Archive for the 'My babydaddy' Category

So the plan for the weekend was to paint the kitchen and the lavette and my friend Rachel told me that nobody says “lavette” anymore and so my first question is what do you call it? A powder room?  A half-bath? The room where you pee and then wash your hands?

…?

And of course, we don’t just paint shit in this house.  It’s more like “since I have my paintbrush out, I should replace the toilet and the sink and the faucet and get all new everything” because we’re not really big fans of keeping things simple around here.  In fact, if there’s a way to make things harder and more complicated, that’s  pretty much what we do.

And so we went to the toilet store.

And Mister is kind of a big fan of the toilet.  As a matter of fact, he’s working on a coffee table or a bathroom reading book or whatever that has all pictures of toilets and men’s rooms in it.  It’s very important to him, the toilet.  And so he SAT ON THE TOILETS IN THE STORE TO TRY THEM OUT.

I was sort of mortified by this.

What?

I get mortified by things!

Why is that so hard for you to believe?

And then he had Girlfriend do it too, and Homeslice and I just sort of stood there, agog.  We didn’t know what to do and so I yelled at Mister to stop sitting on toilets in the toilet store and I said something like “why don’t you just pull your pants down, too!?! You’re not supposed to test them out in the store!”  and then some woman who had spent the past 10 minutes selecting just the right towel rack from a shelf full of IDENTICAL towel racks shouted in her Rhode Island accent “YES YOU AH! YES YOU AH! IT’S VERY IMPAWDINT!  I spent six months of my life making sure people got the right toilet!”

huh.

I have questions.

1) Why did she shout at me?

b) Why would anyone spend 6 months of her life fitting people for toilets?

4) Would you sit on toilets in the store?

f) Do I have poop issues or is it weird to sit on toilets in the store?  I mean, Home Depot keeps them way up high.  I imagine that’s to keep people from using them.

10) Right?

Bad news, you guys.

Mister hacked the Wii and now we have every game imaginable, and the Wii is plugged into a very large TV in front of a very comfortable couch in the basement next to a fridge full of beer and a bar. All we’re missing is a microwave to heat up nacho cheese sauce and it’s every man’s fantasyland.

I go to bed alone.

I wake up alone.

I find myself shouting things down the basement stairs like “DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS????” And I hear things shouted back at me like “YOU’RE NOT MY MOTHER!”

And then yesterday I came downstairs in the morning to find that while I was at work the night before, Mister had a little Wii party in the basement and didn’t so much as lift a dish to put it in the dishwasher, and the house was in chaos, and Girlfriend had apparently eaten Fruity Snacks (all natural of course but it’s still not really fruit despite what Mister thinks) for dinner and Homeslice probably ate her socks because I still can’t find them.  And in Girlfriend’s room, I found Hello Kitty wearing a pair of Homeslice’s pants with a hole cut into the back so her tail could come out

I kind of knew something was up when I came home that night because he was all nice to me.  And I was like “why are you being so nice to me?” and he was like “I can’t be nice to my wife?  I love you!” And I’m all “what did you do?”  And he’s all “NOTHING! I SWEAR! JEEZUS!!!”

Uh-huh.

I went BULLSHIT when I found the evidence.

And so I put the Wiimotes in my purse and brought them to work with me.

Yes I did.

And you know what you guys?  I came home to the gentle hum of the dishwasher running and Girlfriend’s room all picked up and the books and all the toys put away and the children happy and bathed and pajama-ed and nobody had a hole in the back of their pants.

There was no discussion as to the whereabouts of the Wiimotes because he knew.

The End.

PS: Girlfriend is an amazing liar.  I’m totally bringing her with me next time I tried to return used/worn things to Macy’s.  You should have seen her innocent little face when she told me that the pants were like that when she found them and that maybe Homeslice cut that hole herself.  She actually almost convinced me before I came to my senses and had to call bullshit on her.  Don’t get me wrong, Queefs.  Homeslice is pretty smart.  She says “hi” and “Alice” and “mama” and she can wave bye-bye at people and she almost does the “SO BIG ” thing, but as far as I know, she cannot use scissors.  I mean seriously, she just figured out how mirrors work.

Wow.

That was a busy weekend.

So Mister’s  snippy snippy went fine on Friday.  Thank you all for your well wishes.  It warmed his heart as his balls froze to death under a pile of frozen peas.  I was feeling a little sad about it, to be honest.  I’m not going to have any babies anymore.  Sigh.  But then Homeslice starts bitching and pulling my hair and I am very comforted that I won’t be having any more babies.  Hoo. Fucking. Ray!

And Mister is maybe a little sad that he didn’t have a son to pass on his family name, but I told him not to worry.  Maybe one of the girls will be a lezbeefriend and she’ll adopt some little Chinese babies with her life partner and the family name will not die with him.  It will just become Chinese instead.

(This cannot leave this blog, but between you and me, my money’s on Homeslice.  I mean look at her!

She’s diesel!  And she’s a little, shall we say, overly enthusiastic, about the boobages.  I’m just saying.)

And so right after Mister got home from his appointment, I went to a party because I’m a very caring wife like that and I know you’ve all been waiting for the final count on the theme sweaters and I am very sad and disappointed to tell you that there was only ONE and it wasn’t even that hideous.  What a bummer.  And there was nary a candy cane turtle neck to be seen.  What is wrong with these people?  There were, however, a large number of red sweaters and snow flake pins, so it wasn’t a total loss. I got a really awesome coffee cup that said “Do you have a library card, cause I’d like to check you out.” on it.  It’s pretty awesome, obviously, and so that nobody would Yankee Swap me for it, I rubbed it on my bum.

I like to think that I always bring a touch of class with me wherever I go.  This was no exception.

And then yesterday we did our Christmas tree.  It looks lovely, but can I ask you guys something?  Do you always picture events like these in a glowy, Hallmarkish scene only to get to the tree place and freeze your ass off while dragging a kid who keeps whining “I’m hungry. Can we get donuts?” every five seconds because she knows Home Depot has donuts (assholes), and when she’s not asking for treats, she’s bitching that she’s cold because she left her hat and gloves in the car, and you just want to kill yourself?  And then when you finally get the fucker home and set up in the stand, people wind up fighting and acting like jerks and you end up decorating the tree all by yourself while fantasizing that the Goblin King came and took them all away?

Or is it just me?

Anywho, that’s my weekend update.  It was fucking fascinating, I know.

PS: I got a shipment of wonderful home made bath stuff that I ordered from the lovely Ms. Darkstar.  She sent me some as a present after I had Homeslice and the stuff is just marvy. I bought some as Christmas presents.  She makes awesome lip balm too.  The orange mango (I’m too lazy to get up and go check on the name) one smells just a like an orange Chuckle.  Serioulsy, you need to order some stuff for the people on your list who, ahem, need to smell better.  She’ll hook your shit up.

This morning I was downstairs in the kitchen getting a glass of water in preparation for a date with the sweaty lesbian (with a cold! Who rules the world or my living room or whatever?  I DO.) with Homeslice on my hip when

WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING WHY AM I WET IN THE FACEICAL AREA?

The water sprayer was on and it was spraying Homeslice in the face, hitting my shoulder and arm, and spraying the counter top behind me where I had piled library book returns, two Netflix (Secret Life of Bees was too emotionally difficult to watch.  I cried in the first five minutes when her dad made her kneel in grits and was hysterical by the time the housekeeper was beaten by those assholes. I’d totally  forgotten the book, obviously), the remote controls to the tv and the stereo, the laptop, and a stack of catalogs to take to work to look at during my dinner break.

Everything. wet.

And so I shut the water off and grabbed a towel from the drawer and mopped Homeslice off who was just sort of blinking through the water in her eyes and making this huffy sound like she’s about to cry, and then I did the counter and while I was doing that, Homeslice barfed alloverthefuckingplace and so I had to go back and re-wipe what I had already done.

And then I carefully inspected the water sprayer for a rubber band or some tape or something because I’ve seen America’s Funniest Videos.  I know what’s up.  But there was nothing.  I guess the button was stuck down or something and all I can say is that Mister is lucky he wasn’t behind this incident.

His little snippy appointment is on Friday and I’d hate for someone to slip the doctor a $20 and OOPS!  “Sorry about your balls, Mister.”  That would suck.

You can’t really blame me for assuming he had something to do with this because this is exactly the kind of prank he would play on me.  Like the time he pantsed (is that how you spell it?) me in front of people, or the time he put No-Doze in my coffee, or the time he posted a picture of my placenta on the Internet.

Morning Queefs and Queefettes!

How was your Thanksgiving?  I gained two pounds.  Yay.

Clearly, the stench of rotting mouse did not deter me whatsoever.

That’s pretty much what I’ve looked like every second of every day for the past four days.  I have no idea why I gained weight.

My brother was around this year, so that was good.

That’s a picture of him right there. Also, my mother’s head.

Here’s me touching Melissa Lion’s ass (for those of you who maybe thought I was lying about it–oh ye of little faith).

We’re cute in our matching outfits, yes?

And that about sums up the weekend.  It was eventful as hell.

And today is our 7 year wedding anniversary.

This is the only picture I have for you.  It’s from the reject pile so naturally, it’s the only one Mister scanned into the computer.  I do not know why.  His mind is a mystery wrapped in a conundrum surrounded by a haze of pot smoke and Valium or whatever.

And to celebrate, Mister is staying home to take care of the little children because I’m sick.  I’m always sick at this time of year.  I was sick on our wedding night and the day after, when we left for our honeymoon, I had some sort of monkey disease and The Bloods and all I wanted to do was sleep, but it was 13 degrees in New York City and so MISTER MADE ME WALK EVERYWHERE in the freezing cold while I died to death of monkey flu and The Bloods.  We had a huge fight at the top of the Empire State Building and I really, really, wanted to push him off the edge but there’s a fucking huge ass fence there.  He got lucky.

So, yes.

Good times.

Fond memories.

I’m going back to bed.

PS: Happy Anniversary Mister!  I’m glad I didn’t push you off the Empire State Building.

PSS: How awesome would the end of Sleepless in Seattle be if the little kid threw the lady over the edge?  I should write movies, I swear it.

Oh haiiiii! Sorry about yesterday. I totally flaked–thought it was Sunday.

Not really.

I didn’t. I knew it was Monday, but Homeslice didn’t give a rat’s ass about your needs and I tried to explain to her about being Hottest Mommy Blogger and how it’s exactly like being President Obama except way more important, and if she doesn’t let me write to the Queefies there might be a Major Incident, but no matter how I tried to convince her that you needed me more, she wasn’t having it people.

Selfish.

And so I didn’t post.

I’m wicked, wicked, wicked sorry.

STOP YELLING I SAID SORRY SHUT UP.

And then last night I was just sort of toodling around on Mister’s Flickr page (working in a library is hard, you guys) when I came across this:

which I did not know existed and I can only assume he made it while he should have been out purchasing a new car for me (now my old car has a stitch coming out of the seat and it’s probably very dangerous to drive it like that) with the hundreds of millions of monies (from the gambling) (and the prostitution ring) (and the cocaine) I know he has stashed somewheres.

(You’re holding out on me, Mister. I know it. You. Mother. Fucker.)

and so that is why he has yet to receive a hand job.

Sorry, but a dishwasher just isn’t good enough, especially since it was purchased with MY MONEY that I MADE by writing words on the Internet.

So yes.

That was my weekend.

How was yours, since it’s Tuesday and we’re all just focused on surviving until Friday around 5 ish now?

PS: I almost forgot to tell you about how I went shopping at Forever 21 for a dress to wear for my dinner with MELISSA LIIIOOOONNNNN (say that just like Oprah does it. Go, LIII-OOOO-NNNN!!!! and then blow your nose with a $20 bill.) next week and I found something very cute, but I’ll probaby get my period because I always get my period on/around Thanksgivingtimes, it’s part of my gift, and I’ll have to wear a berka instead of my cute dinner dress but that’s okay. Melissa understands and also I think she likes Berkanians. That’s what you call the people from Berkaland right?

PSS: I hope you appreciate the amount of effort it took to write a blog post this morning.  I mean seriously, where’s my handjob?

Remember this picture from yesterday Queefies?

And the Very Serious Faces we’re wearing?

Well, it ain’t because we’re mentally preparing for Ikea.

It’s because we’re fighting.

Because that’s what we do in the car.

We fight.

And it’s not that we’re having a disagreement about money or Sexy Time or the raising of the little childrens or the gambling or the Chinese hookers or the blow (okay, well sometimes it’s the hookers, but only because they leave glitter all over his clothes it’s a bitch to get out) (Seriously, it’s all over the washing machine.) (It’s a mess!).

(I’m going through a parentheses phase, yes?)

We fight because I think Mister drives like shit, and he disagrees, but quite honestly, I don’t understand how he can think he’s a good driver when he’s passing people at eleventy hundred miles per hour on the right hand side, waiting until the last possible second to get over and then having to force his way in, and refusing to let other cars get in front of him even if it means getting into an accident because whatever you do, don’t let that motherfucker in, bro.

You da man, Mister.

You da man.

Me: HOLY SHIT DUDE!

Mister: What?

Me: I don’t want to get there dead!

Mister: …?

Me:  You’re driving like an asshole.  Do that when your children aren’t in the car, would you? DON’T YOU LOVE THEM????

Mister: Mind your own business.

Me: I’m sorry.  Dying in the car is my business.

Mister: One of these days, I’m gonna turn your seat around, I swear to God.

Me: One of these days, I’m gonna just start taking a separate car and when people ask why we never show up together, I’m gonna tell them it’s because you’re always at the ASIAN MASSAGE.

Mister: I’m sure everyone will believe you.

Me: I’m sure they will.  You look like the type.  By the way, you have glitter on your cheek.

Mister: Whatever.

(wipes cheek self-consciously)

Me: Seriously!  Cut it out!  You’re gonna kill us!

Mister: Actually,  I’m hoping it’ll just be you.

Girlfriend: Will you two just shut up? I can’t hear the radio! Daddy, slow down, Mommy BE QUIET!

Mister: FINE!

Me: FINE.

And then if we’re lucky, we get there before I have an anxiety induced seizure, but you know what is sooooo annoying? Just to make my head explode, he drives the rest of the way veeeerrrrryyyy ssssssslllllooooowwwlllyyyy and I can’t say shit to him because I just yelled at him for going too fast.

It makes me stabby.

Someday there’s going to be a situation, Queefs.

Mark my words.

Here is Crissy in her tutu.

She had to distract Mister with a bottle of nail polish for his nails so she could put it on.  He was sobbing on the floor in the fetal position, clutching the tutu.  Crissy had to do something to get it away from him.

Here he is in his Goth Boy outfit:

Crissy thinks he enjoyed putting on lipstick and eyeliner a little too much, and you can’t tell in this picture, but his nails came out really pretty.

Here is a picture of the party at Crissy’s friend Gina’s ad agency.

And here is Gina who Crissy has known since elementary school:

Crissy hadn’t seen her in eleventy million years and she looks prettier than your friend Gina.

(This is fascinating isn’t it?)

This costume has to be the best thing Crissy has ever seen, but it was also scarier than a hockey mask and a chain saw  because when Crissy was just a wee little Crissy, she was terrified of these things on Sesame Street. And when they walked in, Crissy sort of grabbed the Wonder Woman she was talking to and hid behind her a little bit.

See? 

Scary. Mother. Fuckers.

Wonder Woman could totally kick a yip yip’s ass, right?  Crissy needs to know just in case she ever finds herself in this situation again.

Thank God Crissy didn’t see any clowns there because she would have been out of there but then she remembered there was wine and so she did that instead of running away.

Crissy also bumped into another friend from elementary school (actually TWO other friends from elementary school but she doesn’t have a picture of  the other one) because Rhode Islanders DO NOT LEAVE THE STATE. EVER:

And Crissy isn’t afraid to tell the Queefs that she felt like a little bit of a loser because here’s Gina who is prettier than all other Ginas and owns an Ad Agency, and here’s Amy who is also pretty with a cute haircut and is a lawyer, and here’s Crissy who is super pretty but has done nothing since Grad school and when asked what she is up to now, Crissy babbled some nonsense about her blog and Hottest Mommy Blogger and being Queen of Fucking Everything and no, not Queen of Fucking Everything and then she spilled wine on her tutu.

Multiple times.

Very. Impressive. Crissy.

Almost as impressive as Crissy’s betutued ass going up the stairs to Gina’s studio.

Or Crissy’s chestical area at the dessert table:

Actually, Crissy’s tits were probably the most impressive thing about her, either that or it was the tutu, and next time she goes to a party and accidentally stumbles into an elementary school reunion, she’s just going to point to her tits and say absolutely nothing because that would have been better.

Crissy shouldn’t be allowed out in public, obviously.

Here he is trying on Crissy’s Gothic Lolita Halloween costume skirt which HE made after HE came up with the idea and went to the fabric store and bought all the stuff for it.  After he saw how much fun Crissy was having in it, he rolled up and bitch slapped her and took the skirt away! And he was all, “bitch, that’s my tutu!  You get your own!”

GAY.

(Sad)

PS:He purchased his very own pair of skinny jeans so he won’t be borrowing Crissy’s anymore. There were fights, it wasn’t cute.

PPS: It’s time to go and vote for Crissy in the Blogger’s Choice Awards because it ends really soon and if Crissy loses she will blame you assholes.  Don’t get mad.  There are a lot of people who read Crissy’s blog and some of you are bound to be assholes.  It’s called statistics, Queefies, so don’t get mad at Crissy. Get mad at math and your parents for making you assholes.  And Crissy’s not talking about YOU lovely Queefs who voted for her and who will now get sluts and/or chocolates in heaven.  She’s talking about the people who come here every day and DO NOTHING.

VOTE FOR CRISSY, ASSHOLES!!

and then get all your asshole friends to do it too.

PPPS: YES WE CAN! Obama said Crissy could use that for her campaign. (Crissy had to look up how to spell campaign) (Shut up.)

PPPPS: Since Mister is gay now, Crissy is looking for a new boyfriend.  Eligible candidates must be willing to get Crissy a new car and also turn the fucking heat on in Crissy’s house because it’s 53 degrees in Crissy’s bedroom and Homeslice is gonna turn into a frozen novelty baby treat.

PPPPPS: Crissy is sorry she called you assholes, assholes, but you kind of deserve it.

PPPPPPS: Crissy forgot to say (because Crissy is kind of an asshole) to VOTE FOR MISTER TOO!!! That way, Crissy and Mister can be a power couple, and as such will be pretty fucking unstoppable.  So what if Mister is having relations with his secret boyfriend?  Isn’t that what power couples do anyway?

On Saturday, Mister was folding laundry at the dining room table and Crissy was making out with her new dishwasher, when Mister came into the kitchen doing a little booty dance at  Crissy, all the while singing “don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot. like. me?”

And to Crissy’s complete horror, he had on her size 2 (before you get all mad that Crissy’s a size 2, just know they’re from Old Navy and everyone knows you can be anywhere from a 2 to a 22 at Old Navy.  Sizing there is loosely interpreted, at best. Stop yelling at Crissy!)  skinny jeans that she has worked so hard to fit back into after having a baby! and he  puts them on just like that after having french fries and beer.

Look at him!  He’s feelin’ all sassy and to that Crissy says, “GIVE  MY JEANS BACK, LADY!”

What! The! Shit!

Just look at his fanny in those tight little skinny jeans!

This is so. not. fair. Queefies!

Crissy has a good mind to send him out on a hike in the Schmuckytown Woods and feed him to the Woodland Gays, but she’s scared her skinny jeans might get dirty or ripped, but then again maybe she’s willing to sacrifice them for the sheer pleasure of watching Mr. Hipster Lookatmyass get what’s coming to him over and over again.

Next thing you know, he’ll be wearing leggings with an oversized sweater.