• 6:15 am: Wake up to realize we overslept and it’s 5 degrees outside.
  • 7:00 am: Experience pain like no other doing Yogalates with sadistic bitch Kristin McGee and her 4 lemmings.
  • 7:45 am: Discover that water pipes in kitchen have frozen solid. No. Water.
  • 8:00 am: Run out of warmish water in shower. Cold water rinse only.
  • 8:15 am: Get dressed in 53 degree bedroom.
  • 8:30 am: Baby discovers basket of clean laundry and proceeds with alternating hands to pitch clothes over her shoulders out of basket onto floor.
  • 8:30 am: In an attempt to get basket away from baby, accidentally smash baby in lip with basket.
  • 8:31 am: Baby screaming and bleeding profusely about the lip/gums.
  • 8:32 am: Where the fuck is the baby Tylenol?
  • 8:35 am: Shockingly late for work (due in by 9:00) and still have to bring baby to Papa’s house.
  • 8:37 am: Attempt to pour Vanilla Chai tea into fabulous new pink travel mug. Miss fabulous new pink travel mug and instead sustain 3rd degree burns on hand and wrist area.
  • 8:40 am: Found the jacket. Found the hat. Where the fuck is the other purple mitten?
  • 8:45 am: Toy of the day for Papa’s house: Disney Princess teapot full of pony beads and a small plastic fairy.
  • 8:45 & 1/2: Tea pot full of pony beads dropped. Pony beads alloverthefuckingplace.
  • 8:50 am: In car. Cannot see out of rear window. Run into ice bank at end of driveway. Car. Not. Moving.
  • 8:51 am: Pedal to the metal and burn rubber!!! Neighbors point and laugh.
  • 8:52 am: “Momma? What’s that smell?” “It’s the smell of rubber burning, honey.” “Momma, you need to clean the car on the inside. It’s stinky.”
  • 8:57 am: Baby safely delivered, sans breakfast, to Papa’s house.
  • 8:58 am: God damned Vanilla Chai flipped over and spilled into console of car.
  • 9:10 am: Safely arrived at work. No apparent damage to car from ice bank.
  • 9:20 am: Burn tongue on raging hot remnants of God damned Vanilla Chai.
  • 9:22 am: The smell of burned rubber still in my hair. Email husband and ask him to pick up a bottle of wine for me. I’ve just got a feeling I’m gonna need it tonight…

It snowed here. Again. This makes a total of about 15 inches of snow on the ground right now. If I ever want to leave the house, I’m going to have to dig my car out.

I’ve got on my thermals, ski pants over them, two pairs of socks, boots so stiff and heavy that I could traverse the Arctic in them, a shirt and two sweatshirts, a puffy jacket, a hat, gloves, and a scarf. I am the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Woman.

And now I have to pee.

Hate. Winter.

Warning to my male readers: unless your wife has had a baby, or you’ve actually, in some bizarre turn of events, found yourself in stirrups, you have no idea what in the hell a stirrup cozy is. Prepare to be schooled.

I had an appointment with the wookie doctor this morning.

While waiting for my turn, I couldn’t help but notice an often overlooked, but very important part of the gynecological exam table–the stirrup cozy. My doctor has cheerful little hand-knit ones on there. It’s a strange thing, the stirrup cozy. I’ve seen all sorts of them–sometimes they’re just sweat socks stuck over the stirrups, sometimes little felt booties with the name of a birth control pill printed on them, and sometimes there’s nothing at all, but I’ve never seen hand-knit ones before! Who makes them? Are little old ladies in nursing homes making them and sending them in, or did my doctor make them himself? After a day of delivering babies and diagnosing genital herpes, I imagine that he likes to go home, kick back, and do a little knitting while Dancing with the Stars is on. The thing about these little cuties is that they make the whole trip so much more comfortable. You’re totally naked under a paper dress in a fifty degree room. A man with the largest hands you’ve ever seen comes in, snaps on his rubber gloves, busts out the lube, and says “scoot forward a little bit for me, dear.” It goes without saying that this is the most uncomfortable situation, but thank Jesus my feet are comfy in the stirrups! This is delightful! Can I come again tomorrow?

This is what I’m thinking while waiting for him to come in. It makes me giggle to picture him in his jammies, knitting away, perhaps enjoying a nice cup of tea as well. Needless to say, when he finally comes into the room I’m in a rather jovial mood. We had a pleasant visit, I felt properly violated, and I came home to mop off.

Let’s all take a moment to say thank Jesus for the stirrup cozy. I don’t know about yours, but my vagina is happier knowing my feet are comfortable.

I awaken in the midst of a full on panic attack. I hear someone screaming a scream like I’ve never heard before. In my sleepy, yet hyper alert and confused state, I made it to my daughter’s room in about 1/2 second. She was standing up in her crib, totally fine but also clearly disturbed by what we were hearing. Another scream. Several followed as my husband was now out of bed and also in a panic. I stayed with my daughter, trying to soothe her back to sleep as my husband ran through the house trying to find the source of this horrible sound. What he found was very, very peculiar.

It was our cat, Benny. He was alone downstairs screaming at some invisible thing. I’ve had cats my entire life and I have never heard a sound like this. It was a sound that came straight from hell. It was…supernatural. Creepier still is that there was no apparent cause for his behavior. Nothing outside, nothing anywhere.

It happened again at the same time last night.

Of course our dream house is fucking haunted.

Why wouldn’t it be?

It’s getting to be my 5th wedding anniversary and it’s such a romantic time of year–it’s cold outside, a little snowy at times, candles, fireplaces, Christmas lights…sigh.

Before Girlfriend was born, my husband and I went on a romantic anniversary trip to a gorgeous inn in Vermont. I was 3 months pregnant, glowing like moonlight, and sooo in love with my husband and my tiny baby.

It was one of the happiest and most romantic times of my life.

So you know shit was about to go down, right?

Crissy doesn’t do romantic and happy.

The inn where we were staying offered a 5 course, candlelit gourmet dinner every night and so despite my wanting to throw up alloverthefuckingplace, I spent about an hour makeup-ing and hair-ing and dressing myself in a sexy black stretchy spaghetti strap dress complete with plunging back, embroidery and beads to wear down to try not to puke all over dinner.

I wore my hair high on top of my head in a carefully sculpted heavily sprayed up-do.

I thought I was the shit.

Nay.

I knew I was the shit.

And I was all proud of my pregnant belly sticking out like fucking Britney Spears at the Starbucks. All I needed was a wad of gum, a badly waxed snatch, and a Caramel Macchiato with extra whipped cream and I would have nailed that shit.

Tight.

And I was so proud of myself because I ate all my dinner and didn’t even throw up once.

And everyone knows that people on anniversary vacations are supposed to have plenty of porn star sex and so we thought we’d take a bath and maybe get it on like there’s no tomorrow relax in our room’s giant two person bathtub.

So we turned the water on and lit candles, placing them around the perimeter of the tub. We got in and yada, yada, yada, I was workin’ it like Miss Julia Roberts herself in the bath tub scene from Pretty Woman until all holy hell broke loose and suddenly Mister is on my side of the tub, screaming “fuck! Motherfucker! Fuck! Holy shit!” and pounding me with his fists and forcing my head under the water between his legs.

“WTF??? Is this a blow job request or is he trying to kill me!” and so I fought against him as hard as I could and I think I even scratched him and made him bleed and then it dawned on me.

My fucking hair was on fire.

That’s nice.

I leaned back into one of the candles and with all the hairspray, well, the shit lit up like a tiki torch.

And the funny thing is that when it first caught, the room got noticeably brighter and I wondered why because I am a stupid asshole.

A couple of weeks later when I went to have my hair cut my hairdresser picked up a strand of my hair, looked up at me all confused like and said “um. I hate to ask this, but, were you on fire at some point?”

And then I told her the story.

And then she laughed.

The end.