Before I tell you what this post is about today you should know that I decided to keep the name Crissy’s Page because your responses were overwhelmingly in favor of it. Apparently the cutesy dorkishness of the name is in such contrast to the vulgar whore behind it that it pleases you.

Fine.

But some of you had some great suggestions and you deserve a shout out :

Beef Johnson’s Circus- rs27
Dirty Blonde- Lynne
Double Jointed Vagina- stoogepie
My Husband Watches a lot of Porn- Melissa Lion
Free Money- lacochran
Donkey Punching and More! - Morgetron

So thanks people.

Okay, on to the post!

So I really want my bike but I don’t have the scratch right now so I had an idea.

You guys are going to buy these tee shirts

with Crissyspage.com written on the back or else I’ll not like you any more.

People will think Crissy’s Page is a mom porn site but fuck them for being dirty birds.

I’ve discovered that you can get these all over the place but why would you do that when you can buy one from Crissy and help her get her dream machine and watch hours of videos of her falling off her bike riding it in circles in her driveway and then down the street and back a little until she gets the courage to leave her neighborhood.

So before I buy a bunch of these shirts and then get stuck giving them to everyone and my grandfather because no one wanted one, who wants one?

Shoot me an email or a comment below and I will decide if this is another one of my brilliant ideas or if I really need to stop smoking the crack.

It was actually my neighbor’s idea, not Michelle’s but her husband Rich’s, so maybe Rich and I will both need to stop hitting the pipe while our children run naked and dirty in the street eating garbage play nicely together in the back yard.

Maybe I’ll even have thongs and boxer briefs and onezies and bumper stickers and mouse pads and wine glasses and all kinds of other stuff too.

What’s cool?

I have no idea.

I’m going to try and make this post funny or at least mildly amusing but I can’t make any promises as my fiber intake yesterday was, ahem, ambitious and today I’m having some issues.

When you’re old like I am now you have to pay attention to your colon but you should never eat Kashi Good Friends with strawberries for breakfast, Corn and spinach salad for lunch, watermelon, plums, peaches, and All Bran crackers for snack, and then lentil burgers with spinach for dinner all in the same day.

’nuff said.

So on my birthday Girlfriend and I went to the mall with my Victoria’s Secret gift card that was already burning a hole in my purse. I was able to find a few things but nothing that one could call a “set” because finding a matching bra and panty in the correct size during the Semi- Annual Sale is as likely to happen as that whole Virgin Birth story.

She was just giving that shit out to all the fellas.

You know that right?

And after that I went to Forever 21 for a little 34th birthday punishment fun.

One must never go into Forever 21 on her 34th birthday because really one is too old to shop there.

My daughter is closer in age to the store manager than I am.

Like, totally.

And I stood out like a whore at bible study with my stroller complete with preschooler stuffing her face with shut up and let mama shop bribe cookies.

And I felt like a giant momtard because there were some things I couldn’t identify as a shirt or a dress or as a dress or a skirt and I just put those things back immediately because those teenage salespeople are such bitches you can’t ask them for shit and you know I’d be the asshat to buy a shirt, thinking it was a dress, and walk around with my new non- matching VS Signature Cotton panties hanging out, right?

Or I’d buy an outfit thinking I was the shiznit (is that what the kids are saying? I have no idea) and end up looking like this:

Or like my Great Aunt Esther:

It was intimidating as hell.

But one good thing that happened there was that I had my best shopping moment ever with my daughter and this is going to make all you childless ladies out there want to have a little girl in the worst way.

When I held up a dress and asked Girlfriend if she liked it, she put her finger to her chin, considered her answer carefully, and said “yes I do, but do you have the shoes to go with it?”

I’m not going to lie to you Internet.

There were tears of joy as everything I’ve ever wanted in my whole life was given to me in that one moment.

I have a mini-me.

It’s about damn time.

So I finish my shopping and after being sufficiently ignored at the cash register by the little salescunts and then finally noticed and informed in the snottiest way possible of the store’s fucked up return policy, I went home with this dress in green,

These jangly bangle bracelets

And these earrings that make such a satisfying tinkly sound when I turn my head that my neck hurts now from making them go and so I cannot wear them again until I get my neck brace off.

I’m hurt Internet.

If you were me, would this go up your ass sideways and then backwards and then do a twist and swirly and a few karate kicks?

I’m a Saylesville woman. Not a hero. Not a even a god damned Good Samaritan.

When I picture a Saylesville woman I picture this:

Not this:

Sorry. Wrong picture.

Wait a second.

Okay, not…

this:

And it turns out that Officer Dreamy McHot isn’t his real name after all.

I could have sworn that’s what it said on his badge.

Huh.

It was also on the channel 12 news and that story is even more infuriating than the stupid newspaper article because it made

NO MENTION WHATSOEVER OF THE QUEEN OF FUCKING EVERYTHING.

None.

All they said was that there was a commendation ceremony (!) held on Saturday for the fireman who “spotted a boy struggling in the water and bravely swam out to save him.”

He-ll-ooooo!

Is the fireman psychic?

Did a little birdie tell him there was a problem in the pond?

WAS LASSIE THERE TO TELL HIM TIMMY WAS IN TROUBLE AGAIN????

Fuck. no.

IT WAS ME!!!!

We tried to get the news story on video but of course at the crucial moment the fucking shit fuck camera asshole would not work.

Needless to say, I’m outraged Internet.

I wish it was on the channel 10 news instead of the stupid crappy channel 12 news because channel 10’s Frank Coletta woulnd’t do me like that and put the story on without interviewing the Saylesville woman who made the call in the first place.

See?

He’s nice.

And btw, he’d never call me a Saylesville woman.

He’d call me by my proper name.

The Queen of Fucking Everything.

And he’d include the Fucking part too.

Because he’s cool like that.

And accurate.

And you know what else really puts a fly in my ointment? Everyone is calling the fireman a “hero” and giving him medals and plaques and shit and he was just doing his job. It’s his fucking job to fucking save people. Is this what happens to you guys when you do your job because if it is, I need to speak to my boss. She never gives me stuff when I catalog a book correctly without being asked (even though it’s a rare event).

I just don’t think we should go tossing the word hero about so carelessly like we do.

I’ll shut up about all this now, but just so you know, next time I hear someone drowning in the pond?

Fuck ‘em.

I’m going to let the psychic fire department handle it from now on.

I don’t even know why they have a phone.

So there’s this blogger, right?

And I really liked his blog.

I thought it was pretty funny and so I blogrolled him and he blogrolled me and I started reading and commenting and it was all kissy-kissy, nicey-nicey until I commented on a post he wrote about his birthday.

In it he wrote stuff about running around naked in his back yard and shooting porn films in his basement and some other stuff I can’t remember because it was a couple of months ago but anycrap ( I totally swiped that from Kiala. Thanks Kiala!), people wrote comments about crotchless panties and nakedness and whatnot so I wished him a happy birthday and said that since pubes turn gray when you get old I’m going to shave from now on so I never have to have that horrifying moment of finding my first gray pube.

That’s all I said, and then he emails me with this to say about my comment:

“It was the catalyst for me to make a few changes in the blog, my own habits, etc. I’m going to leave this comment out, just so I don’t rekindle the whole deal. It’ll save me some other headaches.”

That’s a direct quote from the email. I kept it because when the world starts making sense to me I read it and then the world stops making sense and everything is all screwed up again.

And then he put all comments into moderation, took down his blogroll, and put his blog on hiatus.

I’m not even kidding you.

I was all hurt and embarrassed and felt like a big loser but then I realized Hey! I’m not the asshole. He’s the asshole!

I mean he was all polite and stuff in the email, but puh. leeze. In light of what other people were saying my comment was not inappropriate and he didn’t delete anyone else’s. Just. mine. So the only way I can make sense of this is that the “whole deal” and the “headaches” he’s talking about are not all about him because he’s a guy and he’s down with pussy jokes and bad language. They all are.

I think it’s his wife.

The dude is

Pussy. Whipped.

And I think that’s gotta be the problem here because on other people’s blogs he makes comments about masturbation and he uses naughty words and he frequents blogs that are like mine. You know, vulgar and inappropriate. So my theory is that the Mrs. caught him spanking it to some porn

and decided to put the clamp down on all his Internet activities.

It’s probably that and he’s just a total asshole and a hypocrite.

I considered blogging about this when it happened but I decided to take the high road and just email gossip about it to all my blog friends because “be classy, not sassy” is my motto and also because it wasn’t worth starting a blog war even though I’d totally win because my blog is bigger than his.

But I’m blogging it today because I got an email from another blogger who is just the sweetest person in the world mostly because she called me her blog hero and she was a little hurt and embarrassed because he did it to her too. Make me feel weird, that’s fine, but he messed with one of my peeps and now I’m pissed. He said he deleted her comment due to “inappropriateness” because she made mention of her down belows.

What does this dude have against the girl parts?

And shouldn’t he warn people that he’s totally fucking lame? (actually, his blog title does sort of come right out and say that…)

I mean seriously. If you don’t want people to be inappropriate on your blog you shouldn’t write stuff that is going to inspire inappropriate comments.

Just sayin.

It makes me want to tell you all to go to his blog and holler PUSSYCUNTCOOTERTITS at him.

But I’m not going to tell you who it is but if you email me I totally will because I have class coming out of my ass.

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.

The first two days of our vacation were glorious sunny days and the Crissys decided to go to the beach on both days because normally when the Crissys go on vacation it rains the entire time and also Crissy has her period and/or a cold flu typhoid fever and it’s just the most miserable thing ever. But this time there was sun, no cold flu typhoid fever and just the period to contend with so things were looking good and we wanted to take full advantage of the sunshine before it found out we were on vacation.

The first day we went was so nice and Girlfriend met some little friends named Dave and E something, Ella or Emma maybe? Crissy can’t remember and their mother was lovely and we played with bubbles and shared toys and had fun. Mister tried to fly a Kite with Girlfriend but The Man came and shut it down.

There’s no kite flying or ball playing on the beach.

What the Fuck is that shit about? There’s no one else on the beach!

And so I told the young lifeguard that Pamela Anderson just ran that way and that she said she wanted to show him her whistle and he was off to find her.

College age boys can be so dumb sometimes.

The second day our friend Kendra came with us and Mister set up the self timer on the camera:

And we built sand castles:

I made a hat.

Shut.up. It does so look like a hat! Everyone laughed at it, but I think it looks quite nice actually.

And then Girlfriend found another little friend named Susie and I forgot to tell you internet about another sort of mom that makes me want to shank a bitch. It’s not the birth story kind of mom, it’s the one upper kind of mom. These two types are not at all mutually exclusive and I’m sure that this mom would have told me her birth story had my husband not been there. They almost never give the history of the vagina and uterus in front of husbands which is why I try to take Mister to the playground as often as I can.

But within the first five minutes of conversation this mom found a way to let us know that her little precious has been potty trained since she was 18 months old and OH! the horror trying to find clothes that fit her because everything her size is made to be worn with a bulky diaper underneath and it’s. so. hard. being. her. and they live two blocks away from the beach and they walk over every day with little precious losing her pants the whole time.

Boo fucking hoo.

When faced with the one upper I’m always tempted to go one downer and just be all like “oh, yeah, I know what you mean. Finding clothes for the baby is so hard because when you live in a women’s shelter like we do you have to take whatever people give you. But it will all change soon because we’re getting the paternity test back any day now and we’ll find out who her father is we can get some child support and I’ve been cured off the Wild Turkey for a whole 8 days now ever since the judge said they’d take my kid away if I didn’t quit drinking and giving blow jobs to random strangers at bars…”

But I didn’t have to do anything like that because Girlfriend decided she did not like these people and dumped a bucket of icy cold salt water on the kid and after being half heartedly scolded for it by me she turned around and dumped another bucket on the mother.

I tried not to high five her in front of the woman because that would have been rude and “don’t be rude” is my motto.

So we left the beach after that and went to The Atlantic Beach Club where we had clam cakes and chowder and enjoyed ourselves immensely and Girlfriend was very into being a snotty beach club lady.

And the day the weather was total crap so we skipped the beach and went to Flo’s Clam Shack where George, Girlfriend’s new Sock Monkey who was a gift from Kendra, enjoyed some fish and chips with slaw.

Little did we know that the rest of the week it would continue to rain and wind and be cold because the Crissys bring bad weather and pestilence wherever they go.

We also bring bail money and plenty of sex lube, but that’s a story for another blog.

On the second day we were there I made my debut at the pool.

I look totally pregnant when I’m under water:

And my ass was still scalded and I looked something like this:

or at least like I had just received a very firm spanking, but I didn’t care because I was on vacation and everyone can suck it if they don’t like my ass and besides. This pool had the usual assortment of freaks on parade so I think my ass was one of the least offensive things to look at. I mean what would a resort pool be if it wasn’t full of little kids, hygenically challenged foreign people, huge fat hairy guys that look like they’re wearing sweaters even though they’re not, people with suspicious looking skin conditions, and old people with melty skin and dangly parts held precariously inside ill fitting bathing suits?

It wouldn’t be a resort pool, that’s what.

But I go because I have a little kid and they love the pool like dogs love bunny shit. So Girlfriend swam happily around, gaining confidence with her swimmies, and I tried not to think about all the armpits and assholes in there with me was minding my own business while being splashed in the eyes with the pee pee dysentery sulfuric acid pool water and getting repeatedly whacked in the face by a kid thrashing around with one of those flotation noodle thingys who Girlfriend was all over like white on rice so there was no escaping the little fucker when I turned my head to avoid yet another noodle assault and what do my precious, precious, delicate virgin eyes fall upon only a scant inch or two away?

OLD.

BALLS.

Blech!

Some old dude in a plaid bathing suit was sitting on the edge of the pool just inches away from my face with his legs spread open, and his Old Balls dangling out from the leg of his suit. I tried splashing my eyes with the sulfuric pool water to try and burn the image away, but no.

It was too late.

I couldn’t un-see it.

The image haunted me for the better part of our vacation and I think I may need a quick trip to my therapist to maybe EMDR the shit away. Or even a few hits of Haldol.

We’ll see.

But as I commented to Mister later in the day, they weren’t as wrinkly as I thought they’d be, but then again, how much more wrinkly could they possibly get? What made more of an impression was how low they were hanging. I mean, these were knee length “swim trunks” as my grandfather calls them and I understand they ride up a little when you sit down but. still.

That’s a mighty low hanging sack.

I think the poor fellow needed one of these:

On the Serious.

It’s me, Melissa Lion, and I want to say that my comments are being spammed here at Miss Crissy’s and while I have the power to post, I don’t have the power to despam myself. So, I’m responding to comments in my heart.

I’m the Girl Friday ’round here and that’s a little intimidating. My post comes up last after a week of very funny people. And I’ve been reading the posts and laughing out loud and then closing the page, drawing my blinds and putting my head under the covers because, dear god, can I hold my own? Am I funny enough? Don’t anyone answer that in comments, kay? Unless the answer is yes. My ego is fragile.

So this week, I’ve been thinking about topics to blog about. Things I think are funny. And I’ve thought of five things. But, when it came down to it, I couldn’t decide which was the best. So I thought I’d collect them here. And you can decide. But I’d rather you decide that they’re all funny because blog posts are like my babies. And when people don’t hand me awards and vibrators and chocolate for my blogging, well, it’s like hurting babies.

You wouldn’t do that, would you?

Of course not.

Here are the topics.

1) Doctor’s Scrubs on People Who Are Not Doctors

To all the nurses and medical assistants out there — holy fucking hell. Those pants always, always pull around your ass. You might try to disguise the ass pulling problem by wearing scrubby pants with tie-dyed teddy bears, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all. Because then I see you and think, that Grateful Dead looking mother fucker is the one who lost my co-payment and now I’m in collection because I’m trusting my medical history to people can’t get it together to put on regular office clothes, but rather, feel a self-important pair of pajamas will make them appear professional. And doctory. And like they have a PhD, but they do not. I do not. Only people who have the cojones to cut up cadavers get to be excused from pants that pull around their asses. They’re doctors! They save people! And office assistants don’t. I’m sorry. I’m a writer, which is like below medical assistant on the list of people who are useful to society. So if you’re a medical assistant and you’re pissed now, just consider the source. And take off those fucking pants.

2) I Really Missed Out on Being a Stripper in My Twenties.

I might be short and have a big ass and ordinary tits and I’m a brunette and I can’t walk in heels, and cheap perfume and/or anything melon scented gives me a headache, but I get this nagging sense that I missed out on something in my youth. I mean, being a stripper would have meant that I was in shape, had a lot of cash, and maybe I would have done blow at some point in my life, instead of how I am now — a 32 year old woman whose greatest drug story is about the time no one would sell her pot in Big Sur, California, which is a little like no one selling you Bain de Soleil in St. Tropez. And, if I were a stripper, then I bet someone, at some point, would have hit on me in a bar. Because, on the serious, I’ve never been hit on in a bar. And no, there is nothing wrong with my face.

3) Greenpeace

Hi, Greenpeace? Yeah, when you stand in front of the market and say things like, “Can you spare a minute of your time to save a baby seal?” or “You love the environment, right?” or “Whales are dying and unless you talk to me, they will rot on beaches all over the world,” I want to stop, pull the bloody carcass of a cormorant from my handbag and smother you with it. And that’s saying a lot, because for the past few weeks, I’ve been carrying my Dooney purse and that shit’s like gold, so for me to sully it with the blood of a bird just to make a point is a real commitment. But I will do it. Okay, maybe not with my Dooney, but perhaps with my Kate Spade.

4) 69

I need to most respectfully, and carefully and with the most amount of humility, totally disagree with Miss Rachael. 69 is one of my favorite things to do. I love the tension of it. I love the balance and the inherent confusion. It makes me feel like I’m back in high school. Wait, no. I didn’t have sex in high school. No. Not me. In college either. I only had sex when I got married. In fact, the only reason I got married was to 69. And rub it in all of those homosexuals’ faces that (HA!) I could get married and you can’t! Look at me! And then I got divorced for the same reason.

5) Magic Johnson Does Not Want to Hear About Your HIV

So I went to a breakfast a few days ago and Magic Johnson was there. And he was signing autographs and normally I don’t go in for autographs because I am a famous author and I just get so disgusted when people approach me and ask me to sign things and say things like, I love your work, and you’re my hero and here’s the Nobel prize for literature. And…god…the paparazzi. Enough already, you know?!? But I was at this breakfast, and Magic was talking about being an entrepreneur and how small business people need to something something I don’t know because I was checking out Andre Dubus III who was also up there and very cute.

And I decided that I should meet Magic Johnson and give him my business card. Because I’m zany. And I waited and waited and finally it was my turn and this old lady elbowed me and told Magic about how her daughter “has the HIV and she got it from a guy she only slept with once. ONCE, can you believe it? He’s a real loser. Now she has it. I thought maybe you could recommend some treatments.” And I was standing there, looking away, looking anywhere because oh my god, this woman is talking about her daughter’s HIV and holy shit, it’s Magic Johnson who has HIV. All this time, I thought it was Kareem Abdul-Jabar. I mean, all of those basketball players look the same, right? And I can’t treat him different just because I realized he has HIV. But I’m sort of mad at him a little because he spends all this time talking about how his businesses help black people but all he opens are chains like Starbucks that are not owned by black people, but rather rich white men. And tall former basketball players with HIV. Sheesh Magic, you could really help your community a little more.

And then it was my turn to speak with Magic and I wanted to come up with some STD he could advise me on because, right, he’s an STD guru or something. But I don’t have any STD’s, but I do have the ongoing desire to have a sty on my eye and for one split second, I thought maybe he’d know how I could get a sty on my eye and then subsequent treatments for sty removal. Because sties are cool.

Instead I handed him my business card and he high fived me (oh dear) and that was that.

Okay, so that was my blog post. I hope you enjoyed it. Crissy and Ken will return at some point in the future. And Crissy will be glad to see you all and Ken will download you some porn because he’s a porn agent, if you didn’t know.

I love those two.

Now, remember when you hear them coming, look busy!

MY COMMENT RESPONSES:
Rachael: Thanks for understanding. I think I’ll get a shirt that says something like I heart 69, please pick up on me. It will confuse men, but maybe one will be able to sort through the info.

Saratogajean: That’s an excellent requirement for scrubs!

Marie: Excellent question. He was sitting and I was standing.

KK: I’m 5′6″. I used to think I was tall, but then I was at a show in San Francisco and I realized that I couldn’t see a thing and that I was staring at people’s shoulders and that I was the shortest person there. So maybe in San Francisco I’m short, but elsewhere, I’m tall.

Joe: Thank you!

Rachael: Nummy. And confusing. Like 69.

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?

Another thing that I promised myself I would try to do is to start seeing the value in other human beings by way of talking to them because everyone has something unique and important to offer if you just listen to what they have to say.

Bwahahahahah!

No.

That’s not true.

But on the serious, and this may surprise you, Crissy is scared of people.

For real.

I’ve always been a very shy person and I’ve always felt like a big freak. Instead of playing with the other kids I spent my childhood summers playing alone in the attic with my Barbies, and now I do it in my back yard and it’s just got to stop. I do not like “dry” social events because I need my drinkies before I can talk to people or else I pee my pants and wind up in the fetal position on the floor of the coat closet.

And when we’re at the playground or something I sort of avoid the other parents and focus on Girlfriend. But that’s mostly because I’ve recently been the victim of some brutal snubbing by the mothers of Frumberland and I’m not interested in giving those cunts another opportunity to commit further cuntery. (That’s right. I said cunts and it’s okay because we took the word back and now it’s really good.) But I’ve been thinking that maybe they’re not all cunts. Maybe some of them are actually nice and I have no idea because I’m still working through my own petty trauma.

So I’m making a promise to myself and to the Internets that I will try to conquer my fear of people and become a social person.

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Everyone could stare at me:

But so what. Let em’ look. I’m cute, right?

Instead of me going home and crying all afternoon like last time, Bitch Auntie could talk smack about my baby girl again and I’ll kick her in the fucking mouth.

And that would be a really, really good thing.

(I’ve gotten some new readers since the Bitch Auntie incident so click here and here and do try to keep up from now on okay people?)

I could try to make small talk and say something incredibly stupid.

Or I might overshare a little bit.

Or accidentally say something depressing or creepy while trying to make conversation.

Maybe I’ll talk about myself too much and people will think I’m boring.

Or crazy.

Or I might make an inappropriate suggestion.

But any of these things would be okay because at least I got in there and started talking to people WITHOUT THE USE OF KlONOPIN AND VODKA which are not appropriate treats to bring to the playground anyway.