One thing that I’ve always wanted to do is learn how to drive a standard transmission automobile. Some of my favorite dreams, when I’m having the most fun, involve me driving the shit out of some sassy little number like this:

Some people say dreams about driving or riding horses are really sex dreams, but I don’t care about some people. I think it just means I want a BMW. With a stick.

Real. Bad.

Problem is, I’m too chicken to actually drive the car.

But this week is all about getting over my fear of trying new things and so I’m giving it a go in my husband’s beloved Subaru WRX. And then I’ll be so totally brilliant at driving that I’ll have to get my new BMW so I can keep my hand in and not have to re-work through all the trauma of learning how to drive it all over again. I’m sure he’ll be completely on board with that idea.

Fuck the mortgage payment, I needs me a pimpin’ ride.

His car scares the hell out of me because it’s not a normal car. He’s got it all full of “mods” and I don’t really know what that means but I think it makes him a car nerd.

It looks like this:

See? Scary.

And on the inside it has this “Pyrometer” thingy

which I can only assume keeps track of how many seconds are left before the car turns into a fire-y Chariot O’ Death.

And on the other side is this “boost” gauge

that makes me suspect this car might actually be capable of flight and I’m terrified I might hit the wrong button because if you think I’m bad a driving cars, you should see me fly a carplane. It’s not good.

And I giggle every time I see this Momo emblem on the steering wheel. And then I say “You’re a momo. It says so right there” because I’m very mature. Not only is it on the steering wheel, it’s on the shift knob too:

just in case there was any doubt as to his momo status.

So anyway, to prove that I actually put on my big girl panties and drove this bitch here’s the video.

Goal for next time: get to third gear.

I think I can do it.

Oh, and for tomorrow?

Dancing lessons.

I’m delivering on my promise that this week would be all about the boys.

So it’s Penis Week!!!!

Ta-da!

So yesterday’s post got me thinking a lot about gender and gender roles and gender differences and yes, penises, so naturally the song Everybody’s Fancy came into my head.

Here, for those of you who didn’t live in Mr. Roger’s neighborhood:

Some are fancy on the outside.
Some are fancy on the inside.
Everybody’s fancy.
Everybody’s fine.
Your body’s fancy and so is mine.

Boys are boys from the beginning.
Girls are girls right from the start.
Everybody’s fancy.
Everybody’s fine.
Your body’s fancy and so is mine.

Girls grow up to be the mommies.
Boys grow up be the daddies.
Everybody’s fancy.
Everybody’s fine.
Your body’s fancy and so is mine.

I think you’re a special person
And I like your ins and outsides.
Everbody’s fancy.
Everybody’s fine.
Your body’s fancy and so is mine.

And I’m feeling pretty special and fancy and fine about being a girl and I don’t have an ounce of penis envy, but how can I really say that since I only have experience with my own set up and I know nothing about what it’s like to fancy on the outside?

So I thought I’d give it a whirl and I tried this thing on.

Just so you know this is NOT USED. It was a gift with purchase for some other pervy thing we bought. It’s revolting and scary and I almost threw it out, but then I thought I better keep it because it’s also funny.

The first thing I tried doing was the dishes, which I’ve done in costume before, but not like this.

It got in the way a lot and I couldn’t really get close to the sink and hot water splashed on it which would have been painful if it had been a real peanut. I guess I understand why you guys don’t like to do dishes. It’s just plain dangerous.

I got it stuck in doors a couple of times.

Does that ever happen to you? Ouch!

I committed a terrible party foul when I knocked my husband’s drink over.

Oops. My bad, yo.

Imagining what it’s like to pee was interesting as Mister kept telling me I was aiming it too high and that I was going to pee all over the back of the toilet and that my grip on the thing was totally wrong.

So I gave up on peeing and tried folding some laundry instead. But that was a disaster.

Where is the other towel?

Oh! there it is!

And I always wondered why boys are always touching it.

Like, what’s the big deal? I have boobs, but I’m not always touching them.

But I get it now because I couldn’t keep my hands off the darn thing!

It demanded my constant attention and I was obsessed with it. As soon as I put it on, I had this mysterious urge to stick it in things.

To tell you the truth, I’m feeling rather pleased with my experiment and I think you boys will appreciate that a woman finally tried to understand what it’s like to be a man instead of bitching because you don’t know how tough we ladies have it.

I have to admit I’m really glad I’m fancy on the inside because I just don’t know how guys walk around with those things.

We stayed home most of the weekend and it was very nice except for the huge fight I had with Mister.

It wasn’t even about anything sexy or interesting like his deep and abiding love for black tar heroine, his gambling debts, his penchant for Asian hookers, or even his inability to close cabinet doors after he opens them.

No, no.

It was about procrastination and replacement windows.

When we bought our house in August last year, the lead inspector told us that it was “hot” for lead in all of the windows. The house is 80 years old and it has it’s original six panes over clear bottom with the antique wavy glass in them. They’re very prettyful, but they leak cold air and poison our child with lead dust.

It makes me hysterical.

The good news is that our state has a program where we can have a lead abatement team come and replace the windows and they give us an interest free loan that isn’t due until the house is sold. I keep bugging Mister to get on it before Girlfriend gets poisoned and catches the retardation but he doesn’t listen to me because he’s the worst procrastinator ever, and also because I about have to strap one on and deal with him man to “man.” Otherwise he’ll try to tell me that I can’t even operate my bread machine properly so of course I don’t understand lead poisoning, replacement windows, and state loan programs.

And so we got into a big fight over the windows issue in front of Girlfriend. I know. You shouldn’t fight in front of your kids. Call Family Services. Ask for Linda. Tell her I said “hi.” (she’s my mom)

To make things worse I have a hard time arguing without saying “fuck” eleventy hundred times. I don’t want to swear in front of Girlfriend because she repeats things I say at random playback at the worst possible moments. I just know she’ll jump up at storytime and yell “Damn! You motherfuckers know how to tell a story! Can we do the fucking craft now?”

Without a penis and my beloved fuck word it made for a very frustrating argument that went nowhere and I had no choice but to chuck stuff at his head respectfully disagree.

Clearly, in order to prevent such a thing from happening in the future, Girlfriend will have to learn to cover her ears, and I’m going to have to come to the table prepared for a sword fight.

You’re not even going to believe it, but I had a life this weekend again!

That makes 2 weekends in a row and if this keeps up I’m going to have to change my name from Crissy to Crissy Gone Wild and I’ll have to start ripping my shirt off, showing my thong, and making out with my friends at the slightest provocation.

Because that’s what people with exciting lives do.

I think. I have no idea, really.

Any-who, I don’t know if I ever mentioned that I hang around with boys a lot, but I do.

A lot.

All of my lady friends live in prohibitively distant parts of the country (ahem Valerie, ahem Rachel), or they have nursing jobs (Kendra) and work fucked up hours, or they’re just not cool enough to come over and drink tequila do scrapbooking projects with me.

Whatever, but because of all this time spent with boys, I’m becoming a course woman.

I bought myself a scoot.

Not really, but don’t I look like I’ve been riding all my life?

Thought so.

And I’ve taken up skateboarding.

And fighting with boys about whose turn it is to use the skateboard.

Pay particular attention to our crappy looking back step area. It’s about to undergo a magical transformation of deckery and flowerishness that will make you weep because you live inside my computer and not on my new deck.

And then on Saturday, we dropped Girlfriend off with my ma and went to Thayer Street.

I love Thayer Street. I once bought 4 hits of acid and a dime bag a really funky necklace from a Rasta guy right in front of Store 24. Thayer is right near the Brown University and RISD campuses and so you get a very interesting mix of people. Basically it’s where rich kids from Brown and RISD art freaks collide. It’s also where the poor hang out spare changing people, but I usually just spit my gum into their cups and shout “get a job asshole!”

They love that.

On the way there, we saw this:

when you see people dressed this way on a 75 degree day, you know you’re getting close to Thayer. Not seen in the picture are the black vinyl pants she was wearing under the cape. I’m sure she smelled fresh as a daisy after wearing that get up on such a warm day.

Just sayin’.

Here’s Thayer.

Parking anywhere near Thayer is a pain and I was very lucky to find a place where I didn’t have to parallel park because I don’t know how to do that because everywhere I go has valet.

Sasha should be safe here for a bit.

(If you can name the movie where the valet comment came from, consider yourself high fived)

We had an awesome lunch outside at Paragon.

This is not lunch but a gratuitous picture of me at lunch.

Here’s my husband and my husband’s lunch.

I had salad and Diet Coke and he had beef and chicken satay with a Harpoon.

After lunch we went shopping at Zu Zu’s Petals and spent $140 on a simple cotton dress.

Because that’s what you do at Zu Zu’s Petals. You buy things because they are pretty and because they accept Visa.

Why in the name of Jesus are the keys always on the bottom of my purse?

They really need to put lights inside purses. Or they should line them in white so you can see in there.

And then Sunday we packed a picnic lunch and went to the park.

I alternated between marching in place

and just looking bitchy.

Daddy and baby and doggie.

And then we walked over to the ice cream place.

Keep eating ice cream and people at the beach will try to drag you back into the ocean, asshole.

I’m going to quit eating. Full stop.

Tomorrow.

I’m serious.   I think I’m behaving quite nicely but the number on the scale keeps climbing, so I must be doing something very wrong somewhere. So in an attempt to end the food and booze jackassery I’m going to report to you Internets, Bridget Jones style, how many calories I consumed, how many cocktails I had and how much exercise I got on the previous day.  I expect harsh chastisement for naughty behavior.  I know I can count on you.

Anyway, Happy Monday people!

PS: If you’d like to see more pictures of Thayer Street and learn how to make a ghetto see saw using an old splintery board and a propane tank, go visit my husband’s new photo-blog.

Wow.

What a busy weekend we had.

Crissy actually had a life!

On Friday we had a birthday party for my husband. He’s 34 now and that changes his official title from “husband” to “old husband.”

Until I turn 34 in June and then we just drop the whole “old” bit.

My daughter, myself.

We both stuffed as much chocolate cake as we could into our mouths because it was so yummy. After that we both got drunk and actually wound up stripping off all our clothes and rolling around in it under the table.

Not really.

Help! Help! I’m being oppressed!

Later that night I was the victim of a brutal attack when Bren didn’t want his picture taken.

On Saturday the sun finally came out and we all went outside to nurse our hangovers do some work in the yard.

Alice had a good fur day and she was feeling fine with her new scarf on.

And Girlfriend is so accustomed to wearing a hat and mittens when she goes outside that she insisted on wearing them even though it was 70 degrees out.

Here she is in her sandbox making “marshmallow soup with pine needles, brick, and muds.” Mmmmmmm…sounds de-lish Girlfriend!

And then I got all Martha Stewart-y and dug a new flower bed where I planted zinnias, cosmos, sugar snap peas, hyacinth, sunflowers, and some purple flower I forgot the name of.

But then my grandfather said it’s way to early to plant my flower seeds and they will probably not come up.

Oh.

And then I pounded bricks into the ground to make a border.

Look at me acting all butch, banging stuff with that orange hammer thingy.

But the entire time all I could think about was how I could glam it up because garden clothes are just icky.

Girlfriend finally ditched the hat which is good because it’s one less piece of clothing I’m going to have to throw away.

I don’t think any kid has ever been dirtier, like, ever.

While pushing her little wheelbarrow she could be heard singing “hel-ping, hel-ping, hel-ping!”

Awwww. Best friends.

And then two seconds later Girlfriend smashed poor Alice in the head with a plastic shovel and had to go inside to the naughty step.

And on Sunday I woke up singing the theme song from Green Acres, so I decided to glam it up a bit like only I can. I poured myself a little mar-tooni and went back to work on my bulb project.

Darling I love you, but give me Park Avenue!

What did you do this weekend?

At age 11 packing up and saving my Barbie dolls for the day when I might have a daughter who’d like to play with them: awww….so sweet.

Having that actually happen: something I’ve been dreaming of for 23 years. (GASP)

Watching my husband play Barbies with my daughter: sniffle…made me cry it’s so cute…

Telling him how much it means to me to see them play Barbies together only for him to admit he likes playing Barbies because it’s the closest he’ll ever come to having a realdoll:

Kick me in the crotch and spit in my hair priceless.

It occurred to me only very recently (like, yesterday) that I’ve never even so much as posted a picture of my poor husband. And that makes me feel guilty. He’s a good guy. I like him. He puts up with my Italian fantasies , and my telling of the intimate details of our sex life to all the Internets. He let me post a picture of his mullet. He’s even there with a video camera every time I feel like doing a little dancing.  When the computer is all kerfuffled, he un-kerfuffles it.  And he wouldn’t mind one bit if I freaked out and did some weird thing in front of him.  In fact, he’d probably really, really like it.

And not only is he a talented and secure man, but he’s also really, very helpful around the house:

He pitches in loading the dishwasher.

He helps with the laundry.

He cleans up after kitty.

He’s very handy in the garage.

He fixes my car for me.

But it doesn’t stop there!

Oh no, no!

Hubby is a real Renaissance man.

He plays the guitar.

And he’s a voracious reader too!

He can just sit and read for hours!

And so I dedicate this post to the super important man behind the woman behind the blog.  I don’t know why I didn’t do this sooner. 

As you can plainly see, I’m a pretty lucky lady.

If you don’t want to know the intimate details of my sex life, close your eyes because once you read it, you can’t un-read it.

Let me give you a little scenario that occurs frequently at our house.

It’s 8:00 and girlfriend is finally sleeping. By this time on a typical day, I’ve gotten out of bed at 6am to do an hour of power yoga with either Bryan Kest, Baron Baptiste, or sadistic bitch Kristen McGee. I’ve showered, dressed, made breakfast, packed lunch, gone to work, blogged worked, come home, done laundry, dishes, floors, girlfriend’s bath, prepared dinner, drank a bottle modest glass of wine, cleaned up after dinner, and helped get her into bed.

And then I collapse, exhausted as a crack whore coming off a bender.

Mister, on the other hand, has come home from work after a grueling day downloading porn, obsessing over photography message boards, having lunch out with the guys, and putting whoopie cushions on his co-worker’s chairs.

And guess what he wants? And I know what he wants because he’s breathing.

And I’m thinking “NO. Everything. NO.”

I want to be touched about as much as I want to run naked down my street banging a metal bucket over my head with a wooden spoon.

(I’d actually prefer that)

I have only two options here. I can tell him to sod off and have him act like a dickhead until I finally give it up — OR (valuable marital survival tip here so pay attention) — allow a “play through.”

A “play through” is really a golf term that my friend’s husband applied to what’s going on over at their place.

And it’s perfect.

And so we adopted it.

And so will you.

Here, let Crissy school you.

About.com defines a “play through” thusly:

When a faster group of players is allowed to pass a slower group on the course. This usually happens at the invitation of the slower group - etiquette dictates that a slower group allow a faster group to play through. The slower group may allow the pass to occur from any part of the hole, but it usually occurs when the faster group approaches a tee box on which the slower group is still playing. The slower group usually stands aside and waits for the faster group to complete the hole before resuming play itself. Sometimes the move is required by a course marshall, who tells one group to stand aside while another group plays through.

I’ve always said it’s important to observe proper etiquette whether you’re on or off the course. I don’t golf, but that’s not the point.

Anyway, it translates very nicely into the bedroom where we also have lots of balls and clubs and people just hanging around waiting for something to happen:

The exhausted wife “slower group” sort of just lays there watching Ghost Hunter “stands aside” while the husband gets his way without bothering anyone “completes the hole.” Following the play through, Johnny can’t get enough “faster group” is to keep quiet while the exhausted wife “slower group” goes to sleep “resumes play.”

We don’t have play throughs all the time. They only happen sometimes.

It’s exactly like when you have drunk sex and you wake up with no pants on and think to yourself “what the fuck happened last night?” and then you look at the dude next to you in bed and think “EW!” except that you’re married to the dude.

And you were probably drunk anyway were not drunk.

Pretty flowers for prom date: $10.00

Rental fee for totally bitchin’ black and white tuxedo: $25.00

Rad new Mullet haircut that shows your wild side: $15.00

Thinking you’re the shit:

Priceless!

Imagine your mother is Dr. Ruth…

I love my mom. Everyone does. She’s a single gal who’s very open and funny. She has tons of friends, she’s not afraid to use a well-placed f-bomb, has a wicked sense of humor, and nothing shocks her because she’s a social worker and deals with the absolute scum of the earth every day. You can talk to her about anything. And everyone does talk to her.

Among the people who come to visit her are some State Troopers who are on a stake out in front of her house (they’re not watching her, but apparently someone in her neighborhood has been vewy, vewy naugh-tee). They come in for potty breaks, grilled cheese sandwiches, cups of tea, and a nice chat. They’re the manliest sort of men around and she’s smitten. Think of Sex and the City kind of smitten, but without all the Samantha style sluttishness. My husband finds it adorable. I, on the other hand, want to gouge out my mind’s eye with a rusty fork and wash my ears out with acid. Imagine your mom sharing her State Trooper en flagrante delicto fantasies with you! (shudder).

And because of her training in all things theraputic, she feels it’s her job as my mother/therapist to give me unsolicited marital advice. Take Saturday for example. My husband spent the day painting our double living room. This was no small undertaking, but he did it without complaint, because he’s cool like that. I tell my mother what he’s doing and she gasps, saying “well, you’d better rest up and save your energy, girl. You owe him a little fun tonight. You’re going to have to make him a steak and give him a blow job.”

My husband thinks she’s the best mother-in-law a guy could ask for.

I know.

This is why I have a blog. It quiets the screaming in my head a little.