Crissy

Show Me Your Bottles, I Mean Cans, I Mean Tits.

Yesterday was Father’s Day so Girlfriend and I showered Mister with what we considered to be man stuff like a pimpin’ new grill.

Not this kind playa,

this kind;

because Mister is a man’s man and men like to do manly things like cook meat out of doors, preferably during a hurricane or a tornado because battling adverse weather conditions while cooking the meats is even more manly and besides, everyone knows cooking in of doors is for pussies and losers.

And on Friday Girlfriend and I went to Macy’s to purchase a new smell for him because stinking of balls and pot and beer is just um…how do I put this…

wrong.

The instant we arrived in the men’s fragrance department we were attacked by a deranged woman wearing a holster full of cleverly designed parfum bottles and a shirt cut so low I was convinced her bubbies were gonna tumble out any second.

But they didn’t.

Boo.

Has anyone ever met a normal fragrance nazi because I haven’t and I’m pretty sure people go insane from inhaling all that stuff because they always seem a little tweak-y.

I don’t know, but I hate going to the fragrance department. Hate. it. because every bottle I picked up to smell

If Fleur du Male wasn’t made for twink-y gay boys I don’t know what was.

Smells like grandpa.

Nah.

the woman would rave about and tell me it’s the number one seller and I’m thinking they can’t all be number one now can they crazy person but I didn’t say it because “think it, don’t say it” is my motto and when I interrupted her with an “I don’t like it” she’d instantly agree with me which lead me to believe that

A. she hates her job and
B. she’s full of shit and
C. who can blame her?

But anyway she tried to give me the hard sell on the Aqua de Gio which is apparently what everyone and their lover is going insane for and for me? Not so much. I didn’t like it. It was too light. Not that I like a heavy fragrance but I think men’s stuff should be a little darker and deeper and that’s because smells are powerful and it all goes back to this boy:

who truth be told was my first everything and he wore the Drakkar that everyone went b-a-n-a-n-a-s for in the 90’s and any scent even close to that takes me back to the naughty fumblings in the back seat of his mom’s Volvo and makes me moist in the panty I like and if I smell it and I don’t feel it in my netherlands I don’t buy it because paying 50 + monies for something that doesn’t give me an instant orgasm is just stupid.

Agreed?

So I smelled all this stuff and left the store smelling like a gay hooker posse, but I chose this because it did the trick:

and then I went home to change my panties and re-evaluate my sexual preferences because I was genuinely disappointed that I didn’t get to see the crazy lady’s cans.

Who Wears Short Shorts?

If you dare wear short shorts, Nair for short shorts.

That’s going to go through your head all day now.

Sorry.

(No I’m not.)

So I had to buy some new shorts for our upcoming vacation because the ones I had last year? Yeah, no. They’re a definite no. go. I’m too damn fat for them this year. There was overspill muffin top and camel toe inducing tightness and society says that doesn’t look nice and so I must obey.

And last year’s itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini? Also not so much this year. It looks more like a tourniquet so I have to get a new one of those too so my ass doesn’t turn blue from lack of circulation because nobody likes a blue assed girl.

I think society should pay for the new shorts and the new bikini since they’re the ones who are being such assholes about the whole thing.

And as if I wasn’t depressed enough at the thought of having to buy bigger shorts because it means that somehow after working out every single day and watching what I eat I still managed to gain 10 lbs (!) over the past year, I turn around to see that my husband has tried them on.

And they fit him.

Better than me.

Work it baby,

Own it.

That’s right people. He’s a Junior size 5.

This is so wrong on so many levels and it can be very depressing when your 6 foot 4 husband can fit into your clothes! He outweighs me by 75lbs!

HOW CAN THIS HAPPEN INTERNET?

HOW?

IT ISN’T FAIR.

And he eats like shit and he never works out. He calls his workouts “in situ” meaning he gets his exercise by working around the house.

That’s bullshit!

I work around the house too but I gain weight.

What the fucking fuck?

So anyway I should probably tell you so you’re not surprised when you come to see me on Monday morning and find there’s a man in my blog that I’m having a few guests come over to keep an eye on the place while Crissy gets a little well deserved R&R and her husband prances like a pretty princess around a seaside resort town in her new shorts.

You already know all of these people because they’re regulars around here and I’m hoping that they’ve all tried their keys in the door to make sure they work because after today I will be unavailable for consultation.

Monday we have Chris from Surviving Myself
Tuesday is Lynne at In The Rays of a Beautiful Sun
Wednesday is my bff Rachel from Get Your Freak On, which is on hiatus right now because she got a J-O-B.
Thursday you’ll hear from Kiala at Face of the Cookie
Friday is Melissa from Recovering Californian

Okay, I’m going to go and get packed and try to explain to my husband again why
A. It is unacceptable to wear women’s shorts in public or in private without some sort of nod in the direction of hair removal. At. Least.
B. He may not bring his scuba gear for use in the resort’s swimming pool again this year.

That’s right Internets, laugh it up.

My life is a hell.

Splendor in the Grass

Welcome to Crissy had the same nonsensical exchange with her husband last night like she always does which leads her to think that perhaps last week should have included Crissy tries killing reasoning with her husband instead of engaging in ludicrous discussions about stupid things with him.

Last night we were surveying our yard and all the hard work we’ve been doing and still have to do to make it look pretty-ful instead of god-awful like it is now.

Our clumps of dirt and weeds grass leaves much to be desired and we still need more plantings I think and I said as much to Mister and mind you Mister had just consumed a totally different kind of grass one beer when the following conversation ensued.

Mister: I think we need a statue right there.
Me: What? A statue of what?
Mister: I don’t know. Something powerful. Something that makes a statement.
Me: Like what?
Mister: What about a statue of me?
Me: A statue of you.
Mister: Yeah! I think it would be GREAT! You never see that. I don’t understand why nobody ever puts a statue of themselves in the front yard.
Me: You want to put a statue of you in the yard.
Mister: Yeah. Why not? It’s cool, man.
Me: I don’t think so.
Mister: People need to know who lives here!
Me: No they don’t.
Mister: Why? You never let me do what I want.
Me: That’s because what you want is stupid. You want stupid all the time.
Mister: Come on! Just picture it. A statue of me right there.
Me: You draw me a sketch and I’ll consider it (knowing full well I’d do no such thing)
Mister: That’s fine. You’ll see. It’s a great idea.
Me: Uh huh.

And so he gave me this:

What do you think Internets? Should we go for it?

Do you see what I have to put up with?

Do you see why the vodka and the klonopin?

Ps: Thank you to all the people who voted for me in the Hottest Mommy Blogger awards! Those of you who haven’t done it yet, please do. I hate to beg, but have you seen some of the people who are winning? NOT. HOT. Not that I think I’m anything great, but seriously it’s a fucking joke, and I refuse to lose to those dogs!

I’m running for President next and I’ll need your votes then too, so practice, practice, practice!

Remedial Gift Giving for Boys

Today was going to kick off Crissy Does The Same Shit As Always Week and I had something all ready for you, but yesterday’s discussion of gifts and the seemingly rampant gift giving jackassery presented itself and I felt it demanded my immediate attention.

Let me explain some things to you about me that may or may not extend to the rest of my gender but I don’t care too much because I’m the most important woman in your life and besides I think I’m a fairly good representative of our sex anyway.

Like most of the ladies out there I saw the movie Pretty Woman and loved it. I’d be willing to bet my favorite glass dildo and a bottle of gin new Mother’s Day trees that it’s on every lady’s list of favorites. Somewhere. No matter how much my feminist side wants to reject it, the truth is is that I bought into the fairy tale long before I knew what a feminist was and I so want to be Vivian and I so want Mister to be Edward.

I just can’t help myself.

So my first piece of advice to you boys is to watch the movie and LEARN SHIT FROM RICHARD GERE. Except for the part when he tries to throw her out of the hotel for flossing strawberry seeds out of her teeth. That part wasn’t so good. You shouldn’t neglect your gums. It doesn’t hurt if you look like him either although he’s sort of getting a little old looking now but I like it on him. What’s the male equivalent of a Cougar? Anyone know?

Anyway, my point is is that when you buy me a gift, I want to be swept off my feet because to me, and pay attention here you boys who are good at math,

good gift = true love.

And I’m no Paris fucking Hilton or some such monster, it’s not about the amount of money spent or the luxuriousness of the item. It’s about how well it suits me and it’s that you’ve been listening to me and there’s nothing more important to a woman than to feel like she’s being heard. If the gift sucks, you haven’t been paying attention. It’s that simple.

I could go through a whole huge list of stuff about what is and what isn’t a good gift, but that would just be my opinion and I don’t want to speak for everyone. Even though I am. What I’m saying is that one woman’s Dyson dream come true is another woman’s divorce papers so a good rule of thumb is to proceed with extreme caution when purchasing gifts of a practical nature.

For example, if you’re considering purchasing this garden hose nozzle

which I actually got for my birthday one year, ask yourself this question “is this really for her or is it more for the household?” and consider the answer carefully because if you get it wrong you’re fucked.

Just ask my husband what if feels like to get hit with one of these bad boys.

And don’t stop off at the grocery store on the way home the night of her birthday to pick up a cheap bouquet of some tired looking flowers. Flowers are an accompaniment to a gift and not the gift itself. Nobody wants a bouquet of flowers for her birthday.

I could go on, but you guys have already started considering how improving your gift giving might increase your chances for a “thank you” blow job and now that’s all you can think about.  I know what it’s like to be a dude.  I had a penis for 20 minutes, remember?

So here’s a review for the ones who like it quick and dirty:

Gift Giving Rules for Boys

1. Watch Pretty Woman and learn. Take notes if you have to.
2. PAY ATTENTION TO HER. I know her voice sounds to you like Charlie Brown’s teacher, but stop thinking about porn for five seconds and listen because she’s probably been telling you what she wants and don’t pretend you don’t tune her out because I see you, playa.
3. Use extreme caution when considering gifts of a practical nature.
4. Do not expect a “thank you” blow job. This occasion is about her and you might want to just be there for her. And if you don’t know what I mean by that, you don’t deserve her.
5. Flowers are not a gift in and of themselves. If you don’t want some daisies shoved up your ass then don’t buy them.

Any questions?

Four Trees and A Cosmopolitan (or three)

I don’t know how it is in your family, but holidays like Mother’s Day (Christmas, Valentines day, birthdays, Veteran’s Day, etc) are usually the cause of stress and there will probably be tears and a fight at some point. This is inevitable it seems as these fucking holidays are so full of pressure to be perfect that no human family could possibly live up to them.

I blame the jewelry people and the card people.

And yet I expect my husband not to give me something like this:

Which is what I got last year. In “buff.”

That’s it. Nothing else. Just the bra.

Close your mouth.

In his defense it was the correct style and size.

When my sister-in-law called to wish me happy Mother’s Day and find out what her dear brother did for me that was special and I told her about the bra she burst into hysterical laughter because she’s a good sister and that’s what siblings do when the other one fucks up royally. And now she calls him “bra giver.”

And we got into an epic fight over it and he was hurt because he thought he picked the perfect gift and he tried, really he did, but he fell short and I was hurt because he should have known better and if he really loved me he would have known that the minimum acceptable gift would have been the bra plus matching panty.

At. least.

So there were tears. And there was shouting. And things became airborne. Particularly a bra.

But Internets, I tried something new this year and I decided to just tell him what I wanted instead of making him guess and setting both of us up for another bad day.

So I said to get a babysitter for Saturday night,

(That’s my mom. Isn’t she cute?)

and make dinner reservations at The Trattoria Romana, a place with cloth napkins,

and to buy me too many of these so that I could be loud and inappropriate with the wait staff,

and for him to have vodka tonics,

and for me to have salmon with lobster meat on top to eat,

and for him to have linguini with clam sauce,

and I told him to buy me this Weeping Cherry tree,

and then plant it for me.

And my mother bought me 2 Forsythias and a Lilac tree to go along with it.

So it was a wonderful Mother’s Day this year and I suppose every day is Mother’s day for me in a way because Mister does nice things for me all the time. He makes my coffee in the morning, he holds my hair while I vomit Cosmopolitan gives me back rubs, and tells me every day that I’m a MILF.

So I’ll forgive him for past gift douchery.

I hope all you MILFS had a great Mother’s Day yesterday and I call you MILFS because I know that only MILFS read this blog and if you don’t know what a MILF is you probably aren’t one so go away.

I kid.

Oh, and hey! Speaking of MILFs Lynne gave me the keys to her blog while she’s away on vacation. I say we go over there, find her toothbrush, and take pictures of us cleaning the toilets with it.

Let’s GO!

(I’m actually funnier over there than I am here, if that’s even possible.)