Crissy

Crissy & the Very Bad Day

We had the worst night on Monday.

When I got home from work, Mister was very angry because Alice had gone through the kitchen trash again even though we keep it in a cabinet and even though I give her a tummy yummy to keep her busy when we’re not home.

And then he went upstairs to find that she had also carpet bombed Girlfriend’s room, which never happens.

NEVER.

I’m serious. This dog is a saint.

And she was obviously fucked up on something because she was panting and shaking and looking at her bum like it was some sort of entity she didn’t recognize because that’s what she does when she has The Farting.

So we figured she must have eaten the empty bag of cocaine coffee filter from the trash and that she has a cocaine Starbucks buzz like you read about. But we weren’t too concerned because we thought it would wear off and she’d be fine.

But no.

Around midnight, Alice was very much not. fine. and was sitting on my head and panting with her whole body so I got out of bed to seek advice from the Internet to weigh her chances of surviving the night sans medical attention as opposed to putting on a bra and driving 45 minutes to pay out the ass at the 24 hour doggie emergency room when she hurled and had explosive swamp ass simultaneously on my foot (!) and all over the only room in the house that still has wall to wall carpeting.

Why do dogs always pick the carpeting?

It was so violent that it scared her so she ran around the room spraying evil from both ends.

It was a lovely experience really and exactly what I wanted to be doing at midnight.

So I snapped on my rubber gloves and cleaned up the mess with some bleach and paper towels and oh my it was a smell that dare not speak it’s name.

And you know I wasn’t going to let Mister sleep without being informed of current events in the computer room.

So I woke him up and he brought Alice outside while I cleaned and then joined them outside to wait out the storm. She seemed a little better after running around the yard and doing her thang so we all went back to bed and fell asleep.

And then our drunken friend called to tell us George Carlin died.

Yes, thank you but he’ll still be dead tomorrow so…yeah you’re a douche.

So we went back to sleep for maybe an hour when Girlfriend falls out of her bed and screams her head off demanding Tinker bell band aids and medicine for the pain which were totally unnecessary because she landed on her feet when she “fell” about a foot and a half to the floor.

Yeah.

We’re nothing without high drama around here.

That’s just how we roll.

And then she demanded to sleep in our bed and knee and elbow us all night.

And then we were out of coffee in the morning.

I was so groggy in the shower that when I went to put shampoo in my hair I missed and put it in my left eye instead. As if that wasn’t irritation enough, when I was soaping up my bath poofy I splashed body wash into the same damned eye so I walked around all day with a stingy red crack whore eye.

It’s a look I sport quite often actually.

Once out of the shower I noticed that the house still smelled of last night’s doggie pukeapalooza and upon investigation discovered more issues under my nightstand. And under my bed. And in my closet.

Having finally cleaned up what I thought was the last of the shit or barf or whateverthefuck it was I head downstairs to make breakfast and I find what?

More shitbarf.

On the couch.

Freaking. Sweet.

So I cleaned that up too and headed off to bring Girlfriend to her 3 year doctor’s checkup. She did great and didn’t tell the doctor to fuck off even once and I even overheard the doctor say to her nurse “kids like her are the reason I went into this field. She just made my day. She’s just adorable.”

I’ve never been more proud.

And then we left with our prescription for a lead screening blood test but apparently our stop off at the potty was enough to make me forget that the blood lab is downstairs and upon exiting the potty I marched us right back up to the window at the pediatrician’s office and presented them with the slip for the blood lab.

The receptionist was very polite and didn’t really judge me much and directed me downstairs.

“Oh, right. I knew that. How stupid of me…”

Jesus Kristen!

So we got through the blood lab and Girlfriend received 2 stickers and a giraffe band aid for being so brave and I got nothing even though I cried twice and almost passed out.

Once I got out to the car I realized I didn’t have my sunglasses.

So I went back to the pediatrician’s office with my crack eye still stinging like a motherfucker to see if anyone had turned them in.

The receptionist who clearly has prior experience working with the retarded, the infirmed, and the drug addicted just looked at me, patted her head, and said “do they look like the ones on your head?”

Oh.

So we made a couple of quick stops and came home with a special treat for lunch for both Girlfriend and for mommy for being brave at the blood lab and found out that the entire house smells like a diarrhea swimming pool.

It’s funny how you don’t notice a stench until you’ve been away from it for a while.

It’s also funny how when you’re totally focused on your child you don’t notice that your eye is fucked up.

Upon investigation in the mirror I noticed that my still stingy crack eye had apparently leaked yucky goo that I must have wiped across my face inadvertently and it had dried on in a lovely cumshotesque pattern down my cheek.

I’ll be expecting that call from both the ASPCA and Child Services any moment now…

Waking Up with Crissy!

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!

Going to the Bathroom Problems

I think I mentioned to you at least a couple of times before that I use the men’s room when I’m at work.

The Ladies room is shared by 40 of my closest co-workers, but the men’s room is used by only 2 or 3 men and one teenage boy.

By virtue of it’s under use, the men’s room is the clear winner because while most of the “ladies” manage very nicely to be clean and not gross, some of them? Let’s just say they’re part of the reason why I’d rather sit in boy pee-pee than risk it in the Ladies room.

The first thing that I notice when I go in is the lighting. It’s absolutely atrocious. I always look like a fucking blown out crack whore in that mirror. It’s an imperfection magnifier and I can see every zit, every wrinkle, and ever damn freckle on my face in that mother. There’s also a hand mirror available just in case looking at my face in the wall mirror isn’t enough, I can use it to see if my lady business looks blown out too.

And look at all those smelly lotions and sprays. You’d think people would use them after they’ve had an, ahem, issue?

But no.

Sometimes I walk in there and the joint is rank and I’m tempted to just get on the PA system and say: “Attention library employees. If something is tearing the ass out of you and you’re going to blow it up in the Ladies room, for the love of God woman, USE THE SPRAY so I don’t feel like I’ve just stepped into your rotting colon. Thank you.”

I’m sure the patrons won’t mind one bit because really, it’s a public service announcement.

And usually, when there’s been an issue in there, there’s also a Hershey highway swirly left in the bowl just in case anyone had any doubts as to what just went down.

How could the person not have noticed this and just flushed again? On the very, very, rare occasion that I have an issue at work, I always check.

Don’t you?

For the love of Jesus, it’s just common decency!

And speaking of spraying and smelling, there’s this automatic air freshener thing that goes off at random intervals. So I’m in there and then PSSSSSSSTTTTT!!! It lets out a poof of “air freshner” that smells like shit and Summer Melon (whateverthefuckthatis) and scares the hell out of me and I almost fall off the toilet because I think I’m under attack. Lynne thinks it’s trying to tell her something because it goes off every time she walks in, but I think Candid Camera is behind it somehow. You might think Crissy’s just a wee bit paranoid but you’re laughing, right? Well, so would America.

Just sayin.

Here’s a nice magnet for amoebic dysentery decorative touch.

And in case no one has ever washed her hands before we have this helpful sign to guide us:

Every time I read it I’m tempted to add one they forgot:

And then there’s the people who try to walk in on me when I’m peeing. No one knocks, they just try to bust in. I don’t know about you, but that makes the pee crawl right back up to where it came from and then I can’t go because I have what’s called a “shy bladder.” Or maybe it’s just because I don’t want people coming in and sitting on my lap when I’m trying to go tinkle.

And speaking of people just walking in, I’m afraid of what I might walk in on because the door doesn’t always lock properly. You have to fiddle with the knob a little and there isn’t always time.

Let’s just say I walk in on Edgar (but his real name is Carl. No it isn’t). He’s like 100 feet tall, bald as a bastard and a Republican. He’s our accountant and so we are very nice to him because he prepares our paychecks. I think he’s a nice guy, and he never yells at me for forgetting to do a time sheet which I always do because I don’t need to work for money and it embarrasses me every time they try to pay me, but he’s ok if not a little strange and I figure it must be because he’s really a Transvestite. And I’m scared that one day I’m going to walk into the Ladies room and find him putting on lipstick and sticking tampons in his ass and nobody wants to see that.

Am I right?

So, seriously.

Any one of you would use the men’s room too.

Especially those of you who are men. You don’t know how good you’ve got it boys.

And for the fatty report:

exercise: 30 minutes with Baron Baptiste Core Power Yoga for Abs + 10 minutes scrubbing out baby swimming pool where my arms hurt and I was sweaty so I’m counting it= 40 minutes, Calories 1480, alcohol units,

Oy.

Ta-kee-laaaaaaa!!!

In the place where we used to live, we only had only one neighboring house and they were lovely people.

But now, I’m experiencing a bit of culture shock as I am not accustomed to living in a busy neighborhood where I am forced to put up with people.

And all their bullshit. Our house is the cute one on the left.

For the past month or so, I’ve been noticing a growing amount of dog shit in my side yard in between our house and the neighbors.

And it’s big.

And there’s a lot of it.

This is not so much a picture of raisins pretending to be dog shit, but a picture of raisins demonstrating the volume of dog shit I’m talking about. Guests are starting to comment on it.

Even astronauts in space are noticing…”Houston, we see a lot of dog shit at Crissy’s house.”

We have a dog, but Alice is little and she only shits in the back yard.

And we clean it up.

So it’s not my Alice.

But my neighbor just opens her front door and lets her 120lb drooly Pit Bull, Bull Dog, Bull Mastiff whatever it is shit whereverthefuck while mom has her coffee and nurses a hangover.

Speaking of mom, I’ve never seen her without a can of beer in her hand. I can respect that, and even be a little bit jealous that she has the luxury of being shit faced all day, but her alcoholism is having a negative impact on my lawn and so it just pisses me off.

I’ve suspected it was Tequila (that’s the dog’s name. Did I mention the alcoholism?) for quite some time, but I’ve been frustrated because she’s a stealthy pooper and I couldn’t catch her until this morning. There I was, minding my own business, doing my morning yoga when, in fully extended prayer balancing twist position, I saw her assuming a position of her own.

It totally screwed up my pranayama when I tried to yell “Fuck off Tequila! Fuck! Off!” through the window, but off she did not fuck. Oh well, at least I finally caught her.

And as if Doggie-dumps-a-lot wasn’t enough of an issue, their cat comes up on my front porch and talks smack to my cat through the windows at 2 am. And this cat is the worst kind of smack talking pussy around because he knows my Benny’s not allowed out of the house and so he’s never really going to go outside and throw down. But he really wants to.

And then, after getting Benny all fired up, he shits in my tulip bed just to be a total freaking douche.

Not only am I pissed that their street thug pets are shitting in my yard, but I’m hurt. I thought we were friends with the neighbors. We went over there, we got hammered with them, we stayed until 2am and, as far as I can remember we were still welcome.

I’m pretty sure.

We even put up with their sexy as hell teenage sons washing their motorcycles with no shirts on in the hot summer sun getting all soapy and watery and stuff while I’m trying to make dinner. It’s really very disruptive.

Anyway, we put up with a lot and after you get drunk with someone, doesn’t that automatically make you best friends?

It does, right?

And friends don’t let their dogs shit in friend’s yards, right?

RIGHT???

I thought so.

So I’m angry and I’m hurt and I’m not cleaning up the dog shit. My husband is such a little girly man pacifist he won’t go over there and yell at them.

So here’s my question for the internets:

What am I going to do?

Potential solutions so far:

1. Shovel the shit back over the fence into their yard.
2. Do a flaming dog shit ding dong ditch. Classless, I know, but so is letting your dog shit all over the place.
3. Install a motion detecting sprinkler and soak the bitch.
4. Send Mister over there to shit on their lawn.
5. Ask them to have the boys come over and clean it up and then videotape the boys and sell it as lady porn.
6. Go all janjaweed on their asses. I’ll spare those gorgeous, shirtless innocent and precious children of course.

Any other suggestions?

How You’re Finding Me in Google Searches

and what that says about you horrifies me just a little bit. 

Barnyard fuckers: That almost never happens here. 

Crissy from Rhode Island:  Great.  Now I’m going to have the fucking paparazzi following me around Target watching me buy superflow tampons and vagi cream. 

Butt-hole bleach, How to bleach your butt hole, Ass bleach: Despite my objections to this product, had I known this was such a hot topic I would have done a video demonstration for you.  Not really. 

Hershey Kiss Weight Watcher Points: There are 3 w.w. points in one serving of kisses.  Quit asking.

Stake and blow job night:  Okay, I understand that not everyone was an English major in college or even a graduate of grade 3, so here’s your tutorial:  it’s steak with an E if you’re eating it.  A stake with an A is what Buffy the Vampire Slayer carries around with her to help her kill vampires and stuff.  Totally different kind of evening… just sayin’.

Friends fucking my drung mother: I don’t have any friends and my mother doesn’t drung. 

Shat her panties: This is what will go on my gravestone.  Fantastic.

Sold her panties: Again with the panties.  I’m going to have to stop wearing them.

SUPER FUCK: Well, I like to think so. And I must say I’m flattered by your enthusiasm!

Rachel Ray Smokes: And that’s why I like her now.

Chanel Motorcycle Helmet:  Paris Hilton is that you? I notice you didn’t bother to leave a comment though.  Whore. I hope you crash your motorcycle and die.

Jesus yoga: Salvation Rotation and Mighty Disciple are my favorite poses. Thanks Jesus!

Anywho…there’s a bunch more, but I’m getting bored now. 

I don’t think I want to leave my house anymore.  

Some of you internetatrons are freakin’ me out.