Tuesday, January 03, 2006
I started this blog a year ago. I did so in the midst of emotional turmoil, abject loneliness and extreme confusion.
I had been writing in a forum run by a pseudo internet celebrity. My writing was tentative at first. I had never exposed myself to criticism (and the attacks I had witnessed were swift, merciless and without restraint) and I was wary.
When my writing was well received, I was hopeful and flattered. When it came along with a sort of respect and admiration that I had never known before in my life, I was shocked and grateful. I've always been an extremely solitary and shy person and the attention I was getting was unprecedented. I blossomed because of it. I became less timid and more able to be myself without a pint of liquid courage beforehand. I started to believe I was really good at something for the first time in my life. I felt like a part of a group, and that was something I had never experienced, either. I had never really had friends at any point in my life because of my nomadic upbringing. This was all new and glorious to me.
When the internet "celebrity" chose to viciously attack me (for reasons that remain, to this day, unknown) and my character, I was exposed to the basest of human nature. People I considered friends, people I had spent time with, who knew me intimately, stood by mute. Some even joined in and ingratiated themselves to him at my expense. I was literally heartbroken and sick. The fact that the attacks were unprovoked and unwarranted made the whole ordeal even more agonizing. My parenting skills were mocked. My physical appearance was torn to shreds. No part of my life was sacred. I was called vile and disgusting names by people who had never even met me.
I was mostly confused because I've never been a confrontational person and although I have been known to poke fun at people, if I were to truly hurt or offend someone who didn't deserve it, I would be contrite and ashamed of myself. My mother raised me to be kind. I try to live up to her expectations because she's the sort of parent that I very much want to be. I naively assumed that others would be the same way. I was horrified that so many people took such great pleasure in my pain.
Now, kindness should not be mistaken for weakness. I will stand up for the helpless, the down-trodden and I will most assuredly demand my pound of flesh when I am wronged. I spent a great deal of my life accepting the way that people chose to treat me and consoling myself by believing that it would come back to bite them later in life. At some juncture, I decided to use my own fucking teeth and bite them myself. When I insisted that he confront me personally, he ignored me, called me more names and then simply blocked me from having any access to his forum. I was never given the opportunity to defend myself or confront the idiots who assumed they knew all about me based on a skewed version of me presented by people I stupidly trusted.
When I finally accepted that there was nothing more to be done and I sat back to lick my wounds, a marvelous thing happened. The "lurkers", the people who had been reading but who had never commented, came to the surface. I began to receive emails from people asking me to write somewhere else; I was missed. Granted, my inbox wasn't overflowing, but those handful of emails went a long way toward pushing me here.
But I was hesitant. This blog is very much a part of me. Although I sometimes embellish for comedic effect, you are all witness to the details of my life that I don't even share with family. I share with you all, virtual strangers to me, the happiness that has been so scarce in my life and is now in abundance, and if you read between the lines, you sometimes see the anguish that I still suffer on occasion. It was difficult to fathom sharing with the world the details of my life because when I write about things that mean something to me, I don't leave anything out. If this blog had been written 5 years ago, you would see a constant darkness and melancholy in every entry. I fight those demons and keep them at bay, and, surprisingly, most of them have died a quiet death in the last year. My incredible fiance, my beautiful, affectionate son and my relentlessly joyful daughter have healed me in ways I cannot adequately describe. Having my own family and lavishing my love on them, the ones that deserve it, instead of a bunch of traitorous, opportunistic fucksticks has made me whole.
Now, I tell you all that to tell you this: thank you. Although I'm the world's worst at acknowledging others, I want you all to know that your words, your comments and your occasional emails have kept me writing and doing what I love. I typically don't link people only because I don't want anyone else to feel pressured to link me and I want my blog to be linked by virtue of merit and not a popularity contest. But I read all of you. Not daily, sometimes only once every couple of weeks, but I do read you. I see you. I keep up with what you're doing and how your life is going and though I don't always comment, I hurt for you when you hurt. I'm glad that the alpha's on the other forum proved to be such a bunch of shit-heads (and there were those who weren't. But they were few and far between and they know who they areworstname) and that I've been fortunate enough to encounter such an amazing group of people that I've, oddly enough, developed quite an affection for.
Here's to 2006. May it be full of laughter, love and success for each and every one of you.
Now back to the funny shit. You're making me cry.
Chris's mother is an incredibly sweet, pious woman. For that reason, we can all forgive her for buying Chris Jovan Musk for every federal holiday and all his birthday's since he was old enough to slap some on and go cruising down to the local Sonic in his Pinto.
When I saw it sitting on his computer desk after Christmas, I asked him about it and he told me the history.
"Do you wear Jovan Musk?" I asked dubiously.
"I guess I do now."
He'll wear it the next couple of times we see her and then I'm sure it will end up gathering dust until I send it the way of the thousand other bottles before it. Or I'll give it to Devon. Whichever.
Over the weekend, Fred tried in vain to make sweet, sweet love to Chris's leg on a few different occasions. While I am all about letting him go at it (I mean, really, he's having his nuts removed in a week and a half. Would it really kill you to let him humpity hump while you're killing bad guys on the X-Box? No? I didn't think so), Chris cringes and shrieks like a little girl as he's shooing him away.
After the last incident, I felt the need to explain Fred's urge to dominate him.
"Baby, you know why he humps your leg, right?"
He looks at me, very seriously, and replies, "Because I'm wearing Jovan Musk?"
Tell me that shouldn't be a commercial.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Fred's First Night Home
I'm on my 3rd cup of coffee. I just checked in at home and Fred was chewing on my antique bird cage. I'm taking his gourmet treats back to PetCo after work.
When I went to pick him up, he ignored me completely and wouldn't leave the shelter manager's side. She put him in my car and then left us and went home. Fred and I sat and assessed each other in silence for a few minutes before I laid down the rules of the house - which he interrupted placing his paws on my chest (and getting the most comical look on his face when his paws sank into the boobs) and sticking his tongue up my right nostril.
After he deemed me acceptable by cleaning my face with his butthole breath, we started for home. He sniffed and nosed around and immediately tried to eat Virginia's favorite Buzz Lightyear pen. I chastised him and he harrumphed at me.
Twenty seconds later, he farted. I ended up hanging out the window, much like a dog, and mentally reminding myself to mix Beano with his kibble. He sat and looked at me with amusement, delicately sniffing the air and basking in his stench. I told him I was taking him home to barbecue him this weekend. He farted again.
At PetCo, he began his criminal career by stealing a pig's ear out of a basket and gnawing on it while I was perusing their caviar dog food. I didn't notice it until he had eaten half of it. I wasn't much dismayed by this. I have kids who secret all sorts of shit in my shopping basket at Kroger and I end up going home with $52 in Hershey's Kisses and Butterfingers. A pig's ear didn't faze me. He'll fit right in.
After he gave me whiplash several times by stopping to pee on everything, I had just about had it with his smug little grin. The floor at PetCo is polished to a sheen. He put his paws down and I just pulled him to the checkout. As he was sliding, he kept trying to dig in with his claws and looking behind him like it was insulting to him that his ass was being used as a mop. I favored him with a smug grin.
Back in the car, in the midst of traffic, he bounded onto my lap and put his paws up on the steering wheel. I said, "Fuck it", slid over into the passenger seat and let him drive home. I'm all about compromise.
Once home, he met the kids. As they ooohed and ahhhed over him, he would look at me occasionally with those sad eyes as if to say, "Ok, so they smell like bologna, but you're not leaving me with these things, are you?"
As I was cooking dinner, Virginia came in.
"Mommy, what's he doing?"
I looked up.
"He's scratching his butthole."
"Why is he sitting up?"
"He has to drag himself to scratch it. He can't just scratch his butt like you and I can."
After I explained to Devon why he has to be neutered in a couple of weeks, I turned around to find Fred staring at me in horror. Chris came in from work a few minutes later and Fred introduced himself by enthusiastically humping his leg. This was met with such delight from yours truly that it became a game to Fred. He would stalk Chris until his back was turned and pounce on him, humping like...well, like he's not going to have any nuts left to hump with in a couple of weeks.
He stayed in Devon's room last night. When I opened the door to let him out this morning, he looked at me all, "Did you know this kid farts?", and he ran for the front door.
He's controlling. He's picky. He's stubborn. He's horny and, apparently, gay. He has issues.
Welcome to the McKnob family, Fred.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
All Nude HNT. Because You All Deserve It.
Ok. I made the decision to do an all nude HNT.
This was not an easy decision, so be kind.
That's right. My name is Fred, and I'm home. Bitches.
Happy HNT NUDE! Bitches.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
I Saw The Tooth Fairy In Line At Starbucks This Morning
Virginia lost her other front tooth last night.
Well, that's not exactly true.
In reality, I was helping her brush her teeth and I saw it wiggling so I held her down and yanked it out.
After the shrieks had subsided to sniffles and sobs and we super-glued the top of my scalp back on, I told her to wrap it up and put it under her pillow so the tooth fairy could bring her reward for being such a big girl.
She then proceeded to snort lines off of her Hello Kitty mirror and jog in place until 2 a.m. This is a child who passed out like a frat pledge by 9 p.m. on Christmas Eve, but, holy shit, here comes the tooth fairy with five bucks and all of a sudden she has insomnia.
When Chris wearily climbed into bed after stuffing five crumpled, sweaty one-dollar-bills under her pillow (he had tried several times to put them under, thinking she was finally asleep. He would inch toward her pillow and she would quickly roll over, all bug-eyed, like, "Surprise, motherfucker!" I think she seriously thought she was going to catch the tooth fairy and stuff her in the cage with her "hamster".) I decided that, from now on, she's getting a quarter.
Let's see how excited she is the next time.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Christmas was pretty uneventful in our house. Here is a list of some of the presents and some pretty bland commentary, because, quite frankly, I still haven't recovered from the horror of the bra's:
1. Chris's Mom bought us all our own bible and inside were detailed directions to our local church. Subtlety is not something she wastes her time with.
2. Virginia got a new pet "hamster". He's actually a rat (and before you all freak out, he's very cute and small and Stuart Little-ish. He's not all scary and toothy and Nimh-like. Rats raised in captivity typically don't bite and hamsters do and we all know Virginia doesn't need any more reasons to crawl up my ass and bawl her head off.) We decided to just roll with her assumption that it was a hamster because I think she would probably hyperventilate if she knew it was a rat. I'll tell her. Someday.
3. Devon got an assload of money in the form of gift cards for EB Games. They were, ostensibly, to be saved until I get his new X-Box 360 (which will be a whole other story. Those fucking things are as dear as heroin and I will probably have to beat the shit out of some pimply-faced kid in Best Buy to get my hands on one when they get new shipments in February) so that he can buy games since I'll be broke for the next 8 months after buying it, but he is very much like my mother and can't stand to have any money. ANY.
We went to EB last night and he kept saying, "Ok. I picked a game, but I still have money left", and then he would wander off, feverishly chewing his fingernails and trying to surreptitiously look at the Playboy game without me noticing. He panicked at the mere thought of having a dollar left on the gift card, so I ended up spending $56 to cover the difference after he and my nephew exhausted all the game options and fell to the ground, twitching, games clutched in their sweaty hands.
3. I got bra's. My God, the bra's. We had to get rid of the entertainment center and the kitchen to make room for them.
4. Chris bought Virginia got a dog that sings, "We Will Rock You." Chris especially likes her interpretation of the song. I didn't understand what was so funny until I heard her warbling down the hallway, "Kicking your cat all over the place, singing, We will, we will rock you!" He hemorrhages every time she sings it.
5. I briefly entertained the thought of putting the large, pink penis in Chris's stocking. I changed my mind when I realized that,
a. Rebecca would be suffocated
b. Chris's mom would murdelize me
c. My daughter would inevitably ask if she could have it as her new snuggly and that would be too much, even for me
I have to go now. It's raining and I need to whip my bra off and blanket everyone as they run for their cars.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Just A Greeting...
Me & my boobs would like to wish you all a Merry Christmas.
I'm on my way to Arkansas. I'll come back pronouncing "night" as "naaaaaaat" and saying things like "Goll darn it". It'll be a hoot. Have fun!
Thursday, December 22, 2005
HNT Presents: Early Christmas Gifts
My mom came over tonight, giggling like a Japanese schoolgirl.
"I got you something when I was downtown after our Christmas dinner."
She then started wagging this in my face.
It got dropped in her floorboard when she was skidding around corners to get over here and see my reaction, but it's new, I promise. It's now my new favorite gag gift EVER. It has little bean bag balls. Devon & Chris were not as enthusiastic as me & my mom were. Whatever.
Oh, and here's one of my new bra's:
I had to put a floppy disk on it for size reference because I just don't think you folks can truly appreciate how massive this bra is. I just sit and stare at them and whimper.
I'm trying to convince Chris to let me get this dog.
I called him earlier and he's being a rock.
"How much do you love me?"
"Quite a bit. Why?"
"How mad would you be if I brought home a dog?"
Now, keep in mind that he very badly wants a bloodhound puppy. Since I would have to sell my children to be able to afford one, he's not getting one for Christmas. I need the kids around to do dishes and make my bed.
"If you brought home a puppy?!" I heard the excitement in his voice and I felt bad. For a second.
"No, a dog. He's a beagle & bassett mix. And he's prec-"
"Crystal, I just really don't think-"
"Wait! Hear his story, first. His little friend got hit by the side of the road and he stayed with him, Chris. He wouldn't leave his side until someone picked him up. Isn't that sad? And loyal? I've had friends since kindergarten who would have covered me up with some rocks and forgotten about me by the time they cracked their first beer."
"Honey, we still have to fix the fence."
"Well, that's why he would stay inside."
"NO. NO. Not happening."
Now, in his defense, he has to listen to me rant and rave about picking up after him, my children and his very messy sister who is living with us while she finishes school. I'm sure he almost burst a blood vessel when he imagined my harpy shriek being magnified by the messes of a dog.
"He's potty trained. He's little, Chris. He won't take up much room. And it's Christmas. How can you let him be orphaned on Christmas?"
"I'm sure someone will take him."
"What if they eat dogs? What if they just want him for his fat little forelegs? What if they have a toddler who pulls his stubby little tail and all he wants is to be loved and he should be rewarded for being such a good doggy friend and -"
"Wanna see a picture?"
"Why? He'll melt your little heart."
"That's why I don't want to see a picture."
"You make me sad in my pants."
"I just would really rather not."
"Will you think about it?"
I'm going to call him Fred.
Monday, December 19, 2005
More On The "Boobs" Part Of This Blog
Chris & I went to the new mall on Saturday. I only wanted to buy toys and something for my mother- toys that I'll spend a thousand dollars on and my children will tire of in a matter of days and something that my mother will ooh and ahh over and then stick on a shelf in the back of her closet and there it will remain until the end of the time. This is how Christmas is done in my world.
In Chris's world, you actually get shit you need.
"Babe, you need new bra's. Let's get you fitted."
"No. I don't want to."
"Crystal, that's the only reason I came with you. Choose. Victoria's Secret or Dillard's."
"No. I don't wanna."
"Crystal, stop being silly. These women see boobs all day long. You don't need to feel self- conscious."
"They haven't seem MY boobs. No. I'm not going and that's it." I stuck out my bottom lip, crossed my arms, planted my feet and glared at him.
After he finally put me down in the middle of Victoria's Secret, he went in search of a Boob Technician. He returned with a beautiful, petite and soft-spoken girl. I apologized to her for the trauma she was going to have to endure and we went into the fitting area.
"Do I need to take my jacket off?" I started to unzip it. It only made sense that you would need to remove your bulkiest clothing to get an accurate measurement, but I asked out of politeness. When I glanced up, she looked visibly shaken.
"No! You can just leave it on!"
"Umm, ok. I think I'll just take it off."
This girl was literally scared of the boobs.
She walked over and I lifted my arms out to the sides. She very hesitantly placed the tape measure around the upper part of my torso and mumbled a number. She then placed it under the boobs and mumbled another number. I could see by the look on her face when she was down there that she thought they were going to come to life, scream, "Feed me, Seymour!", and devour her head.
I felt bad for her.
She then placed the tape measure around my actual boobs. She gasped, adjusted, muttered, adjusted again, frowned, tightened, relaxed, and muttered some more.
"Is everything okay?" I was feeling enormously self-conscious. Women coming and going were openly staring.
"Yeah, I'm just trying to figure out what comes after a double D."
I sighed. "I don't know. Triple D? A trip to the Tent & Awning store?"
"LaQuisha, what comes after a double D?"
LaQuisha paused, looked at my boobs for a moment and said, "E. Honey, you're going to have to order from the catalogue and I don't even know that we carry them that large."
"Yeah, I guess you'd need a whole lot more space. One of those bra drawers would only hold one cup, eh? Heh." LaQuisha and Clueless stood staring at me until I turned purple and ran for the door.
Once outside, Chris declared that I needed a second opinion.
"Baby, they're boobs, not a brain tumor. I don't need a second opinion."
"That girl didn't even know what came after a double D. We're going to Dillard's."
"Why must you do this to me? Haven't I been violated enough for one day?"
When we got to Dillard's, they had a fabulous TV screen display that showed the various types of bra's. I was edging toward the door while Chris was admiring a Miracle bra when I was cornered by Rebecca.
"Need help there, missy?" Rebecca is 89-years-old, three feet tall, has been a Boob Technician since she was seventeen, moves as silently as a ninja and was not letting me get away without an accurate measurement.
Once shackled within the dressing room, she instructed me to remove my shirt but leave my bra on.
"What? Shirt off? Do you have back-up out there somewhere? I don't think-"
"Off. Now. Quit bein' shy. You don't have anything I haven't seen a million times before."
Although I seriously doubted that, I removed my shirt. I crossed my hands over my cotton Wal-Mart bra and blushed. Rebecca grabbed my hands and forced them out to my sides.
Zip, zang, ding. Done.
"G. I'll be right back."
"Excuse me. Did you say G? As in ginormous? Gargantuan? Where the hell did F go?"
"As in 'gifted', honey. Right back."
She was gone.
When she returned, I was doing my best Karate Kid crane pose in the mirror. I blushed some more.
"Try these on." She deposited what looked like 6 enormous bowler hats on the bench.
"Wow. I could wear those on my hea-" All of sudden, Rebecca the Boob Ninja was behind me and had unsnapped my bra before I could fathom what was happening.
"Whoah! I got this!" I clutched my bra to my chest and tried to side-step her.
I was not fast enough.
I was standing there half-nude while she flitted around me and lifted, tucked, snapped and molded. Suddenly, it looked like I had two mortar shells stuffed in a bra.
"This is the minimizer. Feel that support? Now, it doesn't do much for the shape of the breast, but it's good for your back and look at the perk! Betcha haven't seen perk like that in a few years!"
I was alone.
I tried on the other bra's and came out with my selections. Rebecca noted them down so that Chris could come back and buy them on his own at a later date. I thanked her and we headed out.
"That's creepy, Chris. She can just appear at will."
At the entrance, I stopped by a selection I hadn't previously seen.
"Wow. These look comfortable. That's really soft."
"Those are the Oprah bra's!" Rebecca chirped from directly behind me. I squeaked, peed a little and then thanked her. She disappeared back into the bra's.
On the drive home, Chris said, "Now, see, Crystal? That wasn't so bad."
I'm kidnapping Rebecca and putting her in his stocking. That'll serve him right.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Shameless Ploy For Sympathy HNT
My bedside companions:
I didn't snap a pic of the Depends. I have some dignity. Not much, but some.
Here's a little tidbit to get you through the day:
I have to go home because I just sneezed so hard I peed my fucking pants.
I'm Still Here. Somewhat.
I'm not feeling too froggy this week. My daughter came home with a cold and when she's sick, she wants nothing more than to climb on my head like a monkey and cough directly up my nostrils. After I've finally gotten her down for the night and I've gone to bed, she will come into my bedroom and stand motionless, placing her face mere inches from mine - thereby assuring the germs have a short trek - until her snuffling wakes me up, shrieking, and I lose another year off of my life. She literally scared my antibodies dead last week, so the germs took up residence and now I have the worst head cold I've had in years. Literally years.
Here is a list of things I would rather have than this fucking head cold:
1. A kool-aid enema
2. An afro
4. Nevermind! Number 3 is moot!
5. Jay Leno's chin
6. ANYTHING THAT DOESN'T PRODUCE 48 POUNDS OF MUCUS PER DAY, UNCONTROLLABLE COUGHING AND WON'T FORCE ME TO SLEEP ON MY BACK SO I DON'T HAVE TO COME TO WORK WITH A SNOT-COVERED PILLOW GLUED TO MY FACE.
I bet you didn't know that I could sleep on my stomach, huh?
Monday, December 12, 2005
Obscene Finger Gestures From Such A Pristine Girl
(I have a sweater made from my belly-button lint for anyone who figures out what movie my title is from)
Friday night, Devon and Austin (my nephew) decided to spend the night at my mother's house. Virginia was devastated that she wasn't allowed to stay with them. I gently explained to her that it was a boy's night and she didn't have the right anatomy to sit around, cracked out on X-Box and Dr. Pepper and burping. She burped, loudly, to show me that she could hang with the boys. I shoved her out the door.
On the drive to pick up Chris from work (see the post about contagious auto leprosy), she consoled herself by announcing that we would have a girl's night party.
"No boys allowed, Mommy."
"What will we do with Chris? Should we drop him off at the strip club?"
"No, he can come to the party. Mommy, what's a strip club?"
"Nevermind. So, what will we be needing for this party? Give me a list and we'll stop at Kroger on the way home."
She began a verbal checklist of supplies and kept count on her fingers. At some point, she must have forgotten number three.
"Mommy, what was this one again?"
I was driving, so I quickly glanced to my right and saw her flipping me the bird.
"Honey, I don't know, but you need to make sure to ask Chris when he gets in the car. Don't forget."
She was basically asking which item she had assigned to her middle finger, but for a split second I thought my mother's curses ("I hope you have a daughter and she's JUST. LIKE. YOU.") had come true and that my precious little pumpkin was telling me to go fuck myself.
I so would have deserved that.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
HNT. The Christmas Lunacy Edition
I tried to keep at least one tradition and let the youngest of my fruit put the tree-topper on.
Here she is leaning in and fiercely clutching some of Chris's hair to balance herself. Cos' every kid knows that all that stands between you and certain death by fall-to-the-carpet-4-feet-
Here she is grinning - or trying to poop, you never know with that girl- and holding Chris's head like a bowling ball. You'll note the look of weary resignation on his face. He is now and will forever be her own personal jungle gym:
And last, but not least, here are the enormous stockings that I bought for the kids. I plan on clubbing them over the head with a log and sticking their bodies in them for quick disposal after I snap and finally lose it on Christmas morning.
(3 seconds after I took this picture, Virginia noticed that her brother had created a fairly cool looking snowman and her glitter was just a series of blobs. Her head burst into flames at the sheer injustice of it all)
Another Public Service Announcement From the Friendly ... Folk?... at Boobs, Injuries and Dr. Pepper
People, I've told you all this before and I can't believe I have to go over it again.
My car is evil. Pure, unadulterated, raw evil. Not one of you believed me until it has affected your life in some way and I don't understand why you have to be so stubborn.
My co-workers parked next to me after I told them not to and now one of them is driving her mother's beat-to-shit Toyota. The other two have had miscellaneous mechanical issues and decided it prudent to stop parking next to me. Chris is a different story.
"Crystal, I don't think I'm going to work today."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"Well, it's been a bad morning. You know my defrost went out a few days ago, right?"
"Nope. I didn't know that."
"Well, it did. And just now, my windshield wiper fell off. I'm rolling with the windows down, freezing my nuts off and it's raining all over me."
Of course I laughed. I have to. It's in my Asshole contract.
"So, you're stopping to get a windshield wiper, right?"
"No, babe. The whole fucking arm fell off. It just fell off."
I won't tell you again.
MY CAR IS EVIL AND IT CAUSES SOME SORT OF CONTAGIOUS AUTO LEPROSY. STOP PARKING NEXT TO ME.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Last week, I announced to my children that some cuts were going to be made and I was going to have to fire one of them. They both looked at me as they usually do - a combination of mild amusement, a hint of impatience and a whole boatload of pity because I'm such a pathetic dork. I imagine that I very much know what Pee Wee Herman must feel like EVERY DAY OF HIS MISERABLE LIFE.
Here are some of the reasons I made this decision.
Here is a typical conversation with Virginia:
"V, you need to clean up that mess you made."
"What does that have to do with me telling you- ...you know what? Nevermind. Clean up that mess or I will pull all your hair out and send you to school bald."
"Mommy, can I have a puppy?"
"Can you hear me? Hello? Go get me a Q-Tip. Now. Chop chop!"
"Are you begging for food or a puppy?"
"Nevermind on the Q-Tip. Get Mommy that bottle of whiskey. You and I are getting drunk together and then maybe we'll friggin' understand each other. Shit."
"Daddy says you're not supposed to say 'shit'".
Now, let's move on to a typical conversation with Devon:
"Hurry up, Devon. We're going to be late."
"My hair is a mess!"
"It's fine, sweety. Let's go."
"Well, you go to school then and have everyone make fun of you for a piece of hair sticking out of your head and then oh my god I'll never live it down and crap where is my algebra book holy crap nothing is going right I should just run away."
"Baby. Calm down. And don't get all snappy with me. I told you if keep your smart ass stuff to yourself you can plug yourself back into Warcraft again this weekend, remember?"
"No. No, no, no, no, no."
"La la la la la la la."
"You're impossible. Jeez."
Sunday night I got all sentimental and started shooting rainbows and butterflies out of my ass and decided that we were going to do traditional shit like make cocoa and decorate our stockings.
Here's how I thought it would go:
My son and daughter decorating stockings, laughing at each other's antics and then dancing around the Christmas tree, putting on lights and decorations while Chris & I sat on the sofa drinking cocoa and smiling lovingly at each other every now and then.
Here's how it really went:
1. My daughter freaked the fuck out because Devon did a snowman on his stocking and hers didn't even resemble anything ever seen by human eyes, much less a snowman.
2. Devon had a seizure because his obsessive personality disorder reared it's ugly head and laughed in his face at the obvious faux paux he had committed when he strung the lights too close together and the whole neighborhood was going to show up ANY MINUTE to belittle him and ruin his whole life.
3. Chris gulped his cocoa in one swallow while standing in the kitchen. I turned around with my mug, intent on snuggling on the sofa and he burped in my face and put the mug in the sink as all my hopes were crushed.
4. Fragile glass balls + Virginia.
I ended up drinking my cocoa alone, telling Virginia to hurry the hell up with her blob or snowman or whatever the hell it was and announcing to the entire Western hemisphere that, "Next year, I'll put the damned Christmas tree up myself! Good lord, you aren't on American Christmas Tree Decorating Idol. It's goddamned icicles. You're supposed to just throw it on!"
Chris spends most of his time hiding in the attic, crying and asking God who this monster is that he's moved into his house.
It can only get better, right???
Friday, December 02, 2005
I'm An Ass
I couldn't find the port cable for the digital camera last night. Chris found it like he had some sort of weird divining rod for computer accessories. I asked him to find it this morning and he walked straight to it, based on a vague notion from me of where it might be.
Sometimes, I wish I had a penis. I just want to test my theory.
So, we're smack in the middle of moving day and I'm loading stuff onto the truck. I'm debating on where to put a box because the sofa is now on the truck, wedged tightly next to the dresser. I see an open spot at the end of the couch furthest from me and I decide to throw caution to the wind and JUST DO IT!
Note to self: Next time, don't leave the digital camera sitting out where he can get to it. Actually, next time, just put the fucking box on the floor. Screw the 1.8 feet of cubic space you were so excited about saving because YOU CAN GET STUCK IN AN EMPTY ROOM. IT'S IN YOUR BLOOD AND YOU SHOULD BE AWARE OF THIS AFTER 32 YEARS.
(Note: I was stuck with my arm wedged in between the dresser and the sofa. Rocking yourself backward isn't the most painless option when you have enough boobs to breast-feed a third world country.)
Happy HNT! On Friday! I suck!
Monday, November 28, 2005
Cancel Your Appointments. It's Been A Week And I Have A Lot To Say.
Well, I'm moved.
I'm not unpacked or clean and organized or even remotely sane at this point (and let me just say to Liz, Chris' stereotypical evil ex-wife, that you are a lazy motherfucker who NEVER cleaned a single thing), but my shit is sitting all over Chris's house and my son has a really beautiful, really expensive Ralph Lauren color on his new walls, so I guess that means it's official:
My son is a turd with expensive taste.
No, seriously. Both kids now have their own room and, boy, let me tell you, this is exciting stuff.
Virginia spent the holiday with her Dad. Yesterday, he called me earlier than usual to schedule the drop-off. I could hear my daughter in the background, wailing and speaking in tongues.
"Hey, Crystal. Are you home?"
"Uhh, not yet. Why?"
"She wants to come home. She wants to see her new room and she won't stop bugging me and she's backtalking me and she's bored and I need a drink."
"Welcome to every day of my life, sugarpuss."
After I hung up the phone, I walked around the house for the millionth time, surveying all the carnage before me and muttering to myself.
"Burn it. Just burn it down and start over. Does anyone really need 87 cans of green beans? I don't even think Virginia likes green beans this week. Why does his Mom send him home with whole cases of vegetables? Beets? Who eats beets? What is a beet? My God, he kept all his clothes from college. Look at this. Boxers. Boxers everywhere. And a whole drawer full of socks without mates. Mateless socks. I don't think I can do this."
I went on like this in half-hour spurts for the entire weekend. Initially, Chris and Devon kept looking at me and then each other, worried and pensive. After the second day, when they assumed there was really no danger of finding me in the closet, eating socks and blubbering, they just ignored me. Well, they would occasionally pat me on the head like a wayward, senile grandmother or offered encouraging one liners like, "You'll be done before next Christmas, no problem", but mostly they just grab me by the shoulders and move me to the side when they needed to get the important boxes. You know, the ones with toilet paper and X-Box's in it.
Anyway, when Jess walked in to deliver Virginia to me, I fell at his feet and looked up, pleading.
"Take me with you. You can dump me off on the corner and then drive away, pretend you never saw me, but get me out of here."
Chris dragged me to the back bedroom and handed me a bottle of vodka and then went out to explain my behavior to Jess. Since they all have a penis, no one could quite understand why I was so upset and what was wrong with living out of boxes? Men can live out of boxes, people. What the hell am I whining about?
Virginia spent 12 nanoseconds in her new room, declared it boring and went to have some real fun and bug the shit out of her brother. He relished shutting the door in her face and telling her she was not allowed in his room EVER AGAIN. They have been sharing common space for almost 2 years and he had reached his limit.
She stood in the hallway for a second, hurt, and then balled her little fists and went to her room. Where she promptly locked the door and announced that no boys were allowed inside.
"Es-cept for Chris, Mommy."
"Baby, you know that basically only excludes Devon. Why don't you just say Devon's not allowed in your room?"
"Because NO boys are allowed in my room. 'Cept Chris."
"Ok. Let's just keep it that way until you go to college. Deal?"
"Ok. Now, go away. I have to play school." She shut the door and locked it, drunk with the power of HER OWN DOOR and a LOCKING MECHANISM.
After I tucked her in and put a night light in her room, Chris & I went to bed. As we lay there, aching, sore and exhausted, Chris hugged me closer and softly said, "This is nice, isn't it? After all the crap we've been through in the past few days, this right now, this moment...it makes it all worth it."
I nodded and smiled and fretted over whether or not the night light in Virginia's room would cause a fire. Were the smoke detector's working? I got up and moved the night light into the hallway. I then climbed back into bed and immediately shimmied my freezing cold butt up onto Chris. Just when I thought he was asleep, he whispered, "I never thought I would be happy in this house again."
I don't think I said it and you probably couldn't see past all my sobbing and cursing this weekend, but, yes, baby. It is ALL worth it.
Monday, November 21, 2005
I Know He Doesn't Mean To Say These Things In Front Of My Son
Since we've been moving and the kids have been sick, I haven't exactly been keeping up with the landscaping of my nether regions. Chris likes a bald spot. Since I fervently prayed and sweated and begged God for pubic hair from the ages of 10 to 12, I'm not about to shave all the shit off, so we compromise with what I call a "Hitler". Now that you know far more about me than you ever really wanted to know, on with the story.
So, basically, it looks like a group of brillo pads revolted and got together, had a meeting in my crotch and then they all died there.
I'm not completely heartless. At least I waited until after lunch to post this.
Chris makes mention of this on occasion when I get lazy or just forget. He will either do an uncanny and exact imitation of Chewbacca when I'm walking around in the nude or he'll just say, "Damn, babe. I bet we could find Hoffa in there."
I laugh my guts up every single time. No, really.
We're driving down the road the other day and Devon was being unusually quiet in the back seat, so I forgot he was there. Virginia and I were having a lively conversation about where babies come from as her dad just had a second child with his girlfriend.
"My baby sister came out of Eve's tummy," Virginia declared.
"That's right, sweety."
"Is that where all babies come out, Mommy?"
"Nope. If a mommy can't push the baby out through her pee-pee, they have to cut her tummy and take the baby out."
Chris looks at me in complete and utter horror.
"Babe, don't you think she's a little young to go into all that? I mean, she'll talk. She'll tell her friends."
"So what? It's not like I just told her who really killed Kennedy, for shit's sake. I'm not going to use that stork line or cabbage patch crap and pull the wool over my kid's eyes."
Without missing a beat, Chris says, "I guess if they fought their way through all that wool when they were born, they deserve the truth."
"Good one, sugar."
From the back seat, forgotten and unnoticed, came this request:
"Oh, dear God, just kill me now."
Thursday, November 17, 2005
I'm exhausted. My son has a viral infection and my daughter decided today was a good day to channel Charles Manson.
However, the people I love (including my daughter, possessed or not...) went out of their way to make sure the last couple of days were as enjoyable as possible. And they succeeded.
I am blessed. I hope you are, too. Happy HNT!
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
I Should Have Thrown My Bra At Jon Bon Jovi
Tomorrow is my 32nd birthday. I don't feel thirty-two, but neither do I really notice that my boobs are truly massive or my hair is awfully gray for a woman in her prime. That is the appeal of self-delusion.
I've been sleeping like a coma-patient so I don't reflect when I'm in bed (viva la Ambien!) but I do reflect on my drive to work. Here is a collection of regrets, resolutions and general bullshit that's been rolling around in my head because of the impending birthday:
1. I should go to more concerts. Although I did get to see Ozzy Osbourne hop around on stage like a meth-addicted frog, I never did get to see Metallica and that makes me sad in my pants.
2. I should have legally changed my name to my mom's nickname for me, Big Boobs Magee. That would have served her right.
3. I wish my son had never had to go through years of abuse at the hands of the people who basically kidnapped him and that more people had LISTENED to me when I was screaming for help. Although I'm sure that the experience played a very large part in his amazing character, as a mother I would very much like to tear out the abuser's jugular's and dance in their blood.
4. I should maintain better relationships with the people I care about. My father's parents are gone and my mom's parents probably don't even know who the hell I am. Of course, they're incredibly old, had seventeen children and I'm one of eleventy-billion grandchildren, so that's not surprising.
5. I wish I had NEVER smoked. I quit about a year ago, but watching my dad suffocate and fight for breath every day makes me angry at myself (on behalf of my children) that I ever started. Sometimes, we're very selfish as parents.
6. I vow one day to be the person to unmask Katie Couric for the unnatural alien that she is.
7. Although I know I can't keep every single project my little girl brings home from kindergarten, because I missed so much of my son's life, I am loathe to throw anything away. As a direct result, I'm selling most of my clothes and personal possessions in a garage sale this weekend because I hate moving shit, but touch one macaroni picture frame and you'll draw back a fucking nub, buddy.
8. I very much want a puppy. Chris wants a bloodhound and I'd love to buy one for him, but the little fucker's are worth their weight in gold. I spent all day looking at pictures of their adorable, smooshy faces and weeping at the thought of so many puppies and so little plasma to sell.
9. I once want to go to Vegas and breeze through the casino's dropping hundreds on blackjack tables with gay abandon. Todd, when you hit it big, I'm looking at you, sugar.
10. Although I'm very fortunate to have such a terrific job and a boss who loves me like a daughter, I wish I had finished medical school. Or have become a CSI.
11. I need to quit watching Thursday television.
12. It's amazing how many of my memories are still hanging out with Belvedere and Captain Morgan. Chris mentions things I did last year and I find myself saying, "Nuh - uh!", quite frequently.
13. My son is right. Old people are dorks.
14. The skating rink near my apartment had college night last week on Monday. I called the police at 10:01 because our noise ordinance starts at ten p.m. As I sat cackling with glee when the music suddenly stopped, I quieted and got depressed when I realized what I had just done. I consoled myself by going to Wal-Mart and buying new tennis balls for the legs of my walker.
15. I pee an average of six times a night. Chris and I frequently have lively discussions about our ailments. It's begun.
16. When I was 21, I used to get damp at the thought of a bill-free paycheck and a weekend out getting hammered. Now, I wet my pants at the mere mention of the hardwood we've picked out at Home Depot.
. . . . .
That's all. I can't take much more and I need to go smoke some weed to ward off the glaucoma.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
So, I'm sitting on the couch, watching "Mythbusters", with Chris and Devon.
"This show is so goofy," I say to no one in particular.
"You're crazy!" Chris exclaims.
"All they do is blow shit up!" I retort.
Two sets of eyes swivel in unison and fix me with identical looks of horror.
"Exactly!" They chime in unison.
I can hear them cackling in the living room as I type this.
I need a little more estrogen in this house. And a lot less flammable material.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Hockey and A New Way To Tell Someone That They're Retarded
This Friday, Devon, Chris and I went to see a hockey game. It was my first. I initially fussed at Chris for screaming, "That's bullshit!", because there were kids all around us. Then a four-year-old with a mullet piped up and called one of the opposing players a pussy and I basically just sat mute and watched grown men beat the guts out of each other.
It was fabulous.
On the way home, we stopped for McDonald's. Chris was driving, so he passed our order along. At the end, the employee asked, "Would you like to donate a dollar to the Ronald McDonald house?" Now, Chris will pass up a legless, Ethiopian leper on the street without so much as a glance in their direction as they hold their stump and cry. As for me, well...the other night, he had to lock the doors and baby-lock the windows so I wouldn't throw my wallet to a healthy-looking wino with some pretty impressive bling down on Lamar Avenue. I keep thinking helping these people will get me into Heaven and negate all those times I pinched my mentally handicapped cousin when we were little.
So, anyway, I lean over him and shout, "Yes! We'll donate the damned dollar!", into the speaker as I clamp a hand over his mouth and cheer internally at this personal victory.
I'm still mad at him about the baby-locks.
When we pull around to pay, I'm digging in my purse for something and he's muttering under his breath about how soft I am.
"It's for a good cause. The Ronald McDonald house does wonderful things and it's not like it doesn't come back to you in some form or another."
"Oh, really? Like how?" He passes payment to the cashier and she gives something to him. He immediately deposits it into my lap.
"See? Look!" I am eyeballing my new acquisition and utterly enchanted with the cute little smooshy baby face on the front.
"What the hell are you talking about?" He and Devon are both looking at me like I'm crazy, but, hey, I just saw grown men on ice-skates trying to stand upright and whack each other, don't call me crazy.
"Look. They gave me Post-It notes."
A little while later, when Chris is able to breathe and Devon is still turning blue in the back seat, Chris says, "Oh, my God, babe. That's the donation pad. You sign your name and give it back."
"Oh." I furiously scribble my name while the employee is frowning at me and both the guys are snorting and guffawing and I toss it through the window. Chris just sits there.
"Drive, you asshole. We've been sitting her for like 1o minutes."
Minutes later, when the sniffles and giggles have died down (some of them withered by my icy gaze), Chris says, "I can't believe you didn't know what that was."
"I was so thinking that that damned dollar was finally worth it."
Now, instead of calling someone a tard, we very sweetly ask, "Would you like some Post-It notes?"
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
My son has been tonguing a loose tooth for a couple of days. He'll be thirteen in January, but his baby teeth have been putting up a ferocious fight. He's never had a cavity, and is diligent about his oral hygiene, so the loose tooth was really bugging him.
I looked in his mouth tonight and saw his his permanent tooth trying desperately to make room and basically growing over the top of the baby tooth.
"Holy shit. Go pull that. No son of mine will have extra teeth!" I've taken my Ambien.
"Ok." Off he went. He's taken his Ambien.
A few minutes ago, I went to the bathroom to check on him and offer him a shot of Tequila. He declined the shot.
"What the hell are you doing? Why is there so much blood? Ooh! Please tell me you pulled your tongue out."
"Oh, ut I ulled ooh eeth."
"Wheeee! Is this like pig latin?"
He removed the wad of cotton from his mouth.
"I pulled two teeth."
"Two? Devon, I know you're an over-achiever and all, but that's taking it a little too far. You were only supposed to pull one. The tooth fairy doesn't have, like, double coupon day."
"Mom, I'm twelve."
"That's no reason to pull your teeth out. I'm thirty-two. If I let stress get to me, I'd be living on tapioca by now."
"I mean I don't believe in the tooth fairy."
"Oh. Well, then believe this. You're getting an IOU."
He has been grounded from his Warcraft.
"Can we barter? Instead of money?"
"Shut up, before I knock a few more out."
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?