Cranky Pants

It has come to my attention very recently that I need some new pants for spring because the ones I have are boring and old and I hate them.

So I went shopping at the “Fashion Crossing.

First, I went to Old Navy. They had NO PANTS. Clearly, they’re trying to discourage us from wearing pants this spring and I had to weed through the clearance racks to find stuff. I pulled out a few things that might work


This is me crying on the inside laughing at the first pair of pants I put on. Clearly something is very wrong with these sassy little numbers.



And then there are these that are all wrong for me because stripes aren’t my color. It is not lost on me that I am wearing a striped shirt.


Shut up. I told you I need new clothes!

Born without feet, Crissy is forced to walk around on stilts fashioned out of sticks and things found around the yard.

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I don’t know if giraffe print is my color either…Mee-yow!


Or whatever sound a giraffe makes. I have no idea.

Wee! These make me feel like dancing!


Okay. After trying on twelvety hundred pairs of pants, I actually bought the shorts because they’ll remind me of you and the day we all went shopping together. And besides, it can’t be 40 degrees outside forever, right?



Passing right by Lane Bryant where they have many cute things but where I will never have to shop if I can only keep Cheezy Puffs from falling into my mouth, I headed over to Ann Taylor Loft. (If the picture isn’t moving, click on it and I’ll walk like a real girl!)

Where my prayers were brutally rebuffed.


I had very high hopes for The Gap.


The Gap can suck my dick.


So can NY & Co.


They had pants all over the place but nothing that fit in a flattering way.

It’s a stupid store anyhow.

So I continued on my way, feeling quite confident that my fabulous new pants that will make me look very, very tall with an even more wonderful a very wonderful bum and flat tummy must be waiting for me at Kohl’s department store.


But when I got there, I had to turn back because there was a large stop sign right in front of the entrance.


I was confused by this and decided that the stop sign did not bode well for the pants project. I’ve never even been inside that store and I guess you need a membership or something. (That is not a stain on my leg; there’s a spot on the lens.)

By this time I’ve walked the entire length of the “Fashion Crossing” and I’m feeling very frustrated and sad and really quite sick and tired of taking my pants off.


So I went to the shoe store instead, but something stinked in there.


And so I gave up on that too.

I left the “Fashion Crossing” and came home.


Without any pants.

But I always like to look on the bright side of life and I do have a nice new pair of shorts I can wear that will cover my bottom and they’re not old and tired and I do not hate them.



But on the not-so-bright side of life, while the sun may be doing it’s best to warm the earth, the wind is trying it’s hardest to freeze people to death, mostly directing it’s attention to me, and so now I’m praying for warm weather to arrive soon.


But God never seems to listen to my prayers and so I’m sure we’ll have at least 6 more months of winter.

Priceless Thursdays

At age 11 packing up and saving my Barbie dolls for the day when I might have a daughter who’d like to play with them: awww….so sweet.

Having that actually happen: something I’ve been dreaming of for 23 years. (GASP)

Watching my husband play Barbies with my daughter: sniffle…made me cry it’s so cute…

Telling him how much it means to me to see them play Barbies together only for him to admit he likes playing Barbies because it’s the closest he’ll ever come to having a realdoll:

Kick me in the crotch and spit in my hair priceless.

Storytime Smackdown

So we went to storytime yesterday.

And I was very nervous to go because of what happened last time.

But I was ready for it this time. I had my game face on and it was go time. I’ve been rehearsing a really good comeback for like 6 weeks just in case bitch face tried talking smack about my kid again.

On our way in, Lynne made me promise to page her if things got out of hand–”Lynne to the Children’s Room for a rumble…Lynne for a rumble please.” She’s dying to roundhouse somebody in the head. She knows Karate. I wouldn’t fuck with her.

I also had my friend Erin and her daughter Mackenzie for company. Erin can channel her inner black girl and has this great “you talking to me, bitch?” thing she does with her head. I wouldn’t fuck with her either. It’s really very comforting to know people have your back, even if it’s just another mommy and her 2-year-old.

We arrived early because I’m always early. We get into the Children’s Room and it’s just the bitch auntie and the kids and no. one. else.


Girlfriend of course loves bitch’s little niece and nephew and walks right up to her, and I think she knows the woman pissed me off last time, and says “I’m sad about mommy.”



Go near her so I have to sit with her AND say shit like that to her.

Nice, Girlfriend.

Way to be a team player.

Thankfully, Erin and Mackenzie showed up moments later and distracted Girlfriend away from little niece-y and nephew-ey.

Potential situation averted. For now.

But can you picture a mommy brawl at storytime? It could totally happen.

There’s A LOT of tension in that room.

Everyone is scared that their kid will do something fucked up and embarrass the shit out of them.

Add the fear factor in with the fact that they’re all either pregnant, exhausted, juggling multiple pissy little kids, they’re hormonal, they just had a fight with Mister at home or all of it put together in a mass of rage and frustration.

With emotions running high like this, the situation is ripe for a smackdown.

Or a riot.

Here’s how easily it could go down:

Mommy #1: Excuse me, but your kid just stepped on my kid’s hand.


Mommy #2: Maybe your kid should stay out of my kid’s way.


Mommy #1: Maybe she could if your kid wasn’t so, ahem, FAT.

Mommy #2: Girl, please. Your kid is so dumb she shouldn’t even be breathing.

Mommy #1: Oh no you didn’t! You going down bitch! Then she grabs a handful of Mommy #2′s hair and bashes her face into her knee and the storytime smackdown begins!


A wild fire of mother hormones sweeps through the room as it divides between Mommy #1′s posse and Mommy #2′s. Suddenly the kids are involved too and there’s total chaos as it’s kid against kid and mom against mom in the ultimate gladiator face off of all time!

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The librarians try in vain to stop the commotion but they get sucked into it too when someone steps on a book (!). Fists, baby shoes, and clumps of hair fly through the air until Emergency vehicles come to break up the fight.


That would be awesome!

I’ve been itching to kick some ass for a while.

I’m totally talking smack to people next time.

The Word On The Street

Yesterday I was feeling very hormonal and lachrymose.

My kid woke up at 3 am. She went back to sleep, but I was up listening to the neighbor’s asshole dog barking.

And then the morning news got me all fired up.

Can I just ask one question? Why in the name of Jesus do reporters always choose the biggest douche-bag on the street to interview? I think it’s just a severe lack of intelligent people out there because 90% of the population is a potential guest on Springer.

Makes me nervous.

I mean, what if aliens are watching the news and/or Jerry Springer and now they think all humans are loud, fat, toothless, sister-fucking retards?

Hell, we’re ripe for them to come and take the fuck over. And if they do come, most people would probably not even care as long as satellite service isn’t affected. They’d fart, reach for another bag of Doritos, and just change the channel on the tee-vee.

These are the thoughts I have before my coffee.

Shut up.

Anyway, on Channel 10 yesterday morning, they interviewed the mother and friends of a drunken 14 year old boy who was killed when he smashed his mother’s mini-van into a telephone pole one year ago. But the “tragedy” didn’t stop there. When friends gathered at the scene of the accident that same night, a second kid was struck and also killed. I don’t know if the driver of that car was drunk or not, but he prolly was .

When interviewed by our cracker-jack ass monkey reporter, the mother of the 14 year old was quoted as having said that “no mother should have to go get a tattoo of her dead child on her arm” (Yes. Right. Exactly. What a shame. We should change that mourning ritual…What!) and then they showed her large, sausage-like arm with a big ol’ black and white portrait of the boy and the name DARIAN or DARIUS or some fucking thing written in fancy letters below the picture.

And the reporter is all like, talking about what a tragedy this is and how young lives were wasted because of the dangers of teenage drinking, yada, yada, yada. And then they show a bunch of teenagers just a booin’ and a hooin’ hugging fuckin’ teddy bears and Jesus candles and shit all standing around a telephone pole slurring the words to Amazing Grace.

What. Ever.

I want to know what the fuck the mother was doing when her kid was getting bombalooed and driving her car!

We’re lucky he only killed himself!

But now we should feel very sorry for the mother.

AND THEN! They interviewed a 16 year old friend of the boy who had this to say about the candlelight telephone pole ceremony that was held in his memory: “I woulda come, but I was out drinkin’.”

The aliens are coming people.

We’re fucked.

The Man Behind the Woman Behind the Blog

It occurred to me only very recently (like, yesterday) that I’ve never even so much as posted a picture of my poor husband. And that makes me feel guilty. He’s a good guy. I like him. He puts up with my Italian fantasies , he let me post a picture of his mullet. He’s even there with a video camera every time I feel like doing a little dancing. When the computer is all kerfuffled, he un-kerfuffles it.  And he wouldn’t mind one bit if I freaked out and did some weird thing in front of him.  In fact, he’d probably really, really like it.

And not only is he a talented and secure man, but he’s also really, very helpful around the house:

He pitches in loading the dishwasher.

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He helps with the laundry.

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He cleans up after kitty.


He’s very handy in the garage.

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He fixes my car for me.


But it doesn’t stop there!

Oh no, no!

Hubby is a real Renaissance man.

He plays the guitar.

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And he’s a voracious reader too!


He can just sit and read for hours!


And so I dedicate this post to the super important man behind the woman behind the blog.  I don’t know why I didn’t do this sooner.

As you can plainly see, I’m a pretty lucky lady.

Crissy: Mayoress of Crazy Town

Has someone ever asked you to hand them a pair of scissors and you get a sudden urge to, like, jam the scissors right into their eye socket?

You don’t do it of course, but you think about it.

Don’t you?

Or is it just me?

I have the most horrifying thoughts sometimes.

When I’m talking to my boss for example, in my head I’m wondering what would happen if I jumped out of my chair, dropped my pants, and shoved a water bottle up my ass.

What would happen? Would she shriek and run away? Would she stare, agog? Would she laugh? Would she call the police? Would I be fired?

I don’t know! And it drives me nuts!

I can predict what she might do, sure. But that’s not good enough.

And then I get all worked up because I’m scared that I might lose control of myself and actually DO IT.

And I start getting a little sweaty as the anxiety builds.

And it starts to pool up in my butt crack.

Don’t laugh.

It’s embarrassing!

So while my boss is talking about whatever, I’m not listening to her at all because I’m thinking “No. Don’t do it. Don’t pull your pants down and stick a water bottle up your ass! Whatevayado! Don’t. Do. That.”

And when I’m holding a machete, I have an urge to chop it into my arm.

When I look over a high balcony, I consider jumping.

Or when I’m driving, I want to swerve into oncoming traffic.

And I swear to Jesus I’m not suicidal or anything, I just want to know what would happen next.

Don’t judge.

You think some crazy shit sometimes too.

I know it.

Priceless Thursdays

Going through old photos looking for a dorky picture of myself to share with the internetatrons: A somewhat painful trip down Memory Lane.

I swear I was tempted to blackmail myself a few times, but that would have gone nowhere.


Finding pictures and realizing that my thing for the paisans didn’t start with Tony Soprano at all, but in high school with 1st ever boyfriend Tommy Delfino instead:


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Awwwww…so cute.  I was such a little Puttana for that boy. I so almost lost my virginity that night!

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Could I have chosen some larger flowers maybe?  And that dress…ugh! Joan Rivers would have a fucking field day! I mean, is it Halloween or prom? Seriously. 

Anywho, 2 years later we broke up because he had a goomah like any good Italian boy did. But I wasn’t an Italian girl, so I didn’t have to put up with that bullshit.

OMFG! and his family?

Mobbed. Up.

Sshhhh! You don’t want me to get whacked do ya?

And you know I wore red for St. Joseph’s day yesterday, right?

And then I got naked and rolled around in Zeppole.

Don’t tell anyone.

“Mind If I Play Through?”

If you don’t want to know the intimate details of my sex life, close your eyes because once you read it, you can’t un-read it.

Let me give you a little scenario that occurs frequently at our house.

It’s 8:00 and girlfriend is finally sleeping. By this time on a typical day, I’ve gotten out of bed at 6am to do an hour of power yoga with either Bryan Kest, Baron Baptiste, or sadistic bitch Kristen McGee. I’ve showered, dressed, made breakfast, packed lunch, gone to work, blogged worked, come home, done laundry, dishes, floors, girlfriend’s bath, prepared dinner, drank a bottle modest glass of wine, cleaned up after dinner, and helped get her into bed.

And then I collapse, exhausted as a crack whore coming off a bender.

Mister, on the other hand, has come home from work after a grueling day downloading porn, obsessing over photography message boards, having lunch out with the guys, and putting whoopie cushions on his co-worker’s chairs.

And guess what he wants? And I know what he wants because he’s breathing.

And I’m thinking “NO. Everything. NO.”

I want to be touched about as much as I want to run naked down my street banging a metal bucket over my head with a wooden spoon.

(I’d actually prefer that)

I have only two options here. I can tell him to sod off and have him act like a dickhead until I finally give it up — OR (valuable marital survival tip here so pay attention) — allow a “play through.”

A “play through” is really a golf term that my friend’s husband applied to what’s going on over at their place.

And it’s perfect.

And so we adopted it.

And so will you.

Here, let Crissy school you. defines a “play through” thusly:

When a faster group of players is allowed to pass a slower group on the course. This usually happens at the invitation of the slower group – etiquette dictates that a slower group allow a faster group to play through. The slower group may allow the pass to occur from any part of the hole, but it usually occurs when the faster group approaches a tee box on which the slower group is still playing. The slower group usually stands aside and waits for the faster group to complete the hole before resuming play itself. Sometimes the move is required by a course marshall, who tells one group to stand aside while another group plays through.

I’ve always said it’s important to observe proper etiquette whether you’re on or off the course. I don’t golf, but that’s not the point.

Anyway, it translates very nicely into the bedroom where we also have lots of balls and clubs and people just hanging around waiting for something to happen:

The exhausted wifeslower group” sort of just lays there watching Ghost Hunterstands aside” while the husband gets his way without bothering anyonecompletes the hole.” Following the play through, Johnny can’t get enoughfaster group” is to keep quiet while the exhausted wifeslower groupgoes to sleepresumes play.

We don’t have play throughs all the time. They only happen sometimes.

It’s exactly like when you have drunk sex and you wake up with no pants on and think to yourself “what the fuck happened last night?” and then you look at the dude next to you in bed and think “EW!” except that you’re married to the dude.

And you were probably drunk anyway were not drunk.