As if my Fourth of July wasn’t fascinating enough for you, on Sunday we went to the Mystic Aquarium to celebrate Girlfriend’s bff Elena’s birthday. Elena is the neighbor’s adorable daughter and her third birthday is today. Happy Birthday Elena!

Girlfriend and I had a lot of fun shopping for her gifts and we wound up getting her these,

which I wish they made in mommy size because I really want them. BAD. Normally I would object to grown women wearing any sort of Disney character clothing because nothing says “I have the mentality of a preschooler” like wearing Winnie the Poo across your tits, but I can make an exception in this case.

We got her a bunch of other stuff too and I’d tell you about it, but you don’t care.

And after she opened her gifts, we went off to the aquarium to see the baby Beluga Whale and some other floaty things. Girlfriend fell head over heels in love with the turtles so I think we have to get her one. Does anyone have a turtle? Are they gross?

And we saw one of these

which can easily become one of these

if not paid proper attention to.

And so then I touched the neighbor’s bum while his wife held Girlfriend up to see the fishies

because it seemed like the neighborly thing to do and he seemed to like it and so I think we’ll be very good friends and we already smoke crack together and now there’s some bum touching and it’s all very, very nice and very, very friendly-like.

But Crissy fears it won’t last long. As soon as they realize that every undignified moment of their lives since we moved into the neighborhood has somehow involved the Crissys, they’ll move. And that will make me sad because there’s nothing better than touching the neighbor’s bum.

Oh, and crap! I almost forgot that maybe I’m going to win Surviving Myself’s story contest Next Monday and them I’m up on Back Fence PDX Next Wednesday writing about how the Catholics fucked me up, and then I’m guest blogging for the lovely Miss Nilsa toward the end of the month. I’ll remind you when the time comes so don’t worry about penciling it into your calendars and picking out the perfect outfits just yet.

So, yeah. I’m so popular I can hardly stand it.

Happy Tuesday n’ shit.

On Friday Girlfriend and I found ourselves on a parade float.

It wasn’t a Queen of Fucking Everything celebration and worship parade, per se, but it was close and I had hoped to have a video for you but Mister is a retarded ass monkey forgetful husband and left the video recording camera at home. I’m saddened by this because in still pictures you cannot hear the crowd cheering for me and shouting things like “God save the Queen!” and “Nice ass!” and also “throw candy over here!” which is one I’ve never heard before, but I’m sure it meant something nice and worshipful.

You’ll use your imagination though won’t you Internet, and imagine the cheering crowds?

Hear them?

Catch the Reading Bug at the Queen of Fucking Everything’s Library was the theme for the float and Girlfriend and her friends Ryland and Nathaniel were dressed as adorable little bumble bees.

That’s the lady I call my “boss” riding in front of me and the library “director” in the back. I find it makes people feel good when I call them things like boss and director, and officer.

Girlfriend and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing all the people who came out to worship us celebrate Independence Day.

And the paparazzi chased us down again and tried to interview us, but Girlfriend was unwilling to speak to them and shouted “NO!” at the man with the microphone and then she threw candy in his face.

That’s right, Girlfriend.

We don’t grant interviews to paparazzi scum.

And then after that we went to a party and had a lovely time drinking jello shots and eating cookies at my friend Stacy’s house and Girlfriend got bombalooed on Capri Suns and had to be carried home.

What did you do this weekend?

Crissy: 0
Woodland Creature:10

Remember when I dug my flower beds and I was all excited about it and I couldn’t wait for my sunflowers and my sweet peas to come up all sunshiny and wholesome and stuff?

Yes?

Well some little furry woodland buttmunch has destroyed all my sunshine and my wholesome.

Meet Frank.

This isn’t really him. It’s his cousin Albert. I couldn’t get a picture of Frank because he says he looks fat in pictures.

Whatev.

Everybody looks fat in pictures. That’s why God made airbrushes and anorexia.

When I first saw Frank I thought “awwwww…he’s so cute!” And I talked baby talk at him and then I gave him his name.

But this weekend when I went out to my garden that I lovingly water every day, I found that Frank the Garden Gansta, otherwise known as Woodchuckus Douchebagus from the Latin meaning motherfucker who’s goin’ down, had stripped the leaves off my sunflowers and mangled my sweet peas.

Do you know how much Girlfriend and I love to walk right out into the garden and enjoy a nutritious a sweet pea?

We like it a lot and a lot.

That’s why I’m not gonna lie to you Internet. I cried a little bit when I had to pull out all the stuff he killed .

I transplanted some cosmos to the bare spot seeing as he left that alone in another section of the garden, but by the end of the day he had eaten that too.

So now your Crissy is feeling angry and resentful and a little bit like Frank’s bitch.

In fact, while I was pulling the Cosmos stems out of the ground I think I heard him on the other side of the fence giggling in his little Woodchuck voice, saying “who’s your daddy now garden lady? Say my name! Say It!”

I out and out refuse to be a Woodchuck’s bitch Internet.

My grandfather, who is my garden guru,

wants me kick it old school and just put a cap in his ass, but I’m not old school. I’m sort of like middle school and so I cannot shoot Frank.

Also my shotgun was siezed by the po-po is in the shop.

So help me Internet.

Does anyone speak Woodland Creature language?

How do you tell a Woodchuck to fuck off?

It’s my birthday today.

“Happy Birthday Crissy”

Thanks Internet.

So on my wish list this year is this:

I know I look like an idiot in this picture, but it’s not about me.

It’s all about the pimpin’ ride.

It’s the Electra Hawaii Custom edition but I would name her Circe.

God I want that bike. I don’t ride bikes, but that’s not the point. I would if I had THAT bike.

And I’d like it with a basket on the front for Alice and a trailer in the back for Girlfriend because I have to separate them or else they fight.

Kids.

And also I would like handlebar streamers.

And one of those little metal license plates that says MILF on it.

And flowers on the basket please.

And Mister was going to get it for me because he’s sweet like that but I said “no.”

When you turn 34 you have to act like a grown up. I don’t know who the asshat is who made that rule but when I find him I’m going to shove his balls up his nose.

And its because we have a house and we have responsibilities and things that we need must come before things that we want and so I got one of these:

Because the one we had came free with the house and was of the same vintage as the one your mom got in 1984 and it was like a miracle box out of Star Trek or something and everyone suddenly became obsessed with popcorn and s’mores. It was probably emitting some sort of gammaalphabetasex rays and turning any of our future children into three headed fire monsters and so it was time to ditch the sucker.

As sexy, sexy, sexy as that is Mister balanced it off nicely with one of these:

and I’m going to settle for these instead of the bike

only I’d like them in the violet/amethyst combination because purple’s my favorite color.

Did you know that?

You should be writing this down.

Seriously.

And my friend Valerie sent me two cards, one email and one mail mail. In one of them she pointed out that we’ve known each other for 20 years. I don’t know how that’s even possible but you can’t lie to math so wow we really are old.

And maybe dinner out at this place.

And today will be a nice birthday I think.

Oh and I might ask my neighbor Michelle to go get stinking drunk on Margaritas see Sex and the City with me over the weekend.

And also I will at some point need to get naked and roll around in chocolate cake.

Maybe I’ll ask Michelle to do that too.

She likes cake.

And no I will not get it on video so don’t even ask.

Pigs.

So yeah.

Please leave all your happy birthday wishes and gifts in the space provided below and don’t be all mad at me if I don’t comment on your blog today because it’s my birthday and its all about me and not you.

The first two days of our vacation were glorious sunny days and the Crissys decided to go to the beach on both days because normally when the Crissys go on vacation it rains the entire time and also Crissy has her period and/or a cold flu typhoid fever and it’s just the most miserable thing ever. But this time there was sun, no cold flu typhoid fever and just the period to contend with so things were looking good and we wanted to take full advantage of the sunshine before it found out we were on vacation.

The first day we went was so nice and Girlfriend met some little friends named Dave and E something, Ella or Emma maybe? Crissy can’t remember and their mother was lovely and we played with bubbles and shared toys and had fun. Mister tried to fly a Kite with Girlfriend but The Man came and shut it down.

There’s no kite flying or ball playing on the beach.

What the Fuck is that shit about? There’s no one else on the beach!

And so I told the young lifeguard that Pamela Anderson just ran that way and that she said she wanted to show him her whistle and he was off to find her.

College age boys can be so dumb sometimes.

The second day our friend Kendra came with us and Mister set up the self timer on the camera:

And we built sand castles:

I made a hat.

Shut.up. It does so look like a hat! Everyone laughed at it, but I think it looks quite nice actually.

And then Girlfriend found another little friend named Susie and I forgot to tell you internet about another sort of mom that makes me want to shank a bitch. It’s not the birth story kind of mom, it’s the one upper kind of mom. These two types are not at all mutually exclusive and I’m sure that this mom would have told me her birth story had my husband not been there. They almost never give the history of the vagina and uterus in front of husbands which is why I try to take Mister to the playground as often as I can.

But within the first five minutes of conversation this mom found a way to let us know that her little precious has been potty trained since she was 18 months old and OH! the horror trying to find clothes that fit her because everything her size is made to be worn with a bulky diaper underneath and it’s. so. hard. being. her. and they live two blocks away from the beach and they walk over every day with little precious losing her pants the whole time.

Boo fucking hoo.

When faced with the one upper I’m always tempted to go one downer and just be all like “oh, yeah, I know what you mean. Finding clothes for the baby is so hard because when you live in a women’s shelter like we do you have to take whatever people give you. But it will all change soon because we’re getting the paternity test back any day now and we’ll find out who her father is we can get some child support and I’ve been cured off the Wild Turkey for a whole 8 days now ever since the judge said they’d take my kid away if I didn’t quit drinking and giving blow jobs to random strangers at bars…”

But I didn’t have to do anything like that because Girlfriend decided she did not like these people and dumped a bucket of icy cold salt water on the kid and after being half heartedly scolded for it by me she turned around and dumped another bucket on the mother.

I tried not to high five her in front of the woman because that would have been rude and “don’t be rude” is my motto.

So we left the beach after that and went to The Atlantic Beach Club where we had clam cakes and chowder and enjoyed ourselves immensely and Girlfriend was very into being a snotty beach club lady.

And the day the weather was total crap so we skipped the beach and went to Flo’s Clam Shack where George, Girlfriend’s new Sock Monkey who was a gift from Kendra, enjoyed some fish and chips with slaw.

Little did we know that the rest of the week it would continue to rain and wind and be cold because the Crissys bring bad weather and pestilence wherever they go.

We also bring bail money and plenty of sex lube, but that’s a story for another blog.

I was supposed to write about the beach today but it’s going to have to wait for tomorrow because I have to tell you what happened to me yesterday.

I am the balls and the shaft for this one.

Check it:

I was out in the backyard in our gazebo on the computer writing a comment on Kiala’s blog when I heard someone who sounded like a teenage boy yelling “Help! Help! Please! Help!”

It was coming from the pond behind our house. At first I ignored it because you know how these damn kids are always doing their tomfoolery and trying to drown each other and shoot each other and set their freinds on fire and what not so I didn’t think anything of it because there’s always kids playing and screaming back there and I just kept on with my commenting and the screaming continued and it sounded sort of desperate to me, like how I sound when I need another glass of wine and cannot get off the couch to get it.

So I said to myself “hottie, (that’s what I call me when we’re alone together) you should do something.” And then I did the kind of thing that only a hero like myself would do. I phoned the police and told them I could hear desperate screams coming from the pond but I was stymied by the dense trees and such so I wasn’t sure if someone was joking or not and that they should probably check it out just to be sure.

And about three minutes later The Man was at my door trying to get a visual on the screamer and I was a little panicked at this because Girlfriend was running around naked because it was 100 degrees and wicked humid and also because I didn’t know if Mister had planted any very special plants and didn’t tell me and now the 5-0 are running all over the joint (no pun intended).

Oh, and was that Mr. Police Man ever a hunka burnin’ love in uniform and aviator sunglasses.

I know most cops are total dicks, but I love that about them.

huhuhuhuhuhuhuh….I am a very, very bad girl officer.

I need correction…

Yes. Please.

Oh.

What was I talking about?

Oh yes, so Mr. Man refused my offer to come inside for a nice tall glass of me was unable to get a visual on the screamer but that was ok because he said the Fire Department on the opposite side of the pond was looking around too. And then I heard firetrucks and rescue on the next street over from me but I couldn’t see a damn thing because of all these fucking leaves on the trees, the very same leaves I couldn’t wait to see three weeks ago were now blocking my view of the exciting events and then the trucks left and I felt sad because they didn’t find the screamer and I hoped he wasn’t dead because people drowning in my back yard ruins my buzz I care deeply about the welfare of others.

But thankfully Officer Dreamy Mc Hot returned to tell me that I had saved a 15 year old boy’s life. He was about 80 feet out into the pond when he started to drown and if Girlfriend and I hadn’t been the only two assholes outside in 100 degree weather and called the Po Po he would have died and no one would have known.

That’s right people.

Your Crissy is a hero!

I’m sitting in my window right now waiting for them to come with the balloons and the Channel 10 News and the flowers and then carry me on their shoulders to the parade that will be held in my honor with fireworks and hot dogs for everyone to enjoy and I’ll autograph life vests and they will make me Queen of Fucking Everything and the whole town will be mine for the taking.

I’m sure they’ll be here any second.

Oh holy hell it’s good to be back!

Crissy had a wonderful vacation and feels hungover and bloated refreshed and happy to be home! Thank you to all my guest bloggers. Everyone was super funny and talk about blog anxiety, I only hope that I can live up to all the funny alla y’all laid down while I was away.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Nobody can put it down like me.

Aannyhooter, welcome to Crissy Bores the Shit Out of the Internet with Stupid Stories About Her Vacation Week!

Yessss!!!!!

On the first night of our vacation, after gorging myself on a veggie burger, salad, french fries, chips and dip, and ice cream, Mister told me to stay behind and try out the whirlpool bathtub while he took Girlfriend to check out the pool. So that’s what I did and had I known that I would have such an opportunity I would have brought my own bath stuff but since I didn’t I borrowed Girlfriend’s Organic Tangerine Honeysuckle foaming bath salts with the little seal eating oranges on the package. It smells more like lavender than tangerines to me, but whatev.

So I pour in a good healthy amount of the tangerine-y lavenderish shtuff as the tub filled and then I filled my wine glass with a healthy amount of Savi Blanc.

This was slightly anxiety inducing and I wished I had brought my Klonopin because I’ve never used a whirlpool tub before for fear of electrocution. (I’m also scared of clowns, kites, balloons and the sky but that’s a blog for another day) Moving parts + electricity + water = dead Crissy, just like how bathtub + candles + carefully arranged up-do = Crissy’s hair on fire.

But anyway I’m almost 34 and have never had a whirlpool bath so it’s high time I give it a whirl.

(Get it? Whirlpool. Whirl. HA! Shut up. It’s my first day back, you jackals.)

6:19 pm: Remember how I said the bath was foaming bath? Yeah. well. it foamed as soon as I turned on the jets and I nearly died in a watery grave of tangerine, lavender, whateverthefuck. So I let some water out before I wound up naked and riding a tidal wave of foam down the hallway and we got kicked out of the place in the first hour of being there which is not out of the ordinary for the Crissys at.all. because its not always easy to sneak hookers and blow past the concierge.

I grabbed the package of bath stuff to look for the address where I was determined to send a very, very angry letter containing many very bad words regarding the product’s excessive foaming capabilities and there it was right there for any literate person to read: “do not use in whirlpool tubs due to foaming nature of product.”

Oh.

6:23pm: I have not been electrocuted yet and if I sit upright in the tub the jets massage my ankle bones, knees, and elbows. Who needs an elbow massage? So far the whirlpool bath can suck it.

6:24 pm: Through strategic positioning my lady business other parts can be reached by jets with only slight risk of slipping under water and drowning.

6:25 pm: Consider enjoying a water experience, if you know what I mean.

6:26 pm: Water experience too dangerous. Drowning by way of whirlpool tub masturbation is an embarrassing way to die.

6:26.5 pm: Bored. A bath always seems like a good idea until I get in there and then it’s just like tick. tock.

6:26.8 pm: Consider rubbing one out to pass the time instead.

6:27 pm: Can’t rub one out because I am on vacation and if I take care of business that leaves Mister to spank it in the shower with only a play through and that’s not nice because we are on vacation and for some reason vacations mean I am expected to put out.

Who made that rule anyway?

It’s a stupid rule.

6:28 pm: Run out of wine. Feel sad.

6:29.5 pm: Consider how electrocution would at least be more entertaining than sitting there with no wine and jets of water now threatening to puncture my lungs.

6:30 pm: Begin to feel a little woozy due to rapid wine consumption extremely hot water.

6:31 pm: Emerge from tub feeling sort of weird.

6:31.5 pm: Catch myself in the mirror and notice that I have scalded my ass and thighs and now look like a burned Thanksgiving turkey just in time to make my debut at the pool the following day all red and blotchy already.

Sweet.

So I’m going to have to give the whirlpool bathtub a thumbs down.

I think I’d rather be electrocuted.

Happy back to work Tuesday after a bless-ed long weekend! Ya-ta-da-da!

I know you’ve been dying to hear about how the birthday extravaganza went so I won’t keep you in suspense any longer.

To tell you the truth Internet, I don’t really know because I don’t remember the party. Just a few snippets here and there and that’s it. And no. I wasn’t drinking. I was working my ass off. I busied myself so much with eating lots of things containing mayonnaise and sour cream and white flour while flying around hostessing that I got the party amnesia. And then after the party I drank many drinks containing alcohol just to help me chill the fuck out after all the excitement and I am still feeling screwed up from all the sugar and I am most certainly still hung over and that was 3 days ago so you can only imagine the debauchery that took place.

Oy.

From what I’m able to piece together, the party went something like this.

And Girlfriend and I made this cake together. It was lemon cake with blue butter cream frosting. We made the whole thing from scratch.

Are you impressed with us Internet because I am.

And the kids had a ball.

I set up a long piece of paper and had trays of paint and all sorts of interesting objects to drag across the paper with the paints.

Girlfriend and Mackenzie had the most fun with the expressive arts project.

Painting is Girlfriend’s most favoritest activity.

Her adorable little birthday dress is toast. I put the tee shirt on her but it was too late. Contrary to what I believed, Washable Tempera paint is not, in fact, washable at all. As I learned after frantically searching the Internet for a way to fix her dress, you’re supposed to mix dish soap into the paint in order to make it washable. WTF?? There are several parents who now hate me for ruining their children’s clothing.

Whoopsie.

But hey! I warned them in the invitation that the kids would be painting so It’s not all my bad.

Oh and she received a digital camera from us. This is her very first self portrait taken in her bedroom mirror.

Annie Leibovitz can suck it.

And then on Monday, using the new red wagon Girlfriend’s Auntie Cya bought her for her birthday, we walked to Crissy’s town’s Memorial Day Parade that is held conveniently 2 blocks away from Crissy’s house.

Alice was scared of the fire trucks and scratched the shit out of Mommy’s lap, but Girlfriend had a ball and even made a friend whose parents invited us to come to a Memorial Day barbecue with them. And of course we went to that because far be it for the Crissys to turn down free food and mixed tropical drinks all within stumbling walking distance of the house. Plus we had the wagon just in case anyone passed out was too tired to walk home.

He-llo!

So that’s it I think and oh, wait. Rewind to Saturday when I went to have my hair done and when I told the girl I wanted it lighter for the summer I didn’t mean I wanted it to be white. But it is. I have white hair.

Like Betty White only she’s more blond than me.

And it’s much shorter. And I keep running back to the mirror, even though it hurts so bad you guys, just to see if it’s still fucked and that I still hate it and the answer is always YES.

I hate it so much I want to kill myself.

So aside from the hair tragedy and the crying jags whenever I catch myself in the mirror, the weekend was pretty great because I am really, a very brilliant party planner and people called the next day to say they had fun and to thank us again and that’s always nice to hear.

Weeee!

Theme weeks are fun, Right!?

It’s so much easier for me to be picking a theme and going with it for the week than always having to come up with something random to talk about because as you know, I’m not very good at switching gears. After last week of trying new things I’ve run clean out of vodka and Klonopin and considering my anxiety issues and the fact that Lynne is not at work this week (!), I think I ought to just take a break from the new stuff and go back to my comforting old routines before I have to put my therapist on speed dial or I start peeing my pants again because Crissy is a creature of habit and does not take change well.

Ever.

But DON’T WORRY because it won’t matter to you Internets since my daily routines have yet to be disclosed, so it’s all new stuff to you anyway. And I also think you’ll like it because I’m quite fascinating, really, and the stuff I do that I think of as normal and routine will freak your freak because it is so sexy and so glamorous you will be the one who needs the vodka and the Klonopin and not me at all.

So today I think we’ll talk about what Crissy does after work.

5:30 pm- Arrive home. Turn volume down on stereo as I am unable to pull car into the garage with the stereo on.
5:32 pm- Attempt to get through the door with 1 tote full of books, 1 lunchbox, 1 giant purse, 1 American Breast Cancer Society Travel mug, and 1 little dog scratching the shit out of my leg.
5:33 pm- kiss baby and husband hello and attempt to micromanage the dinner husband is making until I get yelled at and kicked out of the kitchen.
5:45 pm- Go upstairs to remove motherfucking torture device bra. Hate. bras. Damn you society for making me wear one!!!! Damn you all to hell!
6:00 pm- Eat dinner made by Mister if it’s a day I worked a full day.
6:30 pm- Clean up dinner.
6:45 pm- Say goodnight to baby and write blog post for next day while Daddy reads baby stories and puts her to Bedfordshire. He always does it because she only wants him and “not you mommy! “
7:20 pm- Go to bed and watch Inside Edition.
7:30 pm- Consider blogging about Inside Edition.
7:30.5 pm- Decide not to.
7:45 pm- Look at pile of books on my nightstand.
7:45.5- Feel overwhelmed by it.
7:45.8- Decide not to do that either.
8:00 pm- Put any one of my favorite movies into the DVD player:

Dude Where’s my whore?
An American in Panties
Who Fucked Roger Rabbit?
Midnight Fuckboy
Rebel Without a Cock
Schindler’s Fist
Saving Ryan’s Privates
How Harry Fucked Sally
Last Dildo in Paris
How Green Was My Pussy?
The Pubic Enemy
The Harder They Cum

Not Really.

I usually either watch Ghost Hunters, The Deadliest Catch, Ugly Betty, Ghost Whisperer, or Moonlight and then I go to sleep.
(What? we only have basic cable OKAY?)

Except for on those special nights.

THEN I watch the porn.

A while back, my friend Laura invited me to go Salsa dancing with her and I agreed to go but was secretly terrified because I’ve never been before and I don’t even know what to wear Salsa dancing. I couldn’t ask her because I didn’t want to look like a jackass because I have what is known as a bit of a girl crush on her. When I’m around her I act all goofy and get all tongue tied because she’s so pretty and hip and tall and blonde and stylish and she’s an artist and I just want her to like me.

The news of my crush on her makes my husband positively giddy.

Clearly though, I’m in way over my head with this girl because

A: As we learned yesterday, I’m scared of social situations
B: Having seen my dancing, would you want to bring that shit out in public?
C: Salsa dancing starts at 11:00 pm and I go to bed at 8.
D: There’s a chance I might hump her leg if I get enough drinks in me, which as we all know is very likely to happen. The drinks, I mean. The humping only might happen.

So I pussied out and I never called her because I was trying to think of a way to get out of our date. I thought I might somehow manage to become de-invited.

Maybe I’d agree to meet her there and show up in this:

And then run toward her yelling “Laura! Hey! It’s me! Hi-ii!” and then trip over the dress, twist my ankle, fall on my face and become injured with a fat lip and a broken ankle thereby leaving me unable to dance and forcing me to sit at the bar to nurse my injuries with $10 each vodka drinks.

Sounds reasonable, right?

I think it would probably be just enough to send her screaming out of the club, or at least hide under the table. Either way, she wouldn’t see my jackassery on the dance floor and I’d never have to go again. And that would solve my problem quite handily I think.

But I’m not gonna be a punk like that anymore. I’m going to learn how to dance the shit out of the Salsa and then Laura will let me lick her be her friend. I don’t have a video for you though because I’ve been feeling like shit the past couple of days (it’s my damn superpower again!) and I feel like dancing about as much as I feel like running naked down my street banging a metal bucket on my head with a dildo.

Shut up.

I’m not doing it.

I don’t care how much you beg.

So here:

This is the instructional video I took out of the library.

And this is my Salsa partner.

Use your imagination.