Whosiemawhatsit

What would Crissy’s Penis Week be if we didn’t cover all the fun little euphemisms we have for it? I don’t really know either, but it wouldn’t be a very good Crissy’s Penis Week now would it?

Okay, so here goes and I didn’t cheat by going online to look them up, but I was tempted, very tempted:

First we have dirty, dirty ones:
Cock
(seriously, that’s all I can think of for dirty ones. You never hear a porn actress say “I want to suck your wee-wee.” It’s always “cock” this and “cock” that. Right?)

Ones that are also people’s names:
Johnson
Peter
I once had a college professor named Peter Johnson
Willie
Dick
Woody
Long Duck Dong (a high five to the first person to guess what movie that’s from)
Big Lebowski
Bob Johnson
Dick Weiner is the Dean of Arts and Sciences at the college where my husband works: 

Dick Weiner
 (he’s actually a VERY nice guy with a real bummer of a name.)

Baby words:
Pee-pee
Wee-wee
Dingle
Winkie

Food:
Banana
Weiner
Noodle
Peanut butter (is what my brother called it when he was little because he couldn’t pronounce penis. Once he zipped his peanut butter into his footie pj’s There’s Something About Mary style. Poor little guy.)
Peanut
Frank and beans
Kielbasa
Summer sausage

Things found at the Home Depot:
Rod
Package
Apparatus
Tool
Unit
Fuck Stick
Blue Steel
Knob
Junk
Prod

Stuff I think people I know made up:
Schletz- I’ve only heard my mom say this one so I think she made it up. I’m not sure.
El Tutubo- That one’s Bren’s.

From the animal kingdom:
Trouser Snake
Monkey
Chicken
Anaconda
Jake the one eyed snake
Cock-a-saurus

Ones I don’t understand the origins of:
Tally whacker
Schlong- What is that? Jewish? And is it related in any way to schlamiel or schlamazel?
Wanker

Disgusting ones that make we want to play for the other team:
The Bolonga Pony
Custard Chucker
Yogurt Shooter
Beef Bus

* notice they’re all food related. You’ll never catch me with a can of whipped cream in my bed. ‘Nuff said.

Ones that sound painful:
Pecker
Prick
Ramrod
Pile driver

The stuff from which legends are made:
Hammer of Thor
Sword
Pocket Rocket
Action Jackson
Captain Winkie
Biggus Dickus
The Bald Avenger

….and I’m spent!

Tell me which ones I’m missing. There’s like, a million!

Fancy on the Outside

I’m delivering on my promise that this week would be all about the boys.

So it’s Penis Week!!!!

Ta-da!

So yesterday’s post got me thinking a lot about gender and gender roles and gender differences and yes, penises, so naturally the song Everybody’s Fancy came into my head.

Here, for those of you who didn’t live in Mr. Roger’s neighborhood:

Some are fancy on the outside.
Some are fancy on the inside.
Everybody’s fancy.
Everybody’s fine.
Your body’s fancy and so is mine.

Boys are boys from the beginning.
Girls are girls right from the start.
Everybody’s fancy.
Everybody’s fine.
Your body’s fancy and so is mine.

Girls grow up to be the mommies.
Boys grow up be the daddies.
Everybody’s fancy.
Everybody’s fine.
Your body’s fancy and so is mine.

I think you’re a special person
And I like your ins and outsides.
Everbody’s fancy.
Everybody’s fine.
Your body’s fancy and so is mine.

And I’m feeling pretty special and fancy and fine about being a girl and I don’t have an ounce of penis envy, but how can I really say that since I only have experience with my own set up and I know nothing about what it’s like to fancy on the outside?

So I thought I’d give it a whirl and I tried this thing on.

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Just so you know this is NOT USED. It was a gift with purchase for some other pervy thing we bought. It’s revolting and scary and I almost threw it out, but then I thought I better keep it because it’s also funny.

The first thing I tried doing was the dishes, which I’ve done in costume before, but not like this.

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It got in the way a lot and I couldn’t really get close to the sink and hot water splashed on it which would have been painful if it had been a real peanut. I guess I understand why you guys don’t like to do dishes. It’s just plain dangerous.

I got it stuck in doors a couple of times.

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Does that ever happen to you? Ouch!

I committed a terrible party foul when I knocked my husband’s drink over.

Oops. My bad, yo.

Imagining what it’s like to pee was interesting as Mister kept telling me I was aiming it too high and that I was going to pee all over the back of the toilet and that my grip on the thing was totally wrong.

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So I gave up on peeing and tried folding some laundry instead. But that was a disaster.

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Where is the other towel?

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Oh! there it is!

And I always wondered why boys are always touching it.

Like, what’s the big deal? I have boobs, but I’m not always touching them.

But I get it now because I couldn’t keep my hands off the darn thing!

It demanded my constant attention and I was obsessed with it. As soon as I put it on, I had this mysterious urge to stick it in things.

To tell you the truth, I’m feeling rather pleased with my experiment and I think you boys will appreciate that a woman finally tried to understand what it’s like to be a man instead of bitching because you don’t know how tough we ladies have it.

I have to admit I’m really glad I’m fancy on the inside because I just don’t know how guys walk around with those things.

Don’t Eff With the Effer!

We stayed home most of the weekend and it was very nice except for the huge fight I had with Mister.

It wasn’t even about anything sexy or interesting like his deep and abiding love for black tar heroine, his gambling debts, his penchant for Asian hookers, or even his inability to close cabinet doors after he opens them.

No, no.

It was about procrastination and replacement windows.

When we bought our house in August last year, the lead inspector told us that it was “hot” for lead in all of the windows. The house is 80 years old and it has it’s original six panes over clear bottom with the antique wavy glass in them. They’re very prettyful, but they leak cold air and poison our child with lead dust.

It makes me hysterical.

The good news is that our state has a program where we can have a lead abatement team come and replace the windows and they give us an interest free loan that isn’t due until the house is sold. I keep bugging Mister to get on it before Girlfriend gets poisoned and catches the retardation but he doesn’t listen to me because he’s the worst procrastinator ever, and also because I about have to strap one on and deal with him man to “man.” Otherwise he’ll try to tell me that I can’t even operate my bread machine properly so of course I don’t understand lead poisoning, replacement windows, and state loan programs.

And so we got into a big fight over the windows issue in front of Girlfriend. I know. You shouldn’t fight in front of your kids. Call Family Services. Ask for Linda. Tell her I said “hi.” (she’s my mom)

To make things worse I have a hard time arguing without saying “fuck” eleventy hundred times. I don’t want to swear in front of Girlfriend because she repeats things I say at random playback at the worst possible moments. I just know she’ll jump up at storytime and yell “Damn! You motherfuckers know how to tell a story! Can we do the fucking craft now?”

Without a penis and my beloved fuck word it made for a very frustrating argument that went nowhere and I had no choice but to chuck stuff at his head respectfully disagree.

Clearly, in order to prevent such a thing from happening in the future, Girlfriend will have to learn to cover her ears, and I’m going to have to come to the table prepared for a sword fight.

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High Maintenance

This post is dedicated to my bff Rachel who adopted a cat this week, and who sells me Mary Kay at half price.

To my complete surprise it has turned out to be It Sucks to be a Girl Week here at Crissy’s.

We’ve covered lots and lots of lady business and I feel we’ve bonded, don’t you?

And the boys will forgive us for making them all kerfuffle-y because we talked about our

PERIODS!

I’m sure of it.

Right boys?

Yesterday we talked about poop, and everyone knows poop is “boy stuff” so that post was for them and it made them happy I think. And there’s something very special at the end of this post for them too.

Ok, ummm…let’s see. What else sucks about being a girl?

so many things…so ma-

Oh, I know!

Products!

What would Crissy’s It Sucks to be a Girl Week be without a discussion on the products it takes for me to look even half way acceptable to society? Compare my list to my husband’s and it becomes rather clear why he has time to do stuff like learn how to edit videos and I don’t.

These go in my hair every day:

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And then several times a year I go for highlights that cost $50 million dollars per visit. This is very important as I don’t know what my real hair color is because I haven’t seen it since the early 90′s. It might be blonde, but I don’t want to find out it’s not so let’s just say I’m a Natural Blonde. Mmm-kay?

This is what goes in Mr.’s hair:

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And he spends only $18 a month for a haircut.

And I brush my teeth and floss and use whitestrips every day.

Today I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned because nobody likes a toothless girl except maybe people who live in trailers, but we don’t live in one and we don’t want to so I floss my teeth and see my dentist like every good girl with a dental plan should.

My husband brushed his teeth once (I’m hoping) and did not floss and would never bother with whitestrips. Ever.

These are the things that go on my face in the mornings only.

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So that’s a total of 21 things that I use on my head alone in the morning. There’s a whole other mess that goes on at night and I’d show you but you don’t care.

Yesterday I went to the dermatologist to have my face lazered and then burned with acid. It was a lovely experience and after the redness and the blotchyness and the flaking and the shinyness and the peeling and the burning go away I’m sure I’ll look days younger!

This is what Mr. puts on his face:

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His total is 5. He uses 5 things in the morning and that’s not even every morning because he cannot be bothered to bathe that often. He can’t even be bothered to put on underpants, but that’s a whole ‘nuther topic for a different day.

I’ll stop here because I know the boys are dying to see what their surprise is. I guess I just needed a little girl time this week and I know it has been so very, very difficult for the boys. I think their pretty heads might explode if I go into a discussion of the virtues of Shea butter and Mary Kay Mint Bliss foot lotion.

Don’t worry fellas. Next week is all about you and we’ll drink beers and hang around in our underwear and talk about guns and bombs and nailing chicks and stuff.

Here,

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Have some boobies.

Going to the Bathroom Problems

I think I mentioned to you at least a couple of times before that I use the men’s room when I’m at work.

The Ladies room is shared by 40 of my closest co-workers, but the men’s room is used by only 2 or 3 men and one teenage boy.

By virtue of it’s under use, the men’s room is the clear winner because while most of the “ladies” manage very nicely to be clean and not gross, some of them? Let’s just say they’re part of the reason why I’d rather sit in boy pee-pee than risk it in the Ladies room.

The first thing that I notice when I go in is the lighting. It’s absolutely atrocious. I always look like a fucking blown out crack whore in that mirror. It’s an imperfection magnifier and I can see every zit, every wrinkle, and ever damn freckle on my face in that mother. There’s also a hand mirror available just in case looking at my face in the wall mirror isn’t enough, I can use it to see if my lady business looks blown out too.

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And look at all those smelly lotions and sprays. You’d think people would use them after they’ve had an, ahem, issue?

But no.

Sometimes I walk in there and the joint is rank and I’m tempted to just get on the PA system and say: “Attention library employees. If something is tearing the ass out of you and you’re going to blow it up in the Ladies room, for the love of God woman, USE THE SPRAY so I don’t feel like I’ve just stepped into your rotting colon. Thank you.”

I’m sure the patrons won’t mind one bit because really, it’s a public service announcement.

And usually, when there’s been an issue in there, there’s also a Hershey highway swirly left in the bowl just in case anyone had any doubts as to what just went down.

How could the person not have noticed this and just flushed again? On the very, very, rare occasion that I have an issue at work, I always check.

Don’t you?

For the love of Jesus, it’s just common decency!

And speaking of spraying and smelling, there’s this automatic air freshener thing that goes off at random intervals. So I’m in there and then PSSSSSSSTTTTT!!! It lets out a poof of “air freshner” that smells like shit and Summer Melon (whateverthefuckthatis) and scares the hell out of me and I almost fall off the toilet because I think I’m under attack. Lynne thinks it’s trying to tell her something because it goes off every time she walks in, but I think Candid Camera is behind it somehow. You might think Crissy’s just a wee bit paranoid but you’re laughing, right? Well, so would America.

Just sayin.

Here’s a nice magnet for amoebic dysentery decorative touch.

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And in case no one has ever washed her hands before we have this helpful sign to guide us:

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Every time I read it I’m tempted to add one they forgot:

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And then there’s the people who try to walk in on me when I’m peeing. No one knocks, they just try to bust in. I don’t know about you, but that makes the pee crawl right back up to where it came from and then I can’t go because I have what’s called a “shy bladder.” Or maybe it’s just because I don’t want people coming in and sitting on my lap when I’m trying to go tinkle.

And speaking of people just walking in, I’m afraid of what I might walk in on because the door doesn’t always lock properly. You have to fiddle with the knob a little and there isn’t always time.

Let’s just say I walk in on Edgar (but his real name is Carl. No it isn’t). He’s like 100 feet tall, bald as a bastard and a Republican. He’s our accountant and so we are very nice to him because he prepares our paychecks. I think he’s a nice guy, and he never yells at me for forgetting to do a time sheet which I always do because I don’t need to work for money and it embarrasses me every time they try to pay me, but he’s ok if not a little strange and I figure it must be because he’s really a Transvestite. And I’m scared that one day I’m going to walk into the Ladies room and find him putting on lipstick and sticking tampons in his ass and nobody wants to see that.

Am I right?

So, seriously.

Any one of you would use the men’s room too.

Especially those of you who are men. You don’t know how good you’ve got it boys.

And for the fatty report:

exercise: 30 minutes with Baron Baptiste Core Power Yoga for Abs + 10 minutes scrubbing out baby swimming pool where my arms hurt and I was sweaty so I’m counting it= 40 minutes, Calories 1480, alcohol units,

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Oy.

I. Am. Super.

I’m not feeling very funny today because I’m depressed about my superpower.

You see, for the past two years I’ve had a superpower. I always wanted to have one, but when I finally got it, well, it wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for. It just figures I’d wind up with something embarrassing and stupid instead of cool and sexy like Wonder Woman, or Batgirl, or Buffy.

You see, I’m Period Woman and my super power is the ability to bleed from my uterus every two weeks without dying.

I suppose my superhuman bleeding would be a little more intimidating and impressive if I had AIDS or some other dreaded disease, but I don’t and so I’ve got nothing. “Get back Joker or I’ll bleed on you!” doesn’t carry quite the same clout as “Get back Joker or I’ll beat the ever loving shit out of you!”

It just doesn’t.

It would be somewhat of a consolation if I got to wear a sexy and sleek costume like Wonder Woman’s. But Period Woman’s costume involves elastic waisted sweatpants, complete with a rope holster made of tied together tampons for holding my bottle of Midol, my supply of chocolate bars, and my knife in case I have to shank some motherfucker. My cape is made of maxi pads with wings pasted together by their adhesive strips and I have an empty potato chip bag with eye holes cut out for a mask.

I tried to jump out of my bathroom window to see if I could fly, but I can’t because I’m too heavy from all the water retention. 

At least my padded cape broke my fall and I escaped without injury.

I suppose having a sexy costume is right out anyway because I look more like The Tick than Wonder Woman.

Nobody wants to see The Tick in Wonder Woman’s outfit.

Nobody.

In case you were wondering, my other superpowers include:

  • The ability to poof out and break out 6 times more than normal thereby giving me the appearance of a Puffer Fish. This could explain why I hate myself and think I’m Fatty McFatFat all the time.
  • Instead of being smart and powerful, I am always confused and weak from hormones and blood loss.
  • Extreme mood swings so I don’t know if I want to hug you or rip your ugly fucking face off.
  • Fat Albert style eating binges.
  • Irrational behavior such as signing the signature pad at the grocery store’s self check out “fuck you” because it wouldn’t accept my coupons, or yelling out of my car window “nice directionals ass munch!” at some old lady in a Buick Skylark.

These are not things superheroes are typically seen doing.

I’ve tried to give my superpower back, but nothing I try seems to work. I went on the pill, which does work, but it turns me into a Frigid Woman instead of Period Woman which is really, very bad because my husband acts like a Super Dickhead when he’s not getting any and that winds up making the Play Through more the rule than the exception and that’s not ok because it’s not recommended for use all the time.

Only sometimes.

I’ve considered going to some dirty hippy an herbalist or something for help but they’ll probably just tell me to drink some sort of tea that smells like feet and tastes like Satan’s semen 39 times per day and I don’t know, but I think I’d rather just bleed to death in that case.

I’ve tried to reason with my uterus, but that didn’t go well.

I’m all like, “Uterus, There’s no need for this. Please be reasonable.”

and she’s all “Bitch, I do what I want. I’m a uterus.”

and then I’m all “I’ll suck you out with my Dyson right now if that’s how you’re going to be about it.”

and she’s all, “fuck off. I’ll bleed right now if you don’t quit buggin.”

and I’m like “bring it on!”

and she’s like “fine I will.”

And the whole thing just goes nowhere and I wind up punching myself in the tummy and people stare at me and it’s just not behavior befitting a superhero.

To say the least.

So I guess I’m just stuck with this superpower for better or worse.

I guess all superheros feel burdened by their superpowers sometimes don’t they?

Continue reading

Jesus, Jesus, Bo-Beezus

Friends Don’t Let Friends Die Without Jesus!

was the title at the top of a little postcard I found in my mailbox at work the other day. It was no doubt left there by Lynne who is always leaving me informative things to read like leaflets on “How to handle inappropriate employee behavior” and “How to deal with drug and alcohol issues.” I don’t know what the hell she’s trying to get at with this stuff, but apparently now she fears for my soul.

The postcard says:

If you confess with your lips the Lord Jesus, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, YOU WILL BE SAVED!!

Is it me, or did you have to read that sentence 4 times to make sense of it?

And it still doesn’t make sense.

Confess with your lips the Lord Jesus?

Wait. What?

And if I confess with my lips the Lord Jesus I’ll be saved?

Saved from what exactly?

Having to do my taxes or take out the garbage or give my husband a blow job?

What?

And it goes on to tell me that all I have to do is say this prayer:

Lord Jesus I am a sinner and I repent of my sins. I believe that Jesus is Lord and that God raised Him from the dead. I ask You, Lord Jesus, to come into my heart, take charge of my life, and give me eternal salvation so that I may live with You forever. Amen.

And this will save me from whatever it is I need to be saved from.

That’s all I have to do.

Uh. Ha.

But what happens if I need to be saved from Jesus and not by him? I mean, let’s say I do the prayer and the whole Jesus, Jesus, bo-beezus hand jive thing and then I’m saved and I get to live with Jesus forever.

That is a very big commitment I’m making to someone I’ve never even met!

What if Jesus turns out to be an asshole of a roommate? What if he clips his toenails in the living room, walks around naked a lot (sans manscaping), and forgets to flush the toilet all the time? And what about the bloody hands and feet all over the couch and all the “I’m the son of God so I can eat the whole bag of Sun Chips whenever I want” bullshit.

And from what I hear about him, he’s bossy and judgemental.

Do I really want this happening at all my parties?


Jesus Christ, No!

I’m just not sure I’m down with Jesus’s particular brand of crazy.

So I’m going to have to pass on this offer, just in case it won’t work out between Jesus and me.

Sorry Jesus.


Oh, yes and we have some business to attend to, don’t we?

Fatty confesses: Exercise, 50 minutes power yoga with sadistic bitch Kristin McGee, weight 124.8 lbs, alcohol units 5, calories 1670, (but mostly wine and salad. Must quit eating so much salad ).

You’re all welcome to join my fatty confessional if you’d like.

It’s what Jesus wants you to do.

Born To Be WILD

You’re not even going to believe it, but I had a life this weekend again!

That makes 2 weekends in a row and if this keeps up I’m going to have to change my name from Crissy to Crissy Gone Wild and I’ll have to start ripping my shirt off, showing my thong, and making out with my friends at the slightest provocation.

Because that’s what people with exciting lives do.

I think. I have no idea, really.

Any-who, I don’t know if I ever mentioned that I hang around with boys a lot, but I do.

A lot.

All of my lady friends live in prohibitively distant parts of the country (ahem Valerie, ahem Rachel), or they have nursing jobs (Kendra) and work fucked up hours, or they’re just not cool enough to come over and drink tequila do scrapbooking projects with me.

Whatever, but because of all this time spent with boys, I’m becoming a course woman.

I bought myself a scoot.

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Not really, but don’t I look like I’ve been riding all my life?

Thought so.

And I’ve taken up skateboarding.

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And fighting with boys about whose turn it is to use the skateboard.

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Pay particular attention to our crappy looking back step area. It’s about to undergo a magical transformation of deckery and flowerishness that will make you weep because you live inside my computer and not on my new deck.

And then on Saturday, we dropped Girlfriend off with my ma and went to Thayer Street.

I love Thayer Street. I once bought 4 hits of acid and a dime bag a really funky necklace from a Rasta guy right in front of Store 24. Thayer is right near the Brown University and RISD campuses and so you get a very interesting mix of people. Basically it’s where rich kids from Brown and RISD art freaks collide. It’s also where the poor hang out spare changing people, but I usually just spit my gum into their cups and shout “get a job asshole!”

They love that.

On the way there, we saw this:

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when you see people dressed this way on a 75 degree day, you know you’re getting close to Thayer. Not seen in the picture are the black vinyl pants she was wearing under the cape. I’m sure she smelled fresh as a daisy after wearing that get up on such a warm day.

Just sayin’.

Here’s Thayer.

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Parking anywhere near Thayer is a pain and I was very lucky to find a place where I didn’t have to parallel park because I don’t know how to do that because everywhere I go has valet.

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Sasha should be safe here for a bit.

(If you can name the movie where the valet comment came from, consider yourself high fived)

We had an awesome lunch outside at Paragon.

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This is not lunch but a gratuitous picture of me at lunch.

Here’s my husband and my husband’s lunch.

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I had salad and Diet Coke and he had beef and chicken satay with a Harpoon.

After lunch we went shopping at Zu Zu’s Petals and spent $140 on a simple cotton dress.

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Because that’s what you do at Zu Zu’s Petals. You buy things because they are pretty and because they accept Visa.

Why in the name of Jesus are the keys always on the bottom of my purse?

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They really need to put lights inside purses. Or they should line them in white so you can see in there.

And then Sunday we packed a picnic lunch and went to the park.

I alternated between marching in place

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and just looking bitchy.

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Daddy and baby and doggie.

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And then we walked over to the ice cream place.

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Keep eating ice cream and people at the beach will try to drag you back into the ocean, asshole.

I’m going to quit eating. Full stop.

Tomorrow.

I’m serious.   I think I’m behaving quite nicely but the number on the scale keeps climbing, so I must be doing something very wrong somewhere. So in an attempt to end the food and booze jackassery I’m going to report to you Internets, Bridget Jones style, how many calories I consumed, how many cocktails I had and how much exercise I got on the previous day.  I expect harsh chastisement for naughty behavior.  I know I can count on you.

Anyway, Happy Monday people!

PS: If you’d like to see more pictures of Thayer Street and learn how to make a ghetto see saw using an old splintery board and a propane tank, go visit my husband’s new photo-blog.

The Most Boringest Place on Earth

-OR- How I Got My Gunt

Okay so yesterday concluded Crissy’s Cat Mid-Week Extravaganza.
Those of you who think it was wrong to get my cat loaded will be pleased to know that he got his revenge on us on Wednesday night when he ate the seedling vegetables that were in my greenhouse window in the kitchen. I came downstairs for my morning yoga torture festival to find dirt and baby basil, baby cucumber, baby squash, baby tomato, and baby Shasta Daisies all over my kitchen floor and counters.

You’d think he would have been grateful for the schwag. But no. Apparently he’d prefer Purple Haze cat nip instead.

Douche.

Anyhow, here’s something else that bores the shit out of me and causes all sorts of problems in my life.

Work.

This is a picture of my desk.

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Notice the Vegan cookbook that came in for me yesterday. It’s arrival was the most exciting thing that happened all day. That and the fun Lynne and I had running around doing our hijinks after our director left for lunch.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here because before lunch, this is all the work I had to do.

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By lunchtime this is all the work I had done.

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As you can plainly see, I am a very dedicated blogger and online shopper worker.

Obviously I had an exhausting morning and needed to take my break.

Here is the message board on the break room fridge.

“Fuck cheese and salami inside my ass.”

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Lynne added the swear words to make the Internets laugh. We think we might add swear words every day just to make ourselves laugh and also to piss off and offend people because that’s what we really like.

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And with people posting queer shit like this on the fridge, you need a little F-bomb every once in a while. Seriously.

And you know I had to have some of that salami. You how much I love the salami.

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But I had to hide my love away because everyone thinks I’m a vegetarian. And I am.

Most of the time.

Here is the break room table. It is my mortal enemy and the reason why I wound up crying in my closet when I tried on last year’s shorts and found a lovely muffin top and camel toe where there had been none previously.

Normally, none of these foods would interest me, but when I’m at work I’m just so damned bored. I go in for water, I come out chowing on some form of bullshit food just to have 20 seconds of pleasure in an otherwise torturously dull day.

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Notice how many penis-ish and balls-ish foods we have here. It’s okay to giggle about the honor snacks “munch box.” I do. I mean am I supposed to eat a bag of chips or eat out a co-worker? I’m confused! I don’t know what they want from me!

And who doesn’t love Poppycock?

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Nobody. Nobody doesn’t love Poppycock, that’s who.

I think it’s better when eaten in confined spaces such as a random co-worker’s locker,

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or snuggled in a shelving unit in the Administrator’s Supply Closet.

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And here is my other problem.

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It sits behind me on my boss’s desk and talks dirty to me all day.

“Criiiissssyyyy…come and eat me, Crissy. You know you love me, you know you want me, come and take me and tear my wrapper off and lick me! Lick! Me!

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So sometimes people find me doing a jar of chocolates under my desk.

I also like pretzels and twizzlers.

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I think I might save this picture until most of the 5lb tub of Twizzlers is gone and then I’ll post it on the fridge.

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Ha, ha! Your Twizzler was in the Men’s room! Ha, ha!

Did I mention I use the Men’s room instead of the Ladies?

I do because there are only 2 men who work with us and about 40 women.

Whatever those “ladies” are doing in the staff bathroom?

I want no part in it. But that’s a post for another day.

Anyway, I’m glad it’s Friday and I’m sure you are too.

Happy Weekend Internets!