Archive for January, 2010

Homeslice and I went to our first visit to Monica the Ninjerapist last Friday, and I felt a little disheartened afterwards because I was expecting her to tell me I was doing everything right, and that all I need is a little talk therapy and then I’d be right as rain just as soon as I finished my cookie and found Morpheus.

But nay, nay, my good people. Not so much. Turns out, I have a little of the PPD and a little of the SADS and if you them dump together and shake em’ around, it makes a lovely bag of mixed NUTS.

Freakin’ Sweet! High five!

I should be happy that she didn’t think I was sick enough to suggest a lobotomy or an antidepressant or something because I’m decidedly anti-medication and anti-lobotomy. The three things she suggested I work on, however, pissed me off a little bit.

Check it:

1) I’m supposed to quit drinking any and all wine/akahol full stop. Did you hear that? Let me say it again. She said to QUIT DRINKING! Apparently one 750ml bottle PER WEEK is too much. And believe me, I tried to negotiate with her, I really did:

But she’s a ninja. They don’t negotiate.

f) Stop! eating! chocolates! Have I told you guys that I absolutely loathe working at night?  Well, I do.  I hate it.  I crash around 1:00pm, I stumble and slur my words, and then I go to work for 7 hours.  It’s awesome.  What’s more awesome is that I haven’t been fired for showing up to work drunk because when I land there after taking care of the little children all day, I’m a hot. mess.  Here’s a picture of me at my desk which was taken by Mister this very Tuesday past:

As you can see, I’m looking all kinds of motherfuckin’ enthusiastic right there.  And my boss keeps a big, big super fat ass jar of chocolates on her desk and every time I feel like cutting myself, I eat one. Needless to say, I wind up eating a crapload of fucking candy. Monica says that instead, I’m supposed to do yoga and drink herbal tea.

What kind of fucking bitchery is this? I’d rather cut myself!
Yoga at my desk? Shenanigans!
Herbal Tea? Pssshaw!
What an assbag.

(I just made that up. It’s a delightful combination of Jackass and Douchebag. Assbag. You can use it.)

10) She says I have to break off my lesbian affair with Jillian Michaels!!! This is unimaginable to me that a ninjerapist would suggest I actually not exercise, but that’s because it’s not what she’s saying at all. She just wants me to do more yoga instead. Because it’s therapeutic. Jillian is too punishing and not “loving enough to (my) kid self.” Don’t look at me funny. That’s what she said. And then I punched her in the face and made her do Plank Jacks and Rock Star Jumps until the tears flowed from her eyes and she begged me to let her stop. I’m pretty sure that’s what Jillian would have done had she been there.

No. I didn’t really do that, but I wanted to is what I’m saying.

I don’t think I want to pay her to be my friend anymore.

But I did her suggestions anyway just in case she knows what the fuck she’s talking about, except this past weekend I drank more just on priciple, and I did manage to cut out the chocolates at work and so now it’s just totally joyless instead of mostly joyless because herbal tea is not a replacement for fucking chocolate. Not on this planet, or on Planet Mental Health, or on any other planet in the world.  Even ET thought Reeces Pieces were the shit. 

Amiright? I rest my case. 

And then I found out that she doesn’t take my health insurance and so instead of taking United,  I’m going to ask if she takes Cunnilingus instead because that’s the only way I can pay her.  I think I mentioned to you last week that she’s working the whole “lesbian therapist” vibe and so I might take this chance to answer that question once and for all.

Although, my gay-dar doesn’t go off when I’m around her, but that means nothing because you know, Ninjerapists are crafty.

My friend Rachel says her gay-dar sounds like the disco call–WOOT! WOOT! when it goes off, but I think that only applies to men.  What does a lesbian gay-dar sound like because maybe my gay-dar is going off and I just don’t know.

I’ve been using Facebook as my microblog or whatever the Twats over a Twitter call it.  I fucking hate Twitter.  I really do.  I can’t possibly communicate the depth and sincerity of my most inane thoughts in 140 characters or less.  I’ve tried, but it always comes out sounding totally perverse or weird or, I don’t know.  Retarded?

So, I don’t do much Twatting.

I do Facebook from work though. If you’ve added me as a “friend” and I haven’t confirmed you, it’s because you didn’t have the twenty seconds it would take to introduce yourself.  I find that rude, quite frankly, and so we can’t be “friends.”  I’d like to know who my “friends” are before I let them into my personal Facebook. And if I did let you in, and you didn’t leave me a message, it’s because you caught me in a really “friendly” mood or I liked your name, or I thought you looked like not a murderer. So, I let you be my “friend” because sometimes I like to be totally random like that.

Maybe I should start a Crissy fan club on there, probably. I’m scared nobody will join it though. Like, what happens if I start one and only my mom and like two of my bffs join it? That would be sad. Isn’t it also kind of obnoxious to start your own fan club? I think so. Also, I don’t know how. If anyone wants to do one for me, you know. It wouldn’t suck.

(Ms. Darkstar just started one because she’s very special.  Join it so I don’t feel like a giant durfwad with no friends, please)

Also, I’m going to take my Facebook thing off the header. I’ve been meaning to do that ever since Mister put it there like, years ago. It’s misleading, I guess. It makes me look like a Facebook slut, which I’m not.

Anyhoodle, you know what makes me cry like a little girl? I feel like I should tell you because you haven’t heard enough about my depression yet.

Almost any Disney movie makes me cry so hard I actually feel like shit for the rest of the day.

I know, right?

Why do they always have to make that shit so sad?

Like, the other day Girlfriend wanted to watch Dumbo. (I secretly hate my mother-in-law for buying that trash and bringing it into my house, but she meant well so I can’t hate her.  She’s a frustrating woman.) I tried to talk her out of watching it because Dumbo just devastates me, but she insisted on it. I had some work to do on the laptop, so I let her put it on so she’d shut the hell up have something fun to do. I sat Homeslice down on a blanket with a bucket of toys to rummage through, and it gets to the part where they sing the “baby mine” song or whatever it’s called while Dumbo’s mommy is straining to cuddle her frightened and lonely baby through the bars of her cage, and god dammit. I can’t even blog about it without crying.

Seriously. I’m crying again.

There is something very wrong with me.

Ahem…we get to that part in the movie and I just start bawling. I picked Homeslice up off the floor and held her and cried and SOBBED.

It was really poor.

And Girlfriend looks at me and she’s like “mom! It’s DUMBO! It ends happily and everybody loves him! Jeeze! Get over it!”

And in second grade all the kids called me a “baby” because one time I peed my pants while listening to the Bambi record. It was when Bambi’s mommy was shot and I cried and then I peed my pants.

And in seventh grade, it was reading The Red Pony. My mother called the school and bitched out my English teacher.

Yes, she did.

You know what else makes me cry? When a romance goes terribly wrong and two people who are supposed to be together, can’t be together. Like what happened between me and Vinny from the delicatessen.

That sad story will be up on Toy With Me today. We broke up, you know. I haven’t told you about it yet. I’ll link you to the story as soon as I get one. It’s the Canadians and their time zones. I’m going to email them about changing that.  Does anybody have Canada’s email address?  Specifically, I need the email address of the guy in charge of what time it is.

Here it is: Vinny and the Roast Beef Curtains

Maybe I can write a blog post tomorrow.  Or later.  Or something.

I tried for like an hour to write one but it was full of suckage.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I find it hard to be cute on the Internet while Homeslice is all up in my grill and pulling out fistfulls of my hair and Girlfriend keeps interrupting me to say things like “mom, mommy, mama, ma, momma, momma, mommy, ma, ma, ma, mommy,mama,mom.”

What I’m trying to say is they’re  evil little children and they don’t care about my blog.

I find this unimaginable.

And so I wonder if either Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee would be willing to sort of, you know, come down here and kick some ass.  I mean seriously, how awesome would it be if Nanny McPhee showed up at my door in about five minutes with her mole and her cane and her awesome. I’d totally make out with her.

Yes I would.

I’m really sorry you guys. 

I’m sorry because I’ve only just last night realized that I have no life and I might be coming off as…I don’t know…INSANE? Lately? 

I know, I know you’ve been thinking this for a while now and you’ve been meaning to mention it but you’re polite and kind and I really appreciate your wanting to spare my feelings. Such wonderful Queefs you are. Truly. I’d be nowhere without you.

But last night I was sitting at my desk drooling and mindlessly shoving mini peanut butter cups into my mouth in an effort to stay awake and also to keep from cutting myself just for something to do, it occured to me that I don’t really go anywhere, and I don’t really do anything unless you call going to work or Target “somewhere” and whining because the baby won’t stop crying long enough for me to load the dishwasher “something,” but I don’t. 
I call it being too fucking mom tired to do anything other than survive.

And I feel wicked bad because I don’t get to read your blogs anymore and it takes me a while to reply to emails and I usually try to not suck, but right now? I’m getting my ass kicked.

I have these mood swings where one minute, I’m struggling so hard not to run screaming from my house and then like, literally five minutes later, I’m totally fine and all on top of everything and just like, momming it up and shit.

I’m coo-coo for coco puffs, basically.

But you don’t have to worry because I’m going to see my therapist tomorrow. I’ve been going to her on and off for the past fifteen years because the crazy. It is strong within me.

The last time I saw her was 4 years ago when Girlfriend was a little baby and I was sure I was going to stab everyone. Monica sorted my shit right out in about 4 sessions because she’s a total badass. She’s like…a ninja. And a therapist. She’s a…Ninjerapist. She just goes right into your head and you don’t even know what happened but all of a sudden, you make sense again and you don’t want to stab people anymore.

Ninjerapist.

I will tell her I called her that and she will laugh.

She’s all new-age-y and she does Reiki and she was sporting the leggings with boots thing before it was everywhere and she sort of has that whole lesbian therapist look, you know the one with the hand-made silver and semi precious stone jewelry and the lesbian haircut? But she has long hair. And a kid. So I don’t think she’s a lesbian.
Maybe she is. Long hair and a kid doesn’t make you not a lesbian.

She called me “lovely” once and then said “everyone else is an asshole.”

I knew that already but it was really nice to have it confirmed by a professional.

So yes. Monica.

Homeslice is in rare form today.  I might have to kill myself.  Please, Queefs.  Make the crying stop.  PLEASE!!!

BUT!!!!

The great news is that it’s a Toy With Me day today!  Woot! Woot!

Romance Novels Suck–I Want Real Smut!

So the plan for the weekend was to paint the kitchen and the lavette and my friend Rachel told me that nobody says “lavette” anymore and so my first question is what do you call it? A powder room?  A half-bath? The room where you pee and then wash your hands?

…?

And of course, we don’t just paint shit in this house.  It’s more like “since I have my paintbrush out, I should replace the toilet and the sink and the faucet and get all new everything” because we’re not really big fans of keeping things simple around here.  In fact, if there’s a way to make things harder and more complicated, that’s  pretty much what we do.

And so we went to the toilet store.

And Mister is kind of a big fan of the toilet.  As a matter of fact, he’s working on a coffee table or a bathroom reading book or whatever that has all pictures of toilets and men’s rooms in it.  It’s very important to him, the toilet.  And so he SAT ON THE TOILETS IN THE STORE TO TRY THEM OUT.

I was sort of mortified by this.

What?

I get mortified by things!

Why is that so hard for you to believe?

And then he had Girlfriend do it too, and Homeslice and I just sort of stood there, agog.  We didn’t know what to do and so I yelled at Mister to stop sitting on toilets in the toilet store and I said something like “why don’t you just pull your pants down, too!?! You’re not supposed to test them out in the store!”  and then some woman who had spent the past 10 minutes selecting just the right towel rack from a shelf full of IDENTICAL towel racks shouted in her Rhode Island accent “YES YOU AH! YES YOU AH! IT’S VERY IMPAWDINT!  I spent six months of my life making sure people got the right toilet!”

huh.

I have questions.

1) Why did she shout at me?

b) Why would anyone spend 6 months of her life fitting people for toilets?

4) Would you sit on toilets in the store?

f) Do I have poop issues or is it weird to sit on toilets in the store?  I mean, Home Depot keeps them way up high.  I imagine that’s to keep people from using them.

10) Right?

Bad news, you guys.

Mister hacked the Wii and now we have every game imaginable, and the Wii is plugged into a very large TV in front of a very comfortable couch in the basement next to a fridge full of beer and a bar. All we’re missing is a microwave to heat up nacho cheese sauce and it’s every man’s fantasyland.

I go to bed alone.

I wake up alone.

I find myself shouting things down the basement stairs like “DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS????” And I hear things shouted back at me like “YOU’RE NOT MY MOTHER!”

And then yesterday I came downstairs in the morning to find that while I was at work the night before, Mister had a little Wii party in the basement and didn’t so much as lift a dish to put it in the dishwasher, and the house was in chaos, and Girlfriend had apparently eaten Fruity Snacks (all natural of course but it’s still not really fruit despite what Mister thinks) for dinner and Homeslice probably ate her socks because I still can’t find them.  And in Girlfriend’s room, I found Hello Kitty wearing a pair of Homeslice’s pants with a hole cut into the back so her tail could come out

I kind of knew something was up when I came home that night because he was all nice to me.  And I was like “why are you being so nice to me?” and he was like “I can’t be nice to my wife?  I love you!” And I’m all “what did you do?”  And he’s all “NOTHING! I SWEAR! JEEZUS!!!”

Uh-huh.

I went BULLSHIT when I found the evidence.

And so I put the Wiimotes in my purse and brought them to work with me.

Yes I did.

And you know what you guys?  I came home to the gentle hum of the dishwasher running and Girlfriend’s room all picked up and the books and all the toys put away and the children happy and bathed and pajama-ed and nobody had a hole in the back of their pants.

There was no discussion as to the whereabouts of the Wiimotes because he knew.

The End.

PS: Girlfriend is an amazing liar.  I’m totally bringing her with me next time I tried to return used/worn things to Macy’s.  You should have seen her innocent little face when she told me that the pants were like that when she found them and that maybe Homeslice cut that hole herself.  She actually almost convinced me before I came to my senses and had to call bullshit on her.  Don’t get me wrong, Queefs.  Homeslice is pretty smart.  She says “hi” and “Alice” and “mama” and she can wave bye-bye at people and she almost does the “SO BIG ” thing, but as far as I know, she cannot use scissors.  I mean seriously, she just figured out how mirrors work.

Mister and I watched American Idol last night. I don’t like American Idol. It’s boring. I know a lot of you guys are all about it, and I’m sorry but I just don’t care. I only like it when they’re doing the auditions because it’s just like freaks on parade and it makes me feel superior.

Victoria Beckham looks like a bobble head, yes? And I loved how she was trying really, really hard to be nice. That was cute.

Generally, I don’t like what’s on TV. Most of it’s total shit and I can’t even get into it. I do, however, enjoy what’s on tonight. I like that show about that family with the the gay guys and the hot Latina woman married to Al Bundy. What’s it called? I have no idea. Something Family…? And then there’s that other one with Patricia Heaton. I don’t know what that one’s called either. And then the one about the Cougar with Courtney Cox. She’s perfect for that show.

But I don’t even know what channel those shows are on or even if it’s really tonight or tomorrow. Do they still make Ugly Betty? Because I like her. When’s that on?

That’s how far I have my head up my ass.

I know, I know.

I need to take my television viewing more seriously. I need to take a lot of things more seriously. Oh, and I like Ghost Whisperer, too. That’s a good show. I love how when she’s translating what the dead people are saying to the living, she totally makes up her own shit. Why don’t the dead people ever get frustrated with her and go all “bitch, that’s not what I said at all!”

This post is making me go night-nights too, I think.

Sorry. Homeslice decided to be A Baby Who is AWAKE ALL NIGHT last night.  And right now she’s being A Baby Who is Trying to Eat My Arm.

Lucky for you, it’s a Toy With Me day today and you don’t have to stay here and watch me drool on myself anymore because I Have Invented the World’s Best Sex Toy.

PS: Speaking of Lucky and drool, I want this purse so bad it makes me hurt inside that we have to buy a new downstairs toilet instead.

The purse is prettier.  I’m considering trying to trick the people at Lucky Brand Jeans into giving me one.  Any ideas for a plan on how I can do that are welcome below.  My current plan to email them and be all “Hey! look over THERE!” and then somehow hack into the website and steal the purse probably won’t work.  I’m not that great with the computer.  Email still mystifies me sometimes.

It has recently come to my attention that the wife of a friend of ours has a rather dreadful drinking problem.  It’s so bad, in fact, that she has been bringing a water bottle full of wine out shopping with her, like to the Super Stop & Shop’s and to Target. 

Yes.

Terrible.

But my reaction upon hearing this news was not shock or horror (that came after hearing that she’s taking her kids with her when she does this. I mean, what a buzz kill kids are, right? Ew!) but AWE.

Just, AWE.

My first thought was “AWESOME!  WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?” because how fun is that?  As if Target wasn’t already the best time you can have, like, ever?  Think of Target with a BUZZ.

Holy hell.

I dare say Mister would have to kick my ass after a shopping trip like that because as it is, I have almost zero self control when I walk in there. The last half of that last sentence will make Mister *so happy.* Seriously though, something happens to my brain and my pupils blow out and I’m like, “must. buy. Target.” And so I walk through the store randomly tossing things into the cart, especially if it has a little orange sticker on it, and when I get home, I’m so oblivious to what I bought that it’s exactly like opening Christmas and I’m all “oooooo, LOOK! We got…SOAP!” And then I flip it over to check to see how many calories the soap has in it because there is something very, very wrong with me.

But I digress…

Now imagine the above situation mixed with a lovely Sauvignon Blanc.

glug, glug, glug…Ahhhhhh…See?

Awesome.

The woman is an innovator and quite frankly, a personal hero at this point.

And if I went to Target with a little buzzypoo, there would no longer be any need to like, use the inconveniently located dressing room to try on one of those $8 long sleeved cotton scoop neck tee shirts (which I AM NOT BUYING ANYMORE!) because fuck it. Just try that shit on right there. Nobody’s looking.

Yet.

Hungry? Open those fucking Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips up right now and dig right in, my friend.

It’s not stealing until you’ve passed a cash register. That’s an insider tip for you right there.

Need a little pick me up after all that relaxing wine? Grab some coffee from the food section and go test out a coffee pot. They keep the filters right next to the coffee pots, just FYI. It’s like they’re practically BEGGING you to do this. And nobody will even say shit to you because they’ll be so freaked out they won’t know what to say. Maybe you could even set up a little stand at the end of the aisle and sell a few cups to the other Target shoppers. You know, for wine money.

The possibilities are endless here, really, and I could go on but you know, just think about all of those things you’ve ever wanted to do at Target, but were too inhibited to pull off.

It’s a whole new world now.

Everything is possible.

Of course, you’ll probably get kicked out while wearing thongs on your head in the panty section, or loudly trying on jock straps, tossing them over your shoulder and shouting “dammit! Still too small!” but so what. You’ll just have to keep going to different stores and that’s okay because there’s lots of Targets.

I am the Hottest Mommy Blogger for the second year in a row.

Because yes.

And it looks like the Dumb Whorewives of Douchebag County, who are not hot and not mommies got kicked off for cheating their asses off.  Who knew there was actually a scrap, a shred, a modicum of legitimacy to The Blogger’s Choice Awards?

I certainly didn’t.  Voter driven contests are a disaster.

But I’m happy I won because for the past seven months, I’ve been sitting here at 6:00 am with baby vomit on my pajamas, fighting to keep my sense of humor (sometimes failing miserably) when really all I want to do is sit here and rant at the Internet because being a mommy is fucking hard, and it sucks at least 80% of the time on good days.  On bad days, it sucks 100%  of the time.

And I’m also happy because my friend, Aunty Becky over at Mommy Wants Vodka, came in second.  Yay for Aunt Becky! If you don’t read her blog, you really should.

Perhaps the best thing though is that we both beat Doosh and that’s a victory for EVERYONE if you ask me.

Except for those Cheating Whorewives.  They can suck it.  HARD.  I’d rather have seen Doosh win.  Probably.

Anyway, I’m not doing the naked thing again this year.

Here.  Have a picture of my ass.  That’s good enough, right?

That’s the least dressed I’ve been in any picture in the past year.  Deal with it.

Hottest Mommy Blogger 2009 out.

PS: Mister won second place for Best Photography blog, and Stoogie is Hottest Celebrity Blogger, and Dingo won The Blogitzer (I don’t know what that is, but it sounds Very Impressive) That’s right, people.  You’re barking with the big dogs.