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!

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.

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?

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.

I got an email from Rachel regarding a product that I’ve actually heard of before, but blocked out of my memory until she brought it to my attention this morning. It actually left her speechless, and if you know Rach like I know Rach, you know that’s never happened before.

It’s politely called South Beach Skin Solutions Lightning Gel for Sensitive Areas, but what it really is is ass hole bleach. That’s right, bleach for your ass hole. Apparently you can tan your skin brown, but your butt hole needs to be white. I’m not even fucking kidding you. If you don’t believe me, go to www.southbeachskinsolutions.com to check it out for yourself.

Here’s my question: Who cares what color your bum is? Are there people who are so vain as to think someone cares? Seriously! Are the fashion police roaming around South Beach pulling people’s pants down, bending them over and writing them tickets for having the wrong color down there? Who ever even looks there but a proctologist? And if you’re seeing a proctologist you’ve got bigger problems than just a brown bum!

I don’t think I’ve ever even seen mine to know what color it is, and chances are your significant other is just so overjoyed to be there in the first place they don’t care if it’s got pink and purple polka dots on it and whistles glory glory hallelujah! As far as I can imagine, the people who buy this stuff are most likely the same people who have their labia surgically altered to reduce the floppy “wizard cuffs” effect. That’s another phenomenon that is beyond my comprehension.

I guess I could maybe sort of understand using the stuff on your nipples because they’re more visible and nobody wants big ol’ brown bologna nipples, but that’s where my understanding ends. Unless you’re a porn star, I see no need for this foolishness.

You should love your back door just the way it is.