I realize that I’m going backwards here, and I should have started with my morning and today should be my afternoon and tomorrow my night but I didn’t have time to take any pictures of my morning yesterday so you’re just going to have to rearrange my days in your head.

I know you can do it Internets.

I’m a little disorganized this week and I think it’s because I’m off the booze because it was making me gain weight and we simply cannot have that because we are going on vacation soon and society tells me I must look good in my green and white polka dot bikini with the little ruffles that frame my boobies so very nicely.

See? Cuteness.

This is almost exactly the same as mine but mine’s got the dainty ruffles I was telling you about and Yes! I am that tan and I always put my hands in my hair like that when I’m in the water just like this girl does. We’re practically twins!

Anyway my mornings…what do I do?

First I drink this

because I cannot do yoga unless I poop and I cannot poop unless I drink the coffee.

After the coffee and the pooping comes the yoga for one hour

(You’ll notice that Alice is sleeping peacefully on the couch and not cowering underneath it like with the hip-hop.  Everyone is happiest when mommy does the yoga.)

with Sadistic Bitch Kristin McGee.

I thought that us having the same name would mean she wouldn’t kick my ass all over my living room, but no. It makes her hate me.

Or I like Pompous Yogi Baron Baptiste’s Power Yoga Soul of Strength.

I used to be able to do that pose, (I did so!) but I fell on my face on a tile floor while drunkenly showing off my slick move and now I can’t do it anymore. Mental problems.

Don’t do Raven Pose drunk.

Or sometimes Bryan Kest’s Power Yoga for Intermediates.

He looks very serious here and that’s because he has a tewibule speech impediment and that makes him sad. I know that’s not nice to say, but he DOES.

“Downward dog posisssin.”

There are several others but these are my faves. I hate it when people say faves. It’s FA-VO-RITE!

Fave is not a word.

Then I shower, and I’m not showing you a picture of me in the shower because you cannot handle it, and then I get dressed, and then I eat this

because you shouldn’t neglect your colon if you want to poop before yoga in the A.M.

And I feed this,

those are ORGAINC pop tarts so shut. up. they’re healthy for her!

to this:

And I pack my lunch which I don’t have a picture of but trust me it’s all roughage, you know, for the pooping.

And I drive to work in this:

See? Not scary.

And I understand these:

They’re very simple.

And I’m totally brilliant at shifting with this.

And I listen to these people:

Are you physically turned on by Cake? I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be, but if that didn’t do it for you, check this out:

How about now? Do you want Cake now?

Not that I don’t like Chris’s people because I do, but I’m not always in the gansta mood.

And I just want something sweeter.

And then I arrive at work and you know what sort of shit goes down over there and then I come home and I already told you about what happens at night, so we put the movie in and yada, yada, yada I fall asleep soon afterward and the whole thing starts over again in the morning.

I don’t know what I’m going to tell you about tomorrow now.

It’ll be a surprise for us all.

Namaste.

PS: Go see Chris and vote for him. He’s been nominated for best humor blog. Click on the thing at the top right of his page and give our friend the recognition he deserves!

Weeee!

Theme weeks are fun, Right!?

It’s so much easier for me to be picking a theme and going with it for the week than always having to come up with something random to talk about because as you know, I’m not very good at switching gears. After last week of trying new things I’ve run clean out of vodka and Klonopin and considering my anxiety issues and the fact that Lynne is not at work this week (!), I think I ought to just take a break from the new stuff and go back to my comforting old routines before I have to put my therapist on speed dial or I start peeing my pants again because Crissy is a creature of habit and does not take change well.

Ever.

But DON’T WORRY because it won’t matter to you Internets since my daily routines have yet to be disclosed, so it’s all new stuff to you anyway. And I also think you’ll like it because I’m quite fascinating, really, and the stuff I do that I think of as normal and routine will freak your freak because it is so sexy and so glamorous you will be the one who needs the vodka and the Klonopin and not me at all.

So today I think we’ll talk about what Crissy does after work.

5:30 pm- Arrive home. Turn volume down on stereo as I am unable to pull car into the garage with the stereo on.
5:32 pm- Attempt to get through the door with 1 tote full of books, 1 lunchbox, 1 giant purse, 1 American Breast Cancer Society Travel mug, and 1 little dog scratching the shit out of my leg.
5:33 pm- kiss baby and husband hello and attempt to micromanage the dinner husband is making until I get yelled at and kicked out of the kitchen.
5:45 pm- Go upstairs to remove motherfucking torture device bra. Hate. bras. Damn you society for making me wear one!!!! Damn you all to hell!
6:00 pm- Eat dinner made by Mister if it’s a day I worked a full day.
6:30 pm- Clean up dinner.
6:45 pm- Say goodnight to baby and write blog post for next day while Daddy reads baby stories and puts her to Bedfordshire. He always does it because she only wants him and “not you mommy! “
7:20 pm- Go to bed and watch Inside Edition.
7:30 pm- Consider blogging about Inside Edition.
7:30.5 pm- Decide not to.
7:45 pm- Look at pile of books on my nightstand.
7:45.5- Feel overwhelmed by it.
7:45.8- Decide not to do that either.
8:00 pm- Put any one of my favorite movies into the DVD player:

Dude Where’s my whore?
An American in Panties
Who Fucked Roger Rabbit?
Midnight Fuckboy
Rebel Without a Cock
Schindler’s Fist
Saving Ryan’s Privates
How Harry Fucked Sally
Last Dildo in Paris
How Green Was My Pussy?
The Pubic Enemy
The Harder They Cum

Not Really.

I usually either watch Ghost Hunters, The Deadliest Catch, Ugly Betty, Ghost Whisperer, or Moonlight and then I go to sleep.
(What? we only have basic cable OKAY?)

Except for on those special nights.

THEN I watch the porn.

Today was going to kick off Crissy Does The Same Shit As Always Week and I had something all ready for you, but yesterday’s discussion of gifts and the seemingly rampant gift giving jackassery presented itself and I felt it demanded my immediate attention.

Let me explain some things to you about me that may or may not extend to the rest of my gender but I don’t care too much because I’m the most important woman in your life and besides I think I’m a fairly good representative of our sex anyway.

Like most of the ladies out there I saw the movie Pretty Woman and loved it. I’d be willing to bet my favorite glass dildo and a bottle of gin new Mother’s Day trees that it’s on every lady’s list of favorites. Somewhere. No matter how much my feminist side wants to reject it, the truth is is that I bought into the fairy tale long before I knew what a feminist was and I so want to be Vivian and I so want Mister to be Edward.

I just can’t help myself.

So my first piece of advice to you boys is to watch the movie and LEARN SHIT FROM RICHARD GERE. Except for the part when he tries to throw her out of the hotel for flossing strawberry seeds out of her teeth. That part wasn’t so good. You shouldn’t neglect your gums. It doesn’t hurt if you look like him either although he’s sort of getting a little old looking now but I like it on him. What’s the male equivalent of a Cougar? Anyone know?

Anyway, my point is is that when you buy me a gift, I want to be swept off my feet because to me, and pay attention here you boys who are good at math,

good gift = true love.

And I’m no Paris fucking Hilton or some such monster, it’s not about the amount of money spent or the luxuriousness of the item. It’s about how well it suits me and it’s that you’ve been listening to me and there’s nothing more important to a woman than to feel like she’s being heard. If the gift sucks, you haven’t been paying attention. It’s that simple.

I could go through a whole huge list of stuff about what is and what isn’t a good gift, but that would just be my opinion and I don’t want to speak for everyone. Even though I am. What I’m saying is that one woman’s Dyson dream come true is another woman’s divorce papers so a good rule of thumb is to proceed with extreme caution when purchasing gifts of a practical nature.

For example, if you’re considering purchasing this garden hose nozzle

which I actually got for my birthday one year, ask yourself this question “is this really for her or is it more for the household?” and consider the answer carefully because if you get it wrong you’re fucked.

Just ask my husband what if feels like to get hit with one of these bad boys.

And don’t stop off at the grocery store on the way home the night of her birthday to pick up a cheap bouquet of some tired looking flowers. Flowers are an accompaniment to a gift and not the gift itself. Nobody wants a bouquet of flowers for her birthday.

I could go on, but you guys have already started considering how improving your gift giving might increase your chances for a “thank you” blow job and now that’s all you can think about.  I know what it’s like to be a dude.  I had a penis for 20 minutes, remember?

So here’s a review for the ones who like it quick and dirty:

Gift Giving Rules for Boys

1. Watch Pretty Woman and learn. Take notes if you have to.
2. PAY ATTENTION TO HER. I know her voice sounds to you like Charlie Brown’s teacher, but stop thinking about porn for five seconds and listen because she’s probably been telling you what she wants and don’t pretend you don’t tune her out because I see you, playa.
3. Use extreme caution when considering gifts of a practical nature.
4. Do not expect a “thank you” blow job. This occasion is about her and you might want to just be there for her. And if you don’t know what I mean by that, you don’t deserve her.
5. Flowers are not a gift in and of themselves. If you don’t want some daisies shoved up your ass then don’t buy them.

Any questions?

I don’t know how it is in your family, but holidays like Mother’s Day (Christmas, Valentines day, birthdays, Veteran’s Day, etc) are usually the cause of stress and there will probably be tears and a fight at some point. This is inevitable it seems as these fucking holidays are so full of pressure to be perfect that no human family could possibly live up to them.

I blame the jewelry people and the card people.

And yet I expect my husband not to give me something like this:

Which is what I got last year. In “buff.”

That’s it. Nothing else. Just the bra.

Close your mouth.

In his defense it was the correct style and size.

When my sister-in-law called to wish me happy Mother’s Day and find out what her dear brother did for me that was special and I told her about the bra she burst into hysterical laughter because she’s a good sister and that’s what siblings do when the other one fucks up royally. And now she calls him “bra giver.”

And we got into an epic fight over it and he was hurt because he thought he picked the perfect gift and he tried, really he did, but he fell short and I was hurt because he should have known better and if he really loved me he would have known that the minimum acceptable gift would have been the bra plus matching panty.

At. least.

So there were tears. And there was shouting. And things became airborne. Particularly a bra.

But Internets, I tried something new this year and I decided to just tell him what I wanted instead of making him guess and setting both of us up for another bad day.

So I said to get a babysitter for Saturday night,

(That’s my mom. Isn’t she cute?)

and make dinner reservations at The Trattoria Romana, a place with cloth napkins,

and to buy me too many of these so that I could be loud and inappropriate with the wait staff,

and for him to have vodka tonics,

and for me to have salmon with lobster meat on top to eat,

and for him to have linguini with clam sauce,

and I told him to buy me this Weeping Cherry tree,

and then plant it for me.

And my mother bought me 2 Forsythias and a Lilac tree to go along with it.

So it was a wonderful Mother’s Day this year and I suppose every day is Mother’s day for me in a way because Mister does nice things for me all the time. He makes my coffee in the morning, he holds my hair while I vomit Cosmopolitan gives me back rubs, and tells me every day that I’m a MILF.

So I’ll forgive him for past gift douchery.

I hope all you MILFS had a great Mother’s Day yesterday and I call you MILFS because I know that only MILFS read this blog and if you don’t know what a MILF is you probably aren’t one so go away.

I kid.

Oh, and hey! Speaking of MILFs Lynne gave me the keys to her blog while she’s away on vacation. I say we go over there, find her toothbrush, and take pictures of us cleaning the toilets with it.

Let’s GO!

(I’m actually funnier over there than I am here, if that’s even possible.)

A while back, my friend Laura invited me to go Salsa dancing with her and I agreed to go but was secretly terrified because I’ve never been before and I don’t even know what to wear Salsa dancing. I couldn’t ask her because I didn’t want to look like a jackass because I have what is known as a bit of a girl crush on her. When I’m around her I act all goofy and get all tongue tied because she’s so pretty and hip and tall and blonde and stylish and she’s an artist and I just want her to like me.

The news of my crush on her makes my husband positively giddy.

Clearly though, I’m in way over my head with this girl because

A: As we learned yesterday, I’m scared of social situations
B: Having seen my dancing, would you want to bring that shit out in public?
C: Salsa dancing starts at 11:00 pm and I go to bed at 8.
D: There’s a chance I might hump her leg if I get enough drinks in me, which as we all know is very likely to happen. The drinks, I mean. The humping only might happen.

So I pussied out and I never called her because I was trying to think of a way to get out of our date. I thought I might somehow manage to become de-invited.

Maybe I’d agree to meet her there and show up in this:

And then run toward her yelling “Laura! Hey! It’s me! Hi-ii!” and then trip over the dress, twist my ankle, fall on my face and become injured with a fat lip and a broken ankle thereby leaving me unable to dance and forcing me to sit at the bar to nurse my injuries with $10 each vodka drinks.

Sounds reasonable, right?

I think it would probably be just enough to send her screaming out of the club, or at least hide under the table. Either way, she wouldn’t see my jackassery on the dance floor and I’d never have to go again. And that would solve my problem quite handily I think.

But I’m not gonna be a punk like that anymore. I’m going to learn how to dance the shit out of the Salsa and then Laura will let me lick her be her friend. I don’t have a video for you though because I’ve been feeling like shit the past couple of days (it’s my damn superpower again!) and I feel like dancing about as much as I feel like running naked down my street banging a metal bucket on my head with a dildo.

Shut up.

I’m not doing it.

I don’t care how much you beg.

So here:

This is the instructional video I took out of the library.

And this is my Salsa partner.

Use your imagination.