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.


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.


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.

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…?