Archive for May, 2008

If you dare wear short shorts, Nair for short shorts.

That’s going to go through your head all day now.

Sorry.

(No I’m not.)

So I had to buy some new shorts for our upcoming vacation because the ones I had last year? Yeah, no. They’re a definite no. go. I’m too damn fat for them this year. There was overspill muffin top and camel toe inducing tightness and society says that doesn’t look nice and so I must obey.

And last year’s itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini? Also not so much this year. It looks more like a tourniquet so I have to get a new one of those too so my ass doesn’t turn blue from lack of circulation because nobody likes a blue assed girl.

I think society should pay for the new shorts and the new bikini since they’re the ones who are being such assholes about the whole thing.

And as if I wasn’t depressed enough at the thought of having to buy bigger shorts because it means that somehow after working out every single day and watching what I eat I still managed to gain 10 lbs (!) over the past year, I turn around to see that my husband has tried them on.

And they fit him.

Better than me.

Work it baby,

Own it.

That’s right people. He’s a Junior size 5.

This is so wrong on so many levels and it can be very depressing when your 6 foot 4 husband can fit into your clothes! He outweighs me by 75lbs!

HOW CAN THIS HAPPEN INTERNET?

HOW?

IT ISN’T FAIR.

And he eats like shit and he never works out. He calls his workouts “in situ” meaning he gets his exercise by working around the house.

That’s bullshit!

I work around the house too but I gain weight.

What the fucking fuck?

So anyway I should probably tell you so you’re not surprised when you come to see me on Monday morning and find there’s a man in my blog that I’m having a few guests come over to keep an eye on the place while Crissy gets a little well deserved R&R and her husband prances like a pretty princess around a seaside resort town in her new shorts.

You already know all of these people because they’re regulars around here and I’m hoping that they’ve all tried their keys in the door to make sure they work because after today I will be unavailable for consultation.

Monday we have Chris from Surviving Myself
Tuesday is Lynne at In The Rays of a Beautiful Sun
Wednesday is my bff Rachel from Get Your Freak On, which is on hiatus right now because she got a J-O-B.
Thursday you’ll hear from Kiala at Face of the Cookie
Friday is Melissa from Recovering Californian

Okay, I’m going to go and get packed and try to explain to my husband again why
A. It is unacceptable to wear women’s shorts in public or in private without some sort of nod in the direction of hair removal. At. Least.
B. He may not bring his scuba gear for use in the resort’s swimming pool again this year.

That’s right Internets, laugh it up.

My life is a hell.

You know who I love? Kelly Ripa. Not in a scary stalker kind of way where I want to kidnap her and keep her in my basement and try to make a Kelly Ripa suit out of her (it puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again. Right Precious? Ruff! Ruff!) or anything like that but in a way that makes me want to hang around with her and drink soooo many watermelon martinis that we wind up holding each other’s hair back in the bathroom of some hip Manhattan bar. But I haven’t put much thought into what Kelly and I would do together if we were friends. None. at. all. Clearly. I just think we’d hit it off because she’s so cute and so funny just like me. Only kidding. I’m cuter and funnier. Everyone knows that. I don’t even mind if she’s roughly the size of a smurf, give or take an apple or two, I’d still lick her sideways. I don’t even know what that means. And I love the new commercial she’s in, the one for Electrolux appliances (boiling water in 90 seconds! What will they think of next?), even though I think the wardrobe people got the shirt she’s wearing totally wrong, but that’s so typical of wardrobe people anyway so no big shocker there. I mean my wardrobe people are always fucking up and I have to yell at them in Spanish “No comprende el estupido bitcho me look fatso en rojo! Asso holio!” and then I have to beat them with a belt or else they’ll never learn, but her shoes are cute so I guess that makes up for it somewhat. And this always makes me laugh: And I love how Regis calls her “Pipa.” I wish someone had an adorable nickname for me. Anyone?

CBS can suck my dick.

I am hideously depressed because my most favoritest TV show has been cancelled.

What am I supposed to do on Friday nights without watching Moonlight and having fantasies, very, very naughty fantasies about being “turned” by vampire Hottie Mc Hot Hot Mick St. John?

I mean look at this dude!

Dark, brooding, HOT. AS. HELL.

And he’s a vampire.

Makes me get all gooshy inside and also a tad moist in the panty every time I think about him. My boss and I are about a heartbeat away from quitting work and stalking Alex O’ Loughlin, the guy who plays the role of Mick St. John, not that it matters what his name is in “real life” because I believe that Alex O’ Loughlin is really Mick St. John and not Alex O’ Loughlin at all and I know this because vampires are real.

I saw it on the tee-vee so it must be true.

And they live amongst us and live normal lives.

Well, except for the whole sleeping in a freezer and drinking blood thing.

And do you know what people are doing to protest the attempted murder of Mick St. John by the douchebags at CBS? They’re donating blood. This makes sense because Mick St. John is a good vampire and he doesn’t feed on people because he’s a humanitarian, really and he has respect for human life unlike naughty vampires who go around sucking people dry and GOD I’d give anything to be sucked dry by Mick St. John. Any. thing.

huhuhuhuhuhuh…

Shit.

Where was I?

Oh, right. Mick gets his meals from the blood bank and sometimes the morgue, so it makes sense that legions of Moonlight fans are donating blood to try and save him.

So Mister and I are thinking of doing it too, and me especially since I have my superhuman ability to bleed so what’s a few pints to a girl like me, right? And Mister loves Moonlight too and he kept saying he felt “gutted” all day Friday after he heard the terrible, terrible news. But the problem we’re having is that we want the blood to go to vampires only. I’ve never donated blood before since I’m sure I’d throw up and pass out because I’m a really big baby that way and I about bring my mom with me for a blood test, so I don’t really know how it works when you go, but I think I’ll insist they write on the bag o’ blood “for vampires only.” And then they’ll have to honor my request because it’s my blood and I get to say what happens with it. Don’t I? Like I could also have them write “for smart people only” except it’ll be “for vampires only” instead.

You can do that, right?

So here’s where you guys come in. You can either go here and sign the petition to end the merciless slaughter of vampires or you can go to the blood bank and donate some blood and say that Crissy sent you and that you only want the blood to be given to vampires, preferably Mick St. John. There are like, tens of you, so if you all go I’m sure that the blood bank will call CBS and tell them the news and they’ll be so overwhelmed by such a grand gesture that they will have to put the show back on and then I will have single handedly with the help of tens of people saved the day thereby making millions of Moonlight fans very, very happy and also making Mick St. John fall in love with me real. hard. and we will get married and he will turn me into a vampire and that means I will live forever which also means I will be able to blog forever and don’t you want that to happen?

I promise I won’t bite you.

Hard.

Happy back to work Tuesday after a bless-ed long weekend! Ya-ta-da-da!

I know you’ve been dying to hear about how the birthday extravaganza went so I won’t keep you in suspense any longer.

To tell you the truth Internet, I don’t really know because I don’t remember the party. Just a few snippets here and there and that’s it. And no. I wasn’t drinking. I was working my ass off. I busied myself so much with eating lots of things containing mayonnaise and sour cream and white flour while flying around hostessing that I got the party amnesia. And then after the party I drank many drinks containing alcohol just to help me chill the fuck out after all the excitement and I am still feeling screwed up from all the sugar and I am most certainly still hung over and that was 3 days ago so you can only imagine the debauchery that took place.

Oy.

From what I’m able to piece together, the party went something like this.

And Girlfriend and I made this cake together. It was lemon cake with blue butter cream frosting. We made the whole thing from scratch.

Are you impressed with us Internet because I am.

And the kids had a ball.

I set up a long piece of paper and had trays of paint and all sorts of interesting objects to drag across the paper with the paints.

Girlfriend and Mackenzie had the most fun with the expressive arts project.

Painting is Girlfriend’s most favoritest activity.

Her adorable little birthday dress is toast. I put the tee shirt on her but it was too late. Contrary to what I believed, Washable Tempera paint is not, in fact, washable at all. As I learned after frantically searching the Internet for a way to fix her dress, you’re supposed to mix dish soap into the paint in order to make it washable. WTF?? There are several parents who now hate me for ruining their children’s clothing.

Whoopsie.

But hey! I warned them in the invitation that the kids would be painting so It’s not all my bad.

Oh and she received a digital camera from us. This is her very first self portrait taken in her bedroom mirror.

Annie Leibovitz can suck it.

And then on Monday, using the new red wagon Girlfriend’s Auntie Cya bought her for her birthday, we walked to Crissy’s town’s Memorial Day Parade that is held conveniently 2 blocks away from Crissy’s house.

Alice was scared of the fire trucks and scratched the shit out of Mommy’s lap, but Girlfriend had a ball and even made a friend whose parents invited us to come to a Memorial Day barbecue with them. And of course we went to that because far be it for the Crissys to turn down free food and mixed tropical drinks all within stumbling walking distance of the house. Plus we had the wagon just in case anyone passed out was too tired to walk home.

He-llo!

So that’s it I think and oh, wait. Rewind to Saturday when I went to have my hair done and when I told the girl I wanted it lighter for the summer I didn’t mean I wanted it to be white. But it is. I have white hair.

Like Betty White only she’s more blond than me.

And it’s much shorter. And I keep running back to the mirror, even though it hurts so bad you guys, just to see if it’s still fucked and that I still hate it and the answer is always YES.

I hate it so much I want to kill myself.

So aside from the hair tragedy and the crying jags whenever I catch myself in the mirror, the weekend was pretty great because I am really, a very brilliant party planner and people called the next day to say they had fun and to thank us again and that’s always nice to hear.

Yesterday we covered a few things that Girlfriend says and does but today is my turn because you really come here to hear about me and all my glamorishness and you’ve all been lovely and attentive during Crissy’s Mom Week and I appreciate that so much. I love you all except for the people who punched or threatened to punch kittens. They are naughty people and should be spanked twice and put to bed straight away.

I never understood my mother until I became a mom myself. I always thought she was a little bit, how do I say this and not sound like a bitch, insane? But I have discovered that living with a child is like living with a drunken, retarded midget with octopus arms and the power to spit and throw long distances. They turn ordinary people into forgetful, distracted, crazy batshit people.

And they make you do stuff you never in a million thought you would, like:

1. Trade my jello shots for a tray of Alphabet Jigglers.
2. Have to hide in the bathroom to eat a piece of chocolate.
3. Wait until the ungodly hour of of 7pm to enjoy my first cocktail because that’s when her highness retires for the evening.
4. Be unable to cook dinner without Curious George on TV in the kitchen regardless of whether or not Girlfriend is in the room at the time.
5. Spend my day protecting one small white dog.
6. Carry a pair of Curious George panties in my purse in case of an accident.
7. Bring food to a resturant.
8. Spray Febreeze to repell monsters.
9. Prefer watching Sesame Street to watching the news. (There really isn’t much difference between the Today Show and Sesame Street, right?)

And the retarded midget makes for some crazy yelling too.

“No, you may not stir your bath water with the toilet brush.”
“Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit. Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit. Down. SIT! DOWN!”
“Oh! Oh God. No. Stop. Please don’t lick my boss’s leg!”
“Are you pooping right now?”
“We do not sit on tomatoes!”
“Hey! Be careful with that! If you lose it, you won’t have it anymore!” (I’m a genius, I know)
“NO! The doggie doesn’t like it when you stick things in her bum! No. she. doesn’t!”
“Put the remote control down and step away from the toilet!”
“Put. your. shoes. on!” X infinity + 10.
“No. Ice cream is not a good breakfast.” (sometimes you have to lie)

Anyway there’s like a million more things that I could include here but I don’t have time because today we will spend the day doing so. much. crap. and collecting last minute items for the birthday extravaganza to take place on Sunday. You’re all invited but only if you bring a new BMW for Girlfriend because that’s what she really wants.

Her favorite color is blue.

And hey, thanks for voting everybody. I think we should turn this blogger’s choice awards into a crusade against queer blogs (and I don’t mean that as in blogs written by gay people. I mean blogs written by geeks and losers). I won’t shut up until I at least beat out TrendyTots stylish finds from tots to teens. Comethefuckonnow! and then we’re going after Klessis The Bento Maker. What in the name of Jesus and Mary is a bento and how does one base an entire blog on it? From what I can tell, all this woman does is take pictures of her kid’s lunch box contents every. day. and I think she’s an abusive mother because she puts stuff like fish soup in there. What kid wants to eat that shit?

Anyway I have to be a hotter mommy than the fish soup lady right?

Right?

RIGHT?????????

I know that on Tuesday I promised you that I wouldn’t torture you with all the cute things my kid says because it makes you want to punch kittens and I wouldn’t want you to do that because kittens are just. adorable. but I lied Internet!

Liar, Liar pants on fire!

Sue me.

Just promise me you won’t punch any kittens after this because I would hate that.

She’s never even had fried chicken! And how does she know about addictions? Ahem, I don’t have any…

Already a procrastinator like her daddy. We still have not resolved the windows issue, just so you know. If she catches The Retardation it’s all his fault Internet.

I am not allowed to sing in my own home.

She actually said this next thing when I was getting out of the shower one day, but I don’t have a Barbie shower so I had to use the couch instead.

My boobies are not silly. They’re spectacular. That must be what she meant.

We’re still working on her vocabulary.

And when she’s asked to do something she does not want to do, she dives under the nearest piece of furniture and does this instead:

And then she spits on the floor which lands her a spot on the naughty step where she proceeds to spit on the floor some more and draw designs in it with the toe of her sneaker. When let off the naughty step she refuses to clean up the spit which lands her back on the naughty step where she resumes her spit drawing.

She’s quite good. I’ll take a picture of one for you sometime.

Girlfriend sometimes has trouble engaging her frontal lobe and says things to strangers that maybe she shouldn’t.

And then she spits at them if she really feels strongly about it. She does this to random people in stores and whatnot. At least it’s not as bad as what I did to my mother. Apparently I hated men with beards when I was little and we were at the grocery store and I pointed to a man with a beard and loudly said “Hey mommy. Look at that fucking ass hole!”

God, I was cute.

Lately I’ve been trying to teach her proper terminology and to be comfortable with her body, and that nakedness is not a shameful thing, and that it’s okay to sort of get to know herself as long as she’s alone and all that hippy crap you’re supposed to say nowadays if you’re not a Jesus freak and she really never acknowledges her netherlands, but I don’t want her to feel weird about it and I guess I sort of overshot my goal in the vagi appreciation department.

Ooops.

As long as she doesn’t do this in high school it’s all good.

And she seems to talk about boobies a lot.

I don’t know why.

And she wants to be a fairy. A very special fairy.

Don’t judge me Internets! She did not necessarily pick up the naughty words from me!

She. did. not.

Happy Thursday everybody.

HEY! You in the back!

I see you!

PUT DOWN THAT KITTEN!

Needless to say that our lives changed when the baby came. Having a newborn to take care of is a lot of work and it’s the reason why I don’t know if I want to have another baby or just get another dog instead.

You laugh, but I’m on the serious.

Besides, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go without the booze and the pills for another year and a half. (that’s pregnancy + nursing, people. My math skills aren’t that fucked.)

Not only did I have a destroyed vaginal (thanks Megkathleen) but I was sooo tired. Look at my eyes:

See? Tie-yid.

That’s what a baby does for you, but I was also blissed out. That’s what Oxytocin from breastfeeding does for you and you barely notice how different life has suddenly become. You’re just trying to keep the little sucker alive and for fuck’s sake how many diapers do these kids go through in a day!?!

And Mister and I weren’t the only ones whose lives changed drastically. You’re looking at a picture of two little dogs who should be holding on to their hats because shit is about to get interesting.

The cute little teddy bear dog on the left in the picture is Martha. She was my baby before the baby. I used to carry her around on my hip just like a baby and she’d put her arms around my neck and rest her head on my shoulder. She was a sweet dog, but also a crazy little vicious asshole. You don’t hear about her because about one year ago today-ish, Martha turned on Girlfriend and shredded her face with her teeth and claws and left her with a permanent scar on her cheek. We had to feed her to a pack of angry Rottwilers give her to a little old lady with no grandchildren.

But Alice is there standing sentinel like she always does because she’s a good egg.

Moments after this picture was taken, the following doggie conversation took place:
Martha: Have we determined what this thing is yet?
Alice: Maybe you should sniff its ass. Maybe there’s a clue there.
Martha: They won’t let me near the thing. What the hell is it?
Alice: I don’t know. It kind of freaks me out though. I might hide until it goes away.
M: I think we should pee on its stuff, you know, to send a message.
A: You do that. I think I’ll go hide under the bed.
M: Maybe I’ll try to eat it.
A: That’s a stupid idea. How do you even know it’s edible. You do what you want and let me know how it turns out.
M: Maybe I’ll just wait until it’s vulnerable and then I’ll kick its ass!
A: Ummmm, sure. Good luck.

See? Good egg.

She wanted no part in Martha’s evil scheming.

And now poor Alice takes a lot of punishment from the baby and if there’s anyone out there considering getting a dog or a cat for their little one I urge you DON’T DO IT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL HER SMALL CREATURES! Alice gets her ass handed to her all day long, every day. But she puts up with it, god bless her, because she doesn’t want to go and live with Martha and also because Girlfriend usually leaves a trail of yummy treats behind her.

And I know Girlfriend adores her some Alice burger (that’s what I call her. Alice burger. shut up.) because when we drop Alice off at the groomer, Girlfriend goes coo-coo for coco puffs and hits and kicks and cries because she doesn’t want to leave her with strangers.

“Mommy! You’re disgusting, you’re A Disgusting! I want Alice! Aaaaallliiiccceee!”

So here, I leave you with this: a story of compromise, a story of love:

It’s going to be Girlfriend’s third birthday this weekend and I’ve been thinking a lot about her and about being her mom and so I figured I’d make this week all about motherhood.

Why the fuck not?

Plus I know how truly fascinating people’s kids are especially if you don’t have any yourself, and so I thought I’d just give the Internet what it wants and regale you with detailed stories of my daughter and all her happenings and cute things she says.

Psych!

I won’t do that to you because I know how it makes you want to punch kittens, but I will be writing about motherhood and some of my experiences thus far, so welcome to Crissy’s Motherhood Week!

Woo. Hoo.

So, yes, motherhood. We have to start from the beginning-ish.

It all started when I was helping my friend Valerie, who was pregnant with her second baby, pick out a stroller. We were pushing them around the store when I felt a strange pang, one I’ve never felt before. I wanted that stroller to have a baby in it. MY baby!

This was a shock to me because I’m not a kid or baby person. I don’t lose my shit when I see a baby like some people do. Show me a puppy on the other hand, and I’m all “wook at teh bebe puppy face!” But now I wanted a person baby and not a fur baby so I began negotiations with Mister and we figured what the hell, what are we doing that’s so interesting right now anyway?

Let’s have a baby.

I got pregnant almost right away and it was healthy and wonderful, yada, yada, yada (Can you yada, yada, yada a pregnancy, because I just did) and then 3 years ago this coming Friday and a full two weeks before my due date, I visited my midwife who told me that
a) I was dilated 1 cm already
b) there’s a storm system moving in
c) there’s a full moon
d) all those things combined meant that the baby was coming the next day or the day after.

She also said that if I call her and make her drive an hour to the hospital and I’m not 100% positive I was in labor that she’d kill me. Dead.

She was cool.

On the way out I bumped into Erin of Storytime fame who was pregnant with Girlfriend’s little playmate Mackenzie at the time and I told her the news and drove home and ran a few red lights and forced other cars off the road because I was a little distracted called my husband to fill him in. He was totally un-phased. I think he said something like “well, that’s very interesting. Thanks for calling.”

Asshole.

And I waited, and the next day while buying blankets at Babies R Us I felt my first contraction and decided I’d better spread my hustle and get home, and then by 5pm the following evening, I had my baby. And as Melissa Lion assures me I probably shit on the table even though my husband swears I didn’t. And I didn’t know if I was having a girl or a boy and I wanted a girl soooo badly that when she came out I thought everyone was kidding until I saw for myself.

And I am totally crying right now.

Anyway, here is a picture of my vagina before the baby.

Don’t get too excited. It’s really just an orchid. My vagina is actually prettier and cuter than a basket full of kittens, truth be told.

And this is what came out of it.

She weighed only 5lbs and she looked like ET but I didn’t notice that part until just now. Thank Jesus she grew out of that shit.

This is a picture of my vagina after she came out.

It took about a year for things to get back to normal again. A year!

And that’s it. That’s my story.

Notice how I gave you only the highlights instead of the War and Peace type history of my uterus and vagina like most people like to tell?

I do not understand why no matter how hard I try to steer the conversation away from it, people keep driving the bus right back into the labor and delivery room. It’s like you’re not a real mom or a real woman unless you prove it by re-telling your battle story to complete strangers at the playground.

My disinterest in these very special stories is reason 101 why I don’t fit into mom culture. And it’s not lost on me that I have just told you mine, but it’s different because, hello!, It’s me, duh.

I’m praying for the day someone shares her fruity vodka drink recipes with me while we push the kids on the swings.

She’s out there somewhere. I can’t be the only renegade misfit mommy.

And when I find her I’m going to pour her a martini and kiss her long and deep.

Last Sunday I woke up with a small bump under my right eye. I was mildly annoyed at its appearance but there’s not much I could do about it so I slapped a little spackle over it and moved on.

And then by Thursday this seemingly harmless bump turned into a raging red swollen Cyclopsian eye that threatened to eat the rest of my head. People at work kept looking at me, heads cocked to one side, saying “Do you have really bad allergies or something?”

“No. My eye’s fucked.”

And by Friday morn, the shit had gone viral for sure and there was no doubt it would require medical intervention.

Icky.

So I rushed through my morning to be the first one through the door at The Urgent Care facility. Girlfriend and I arrived ten minutes before the place was scheduled to open only to find the waiting room already full of people including a teenage girl with The Plague Mono Typhoid Fever which she undoubtedly caught while making out with and perhaps having anal sex with the entire baseball team this past weekend (but don’t worry because she’s still a virgin), chatting away on her cell phone about getting her nails done for Prom. When I was in high school “getting your nails done” meant going to the drugstore and buying yourself a pack of Lee Press On Nails that inevitably fell off approximately 32.5 seconds later. But whatever. Times change.

I went up to the window to register and the nurse, or whatever those people wearing Winnie the Pooh scrubs are, asked me why I was there.
“My eye is all gross”
She looked at me and said “which one?”
Pointing to my eye, “Uh. My right one. See it? It’s all gross.”
“Have a seat and I’ll call you.”

We sat down and Girlfriend was remarkably well behaved and showed concern for each and every patient in the waiting room by loudly saying things like “Mommy, what’s wrong with that man’s face?” and “Mommy that woman is too big for the chair. She needs a big, big one! Silly woman! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Shut. up. before they throw their foreign person monkey diseases at us Girlfriend!

It was finally our turn and I answered all sorts of uncomfortable questions about my period and now I’m thinking I should have asked the nurse what my proper functions had to do with my eye being gross. And Girlfriend was good while we waited patiently for Dr. GoodDrugs to come and remove my bum peeper with what I imagined would be a rusty spoon or something like that.

The Doctor at this Urgent Care is notoriously pleasant and upbeat and you just know he’s tapping into the sample closet like a vampire in a blood bank a little bit and he’s not sharing. I choose to go to this particular one because I’m hoping he’ll OD on the happy, happy, happy and accidentally give me a little.

So far he’s been a selfish prick.

He took one look at my Cyclopsian eye and diagnosed me with The Blepharitis. This is not to be confused with The Tracoma which only poor people get in underdeveloped countries where they wash their faces with shitwater. That’s not the case here. I apparently rubbed my eye after touching something I’m allergic to, probably something at work, and it got irritated and infected.

Fabulous.

So Dr. GoodDrugs gave me a prescription for some eye de-fucking serum and out and out refused to give me Oxycontin for the pain.

Such. terrible. pain. doctor.

He didn’t believe me, the wanker.

We went across the street to Target and dropped off the prescription and clearly the Target Pharmacist is brighter than the woman at The Urgent Care because he noticed my eye was fucked right away and promised to have the eye de-fucker ready ASAP. I appreciated that because being out in public looking like this

is not on my list of fun and sexy.

As it was I still had to do the groceries and you know Friday is my Italian Stallion day at the the deli counter right?

When I got home I began my treatments immediately. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be eaten alive by ravenous Alsatians than put stuff in my eyes. I have to use this stuff every 2-3 hours in both eyes, and it stings like a motherfucker and leaves things all blurry and so I about go into convulsions with every drop. My husband does it for me but I get in trouble because I blink so much in preparation for the stinging that he has to hold my eye open like this

to get the drops in.

Do you know what he did though? He spent the weekend carrying the eye de-fucking serum in his pocket so that it would stay warm and wouldn’t be so stingy.

I didn’t ask him to do it, he just did because he’s nice and because he knows I won’t do the drops unless he sits on my chest and holds my arms down with his knees helps me do them.

Anyway, my eye is feeling much better and the swelling and the itching and the burning have gone down considerably and maybe tomorrow I will look like a normal human and it will be time for some other minor, yet annoying malady to attack me.

Maybe it will even be the crotch rot.

We’ll see..

Welcome to Crissy had the same nonsensical exchange with her husband last night like she always does which leads her to think that perhaps last week should have included Crissy tries killing reasoning with her husband instead of engaging in ludicrous discussions about stupid things with him.

Last night we were surveying our yard and all the hard work we’ve been doing and still have to do to make it look pretty-ful instead of god-awful like it is now.

Our clumps of dirt and weeds grass leaves much to be desired and we still need more plantings I think and I said as much to Mister and mind you Mister had just consumed a totally different kind of grass one beer when the following conversation ensued.

Mister: I think we need a statue right there.
Me: What? A statue of what?
Mister: I don’t know. Something powerful. Something that makes a statement.
Me: Like what?
Mister: What about a statue of me?
Me: A statue of you.
Mister: Yeah! I think it would be GREAT! You never see that. I don’t understand why nobody ever puts a statue of themselves in the front yard.
Me: You want to put a statue of you in the yard.
Mister: Yeah. Why not? It’s cool, man.
Me: I don’t think so.
Mister: People need to know who lives here!
Me: No they don’t.
Mister: Why? You never let me do what I want.
Me: That’s because what you want is stupid. You want stupid all the time.
Mister: Come on! Just picture it. A statue of me right there.
Me: You draw me a sketch and I’ll consider it (knowing full well I’d do no such thing)
Mister: That’s fine. You’ll see. It’s a great idea.
Me: Uh huh.

And so he gave me this:

What do you think Internets? Should we go for it?

Do you see what I have to put up with?

Do you see why the vodka and the klonopin?

Ps: Thank you to all the people who voted for me in the Hottest Mommy Blogger awards! Those of you who haven’t done it yet, please do. I hate to beg, but have you seen some of the people who are winning? NOT. HOT. Not that I think I’m anything great, but seriously it’s a fucking joke, and I refuse to lose to those dogs!

I’m running for President next and I’ll need your votes then too, so practice, practice, practice!