Hello, my name is Crissy and I am a comment whore.

“Hi Crissy.” (that was you)

I’m just sitting here reading over the comments from all y’all and I’m feelin’ the love. It means a lot to me that you take the time to catch up on what’s new here. When there’s a new comment from someone, my heart does a little jump and shouts “hooray!”

That said, for all the people who comment, there are a whole lot more of you out there who visit me daily, but never say “hi.” I don’t know who you are, but I know there’s like 80 of you! Don’t be shy honeys!  Don’t be afraid to show yourselves!  I want to hear from you! This is a friendly, happy place.

You don’t even have to use your real name if you don’t want to.

Let me help you by providing a list of names to choose from, just to make you feel a little more comfortable:

  • Turd Furgeson
  • Princess Consuela Bananahammock
  • Jack Schitt
  • Anastasia Beaverhausen (already taken, but soooo funny!)
  • Abby Normal
  • Jay Irkinov
  • Dick Johnson
  • Harry Pitts
  • Dr. Michael Hfuhruhurr
  • Scut Farkus
  • Lacy Underalls
  • Hoof Hearted
  • Biggus Dickus
  • Pussy Galore
  • Art Vandelay
  • Incontinentia Buttocks
  • Batman

It doesn’t matter if you just want to tell me how you pee your pants laughing at me, or how hot I am in rubber gloves and a tiara, or that I’m the most beautifulest woman to ever sport a motorcycle helmet, I just want to know where my peeps at?

PS: I just found out that they call people who read blogs and never comment “lurkers.”  That sounds kind of creepy to me.  Your mother raised you better than that.  Don’t be a lurker!

Yesterday morning was one of those mornings that make me afraid to drive, or move, or breathe for fear of what mishap awaits next. Before 1:00 pm yesterday, the following things made me wonder if my guardian angel is on vacation or in prison or something:

7:35 am: Shaving incident in a delicate area (baby oil is a slippery, slippery thing my friend–not for amateurs).

8:20 am: Knife handle violently and suddenly breaks away from blade surprising the shit out of me to the point where I had to count my digits to be sure all remained intact.

8:25 am: Eggs exploded out of my new microwaveable poaching device and splattering all over everything within a ten foot radius.

9:50 am: Filling my mug at the water cooler at work and somehow winding up soaking the back bottom of my pant leg as well as the knee of the opposite leg.

11:30 am: Read a small children’s book called Someday and cried my eyes out in front of everyone at work.

12:55 pm: Upon getting out of my car I noticed the sound of running water. Looking all around the garage for the source, I found that it was coming from my open travel mug and pouring directly onto my foot.

1:00 pm: Successfully not dead by the time I climb the stairs into the house.  My foot is soggy, but other than that I am safe and mostly unharmed (except for the cut on the delicates).

New plastic doo-dad designed to make my life faster and easier in the morning by poaching eggs in the microwave: $2.99

Opening it after cooking the eggs and having the yolk explode in my face, my hair, on my new cashmere sweater, the kitchen cabinets, and the floor: Priceless


“Why you should never sell your panties on Craigslist.”

(Mom, you might not want to read this.)

I caught a little Craigslist fever a while back. It was just around Christmas time and I was in a panic about how we would pay for it all. I started looking around the house for stuff I could sell on Craigslist. That’s when I found this ad:

Looking for a little extra cash for the holidays? I’m a nice, normal guy (good looking) with a panty fetish. I’ll buy your panties for $25.

Deprived of my use of reason for fear that Santa might skip our house this year, I mulled it over breifly and figured “why not?” So I respond. I was a desperate woman.

(Don’t judge!)

Panties? I have some panties, and I hate doing laundry. Maybe we could help each other out. I won’t be meeting you, I’ll mail them to you.

That was fine with him, but he requested a picture. I emailed an old one that didn’t even look like me. And then I got this message back:

Did you grow up in [insert town I actually did grow up in]?

Jesus Christ, God, and Fuck.

A wave of intense nausea came over me, the computer screen went fuzzy, and the theme song from Psycho deafened me as I studied the initials in his email address and realized that I knew him. Not only did i know him, but I had a monster crush on him in Jr. High and he was a total wanker toward me. And now he’s trying to buy my underpants!

Screaming, I immediately dove to the floor and hid under my desk. Then I ran down the stairs and literally rolled myself into my living room rug. Still screaming, I dialed my friend Valerie from high school who screamed with me and nearly laughed herself into a coma when we realized that not only am I a giant idiot, but Mr. All-American dimple boy is a big panty sniffer!

Naturally I didn’t want to confirm his suspicions about my identity, so Val and I agreed that the only thing to do was to say nothing, send the panties, and never ever speak of this again. At least, that was the plan, until he emailed me a description of what he wanted the panties to be like. Did you know that there are actual people out there who will pay money for DIRTY underwear? With, like, “essence of woman” dried on them? Eeewwwww!!! I thought I was just sending some clean ones straight out of the laundry that smelled like flowery body lotion, not a freaking biohazard!!! Needless to say, I backed out of the deal realfuckinquick.

Sometimes the universe whispers to you, sometimes it shouts, and sometimes it beats you over the head with your high school yearbook.

And that’s how I learned you should never sell your panties on Craigslist.

As we speak, Rachel (of Comments section fame) is on a plane on her way HERE for a whole week! This is exciting!

Don’t feel neglected if I don’t post with the shocking regularity that you’ve grown accustomed to. I still love you…it’s just that I love her more.

That and the fact that I’m likely to be slightly hungover and sleep-deprived for the better part of the week thereby making looking at a computer screen that much more painful.

I promise not to neglect you.  I’ll tell her you said “hi!”