On Friday Girlfriend and I found ourselves on a parade float.

It wasn’t a Queen of Fucking Everything celebration and worship parade, per se, but it was close and I had hoped to have a video for you but Mister is a retarded ass monkey forgetful husband and left the video recording camera at home. I’m saddened by this because in still pictures you cannot hear the crowd cheering for me and shouting things like “God save the Queen!” and “Nice ass!” and also “throw candy over here!” which is one I’ve never heard before, but I’m sure it meant something nice and worshipful.

You’ll use your imagination though won’t you Internet, and imagine the cheering crowds?

Hear them?

Catch the Reading Bug at the Queen of Fucking Everything’s Library was the theme for the float and Girlfriend and her friends Ryland and Nathaniel were dressed as adorable little bumble bees.

That’s the lady I call my “boss” riding in front of me and the library “director” in the back. I find it makes people feel good when I call them things like boss and director, and officer.

Girlfriend and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing all the people who came out to worship us celebrate Independence Day.

And the paparazzi chased us down again and tried to interview us, but Girlfriend was unwilling to speak to them and shouted “NO!” at the man with the microphone and then she threw candy in his face.

That’s right, Girlfriend.

We don’t grant interviews to paparazzi scum.

And then after that we went to a party and had a lovely time drinking jello shots and eating cookies at my friend Stacy’s house and Girlfriend got bombalooed on Capri Suns and had to be carried home.

What did you do this weekend?

If you dare wear short shorts, Nair for short shorts.

That’s going to go through your head all day now.

Sorry.

(No I’m not.)

So I had to buy some new shorts for our upcoming vacation because the ones I had last year? Yeah, no. They’re a definite no. go. I’m too damn fat for them this year. There was overspill muffin top and camel toe inducing tightness and society says that doesn’t look nice and so I must obey.

And last year’s itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini? Also not so much this year. It looks more like a tourniquet so I have to get a new one of those too so my ass doesn’t turn blue from lack of circulation because nobody likes a blue assed girl.

I think society should pay for the new shorts and the new bikini since they’re the ones who are being such assholes about the whole thing.

And as if I wasn’t depressed enough at the thought of having to buy bigger shorts because it means that somehow after working out every single day and watching what I eat I still managed to gain 10 lbs (!) over the past year, I turn around to see that my husband has tried them on.

And they fit him.

Better than me.

Work it baby,

Own it.

That’s right people. He’s a Junior size 5.

This is so wrong on so many levels and it can be very depressing when your 6 foot 4 husband can fit into your clothes! He outweighs me by 75lbs!

HOW CAN THIS HAPPEN INTERNET?

HOW?

IT ISN’T FAIR.

And he eats like shit and he never works out. He calls his workouts “in situ” meaning he gets his exercise by working around the house.

That’s bullshit!

I work around the house too but I gain weight.

What the fucking fuck?

So anyway I should probably tell you so you’re not surprised when you come to see me on Monday morning and find there’s a man in my blog that I’m having a few guests come over to keep an eye on the place while Crissy gets a little well deserved R&R and her husband prances like a pretty princess around a seaside resort town in her new shorts.

You already know all of these people because they’re regulars around here and I’m hoping that they’ve all tried their keys in the door to make sure they work because after today I will be unavailable for consultation.

Monday we have Chris from Surviving Myself
Tuesday is Lynne at In The Rays of a Beautiful Sun
Wednesday is my bff Rachel from Get Your Freak On, which is on hiatus right now because she got a J-O-B.
Thursday you’ll hear from Kiala at Face of the Cookie
Friday is Melissa from Recovering Californian

Okay, I’m going to go and get packed and try to explain to my husband again why
A. It is unacceptable to wear women’s shorts in public or in private without some sort of nod in the direction of hair removal. At. Least.
B. He may not bring his scuba gear for use in the resort’s swimming pool again this year.

That’s right Internets, laugh it up.

My life is a hell.

I think I mentioned to you at least a couple of times before that I use the men’s room when I’m at work.

The Ladies room is shared by 40 of my closest co-workers, but the men’s room is used by only 2 or 3 men and one teenage boy.

By virtue of it’s under use, the men’s room is the clear winner because while most of the “ladies” manage very nicely to be clean and not gross, some of them? Let’s just say they’re part of the reason why I’d rather sit in boy pee-pee than risk it in the Ladies room.

The first thing that I notice when I go in is the lighting. It’s absolutely atrocious. I always look like a fucking blown out crack whore in that mirror. It’s an imperfection magnifier and I can see every zit, every wrinkle, and ever damn freckle on my face in that mother. There’s also a hand mirror available just in case looking at my face in the wall mirror isn’t enough, I can use it to see if my lady business looks blown out too.

And look at all those smelly lotions and sprays. You’d think people would use them after they’ve had an, ahem, issue?

But no.

Sometimes I walk in there and the joint is rank and I’m tempted to just get on the PA system and say: “Attention library employees. If something is tearing the ass out of you and you’re going to blow it up in the Ladies room, for the love of God woman, USE THE SPRAY so I don’t feel like I’ve just stepped into your rotting colon. Thank you.”

I’m sure the patrons won’t mind one bit because really, it’s a public service announcement.

And usually, when there’s been an issue in there, there’s also a Hershey highway swirly left in the bowl just in case anyone had any doubts as to what just went down.

How could the person not have noticed this and just flushed again? On the very, very, rare occasion that I have an issue at work, I always check.

Don’t you?

For the love of Jesus, it’s just common decency!

And speaking of spraying and smelling, there’s this automatic air freshener thing that goes off at random intervals. So I’m in there and then PSSSSSSSTTTTT!!! It lets out a poof of “air freshner” that smells like shit and Summer Melon (whateverthefuckthatis) and scares the hell out of me and I almost fall off the toilet because I think I’m under attack. Lynne thinks it’s trying to tell her something because it goes off every time she walks in, but I think Candid Camera is behind it somehow. You might think Crissy’s just a wee bit paranoid but you’re laughing, right? Well, so would America.

Just sayin.

Here’s a nice magnet for amoebic dysentery decorative touch.

And in case no one has ever washed her hands before we have this helpful sign to guide us:

Every time I read it I’m tempted to add one they forgot:

And then there’s the people who try to walk in on me when I’m peeing. No one knocks, they just try to bust in. I don’t know about you, but that makes the pee crawl right back up to where it came from and then I can’t go because I have what’s called a “shy bladder.” Or maybe it’s just because I don’t want people coming in and sitting on my lap when I’m trying to go tinkle.

And speaking of people just walking in, I’m afraid of what I might walk in on because the door doesn’t always lock properly. You have to fiddle with the knob a little and there isn’t always time.

Let’s just say I walk in on Edgar (but his real name is Carl. No it isn’t). He’s like 100 feet tall, bald as a bastard and a Republican. He’s our accountant and so we are very nice to him because he prepares our paychecks. I think he’s a nice guy, and he never yells at me for forgetting to do a time sheet which I always do because I don’t need to work for money and it embarrasses me every time they try to pay me, but he’s ok if not a little strange and I figure it must be because he’s really a Transvestite. And I’m scared that one day I’m going to walk into the Ladies room and find him putting on lipstick and sticking tampons in his ass and nobody wants to see that.

Am I right?

So, seriously.

Any one of you would use the men’s room too.

Especially those of you who are men. You don’t know how good you’ve got it boys.

And for the fatty report:

exercise: 30 minutes with Baron Baptiste Core Power Yoga for Abs + 10 minutes scrubbing out baby swimming pool where my arms hurt and I was sweaty so I’m counting it= 40 minutes, Calories 1480, alcohol units,

Oy.

-OR- How I Got My Gunt

Okay so yesterday concluded Crissy’s Cat Mid-Week Extravaganza.
Those of you who think it was wrong to get my cat loaded will be pleased to know that he got his revenge on us on Wednesday night when he ate the seedling vegetables that were in my greenhouse window in the kitchen. I came downstairs for my morning yoga torture festival to find dirt and baby basil, baby cucumber, baby squash, baby tomato, and baby Shasta Daisies all over my kitchen floor and counters.

You’d think he would have been grateful for the schwag. But no. Apparently he’d prefer Purple Haze cat nip instead.

Douche.

Anyhow, here’s something else that bores the shit out of me and causes all sorts of problems in my life.

Work.

This is a picture of my desk.

Notice the Vegan cookbook that came in for me yesterday. It’s arrival was the most exciting thing that happened all day. That and the fun Lynne and I had running around doing our hijinks after our director left for lunch.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here because before lunch, this is all the work I had to do.

By lunchtime this is all the work I had done.

As you can plainly see, I am a very dedicated blogger and online shopper worker.

Obviously I had an exhausting morning and needed to take my break.

Here is the message board on the break room fridge.

“Fuck cheese and salami inside my ass.”

Lynne added the swear words to make the Internets laugh. We think we might add swear words every day just to make ourselves laugh and also to piss off and offend people because that’s what we really like.

And with people posting queer shit like this on the fridge, you need a little F-bomb every once in a while. Seriously.

And you know I had to have some of that salami. You how much I love the salami.

But I had to hide my love away because everyone thinks I’m a vegetarian. And I am.

Most of the time.

Here is the break room table. It is my mortal enemy and the reason why I wound up crying in my closet when I tried on last year’s shorts and found a lovely muffin top and camel toe where there had been none previously.

Normally, none of these foods would interest me, but when I’m at work I’m just so damned bored. I go in for water, I come out chowing on some form of bullshit food just to have 20 seconds of pleasure in an otherwise torturously dull day.

Notice how many penis-ish and balls-ish foods we have here. It’s okay to giggle about the honor snacks “munch box.” I do. I mean am I supposed to eat a bag of chips or eat out a co-worker? I’m confused! I don’t know what they want from me!

And who doesn’t love Poppycock?

Nobody. Nobody doesn’t love Poppycock, that’s who.

I think it’s better when eaten in confined spaces such as a random co-worker’s locker,

or snuggled in a shelving unit in the Administrator’s Supply Closet.

And here is my other problem.

It sits behind me on my boss’s desk and talks dirty to me all day.

“Criiiissssyyyy…come and eat me, Crissy. You know you love me, you know you want me, come and take me and tear my wrapper off and lick me! Lick! Me!”

So sometimes people find me doing a jar of chocolates under my desk.

I also like pretzels and twizzlers.

I think I might save this picture until most of the 5lb tub of Twizzlers is gone and then I’ll post it on the fridge.

Ha, ha! Your Twizzler was in the Men’s room! Ha, ha!

Did I mention I use the Men’s room instead of the Ladies?

I do because there are only 2 men who work with us and about 40 women.

Whatever those “ladies” are doing in the staff bathroom?

I want no part in it. But that’s a post for another day.

Anyway, I’m glad it’s Friday and I’m sure you are too.

Happy Weekend Internets!

I was asked to work at the Reference desk yesterday.

And of course I jumped at the chance since Reference librarians are the rock stars of the library because they know everything. I’m qualified to say this because I used to work at the Reference desk until I had a kid and had to step down. The Reference librarian’s schedule was just too hard for me to keep up with while raising a baby.

You laugh, but it’s true.

Now I work in Technical Services. I’d explain it to you, but it’s very technical and you don’t care. They say Technical Services is the heart of the library, but really, we’re everyone’s bitch. That’s what I do. I’m a librarian’s bitch. I guess it wasn’t so technical after all.

Anyway, I was at the Reference desk for only a short time when I got the kind of call that always pisses me right the fuck off. It’s some douche-bag who thinks the Reference desk is her own personal 411 and calls me for the number for H&R Block because apparently she thinks they are in the habit of giving out free tax advice to drunken assholes over the phone. Did I mention this woman was already slurring her words by 11:00 am? Yeah. And lucky for her I happen to be fluent in drunk slurring language and I wouldn’t have understood a word if I hadn’t so much experience with it prior to this occasion.

And then while I’m looking up the number, she asks me her fucking tax question. As if! I wanted to say, “Um. No, this is still me, the library. I haven’t given you the number yet. Do try to keep up fucktard.”

But I didn’t. I was polite because “always be professional” is my motto.

After I gave her the number, we went back and forth like this for a while:

Me: The number is 725-7090

Her: 867-9087?

Me: No. 725-7090

Her: 752-8907?

Me: No. 725…

Well, You get the idea. For fuck’s sake lady, land the plane already!

She finally got it right and hung up without so much as a thank you.

It’s so typical of the public to behave that way.

And on a totally unrelated related note, because I was upstairs at Reference I was forced to use the public ladies room and not the usual private Staff facility I’ve grown accustomed to. And since I’m not used to being around the public anymore, I forgot that it isn’t polite to touch your ass in front of people and so I did. I touched my ass.

And I got caught by the publicness who was behind me in the hallway.

And I didn’t know what to do, so I just left my hand on my ass and pretended like it’s just my signature walk and that I wasn’t just a girl touching her own ass.

But now I have an etiquette question for the Internets. When caught touching your ass, what is the polite thing to do?

Remove your hand immediately and maybe slap it for being naughty?

Keep your hand there and pretend like it’s normal?

Excuse yourself?

Slap the opposite ass cheek for good measure?

Put your hand on the other person’s ass so they feel included?

I need to know because it will probably happen again.

I touch my ass a lot.

Because it’s so very, very fine.