Yesterday was Father’s Day so Girlfriend and I showered Mister with what we considered to be man stuff like a pimpin’ new grill.

Not this kind playa,

this kind;

because Mister is a man’s man and men like to do manly things like cook meat out of doors, preferably during a hurricane or a tornado because battling adverse weather conditions while cooking the meats is even more manly and besides, everyone knows cooking in of doors is for pussies and losers.

And on Friday Girlfriend and I went to Macy’s to purchase a new smell for him because stinking of balls and pot and beer is just um…how do I put this…

wrong.

The instant we arrived in the men’s fragrance department we were attacked by a deranged woman wearing a holster full of cleverly designed parfum bottles and a shirt cut so low I was convinced her bubbies were gonna tumble out any second.

But they didn’t.

Boo.

Has anyone ever met a normal fragrance nazi because I haven’t and I’m pretty sure people go insane from inhaling all that stuff because they always seem a little tweak-y.

I don’t know, but I hate going to the fragrance department. Hate. it. because every bottle I picked up to smell

If Fleur du Male wasn’t made for twink-y gay boys I don’t know what was.

Smells like grandpa.

Nah.

the woman would rave about and tell me it’s the number one seller and I’m thinking they can’t all be number one now can they crazy person but I didn’t say it because “think it, don’t say it” is my motto and when I interrupted her with an “I don’t like it” she’d instantly agree with me which lead me to believe that

A. she hates her job and
B. she’s full of shit and
C. who can blame her?

But anyway she tried to give me the hard sell on the Aqua de Gio which is apparently what everyone and their lover is going insane for and for me? Not so much. I didn’t like it. It was too light. Not that I like a heavy fragrance but I think men’s stuff should be a little darker and deeper and that’s because smells are powerful and it all goes back to this boy:

who truth be told was my first everything and he wore the Drakkar that everyone went b-a-n-a-n-a-s for in the 90’s and any scent even close to that takes me back to the naughty fumblings in the back seat of his mom’s Volvo and makes me moist in the panty I like and if I smell it and I don’t feel it in my netherlands I don’t buy it because paying 50 + monies for something that doesn’t give me an instant orgasm is just stupid.

Agreed?

So I smelled all this stuff and left the store smelling like a gay hooker posse, but I chose this because it did the trick:

and then I went home to change my panties and re-evaluate my sexual preferences because I was genuinely disappointed that I didn’t get to see the crazy lady’s cans.

It’s Friday.

Here, have a video:

The first two days of our vacation were glorious sunny days and the Crissys decided to go to the beach on both days because normally when the Crissys go on vacation it rains the entire time and also Crissy has her period and/or a cold flu typhoid fever and it’s just the most miserable thing ever. But this time there was sun, no cold flu typhoid fever and just the period to contend with so things were looking good and we wanted to take full advantage of the sunshine before it found out we were on vacation.

The first day we went was so nice and Girlfriend met some little friends named Dave and E something, Ella or Emma maybe? Crissy can’t remember and their mother was lovely and we played with bubbles and shared toys and had fun. Mister tried to fly a Kite with Girlfriend but The Man came and shut it down.

There’s no kite flying or ball playing on the beach.

What the Fuck is that shit about? There’s no one else on the beach!

And so I told the young lifeguard that Pamela Anderson just ran that way and that she said she wanted to show him her whistle and he was off to find her.

College age boys can be so dumb sometimes.

The second day our friend Kendra came with us and Mister set up the self timer on the camera:

And we built sand castles:

I made a hat.

Shut.up. It does so look like a hat! Everyone laughed at it, but I think it looks quite nice actually.

And then Girlfriend found another little friend named Susie and I forgot to tell you internet about another sort of mom that makes me want to shank a bitch. It’s not the birth story kind of mom, it’s the one upper kind of mom. These two types are not at all mutually exclusive and I’m sure that this mom would have told me her birth story had my husband not been there. They almost never give the history of the vagina and uterus in front of husbands which is why I try to take Mister to the playground as often as I can.

But within the first five minutes of conversation this mom found a way to let us know that her little precious has been potty trained since she was 18 months old and OH! the horror trying to find clothes that fit her because everything her size is made to be worn with a bulky diaper underneath and it’s. so. hard. being. her. and they live two blocks away from the beach and they walk over every day with little precious losing her pants the whole time.

Boo fucking hoo.

When faced with the one upper I’m always tempted to go one downer and just be all like “oh, yeah, I know what you mean. Finding clothes for the baby is so hard because when you live in a women’s shelter like we do you have to take whatever people give you. But it will all change soon because we’re getting the paternity test back any day now and we’ll find out who her father is we can get some child support and I’ve been cured off the Wild Turkey for a whole 8 days now ever since the judge said they’d take my kid away if I didn’t quit drinking and giving blow jobs to random strangers at bars…”

But I didn’t have to do anything like that because Girlfriend decided she did not like these people and dumped a bucket of icy cold salt water on the kid and after being half heartedly scolded for it by me she turned around and dumped another bucket on the mother.

I tried not to high five her in front of the woman because that would have been rude and “don’t be rude” is my motto.

So we left the beach after that and went to The Atlantic Beach Club where we had clam cakes and chowder and enjoyed ourselves immensely and Girlfriend was very into being a snotty beach club lady.

And the day the weather was total crap so we skipped the beach and went to Flo’s Clam Shack where George, Girlfriend’s new Sock Monkey who was a gift from Kendra, enjoyed some fish and chips with slaw.

Little did we know that the rest of the week it would continue to rain and wind and be cold because the Crissys bring bad weather and pestilence wherever they go.

We also bring bail money and plenty of sex lube, but that’s a story for another blog.

I was supposed to write about the beach today but it’s going to have to wait for tomorrow because I have to tell you what happened to me yesterday.

I am the balls and the shaft for this one.

Check it:

I was out in the backyard in our gazebo on the computer writing a comment on Kiala’s blog when I heard someone who sounded like a teenage boy yelling “Help! Help! Please! Help!”

It was coming from the pond behind our house. At first I ignored it because you know how these damn kids are always doing their tomfoolery and trying to drown each other and shoot each other and set their freinds on fire and what not so I didn’t think anything of it because there’s always kids playing and screaming back there and I just kept on with my commenting and the screaming continued and it sounded sort of desperate to me, like how I sound when I need another glass of wine and cannot get off the couch to get it.

So I said to myself “hottie, (that’s what I call me when we’re alone together) you should do something.” And then I did the kind of thing that only a hero like myself would do. I phoned the police and told them I could hear desperate screams coming from the pond but I was stymied by the dense trees and such so I wasn’t sure if someone was joking or not and that they should probably check it out just to be sure.

And about three minutes later The Man was at my door trying to get a visual on the screamer and I was a little panicked at this because Girlfriend was running around naked because it was 100 degrees and wicked humid and also because I didn’t know if Mister had planted any very special plants and didn’t tell me and now the 5-0 are running all over the joint (no pun intended).

Oh, and was that Mr. Police Man ever a hunka burnin’ love in uniform and aviator sunglasses.

I know most cops are total dicks, but I love that about them.

huhuhuhuhuhuhuh….I am a very, very bad girl officer.

I need correction…

Yes. Please.

Oh.

What was I talking about?

Oh yes, so Mr. Man refused my offer to come inside for a nice tall glass of me was unable to get a visual on the screamer but that was ok because he said the Fire Department on the opposite side of the pond was looking around too. And then I heard firetrucks and rescue on the next street over from me but I couldn’t see a damn thing because of all these fucking leaves on the trees, the very same leaves I couldn’t wait to see three weeks ago were now blocking my view of the exciting events and then the trucks left and I felt sad because they didn’t find the screamer and I hoped he wasn’t dead because people drowning in my back yard ruins my buzz I care deeply about the welfare of others.

But thankfully Officer Dreamy Mc Hot returned to tell me that I had saved a 15 year old boy’s life. He was about 80 feet out into the pond when he started to drown and if Girlfriend and I hadn’t been the only two assholes outside in 100 degree weather and called the Po Po he would have died and no one would have known.

That’s right people.

Your Crissy is a hero!

I’m sitting in my window right now waiting for them to come with the balloons and the Channel 10 News and the flowers and then carry me on their shoulders to the parade that will be held in my honor with fireworks and hot dogs for everyone to enjoy and I’ll autograph life vests and they will make me Queen of Fucking Everything and the whole town will be mine for the taking.

I’m sure they’ll be here any second.

On the second day we were there I made my debut at the pool.

I look totally pregnant when I’m under water:

And my ass was still scalded and I looked something like this:

or at least like I had just received a very firm spanking, but I didn’t care because I was on vacation and everyone can suck it if they don’t like my ass and besides. This pool had the usual assortment of freaks on parade so I think my ass was one of the least offensive things to look at. I mean what would a resort pool be if it wasn’t full of little kids, hygenically challenged foreign people, huge fat hairy guys that look like they’re wearing sweaters even though they’re not, people with suspicious looking skin conditions, and old people with melty skin and dangly parts held precariously inside ill fitting bathing suits?

It wouldn’t be a resort pool, that’s what.

But I go because I have a little kid and they love the pool like dogs love bunny shit. So Girlfriend swam happily around, gaining confidence with her swimmies, and I tried not to think about all the armpits and assholes in there with me was minding my own business while being splashed in the eyes with the pee pee dysentery sulfuric acid pool water and getting repeatedly whacked in the face by a kid thrashing around with one of those flotation noodle thingys who Girlfriend was all over like white on rice so there was no escaping the little fucker when I turned my head to avoid yet another noodle assault and what do my precious, precious, delicate virgin eyes fall upon only a scant inch or two away?

OLD.

BALLS.

Blech!

Some old dude in a plaid bathing suit was sitting on the edge of the pool just inches away from my face with his legs spread open, and his Old Balls dangling out from the leg of his suit. I tried splashing my eyes with the sulfuric pool water to try and burn the image away, but no.

It was too late.

I couldn’t un-see it.

The image haunted me for the better part of our vacation and I think I may need a quick trip to my therapist to maybe EMDR the shit away. Or even a few hits of Haldol.

We’ll see.

But as I commented to Mister later in the day, they weren’t as wrinkly as I thought they’d be, but then again, how much more wrinkly could they possibly get? What made more of an impression was how low they were hanging. I mean, these were knee length “swim trunks” as my grandfather calls them and I understand they ride up a little when you sit down but. still.

That’s a mighty low hanging sack.

I think the poor fellow needed one of these:

On the Serious.

Oh holy hell it’s good to be back!

Crissy had a wonderful vacation and feels hungover and bloated refreshed and happy to be home! Thank you to all my guest bloggers. Everyone was super funny and talk about blog anxiety, I only hope that I can live up to all the funny alla y’all laid down while I was away.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Nobody can put it down like me.

Aannyhooter, welcome to Crissy Bores the Shit Out of the Internet with Stupid Stories About Her Vacation Week!

Yessss!!!!!

On the first night of our vacation, after gorging myself on a veggie burger, salad, french fries, chips and dip, and ice cream, Mister told me to stay behind and try out the whirlpool bathtub while he took Girlfriend to check out the pool. So that’s what I did and had I known that I would have such an opportunity I would have brought my own bath stuff but since I didn’t I borrowed Girlfriend’s Organic Tangerine Honeysuckle foaming bath salts with the little seal eating oranges on the package. It smells more like lavender than tangerines to me, but whatev.

So I pour in a good healthy amount of the tangerine-y lavenderish shtuff as the tub filled and then I filled my wine glass with a healthy amount of Savi Blanc.

This was slightly anxiety inducing and I wished I had brought my Klonopin because I’ve never used a whirlpool tub before for fear of electrocution. (I’m also scared of clowns, kites, balloons and the sky but that’s a blog for another day) Moving parts + electricity + water = dead Crissy, just like how bathtub + candles + carefully arranged up-do = Crissy’s hair on fire.

But anyway I’m almost 34 and have never had a whirlpool bath so it’s high time I give it a whirl.

(Get it? Whirlpool. Whirl. HA! Shut up. It’s my first day back, you jackals.)

6:19 pm: Remember how I said the bath was foaming bath? Yeah. well. it foamed as soon as I turned on the jets and I nearly died in a watery grave of tangerine, lavender, whateverthefuck. So I let some water out before I wound up naked and riding a tidal wave of foam down the hallway and we got kicked out of the place in the first hour of being there which is not out of the ordinary for the Crissys at.all. because its not always easy to sneak hookers and blow past the concierge.

I grabbed the package of bath stuff to look for the address where I was determined to send a very, very angry letter containing many very bad words regarding the product’s excessive foaming capabilities and there it was right there for any literate person to read: “do not use in whirlpool tubs due to foaming nature of product.”

Oh.

6:23pm: I have not been electrocuted yet and if I sit upright in the tub the jets massage my ankle bones, knees, and elbows. Who needs an elbow massage? So far the whirlpool bath can suck it.

6:24 pm: Through strategic positioning my lady business other parts can be reached by jets with only slight risk of slipping under water and drowning.

6:25 pm: Consider enjoying a water experience, if you know what I mean.

6:26 pm: Water experience too dangerous. Drowning by way of whirlpool tub masturbation is an embarrassing way to die.

6:26.5 pm: Bored. A bath always seems like a good idea until I get in there and then it’s just like tick. tock.

6:26.8 pm: Consider rubbing one out to pass the time instead.

6:27 pm: Can’t rub one out because I am on vacation and if I take care of business that leaves Mister to spank it in the shower with only a play through and that’s not nice because we are on vacation and for some reason vacations mean I am expected to put out.

Who made that rule anyway?

It’s a stupid rule.

6:28 pm: Run out of wine. Feel sad.

6:29.5 pm: Consider how electrocution would at least be more entertaining than sitting there with no wine and jets of water now threatening to puncture my lungs.

6:30 pm: Begin to feel a little woozy due to rapid wine consumption extremely hot water.

6:31 pm: Emerge from tub feeling sort of weird.

6:31.5 pm: Catch myself in the mirror and notice that I have scalded my ass and thighs and now look like a burned Thanksgiving turkey just in time to make my debut at the pool the following day all red and blotchy already.

Sweet.

So I’m going to have to give the whirlpool bathtub a thumbs down.

I think I’d rather be electrocuted.

It’s me, Melissa Lion, and I want to say that my comments are being spammed here at Miss Crissy’s and while I have the power to post, I don’t have the power to despam myself. So, I’m responding to comments in my heart.

I’m the Girl Friday ’round here and that’s a little intimidating. My post comes up last after a week of very funny people. And I’ve been reading the posts and laughing out loud and then closing the page, drawing my blinds and putting my head under the covers because, dear god, can I hold my own? Am I funny enough? Don’t anyone answer that in comments, kay? Unless the answer is yes. My ego is fragile.

So this week, I’ve been thinking about topics to blog about. Things I think are funny. And I’ve thought of five things. But, when it came down to it, I couldn’t decide which was the best. So I thought I’d collect them here. And you can decide. But I’d rather you decide that they’re all funny because blog posts are like my babies. And when people don’t hand me awards and vibrators and chocolate for my blogging, well, it’s like hurting babies.

You wouldn’t do that, would you?

Of course not.

Here are the topics.

1) Doctor’s Scrubs on People Who Are Not Doctors

To all the nurses and medical assistants out there — holy fucking hell. Those pants always, always pull around your ass. You might try to disguise the ass pulling problem by wearing scrubby pants with tie-dyed teddy bears, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all. Because then I see you and think, that Grateful Dead looking mother fucker is the one who lost my co-payment and now I’m in collection because I’m trusting my medical history to people can’t get it together to put on regular office clothes, but rather, feel a self-important pair of pajamas will make them appear professional. And doctory. And like they have a PhD, but they do not. I do not. Only people who have the cojones to cut up cadavers get to be excused from pants that pull around their asses. They’re doctors! They save people! And office assistants don’t. I’m sorry. I’m a writer, which is like below medical assistant on the list of people who are useful to society. So if you’re a medical assistant and you’re pissed now, just consider the source. And take off those fucking pants.

2) I Really Missed Out on Being a Stripper in My Twenties.

I might be short and have a big ass and ordinary tits and I’m a brunette and I can’t walk in heels, and cheap perfume and/or anything melon scented gives me a headache, but I get this nagging sense that I missed out on something in my youth. I mean, being a stripper would have meant that I was in shape, had a lot of cash, and maybe I would have done blow at some point in my life, instead of how I am now — a 32 year old woman whose greatest drug story is about the time no one would sell her pot in Big Sur, California, which is a little like no one selling you Bain de Soleil in St. Tropez. And, if I were a stripper, then I bet someone, at some point, would have hit on me in a bar. Because, on the serious, I’ve never been hit on in a bar. And no, there is nothing wrong with my face.

3) Greenpeace

Hi, Greenpeace? Yeah, when you stand in front of the market and say things like, “Can you spare a minute of your time to save a baby seal?” or “You love the environment, right?” or “Whales are dying and unless you talk to me, they will rot on beaches all over the world,” I want to stop, pull the bloody carcass of a cormorant from my handbag and smother you with it. And that’s saying a lot, because for the past few weeks, I’ve been carrying my Dooney purse and that shit’s like gold, so for me to sully it with the blood of a bird just to make a point is a real commitment. But I will do it. Okay, maybe not with my Dooney, but perhaps with my Kate Spade.

4) 69

I need to most respectfully, and carefully and with the most amount of humility, totally disagree with Miss Rachael. 69 is one of my favorite things to do. I love the tension of it. I love the balance and the inherent confusion. It makes me feel like I’m back in high school. Wait, no. I didn’t have sex in high school. No. Not me. In college either. I only had sex when I got married. In fact, the only reason I got married was to 69. And rub it in all of those homosexuals’ faces that (HA!) I could get married and you can’t! Look at me! And then I got divorced for the same reason.

5) Magic Johnson Does Not Want to Hear About Your HIV

So I went to a breakfast a few days ago and Magic Johnson was there. And he was signing autographs and normally I don’t go in for autographs because I am a famous author and I just get so disgusted when people approach me and ask me to sign things and say things like, I love your work, and you’re my hero and here’s the Nobel prize for literature. And…god…the paparazzi. Enough already, you know?!? But I was at this breakfast, and Magic was talking about being an entrepreneur and how small business people need to something something I don’t know because I was checking out Andre Dubus III who was also up there and very cute.

And I decided that I should meet Magic Johnson and give him my business card. Because I’m zany. And I waited and waited and finally it was my turn and this old lady elbowed me and told Magic about how her daughter “has the HIV and she got it from a guy she only slept with once. ONCE, can you believe it? He’s a real loser. Now she has it. I thought maybe you could recommend some treatments.” And I was standing there, looking away, looking anywhere because oh my god, this woman is talking about her daughter’s HIV and holy shit, it’s Magic Johnson who has HIV. All this time, I thought it was Kareem Abdul-Jabar. I mean, all of those basketball players look the same, right? And I can’t treat him different just because I realized he has HIV. But I’m sort of mad at him a little because he spends all this time talking about how his businesses help black people but all he opens are chains like Starbucks that are not owned by black people, but rather rich white men. And tall former basketball players with HIV. Sheesh Magic, you could really help your community a little more.

And then it was my turn to speak with Magic and I wanted to come up with some STD he could advise me on because, right, he’s an STD guru or something. But I don’t have any STD’s, but I do have the ongoing desire to have a sty on my eye and for one split second, I thought maybe he’d know how I could get a sty on my eye and then subsequent treatments for sty removal. Because sties are cool.

Instead I handed him my business card and he high fived me (oh dear) and that was that.

Okay, so that was my blog post. I hope you enjoyed it. Crissy and Ken will return at some point in the future. And Crissy will be glad to see you all and Ken will download you some porn because he’s a porn agent, if you didn’t know.

I love those two.

Now, remember when you hear them coming, look busy!

MY COMMENT RESPONSES:
Rachael: Thanks for understanding. I think I’ll get a shirt that says something like I heart 69, please pick up on me. It will confuse men, but maybe one will be able to sort through the info.

Saratogajean: That’s an excellent requirement for scrubs!

Marie: Excellent question. He was sitting and I was standing.

KK: I’m 5′6″. I used to think I was tall, but then I was at a show in San Francisco and I realized that I couldn’t see a thing and that I was staring at people’s shoulders and that I was the shortest person there. So maybe in San Francisco I’m short, but elsewhere, I’m tall.

Joe: Thank you!

Rachael: Nummy. And confusing. Like 69.

HI! Oh Hiiiiii!!! It’s me - Kiala from Face of the Cookie!!!!

I am so excited to be here! Just, oh! SO EXCITED.

What? It’s what time where you are? Noon?

Well, okay, yes, I’m a little late yes. Ahem. Er. Ha.

Okay.

Look, I don’t know if you know but I have to be Crissy today and I am just not used to getting up so early and doing yoga and eating Fiber One cereal (that one task alone took up a good 45 minutes of my morning if you know what I mean). After that was over, I couldn’t wait to take my Crissy shower, HOWEVER, in the middle of putting on the blonde wig and getting undressed, Dane came in and well…um…let’s just say the idea of getting clean with a hot blonde librarian took that 10 minute shower to a whole new level.

To an ELEVEN minute shower..if you know what I mean.

Soooo, anyhooters, when that was over we went down to the basement to set up our photoshoot. Our apartment building doesn’t really have a basement, per se, so we had to use the lobby area. It has a fireplace. And coffee. And a concierge.

It was a little awkward.

Also, Dane was a bit flummoxed by my calling him Ken and asking him questions every five minutes like, “Ken, does this thong make my butt look awesome?” and “Ken, can you be a dear and skip down to the Starbucks? Crissy needs her green tea something terrible”.

Also, we had problems with some of the props.

The Barbies kept breaking. Probably because I was stepping on them with my bare feet and let me tell you, that shit hurts like a motherfucker.

Am I allowed to swear here?

(EVERYTHING IS SO ORANGE RIGHT NOW)

Anyway, the concierge was a dream and helped with the lighting and bra strap adjustment and wig placement and everything was turning out just really, really swell and then suddenly one of the geriatric residents of our building came swooping in on her motorized scooter and knocked my green tea over and the film was ruined.

I cried.

(SERIOUSLY, WHY IS EVERYTHING SO ORANGE? IS IT JUST ME?)

And Dane/Ken held me and said soothing things in my ear about klonopin and vodka and short shorts and babies and I knew everything was going to be ok but I was still all swollen in the eye and nose area and my thong was all wet with green tea.

So I called in sick to the Library Place. (I’ve never been to one but it sounds magical).

I think we may be fired.

Sorry Crissy! Enjoy your vacation!

Love,
Kiala

Happy Hump Day!

I am Rachel (the BFF) and somewhere Crissy is toasting me with a Cosmo…I can just feel it!

In light of the fact that I am writing on such an auspicious day, I thought it would be cathartic and appropriate to talk about sex.

Specifically: Position 69

Even more specifically: How much I don’t get it.

Now, that is not in the very personal “not gettin’ any” way, but more of a confused, eye-squinting, head tilting, cute puppy way.

Let’s break it down:

I get the giving.

I get the taking. (I especially like this bit.)

But put it together and I go into crisis. How long do you give before you get to enjoy the taking. And if you’re enjoying the taking, how do you give? And doesn’t someone always end up with a cramp somewhere?

It’s a tactical mess. Like Twister with tongues.

And let’s face our bodily functions people–there is stuff that is beyond our control that inevitably happens and how do you NOT laugh?!

(Trust me on this, while mutual comedy sex is funny, when it seems like you are laughing *even if it’s at yourself* and your face is in someone’s down belows…ahem, let’s just say men can be a bit sensitive on the laughing.)

And this is not even the hard part to fathom.

How do people accomplish this with a huge height difference? And this is not just about the male to female height:

6′4″

5′6″

(even with a strap-on!)

But imagine what number this guy resembles with anyone:

I daresay, it is not 69.

So there is the thought of my day for you all.

For those who have achieved mastery at this, kudos to you…but for me and mine, we’re straight up give or take around here…and ne’er the twain shall meet.

Sigh. She’s gone.

Crissy up and left me here alone. Well, not technically alone, but when you’re used to having someone at work you can bitch with, swear with and photograph eating snacks in the janitor’s closet, you cannot function normally when that person goes away.

And she up and went despite the fact that I DENIED her vacation request. The fact that I don’t have the authority to do that had no affect on her; she went anyway. Huh!!

So, the really bad news is that without her, I’m forced to do the unthinkable….. my WORK! To make matters worse, I am good at my job and I have managed to convince my boss that everything I do is hard and takes forever, when in fact they are ridiculously easy and take 2 seconds, which makes me ALL CAUGHT UP leaving me with the most loathsome part of my job, FILING!

I hate filing with the heat of a thousand suns.

First, it requires me to stand, which goes against my career goal of never having to get out of my chair.

Secondly, handling papers as we all know is extremely dangerous! I’m talking, of course, about paper cuts! My fingers are needed for blogging people and I can’t be cutting them up. I just can’t.

But, I must tell you, being the

that I am, I am extremely efficient at filing and have created the awesomest office filing system ever!

Check it out: First we have the personnel file:

I like to file them by their unique personalities, rather than names.

After all, it’s easier to remember people by how irritating they are, rather than remember names. Am I right? Here’s Kristen’s file:

in the back there, see it?

Then there’s the volunteer file:

Then I like to file the stuff for our bosses – The Board of Trustees or as I like to call them:

In this file you can easily find lots of important papers.

Also, we have the Policies and Procedures file!

That’s all about what we allow and what we don’t allow (we don’t allow way more than we allow)

Then there’s the budget file

I never go in there because as long as I keep getting my paycheck, I don’t care where the money comes from or how it is obtained! It apparently contains files about money we have and money we don’t yet have.

Either way, keep the paycheck coming and I’m happy.

Other papers simply belong in the big green bin.

And see how tidy my inbox is!!

Well, there are lots of papers hanging around so I better get a supply of bandaids and get to it!

I hope I can survive the rest of the week without my little Crissy. *sniff*

Words of sympathy are greatly appreciated.