Don’t these people ever get pissed they have to do the dishes or…or get hemorrhoids?

I wanna see what’s really going on with my “friends,” not what they want everyone to think their life is like.

It ain’t all Margaritas and beaches and the. most. amazing. sushi! all the fucking time.

I want something truly interesting to happen to them because eventually the sushi is gonna give them The Diarrhea and then what will they have to say?

Absolutely nothing because their lives are nothing but awesome all the time, or so they would have us believe.

Like, wouldn’t it be more fun to read about how they got bloody ‘roids on the beach, and how the blood attracted sharks who ate their legs off  but left their assholes (because  sharks know that if you eat hemorrhoids, you get them), and so now they have a spilled Margarita,  hemorrhoids, and no legs.

That’s the story I wanna hear!

I think I’m going to start leaving updates like that in hopes it will inspire the “ahhhh. surf and sand.  It doesn’t get any better that this!” people to cut the shit.

And if you think I’m jealous of those people, you’re totally wrong.  I’ve already done my self-exploration on that one.  They’re just obnoxious and it makes me stabby to think that they think these updates are interesting to anyone other than themselves.

Oh, and those “pics to come later” that they promised?  I’m not exactly sitting on my computer waiting anxiously for them to post,  so they can take their time on that one.  I might look at them once they’re up, but it’s only to check to see if there’s a tampon string hanging out of the bathing suit.

Have any of you Queefies been truly interested in the details of someone else’s vacation?  Be honest.  I can’t be alone here.

PS: It is not lost on me that I post a myriad of updates on the latest happenings of my children, but they are way, way cuter than your umbrella drink vacation.

Ugh!  What a weekend we had, Queefies!

Yes, I realize it’s Wednesday and I’m only just now getting around to posting a post, but it takes me a long time to recover from my weekends because they’re so damned intense.

Like, I’ve been sick for about a week now, right?  But we had a yard sale on Saturday because I totally kick ass. 

We sold a ton of crap, and then we went to a dinner party and then woke up the next morning and went to Ikea to blow our yard sale wad on Ikea Craapp because the yard sale made lots of room and I could actually find stuff without having a mental breakdown and we just can’t have that!

I have to be pissed off most of the time or I’m just not myself.

Can I ask you something about the shopping carts at Ikea?

Are they fucking kidding?

You can just be tootling along admiring the Tysts and the Omtyckts and all of a sudden your cart has decided to take a hard left and there isn’t shit you can do about it!  You just have to pray you don’t run into a display full of Svalkas.

Seriously, you have to have a strong core to pilot one of those motherfuckers. And my core is not that strong right now despite all the ab crunching coughing I’ve been doing, so you can imagine all the broken Svalkas I left in my wake.

I haven’t been able to exercise on account of my lungs nearly exploding every time I go up my stairs. It’s been 6 days. I might get stabby if I don’t get my endorphin fix pretty soon. Plus, I feel all flobbery and I’ve already lost all of my muscles. I’m basically obese now. Except somehow I lost five pounds by not working out, which makes no sense, but there you have it.

NEW WEIGHT LOSS TIP: COUGH YOUR ASS OFF.

Unless Mister re-calibrated our scale because he’s sick of hearing me scream “THAT. IS. IT!!!! I am NEVER EATING AGAIN unless it’s x-lax and diet coke!” That is a total possibility that I had not thought of until just now.

NEW WEIGHT LOSS TIP 2.0: RE-CALIBRATE YOUR SCALE

I’m actually scared to exercise because my arm got tired holding my hair dryer yesterday. I had to sit down and rest in the middle of drying my hair. Every time I laugh or try to talk, I cough up a lung chewie.

That’s not too good. I might go to urgent care for antibiotics and an inhaler I won’t use.

This is making Jillian weep right now, I know it. I miss her and she misses me, but what can I do? I’ve caught Death of Cold (and possibly even Monkey Lung) (don’t Google “lung disease.” You’ll scare yourself shitless). (Monkey Lung is wicked scary. You do not want to get Monkey Lung.) (Mostly because I made it up and it would be totally fucked if you caught a pretend disease)

Anyway, I feel like shit, we had a yard sale, went to Ikea, and I made up a disease.

The End.

PS: It’s a Toy with Me today! Let’s Talk About Food and The Sex!
PSS: Tomorrow is Ask Girlfriend day, so make sure you get your questions in!

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.

Since Sunday, our computer died so thoroughly that even Mister cannot resurrect it (I’m at work right now, fyi), I have had Lady Days for approximately 8 days, Mister and I were both stung by bees, I have a weird monkey flu that makes my throat/chest/tummy/lower back area so tight and painful I can barely breathe, plus I have a fever that makes me snuggle under my blankets on a 90 degree day with no air conditioning.

And now today, I have an itchy rash where my bee sting was, Mister’s bee stung foot is all Frankensteinish and swollen but the dude at Urgent Care said there’s not much he can do about it, I’m still sick and now my ear and throat hurt, Girlfriend has a fever, AND MOTHERFUCKING FRANK ATE MY FUCKING VEGETABLE GARDEN.

The little jerk was actually in there when I went to dump my compost into the bin this morning and I was all “GET OUT!” and the bold motherfucker just stood up in his back legs, looked at me, and kept eating my broccoli!
Can.
You.
Imagine?
And so again I hissed “Fuck! Off! FRANK!” and off he did not fuck! He just stood there looking at me like “yeah? What are you gonna do about it, lady?”

So you know what I did about it, you guys?

That’s right!

I SHOOK A STICK AT HIM!

He finally scurried away and I was able to survey the damage he did to the tender vegetables I have been nursing from seed since MARCH!

He took all my broccoli, cauliflower, basil, cilantro, romaine lettuce, and sunflowers.

And all I can think about is how badly I want some orange nail polish.

Sorry.  I’m not dead.  I’m…I don’t know what I am, actually, but I’m at least alive enough to tell you about an awesomesauce contest I’m having!

Because of this picture:

the people over at Vajazzling.com have sent me 5 DIY VAJAZZLING KITS!!!! to give away to you fine people!  I am sorry, however, to report that none of them say “JUICY” on them.  But there are star bursts and butterflies and some sort of supernova thing and WHO DOESN’T WANT A SUPERNOVA on her twidget?

Nobody doesn’t want a supernova on her twidget, that’s who. It’s just like, whoa. Impressive.

Also, I don’t understand why these things are just for girls, so I’m opening this contest up to the fellas, because fuck it.  We need all the participants we can get, amiright?

Vajazzling: not just for pussies anymore.  It’s for dicks now too. You heard it here first.

So, what you have to do to win one of these fine DIY Vajazzling kits is write a wonderful Haiku about Vajazzling. It can be funny, or touching, or sweet, or emo or whatever. I don’t care. I just have to think it’s deserving of recognition. Just remember that I’m educated in the ways of the poem, so no pressure but I know what I’m looking at. I guess the boys can write about Manjazzling because it doesn’t make sense for them to write about Vajazzling when they’re really going to Manjazzle, right? Unless they’re trying to win the kit for a lady friend. Then they can write about Vajazzling and it’s okay.

Are you still with me?

So do yourself a solid and sit down with your pencil and your paper and write me a Vajazzling/Manjazzling Haiku and hopefully, by this time next week, your crotch will be a hell of a lot sparklier because right now, if we’re all being honest here, it’s not that pretty.

You have one week. Winners announced next Wednesday! And don’t worry. You have almost zero competition because the Internet has all but dried up and died.

HAIKU!
Or a limerick!
I just decided you can do that too.
Haiku or Limerick, or both if you want.
You choose.

GO!

PS: It’s a Toy with Me day! Sex Toy Parties–Lessons in Humiliation

The other day at work I got to meet Edward and Jacob and stupid annoying Bella!

They stopped by Schmuckytown Pubic because they knew that’s where I’d be.

Edward was very friendly and he kept telling me he really, really wanted to make out with me but he was afraid I’d hurt him because he heard I’m a pole dancer now and everyone knows they’re fucking badass (you see those bruises on my leg?  That’s how tough I am now.  I’m practically Chuck Norris), and I promised him I’d be gentle, but he remained steadfast in his decision and just stood there making his sexyface.

And then stupid Bella started gettin’ all up in my grill cuz I was touching her man on his naughtypenis and so I kicked her in the face

and moved on to her other man, Jacob.

He’s pretty cute, I think.

He’s more muscle-y than Edward, but I’m still on Team Edward and not so much Team Jacob mostly because vampires make me look tanned and werewolves do not.

See?

I’m downright exotic.

But even though I touched Edward on his naughtypenis and he was all “I’m in love with you, Crissy!  Bella is an idiot!” I did stop because I honestly cannot understand why anyone would prefer Twilight to True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries (unless you’re in 6th grade and your parents won’t let you watch True Blood and then maybe I understand).

I think Eric and I make a better couple.  I’ll take a 1,000 year old Viking GOD who owns a BAR over some silly high school boy and his Volvo any day.

(Note to Bill Compton: You can have Sookie.  I got this.)