What is Rachel Ray smoking?

Am I PMS ing or does anyone else find Rachel Ray psychotically perky?

The woman is too freaking happy all the fuckingtime. I understand that it’s her job and all to seem friendly, but come on. You know that sometimes she just had a really crappy day and would much rather come out on stage and tell everyone to just microwave some damn popcorn for dinner for all she cares. But she doesn’t, and I really don’t think it’s all the free Dunkin’ Donuts coffee or her Yum-O Sammies made with EVOO that are helping her muddle on through.

I think it’s something else.

I say there’s a recipe she’s not giving us.

I say she’s got the good stuff and she’s not sharing.

I think she’s cooking up a little crystal meth in the basement.

You’re not going to wear THAT, are you?

I’m no fashionista and I don’t pretend to be. In fact, most mornings I stand in front of my closet with tears of frustration forming in my eyes because I just don’t know what to wear. I do, however, take comfort in the fact that I’m at least clued in enough to know what NOT to wear.

I wish everyone knew as much…

Pajamas and slippers out in public. This pisses me off to no end. Have we really gotten so lazy as to be unable to put clothing on to leave the house? If this is where we’re at now, what happens in a couple of years after standards for appropriate pubic attire have gotten even lower? Are people just not going to bother wearing pants at all? The horror!!! We have to do something before it’s too late!!

Sweatpants with statements written across the ass. Why oh why do people feel the need to express themselves in this way? Do I want to know that your ass is JUICY or PINK or that you’re BARELY LEGAL? No. No I do not. TMI. If you’re ass is juicy, you’ve got real problems. Don’t advertise, seek help.

Uggs. The name says it all. The only thing worse than Uggs are Uggs worn with pajamas.

Mom Jeans. These pants are an atrocity embodying everything that was wrong with the 80′s in a single garment. What woman hating monster designed these bad boys? Even Miss Nicole Kidman herself could not pull off a pair of these pants! Complete with a boob-grazing, camel-toe-inducing 9 inch zipper and tapered leg they’re often paired with another of my favorites, the Theme Sweater.

Theme Sweaters. Usually cardigans with things like birds, apples, candy canes, or Disney characters on them. Weren’t these originally made for 3 year olds? Nothing says “I have the mentality of a preschooler” like wearing Winnie the Pooh on your boob!

Jeans that exacerbate and showcase the FUPA (aka gunt, aka muffin top, etc.). If this happens to you, perhaps you shouldn’t be wearing those jeans. Since you clearly enjoy calling attention to your less attractive features, I’m guessing that in the rear, you’re sporting a Whale Tail.

Whale Tails. Your ass called. It’s wondering where your pants went. Panties are called underwear for a reason. If thongs were meant to be outerwear then London Fog would be making them, but they’re not. Victoria’s Secret makes them instead. Note the word SECRET. That’s secret as in not public. Pull your pants up, whore.

Scrubs. Not a good look for doctors, not a good look for you. End of story.

Leggings. The bulging seams, the visible panty lines, those tell-tale cellulite dimples–if you’re pushing 300lbs and you’re wearing leggings, what the fuck are you thinking?

High-water pants, white sweat socks, black shoes. Potsie? Is that you?

There’s a lot more here that I’m sure I’m forgetting so I’m going to leave some room for the rest of you to share what makes you want to gouge your eyes out with a hanger.

Have a lovely day.

The worst has happened.

Work email is broken.

First my bread machine, and now this.

I am freaking out.

In an effort to control my panic, I have consumed a total of 5 Hershey kisses and am contemplating a 6th as I write this. This is some form of terrorist attack. I just know it.

How am I going to waste work time and hyper email my co-worker now? I can’t just get up and go over and talk to her! This means that I might actually have to do work all day. This is intolerable.

Does anyone else have this illness? Total and utter dependence on email? Is there a support group–E-mailers Anonymous or something, someplace where I can go for help?

All is not lost though. At least I have you…

Epilogue: We got email back about 5 minutes after I posted this. Had we not, I would have been searching the office for a means of suicide by about 10:30.

It’s Christmas, beeatch! -or- 26 things I hate about shopping

“It’s going to be the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby danced with Danny fuckin’ Kay!” -Clark W. Griswold, Christmas Vacation

Okay. So we survived Thanksgiving. Christmas is only a month away and it’s on, baby. The madness has begun. In celebration of the holiday shopping season, I have used the alphabet to help me compose a list of things that make me hate everyone. (I’m borrowing the alphabet idea from other blogs I’ve seen. I cannot claim it as my own brilliant idea.)

A: Assholes. They’re everywhere. They’re at Target in their pajamas and slippers, they’re running down pedestrians in their giant pig SUVs, they’re parking mini-vans full of children on either side of my car so that I cannot see to get out, and they’re standing in line in front of me.

B: Black Friday: Getting up at 2am with a wine hangover that dare not speak its name in order to go out in the dark, scrape ice off the car, and drive to the mall to save 39 cents on a pair of long johns. Whydowedothis? The sale lasts allfuckingday!

C: Clearance aisle. Nothing in it.

D: Driving in mall traffic makes my middle finger hurt.

E: Early Bird Shopper. This is the smug jackass who has all of her shopping finished before Halloween. Hate. Her. There’s nothing wrong with having done this, it’s just that she feels the need to tell everyone about it. If this is you, keep it to yourself and I won’t have to choke you. That’s all I’m saying. (btw, I say” her” because I have yet to meet a man who doesn’t wait until December 24th at approximately 8pm to begin thinking about going out to do a little shopping. If you have seen such a creature, grab onto him and never let go.)

F: Fuck this. I’m converting to Wicca. They give eachother little sticks and shit they find in out the yard.

G: Getting a table at any restaurant within a ten mile radius of a shopping mecca in under 2 hours, 45 minutes.

H: Hate everyone with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns.

I: Indecision. Should I buy Cousin Albert a shower radio, a travel grooming kit, or a 90 inch flat screen TV?

J: Jackets, hats, mittens, scarves, purse, Ernie doll, snack, sippy cup, sale flyer, and all the other stuff we leave in a trail throughout the store like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs.

K: Kilometers. The car is parked 50 kilometers from the mall entrance.

L: Ladies room. Bringing a toddler to visit the potty. I’m carrying all items listed above in letter J as well as holding the very tiny hand of an uncooperative and squirming little person who is grabbing her crotch and insisting “the pee pee is going to come out Mommy!” I karate kick the stall door open and shimmy through it, managing not to touch anything. While keeping all items off the floor, I line the toilet seat with paper, scoot down tiny little jeans and panties, and hoist all 27 squirmy lbs of her onto the seat. Thank God we made it in time! However, I used the last scrap of toilet paper to cover the seat. There is no more. I introduce my daughter to the concept of the drip dry, roundhouse kick the door again and we move on. I don’t bother to wash her hands. She’s already licked the handle on the shopping cart.

M: Muzak. Who writes and performs this shit and why hasn’t anyone stopped them?

N: Noel?

O: Octogenarian Santa Clause. Paying $35.00 for a grainy 4×6 of my terrified kid sitting on the lap of some second rate elderly volunteer from the senior center. I can see the fear in Santa’s eyes as the fat kid’s turn draws near…will the osteoporosis finally catch up with him?

P: Perfect gift. A most elusive creature that doesn’t show itself until AFTER you’ve already settled for and purchased something else.

Q: Queer Christmas theme sweaters.

R: Really just can’t come up with anything for this one…maybe later.

S: Security guards at the mall stopping me because my kid ganked a Snow White doll at the Disney store when I wasn’t looking. “Excuse me Maam? Were you intending to pay for that item?” “What are you asking me for? She took it!”

T: Tickle Me Elmo and all subsequent variations of the same bizarre mechanical monster. What brings people out at 4am in the darkness and freezing cold just to stand in line and possibly get their asses kicked in an effort to obtain such a gift?

U: Uzi. Standing in line while a fantasy is forming in my head involving an Uzi and a blaze of glory…

V: Very tempted to buy shit for myself. One for me, one for you…

W: What am I doing writing this? I should be out shopping!

X: Xanax. Will give head for a Xanax.

Y: Yippeee!! Only one letter left to go!

Z: Zero. Number appearing at the end of my bank statement.

Friday: 2am

I awaken in the midst of a full on panic attack. I hear someone screaming a scream like I’ve never heard before. In my sleepy, yet hyper alert and confused state, I made it to my daughter’s room in about 1/2 second. She was standing up in her crib, totally fine but also clearly disturbed by what we were hearing. Another scream. Several followed as my husband was now out of bed and also in a panic. I stayed with my daughter, trying to soothe her back to sleep as my husband ran through the house trying to find the source of this horrible sound. What he found was very, very peculiar.

It was our cat, Benny. He was alone downstairs screaming at some invisible thing. I’ve had cats my entire life and I have never heard a sound like this. It was a sound that came straight from hell. It was…supernatural. Creepier still is that there was no apparent cause for his behavior. Nothing outside, nothing anywhere.

It happened again at the same time last night.

Of course our dream house is fucking haunted.

Why wouldn’t it be?

Pretty Woman? Nay, Nay.

It’s getting to be my 5th wedding anniversary and it’s such a romantic time of year–it’s cold outside, a little snowy at times, candles, fireplaces, Christmas lights…sigh.

Before Girlfriend was born, my husband and I went on a romantic anniversary trip to a gorgeous inn in Vermont. I was 3 months pregnant, glowing like moonlight, and sooo in love with my husband and my tiny baby.

It was one of the happiest and most romantic times of my life.

So you know shit was about to go down, right?

Crissy doesn’t do romantic and happy.

The inn where we were staying offered a 5 course, candlelit gourmet dinner every night and so despite my wanting to throw up alloverthefuckingplace, I spent about an hour makeup-ing and hair-ing and dressing myself in a sexy black stretchy spaghetti strap dress complete with plunging back, embroidery and beads to wear down to try not to puke all over dinner.

I wore my hair high on top of my head in a carefully sculpted heavily sprayed up-do.

I thought I was the shit.

Nay.

I knew I was the shit.

And I was all proud of my pregnant belly sticking out like fucking Britney Spears at the Starbucks. All I needed was a wad of gum, a badly waxed snatch, and a Caramel Macchiato with extra whipped cream and I would have nailed that shit.

Tight.

And I was so proud of myself because I ate all my dinner and didn’t even throw up once.

And everyone knows that people on anniversary vacations are supposed to have plenty of porn star sex and so we thought we’d take a bath and maybe get it on like there’s no tomorrow relax in our room’s giant two person bathtub.

So we turned the water on and lit candles, placing them around the perimeter of the tub. We got in and yada, yada, yada, I was workin’ it like Miss Julia Roberts herself in the bath tub scene from Pretty Woman until all holy hell broke loose and suddenly Mister is on my side of the tub, screaming “fuck! Motherfucker! Fuck! Holy shit!” and pounding me with his fists and forcing my head under the water between his legs.

“WTF??? Is this a blow job request or is he trying to kill me!” and so I fought against him as hard as I could and I think I even scratched him and made him bleed and then it dawned on me.

My fucking hair was on fire.

That’s nice.

I leaned back into one of the candles and with all the hairspray, well, the shit lit up like a tiki torch.

And the funny thing is that when it first caught, the room got noticeably brighter and I wondered why because I am a stupid asshole.

A couple of weeks later when I went to have my hair cut my hairdresser picked up a strand of my hair, looked up at me all confused like and said “um. I hate to ask this, but, were you on fire at some point?”

And then I told her the story.

And then she laughed.

The end.

Everyone has a freak flag, you just don’t have to fly it.

It’s almost Thanksgiving.

If my family is like yours, then you know that the holidays are a time when certain loved ones choose to unfurl their Freak Flags at the dinner table.

But what is it about the holidays that provoke such fucked up behavior? Is it the pressure of cooking the perfect turkey? Do such calamitous decisions such as whether or not to put mini marshmallows on top of the sweet potato casserole get people all worked up in a tizzy?

Whatever the reason, it’s the holidays and we’re all in misery.

Perhaps if we could actually choose the people at the table there wouldn’t be so many suicides during this time of year.

Bummer that we can’t though.

They’re family and we have to invite them.

For better or worse.

Here’s the parade of circus freaks coming to dinner at my house.

The Alcoholic: Okay, this is me. I assure you it’s the only way to survive Thanksgiving without being tempted to stuff the turkey with D-con.

The Party Pooper: This is the person who doesn’t understand or believe in holidays and would rather sit at home–just like every other day in his/her pathetic existence. They come so they can try to ruin it for the rest of us and hopefully score some leftovers in the meantime.

The Cry Baby: A close friend of the party pooper, they can often be seen moping in the corner together. This one always feels left out of every conversation, hates everything being served, and opts for bread and water (or as we like to call it The Prisoner’s Plate) instead.

Johnny Come Lately: Dinner is at 1. Johnny comes at 4:30. Johnny is a douche.

Debbie Downer: “Hey, did I tell you guys about my friend Gladys? Remember how her house burned down last year and the whole family had to live in their mini van for 6 months? Well, she just found out that she’s only got two months to live and her husband just found out he has anal cancer. So now their 3 blind children and 1 legged dog will all be orphans. Isn’t that soooo saaddd?”

The Unabomber: No one knows exactly what cousin Stu does, be we know it’s Not. Good. Anyone whose pocket contents include a piece of rope, duct tape and a hunting knife is highly suspect. Don’t let Stu anywhere near the electric carving knife. Just saying.

The Peace Keeper: He/she will willingly volunteer to sit in the uncomfortable chair, chop onions until eyes fall out, or sit next to the Unabomber.

The Tycoon: Such an important guy! Cell phone. Rings. Constantly. Loud conversations. Everyone forced to listen.

The Patient: When we’re not listening to the Tycoon’s business dealings, The Patient is more than happy to fill the dead air with stories about suspicious moles, gory spinal surgery, oozing pustules, bunions, urinary incontinence and chronic diarrhea.

Diarrhea forever! Mmmmm… please pass the gravy!

The Critic: ALWAYS has a comment: “These potatoes could have used more salt. What happened to the turkey? It’s so dry! You look different dear…have you gained weight?” Sit this one next to the Unabomber–and let him have that carving knife.

The Snot: “Well, we’ve just been having the hardest time getting the historical society to approve our architect’s plans for the new house in Nantucket. We’ve had to fly out almost every weekend in our private plane. Our children, you know, the Harvard educated lawyer and the MIT dot com-er, they’ve just been soooo busy with their careers that they hardly ever have any time to ski with us in the Alps anymore….Our son almost never gets to race his Audi…Ugh! I’m just so worn out! I hope things get better soon.”

Seriously people. Can you blame me for being The Alcoholic?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Now, where the hell did I put that bottle of wine…?