2014-07-30 19.07.34-113

I realize bathing suit season is pretty much over, but I cannot let this one go for too much longer as some pools and beaches are still open. For some of you, they never close (I HATE, HATE, HATE YOU!).

For those of you who are also facing the frozen tundra of decay and SADness, there’s nothing worse than seeing some sunny assmonkey in a bathing suit when you are wrapped in sweaters and fleece pants, fingerless gloves, a hat and fuzzy slippers (just to get through dinner preparations) while your electric blanket heats your bed for you before you slip under the finest down comforter IKEA has to offer.

With all those clothes still on.

It’s getting to be that time here in New England, but one day this summer, I excitedly opened an Amazon Prime package, thinking Mister had gotten me a present and HE SURE DID!

In the bag was a very small bathing suit bottom.

I looked at it for a while and thought, “these cute boyshorts might look nice on me,” but when Mister got home, he explained that the suit was for HIM.

OMFG, really?

I was horrified.

Horrified.

My husband is gonna wear nut huggers to the beach this year!

Whatever shall I do?

He tried it on and it actually looked decent because Mister is pretty ripped and lean despite his diet of chicken nuggets and pizza and lack of regular exercise which he prefers to get “in situ,” which means that he doesn’t exert himself unless he is forced into it.

Life is so unfair.

He even poops on the regs which makes me jealous because despite my exercise routine, vegetable based diet comprised of disgusting kale smoothies, salad, probiotics and Citrucel regimen, I still gain weight at the mere sight of a cupcake and suffer from non-pooping syndrome: which I’m sure is still colon cancer despite my doctor friend’s assessment to the contrary.

But this is all beside the point. I just really wanted to talk about poop for a second.

So, to my horror, he intended to wear this very European style suit IN AMERICA ON THE BEACH IN AMERICA!

I decided that if we were to appear at the beach as an obvious family we would need to fake an accent (possibly Russian because that is my favorite) so people wouldn’t think we were weird and move their children/blankets farther away from us because: “that guy’s junk is all out there! Those people are so weird!”

But, if we fake a Russian accent, they may say: “they seem to be some kinda European so we’ll just let them do their thing, but please, children, hide your eyes. It’s rude to stare at a dude’s junk!”

(I suspect most guys would love for someone to stare at their junk, but with kids around it’s just creepy, agreed?)

Luckily, every time we found the opportunity to go to the beach this year it was shitty and overcast, so no clothing was removed at any time.

We dodged a bullet there, but I can assure you that I will face this same issue next beach season.

All of this said, I understand where he was going with that suit. Board shorts must suck. They stay wet forever and stick to the legs. I have the same problem with my ultra padded bikini tops (the rumors are true: Crissy has no tits). They hold water that you have to squeeze out (because that’s not awkward at all to do in public) and then even after the squish, they sit there like two sopping woolen mittens on your chesitcals for hours.

You haven’t seen pruning until you’ve seen pruning boobs.

So, I get it. I really do.

But nuts are already all pruny, so like, maybe I don’t get it?  I don’t know.

Anyway, we are in the wrong country and so the huddled masses at the beach will not understand.

The bathing suit issue is resolved for now, but it will return.  Look for that coming Summer 2015.

I’m sure this story is NOT over.

 

So yesterday I was at work and I went to Flickr so I could change my desktop background to a picture of Girlfriend and Homeslice that Mister took on Monday, and what do I find but a picture of me in my bikini top.

_MG_0668-6

and I looked at the comments and it seems that Mister, my husband, added it to the group “SMALL SAGGY BOOBS.”

Yes, he did.

As I understand it, it was at the suggestion of one of his Flickr buddies.

And, as you would expect,the pictures in that group are not very pretty boob pictures. They’re random and sad with a few stunning misfits here and there, but mostly saggy boobs. Here. Go check it out if you want.

What makes this really painful for me, Queefies, is that after the glory and the splendor of the nursing boobs from last year I am left with, yes, small and saggy boobs and Mister knows this is hard for me because boobs are one of the first things people notice on a woman. When you go from a 34 D voluptuous lady to a 34 A 12 year-old boy it sucks pretty hard core.

When I saw that I had been elected to the itty bitty titty committee I started crying at my desk and I felt like everyone was laughing at me. I wonder how Mister would like it if I started a group called “I have a micropenis” and put all pictures of him in it. Knowing him, he probably wouldn’t care, but that’s all I have to compare it to, so there you go.

And he doesn’t think he did anything wrong at all and that I’m being really sensitive and he says the pictures in that group are all nice pictures and the group is owned by a German guy and so there’s something lost in translation and “SMALL SAGGY BOOBS” isn’t really what it looks like, but I still think adding my picture to something under that title, no matter what the content, is a crappy and insensitive thing to do.

Is anyone German? What’s this say? durch.-hängende wackelnde Busen

I put it into Babelfish and it said something about hanging boobs. Still not pretty.

And so I’m pretty sad to have my most insecure thoughts about my body confirmed by the publicness and my husband, so I’m thinking about putting a Paypal thingy on my sidebar so people can donate money to FUCK THE OIL SPILL, BUY CRISSY SOME TITS so people stop calling my boobs small and saggy.

The End.

PS: If Mister thinks he’s going to see my small and saggies any time soon, he can take his micropenis and get lost.
PSS: He doesn’t really have a micropenis, but if he did, I wouldn’t put a picture of it on the Internet so everyone could laugh at him.
PSSS: Actually, I would just so he knows how it feels.
PSSSS: It’s a Toy with Me day today! It’s about Major Faux Pas In The Boudouir. Apropos, no?
PSSSSS: The next Ask Girlfriend is coming up and this time it’s on video! Get your questions in!

So I’m skulking around the Internet and I can’t help but notice how many people are writing these long emo Very Special Father’s Day edition posts about their fathers and babydaddies and I’m just like, really?

Am I supposed to cry?  Because I don’t do mushy and sentimental, and I think all those cards they have over at the store are stoopid.

In fact, somebody should shit on Hallmark’s coat just because they’re so lame.

How about a card that says “Happy Fathers day to the guy who gave me life and an anxiety disorder.”

Or “Happy Father’s day, motherfucker!”

Or, if you live in my house, “Happy Father’s day, Daddy! Please wear pants.”

You want to hear my Very Special Father’s Day edition blog post?

Here goes.

Ahem…

I was going to give Mister a blow job for father’s day but he decided to go to a Melvins concert in Boston instead because my blow jobs aren’t better than the Melvins.

The end.

Oh, and the kids gave him new summer shoes so he can stop wearing crocs now, and a camera bag to replace the old cat hair covered duffle bag he’s been dragging around everywhere he goes and embarrassing the crap out of us.

So yeah.  Happy belated Father’s Day to all you babydaddies out there.   I hope you all got blow jobs or at least gifts that will make you less of an embarrassment to your families and no lame greeting cards.

*this post is like, 15 posts in one, so if you want to read it in pieces that would be perfectly fine*

So we did it Queefies.

The great big gigantic patio/deck project is all done.  Mister is pretty much a super hero and as usual, he built the whole thing with his dick. He’s got a few small abrasions on it, but that’s just because patio bricks are kind of rough. I mean seriously, he’s not THAT strong. Let’s not be nuts here.

I helped, of course.  I hauled wheelbarrows full of gravel and sand and brick.  I’m so proud of myself though you guys because I must have moved a ton or more of gravel and about a ton of brick and like, an assload (that’s a standard measurement, right?  Assload?) of sand and I didn’t get tired and I’m not sore and I didn’t even cry.  I thank my girl Jillian for all of that ass kicking. Also, it’s because I’m fucking awesome.

And then after that whole project was done, I planted a mimosa, an oak, a dogwood, and two hydrangeas.  And then the Richard and Micheles came over and I got totally absolutely undeniably hammered from just two glasses of wine, but that didn’t stop me from having more wine and then after that some tequila and then I felt horrible mommy guilt for putting Homeslice to bed in a dirty dress with sand in her diaper, but it turned out okay because she woke up and I got her into some proper pjs and wiped her down with a washcloth.  So I didn’t have to wake up at 3am and beat myself up over it. Instead, I woke up at 3 am and felt guilty for worrying about it so much and for burdening everyone with my mommy neurosis.

I fucking rule.

Anyhoodles, that was our weekend.  We worked like dogs.

OMG!!! I didn’t tell you guys!
The dog officer came and took Maudette’s puppy away!

The dog officer came and took Maudette’s puppy away!

I was standing there washing dishes and watching the little fuckface dig holes in my new mulch, when the van pulled up. And I was all “take the dog! take the dog!” and the dog officer got out and lured him over to her. She saw me in the window and asked who he belonged to, and when I motioned in Earl and Maudette’s direction, she nodded and said “this little guy is coming with me” and it was just like one of those moments when Mr. Wilson catches Dennis doing something naughty and he’s thrilled to pieces. And then I was all “TEQUILA ATTACKED ALICE!” and then I ran into the house because I didn’t want to get caught talking to the dog officer because remember I’m scared of Earl and Maudette and Tequila and the puppy.

They got him back, and I nearly ran over the puppy who was running around in the middle of the street on my way home from work last night, so clearly they’re not afeared of the dog officer and/or are slow learners and/or they don’t give a shit.

She wears too much mascara, the dog officer does.

So the yard is ready for the Birthday Extravaganza on Saturday.  It’s already way out of  hand.  There’s a lot of people coming.  Like, a lot.  So you can probably come too.  I won’t notice because there will be so fucking many people.

Here’s a picture of me getting bombalooed on my new patio:

_MG_9250-3

And today is Girlfriend’s birthday!!!!

She’s 5! 
_MG_9262-15

*sniffle*

Next time I feel like running away, pour me a drink, would you?

My battles with Mister and Girlfriend are so typical, and I know that, I just forgot to mention that yesterday.  For me though, it’s not that Mister’s an insensitive douchewad (although he can be at times.  As we all can), it’s that he’s a guy.

Here’s what I think happens to us, all of us.

We live in an interesting time where we are trying to re-define some gender roles that our parents began to re-define when we were little kids.

Here we women are, no longer so much relegated to the kitchen and responsible for 100% of all the household duties and childcare.  We are educated.  We have goals that belong only to us and have nothing to do with our husbands and children.  Many of us have to work outside the home because surviving on only one income is impossible.

We owe our mother’s generation a heartfelt “thanks mom” for standing up and saying “FUCK. THIS.” And they went on strike (I remember the day my mother did it.  We were beside ourselves.  We thought she was crazy.) and they said “it shouldn’t have to be like this.”  And they made it so.

As girls, this became a part of our idea of what it would be like when we grew up and had families.  We know we shouldn’t have to do it all.  The problem is, our husbands and partners grew up watching their dads come home from work, crack open a beer and dig into a lovely dinner our mothers prepared (while grumbling and popping pills or drinking wine or sometimes smashing dishes and locking themselves in their rooms and crying).

Our mothers have helped re-define motherhood and womanhood, while at the same time showing us how to pull off our traditional roles, the guys haven’t had that experience.  They’re lost.  They find themselves in a sea of roles that they have to learn for themselves.  They are burdened with having to figure out how to be husbands and fathers in a whole new way to a whole new generation of women who expect equal partnership.

There are growing pains.  There are resentments.  There is jackassery.

I always try to remember to say “thank you” when Mister does the laundry or the dishes or changes a diaper.  I want to encourage such behavior because he is doing his part, but if I don’t leave Mister a list of what needs to be done, he plays video games because he assumes everything is under control even though the sink is full of dishes and the floors are gross and there’s piles of laundry.  He’s just not tuned into that stuff.  He simply doesn’t see it because he’s not programmed to think it’s his job.  We recently had a fight about that.  I went to Target with Homeslice so he could get stuff done without her being in the way, and when I came home, he was playing Zelda in the basement and the chores were untouched.  I asked him why he wasted that time and he was incredulous.  He said I needed to “take responsibility” for it because I didn’t give him a list of stuff to do.  I thought it was pretty obvious what needed doing,  but he  just didn’t see it.

OR! That’s just an excuse to be a shit ass and Bill Cosby was totally right about men being smart because they screw up household chores purposely so they won’t be asked again.

I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt on that and just say they’re clueless and we need to teach them how to sniff out a shitty diaper and how to see a pile of laundry.

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ve just had too much academia crammed up my ass, but I want to believe that men want to be equal partners in all things domestic and that they don’t want to be married to overburdened, exhausted, frigid, shrews.

Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe they’re all shitbags.

I don’t think my husband is purposely being a dick.  We just have to learn how to share the responsibility equally instead of the house being primarily my responsibility and him “helping out.”

I also need a full-time j-o-b so I actually have ground to stand on here…

This is like, way too huge an issue to deal with in a single blog post, but there it is.