July 2005

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

I had to take my daughter to the health department today to get her last set of shots and then go and enroll her for kindergarten. It was a monumental morning for us.

After fighting with Shenaynay about who was in line first (I won. Don't fuck with me when I've had to drag the vampire I gave birth to out of bed before noon. She is very much her mother's daughter), we made our way back to the nurse's office. Virginia and I had talked at length about what was going to happen and she was feeling fairly comfortable after I promised to buy her a unicorn if she promised not to kick the nurse in the twat. Parenting is about compromise, sometimes.

The nurse laid out three band-aids on the counter. Virginia looked at me as if to say, "That's for me and the next two kids, right?" I just smiled nervously and said nothing. The three needles came out next. Words cannot describe the look of horror, betrayal and fear on Virginia's face when she realized that all of those fucking needles were for her and her alone.

"Ok, sweety. I need both arms."

The nurse reached for Virginia and found herself grasping at thin air. My daughter had managed to teleport her body at the speed of light.

She was now using me as a human shield, digging her fingernails into my butt and muttering, through clenched teeth, "You said it would go into my leg."

All I heard was, "You horrid, horrid woman. You lied to me, you did it maliciously, and if I don't get a unicorn AND a trip to Disney World, I will get knocked up when I'm 17, leave you stuck with the baby and run off with some guy named Lester who drives a souped-up Camaro."

I managed to cajole her into sitting back in the chair. I apologized profusely for my mistake and reminded her, "V, mommy's old. Really, really old. I don't even remember getting shots because I'm so old. Old people forget things. It also explains why I pee on myself sometimes and wear really large underwear, but that's for another day." The nurse is staring at me. She tells us that she can do the shots in the leg if my child prefers. I smile and present my daughter's leg. "No, mommy. I want it in my arms." I mentally willed my ovaries to shrivel up and die and rolled up her sleeves.

Shot number one went over okay. Shot number two earned the nurse a wilting look that asked the question, "Jesus, bitch, is this over, already?" Shot number three went over like poopy flavored ice-cream. To add insult to all this injury, the band-aids didn't even have anything cool on them like Clifford or Dora The Explorer.

As we left the building, my daughter dabbed at her ridiculously large, blue eyes and turned to me. "Mommy, will I ever have to get those shots again?"

"No, baby. You get to look forward to pap smears, childbirth, mammograms, yeast infections, taxes and root canals, but no more boosters. Well, not for a really long time."

"Oh. Thank goodness. Mommy...what's a grammomammam?"

"Nevermind, honey. When you get boobs, we'll talk about all that."

"Will they be big, like yours?"

"God, I hope not. There's not enough fabric in the world for both of us."

Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to get over to EBay and bid on a unicorn.


Wednesday, July 20, 2005

I've added a new option to my blog. Go find it. And then picture me and my kids, sitting in the rain, with a sign that reads, "Feel My Mommy's Boobs For $1".

Breaks your heart, doesn't it?


Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Approximately 2 months ago, my boss told me that he was sending me to Florida this weekend. I have walked around with a shit-eating grin on my face ever since because I know that means he loves me more than anyone else in this office.

Unfortunately, once I opened my big mouth and threw my good news to the universe, fate, my family and a few various leeches have tried to ruin this for me.

I'll explain:

Week 1:

Me: "Mom! Guess what? I'm going to Florida, bitch! And not some shitty beach, either! It's in Destin!"

Mom: "Whoo hoo! When are we leaving?! And don't call me bitch, bitch!!"

Me: "What? We? What? I didn't - "

Mom: "It will be so much fun! I've never been to Destin!"

Me: "But, Mom, I never said - "

Mom: "Did I ever tell you how hard it was giving birth to you? I swear, your head was so big that I was sure you had water on the brain or something. You tore me from -"

Me: "July 21st. Be ready to leave at 8 a.m., you miserable, old wench."

Week 2:

Mom: "Crystal, Dad wants to know why he's not invited."

Me: "Uhhh, because I'm not listening to the two of you bitch at each other for 9 hours there and 9 hours back. And it's a beach. Dad would see it as one giant litterbox and I would go to jail for protecting him from some enraged old lady with a bloodlust and a cane. Oh, AND IT'S MY FUCKING VACATION. Shit."

Mom: "Well, let me tell him that he can come. He won't want to, he just wants to know he's invited."

Me: "Hell, no. I'll take one or the other, but not both. You people are like toddlers."

Week 3:

Lisa is a friend of mine. Her aunt, Jennifer, is very close to her age, so they're more friends than relatives.

Lisa: "Crystal, Jennifer and I want to go to Florida with you."

Me: "Well, I want to be 18 again and do my whole life over so I don't choose rude, fucked up friends. Seriously...have you people lost your minds? Who invites themselves on someone else's vacation?"

Lisa: "But, we'll help with gas."

Me: "Oh, well that changes everything. I tell you what..instead of gas, why don't you help with IT'S MY FUCKING TRIP AND YOU CAN'T GO. Can you do that?"

Lisa: "Well, if we find a way there, can we at least share your room?"

Me: "You still owe me twenty bucks from, like, 3 months ago."

Lisa: "Oh, shit. The dog is on fire. I have to go."

Me: "That's what I thought."

Week 4:

Sharks starting snacking on people like they were hors d'ouvres. I just sat, shook my head and said, "Ain't that some shit" for three or four hours.

Week 5:

Mom: "Why aren't you taking the kids, again?"

Me: (blink, blink) "Do you remember the trip we all took 2 months ago? The one where I hauled you and Dad and the kids across the entire northern hemisphere, all while listening to The Best of Tom T. Hall? Do you remember how I started humming and rocking about 2 hours into that trip?"

Mom: "....Yes...?"

Me: "What did I say when you asked me what was wrong?"

Mom: "Something about the voices telling you to 'kill them all and dump the bodies'."

Me: "Ok. Do you really need to ask me why I'm not taking all of you with me?"

Mom: "You need to get back on your prozac. You're grouchy."

Week 6:

Hurricane Dennis attempts to wipe my hotel off the map. It only succeeds in eroding 6 feet of my beach, but I don't give a flying fuck because the beach-bar is still standing.

Week 7:

My son, Devon: "Mom, why is the trip only for adults?"

Me: "It's not. But only adults are going."

Devon: "So, I can go?"

Me: "Are you an adult? If you are, go get a job. Now."

Devon: "Why can't I go?"

Me: *sigh* "Because. The novelty of being at the beach will wear off about 22 minutes after we get there. You will spend the rest of the time having convulsions from the shock caused by hours away from your X-Box. When you're well, the whining will start. There has been 6 feet of beach eroded, so there's really not enough sand to bury your body and all the sharks are full from the buffet they had a while back. You're going to hang out with my Dad. He'll teach you how to properly pee on things and help you memorize more awful limericks that will get you thrown out of school. Besides, I'll be too drunk to feed you."

Devon: "...."

Week 8:

Mom: "Can we make some CD's for the trip?"

Me: "You mean can I make some? You don't even know how to turn the computer on."

Mom: "Whatever."

Me: "What did you have in mind?"

Mom: "I really like that Kelly Clarkson song. Oh! Oh! And some Madonna!"

Me: "I"m selling you to the first Cuban I find."

Mom: "You don't like Kelly Clarkson?"


I will be gone from Thursday until Monday. Should you be in Destin, Florida, I will be the one at the bar, covered in sunscreen and smacking my mother's hand every time she reaches for my wallet. If I come back alone, I never told you any of this.


Thursday, July 14, 2005

....or, "This Is What A Rusting Head Looks Like". Here is a very important piece of advice for all women: DO THE COLOR TEST LIKE THE BOX SAYS.

And, yes, I spontaneously combusted 12 seconds after this picture was taken. Imagine being out in the sun with this skin.

Happy HNT. Posted by Picasa


I don't normally talk about my work, specifically, only the people I work with.

Today, however, I'm making an exception.

For those of you who aren't privy to the danger and intrigue that is my life, I am an insurance agent. Feel free to ponder your own pathetic lives and then lament your choice of vocations. Nothing could be cooler than what I do. Seriously.

Now, I know that most of you don't run right out to buy "Insurance for Dummies" and whatever, but there are some things about my work that are common sense. There seems to be a common sense deficiency in my area or someone dropped retard pellets in the water supply today, because I have seriously contemplated sending out a memo to my local newspaper regarding the following incidents:

1. Your insurance did not collapse. You were not standing in your kitchen, scratching your nuts and wondering if you had enough for some King Kobra when a giant Insurance zeppelin hovered over your driveway and dumped 872 policies on your Escalade, causing it to crumple. It's fucking lapse, already.

2. I don't really care if you had an accident on the corner of "Shoot Me" and "Please", you need not tell me how sore your nuts are.

3. I'm a dog person. I love dogs. But there are rules. It doesn't matter if Fifi babysits your newborn, feeds the homeless, develops a cure for cancer and still finds time to lick her asshole, SHE IS STILL A PIT BULL. Cancelled.

4. A trampoline positioned directly next to your pool is a fabulous idea for when you invite a bunch of your redneck friends over to roast a goat and drink cases of Busch beer. You can get liquored up and do belly flops wearing nothing but a #8 hat and tutu for all I care, but when it comes to liability? Cancelled.

5. No, we will not replace your items when a rabid raccoon gets in during your vacation and has a rave for all the other raccoons. I've met your children. Rabid raccoon, my ass.

6. Oh, I'm sorry? Did I not call you and tell you that your bill was 2 months overdue? My bad. Why don't I come to your house, fuck your jobless husband and clean your toilets while I'm at it? Need me to light your Marlboro? Surrrre! Cancelled.

7. Oh my dear, sweet, bleeding Jesus, no, we will not cover your one-of-a-kind bong that was stolen out of your VW van. I'm sorry if that makes you unhappy, but if you find a company that will cover that, tell them I need insurance on my counterfeit press, Shaggy.

8. No, I am not trying to insult you when I ask if you have an escrow account. They're very common. I know you "ain't no rich person".

9. How, exactly, would you propose I take a cash payment OVER THE PHONE? The mind boggles.

10. I find it amazing how much amnesia people seem to suffer when you ask them if they have anything on their driving record. Yes, that DUI counts. So do the 3 subsequent wrecks. The time you drove through the plate glass at Blockbuster because they charged you three weeks late fees on Girls Gone Wild: Cancun? Counts.

11. I can understand that there is sentimental value attached to the trucks that are on blocks in your front yard and the four washing machines on your porch, but, again, I give you one word: liability. Cancelled.

12. Yes, you're right. We're all crooks and I'm getting rich off of randomly increasing your premiums. I sit around and smoke big, fat cigars, bathe in pink champagne and gleefully cackle at the monopoly that my empire has become. That would explain why I don't even have insurance.

Okay. I feel better. Now you can all freely hate on me. I'm used to it.


Monday, July 11, 2005

I have had a couple of people mention to me that I seem to fall into a black hole on weekends. I don't return phonecalls, emails or leave my house.

In a way, my house IS a black hole. The name of the black hole is DevonVirginia.

As an example, here are some of the things that were said this weekend:

"How in the hell did it end up on the roof?"

"We do not barter in this family. You do it or I take you to Goodwill and leave you there."

"That is NOT the same shade of red that was on the box. Jesus. My head looks like it's rusting."

"Eat your green beans. Yes, you do like them. Well, you liked them last week, so you will like them this week. EAT THEM OR I WILL CRAM THEM UP YOUR NOSE, DAMMIT."

"Socks don't just disappear, Devon. The dryer eating them? Yeah, you have point."

"Hey, can you grab me that tampon that's on top of the cable box? It's my last one. No, I don't know how it ended up there and, in this house, nomadic feminine products are the least of my concerns."

"Didn't your father teach you how to aim? Do you just go in there and randomly spray like a fire hose? Are you sure there's only one hole? Cos' it looks like a fucking sprinkler was set off in there."

"Then go take your panties off and just wear your shorts, sweety. It's called 'going commando'.

"Dishes and laundry. That's all you people keep me around for."

"It is not a requirement that we go to Wal-Mart every weekend. Damn. I need fabric softener and tampons. Let's go."

I leave work on Friday, hopeful and excited. I stop at a red light, lay my head back and close my eyes and then BAM! I'm at work on Monday, confused and disoriented.

Imagine how that must feel....Do you have a pretty good idea? Yes?

No, you don't . Stop fucking bugging me about the 476th email forward you sent me with the subject line reading, "This is toooo cute!" I'm dealing with another dimension here.


Wednesday, July 06, 2005

"What If?..." is the name of a totally juvenile and completely hysterical game that can be played with a pen and paper and more than 2 people. The players last night were me, my son (Devon), Chris (the guy that is completely insane for dating me), and Chris' fourteen-year-old sister, Vanna. The object is for all players to write any sort of, "What If...?" question. You all then pass it to the person on the right and they answer it. You all pass it once more to the right and you begin. One person reads the question they ended up with and then the person on their right reads the answer on their piece of paper. Get it? If not, GET OFF THE COMPUTER. YOUR MOMMY DOESN'T WANT YOU READING THIS FILTH.

You can name a theme beforehand or just write questions on anything. So, here is a sampling of questions, some of the real answers and some of the random answers:

Theme: Devon (my son)

Question: What if Devon was a gay stripper? (some of us VANNA aren't VANNA very VANNA nice)

Real Answer (that I had to come up with): He would change his name to Devonia and spend all his money on sequined thongs & therapy.

Random Answers: They weren't that funny, so I'll skip to the next one.

Theme: Me (oh joy)


Theme: Mississippi

Question: What if everyone in Mississippi had a giant orgy?

Real Answer: I would hope that Angelina Jolie was in town (submitted by my son. I told him he's not allowed unsupervised access to the computer, t.v. or any media or any sort EVER AGAIN)

Question: What if Vanna and Vin Diesel got married and had 500 babies?

Answer: Her uterus would fall out and then Vin Diesel would leave her for that slut, Angelina Jolie. (guess who?)

At this point, there was a knock on my door. It was my neighbor, Justin. He is a cop. I invited him in and threw him a pen and a piece of paper.

Chris: "So, what's the theme?"
Me: "Police."
Vanna: (starting to write and then looking up, puzzled) "Why police?"
Me: "Cos' Justin's a cop."
Vanna: (furiously scratching out what she'd just written) "Oh, crap. I'm glad you told me that."
Me: "Why? Were you planning on busting out some weed and toking up? C'mon. Justin has a sense of humor. He has to. He's a cop in Monkey Taint, Mississippi."

Meanwhile, Justin is just looking at me funny. I've told you before that my mouth assures me no help or rescue from the OBPD should I ever need it.

After we ran him off (with questions like, "What if you could be arrested for being ugly?" and, "What if the cops kept all the drugs they confiscated and got high all day long?"), I asked Vanna what she had originally been writing.

Vanna: "Oh, something like, "What if all cops weren't fat asses who sat around and ate doughnuts all day", something like that."

Chris & Devon in unison: "Me, too!"

Somehow, I have a feeling that I'll one day be blogging from Cell Block D, while washing socks out in the toilet for Big Sheniqua. You know, cos' I'm her cracker bitch.


Tuesday, July 05, 2005

I went with Chris to his family reunion in Wynne, Arkansas. I should have told all of you last week so you could have talked me out of it. Alas, I was not prepared for the horror that I was to face that weekend.

That area of Arkansas produces some ridiculous percentage of rice in the U.S. Rice fields are perfect for mosquito breeding.

At dusk, everyone began spraying repellant on their kids and themselves. They acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if A FUCKING PLAGUE OF MOSQUITOS WASN'T WAITING FOR DARKNESS SO THEY COULD SWOOP IN AND BLEED NEWCOMERS DRY.

There was repellant literally running down my legs by the time I had had enough and took my daughter to the car sixty seconds after dark. I've never seen anything like it. There were clouds of them around me as I whimpered and cowered in fear. I swear to God I saw a swarm of them take human shape and try to grab me as I ran for the car.

The McKee clan continued to act as if everything was perfectly normal. I've decided that's because they made a deal with the Mosquito Queen decades ago and me and other non-family members like me were the offering. We were all alternately spraying, shrieking, batting at the air like a bunch of retards and running for our cars. The family members just stood there and happily enjoyed their fireworks.

I should have taken Chris seriously when he told me, at least 3 times, that Wynne was the mosquito capital of the world. I would rather have risked lynching by the country folks while wearing this than losing a quart of blood to the devil spawn that came out of the field that day.


Friday, July 01, 2005

My daughter did not want to make an appearance into this world. As a matter of fact, none of the three children I've birthed wanted anything to do with the outside. They were quite happy trying to fit their head under my ribs and using my bladder as a trampoline.

When I finally went into labor, I was so relieved that every time we stopped at a red light on the way to the hospital, I would roll my window down and inform the neighboring car, while pointing at my swollen mid-section, "The little asshole finally decided she's done. Thank God, huh?"

We got to the hospital and went to our room. I wandered around in my robe, peed a lot, and played with the controls on my bed. Two hours later, they decided that I wouldn't be having her for awhile, so they sent me home.


I was irate. As we were leaving, I turned to Jess. "Take me to Home Depot. Now. I'm not fucking around with this baby anymore. She is coming out."

"Crystal, she'll come when she's ready."

"When she's ready? Excuse me? She thinks she's a fucking elephant. And if your zest for life is any indication of how motivated she'll be, I'll be receiving Social Security by the time she GETS HER ASS IN GEAR AND MAKES AN APPEARANCE. Now take me to Home Depot, you cocksucker." Then I collapsed in tears.

He took me back to my apartment and I sat in the tub and ate crackers. I threw up the crackers twenty minutes later and after heaving, I crawled out into the bedroom. Just envision the beauty..me, 82 weeks pregnant, on my hands and knees, cracker crumbs stuck to my gargantuan boobs, wet hair and snot on my upper lip. "Jess. Call the hospital. Tell them I am coming back and we are not leaving until I have a baby or kill myself, whichever comes first." He took one look at me and started dialing.

Here is a list of observations I made while enduring the next 25 hours of horrifying agony:

1. It is probably not a good idea to pick a giggling Elmo doll as your focal point when you're in pain. I decided that the little bastard was laughing at my anguish and I tore his laugh-box out and threw it at my mother. She nervously laughed and apologized to the staff.

Silly woman. Save your apologies and make one big apology at the end, cos' I'm just getting started.

2. If you want to make a fortune, set up a cigarette stand outside of any maternity ward. I think Jess smoked half a carton while I was in labor. Either that, or he was just making excuses to get away from the snarling, spitting demon writhing on the bed and telling everyone that no dick would ever get near her vagina again.

3. It is apparently not appropriate to say to the anasthesiologist, after being instructed to be still for the tenth time while having an epidural, "I'll do the fucking thing myself. Jesus. Just give me the goddamned needle and stop poking me like a pin-cushion, for shits sake."

4. It is further not appropriate to say the to student doctor, who, while trying to put a monitor in your baby's head WHILE SHE'S STILL INSIDE YOU, remarks that she was afraid she would hit the baby's eye, "If you poke her in the eye and I have a one-eyed baby, I will own you, your family, your dog, this hospital and have all your heads on stakes in my mansions driveway before the end of the week. Do it right."

5. If you're going to stand by my bed and practice my breathing with me, pop a fucking breath mint in that cesspool of a mouth. Holy hell. I'm in enough distress without having my eyelashes melted off to boot.

6. There is nothing pretty about a pussy. NOTHING.

7. Regarding number 6, think really, really, reallyreallyreally hard before you ask for a mirror so you can see the baby being born. If everyone in the room is staring at your naughty parts with the expressions of nuns watching orphans being set on fire, it's probably not a good idea for you to see what's going on.

8. It is positively amazing that a child can be 3.2 seconds old and still turn it's head toward your boob and start making the guppy face.

9. When the baby is old enough to open her eyes and see a little better, don't be distressed when she looks at your boob with the most comical expression of terror and then begins shrieking. When a single boob is bigger than the whole baby, I guess that's to be expected.

10. It's perfectly natural to freak out when it finally hits you that this tiny, beautiful little creature is yours to nurture, guide and mold. Start crying. Keep crying until she's forty-five years old.

11. Prepare yourself for exasperation when, during a post-partum check up, you ask the doctor to "just go ahead and take it all out, cos' I'm finished with it, now."

A very wise woman once said that having a child is like taking your heart out and giving it legs. No truer words have ever been spoken.

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