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.


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?

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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?


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.

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.


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

Thought so.

And I’ve taken up skateboarding.


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


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:


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.


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.


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

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


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?


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


and just looking bitchy.


Daddy and baby and doggie.


And then we walked over to the ice cream place.


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.


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.

-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.


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


This is a picture of my desk.


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.


By lunchtime this is all the work I had done.


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.”


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.


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.


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?


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,


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


And here is my other problem.


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!


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

I also like pretzels and twizzlers.


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.


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!