So we’re going on a little mini vaycay tomorrow.

We’re going here with Girlfriend and the neighbors.

I haven’t been since I was a wee little Crissy so it should be really fun.

My parents always took us to places like that all summer long because my dad was a teacher, and we didn’t have a lot of money so we did mostly New Englandy educational day trips to like Plimoth Plantation where I decided that when I grew up I wanted to be a Pilgrim. Real. Bad. I still sort of do. Except they smell.

One place we never went was here:

No. You don’t need glasses.

That’s Water Wizz.

As in Water Park O’ Piss.

And the theme song:

Come on in-to Wa-ter Wizz.
Wet and Wild, Wa-ter Wizz.
This is where the par-ty is!

It just sounds like a place where you can get a darn fine golden shower.

Either the park owners have a sense of humor and irony or they’re totally fucking stupid. Even their mascot looks like he’s about to splash into a pool of urine. He also looks like he’s on the junk.

And my parents, thank sweet baby jeebus, could not bear the thought of bringing their youngins to play around in urine.

Look! This kid is grossed. out. “It burns! Mom! Something is burning my ass!”


This is fun as long as you don’t let any body parts touch the “water.”

“Ahhhhh….I just made a big, big pee-pee!”

“Mommy? Is it safe to come out yet? Is the pee-pee gone?”

“EW! EW! EW! EW! EW!”

So we won’t be stopping there on the way home. Not even to pee.

Anybum, I’ve got some friends lined up for you for the next two days so behave yourselves and be polite.

Actually, that won’t be necessary. They’re two of my least well behaved bloggy buddies. That’s why I chose them. It’s summertime and the livin’s easy.

Tomorrow you’ll hear from the brilliant, the amazing, the hot and sexy stoogepie!

On Friday there’s the beauteous, the hilarious, the large breasted and hopefully knocked up Mom in Real LIfe!

Bye Internets!

I’ll miss you!


I think I’m gaining weight because I’ve plateaued with my yoga. Even though I work out plenty, it’s not really doing any good anymore and I am not yet ready to face the truth about the correlation between my boozing and the increasing size of my ass.

So on Sunday, out of desperation, I did this tape:

Remember this bad boy?

Back in the 80’s it was like totally radical!

It’s the only one of my old tapes that I kept because it’s just too awesome to throw away. My mom and I worshiped at the altar of big hair and shiny leotards every morning.

But to be honest with you Internet, the tape just didn’t do it for me because

#1 It’s really fucking stupid
#2 I can’t understand why Jane’s hair doesn’t move even as she’s grapevineing and chicken turning like a motherfucker. I find it distracting.
#3 I think this would be more challenging:

After I finished the tape I felt really blue balled and so I did the yoga. That makes 100 minutes spent working out.

Woot! Woot!

See my halo?

So I typed my exercise total for the day into Weight Watchers and it was only worth a measly 3 points. THAT’S IT! If you don’t do weight watchers you don’t know this but 3 points ain’t shit.

And then yesterday I decided I would become A Person Who Runs. I would like to tell you that your Crissy ran like the wind! But if I did it would be a mistruth and “lie just a little bit, but not too much” is my motto.

I ran for 10 minutes because you have to start somewhere and it was only like a mile and change because I thought I might throw up and die. I set small goals for myself along the way like “don’t collapse before you reach the stop sign up ahead” or “wait till you get to that BMW and you can throw up in the window” or “catch up to the teenage girl doing the walk of shame home in some dude’s boxer shorts and gasp tramp! at her as you run by.”

The goal setting was a complete success as it got me home without quitting like a big pussy. But you know something Internet? Running sucked.

I am Not A Person Who Runs.

So I ordered some videos from the library and they haven’t come in yet, but I think what we’re going to do is I’m going to show you how I’m doing and you are going to tell me if you think it’s working for me or not.

This is the first workout I think I’ll try:

That’s right Internet. It’s sexy time.

Wait for it…

Remember when I had to put on a strap on to have a sword fight with Mister over having our windows replaced because they were threatening to lead poison Girlfriend and give her The Retardation?

You do?

You’ve been paying attention, haven’t you?

I’m touched.

Well our application for an interest free loan from the state is finally complete (can I get an amen?) and I spent an entire day running around gathering last minute documents and making photocopies and going to the post office. When it was all said and done I mailed off 35 pages of fucking crap to the state. They about needed the results of my last pap smear and a colonoscopy film, but I got it all Internet.

And then on Thursday they called me at work. The woman on the phone was confused…

“Crissy, this is Rosemary at RI Housing. I have a question regarding your pay stubs.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Well, I’m just confused about why your paycheck is so…small.”

“Well I work in a library…”

“Yes, I see that, but for how many hours?”

“20 per week.”

“And you get paid bi-weekly?”


“Oh. Ok…But still…”

“I know, right?”

“Okay then. shuffles papers nervously in the background and takes a sip of her coffee. Er…thanks for your time. I’ll keep working on this and I’ll call you if there’s anything else.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“You have a nice day now. I’m sorry again about the paycheck.”

“Me too. You see why we need the loan?”

“I do!”

“I’d also like some money to build a deck out back and I want a new refrigerator because ours sucks and OH! Rosemary! I’m going to need new clothes for fall because I’m getting fatter by the second and my shit from last year is just like a hell to the N-O. Anything you can do about that there Sugar Shorts?”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha…Bye.”



The bitch hung up on me!

But I think we’ve got that loan in the bag.

They may even throw in a little extra for food.

I went to the dermatologist’s yesterday for my quadri-annual lasering and acid burning.

Is quadri-annual a word?

I don’t care.

And my dermatologist looks like he’s about 10 years old, so I know he must be really, really, good. Who the hell wants an old wrinkly dude helping you give Father Time and Mother Nature the finger?

Not me, Internet.

I’ll take the ten year old, please.

And he’s sooo pleasant too. I sort of just want to piss in his cheerios a little bit because shit. It’s 8am and here I am waiting for him to bring on the burning and the itching and the peeling and the flaking and the redness. I’m not having a lot of what people would call fun.

But I have to go because they have to burn off the sun damage, because I’m such a fair and delicate flower, before it turns to cancer and I look like this:

It sucks.

And every time he comes into the room he says “hey-ho! How we doin’? Still smilin’?” He says it just like that every single time and I can picture him at his graduation from face doctor school thinking that that would be his thing. He may have even practiced it in the mirror while testing out new face cream. And I want to just say something like, “well, to tell you the truth there Shane, that’s his name, Shane, I’d like to burn your face with some acid and see if you’re still smilin’.”

But I don’t try to upset the man because he’s nice, really and also because he’s holding a laser in one hand and a jar of acid in the other and he’s about to go to town on my face.

And so I’m polite and pleasant and hap, hap, happy as can be because “Always be polite to men holding jars of acid” is my motto.

Crissy is not a stupid woman.

Shut up.

I’m not.

And so I look like this right now:

And when the pain and the redness and the flaking and the burning go away I’ll look seconds younger and I’ll be saved from skin cancer and you’ll all be so jealous you could spit!