Crissy

Welcome to Crissy had the same nonsensical exchange with her husband last night like she always does which leads her to think that perhaps last week should have included Crissy tries killing reasoning with her husband instead of engaging in ludicrous discussions about stupid things with him.

Last night we were surveying our yard and all the hard work we’ve been doing and still have to do to make it look pretty-ful instead of god-awful like it is now.

Our clumps of dirt and weeds grass leaves much to be desired and we still need more plantings I think and I said as much to Mister and mind you Mister had just consumed a totally different kind of grass one beer when the following conversation ensued.

Mister: I think we need a statue right there.
Me: What? A statue of what?
Mister: I don’t know. Something powerful. Something that makes a statement.
Me: Like what?
Mister: What about a statue of me?
Me: A statue of you.
Mister: Yeah! I think it would be GREAT! You never see that. I don’t understand why nobody ever puts a statue of themselves in the front yard.
Me: You want to put a statue of you in the yard.
Mister: Yeah. Why not? It’s cool, man.
Me: I don’t think so.
Mister: People need to know who lives here!
Me: No they don’t.
Mister: Why? You never let me do what I want.
Me: That’s because what you want is stupid. You want stupid all the time.
Mister: Come on! Just picture it. A statue of me right there.
Me: You draw me a sketch and I’ll consider it (knowing full well I’d do no such thing)
Mister: That’s fine. You’ll see. It’s a great idea.
Me: Uh huh.

And so he gave me this:

What do you think Internets? Should we go for it?

Do you see what I have to put up with?

Do you see why the vodka and the klonopin?

Ps: Thank you to all the people who voted for me in the Hottest Mommy Blogger awards! Those of you who haven’t done it yet, please do. I hate to beg, but have you seen some of the people who are winning? NOT. HOT. Not that I think I’m anything great, but seriously it’s a fucking joke, and I refuse to lose to those dogs!

I’m running for President next and I’ll need your votes then too, so practice, practice, practice!

I realize that I’m going backwards here, and I should have started with my morning and today should be my afternoon and tomorrow my night but I didn’t have time to take any pictures of my morning yesterday so you’re just going to have to rearrange my days in your head.

I know you can do it Internets.

I’m a little disorganized this week and I think it’s because I’m off the booze because it was making me gain weight and we simply cannot have that because we are going on vacation soon and society tells me I must look good in my green and white polka dot bikini with the little ruffles that frame my boobies so very nicely.

See? Cuteness.

This is almost exactly the same as mine but mine’s got the dainty ruffles I was telling you about and Yes! I am that tan and I always put my hands in my hair like that when I’m in the water just like this girl does. We’re practically twins!

Anyway my mornings…what do I do?

First I drink this

because I cannot do yoga unless I poop and I cannot poop unless I drink the coffee.

After the coffee and the pooping comes the yoga for one hour

(You’ll notice that Alice is sleeping peacefully on the couch and not cowering underneath it like with the hip-hop.  Everyone is happiest when mommy does the yoga.)

with Sadistic Bitch Kristin McGee.

I thought that us having the same name would mean she wouldn’t kick my ass all over my living room, but no. It makes her hate me.

Or I like Pompous Yogi Baron Baptiste’s Power Yoga Soul of Strength.

I used to be able to do that pose, (I did so!) but I fell on my face on a tile floor while drunkenly showing off my slick move and now I can’t do it anymore. Mental problems.

Don’t do Raven Pose drunk.

Or sometimes Bryan Kest’s Power Yoga for Intermediates.

He looks very serious here and that’s because he has a tewibule speech impediment and that makes him sad. I know that’s not nice to say, but he DOES.

“Downward dog posisssin.”

There are several others but these are my faves. I hate it when people say faves. It’s FA-VO-RITE!

Fave is not a word.

Then I shower, and I’m not showing you a picture of me in the shower because you cannot handle it, and then I get dressed, and then I eat this

because you shouldn’t neglect your colon if you want to poop before yoga in the A.M.

And I feed this,

those are ORGAINC pop tarts so shut. up. they’re healthy for her!

to this:

And I pack my lunch which I don’t have a picture of but trust me it’s all roughage, you know, for the pooping.

And I drive to work in this:

See? Not scary.

And I understand these:

They’re very simple.

And I’m totally brilliant at shifting with this.

And I listen to these people:

Are you physically turned on by Cake? I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be, but if that didn’t do it for you, check this out:

How about now? Do you want Cake now?

Not that I don’t like Chris’s people because I do, but I’m not always in the gansta mood.

And I just want something sweeter.

And then I arrive at work and you know what sort of shit goes down over there and then I come home and I already told you about what happens at night, so we put the movie in and yada, yada, yada I fall asleep soon afterward and the whole thing starts over again in the morning.

I don’t know what I’m going to tell you about tomorrow now.

It’ll be a surprise for us all.

Namaste.

PS: Go see Chris and vote for him. He’s been nominated for best humor blog. Click on the thing at the top right of his page and give our friend the recognition he deserves!

Weeee!

Theme weeks are fun, Right!?

It’s so much easier for me to be picking a theme and going with it for the week than always having to come up with something random to talk about because as you know, I’m not very good at switching gears. After last week of trying new things I’ve run clean out of vodka and Klonopin and considering my anxiety issues and the fact that Lynne is not at work this week (!), I think I ought to just take a break from the new stuff and go back to my comforting old routines before I have to put my therapist on speed dial or I start peeing my pants again because Crissy is a creature of habit and does not take change well.

Ever.

But DON’T WORRY because it won’t matter to you Internets since my daily routines have yet to be disclosed, so it’s all new stuff to you anyway. And I also think you’ll like it because I’m quite fascinating, really, and the stuff I do that I think of as normal and routine will freak your freak because it is so sexy and so glamorous you will be the one who needs the vodka and the Klonopin and not me at all.

So today I think we’ll talk about what Crissy does after work.

5:30 pm- Arrive home. Turn volume down on stereo as I am unable to pull car into the garage with the stereo on.
5:32 pm- Attempt to get through the door with 1 tote full of books, 1 lunchbox, 1 giant purse, 1 American Breast Cancer Society Travel mug, and 1 little dog scratching the shit out of my leg.
5:33 pm- kiss baby and husband hello and attempt to micromanage the dinner husband is making until I get yelled at and kicked out of the kitchen.
5:45 pm- Go upstairs to remove motherfucking torture device bra. Hate. bras. Damn you society for making me wear one!!!! Damn you all to hell!
6:00 pm- Eat dinner made by Mister if it’s a day I worked a full day.
6:30 pm- Clean up dinner.
6:45 pm- Say goodnight to baby and write blog post for next day while Daddy reads baby stories and puts her to Bedfordshire. He always does it because she only wants him and “not you mommy! “
7:20 pm- Go to bed and watch Inside Edition.
7:30 pm- Consider blogging about Inside Edition.
7:30.5 pm- Decide not to.
7:45 pm- Look at pile of books on my nightstand.
7:45.5- Feel overwhelmed by it.
7:45.8- Decide not to do that either.
8:00 pm- Put any one of my favorite movies into the DVD player:

Dude Where’s my whore?
An American in Panties
Who Fucked Roger Rabbit?
Midnight Fuckboy
Rebel Without a Cock
Schindler’s Fist
Saving Ryan’s Privates
How Harry Fucked Sally
Last Dildo in Paris
How Green Was My Pussy?
The Pubic Enemy
The Harder They Cum

Not Really.

I usually either watch Ghost Hunters, The Deadliest Catch, Ugly Betty, Ghost Whisperer, or Moonlight and then I go to sleep.
(What? we only have basic cable OKAY?)

Except for on those special nights.

THEN I watch the porn.

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?

I don’t know how it is in your family, but holidays like Mother’s Day (Christmas, Valentines day, birthdays, Veteran’s Day, etc) are usually the cause of stress and there will probably be tears and a fight at some point. This is inevitable it seems as these fucking holidays are so full of pressure to be perfect that no human family could possibly live up to them.

I blame the jewelry people and the card people.

And yet I expect my husband not to give me something like this:

Which is what I got last year. In “buff.”

That’s it. Nothing else. Just the bra.

Close your mouth.

In his defense it was the correct style and size.

When my sister-in-law called to wish me happy Mother’s Day and find out what her dear brother did for me that was special and I told her about the bra she burst into hysterical laughter because she’s a good sister and that’s what siblings do when the other one fucks up royally. And now she calls him “bra giver.”

And we got into an epic fight over it and he was hurt because he thought he picked the perfect gift and he tried, really he did, but he fell short and I was hurt because he should have known better and if he really loved me he would have known that the minimum acceptable gift would have been the bra plus matching panty.

At. least.

So there were tears. And there was shouting. And things became airborne. Particularly a bra.

But Internets, I tried something new this year and I decided to just tell him what I wanted instead of making him guess and setting both of us up for another bad day.

So I said to get a babysitter for Saturday night,

(That’s my mom. Isn’t she cute?)

and make dinner reservations at The Trattoria Romana, a place with cloth napkins,

and to buy me too many of these so that I could be loud and inappropriate with the wait staff,

and for him to have vodka tonics,

and for me to have salmon with lobster meat on top to eat,

and for him to have linguini with clam sauce,

and I told him to buy me this Weeping Cherry tree,

and then plant it for me.

And my mother bought me 2 Forsythias and a Lilac tree to go along with it.

So it was a wonderful Mother’s Day this year and I suppose every day is Mother’s day for me in a way because Mister does nice things for me all the time. He makes my coffee in the morning, he holds my hair while I vomit Cosmopolitan gives me back rubs, and tells me every day that I’m a MILF.

So I’ll forgive him for past gift douchery.

I hope all you MILFS had a great Mother’s Day yesterday and I call you MILFS because I know that only MILFS read this blog and if you don’t know what a MILF is you probably aren’t one so go away.

I kid.

Oh, and hey! Speaking of MILFs Lynne gave me the keys to her blog while she’s away on vacation. I say we go over there, find her toothbrush, and take pictures of us cleaning the toilets with it.

Let’s GO!

(I’m actually funnier over there than I am here, if that’s even possible.)

A while back, my friend Laura invited me to go Salsa dancing with her and I agreed to go but was secretly terrified because I’ve never been before and I don’t even know what to wear Salsa dancing. I couldn’t ask her because I didn’t want to look like a jackass because I have what is known as a bit of a girl crush on her. When I’m around her I act all goofy and get all tongue tied because she’s so pretty and hip and tall and blonde and stylish and she’s an artist and I just want her to like me.

The news of my crush on her makes my husband positively giddy.

Clearly though, I’m in way over my head with this girl because

A: As we learned yesterday, I’m scared of social situations
B: Having seen my dancing, would you want to bring that shit out in public?
C: Salsa dancing starts at 11:00 pm and I go to bed at 8.
D: There’s a chance I might hump her leg if I get enough drinks in me, which as we all know is very likely to happen. The drinks, I mean. The humping only might happen.

So I pussied out and I never called her because I was trying to think of a way to get out of our date. I thought I might somehow manage to become de-invited.

Maybe I’d agree to meet her there and show up in this:

And then run toward her yelling “Laura! Hey! It’s me! Hi-ii!” and then trip over the dress, twist my ankle, fall on my face and become injured with a fat lip and a broken ankle thereby leaving me unable to dance and forcing me to sit at the bar to nurse my injuries with $10 each vodka drinks.

Sounds reasonable, right?

I think it would probably be just enough to send her screaming out of the club, or at least hide under the table. Either way, she wouldn’t see my jackassery on the dance floor and I’d never have to go again. And that would solve my problem quite handily I think.

But I’m not gonna be a punk like that anymore. I’m going to learn how to dance the shit out of the Salsa and then Laura will let me lick her be her friend. I don’t have a video for you though because I’ve been feeling like shit the past couple of days (it’s my damn superpower again!) and I feel like dancing about as much as I feel like running naked down my street banging a metal bucket on my head with a dildo.

Shut up.

I’m not doing it.

I don’t care how much you beg.

So here:

This is the instructional video I took out of the library.

And this is my Salsa partner.

Use your imagination.

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.

As you are all aware, I have always been a wonderful dancer and it will surprise you to know that I’ve never even had one lesson. And I’ve been scared to take lessons because I’m afraid that my natural and innate talent for the art of movement would make the instructor and other students feel overwhelmed–sort of how you’d feel if Jesus walked into the room right now.

However, I’ve always felt that taking lessons could bring my dancing to a whole ‘nuther level but since I’m saving up for my BMW, I can’t really afford to pay for them right now. So I got this helpful DVD out of the library.

I think I did rather well, actually.

I’m a hip hop Soopa-sta!

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.

Welcome party people! It’s Monday and the first day of Crissy’s Trying New Things Week!

Ya-ta-da-da!

I don’t know what’s up with me and the theme weeks lately, but I’m just going to ride it till’ the wheels fall off.

This week is going to be all about self-improvement by way of trying new things. Now I have what some people might call anxiety issues and so I hate. change. and I hate new things unless those new things involve clothes or shoes or bags or flavors of Sun Chips. And even then I get a little nervous and have to have a Klonopin or six or eight glass of wine to calm down. Needless to say, this week should be awkward and anxiety provoking for me, but entertaining as all get out for alla y’all as you watch me squirm and suffer.

The first thing I’ve tried so far this week is new music because lately I’ve been listening to a lot of sad FM for the over thirties. It’s embarrassing, really and one time my sister-in-law got into my car and discovered my dirty little Lite Rock 105 radio station secret. She gasped in horror and said “don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone” and quickly scanned for something more age appropriate. Thanks for keeping that shit on the dl, sista.

The coolest thing I have in my car right now is the new Fergie Cd and I didn’t know but everyone hates her so that does not make me cool after all. I’ve got Nelly Furtado’s Loose, and The Beastie Boys To the 5 Boroughs both of which I think might be moderately acceptable but then again I thought Fergie was, so obviously I’m confused about the whole cool, not cool thing. I have a little Gwen Stefani too. Did you know Julia Roberts is a huge fan of Gwen Stefani? Well, she is and so am I and I’m pretty sure that makes me best friends with Julia Roberts. (Call me Julia! We need a play date!) Oh, and I have Cake. They’re my favorite. Especially the song Satan is my Motor. Sasha makes me play that one a lot.

Now don’t judge me Internets.

I’ve been busy raising a baby, buying a house, holding down a job, entertaining you kind people and keeping a trucker happy. I have enough trouble staying awake to watch the delicious sexual tension between sexy, sexy, sexy vampire boy and human girl on Moonlight and that’s my favorite, so clearly I haven’t exactly been keeping up with what the kids are listening to these days.

But all of that is going to change because my new blog bff, Chris @ Surviving Myself volunteered to school me in the ways of hip hop. He made me a Cd that he promises will help me “become a person.” I’m certain it will improve my life in ways I never imagined, but I hope it doesn’t mean that I’m going to start wearing my pants really low and grabbing my crotch for emphasis. That’s not really behavior befitting a lady of such class and elegance as myself.

Shut up.

So far I like my new Cd a lot and I think it gives me a lot of street cred when I pull into work at the library and everyone can hear it. Librarians love hip hop and they’ve started calling me “homie” now, which I think is really sweet of them, and I’m sure the hip hop artists would be delighted to know that a white librarian from the suburbs is listening to their music on her way to work.

I’m sure of it.

My favorites on the Cd include The Glow by 50 cent (or is that fity cent? I’m never sure), Roc boys by Jay-Z, Surviving the Times by Nas, and You by Strange Fruit Project which I’m not surprised I like because Erykah Badu is involved and I think she’s so. cool. I totally want her hair.

That would be mad sick, yo.

But I think I like Wouldn’t Get Far by The Game featuring Kayne West most of all. It’s about fucking rap stars and I’ve always wanted to fuck rap stars.

Not really.

Mister and Girlfriend liked it too, and I sent Chris a video of them dancing together over a couple slices of pizza. I understand the lyrics aren’t exactly what Family Services would call “appropriate” for children under 18, but Girlfriend wasn’t listening to the words, she was just shakin’ what I gave her.

So anyway the new music was a success and it was also a nice way to ease into the week as tomorrow my humiliation ramps ups a bit as I try to drive my husband’s car.

I can already feel the panic attack mounting.

Somebody find my fucking Klonopin!

Hurry!