Archive for the 'My babydaddy' Category

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.

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:

And today is Girlfriend’s birthday!!!!

She’s 5! 

*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.

You’ve seen me dance, now watch MISTER’S DANCING!
I Think My Husband is a Little Bit Gay

This morning, Mister tried to leave for work wearing his Halloween costume:

You know, sans makeup and accessories, but STILL!  I had to stop him and tell him he cannot leave the house dressed like that and somehow I’m the asshole.

PS: Yesterday, after considerable effort with stroller hauling and packing of food bribes to keep Girlfriend in line,  I attempted to go to the mall, which I loathe doing, to go to The Gap for a new pair of jeans. My favorite ones are so old and worn thin, they’re like one squat away from an Unfortunate Incident.  But to my dismay, they have apparently closed all the Gap stores within a 20 minute radius of my house, and if you know me, you know I don’t leave that 20 minute radius for anything.  Not even for Trader Joe’s (it’s 25 minutes away, fyi).  And so this morning, I go online to The Gap and I measure myself for a new pair of my favorites–The Curvy Jean.

And their sizing chart is fucked.

Somebody needs to explain how in the name of Shit and Asshole I’m supposed to know what size I am when my waist is 34 inches around which is a size 16 (!), my hips are 35 inches, and my thigh is 20 inches around which makes me a size 00(!!!).   I’m a 16/00.  And before anyone tells me I measured wrong, I did not.  I followed their measuring tips (6 times), which are also fucked because according to them, my waist is really my hips, my hips are really my ass, and my thigh is, well, it’s still my thigh.  At least we can all still agree on what a thigh is, but you have to come and see this chart and tell me what I’m doing wrong, or at the very least tell me what fucking size I am, or tell me you’re a disproportionate freak show like me so I feel better.

Do any of you work there?  Can you ask them what kind of  fuckery this is?  I don’t want to have to call bullshit on my beloved Gap, but I will if I don’t get a satisfactory explanation.

The Queen demands it!

The Ghosts of David and Grandmother Helen strike again!

Yesterday, when I got into my car to start it, the radio came on. I hadn’t put the key in yet, leading me to believe that David and my Grandmother Helen have been out cruising in my car, and they forgot to turn the radio off. I’m like 99% sure I hadn’t had the radio on when I put it into the garage, because it is impossible for me to pull the car in with music playing. I must have silence to concentrate or I’m gonna either take a mirror off or smash into my lawn chairs.

I’m cool with them borrowing my car. I’d rather have them out speeding around than sitting in my bedroom watching me do naughty things that make me die a little bit inside with Mister so I can get me a new ride.

Also, it smelled like pot. But then again, that could have been from…well, never mind.

Dun-dun-daaaaa…

In other news, I’m coming down with a cold, and I had a story to tell you, but I fucking forgot what it was.

PS: Happy Valentines Day Queefies! We’re doing absolutely nothing. I’ll be lucky if Mister picks up a card, but this morning, he told me I “don’t look like a pile of dog shit.” That’s pretty much as romantic as it gets around here, so I guess that was Valentines Day. Ta-Da!!!!

PSS: I think I’m going to have to demand an explanation for this:

Wow! A MONDAY post? This shit hasn’t happened in like, a long time but good news you guys! Homeslice has discovered finger food. This means we are at the point where I can toss a handfull of Cheerios at her and have fucking quiet for like, five minutes.

Ahhhhh…bliss.

We had a super productive weekend as Mister made a bookcase for Homeslice, and it’s fucking adorable, and then he re-caulked our shower and waxed the shower doors so he wouldn’t have to hear me bitch about cleaning them for a couple of weeks.

You’re about dying from excitement right now, aren’t you?

I know, I know. This is why I’m the QOFE and you’re not. You suck a little bit. Sorry.

And Homeslice worked really hard on her crawling all weekend, but I’m sorry to report that instead of going forward she just goes backward and gets really pissed that the thing she was crawling for keeps getting further away and so she crawls backward and cries. Either that or she’s just like, “fuck it” and tries to get up and walk by getting into a downward dog position and then falling on her face when she tries to stand.

It’s…a process.

And then Girlfriend gets involved and tries to help which only pisses her off more. And then Alice comes over and frenches her and well, the poor thing.

And perhaps the biggest news is that we signed Girlfriend up for public Kindergarten:

I look like somebody’s mother, right?

It was a little bit sad, and I’m a little nervous about the public school thing. The publicness frightens me. Homeslice was totally unconcerned. She thought I was being silly, so she took a nap.

She’s not very supportive.

The kinks aren’t totally worked out with the new theme and everything, and so I’m going to stop writing now because it’s pissing me off. It keeps eating my words. Anyway, Happy Monday Queefies! May you ride to work on the back of a unicorn that smells of roses and shits rainbows and ice cream because what else would a unicorn shit?

So here it is. Mister worked really hard on this new theme, and we struggled with the colors. We’re (I’m) not totally sure we (I) love them like this, so that might change at some point. But he didn’t pimp slap me when I kept saying the colors weren’t right, so tell him his balls are pretty and touch him on his bum a little. He likes those things (even if you have to lie about the balls part because let’s face it. Balls aren’t cute).

Today Homeslice and I will have adventures on the East Side of Providence over at Monica’s, and then at Whole Foods. All the fancy stuff is on the East Side of Providence, you know.  And then tonight, we all go across the street for our weekly Pot of Crap dinner with the Richard and Micheles. I’m making pizza, it’s very exciting.

Try to control yourself.

I’m just concerned about the drive over to the East Side because I’m like 85% sure we’re going to die in a car crash. Just this past week, I’ve been run into the ditch THREE times by 2 asshats who were texting and came over the yellow line and nearly hit us head-on, and one stupidcuntbitchasshat who decided to drift into my lane without even looking when I was right next to her. Yes.  I was trying to pass her because she was doing 45 in the fast lane on the highway with her head resting on her driver’s side window.  What the fuck, woman?  She could have killed Girlfriend and me!  Homeslice was on the other side. She probably would have been okay.  But when I beeped the horn at her, she didn’t even notice.  She didn’t even take her head off her window.

So, I’ve decided that my next car will be one of these:

Sexy, right?  That’s actually the sexiest picture I could find. It’s not the BMW,but you know what?  At least we won’t all die in this car because some fucktard was texting his girlfriend.   And you see where the fog lights are mounted right there on the front?  I’m going to take those out and have Mister Macgyver some kind of flame thrower arrangement so that when somebody tries to kill us, I can burn them.  He’s totally brilliant at ghetto rigs.  He can do it.  Once he figures it out, he can do your car too.  It’s up to us to teach them, you know.

SOLIDARITY BROTHERS AND SISTERS!

btw, this is my official announcement to Mister that he’s buying me a Volvo.  He doesn’t know yet.  He’s going to be Very Excited.

Like, $45,000 exciteds.

PS: We don’t actually have $45,000 for a new car.  I’m just feeling like a rich lady because I made $130 selling my stuff on eBay last week, so clearly we can afford a new car.

PSS: I’m not good at math.

PSSS: That’s why I think I might have to bust out my feminine wiles for this one.  It’s going to take some convincing.

PSSSS: By feminine wiles I mean promises of blow jobs and steak every Friday night.

PSSSSS: I’d watch the comments section if I were you.  Just sayin.’

PSSSSSS: If you don’t help support my cause, I will totally ban you from this blog.

Okay,well that’s not totally true.  I have to get my workout in before Mister leaves for work at 7:00.  And so I choose that over you guys.  I can be a selfish bitch like that.

Trust me though.  You don’t wanna see what happens if I skip the workout for a day or two.

CRAZYTOWN is an understatement.

Anywho, I just wanted you to know I’m not dead and that there’s always tomorrow or maybe later on, right Queefies?

In other news, I’m addicted to ebay and I’m totally obsessed with selling all my stuff (but not my panties shut up).

In other, other news, this blog looks like a piece of shit right now and I totally know.  Mister started making changes, and then he ran out of time and so here it is–a crapbag.  Sorry.  It’ll get better.  Eventually.  I hope.