Wednesday, November 09, 2005
My sleep deprivation was affecting everyone and I was starting to see tracers. Chris would come home every night and instead of being greeted by the love-bubble that you all know and scrutinize, he would get bombarded with whining.
Take last night, for example.
"Hey, babe. Where are the kids?"
"Virginia is in bed with a sore ass and a budding self-image problem and Devon is on the Warcraft that I insisted he remove himself from an hour ago. No one listens to me. No one. I asked him to unload the dishwasher and he shows me this thing he got for getting straight A's, it's tickets to a hockey game and he does that on purpose because he knows that I have a hard time looking at straight A's and then immediately punishing him and why do my kids manipulate me? Why can't they understand that I'm tired, goddammit, and they're pushing me toward a life of -"
"Open up. Take this. Swallow. Continue."
" - sitting in a padded cell somewhere, drooling on my bathrobe that I made in group and eating crayolas. Why can't they just work with me instead of against me? You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to take that Warcraft game tonight, break it into a bazillion pieces, put some hot sauce on it and eat the sonofabitch. I'm going to..."
It went on like this for another 5 minutes. Chris and I were sitting on the couch when Devon walked in and began unloading the dishwasher.
He kept sneaking furtive glances at me and waiting for me to explode. I do that on most evenings. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.
"What's wrong with you? Why are you just sitting there looking at me like that?"
I turned to Chris.
"What did you give me?"
"Ambien. I got the prescription filled for you."
"Oh. That's nice. "
After a few more minutes of blearily staring at the overgrown boy in my kitchen and trying to imagine what he would look like with an afro, I turned back to Chris.
"You know what I think? I think that everyone had a meeting and I wasn't invited. I think they all decided to try to drive me crazy by acting as stupid as humanly possible (here is where Devon pipes up and says, "Thanks, Mom!") because did I tell you what happened with Equifax and that piece of shit attorney of mine?"
"No, what, babe?"
"Nevermind. Who cares? I'm not doing anything, anymore. No cleaning, no cooking, no laundry. You are gonna be some stinky bastards in a coupla' weeks. I'm going to bed."
Chris tucked me in.
When I woke up this morning, I found him sitting on a chair next to me, with the phone in one hand and my Chinese statue in the other.
"What are you doing with my statue?"
"For defense. I don't know about you and the Ambien."
"What do you mean?"
"The last thing you said last night, before I decided to sleep on the couch, was, 'Put the machete down. On second thought, give it to me.'"
"Oh. But I slept really well? Isn't that great?"
He's only allowing me a quarter dose tonight. Where's a machete when you need one?
Monday, November 07, 2005
A Tearful Farewell To My Abode and The Cast Of, "Why The Fuck Didn't I Buy A House Years Ago?"
On November 30th, I turn in the keys to my apartment and begin my new life with Chris.
I have been living at this apartment complex for over two years and I have mixed feelings about leaving. This is my goodbye letter.
I will miss you, and yet I can't wait to have a guaranteed parking space. Since it would be somewhat impersonal of me to address you in blanket form, I'll single you out individually and bid you adieu.
My Bus Stop Compadres:
Rudy "I Ain't Never Met A Stranger In My Muhfuckin' Life": You greet me with a cheerful, "Mawnin!", every day that you actually make it to the bus stop. On the other days, you greet me, and every other person within a three building radius, when we come home in the evenings from your perch on the landing of the third floor. It's become apparent that on the mornings you don't make it to the bus stop, it's because you are completely, abysmally drunk. Your wife frightens me, but you are a peach.
John The Nodder: You just stand around and agree with everyone by saying, "Mmm hmm". You don't have a kid, so I'm not sure why you come out at 6 a.m. but, whatever. It's become a game to make a bet with myself every morning as to whether or not you'll actually speak. You're like the missing character from Fat Albert.
Ashonishenetta and Her Daughter, Pug: Your hair and the pursuit of a good weave will make me laugh for years. Seeing you run to the bus stop, Pug in tow, with your veritable arsenal of hair taming accessories is more entertainment than should be free. You tie your daughter's hair up in baubles with such skill that she looks perpetually surprised and bug-eyed from the sheer tautness of her scalp. If she were to succeed and actually frown, she would be considered a deadly weapon due to the amount of small plastic bubbles that would bullet off of her head. God, I will miss you the most, I think.
Candy the Crackhead: You're a recent addition. Like, 'this morning' recent. I saw you trotting along in your pj's, cigarette dangling from your lip and I chased the bus down to get her to stop. I ran, Candy. Did you see my boobs trying to rocket off my body and into the stratosphere? You breezed by me, reeking of smoke and cheap perfume and deposited your mortified daughter onto the bus without so much as a 'thank you' to me. I hope your hair catches on fire.
Mystery Drunk: You showed up one morning, sans child, so fucked up you could barely walk, and began 'rapping' with the other black guys. There was only one problem, aside from you being hammered: you're white and pathetic. You're like 38, yet you had on Air Jordans, a basketball jersey and your Fiddy Cent hat cocked jauntily to the side. The crew made fun of you, mercilessly, and you joined in because you are an amoeba. I gathered the children around and used you as my example to them of why they should never breed with their cousins.
Carlton: I call you that because you remind me of Carlton from, "Fresh Prince". I have said, "Good Morning", to you every single day for the last 65 school days and you have consistently ignored me. I thought you might be deaf, but after the nasty looks I received when I would mutter, "Shithead", after a cheery, "Good Morning!", I'm guessing that your hearing is fine. You're just a shithead.
To The Rest Of The Crew:
Crazy Janice: You know everyone on the property. You continue to run after them, talking all the way, even as they try to evade you. When you asked to see my engagement ring, you proudly displayed yours that, "He done bought me 9 years ago and we ain't got around to gettin' married, yet", without any embarrassment or hesitation, even though the ring was 4 different colors and had permanently stained your finger green. I was actually really impressed with your pride in it. It made me ashamed to be initially appalled. And then you grabbed my butt and I was just back to thinking you were crazy.
Justin, my neighbor: When I first met you, I wanted to throw myself on your table and scream, "Buffet!" Then I saw you in your police uniform and my thighs melted. As I've gotten to know you, you've become like a little brother to me and the idea of you romantically is just, well, incestuous and gross. I will miss your goofy nature and your ass. Smile! I meant smile.
The Russian Olympic Gymnast Team Upstairs: All I can say is if is practice makes perfect, you motherfuckers should be nearing divinity by now.
To anyone else I may have forgotten...well, if I forgot you, it probably means that you suck and I won't miss you.
To everyone else...I get my own parking space! Stick that in your hat and smoke it!
Friday, November 04, 2005
That Thar Doll Garn HNT
I didn't forget. I didn't. I just didn't have anything prepared. So, I'm lazy, not forgetful. Anyway, this here is a picture I took with you guys in mind when I went on my trip to Florida. I was in Cooterbob, Alabamy, and if you look really hard in between the first 2 white blocks (which are menus inside) you can see an actual, bonafide mullet in it's natural habitat. I took this picture from afar because you should never try to approach these wily beasts while carrying anything they would call a "dadgum gizmo". They're apt to clock you over the head with a 40 ounce Busch can, stab you in the eye with a Marlboro and then run you over in their dually and tie you to the hood when you're dead. I'm just sayin'.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
At Least He Knew What Movie I Was Referring To
Last night, I couldn't sleep. Chris, on the other hand, can nod off in an instant. Like he has no worries, like he can just forget about that mysterious sweater that I pulled out of the dryer and WHERE THE FUCK DID IT COME FROM, HOW SPOOKY IS THAT? Because he can do this, and I can't, I have to make sure that I disturb him from time to time by sighing really loudly and re-adjusting the covers and, oops!, accidentally elbowing him in the temple.
"Babe. What's wrong?"
"I can't sleep. I've tried everything. Even Footloose isn't working."
"Yeah. When I absolutely can't sleep, I play the movie in my head. I usually only get a short way into it, you know to the part where the benevolent Pastor Shaw is hollering, 'He's testing us! Every, every day our Lord is testing us!' This time, I'm all the way to the really zinging dance scene in the mill. I know the whole movie by heart."
"That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard, babe."
"It's no weirder than counting sheep! Who the hell counts sheep? Why not count roosters or cats? Why sheep?"
"Because when shepherds used to count their flock at night, they would fall asleep because it was so boring. That's where it came from."
Now, in my world, I'm convinced that Chris only knows more than I do when it comes to motors and the inner workings of a ball sac. In reality, he's wickedly sharp, but he doesn't flaunt it. I was still not about to be one-upped. I puffed out my chest, poked my bottom lip out and said, with all the dignity I could muster, "You're dumb."
"I love you, too, Crystal."
Monday, October 31, 2005
Happy Birthday, Daddy
This Friday, my Dad turns 64. For his birthday, he asked for the new, "Looney Tunes: ReMastered", some new undershirts and a bra.
My Dad has been a constant source of entertainment for as long as I can remember. He drove my Mom crazy by telling us dirty jokes, teaching us how to load and use a crossbow and showing us how to properly handle a snake. That was a hands-on lesson that took place in the middle of a hot Texas highway. It was also a lesson that found my mother locked up in the car, chain smoking Winston cigarettes and nervously sipping a can of Budweiser while occasionally rolling the window down far enough to say, "Freddie! If either one of those children get hurt, it's your fault! Do you hear me, Freddie? Freddie?!" My father walked away with 2 very sharp fangs embedded in his hand and a new policy: don't handle snakes when you're drunk. He adhered to that policy for at least 2 months.
These days, he doesn't handle many snakes, but he still derives great pleasure from teaching my kids dirty limericks and grabbing my Mom's butt just to make her jump. Because of him, my daughter is determined to find the book, Yellow River, by I.P. Freely and my son uses the term 'peckerhead' with the kind of gleeful abandon that only a 12-year-old can muster.
Because of him, I know what unconditional love is. Because of him, I got to see the world and experience things that most parents would have shielded their children from. Because of him, I was able to drag myself up and to never crawl, even though my soul wanted to die. Because of his teachings, I walked away from a man who bruised me and held onto one who looks at me as though I'm some new and wondrous creature that he alone knows about. Because of him, I firmly believe that I can be anything that I want to be. Because of him, I know that a child's life should be filled with dirt and frogs and disappearing thumbs and real magic, the kind of magic that can only be found in our world around us and not in a video game.
Because of my Dad, I'm proud of the parent I am. I'm proud of the person I am. I have found my way and I didn't take the wrong path, even though it looked so much shorter and easier than the path I was on...and in hindsight, it was. But in sticking to the path that had the most obstacles and the least rewards, I found something so much more valuable...I found peace and the kind of contentment that only comes from knowing how good you really have it at your boring nine-to-five job, with your rotten but healthy kids and your small but warm apartment. He didn't feel sorry for me when I was flayed alive and asking, "Why?" He simply held me, told me that this was a part of life that would make me who I would ultimately be and that he was proud that I was his daughter.
He hoped on my behalf, hurt on my behalf and took great pleausure in watching that all come to fruition when I finally stood up and started saying, "Fuck you", to those who would hurt me. He is the reason I am who I am today and I couldn't hope for a better friend or more avid supporter.
I love you, Daddy. I'm so proud that you're my father. Oh, and they don't make bra sizes in negative sized cups, so you're shit out of luck.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
HNT On Time and The Thrill of There Being Ice Skating Now Available In Hell
A couple of nights ago, I came home to find the drama queen draped across the sofa, despondent and gloomy.
"Virginia. What could possibly be that wrong in the life of a 5-year-old?"
"My tooth. It won't come out."
"Do you want me to get it out?"
"Will it hurt?"
(huge sigh and more fretting and Scarlett O'Hara-ing) "Well, how much do you think the tooth fairy will bring me?"
"How much do you want her to bring you? Because I'm sure she's willing to barter seeing as how you're driving me insane."
"Nevermind. Let's do this."
The whining aside, I couldn't stand one more day because her now loose tooth was marginally longer than the others as it made it's way out and it had also started to separate from the teeth that were staying put. Essentially, the fruit of my loins looked like the world's tiniest crackhead hillbilly. It had to come out.
I held her head and literally yanked that motherfucker out. It took about an hour, lots of hysterics, more blood than seemed normal and the assurance from me every time I would say, "Just one more good yank, sweety", I wasn't just saying that and being full of shit. Which I was.
Here she is telling her Daddy that it wasn't that bad. Tell that shit to the cop who showed up after the neighbors called and said I was boiling my kid.
I had to throw this in. I am now firmly convinced that everyone who works at the post office has lost their muhfuckin' mind. Here's why. I got this in the mail today:
I want to extend my sincere apology as your Postmaster for the enclosed document that was inadvertently damaged in handling by your Postal Service.
We are aware how important your mail is to you. With that in mind, we are forwarding it to you in an expeditious fashion."
This is an envelope that you're looking at. Inside is this:
In case you can't tell, this is the back half page of what used to be a magazine. Just the back half of the back page. Someone took the time to put this in an envelope and mail it to me after it had been stomped on, dragged down the highway, used as toilet paper, chewed on and used as a white flag in a civil war reenactment. Then they send it with a sweet note letting me know that it had been damaged.
I can see that. But thanks for letting me know that it's not supposed to look like this.
The fact that someone took the time to put this in an envelope and send it to me is further proof that there is no random drug testing when you work for the U.S.P.S.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Night of The Living Dead
That's what I used to call Halloween every year in Sandy Harbor, Texas. It was where my parents bought a house that we lived in when we were stateside.
Sandy Harbor was a retirement area situated about 20 miles from civilization. The population was approximately the same as the average age, two hundred and eleven. These folks didn't know what President was in office, much less that it was Halloween.
Every year, I would get dressed up and go door to door, only to come home reeking of disappointment and Ben Gay with my bag of walnuts, banana nut bread and Dentyne (safe for dentures!!) Every year, my outfits would get more and more outrageous until my mother dragged me kicking and screaming back into the house, admonishing me the whole way about pregnant nuns not being appropriate and how I would give Pastor Bob a heart attack.
Sometimes, the confusion was comical.
"Trick or treat!"
"Eh? What's that? Who are you? We don't want any! Go away!"
"It's me, Mrs. Shultz. Crystal, from down the road. You know, the only one Al Roker hasn't mentioned. It's Halloween."
"Oh. Halloween? Oh. Well, aren't you lovely! What are you supposed to be, dear?"
"A zombie hooker. Do you have any of those really cool fridge magnets this year? I sold those at school for a buck a piece."
"Splendid! A Bombay bookkeeper! How original and creative, although I'm not sure why you would want to be Arabic or African or whatever they are. Here. Have some nice canned okra!"
This year, as I ready my children for Halloween - well, actually, only my daughter. My son is far too cool and sophisticated to get dressed up and beg for candy so he will don his smoking jacket and stay home to give out candy while drinking cognac by the fire and reciting Chaucer - I must say that I'm disturbed. After you go over every safety precaution ("No fruit. NEVER TAKE FRUIT.") and scout neighborhoods for one that hasn't had a drive-by or a murder in the last six months, you pull out the kevlar and bark like a drill sergeant at the kids in your charge to, "Move! Move! T-minus thirty-eight minutes till dark, you little shits, let's go!", because you know it's a bad idea to be out in any neighborhood past twilight.
Except for Sandy Harbor, Texas. Where time stands still and bowel movements are a thing of the past.
I long to stand behind my daughter and laugh at the disgusted look on her face as Mrs. Shaw drops a Celebrex potholder into her bag. Road trip, anyone?
Monday, October 24, 2005
URGENT NOTICE!! THIS IS A SERVICE OF THE PUBLIC BROADCAST SYSTEM. Ok, so it's not. Not really.
THERE IS A FIRST LOOSE TOOTH IN MY HOUSE. YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT, ACCORDING TO MY DAUGHTER, THERE HAS NOT BEEN AN EVENT OF THIS MAGNITUDE SINCE THE BIRTH OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR, JESUS CHRIST.
YOU SHOULD FURTHER KNOW THAT IF THE FUCKING THING DOESN'T MAKE IT'S WAY OUT WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS, I WILL BE ATTACHING A PLUNGER TO HER FACE AND RIPPING IT OUT BECAUSE I CAN'T TAKE MUCH MORE.
THAT IS ALL.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Random Friday Shit
To Every Burger King or McDonalds Employee Who Ever Lived: Why do you choose a job working with the public when it's obvious that you utterly despise all of God's creatures? Why didn't you go work at the DMV where people expect to be treated like peasant filth? Why can you not just give me my McSalad without causing me mental anguish because my total was $6.68 and I gave you $21.18? Why????
To The Guy Who Left A Message For Me While I Was Gone: You win today's "Most Worthless Strand of DNA" title. Here. I'll tell you why.
I get back to work and I have a message to call this customer. So, I call.
"Hi, Michael, it's Crystal from ****** calling. How are you?'
"Did you get my message to call me?"
"Nope. I just wanted to see if you watched CSI last night."
"Uhh. Yeah, actually, I did."
"Wow. Thursday nights must be very confusing for you. Anyway, I just called to see if you could give me a brief synopsis cos' I missed it. I had to give myself an enema."
"What? Who is this?"
"Crystal. From ******."
"I left a message for you to call me."
"Huh. Well, I tell you what, I'll call you as soon as you tell me what happened on CSI last night."
Seriously, dude. Stop smoking weed or stabbing yourself in the head every night or whatever you're doing because it's KILLING YOUR BRAIN. STOP. Or just stop trying to communicate with the outside world. Jesus.
To The Mid-Life Crisis Motherfucker with the hairy arms and the Dodge Viper who happened to be in front of me at the bank:
I'm on my lunch break. I come to the bank as a courtesy to my boss, not because I enjoy the witty banter from the tellers. I am losing money, you fucking stain. Do you think that maybe while we sat in line for 10 minutes you could have filled out the deposit slip instead of waiting until the receiving box actually opened?? And I know that your money really needs to hit the account before 2 pm or your check for that Maxim subscription is going to bounce, but bugging the fuck out of the teller while she's trying to process your deposit isn't helping. It made it. It shoots up that plastic tube and goes straight to her. I know you can't see it, but, trust me on this. It's a PLASTIC TUBE. Not a portal into another world, you nimrod.
Oh, and when the slip comes back, can you please just put the receptacle back in and leave? What the hell are you looking for in there? Your misspent youth? MOVE, YOU ASSHAT.
To the Fat Bitch who almost knocked me down in her hurry to get into McAlister's Deli: It happens all the time. You're walking on the sidewalk into an establishment and someone is crossing the parking lot to walk in. You know that one of you needs to pause and let the other go first or there will be a collision. I saw you coming and I hesitated to stop because I had already lost 30 minutes to Mid-Life. You, on the other hand, had other plans. You lowered your head like a bull about to charge and even skipped a little as you rushed in front of me and then let the door close in my face.
Newsflash, you mammoth whore. There's no shortage of salami. They aren't rationing the cheesecake or the ham. I could maybe understand your urgency if a bus full of Ethiopian refugees had pulled up at the same time as you did, but we are the only ones in the restaurant. I hope they were out of cheesecake. Bitch.
Wow. So much for the light-hearted post I had in mind. Ehhh, fuck it. I feel better.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Ok. Osbasso suggested that I use a couple of ideas and I tried to do just that. About 20 pictures were taken with various props and these are the only ones I'm showing because I'm female and I'm vain and I can do that.
Without further ado (or Photoshopping). I just want you to know that I've officially convinced my kids and my innocent nephew that I'm a freak. I was going through Virginia's toys in the living room, completely oblivious to my children and my nephew. They were watching me in silent fascination as I picked through the toys, occasionally muttering things like, "No, that'll never fit" and "Prickly. No prickly." When I scurried from the living room with my choices, they followed me into the hallway. I ran into my bedroom and shut the door in their faces. Then I came back out, hurried to the kitchen, grabbed the digital camera and went back into my room, shutting the door in their faces, again. All they could hear was giggling and the sounds of the digital camera beeping as it saved the images and I now have 2 children who wonder if they're adopted and one nephew who wonders if they're adopted.
So, it begins:
Just hangin' out in the boobs. Nothing to see here. Move along.
Free! Free at last!
And the Piece De' Resistance:
Ladies and Gentleman, I present:
Boobs (Hard To Miss), Injuries (Note the scar that resulted from the removal of my gall bladder) and Dr. Pepper (mother of fuck, that was cold).
After this massive pain in the ass (as far as getting all these pictures uploaded and aligned), I vow to never forget HNT again. Now that I've posted pictures of my daughter's toys in between my boobs, I'm going to drink until I forget how to blink. Cheers.
There Will Be a Health Department In Hell. Oh, Yes. There Will Be.
My boss came into my office a few minutes ago because he was concerned. He was concerned because all the ladies were standing around outside my office, whispering and listening to me beat my head on my desk and shriek.
When he walked in, I sat up. I had a post-it note stuck to my forehead that said, 'echo panties'. I'm sure when I wrote those 2 words, separately, they had meaning. Together, and pasted to my forehead, they just made me look even more psychotic than I really am.
"Crystal, you're scaring the women again. What's wrong?"
I'll tell all of you what's wrong. I'm normally happy-go-lucky and jolly ha-ha, but happy-go-lucky and jolly ha-ha can suck my dick today.
I went to the health department this morning to add my daughter to Medicaid. My son has been on it for almost a year because I don't receive child support for either of my children and I can't afford private insurance for them (My job doesn't offer insurance. I work for an insurance company. Irony, please pick up the white courtesy phone, irony, white courtesy phone). So, until Chris and I get married, I need a little help. Especially with Virginia. She's an HMO's worst nightmare because she's so graceful and careful and shit. This is the same child who managed to get her head stuck in between the wall and the couch three different times in the span of one hour.
This was my third attempt to see the woman that I needed to speak with. I had made two previous appointments and was unable to keep them due to work. I asked on all three occasions if I needed to bring anything and was informed that all I needed to do was show up. Because I don't trust government employees, I took all of my daughter's pertinent information, anyway.
As I'm sitting there at this morning, blatantly staring at the couple who had come in for a pregnancy test (he must have been at least 60 and she was, oh, about twelve, for shits sake), the lady comes out.
Cue the angry, rude, overworked and underpaid racist black lady with a chip on her shoulder. And I'm sorry, I may piss a lot of people off, but this needs to be said, so read on at your own risk.
"If you're here to get Medicaid, you need to fill out a form." She thrusts it in my face and drops it so it wafts into my lap and turns to go.
"Excuse me, ma'am (note the polite use of the word ma'am. I am still in the blue at this point). I don't need to apply for Medicaid. My son already has it. I just need to add my daughter because she apparently likes to lick germ-infested surfaces and-"
"You can't add your daughter," she sneers. "You don't add her. You have to apply for Medicaid and wait to be approved."
"Um, okay, lady (now we're in the yellow. Danger, Will Robinson, danger!). I'm using your employees verbiage so there's no need to talk to me like that. I was told, three different times, to just come in. I was specifically told that I didn't need to bring anything and if they would have-"
This is the part where she thought it would be a brilliant idea to be a complete cunt. I am still sitting down when she towers over me and interrupts me to say, in front of God, the creepy May/December romance, and the eight welfare mothers sitting around with their collective broods, "Let me ex-plain this to you." She enunciates each word as though English is not my native language and her eyes get really big like she has just realized she is dealing with a retard.
Ok. We're in the red. I'm so fucking proud of you that you have a college degree. I'm sorry that you're an older black woman and it was probably a pain in the ass for a black woman in Mississippi to get a college degree in your day and age, but that's not my fault. I have watched you treat these baby-producing, welfare fucking mooching, illiterate leeches on society with a modicum of respect because you're the same color, but you're going to treat me like garbage because I'm white? Not a chance, bitch.
"Do not interrupt me again." I had stood and I was shaking with rage. "Let me ex-plain something to you. 'Single white parent in need of temporary assistance does not translate to 'uneducated redneck'. I am college educated and there is no need to speak to me as if I eat tard sandwiches for breakfast. If your staff had done their job and been accurate with their information, we wouldn't be having this problem. You can keep your goddamned form. We're done here."
I don't normally take political stands. It's not because I don't' have an opinion, it's only because I don't think that arguing with people about my opinion is going to solve anything. And I will admit that a small portion of my anger stemmed from knowing that after my last raise, I don't qualify for assistance anymore and if I had to provide proof of income again, I would lose the insurance on my son.
I have been on my own and working full-time since I was fifteen. I have paid into Medicaid and Social Security for seventeen years and I need six months of help and I can't get it because some fucking bureaucrat says I make too much. Combine that with the humiliation of some woman trying to give me a dressing-down in front of the great unwashed and I was completely, utterly livid. I work, I'm responsible and I can't get help nor common courtesy, but the average woman in the health department doesn't work, has babies like that's her job and abuses the system and they get treated like royalty? Tell me, who should have had chip on their shoulder this morning?
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
A couple of nights ago, Devon was playing a video game and Virginia fell asleep on his bed behind him while watching the game. I was doing laundry.
I know, I know. You wish you lived a life this full of intrigue and drama. Don't hate.
Anyway, I'm going through my second bottle of Spray 'N Wash this week (because my daughter goes to school and rolls around in the paint like a pig in the mud) when I notice something on one of my son's shirts. I take the shirt and go into his room. Virginia is to my left, snoring softly and drooling on Devon's pillow. Devon is on my right, snoring softly and drooling on his X-Box controller.
"Devon, what happened to your shirt?"
He has problems with kids picking on him and he doesn't tell me unless I pry because he's deathly afraid I will don my Rambo headband, go to his school and bust open my can o' whoop ass. That's much like my can o' worms, only with karate and shit.
"What do you mean? What's wrong with it?"
"It has marker all over it. Who got marker on your shirt?"
Almost immediately, from her comatose position on his bed, Virginia's arm shoots straight up into the air as though she's the guilty party and she just can't handle my grueling interrogation tactics anymore.
"What the crap is she doing, Mom?"
"I don't know. I thought she was asleep."
"Jez gimme a minute," Virginia mutters in her best Drunkenese.
"Uhhh, okay. Definitely no more Robi Comb. Anyway, look, Devon. There's purple here and there's black marker on the front."
"I didn't do the black marker. Only the burple," Virginia clarifies. Her eyes are closed and she is still drooling.
"Mom, that's just creepy. She's still asleep."
"Yeah. Ok. I need to probe into side effects of that damned comb. Wow. I need to call someone. Yeah. Virginia? Are you awake?"
So, last night, my kids got their report cards. Virginia's is 'Satisfactory' except for one area. She apparently can't control her talking.
"Baby, why are you having problems controlling your talking? Do we need to work on it?"
"No, Mommy. The teacher is fixing it."
"I have to raise my hand and be...icknodged...before I can talk."
"That's 'acknowledged'. You mean you have to raise your hand in class?"
"No. All the time. Even at recess."
"Ohhhhh. That would sort of explain last night."
"Nothing, baby. Keep doing what you're doing."
Monday, October 17, 2005
I'm Old, Age Difference, And Why I Love Him All Rolled Into One Post
So, Chris and I are watching a movie last night and one of the characters says something to the effect of, "Good, you might just be in time to convince me to take my head out of the oven."
Cue the insanity:
"I don't get it, babe."
"What, Chris? About the oven? She's joking about killing herself. People sometimes killed themselves by putting their head in the oven."
"Oh. Wow. What a horrible way to die."
"Wait. No, sweety. You don't broil your own head, for God's sake. In old gas ovens, you could die from the carbon monoxide. You would just go to sleep."
"Oh. Yeah, you can blog that."
Friday, October 14, 2005
HNT Peace Offering
I forgot again. I won't even bother ranting about another hair-ripping, scalp shocking evening with me and the lice or going to Wal-Mart to get cocoa crispies, having them tell me they needed prior approval to use my credit card as though I wasn't the person in the picture on my drivers license and that kind of psychotic expression is common, and then standing by the ATM that ultimately ate my debit card, spewing obscenities and stamping my foot when my mother showed up and said, "Umm, hey, remember James?" I spun around and there stands an ex-boyfriend, the one that was a walking vagina, the one I had to lie to and fake cheating on him to get him to go away. Chris thought it a brilliant idea to drench my bed and pillows in lice spray without removing the bedding and I had an allergic reaction, so I'm standing there looking like Rocky from Mask, muttering "fucks" and "assholes" and hey! How are ya! Oh, is this your child that I'm busy corrupting? Why is he screaming and backing away? I look perfectly lovely!
So. Here's the deal. I will post a picture of whatever you people want, WITHIN REASON. Nothing x-rated and no full nudity because my family reads this blog and that's just weird. Other than that, knock yourselves out. Be creative, be fun. So, submit an idea and if it's okay with Osbasso, I'll let him judge and pick the winning suggestion.
I'm so going to regret this.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Shameless request for free help
I would like to put something small on the left hand side regarding the cast of this blog. I'm sure that it would assist people who are new here as far as who we all are. It would go like this:
Cast of Characters
Crystal - I write this shit.
Chris - He gives me material and wants to marry me for some bizarre reason.
Devon - My 12-year-old son. He cringes every time I say, "Flog the Dolphin."
Virginia - My 5-year-old daughter. She's asks, "Why?", with abandon and generally drives me bananas. Bee-Ay-EN-AY-EN-AY-ES.
If anyone can help do that, I'll put you in my prayers, and let's face it, God and I are like this. Thanks.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
One of the joys of having a child in public school (aside from the obvious stuff, like, learning how to say, "Eat me", in Farsi from Najid who sleeps next to her during nap time. Then again, I'm sure she could pick that up in private school or, better yet, from me) is head lice. A couple of weeks ago, Virginia was scratching herself like a methadone connoisseur and we discovered that she had been afflicted with these nasty little bastards. I have been fighting with it ever since.
After battling with her school last week (and finding out that they have had at least 100 cases this year. Thanks, motherfuckers, I must have missed the memo and my opportunity to enact preventive measures) and spending a fortune on products, I was at my wits end. I was staring at her a few days ago.
"Mommy, why are you staring at me?"
"I'm trying to decide if you would look androgynous with a buzz cut."
"What's anjen...ronus? And what's a cuzz butt?"
Last night, I decided to try the Robi comb. This little miracle of modern science guarantees to kill lice with regular use. You comb it through and it zaps lice and kills them instantly with no chemicals or discomfort.
After reading the instructions a couple of times, we began what seemed like a relatively simple process. Virginia was watching Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory (the classic. I can't watch Johnny Depp act that role out. He would be fired from my masturbation sessions and that's just too much for me to handle) and listening to me talk about Eddie Murphy.
"Mommy, there's a boy in my class named Eddie Murphy."
"Really? Huh. Is he white or black?"
So, I'm combing and all of a sudden, my daughter jumps, her leg flies straight out and she shrieks. I figured I had just caught a tangle, so I kept combing. A few seconds later, she jumps, bites her tongue and shrieks again.
"V, sit still, baby. I'm not trying to hurt you."
"It huuuuurrrrts, Mommy. It hurts when it gets quiet!"
The comb emits a high pitched buzzing sound and when it catches a louse, it stops buzzing to alert you to the impending death. Very morbid.
She was so freaked out by now that she was red and blotchy and was sporting a streamer of snot that was at least 2 feet long.
"Baby, go blow your nose. And then come back. We're not done."
While she was gone, Chris investigated the Robi and found that if you don't hold it at an exact 45 degree angle while combing, you will basically feel the shock as it kills the lice. I was aghast.
"Do you see, anywhere on the instructions, where it says, 'Be careful of the angle while combing or your fucking kid will start picking up radio stations in Russia?' Cos' I sure as hell don't."
As Chris pored over the instructions and I dragged Virginia out from underneath the bed where she was cowering, we tried it again. The next few minutes went something like this:
"Oh, shit. Sorry, honey. Not quite 45 degrees."
Crying. Snot. Pleading.
"Sugar, I'm soooo sorry. The back of your head just doesn't allow a 45 degree angle."
Whimpering. Shooting straight up off the chair every time the comb so much entered her bubble of space. Twitching.
We finally gave up after her arm went numb and I held her until her sniffles subsided and she fell asleep. This morning, after I woke her and she said, "Dogs red nark shove super poo", I've made a final decision: That kid is going into private school.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Indication That You're Getting Old, Part....I Forget.
Most days, I forget that there is any sort of age difference between me & Chris. And then there was Saturday.
Devon & I talked Chris into a game of Trivial Pursuit. We agreed that, because I have an unusually large cranium, they could team up against me. They will tell you that it's because it's an older Trivial Pursuit game and "it's all eighties crap. No one else but you has conscious memories of the eighties", but that's a nasty lie.
Here are some of the highlights:
Me: "What drummer took over vocals for the band Genesis after Peter Gabriel left?"
Devon: (blank stare)
Chris: "See? Eighties shit. Who the hell is Genesis?"
Devon: "Who the hell is Peter Gabriel?"
Me: "You are not allowed to say 'hell', dammit! Chris, I can't believe you don't remember Genesis. Ok. I'll give you a hint. He does a lot of the music for the latest Disney movies."
Chris: "No idea."
Me: "You're not even trying. Ok. One more hint."
I then started singing the lyrics to "In The Air Tonight". Everyone's heard that song. The dog next door started harmonizing.
Chris: "Richard Marx?"
Me: "Sweet Jesus. I'm calling up Phil."
Me: "Who was the only person to have starred in two shows in the top-10-rated TV shows of 1990, simultaneously?"
Devon looks to Chris.
Chris: "Ooh! I know! He's dead, isn't he?"
Me: "As much as I would like to say he is, no, he isn't."
Devon: "Just say Bon Jovi. Mom talks about them all the time. Odds are that eventually, you'll be right."
Me: "Shut up, you little asshole, or I'll drive you to school and walk you to the front door on Monday."
Chris: "I don't know. Bill Cosby."
Me: "Nope. Bob Faggot."
Devon: "There was a TV guy with the last name Faggot?! Oh my God! That's classic!"
Me: "No...his name...nevermind."
Next question. By now, I had pulled the Goldschlager out of the freezer. I was morosely turning the shot glass in my hand and asking myself if it was really time to throw out my Def Leppard t-shirts.
Me: "What 1976 hit movie prompted millions to add the word, "Yo!", to their vocabulary?"
Chris: "Boys in the Hood!"
Me: (sigh) "1976, babe. I'm pretty sure they weren't even Embryos in the Hood in 1976."
From that point forward, every single question was met with, "He's dead, right?" or enthusiastic squawks of "Bon Jovi!", and then there was, "Oh, I know they're definitely dead by now." I just sat, got drunk, kicked their asses (BECAUSE I'M SMART. IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH ME KNOWING EVERY CAST MEMBER OF THE SHOW, Facts of Life, SO YOU CAN SUCK ME) and then passed out among my Dio and Quiet Riot t-shirts. God, I miss the eighties.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
HNT. Anarchy. Whatever.
I would hate to ruin my reputation for bringing absolutely nothing to HNT (because my children are aliens from another planet who feed on my energy and leave me wasted and pathetic ... no, wait, that's just me...), so in keeping with that, I give you: The most embarrassing and conveniently blurry picture ever taken of me.
I'm on the left. It was a punk phase. I was fourteen. Shut up.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Project "Unpack My Rat", 2005
Here is a normal morning greeting:
"Good morning! How was your weekend?"
"Oh, fine, fine. Yours?"
Now, let's try that again, only this time, a single parent (much like me. Okay, it is me) is on the answering end of things:
Co-worker: "Good morning! How was your weekend?"
Me: "Sprained ankle, dog bite and elbow macaroni up the left nostril. Where the fuck is the coffee?"
This weekend, I spent 12 hours overhauling Mr. McKnob's kitchen.
Twelve. Just think about that. When's the last time you spent twelve hours doing something enjoyable, much less inhaling Easy-Off Oven Cleaner and and then talking to a jar of expired olives?
He had things in his refrigerator that had "Use By" dates in 2003 and when we pulled the fridge out so I could clean behind it, we found Jimmy Hoffa.
During one of my crying fits, I missed a tub of mayonnaise that expired in January. When we were eating lunch later, Chris grabbed it.
"Honey, that expired in January."
"Nah, it's still good. It smells okay." He dipped his finger in and tasted it. I gagged. "Tastes okay."
"It's made with eggs, Chris. Eggs don't ... Fine. When you're sick, remember that I'm always right."
An hour later, he's standing in the kitchen talking to me across the bar when he gets this pained look on his face.
"Oh, God, don't come in here. I just farted and it burned." He then grabs his butt and goes scampering off to the bathroom, where much groaning and lamenting could be heard through the walls. I tried to be as supportive as possible by yelling from the kitchen, "IT WAS THE MAYONNAISE. I'M ALWAYS RIGHT."
Some time later, I was cleaning out the drawers in his kitchen. As I would throw things away, he would get this horrified look on his face. We had an agreement about what things he absolutely could not live without and he wrote those things on a list that was stuck to the fridge.
"Crystal, don't throw that away! It's a pickle thing! You put the pickles in and then you lift the thing and it separates the pickles from the-"
"Is it on the list? Does it say anywhere on the list 'pickle thing'? No? I didn't think so."
(Ten minutes later)
"Don't throw those away!"
"Chris, it's a drawer full of batteries. Are they any good?"
"Some of them might be."
"Do you know which ones might be good?"
"Well...no, not really."
"Mmm hmm. Goodbye!" I dumped them in the trash and turned to find him standing there with the most hurt, lost look on his face.
"Baby, what's wrong? You're a pack-rat. You told me to unpack your rat. I'm doing just that. I'm wearing a hat! I'm going to bat! I'm-"
"I just have a hard time letting go of things."
"Sweet pea, they're batteries, not a family heirloom. Don't you have tools to use and bathrooms to funk up? Go. Shoo."
He walked away, dejected and sad, and I felt terrible. Then I opened up another drawer, IN THE KITCHEN, stuck a blow-gun spear straight into my finger and I felt not so terrible about throwing his shit out.
Twelve miserable hours later, I was shuffling through the hallway when I met Devon on his way to the refrigerator to do something simple, like make a sandwich, and thereby destroy the whole kitchen as only penis-people can seem to do.
"Devon, if you mess that kitchen up, I will gut you. Capiche?"
"Wow. What's wrong with you?"
"Yeah, me too."
"Oh, really? Fifteen solid hours of Warcraft will wear you out, huh?"
"It's really stressful, Mom. You have to-"
"Shut up before I cram you back into my womb and leave you there until you develop common sense, you turd."
"Yeah, that was kind of gross."
T-Minus 64 days until co-habitation begins. Pray for me.
Friday, September 30, 2005
In Case I Didn't Mention It, I'm Forgetful
I forgot about HNT. I forgot about Tami tagging me. I remembered to pee and breathe yesterday and that was about it.
Please understand that from the moment I walk in my door, I am held hostage by two very demanding children. I basically go on auto pilot and, while they think their mother is there with them, cooking spaghetti (day 39 in a row) and murmuring, "Yes, sweety" when it seems appropriate, in reality, I'm on a reconnaissance mission in Paris and Hugh Jackman is trying to seduce me. It's not that I'm trying to escape my life, it's just better for the health of my children since I don't drink much anymore.
Let me tell you how retarded I am.
Yesterday, I came into work and tried to fit my Lean Cuisine in the freezer of the mini-fridge. It won't fit for 2 reasons:
1. It needs to be defrosted. There were ice trays in there at one time. No one knows where they are, to this day.
2. The other 4 Lean Cuisines I've stuffed in there over the weeks. See, I don't actually eat them. I just buy them and put them in the freezer. Then I feel like I've won half the battle.
So my co-worker gives me her hair dryer and I go to work. I'm impatient, so I get a utensil out of the drawer to chip away at the ice. Corina, my co-worker, comes around the corner.
"Crystal, it's probably not a good idea to chip the ice away with a steak knife."
"Pshaw. I know what I'm doing. My mother was the defrost queen."
Now, that part is true. I very vividly remember my mother shutting the whole kitchen down so she could defrost the freezer and the deep freezer. If you so much as whispered in her direction while she was defrosting, she would skewer you in the head with a shard of ice. It was a monthly event and one she took very seriously. Suggesting that she use anything but a plastic utensil was grounds for immediate dismissal from the family. You might as well have told her to go outside in the cold with wet hair.
Since I was determined to make her proud, I immediately started hacking away with the knife. I hacked and hacked with savage glee until I heard a hissing noise. Because I'm smarter than you and I figured this couldn't be a good thing, I rummaged through the junk drawer in the kitchen and found some velcro stickies. I pasted one on the hole and continued defrosting. I defrosted that mini-fridge faster than any defroster has ever defrosted and I was proud.
This morning, I came to work and everyone is standing around the mini-fridge holding their various items and looking grim. Milk, salads, fruit...nothing could be saved. When I be-bopped in with my bagles and cream cheese, they all turned to me.
"You defrosted yesterday, didn't you?"
"Uhh, yeah. I did a good job, didn't I?"
"Did you use something metal to chip away the ice?"
"Maybe. Maybe I didn't. YOU CAN'T BLAME ME. MY MOTHER IS A PURE-BRED DEFROSTER."
"You owe me a carton of milk. And we're calling your mother."
Since my boss is awesome, he forgave me and refused to let me pay for a new mini-fridge. Since he forgave me, I'm hoping that Osbasso and Tami will, too. Here. I'm a bad monkey and I know it.
For Tami, because she tagged me:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.
Here it is:
"Not because he was cool, but because he was so disgusting and weird that he got his ass kicked on a daily basis on that bus."
I'm not tagging anyone because the last time I did, people got perturbed and I already have a mini-fridge's freon on my hands. I don't need anymore bad kharma.
For Osbasso: This picture makes me cry because it was taken 6 years ago, when I could actually see my toes while standing. You know, before the Great Breast Explosion of 2000. (And I know that the random pictures have to stop because I'm offending all of the people who actually put creativity into HNT, and I'm trying. Admitting I have a problem is the first step)
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Another Thing I Noticed About Getting Old
I can't handle drinking any amount of liquor unless I have the next day to stay in bed and sleep it off.
If I have to come in to work, I spend the majority of the day in the bathroom, wondering why I didn't remember what alcohol does to my digestive system, spraying Lysol and crying. I kill everything within a 20-yard radius and I've given up on pretending that I'm in there straightening my hair or scrubbing the floor.
Everyone knows. You can't NOT know.
I don't know if this is necessarily a bad thing. Here are the pros:
- Chris doesn't drink and neither do my kids, so I fit in now.
- I don't have to have them pull over so I can pee every three minutes and then come out of the convenience store with useless shit like rubber poop and a twelve-dollar box of baking soda.
- Virginia doesn't get that look on her face anymore like she's concentrating really hard on trying to figure out what, "Memmy loveshoe zoemush", means.
- I remember where my keys and my pants are EVERY SINGLE DAY.
- Everyone was able to spend the extra money they were stashing for bail money.
- The creepy guy in the liquor store doesn't call me anymore to tell me that they just got a new shipment in and should he hold a case for me?
- No fist fights between me and my mom anymore. Ok, less fist fights.
- My kids don't have to worry about me jumping out from behind the shower curtain and scaring three years off their lives and then laughing till I pass out. Well, not while I'm dealing with my body drying out from all the years of lushing. I'm rather grumpy.
- No more pesky sobriety checks. Police officers really have no sense of humor when you say, rather indignantly, "No, I am most certainly not drunk. I don't remember drinking a thing."
- It doesn't take me an hour-and-a-half to achieve orgasm. And Devon, if you're gagging and shuddering right now, it's your own fault. You know you're not supposed to read my blog. Go do your homework.
- No more being afraid to answer the phone the next morning and hearing a detailed account of exactly how many people saw me run naked through the parking lot the night before, screaming, "Viva la revolution!"
- No one having to toss sawdust on me when I puke on my shoes and pass out on the table at Pat O'Brien's in Memphis, twenty minutes before midnight on New Year's Eve.
- Never, ever having to ask, again, "What kind of reputable place pierces a body part when you're too drunk to blink?"
- No more arguments about the genius of Abba.
- No more crying during every episode of CSI: New York and then declaring that I'm going back to college. On second thought, nevermind. I'm going back to college.
Now, here are the cons:
- Constipation. My body doesn't like having to process anything that's not Krystal's or Waffle House and having to do it normally. The office is unusually quiet after hearing me sob, "Why won't you just come out? WHY?" from the bathroom today.
- Accountability. Or, not being able to blame everything on being drunk. When I run into walls now, it's my own fault. When I accidentally drop an f-bomb in front of the 82-year-old cashier at Wal-Mart, I can't rely on Chris to say, "Don't mind her. She's hammered."
- Drunken barbecue was my favorite meal to prepare. I've made spaghetti 38 days in a row.
- Neighbors. The typical conversation while heading to my car goes like this, now:
Neighbor: "Hey, what's up?"
Me: "Hi. I'm Crystal, I live in number two. And you are...?"
Neighbor: "Alan. You gave me a blowjob under the stairs for Christmas 'cos you said kissing under the mistletoe was so 1980's."
Me: "Oh. I'm giving out finger puppets this year. Want one?"
- As I mentioned, my grumpiness. My daughter actually said to me, "You used to be a nice Mommy. Now you're a yelly Mommy." I'm now spending all my alcohol money on guilt gifts.
- Writer's block. I'm stopped up on both ends. I sit here, staring at the computer and nothing surfaces. I'm here to tell you that if Hemingway had been sober, he would have been selling refrigerators in Duck Pucker, Kansas.
- I have nothing in common with the guy that lives behind the dumpster, now.
- My big, fat ass. Chris loves the emergence of some butt. I hate it. I quit smoking almost a year ago and now I don't drink, so I eat everything that doesn't run from me.
It's 4:25 and I just previewed this entry, and you know what? I need a drink.
I notice that from time to time, people will drop off the notification list and while I know that some of you have your own reasons for doing so and I don't want to pry (i.e. if you decided that I suck like a teenage crack-whore, I don't want to know), I'm wondering if it's in part because the service I use only updates once a day and, apparently, it's at fucking midnight. Or if you left because your eyes can't stand the mind-bogglingly long run-on sentences anymore.
Does anyone know of a better notification service that doesn't require me to use that damned RSS feed? I tried to incorporate that into my site once and they found me on the floor the next day, twitching and choking on the hair I had torn out. It wasn't pleasant.+
EDIT: Ok, thanks to Tanya, I now have a notify list that should send you an email within a few minutes of me updating, if you would like. Everyone who is on the list now will have to re-subscribe. I would do it for you, but I don't want to assume you still want it. THANKS, TANYA!
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
I just had this conversation.
Me: "Thank you for calling ****, this is Crystal, may I help you?"
Woman: "Do you have hurricanes here?"
Me: (beating my head on the desk) "No."
Woman: "Well, I'm not from here and we bought a house a few months ago, so I wasn't sure."
Me: (talking around a mouthful of Tylenol) "You are aware that there are no oceans nearby?"
Woman: "Well, there is the Mississippi."
Me: (checking the calendar to make sure it's not the 3rd of I'm A Fucking Idiot) "We only have avalanches. No hurricanes."
Woman: "Do we have that insurance to cover that?"
Me: "Yes. You also have insurance to cover the volcano eruptions."
Woman: "Oh, good. I've been watching the news about these hurricanes and I wanted to make sure."
Me: "Super. Is there anything else you need? Is your home foil-wrapped to protect you from wayward spaceship transmissions? Cos' we don't cover that."
I Am Not A Normal Female
I'm getting married on April 22nd. I just asked a woman in the office for some referrals since she is a newlywed. She gave me the name of the woman to call about the location and a minister and then I seized.
Two whole names and I collapsed in a heap of drool and moans. "Noooooo....planning....
If you're walking down the street in Memphis and you see a woman in pajamas and a veil, chewing her fingernails and muttering to herself about, "Common law. We'll just...live in sin. Bikers do it all the time." That's me.
I don't think I'm cut out for this.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Tae Bo-nes Are Friggin' Breaking
Chris and I tore down a wall in his house yesterday. It was the beginning of a remodeling project that will be finished in approximately 2010. By then, my kids will be doing slave labor at Home Depot and I'll be sucking weiner in the parking lot to pay off the $875,000 in Pergo I plan on buying, but that house will be beautiful.
Anyway, while we were taking a break, drinking bacon grease and eating fried twinkies, I noticed how out of shape we both are. I've also been having nightmares that involve Richard Simmons crying by my bed, cranes and missing roofs and THAT IS ENOUGH, people.
So, this morning, I put the kids on the school bus and Chris & I did Tae Bo.
At 7 a.m.
That's 7 in the morning. Five full hours before noon. There was sweat, tears and crying and more crying, but we did it. It went something like this:
7:00 - Get the necessary supplies: water, towels, mats, MedAlert, atropine, an Ace bandage and some Rubber Cement to keep the boobs at bay, and chilled vodka.
7:05 - Stretch. Actually, this was more like sort of reaching, groaning and lots of exclamations like, "My God. I never knew my toes were so far from my head" and "Wow. When did that grow there?"
7:10 - Begin. I'm karate kicking and screaming, "Pow, motherfucker!" Chris is looking at Billy Blanks like he's just figured out that Satan is back and he wears spandex.
7:12 - We have both collapsed on the floor. I'm wheezing, "Pow....mother....fucker..." and Chris is turning blue.
7:13 - After a shot of atropine and some vodka, attempt to continue.
7:17 - Call my mother and ask her if it's normal to need Depends when you exercise. Hang up when she starts giggling.
7:18 - Billy's exuberant queries of, "Are you feeling it?" are answered with such grumblings as, "Yeah, I feel it, you shiny asshole" and "How...much....coke...snort...
7:20 - Enthusiastically cheer the TV. Fluff my pillow and pass the Cheetos to Chris.
7:30 - Turn the TV off, high-five each other and vow to do it again tomorrow.
7:31 - Uncross fingers.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
I have NOTHING. For HNT, this is the picture of Chris & me that is posted on the wedding website. I am drinking. Go vote, again, before 12 o'cock. It's the righ tthing to do.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Things I Learned Since Getting My Kids Up For School
1. Setting the clock forward 15 minutes to fool yourself into getting up early never works. You are a blithering idiot if you can't remember that did it and you will inevitably remind yourself (gleefully) every morning that you can sleep an extra 15 minutes because the clock is wrong.
2. Your bed will never be as comfortable on your days off as it will be on workdays. I can't tell you how much this makes me want to cry.
3. My kids are not "morning" people. In fact, they're not even mid-afternoon people.
4. Increasing the volume every time you say, "Get up. Get up. GET UP. GET UP!! GET UUUUUUUUUUPPPP!!!!" only gives you a headache and doesn't get them up any faster. Save yourself the exasperation and roll cold beer cans into bed with them. They'll either get up or you can get drunk and pass out together. Whatever.
5. "No More Tears" doesn't work. I drench my daughter's head with oily, strawberry-scented shit and I still yank half her hair out till she looks like a chemo patient. The sad part is that I continue to use it every single morning and when I do, I punctuate each yank with the Ozzy Osbourne song of the same name. "NO (yank) MORE (yank) TEARS (yank)."
6. Dora The Explorer assumes that kids are fucking stupid. Even my daughter said this morning, "Mommy, they always do the same thing. It's boring."
7. I have no dignity before 9 a.m. I will go to the bus stop in old flannel pajama bottoms with a great big hole in the crotch, an A-Ha shirt with kool-aid stains on it and mascara smeared across my forehead and I really don't give a shit.
8. My son does give a shit. He will avoid me at all costs when we are at the bus stop and I derive great pleasure from bleating, "I love you, cookie puss! Mommy will miss you sooooo much!", when he boards the bus.
9. School buses reek of Elmer's glue. I point this out every single morning to all the other parents. No one really acknowledges me anymore.
10. The size of the dog shit you will step in on the way to the bus is directly proportionate to the type of shoe you have on. In my case, wearing flip flops will ensure that you step in a turd the size of a Geo Metro.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Happy HNMOTHER OF FUCK, WHO TOOK THE CAMERA, AGAIN??!
I don't own a digital camera or a camera phone. I'm not even sure what a wheel is. I was all ready to take a picture of the beautiful engagement ring Chris gave me and I know you were all sooo expecting my bling bling to be here, but, alas, Chris's camera went home with his sister last night.
This seems to happen every Thursday. I procure someone else's photo taking device and hog it for the week and they inevitably come hunting for it on Wednesday. Not Tuesday or Friday, always on fucking Wednesday. So, without further ado:
Welcome to another edition of, "Sonofabitch, I have to invest in my own camera". Here is Devon, the brains in the family. It is my God-given right as a mother to brag that he is in the top 5% of the state as far as his standardized tests are concerned, and he has been selected to participate in Duke University's talent search program for gifted nerdy kids, just like I was. Congratulations, Oh Nerdy Son Of Mine! Happy HNT!
Oh, and the first person to point out that I live in Mississippi gets a sharp stick in the eye.
Oh, Look! I'm Old!!
I will be 32 in November. My children think I'm old. I have been denying it...until last night.
I came home from Kroger and immediately took a package of toilet paper out of the bag. I went running into my son's bedroom where he was tying off a vein and shooting up Warcraft.
"Devon! Look! Look!" I waved it to the left of his face and then around to the right.
"Looooook! Looklooklook!" I put my hand on his chin and closed his mouth with an audible click. "You really need to lay off the Warcraft, son...now, look!"
"What, Mom? You're messing me up!"
"Look what I got! It's Cottonelle! With Aloe! I had a coupon for $4 off, so I got a 12-pack of double rolls, WITH ALOE, for three dollars! Can you believe it?"
The look on his face can only be described as, "Does it look like I could possibly give less of a shit about your toilet paper orgasm?"
Defeated, I took my toilet paper and went in the kitchen. I took a roll out and rubbed it on my face. Enraptured, I ran back into his room. As I was sneaking up on him to rub the aloe softness on his cheek (who can resist being full of joy after feeling that???), he said, without turning around, "Don't even think about it, woman."
So I went in search of Virginia. She wasn't really sure what the hell was so exciting about toilet paper, either, but she smiled really big at me and said, "Can I use it when I poop?"
"Yes! Yes! That's the beauty of it!" I then roared, "YOU ALL NEED TO ENJOY THIS BECAUSE IT WON'T HAPPEN VERY OFTEN THAT WE GET TO WIPE OUR ASSES WITH ALOE, YOU INGRATES."
So, here I am at work and I still think my children are wrong and I'm not old and...Oh, listen! Tom T. Hall!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Indication That He Is The Most Perfect Man Alive, Part 2
Here is what just happened.
Mr. McKnob, my FIANCE, (I have never been able to say that so it tickles me not just pink, but fuschia, which everyone knows is a much giddier shade of pink), just called a few minutes ago.
I had Launchcast playing in the background and I was delighted that it's customized music station had picked Tom T. Hall's, "Who's Gonna Feed Them Hogs?", for me to listen to. I know all the words and will sing them with hillbilly abandon.
Oh, what breeding you are marrying into, Mr. McKnob.
Here is how the conversation went:
Fiance: "Hey, babe. What are you doing?"
Me: "Working." (singing under my breath) "Here I am in this dang bed and who's gonna feed them hogs?"
Fiance: "I was just thinking about finances."
Me: "Really? What specifically?"
We have been having long conversations about our WEDDING and HONEYMOON (Oh, and Angie Johnson? Yes, you, the Angie Johnson who told me in the 9th grade that I would never get married because I was ugly? The same divorced Angie Johnson who now lives in a trailer park with her 5 dirty children? You can SUCK. MY. UGLY. ASS) and I perked up because I was hoping he had come up with a way to have my three-hundred thousand dollar wedding on roughly four-hundred dollars.
Me: "Two hundred hogs just standin' out there, my wife cain't feed 'em and my neighbors don't care..."
Fiance: "I don't know, I was just thinking about -"
Disclaimer: My bowels don't act like a normal person's bowels, especially not after Taco Bell. One minute I'm sitting here with almost imperceptible gurglings going on and then WHAM! Katy-bar-the-fucking-colon, report immediately to the bathroom, do not pass go, but do collect the spray. And your two-hundred dollars because WEDDINGS are expensive, shit!
Me: "I have to go."
He doesnt' ask any questions, doesn't want to know why the hell I'm singing about hogs or what's so damned urgent or why I interrupted him, he just says, "Ok, bye!" and hangs up.
And later, when I tell him that the lady at the office was showing me her wedding pictures and I asked, "What's that?", and she said, "Oh, that's the boutonniere" (pronounced boot-a-neer), and I asked, without kidding, "Did you have a pirate theme at your wedding?", he'll look at me very seriously and say, "I would have asked the same thing", even if he knew what the hell a boutonniere was.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Indication That He Is The Most Perfect Man Alive, Part 1
I rarely tell this story because it still makes me squirm to this day, but this was one of those moments that stands out in my memory because it further anchored my belief that Chris is not of this world. And, no, it's not mushy.
Well, there's mushy in it, but not the kind you might expect.
I am not afraid of many things. In fact, I'm more of an adrenaline junkie than most people I know. Skydiving every weekend and hang gliding are just a few of the things that I used to enjoy. I would still enjoy them now if my kids didn't need a new wardrobe and food every six days. Little vampires.
Anyway, there is one thing that frightens me to the point of hysterics. It is a bona fide phobia and it will turn me into a whimpering, fetal ball of pussiness. I'll get to that in a minute.
When I moved into my apartment last year in July, Chris was the only person available to help me. Everyone else who owed me a favor had some pathetic excuse like, "But, Crystal, she's in labor", and "I have to be there for sentencing". Assholes.
Chris and I were casually dating at the time and he readily offered to help me. For someone who's moved her entire life no less than 38 times, this was a huge deal to me because I either:
A: End up doing it alone and injuring myself because I get blindly drunk to ease the pain of the realization that I have no friends
B: My dad and my brother help me and we all end up injuring ourselves because we get blindly drunk to ease the pain of the realization that we are related and it can't be helped
He was a one-man moving machine. He single-handedly moved my TV, bed, dressers, bookshelf and my bronze bust of E.T. Everytime I would try to get involved, he would say, "Nah, I got this" and then throw a dryer over his shoulder and skip inside. It was amazing.
One of the last pieces we picked up was an antique dresser that my sister-in-law had bought for me at an auction. It is a beautiful piece and I was thrilled to have it. Because I was so paranoid about it and it's very bulky, I helped Chris. We moved it onto a truck and then into my bedroom. It sat there among my many cardboard boxes and I admired it for a moment. I have never had a piece of furniture this beautiful. I got some Pledge and started to clean it. Chris was behind me watching my butt as I cleaned (and he will deny this and say he was unpacking a box and I know it's a damned lie) when I froze.
"What's wrong, babe?'
"Chris. Chris. What is that? What is that, Chris? Chris??" I was wheezing and he could barely hear me.
"It's just a roach. I'll get-"
Before he could finish, I was shrieking down the hallway, tearing chunks of my hair out. When I had calmed to thin, reedy sobs, I hollered down the hallway, "Chris? Make sure it's dead and then flush it. I'll roll some Lysol down the hallway. Clean the wall, take the paint off cos' my brother can fix it and then disinfect the toilet. Make sure you flush it at least 4 times and then throw the toilet paper roll away. I don't want it. If it falls on the carpet, cut that swatch of carpet out and I'll put something on top of it. Can you get me my Hazmat suit out of that closet?"
I hear nothing but silence, and just when I start to think that my fears are confirmed and cockroaches can eat a full-grown man, Chris says to me, very urgently, "Babe, do NOT come back here."
Then I really freaked out. Had it started growing? Did it shoot a thousand babies out of it's ass? Were they finally going to take over the world like I feared?
"What's wrong??" I was hopping from foot to foot and I had my hand jammed in my crotch to try and keep from pissing on my feet.
"The dresser. It had a colony living in it."
My eyes fell out of my head. My dresser. My beautiful, antique, cherry-wood dresser. The only elegant, classic piece I had ever owned.
"GET THAT MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
I ran into the breezeway and around in circles like my ass was on fire. When Chris realized that I was seriously phobic and not just squeamish, he picked up the dresser by himself and carried it out into the breezeway. When I saw it coming, I ran into the parking lot and peed on my car tire. Instead of busting a gut laughing at me like most normal people would do, he immediately went back into that hell and made sure that every single demon-bug was dead and the remains disposed of.
After I cried all over him and kept mumbling, "Cardboard, Chris. My stuff is in cardboard boxes. They love cardboard, I read about it I have to abandon and start all over agggghhhhhh" he went back in and emptied every single box to ensure that none had take refuge in there. He then calmed me down until I felt well enough to drive to Walgreens and buy eight bug-bombs. He drove home and got his industrial bug spray and set off the bombs for me. In the middle of the night, he scrubbed the entire dresser while I sat in my locked car, weeping and talking to Jesus about ridding the earth of those foul little fuckers. He did all of this so that I could keep my personal belongings, my apartment, my dresser and my sanity. I was ready to set the whole building on fire and be done with it and he worked his ass off so that wouldn't happen.
We came back a couple of days later. No one in the building had bugs. Or plants. Or pets. Or hair. But those bugs were gone, by God.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
One of these things happened last night. Try to guess which one:
1. I spent the night in jail after telling a bouncer at Pat O'Brien's that "I don't need to put my tits away. Are you crazy? I'm doing the world a service, you cocksucker."
2. I lost a bet and had to tell everyone I encountered, while shaking their hand, that "this is one of the non-inflammatory days, thank God."
3. I tripped on Beale Street and fell into a large, black woman with dreads and massive amounts of arm hair. She latched onto me and told her friends, "Look at dis! They throwin' beads and white people!"
4. Chris asked me to marry him and I said yes.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
HNT With Miss V
It's 11:30 p.m. and I'm too exhausted to find anything else after lecturing my kids for half an hour about their driving me to the brink of madness and how horrible they will feel if I end up on an overpass somewhere with an AK47, picking motorists off and talking to the imaginary monkeys on my shoulder.
This was taken this past weekend, on the trek to Jackson, Tennessee. We stopped to eat and Chris managed to snap this picture of my daughter as she was getting excited about the camera or her fries or my nose or air or whatever the hell she stays excited about.
She is a well of exuberance and mirth and she wears me the fuck out.
She is in bed, grounded from breathing or smiling or anything that could be enjoyable, dammit, after throwing her body into the wall and shrieking like a banshee when she found out she couldn't have any bubblegum after she brushed her teeth. She's lucky she's not on the doorstep of an orphanage right about now.
I just spent 20 minutes plucking the mutant hair out of my chin before it could grow long enough to start waving in the wind like some sort of beacon to alert others to my estrogen- deprived status.
I have a box of facial wax at home. It has dust on it because I can't quite bring myself to admit that I actually need to wax my upper lip and my goaty. (My mother pronounces it that way and I think it's adorable, so suck me)
My car now has one hub-capless tire, one donut tire(I drove over another bolt. My tires are the Carnie Wilson's of the road and they will gobble up some bolts), a smashed windshield, crumpled front end and an antenna that randomly pops up and down when I mash on the brake. I'm considering putting a Viagra sticker on the brake pedal. Only I will think it's funny, but I'm the only one who counts.
A police officer followed me to work today and one followed me for several miles yesterday. I've been puzzling over this. Are they worried about my car? Are they fascinated that such a huge piece of shit still runs and they want to drive behind me to make sure I'm not propelling it with my feet, a'la Fred Flintstone? Are they considering giving me a ticket for operating a vehicle that is unsafe and then they notice my mutant hair flapping in the wind and decide I have enough issues without adding a ticket to it? Or do they leave me alone because they realize that no one in their right mind would operate such a turd of a car if they could afford to have it fixed? I need to get a bumper sticker that says, "My other car is a real piece of shit" and slap it on the bitch. The least I can do is give everyone a chuckle.
It is absolutely gut-wrenching to have families in your office who have no home, no money and no job and the thing that makes the mother cry is talking about the loss of all the baby pictures. Hurricane Katrina can eat lunch at my ass (RIP B) and that's all I have to say about that.
My co-workers and I went to lunch yesterday and the entire conversation, from beginning to end, consisted of boobs, boobs and more boobs. They (the breastesses) are apparently emitting subliminal messages to those around me, now, and I'm scared to death. What happens when they start telling me to buy those ridiculously expensive bras from Victoria's Secret that I can't afford? My children and I will be living on the street, but look at this support!
Ashonishenetta was at the bus stop yesterday with her daughter. They were running late, so we all had to move out from underneath the bus stop to make room for The Daughter's Hair. Twenty minutes, 87 bauble-bands, a hacksaw and one can of compressed air later, and the poor woman was in tears, saying, "Oooh, girl, I guess I'm jez goan have to dri' you to school, girl. Yo' hair don't cooperate at all and I can't get it done 'fo da bus get here." I can now understand why she was so desperate to get to Calvin, who, by the way, has not been seen on the bus or at school since that day. I imagine that his momma moved districts to protect the identity of her hairdresser.