Archives 2007

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

You're going to start seeing some ads on the side of my blog, down across the left column. I'm not trying to get rich, but I am going to upgrade to the paid Bravenet service so I can send you guys more than one update per day (if need be) and I'm just trying to offset the cost of that. Clicks don't matter, so I don't want you guys to think you need to sit and click obsessively so we can all move to that island and frolick naked, but if it's something you really need or want, I do get a small commission. I was contacted by the merchants and I was very choosy about which ads to display and some of them are seriously fantastic sites (I use for my kids, and let me tell you, it's the BEST SHIT EVER) and things I support whole heartedly.

So, I guess I'm sort of selling out. But not to get rich. But if I get rich, I"ll buy you all a pony. A pink one.

link | posted by Crystal at 8:55 AM

Monday, June 25, 2007

I was at work, trying to impart the sheer horror of the corn incident to my co-workers.

"Horrible. Like...I need therapy."

Deirdre looked at me. "Oh, shut up. I've done the same thing."

"What? What?? How does this happen? How do more people not know about this? And why
does it continue?"

"I just thought it was a piece of brownie. It was poop."

"Human or canine?"

"No idea."

I sat in stunned silence for a moment. I mean, Deirdre. She lifts her pinky when she drinks wine and she must have sex with with lights off. PICKED UP POO. Nonchalantly.

"Deirdre, I seriously think we should start a support group. Poo Picker Uppers Anonymous."

She nodded, sagely.

"Our tagline on our business cards can be, "Animal or human, who really knew?"

Again, she nodded. Then she said, "Listen, nothing fazes me after the turkey."

I immediately shimmied my chair all up into her personal bubble and put my face in hers. "You must tell me. It's the way it must be."

"Back off, whacko. You're in my space."

"It's more intimate this way."

She sighed and began. "When my husband and I lived in California, we passed a turkey farm. We didn't know it was a turkey farm until one of them flew through the passenger window of our car, decapitating himself on my lap and flapping his wings in my face."

I have begun laughing like I've not laughed all week. That's the kind of friend I am.

"It's not funny, Crystal. That sonofabitch hit me right in the side of the head. And my toddlers in the back seat screaming, "Boid! Boid!", while my husband drives into the fence."

I am rolling on the floor and she is contemplating kicking me with her Marc Jacobs shoes until Corina piped up.

"Well, what did the farmer do?"

"Oh, he was great. He took one look at it and said, "Not my turkey", and walked away."

I am giddy. "Deirdre...Deirdre...did you look on his legs for a little rolled up suicide note? Did you take him home and cook him? Wait! I know! You stuffed him and had his head sewn back on, didn't you? Ahahahahahahaahahhahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

After the furor died down, I called her from my office via my headset. I asked her some innocuous question. "What?" she said. "I can't hear you?"

"Is that the side the turkey nailed you on?"

She hates me. I'm buying this and putting it in her car.

link | posted by Crystal at 10:24 PM

Saturday, June 23, 2007

I got an email this afternoon from Avitable who has been an avid supporter and never asked a thing of me. One of his blogger friends, NYC Watchdog, lost his five-year-old son yesterday in a drowning accident. Graphics are being sold on Avitable's site to help fund the heart-wrenching but necessary arrangements for Puppy Monster. Please go, maybe leave a kind word and buy a graphic, if you can. I know you've all given so much to help my niece, but this....I just don't know what to say.

link | posted by Crystal at 4:45 PM

I was supposed to be first in line to see 1408 this evening and instead, I was curled up in bed, mooing like a cow and demanding to know which of my family poisoned me. I slept, fitfully, until I had this horrible dream that I was waiting by the dressing room to meet Carrot Top and his bodyguard told me I had to leave Harmony outside because she was snoring too loud. And then I thought, "Why did I bring Harmony? And why am I naked? Ewww! Carrot Top is made of wax!" and as it turns out, I'm in bed and my husband is snoring like a drunken logger.

Leave my baby, indeed. I don't care if she was covered in snot and poo AND snoring, she's coming with me, you assclown.

So, anyway, I'm up checking my email and Carol sends me this note that she's having a contest at her blog. I go over to check it out (it's a caption contest) and my first thought was, "What the hell is that thing in his mouth?" And then I ran for the bathroom. I'm not eating anything in this house ever again. I don't trust these people.

So, go. See. Win. The bracelets are really pretty. And let me know what that thing is, will ya?

link | posted by Crystal at 3:26 AM

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

I don't know what I'm doing. I tried to add my scrapblog and then a whole bunch of gibberish printed out and I think I'm the one who needs lessons on wiping my ass. Here is what it originallly said:

Ok. So, Alex at Scrapblog was nice enough to let me know how to embed this sucker into my side bar and I did it, and I patted myself on the back and called my sister to proclaim my superiority to her, even if she does have five stepford children and no Xanax habit, and then today it was gone. So, since this is my blog, I'm sticking this big, honky hairy sonofabitch right here. And I vow to post one picture a month of something. Heaven knows what that might be. But it won't be corn. *shudder* P.S. Some of you can't see this and it has to do with flash player or vulcan mind tricks or some such thing. I can only see it at home, so I feel your pain and I have no idea what to do about that.

link | posted by Crystal at 4:40 PM

link | posted by Crystal at 4:38 PM

Monday, June 18, 2007

When I'm at home and I put my hair up in a ponytail, the kids go hide in their rooms and Chris mysteriously finds some reason to go to Lowe's. This is because me putting my hair up is an indication that I'm about to start feverishly cleaning and they want nothing to do with me, especially after the last time when I was suddenly possessed by a pirate and started screaming, "Arrrrrr! Run, ya scurvy cowards! Mongrels, ye be! Arrrrrr!"

I think the verbal translation of me putting my hair up is, "Death to all ye who enter here". But, I really can't be blamed. I just have issues with sweating and working and using my whole weekend to clean up after three lumps who sit around the living room, eating oddly large bowls of cereal and looking at each other all, "Dude. This breathing through your nose while chewing? Hard."

After last weekend and my sister's kids leaving, I had extra clothes to wash (they always leave so many clothes behind. How do they not leave naked?), Tarburt to scrape out of the carpet and little swallows of liquor left in the bottles that needed to be consumed so I could throw them out. I was in rare form, running to and fro and reminding my family every other second that I got not so much as a card for Mother's Day while I picked up their dirty socks and scrubbed their horrid toilets.

On this particular day, Virginia was the only one smart enough to hide in her room. Devon and Chris were sitting on the sofa, watching Mythbusters and scratching.

It had been a terrifically awful week at work, one that ended with me having my first! ever! anxiety attack! at my desk (I could not figure out why I couldn't breathe and had the overwhelming desire to hide in the broom closet and suck my thumb) and I was in a terribly pensive mood.

I was at the end of the hallway shaking out laundry to separate into piles (because my husband and children have a bad habit of rolling up stuff in their clothes. Paper, toys, kittens) when I heard something hit the floor with a small tink.

I looked down at what I first thought was a rock. Then I noticed something yellow in the rock and I became curious. So, I leaned in for a closer look.

Now, this begs the question: Why? Why would I care? Why do the people always go in the spooky fucking house to investigate? Why does the heroine stop when she hears a creaky door and go to said door to open it and look inside? WHY? We, as humans, are stupid, stupid creatures.

When I leaned in, my eyes widened and a thought process began to play out.

(No way. No fucking way. That is not- it can't be. It won't be. I cannot tolerate this kind of - what. the. fuck.)

And then, then without having the good sense to just get the dustpan and dispose of the mystery object, I had to get down on my hands and knees and put my nose within smelling distance to assure myself that I wasn't crazy. As I was doing this, sniffing the object with my ass straight in the air, Virginia came out. Her door opens up into the end of the hallway, and she was looking back and not paying attention, so she walked straight into my ass, bumping me and thereby poking my nose onto the object. I reeled back, horrified.

"Mommy, whatcha doin'?"

I looked at her, dazed. "Oh my God. I have suffered every indignity - I can't - where did? - feeblurfer."


Still in shock, not quite thinking about what I was doing, I picked up the offending object, placed it in the middle of my palm and began shuffling down the hallway toward the living room. Virginia danced behind me demanding to know, "What's that, mommy? What is it? Can I see? Why are you mumbling?"

I stopped at the end of the hallway and looked at Chris and Devon. I waited, arm outstretched, palm up, horrid thing sitting there looking horrid, for them to notice that THERE IS A PROBLEM.

It took about thirty seconds and some of Virginia going, "Hey! You guys! Mom could seriously have finally gone nuts!", for them to mute the TV and give me their full attention. I began.

"Do you, any of you, you complete neanderthals, know what I hold here in the palm of my hand?"

They all gave me blank stares.

"I'll tell you what this is. I'll tell you that me, this woman who nurtures you and buys you endless boxes of Bagel Bites and Mountain Dew, has elaborate funerals for rats and keeps you supplied with Downy fresh laundry, didn't get a single motherfucking Mother's Day card, but I am now standing here-" my voice began to escalate to a reedy squeal "holding a piece of shit-covered corn in my hand! Corn! Covered in human feces! Holding it!"

I was rewarded by three disgusted groans and then uncontrollable giggling and pointing.

"Mommy's holding poo!"

"Babe, why did you pick it up? Are you sure it's not ... Hell, I don't know what else that could be."

"Mom, ewww, just, ewww. God, I'm glad Mary's not here to see this."

I was still standing, hand outstretched, pale.

My husband tried to help me.

"Crystal, seriously, that cannot be what you think it is. I mean, how do you know?"

"How do I know? I'll tell you how I know. If sight weren't enough, Virginia inadvertently shoved my nose in it. I'm pretty sure after rearing three children I know what doo doo smells like. Here."

I walked toward him. He scampered off the sofa faster than I've ever seen him move and, shrieking like a little girl, ran around the coffee table.

"Ewwww! Get it away!"

I was nonplussed. "I want you to smell it."

"Crystal! No! Honey, you're not feeling well. There's a boatload of crazy in your eyes and I think after the week you've had, you have finally lost it completely. Go throw the poo away, sweety."

"But, I want you all to smell it. And look at it." Then I shouted, "I should not have to suffer through this alone, you jackals! Smell the poo-covered corn! Smell it!"

As I approached Chris in my nutso fucking frenzy, he uttered that girly scream again and batted my hand away. I watched in horror as the shit-covered corn kernel (perfectly preserved, I might add) was knocked out of my hand, across the room and onto the floor, where it slid under the baby's crib. I rounded on him.

"So. That's just great. Great. Now, I want to know...which one of you needs schooling on how to wipe your ass properly? Hmm? I know! We can narrow this down. Who's been eating corn?"

The three of them looked at me, warily, and began backing away.

"Mom, take a deep breath," Devon said.

"You. Shut it. Until you have been where I am, you shut your hole. I am going now to sit in the shower and cry. And I want you all to know one more thing."

They looked at me expectantly.

"If I don't get a card next year, I will pull your fucking heads off and throw them at you."

We never found that corn or determined where it could have possibly come from. It moved on, much like my sanity, to show up in some other unsuspecting lady's laundry and bring a family together.

link | posted by Crystal at 10:26 AM

Friday, June 15, 2007

Hi, everyone. I'm sorry I'm answering questions in this forum because I would rather answer them personally and more intimately to you each via email, but the outpouring of goodwill and generosity for my niece has been so plentiful that I simply can't! How wonderful!

1. For those of you wanting to drop a care package in the mail or whatnot, they can be sent to:

Kristen Scarbrough
P. O. Box 9036
Horseshoe Bay, Texas 78657

That is my sister's P.O. that she's had for years and she is going to have to drive from there to Midland every weekend to care for my younger nephew (she has to work and isn't able to be there during the week, but my niece's stepmom has come up with an arrangement to care for Hayden during the week), so she will deliver any and all packages for my niece.

2. My niece is home from the hospital and stuck on bedrest. The doc's let her go provided she had the above care for her Hayden. She is exhausted and contracting, but so, so joyous and relieved that housing and feeding her baby boy is not the foremost worry on her mind, thanks to you all. Hopefully, my new nephew will hang in there and give her some much needed rest and wait until his expected arrival in August.

3. The entry is back-dated because I wanted to link to it so that readers could choose to read it or not, and the only way I knew to do that was to put it in archives and link it. I feel guilty for asking for help, even though it's for such a wonderful cause, because I've asked it of you a few times in the past few months. I donate to the Paralyzed Vets Association and Easter Seals and St. Jude and others (not much....five or so dollars here and there every month, whatever I can afford) and I am constantly bombarded with solicitations for more donations and sometimes I think, "I will have to mail twenty letters every month for the rest of my life to use up all these personalized freaking labels," and if you get them, you know what I mean. But I couldn't sit and do nothing. I couldn't.

4. Katrina, thank you for the wonderful idea! My niece doesn't have a computer or even access to one, unfortunately, but I will probe into that a little deeper. Thank you all for your ideas and suggestions....Kay, Sheri A, everyone who emailed me with brainstorms and requests to help and love and prayers and wishes. My son stood behind me last night while I feverishly worked to answer as many emails as possible and just kept remarking, "Wow, Mom. You have the nicest readers." And I looked at him, all, Duh, Devon. How many times have I told you that?

5. I think it goes without saying, but I want you all to know that if there is ever anything, anything at all I can do for you (and some of you have emailed me and only asked for a little of my time and I gladly offer that to you, but please bear with me until maybe next week? when I have it to offer because I don't want to short change anyone, including my kids who have been very patient with my shoo'ing them away for the last couple of days), don't hesitate to ask. I more than owe that to you.

Ok. Oh, and one more thing....the post? The one my husband is protesting about, loudly and with much vigor? Going up by Monday. Have an incredible weekend. xo.

link | posted by Crystal at 12:44 PM

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Ok. Here it is...if anyone is interested:

Mary, I haven't dismissed you, I'm just waiting to hear from you....thank you so much, everyone.

link | posted by Crystal at 7:15 PM

Monday, April 30, 2007

Saturday, Chris and I went to his sister's apartment so that she could cover all my gray and make me look as fabulous as one can when your subject has a leg brace and smears of prune spit-up all over her boobs.

Now, I could care less about my hair. I have never been a high maintenance woman. As a matter of fact, the tube of mascara I use is at least 4 years old. There's nothing in it and I'm more or less just combing my eyelashes, but, whatever.

Chris' sister, on the other hand, is the pinnacle of fashion and cutting edge trends. She is an incredible stylist (and proved herself worthy by taming my sons locks on numerous occasions) and it pained her, nay, physically tortured her to see me running around with gray streaks, ponytail holder, parachute pants and a Megadeth t-shirt. When she came to visit, she would follow me from room to room, wringing her hands and imploring me to do the right thing and take my own life so that she could get some of my DNA and a petri dish and start all over from scratch.

To keep her from staging a protest outside the house, Chris coordinated an arrangement with her. She would keep me from looking like I belonged in a police line-up and in return, he does all of her (extensive, holy shit) car repairs.

Believe me, she's getting the shit end of that deal.

So, once every couple of months she yanks all my fucking hair out and I sit and cry and try not to call her a cock-juggling thunder-cunt because $400 shears are very, very sharp and it's really only the pain talking. She's a lovely young lady.

After we left, I sat in the car and moaned for a while. I decided that the only way to dull the agony was booze, so I asked Chris to drive me to the local wine & spirits store. His sister lives in a very trendy part of town that we aren't familiar with (directions in our part of the country usually start with, "You turn left by that dead cow and go about three football fields"), so we basically just drove until we found one.

As we prepared to exit the car, I saw a homeless man approaching. I turned to Chris.

"Please. Don't."

"Crystal, it's the nicest way I know how to do it. I will not support someone who won't help themselves."

I bit my tongue and got out. Before the man could ask, Chris walked over to him and said, "Hey, man, you got a dollar?"

This always confuses the shit out of them and catches them completely off guard. While he puzzled this intriguing and unexpected development, Chis continued.

"Or change! You got change for a twenty?"

The man laughed, a big, goofy, childlike laugh as he realized what was happening and then asked Chris for a hug. My wonderful husband didn't notice his shabby appearance or the grime on his face and enveloped him in a huge bear hug. The man continued laughing and went on his way.

"I love you, Chris."


"What you just gave him was worth a lot more than a dollar."

"No big deal. Poor guy. He smelled like lighter fluid or formaldehyde."

"I can't help it. I was homeless and people gave to me. I want to give back."

"Yeah, but did you spend what people gave you on lighter fluid or formaldehyde? Or whatever he uses to get high."

"No. I preferred Nyquil."


Saturday, April 28, 2007

And that dream is to win something for once in my pathetic life.

So, employing the tactics of all great campaigns, I give you.....wait for won't believe your eyes...


I don't know what the fuck it is, but it belongs to the person who pushes me over the edge (in votes. I already base jumped off that other edge a looooong time ago) this coming month. I'm up against a very formidable and enjoyable opponent, so I have to resort to bribery. It's the American way.

Does anyone know when this shit ends? I can't take much more of this.


Thursday, April 26, 2007

...except that there's nothing like the smell of a freshly bathed baby.

EDIT: And while my husband was a bachelor, he was so vastly impressed with the Dallas Cowboys that he painted the whole living area blue and was mixing the SILVER paint to do the star on the wall when I tackled him and beat him to death with a copy of Southern Living. We haven't painted over the atrocity yet, and I'm from Texas and all, but can I just say, OH. MY. GOD.

EDIT 2: And after further scrutiny, Bekah's right. My daughter is an addict.

EDIT 3: See that brace, Oh wise and sage FNP? When I'm done with it (and I'm having an MRI next week because the awesomely awesome sports medicine Orthopedist thinks I may have even torn my ACL), I'm going to wrap some dog poo up in it and set it on fire outside your house.

EDIT 4: Cos' I'm gangsta that way. And that's the way I roll.

EDIT 5: Apparently, I had a whole lot of shit to say today.

EDIT 6: And I have a bloodhound that eats everything, including plastic lawn chairs and dead birds, so her shit is toxic, man. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

EDIT 7: That's it. I swear.


Sheila over at Seriously is trying to raise money to make her bathroom wheelchair accessible for her boyfriend, Tom, who has been a quadriplegic since 2003. I didn't ask her if I could post this and I'm an asshole for that (forgive me, Sheila) and I'm an even bigger asshole for vote begging when there are people who need real support. So, if you have a few bucks, you can do a nice thing for someone in real need.

I love you. Each and every one of you. That's a lot of love, y'all.


Hi. My name is Harmony. My mommy writes this stuff here. And I need your help.

See, she's become a little upset over some blog with pictures of cats really cute pictures and lookit! fuzzy animals! with weird cat language! cute! fuzzy!

Where was I?

Oh, yeah, so she's thinking that people love pictures of cats more than her shart stories. I don't know what a shart is. I don't have teeth. Shiny. Colors. Fist! Must fit in my mouth! Mmmm, fist...

Oh. Anyway, so she wanders around the house talking about how she gets enough hits per day or something like that and she's still not going to beat the cat blog. She's okay with 3rd place, but if the cat blog beats her, she'll lock herself in her room with Cheetos and boxed wine and I won't get boobies and I really like boobies. Boobies. Milk. I'm hungry.

So, if you can find it in your heart to keep me from being booby-less, I would really oh look! dangly things! above me! and a foot! where did that foot come from! foot in mouth! yummy foot! hi, daddy! It's daddy! doing that thing again! wet one off! naked! dry one on! And tickles! on my ribs! and motorboat lips! wheeeee!

I need a nap.

P.S. She also wants you to vote for this guy because he makes her laugh really hard and her boobies jiggle when she laughs and boobies milk hungry nap I farted

P.P.S. I said pee pee. Heh.

P.P.P.S. Ok, ok, so mommy fibbed when she said she didn't care how she placed, but don't be too hard on her. Her dream is to be discovered so she can stay home with me and who wouldn't want to stay home with me? She likes being here when my big sister and big brother get home from school and they would love it if she could spend more time learning to cook because apparently she's a terrible cook and boobies! BOOBIES!


Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Ok, so before I write this down, I'm posting a disclaimer:





Everybody feeling all warm and fuzzy? No hurt vaginas? No one cuddling their child and blaming me for oppression? Everybody okay? Alright, then. On with the story.
Occasionally, I will embellish a story just a little for comedic effect. What happened last Sunday at church is so good, I don't need to. If we filmed sermons, I would post a link. How I wish we did.
Our church is very unlike the million other Southern Baptist churches. It's small, warm and everyone is welcoming and accepting. I have not set foot inside a church (other than to get married) since I was twelve and going back was a huge leap for me. Our pastor is one of the most amazing, dedicated and genuine men I have ever encountered, and after meeting with him, I literally felt like I was at home.
Because it is so welcoming and relaxed, we have a lot of members who might otherwise feel out of place anywhere else. We have quite a few members who have disabilities, some who lead alternative lifestyles and an unusual number of women who are extremely obese. I think that speaks volumes for the pastor and the congregation and I see this as something to be proud of, but it is noticeable.
Sunday morning, after the first two songs, is the time when everyone stops to say hello and greet any guests or just offer an encouraging word to anyone having a particularly difficult time. This is the ten minute span when I usually sit in my chair trying not to fart because social situations with pious people still sometimes make me nervous and sick to my stomach. Because of this, I tend to notice things that others might not, as they're distracted.
At first, I was the only one who noticed the older black man. His hair was sticking up in twenty crazy directions. He was also carrying a harmonica and had a guitar strapped around his neck, so I figured he was there to help with the praise team. At first he looked around, confused. Then his whole face lit up and he started effusively screaming, "Praise Jesus!", as he made his way around, pumping hands and slapping backs. When it was time to be seated, he slowly made his way up the aisle as the Pastor began his morning announcements. He stopped behind the Pastor, on his left, and brought the harmonica to his lips. Now we all looked confused. As the Pastor was talking about casseroles and new babies, the old man would occasionally punctuate the announcements with a blast from his harmonica, a strum on the guitar, and a very enthusiastic, "Praise Jesus!" The Pastor tried to keep his composure as two things became very clear to most of us:
1. This man was shit-house drunk
2. He was also probably senile
Pastor Ken, never one to be fazed by most things, turned around and gently asked the old man if he was a guest of someone in attendance. The old man stopped, peered closely at the faces before him and proclaimed, "Lawd, Jesus, you got some big ol' women up in this church. Lawd, have mercy. Whale women up in heah!"
Jack Preston was seated in front of me. He also laughs like a chipmunk. After a brief moment of stunned silence, it was broken by his high-pitched, chattering giggles. This was all the encouragement I needed to start nervously braying like a donkey. Now, we had the domino effect. Everyone was gasping, choking, trying to breathe. The only people not laughing were those too infirm to hear what the old man had said, those who had just been likened to whales, and the Pastor who was desperately trying to hold it together.
After the uproar had died down a bit, the Pastor looked at us all, clapped his hands together and said, "Well, see, you just never know what the Lord is going to bring you that day," as he turned and grabbed the old man by the elbow to escort him into the foyer.
I agree. Sometimes the Lord brings you blog material when you got nothin'.


Monday, April 23, 2007

My mother is not exactly what I would call nurturing. She's incredibly kind and loving, but she also helped to raise sixteen bratty brothers and sisters, so by the time we came along, I think she was pretty much over the whole 'kid' thing.

She kept Harmony Saturday night while Chris and I got buck-wild crazy (i.e. grabbed some Subway, went home, ate, burped, scratched, brushed our teeth and went to bed) for our anniversary. It was the baby's first time to stay with her Mimi and I had to leave a list three miles long with instructions, because when I was a baby, she just put me outside with the cow and hoped that I had the good sense to find a teat and burrow in the hay for warmth.

As she peered over the top of her glasses at the list, she would occasionally glance at my father as if to say, "Are you hearing this crazy shit? Butt paste and gas drops, indeed." Then she would turn back and smile at me as if to assure us that she wouldn't be holding the baby by her ankles if she got gassy ("Gas rises, ya know!") or letting the dog lick Harmony's ass to get rid of diaper rash.

The next morning when I called, my mom got offended.

"Crystal! This baby's fine. I told you that an hour ago. And the twelve times you called before that. She's right here in my lap suckin' on a pickle."

"Mom! You cannot give her food, yet! She's still on breastmilk and-"

"Oh, shaddup. I'm kidding."


Meanwhile, I hear suspicious slurping noises and Harmony cooing in the background.

"Are you sure she's not eating a pickle?"

"So, the boys want to go to the park. You didn't leave the car seat base and Devon says you will have a heart attack if I take them and put her in the car without that base. What do you suggest I do?"

"I don't know. Make them walk?"

"I'm gonna leave her with your father for ten minutes. She's watching television."

"Mom, I really don't know if that's a goo-"

"She'll be fine. You worry too much. She's watching Bonanza. Nothing bad can happen while she's watching Bonanza."

I vividly remember being stuck in front of the tv when I was a baby. I can recite every episode of Hogans Heroes. That makes me so much cooler than you.

Anyway, since I'm still breathing, I figured it would be okay. Ten minutes later, I got this phonecall.

"Crystal! Does Devon have a phone? Call your mother! Call her!"

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

"The baby! Call your mom!"

I can hear Harmony in the background, grunting.


"She's cryin'! And I don't know what to do!"

"It doesn't sound like she's crying, Dad. Are you sure?"

"She's making a face! Eyes are all watery! And noises!"

"Dad, she's trying to poop."

Well, holy hell, I might as well have said she's morphing into the anti-christ and preparing to eat his face.

"Oh, no! No, Crystal! No! Call your mother right. now."

"Dad, it's okay, you can just-"

"No! No, ma'am! You get her on the phone and-"


"Nevermind! She's here! Gotta go! Hogan's Heroes is on!"

I picked her up thirty minutes later. She smelled like pickles.


Sunday, April 22, 2007

For years, I would ask God, "Why? Why do I have all this love to give and no one to give it to?" Now, I know why.

For all the tears you wiped away, I love you.
For all the smiles and laughs, I love you.
For loving my children like they're your own, I love you.
For putting your family before your own wants and needs, I love you.
For hurting when I hurt, I love you.
For accepting me and making me feel like the most beautiful, amazing creature you've ever encountered, I love you.
For asking my father for my hand in marriage, I love you.
For convincing me that yes, I could be a mother again and love every single second of it, I love you.
For being who you are and never backing down from your beliefs, I love you.

You are the best man I know. I'm so fortunate to be your wife. Happy 1st anniversary, Chris.


Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Last night, I horrified Virginia when I accidentally let it slip that she's developing a crush on her brother's friend, Julio. I felt terrible and in all honesty, I had no idea that it was top secret. She very sternly commanded me to follow her to her room, which I did, tail respectfully tucked between my legs.

When I walked into her bedroom, she turned to me.

"Close the door, Mommy. This is private confrontation."

"You mean 'conversation', sweetheart."

"No, Mommy. I meant exactly what I said."

Ok, so when the Rottweilers and the creepy nanny show up, who's volunteering to save me? Anyone? Bueller?


"Crystal, listen. I had the weirdest dream last night."

"Ooh, me, too! Did yours involve Liberace and some roller skates?"

"No. I had a goat."

"A goat? That's not weird. That's Arkansas."

"Listen, babe!"


"I had this goat and I entered it in a beauty contest. I put makeup on it-"

"Oh, God. It's the hair, isn't it?"

"What hair?"

"That mutant hair that grows out of my chin. The one I have to pluck every month? I remind you of a goat, don't I?"

"Babe, seriously. No. It was a dream. I just happened to have this huge goat-"

"Huge? Now I'm huge? Oh, God. I need to start walking after my leg heals. I knew it was bad but now you're dreaming I'm a fat goat-"

"Crystal, it wasn't you."

"Yes, it was. It was a representation of me."

"No, it wasn't. This isn't Freud. It's just a dream."

"Yeah, a dream that I'm a porky, ugly goat thing-"


"Are you sure?"


"Ok. Ok. Good. Ok."


"I am. But...Chris ?"


"Did I at least place in the beauty contest?"


Thursday, April 12, 2007

EDIT #2: So, I don't really expect to beat out Dooce (or anyone else ahead of me for that matter), BUT IF I GET MY ASS KICKED BY A WEBSITE THAT SIMPLY HAS PICTURES OF CATS, I WILL MOVE TO NORTH DAKOTA AND CHANGE MY NAME TO FRANCES.

Ok, so the thing is...I really honestly don't care if I go any further than page 3, it just makes me so fucking happy that someone out there thinks enough of me to nominate me for this.

Secretangel007, please stand up. Back Stand up. Put your drink down and STAND UP. It's okay. Honestly. You have toilet paper stuck on your shoe. Ok...k...there. Got it.

Thank you. I have the best, most supportive readers out of any blog, I think.

And no, this is not the Lortab talking. It's me ON the Lortab. Totally different.

My site was nominated for Best Humor Blog!



Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Dear FNP,

I understand that you're not infallible. I further understand that I came to your clinic shortly before closing and you were eager to go home and put peanut butter on your va-jay-jay. But, the thing is, my husband pays a shit ton of money so that my family and I can have decent medical care. I hesitate to go to the doctor because there's a $20 co-pay, and let's face it, as far as my kids are concerned, that's money that could be spent on important things like a cell phone for my fourteen-year-old son or a hot pink, ohmygodmom I have to have it, dog backpack thing.

See, spending money on something as paltry as my pain and discomfort if somewhat difficult for me.

I tried to be concise. I didn't talk your ear off about my suffering or pretend that I could self-diagnose just because I've watched every single episode of House. I attempted brevity and moved as quickly as I could when you x-rayed and told me to turn, no turn that way, no just a bit more, to your left, your other left, MY left, LEFT, LADY, SHIT.

You were horrible to me. You were condescending and dismissive and practically rolled your eyes at me when I told you that, yes, I did indeed need something for pain (which you said no to and then prescribed me something that as a nursing mom I couldn't take because it would cause my daughter's skin to turn green and her toes to fall off. The pharmacist said so). When I called you a few days later and told you my knee was getting worse, your staff was even uglier to me and said, verbatim, "Well, we can't give you any narcotics!", as though I was a junkie making things up for the sole benefit of scoring some Lortab.

Here's the thing: I went to another doctor today for a second opinion. I saw a doctor who listened to me and asked questions and was concerned for my nursing daughter, so he gave me a scrip for Tylenol 3 so she's not in a drug induced sleep for the next few weeks and when he did more x-rays? Guess what? No, really, guess!


Thank you for not giving a shit. I have been hobbling around on a broken leg for two weeks now and potentially done irreversible damage thanks to your apathy.

In closing, I hope you go bald. And break your fucking leg sometime soon. Asshole.

Crystal McHobble


When Virginia does homework, it's usually with the attitude that her teachers are simply trying to drive her mad. She looks at the worksheet all, "Oh, my God. This crap, again?" She doesn't understand that not everyone has a near photographic memory and is able to retain things after doing them one time. Repetition makes her nuts.

Sometimes, however, (thanks to human error, mostly...which was the case, here) she'll come across a problem that stumps her. We encourage her to work the problem out as best she can and to never leave a problem blank. If she still can't work it out, she can then come to us and we'll work through it with her.

Last night, she was thoroughly pissed off at me and Chris because she had been grounded from TV and that's like telling her she can't breathe. We have these completely unreasonable demands, you see, demands like, say, try to make it through one whole school day without telling the teacher you refuse to color and glitter the spring butterfly because you just don't see what your motivation is supposed to be. Things like that.

So, when she encountered a problem that flummoxed her, coming to us, the enemy, was out of the question. She sat and stared at the worksheet for a while and then began fervently chewing the end of her pencil. I noticed that she was taking an unusually long time to finish up her homework, but I left her to her own devices. She finally threw her hands up in the air, scribbled something down, announced that she was exhausted and going to retire for the night and went to bed.

Later, when I was cleaning up the coffee table, I picked up her homework sheet to double check it and make sure she had left nothing blank.

She didn't. And I don't now, either, baby.


Monday, April 09, 2007

"So, what's the verdict?" I ask.

"You have fluid around your knee. It's compressing the joint. That's where the pain is originating, I would think. How did you do that, again?"

"My dog tripped me. Swear. So, I will be getting pain killers?"

"If you can't you manage with some Aleve."

"No. No way. You don't understand. If I could manage with Aleve, I wouldn't be here. I prefer Lortab because other things tend to upset my stomach. Not that I take other things on a regular basis."

"Uh huh."

"I mean, I've taken them, but only when prescribed. And not in a long time. Well, I got something after I had Harmony, but, hell, I just shit out a baby, so I don't think that counts. I mean, I'm not taking them to get high or anything."

"Mmm hmm."

"They do help me sleep. Not that I'm using them for a sleep aid. It's just that my knee hurts when I don't have anything and a glass of wine - NO! I won't be drinking and mixing pain killers with it! I promise! I know you people are leery of giving codeine scrips and I understand."

"You do?"

"Oh, sure, people get addicted all the time. Codeine is very addictive. From what I understand. I don't know for sure. I wouldn't know."


"You're not writing me a prescription, are you?"



Thursday, April 05, 2007

Friday night, we had friends over. ADULTS. We barbecued and drank and I got to sit around with an ADULT WOMAN and discuss penises and boobies and all sorts of R rated things. It was liberating.

After they left, Chris and I chatted briefly about the vasectomy he had that morning. I had been drinking and I got a little teary and emotional (that happens when I drink. I turn into Tammy Faye Baker, minus the layers of pancake makeup and dead spiders on my eyelids) about never having a boy for him and began to question whether or not we had made the right decision. As I try to do with most things that bother me, I gave it up to God and knew that He would make his feelings on the matter known.

Some time later that night, I went out to feed the dogs. Chris isn't able to pick up anything heavier than a milk jug, so he's been banned from lifting dog food bags, the baby, my boobs (individually) and his penis ( Hi baby! I know I'm telling the internet that you had a vasectomy, but, LOOK! I also told them how big and manly your naughty parts are! Yay, me!). Feeding the dogs is something usually delegated to anyone other than me, but Chris was sitting on the couch lamenting the loss of his swimmers and Devon was at his therapy session (geez, they were just FINGER COTS, DEVON) and Virginia was at her MENSA meeting. So, it was up to me. Drunk me. Uncoordinated, broke-my-pubic-bone-on-a-mechanical-bull-one-time me. No problem.

I went back, fumbled around (porch light? I DON'T NEED NO STEENKIN' PORCH LIGHT), dropped the bag on my foot, picked it up, knocked over the auto feeder, righted it, poured the bag in the auto feeder (well, most of it) and then (ok, that's a lie. I missed the auto feeder and it all went on the ground. I figure they lick their own assholes, they can eat off the ground) turned to run. You see, the dogs hear the food being deposited and it's a fucking free-for-all for whichever of them reaches the feeder first. They will knock down anything that gets in their way and try to kill each other over a morsel of kibble that the other one missed. I make it a point to never, ever, ever to get in the middle of that.

However, as I turned to run, a pesky brick got in my way. I stepped forward as I normally would only to find that my foot hit a solid surface (in this case, the brick) about 3 inches higher than it normally would. My brain was swimming in some fu-fu wine cooler shit (I'm getting old. Pass the ripple) and didn't process that my foot was on a foreign object and not the ground and so it commanded me to put all my weight on that foot to move the other foot forward. When I did so, the brick turned over, my ankle turned with it and my knee went the opposite direction. Cue the screaming. I hit the ground and continued screaming. Apparently, this was dog speak for, "Please come park your ass in my face and stuff your nose in my crotch", because Daisy did just that. Dusty had a different interpretation and chose to sit on my chest and stick his tongue in my mouth. While I was screaming.

Dog food tastes like shit. Or maybe it was Dusty's asshole I was tasting. Kharma, people. Kharma.

Chris heard me blubbering and figured the dogs had finally gotten whatever poison is going around in the dog and cat food these days and were feasting on my face, so he came hobbling through the carport at the speed of smell to save me before they got to his favorite part, my boobs. When he busted through the back fence, I was crying and laughing and trying to push an 80 pound bloodhounds ass off of my face. Dusty was standing to the side by this time and looking at me all, "Woman, you are always falling."

Chris threw an imaginary stick and our genius dogs went in search of the imaginary stick and he used that opportunity to try to lift me off of the ground. More screaming, this time from both of us.

Thirty minutes later, we are both sweating and panting and howling on the sofa and our 3 month old daughter is looking at me all, "Woman, you are always falling."

"Babe...I don't think I can move," Chris said.

"Me, either."

"Who's gonna feed Harmony?"

"I'll throw some Cheerios at her. She'll be okay."

Later on, when both older kids were whining about being hungry and needing help with washing hair and homework and various other parental duties, I looked at Chris. He looked at me. We each took in the sad, pathetic, disabled state of the other. And then simultaneously said, "Yeah, I don't think we're supposed to have any more kids."


I have been really busy lately (READ: NO FUCKING CLUE HOW TO TOP THAT LAST POST. HELP MEEEEEEE) so I thought I would at least try to pacify the women with some squishy face baby pictures.

Spring arrived! And then it dropped to 30 degrees! I'm moving to Florida!

Thursday, May 31, 2007

"Hey, Tracie, it's Crystal. Can you do me a favor?"

"What's up?"

"Can you drive me to surgery tomorrow? I have to have an...a...tapioca."

"You want me to take you to get pudding?"

"No, that's not right. Serpico."


"Ape. Ape-something. Hang on."


"Apico! I have to have an apico." (if you click here, it's kind of gross)

"I have to work."

"You haven't had a job in the four years I've known you."

"What's your point?"


"Hey, Jamie, can you drive me to surgery tomorrow?"

"How long will it take?"

"I don't know, it's surgery. It would kind of suck if he rushed it so he could catch a re-run of The OC or some shit. 2, 3 hours?"

"Oh, wow. I have to shhhhhhhhh and then shhhhhhh wow I must be hitting a dead spot shhhhh-"

"You're on a land line, you asshole."


"Hey, Les. I wish you were here. No one wants to drive me to the doctor and stay with me."

"I'll take you! I'll get in the car right fucking now. Fuckin' A! I'm leaving."

"Um, I appreciate it, sis, but you're in Franklin. That's, like, four hours away."

"Fuck it! Sheshmak!"

"What? Are you okay?"

"Shressful. Been decoratin' the new house."

"With what? Empty liquor bottles?"

"Ah! Aha ha! Ahahahahahahahahahahahhahahah-" clunk.

"Leslie? Les?"


"Hey, Mom. I'm scared. I have to have surgery tomorrow."

"Don't be scared, honey. I'll leave work and take care of you."

There's no one like Mom.


Back in the days before Google, I lived in the library. If I needed to know something along the lines of, say, 'Is my baby supposed to pull on his wiener like that?', and I couldn't find it there, I just consoled myself by thinking, "Well, at least if he pulls it off they do great things with re-attaching limbs and shit these days".

I was not about to admit ignorance and ask my mother anything about the strange habits of babies or which diapers to buy or what the hell you're supposed to do with that thing that looks like a bicycle horn.

When the internet was born and I discovered Google, I couldn't get enough. From, "Stevie Ray Vaughn lyrics" (for years I would sing, "At nights I go shopping", and then I would think, What does that even mean?) to frantic searches for information after my toddler played doggy vet (and now I was missing one thermometer and had a pissed off Bassett dragging his ass across the carpet and spelling out, PLEASE KEEP THAT KID AWAY FROM ME, in poo streaks), Google seemed to have it all. But, occasionally, I would get stumped. I would search for something, like, just for instance, not based on reality at all, ummm.....'Is corn supposed to come out looking just like it did when it went in'? and I would end up somewhere completely unrelated (but that's how I discovered, so yay!) or get unwittingly dragged to a scat fetish site.

And I was stuck. There was no help for me or the other socially awkward, hapless mom's who were frightened by the things they were finding in their baby's diapers. There were no Groups-For-Mom's-Who-Love-All-The-4-Letter-Words-and-Jenga or church suppers I could go to and ask the question, "If my baby's first word sounds suspiciously like 'asshole', should I be concerned?" without being tossed out on my behind.

So, I plunged through blindly, singing my toddler repetitive songs about a bass pole to try and undo the damage all the while checking temperatures and gauging skin color and responsiveness every time I changed a diaper that looked like Chernobyl.

By the time I had Harmony, I thought I could muddle through all of this again. But, like most babies, she marches to the beat of her own drummer and I have again found myself answering perplexed emails with things like, "Yes, I know I found your website while searching for 'should it be placed back in after being ejected from her anus', but I really have no interest in your...uhh...interesting products so please remove me from your mailing list."

A few weeks ago, I was invited to become part of a website that I very much enjoy, Mother Talk. It was through Miriam Peskowitz that I found the answer I had been looking for. The clouds parted and she linked me to Mamasource and I haven't Googled in almost 2 weeks. (Well, except for that time I accidentally used baking soda instead of corn starch and our dinner crawled out of the crock pot, grabbed a beer and took off down the road, but even THAT would have been answered at Mamasource if I hadn't been so panicked. Beer is expensive, man) is the brain child of Artie Wu of San Francisco. He founded the website after he saw how hard it was for his wife to transition to the world of motherhood and find the support and fraternization each new mom - or veteran mom, for that matter - needs. I like to imagine that he began the creation process after he came home and found the kids duct taped to the wall while his wife sat in the kitchen and talked to the Tupperware, but that's probably just me.

Anyway, it's a great community of moms who are there to share advice, recommendations, laughter, tears and even recipes. But the coolest part is that the information you get is from women who are local, so that after you ask them all kinds of weird questions about a variety of subjects and have them totally convinced that you stopped taking your Lithium, they can come over and bring you a martini or two. Laced with lithium.

So, go there. Peruse. It's awesome.

I have to go, now. One of the mom's I recently met is coming over and we're gonna duct tape the kids to the wall, put on some Neil Diamond and play rummy.

Love y'all!


Sunday, May 27, 2007

Ev was nice enough to email me and let me know that she tagged me for this, and it's really interesting that she did. Something's been bothering me for awhile, now, and this meme is a perfect way to broach it.

Christy started this and it's a fantastic idea, so if you'd like to participate, here are the rules.

On with it!

What do you hope to accomplish with your blog?

At first, nothing. I just wanted to write. I had no idea that anyone, much less as many people that do, would care about any of this shit. I was just fervently hoping my Mom wouldn't find it and ground me.

As time has gone on and I get the most amazing emails (emails that tell me that my crap keeps people laughing so they don't feel so depressed/anxious/lonely....I'm so grateful that I can do that, even for one person), my goal is simple: to make one person laugh with every post and to never, ever hurt anyone in the process.

What are your feelings on the "blog popularity" issue?

I'm really passionate about this.

A couple of years ago, I wrote to one of my favorite bloggers asking her advice on how to get exposure, be a better blogger, etc. She never wrote back or acknowledged that I had even written her. I know she is immensely popular and I figured she probably gets thousands of emails, so I patiently re-sent the email every couple of months hoping that if she saw it pop up a few more times, she would either realize how important it was to me or she's get sick of it and answer me. She never did.

Later on, she showcased some of her hatemail and responded to it. I was astonished because I thought, "Wow, you'll answer hatemail but ignore fan mail?" In response to that particular post, I wrote a very flattering comment about how talented she was but, playing devil's advocate, I could understand how some of her readers might be angered by her apparent apathy towards her fans. Nothing I said was inflammatory, insulting or rude - if anything, it was more flattering than anything - yet she chose to delete it. I lost all respect for her. I will leave all comments up, even if they're ugly, if they have a valid point. I will respond to accusations and answer any question posed as long as certain lines aren't crossed, but I will never, ever back down from someone or delete their comments just because I don't like what you have to say.

I still read her because I'm a mindless sheep and I'm completely addicted to her wit, but if she asked for help from her readers, I wouldn't feel bad about deciding I had more important things to do that day like, say, playing connect the dots with my freckles.

It came to my attention a couple of weeks ago that some of my valid email has been directed to my spam folder. I was floored. My first thought was, "Shit. What if someone wrote to me and never got an answer because of that? What if they felt like I did when my email went ignored?" If you have written me and not received an answer, I can promise you that the only reason would be that I never received it. I am horrible about comments - I don't respond to most of them - not because I don't care, but in all honesty because most of the time I don't know what to say. Truth. Swear. I don't want anyone to think I'm an asshole or too good to answer them, because that is simply not true. I answer email because questions are asked and replies are requested. I don't answer comments because I don't think most people expect me to. So, I apologize if I've ever hurt feelings or pissed you off by not acknowledging your comment. I love you and I want us to make up and go back to the way things were. And I need to stop doubling my meds.

No one is better than anyone else and they sure as shit shouldn't act like it. I don't give a crap if you get a thousand emails a day, you should at least have an auto reply that says something like, "Hey! Thanks for writing! Here's your auto reply because I'm knee deep in vodka right now - every good writer has an addiction, am I right? - and I don't care enough to personally tell you to go fuck yourself!" and deleting comments because someone isn't sticking their nose straight up your keister? Wow. Lame.

I have the utmost respect for celebrity bloggers who act human and compassionate, like Danny. I was giddy when he emailed me and actually spoke to me. I asked him to sign my boobs with a sharpie, but his wife said "no" to me coming over naked. Odd, that.

So, anyway, in short, there are so many of you out there and I want to say thank you for letting me know that you like what I do here and for always being supportive.

And you smell really nice, too.


Friday, May 25, 2007

Last week, the dentist attempted to close my root canal. He gave me a couple of shots of the Novocain and then pulled out the temporary filling. He then got his little tray of pipe cleaner things and started poking to make sure he had cleaned out all the canals before he put the post in.

"Ooh, who did such a good job on this tooth? Oh, yeah, that was me!"

I smiled at him - well, you can't really smile when you have a hand in your mouth, so in reality I drooled on him, but, whatever - and then jumped.


He pulled his hand out.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"That hurts. I felt that."

"Ok, well, we're at the bottom of the canal, so that's normal. Let me irrigate."

He did what he does and continued.


"Still hurts?"


"Hmm. Something weird is going on here."

"I'm not surprised," I said. "Nothing medical is ever easy with me. When I had my last daughter, they had to call in a specialist because her foot got stuck in the placenta and while she was trying to work herself loose, the key broke off in the lock."

"That is so not true."

"No, but you get the idea."

He arranged the x-ray machine and turned it on so he could take a look while he was poking.

"Hmm." More poking with the mini pipe cleaner. "I think..."


"Yeah. Huh, that's interesting."


"Look at this, Tia. She has a-"

Poke, poke.


"-crack in the actual canal at the bottom. And the file is going straight through-"

Poke, poke, poke.


"-into the pulp. That's why she can still feel it."

This time, I shrieked loud enough to scare the receptionist. The dentist snatched his hand away.

"What's wrong?"

"You're poking! Quit poking!"

"Oh, sorry. Let me look at one more thing. I won't poke."

He stuck his hand in my mouth, again.

"Ok. Yeah. It must have happened after we did the original work because it wasn't on the x-ray the first time."

I shrieked again. The dentist jumped.

"What? What happened?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to ask you if that's normal, the crack."

He continued assessing.

"Oh. Well, it's not necessarily abnormal. But, I don't know if I can save that tooth."


He impatiently removed his hand.

"Are you in pain?"

"I am if this is going to cost me more money."

He frowned at me. "Stop screaming like that."

I frowned back at him. "Give me more nitrous."

He decided to speak with a specialist and sent me home with a some really strong pain medication. I didn't understand why he basically gave me morphine until I was on the floor later that night, writhing in pain and waving the fireplace shovel in Chris' face, begging him to kill me with it.

I couldn't get in to see him again until next Tuesday and my pain medication began to wither away, so last night I made a phone call and left a message on their answering machine. The nurse called me back this morning.

"Hey, Mrs. McKnob. It's Nicole at Dr. Brady's office."

"Hi, Nicole. Can you guys just get me a straight morphine drip?"

"No, hon. You know, I love coming in and checking the messages when you've been calling. It's a fun way to start the day."

"Well, I'm glad someone is getting enjoyment out of my never ending agony."

"Listen, I'm going to give you another prescription, but the thing is, we can't call this medicine in. You have to come get the scrip. And we close at noon, today."

"This is bad, Nicole. There could be more crying. My husband will be most displeased."

"I'll tell you what I'll do." She got very quiet and continued. "I don't have a problem with leaving it for you. I'll put in it an envelope and tape it to the wall in the machine room - that's where the nitrous tanks and stuff are - and you can just pick-"

"Wait. You're going to leave that room unlocked?"

"Well, it's never locked, so I'll just put it-"

"The one with the tanks? Of nitrous?"


"Thanks, Nicole. I love you, sugar."

"But, wait, you-"


I made a call to Chris later.

"Hey, babe. What's up?"

"Listen, Chris. I need you to do me a favor."


"On your way home, stop by the dentist's office. Go around back and down the walkway to the brown, brick building. That's a machine room. Go inside and on the south wall, you'll find an envelope taped there. Take that and-"

"Crystal, how many of those morphine pills did you take today?"

I stopped and realized how ridiculous I must sound.

"Shhh, Chris, listen. I need you to take that envelope, go to the corner of 83rd and Main and give it to the man with a yellow daisy in his shirt pocket. The code phrase is 'My ears get floppy when I'm happy'. Got it?"

Then I started giggling.

"Uh huh. And where will you be?" he asked.

"I have to go see a man about a nitrous tank."

Have a Happy Memorial Weekend!


Wednesday, May 23, 2007

EDIT: I was going through some old, old saved drafts and came across this one. It made me warm and fuzzy so I thought'd I'd just post it for giggles. Hey! I have a knock knock joke, too. Ok, here goes.

Knock Knock!

Who's there?


Ambien, who?


I feel the need to clarify some things after some of the latest comments I've received. Most notably, these:

"Did it ever occur to you that everything would get well done and on time if you would just stop interfering and get out of the way. Why is it that you women all think you can do everything better than us, when all you really know how to do is complain, ridicule, and belittle. Give him a break and let him do it. You'll be surprised at how skilled he really is if given the chance."

and this one:

"Demolition is the easy part. I will be really impressed if you manage to reinstall the toilet. I await the outcome and will give the approppriate props if you are successful."

and my very favorite:

"Congratulations. You apparently have talents that go beyond the vaginal. I will admit that you are capable of backing up your stand on gender issues. And my sympathy goes out to Chris."

Bob seems to think that I'm some sort of picket sign carrying, brow beating feminist. I was curious who he was and why he suddenly developed some sort of animosity towards me, so I went to his blog to try and glean some insight. From one of his posts, this jumped out at me (in reference to his wife):

"I still have the bad habit of flicking my hand at her when I want to dismiss her and the conversation."

My initial reaction when I first read this was, "Gee. Bob must be a low-brow, club-carrying asshole."

See that up there, Bob? That's me stereotyping you based on something you wrote in your blog and you know what? That's just stupid.

You attempted to get my attention. You got it.

I thought we were playing nice, again, and then you goaded me by belittling (yep. You belittled, Bob) my toilet escapade. In the spirit of fun, I rose to your challenge and put the post up last night with a picture of the now re-installed toilet. For some reason, you chose to throw another jab at me.

So, let me be clear:

My fiance reads this blog. He gets it. He knows that I'm poking fun at him and he's totally cool with that.

I am a good girlfriend, a good friend and a good mother. I do not shout about women's rights. I don't get involved in politics, religion or debates about whether or not gays should marry. You know why? I DON'T FUCKING CARE.

My life is simple. I raise my children and I love my family. I will defer to my husband about things that I am not knowledgeable about and I will forever be outspoken. Chris loves that about me. I will cook for him, clean for him and even put aside my enormous misgivings and have another child - for him. I respect him, admire him, and I very much cherish him.

But if he ever flapped his hand at me in a dismissive gesture, he'd draw back a goddamned nub.

It's all about respect, Bob. Not gender.


Sunday, May 20, 2007

1. I was homeless for three of the longest months of my life. I lived in my Geo Metro and got food at the food bank and had one of those necklace/can opener things. I never could figure out how to use that motherfucker. The nuns at the Catholic church used to open my fruit cocktail for me. Then, when I would leave, they would talk about what kind of stupid bitch can't use a can opener?

2. I read a story in junior high about a guy in prison who finds a note and spoon left by the last inmate. The note details prior prisoner's plan to escape and how he wanted to help the next guy. So, this new guys digs his way through this tiny tunnel (that had previously been dug, but was fallen in in some places), with no room to shimmy back or turn around and when he gets to the end, he's met by the prior guys skeleton and a padlocked grate. I had nightmares for weeks. I'm horrified of small spaces. Why? Because when I was four, I thought it would be a good idea to climb into a dryer with a full rack of pool balls and shut the door. Back in those days, you couldn't unlock a dryer from the inside. Kids weren't stupid enough to pull that shit until I came along. I was in there for almost 2 hours before anyone noticed I was gone. 2 hours. I have issues because of that. And I also check on my daughter every half an hour because she's just as much a dipshit as I was at that age.

3. I can touch my nose with my tongue. It's not nearly as fascinating as it sounds, but I won a lot of bets when I was a bartender.

4. I once dated a guy who wrote some stuff for Marc Storace of Krokus (Marc is from Malta and I lived there at the time). I have a tape of Marc speaking to me. That's about as close to being a rock star as I ever got. I'm going to set myself on fire, now.

5. I used to pronounce "adamant" as "a-damn-nant". I dated an attorney who graduated with honors from Choate and I argued with him for 2 hours over the correct way to say it because I was too embarrassed to admit that I was a twit. I tried to tell him that was the British
pronunciation. He broke up with me three days later.

6. I sometimes stand naked in the mirror and hold my boobs individually and wiggle them and give them voices like they're some kind of fucked up puppets.

7. I can't tell direction. If you're on the phone and you ask me if I'm going east, I'll just say yes because I have no idea. Then, I'll take your directions and act like I know what the hell I'm talking about and after we hang up, I go buy a map. I have, like, twenty-five maps in my car.

*I don't really do number 6.

**Yes, I do. That's a lie.

***No, I really don't.

****Do, too.
Okay, Carmensincity tagged me, so I guess I'll tag a couple of people. Uhhh, Tanya, Todd, Claire, and the charming Ambulance Driver.
Did I play right?


To clear up any confusion....

The first picture is of two breasts in a tight shirt. The "stinger" that you guys are seeing is actually the split in the shirt right below her cleavage. See it?

And this layout is awesome. I loved my last one, too, but she went out of business. So, I contacted the super talented Peggy over at Jax Design Studios and not only did she do all of this for an incredible price, she had it completed and installed in less than 2 days. It takes me a week and lots of cussing and drinking just to add a hyper link.

She also threw in some shit I needed, like that Atom thing in the sidebar. I have no idea what that is, but I'm sure it's neat-o.

So! Go get yourself a makeover. It's spring and spring is the time for rebirth. Get rid of your ugly template and go see Peggy.


Saturday, May 19, 2007

I apologize profusely to those who have recently signed up for updates and those who have been having problems receiving my email updates. I have changed to Bravenet (per the advice of the uber smart and lovely Michelle) and although you may get ads with the updates, the upside is that YOU'LL ACTUALLY GET THE FUCKING UPDATES.

So, if you don't mind, please sign up once more and that's all I ask of you.

Well, that and I still want a pony.


Friday, May 18, 2007

I've been really, really busy lately with sick babies and drilling holes in my teeth so I can go back to the dentist and get more nitrous.

Last Tuesday, I decided to let him go ahead and use scalpels and hammers and duct tape and whatever the hell he wanted to do. Just bring on the mask.

As he was preparing to fill a cavity, a nurse appeared.

"Mrs. McKnob, what color do you want for your filling?"

I was confused. I dreamily smiled at her and said, "Puwple, pwease. I always liked puwple. No, wait! Bawney's purple. Yewwow. No, yewwow isn't good fow teeth. Gween? Shwek! I'm Shwek! Ahahahahahahaahahhahaaha! Bwue. Bwue it is."

"Umm, no, Mrs. McKnob. Your choices are white and silver. It's a filling. Not a grill."

"I always wiked white. And ponies. White ponies are the shiznit."

I go next Tuesday for the finishing touches on my root canal. More nitrous. More stupidity.


Saturday, May 12, 2007

At some point in the last week, I temporarily took leave of my senses and decided to let my daughter have a slumber party.

There are five of them and they're trying to kill me.

Things that I have said in the past six hours:


(When conversing with a very precocious six year old)

"It's a full glass of milk, sweety. You can't just pour it out."

"But, it's nasty."

"Why? Because it has cookie smegma in it? That's because you were dunking cookies. It's just cookie bits. Yummy cookie bits."

(Peering into the cup) "What's shegma?"


"Come get your burned wieners!"


"You just, thread the bead onto the wire...thread it. Through the hole. See the hole? No, thread - to hell with it. I'll do it."

"You said a bad word."

"Oh, honey, grab a note pad. You have no idea."


"Come get your burned popcorn!"


"Nooooo, you're a big girl! You don't need me to help you wipe anything!"

"Yuh huh."

"If I give you some baby wipes, can you handle it?"

"I'm not a baby!"

"Your logic boggles the mind."


"Come get your burned cookies!"


"Virginia, why does your mom burn everything?"

"I don't know. She says it's because she wasn't breast fed."


"What are we doing tomorrow, Miss Crystal?"

"Tomorrow? I thought I'd feed you some cereal and then I'm taking every one of you little motherfuckers home."


Ok, so I didn't really say that last thing, but after hours and hours of screaming, jumping, giggling, crying, fighting, stealing, conniving, snot-nosed, temper tantrum bullshit, I was ready to say it. And all that was just me.

I spent $50 on crap for them to do and you know what the big hit of the evening was? Making fart noises with their armpits.

I know every word to every song on the Clifford The Big Red Dog cd and I vehemently wish I could extract that portion of my brain and stomp on it. I settled for stomping the cd to pieces. When they weren't looking. They scare me.

At 11:30, each of them was twitching and bug-eyed from all the sugar they had ingested. I tried to think of the most boring movie on earth that I could force them to watch to make them all GO TO SLEEP, GO TO SLEEP YOU LITTLE VAMPIRE PSYCHOPATHS, GO TO EFFING SLEEP.

"Miss Crystal?"


"What's this movie called?"

"Ishtar. Now shut your hole and pass out like you're supposed to."

I was awoken at the ass crack of dawn the next morning to the sound of armpit farts and five little girls giggling in unison.

Happy fucking Mothers Day to me.


Thursday, May 10, 2007

In addition to the broken legs and colds and flu and other well-fed bacteria living in my house, I decided to throw a root canal into the mix. Because broken bones and snotty noses just don't do it for me. I need someone to drill holes in my head and take important stuff out.

At the initial assessment, the dentist walked in and I thought I was caught in an episode of Doogie Howser. A really hot Doogie Howser.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Brady. How are you today?"

"You're the doctor?"

"Yes, ma'am. Is that okay?"

"You're supposed to have huge tufts of ear hair and crusties in your eyes. You're..."


"Yes, and..."


"Yeah. Listen, I don't know, Dr. Brady. I really need ear tufts and eye boogers and veiny old hands."

After we visited for awhile and he did a very thorough inspection of my mouth and teeth, it was determined that I needed to sell my liver to pay for all the repair and preventative maintenance I needed. Just looking at the proposal made me cringe.

"I don't understand. To look at this thing, you'd think I have Billy Bob teeth." I looked up and said, for the hundredth time, "But, I floss."

"Your teeth are in relatively good shape. But you need some work on your gums and the only way to save that one tooth is to do a root canal."

Now, all I heard was 'root canal'. I have a very vivid imagination and I pictured people strapped to chairs while dentists stand on their chests and rip roots out with a pair of bloody pliers.

"Uhhhh, I'm good. Can I just get a toothbrush and some sugar-free gum? All done here."

I had to wait five agonizing days for my appointment. In that time, I managed to convince myself that I wouldn't be leaving that clinic alive.

"Hey, Mom. It's Crystal. I just wanted to tell you that I love you've been a great mom."

"Crystal, it's 3 a.m. and nobody ever died from a root canal. Go to sleep."

Today, as I was dropping Harmony off, the sitter became concerned.

"Crystal, are you okay?"

"Me? Fine! I'm fine. Fine. No problem. Good. Good to go. Right as rain. I am ay-okay!"

"Ask for the gas, sweety."

"You betcha!"

When I was seated in the dentists chair, I began to sweat profusely. The nurse took one look at me and said, "I'll go get a mask, hon. You need gas."

"Whatever. It's not going to help, but I appreciate it."

Can I just say that I want to marry nitrous and have lots of little giggly babies?

Things I said while high as a muh'fuckin kite:

"Do you hear that? That music?"

"What music, Mrs. McKnob? What are you hearing?"

"It sounds like the theme to Girls Gone Wild."

"Umm, no, that's KLove. The Jesus station."

And this:

"You mean you're not gay?"

"Nope. Why would you think that?"

"Because you're so beautiful. And you have a horse on your shirt."

Oh, God, this:


"Sorry, Mrs. McKnob. I'm in another canal. Let me numb that up for you."

"Yes, please, because when I say 'hurt me', that's not what I mean."

I know. I wish it ended there:

"Ah I eeng oba-atick?"

"Let me finish this part and get my hand out of your mouth, Mrs. McKnob. Ok. Now, what were you saying?"

"Am I being pwobwematic?"

This is when the nurse lost it. She looked at me and said, "Pwobwematic?"

I grinned. "I can't feew my wips. Pwobwematic. Aewopwane. Wheee! I'm hunting wabbits!"

When I paid my bill, the receptionist tried to be helpful.

"Mrs. McKnob, do you want to just pay for all your procedures right now so that you don't have to worry about it every time you come?"

"Yes, please. That would be great."

"Ok. Do you want me to add nitrous for any of the other-"

"Yes! To all! Yes!"

"Well, you don't really need it for the fill-"

"Yes! All! Make it so!"

My name is Crystal, and I'm an addict.


Monday, May 07, 2007

Friday night, I volunteered to go with my church to a mission downtown to feed the homeless. I also volunteered Devon and Julio to go with me, much to their horror.

"You did what?"

"Devon. I'm not asking you to go down there and tongue bathe them. We just have to serve them food."

"On a Friday night? Friday? Night?"



"Yes, I know. Mary's tonsils will have to be cleaned next weekend."

He turned a furious shade of purple, uttered his usual threat ("One of these days, when I'm rich, I'm putting you in an old folks home! And not a nurturing one, either! No Depends and warm oatmeal for you!") and called Julio to deliver the news.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.

"Hey, Julio."

"Hey, other Mom. Can you talk to my momma? She doesn't believe me."

"About what?"

"Feeding the homeless. She just keeps laughin' and asking what we've really got planned."

"Sure. Put her on. Hey, Deborah. I have no idea what he's talking about. He and Devon just keep giggling and asking me to take them to the hardware store to get detergent and light bulbs."

Friday afternoon, as Devon and Julio were polishing my floor with their bottom lips, I finished up my culinary masterpiece (green beans! with new potatoes! and bacon flavoring!) and herded them to the car.

I handed the crock pot to Devon and away we went.

Two minutes later, he was shrieking as warm green bean juice flooded his crotch.

"Mom! Holy crap! Now, I look like I peed myself!"

"Honey, it's fine. They're homeless. I'm sure they could care less if you've peed your pants. It will probably help you fit right in."

"But, I didn't pee my pants!"

"Well, I would tell them you did. You tell them you have a crotch full of bacon-flavored green bean juice and I can't be responsible for what might happen."

He sat in silence, fuming for the rest of the drive. Occasionally, he would try to whip out his cell phone (yes, I caved. I got tired of calling all his friends to track him down all the time. He has since used 4,872 text messages. He got it 5 days ago) and attempt to text and more juice would slosh in his lap.

"Gaaaaah! I hate this! Why do we have to this?!"

"Quit text messaging. Can you not wait ten minutes? Are you texting the meaning of life? Messages disproving Darwin? Who really killed Kennedy? For shit's sake, son."

When we finally arrived, he immediately transferred the crock pot to me and began furiously text messaging.

"You're silly, Devon. And you need a haircut."

As I walked in, a miniature old lady approached me. She looked to be about two or three hundred years old.

"Are you here to help feed the homeless?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ok. Right that way, through the hall. Kitchen's on your right."

She then turned and peered at the front door.

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear oh dear."

She began shuffling as fast as she could and I turned to see what had distressed her.

Devon and Julio were standing outside by the front door, talking to one another. The old lady began closing the door in their face. As Devon realized what was happening and stepped forward, the old woman bristled.

"Now, now, young man! We have to shut these doors at six o'clock to keep out the drug addicts and alcoholics! You'll have to come back tomorrow for food!"

I started madly giggling. Julio and Devon looked at each other, perplexed. Devon tried, again.

"But, ma'am-"

"No. No, sir. If you get feisty I am not afraid to use my pepper spray. Go on, now. Shoo!"

Now it was Julio's turn to try. However, when he stepped forward, the old woman shrilly began singing, "Shoooooo! Shoooooooooooooo!", as she reached for her spray. It was at this point that I intervened and calmed her long enough to explain to her that, while they did indeed resemble the homeless, they were actually my children. She eyeballed me distrustfully as she looked from me to Julio and back again.

"He's not my son. I just call him that."

"Oh. Well, alright, then."

After she let them in, I just pointed at them and giggled some more.

Now, occasionally, Devon will reach the brink of being pissed off. He teeters precariously on that brink and I know that if I say one more word, he will plunge over the precipice into full blown anger.

These are the moments I live for.

"I told you that you needed a haircut."

"I hate you, woman. Forget the old folks home. I'm just gonna kick you out on the street."

"Can I take your pants so I have something to eat?"

He's still not speaking to me.


Wednesday, May 02, 2007

There are days when I go home, park in the driveway and just sit. I look in through the living room window and I see Devon giving his sister a noogie and I know that when I go inside, they will both start bitching about the other while Chris deposits a very poopy Harmony in my arms and the dogs howl like they haven't eaten in days .

Sometimes, I back out and drive around the block for a half an hour. I just can't take it, I think.

Then, someone points out something like this.

So, I would just like to say:

Thank you, God, for noogies and, "He started it!" "Nuh uh, she's a brat!"

Thank you, God, for poopy diapers and ribbons of drool.

Thank you for dogs that react like every time is the first time they've ever seen you.

Thank you for midnight fevers and great, big gooey puddles of vomit.

Thank you for letting me teach someone how to wipe their butt and color in the lines.

Thank you for teenage hormones, acne medication and talks about condoms.

Thank you for those times I go to the grocery store and don't realize I have a Goldfish cracker in my hair.

Thank you for the expense of car seats, diapers and vaccinations, teething rings and high chairs.

Thank you for a husband that still, after living with me for a year and a half, has no clue where the laundry basket is or how to start the dishwasher.

Thank you for pee rings around the toilet seat.

Thank you for boogers and headless Barbies and sidewalk chalk turned into powder by oncoming bicycles.

Thank you for mountains of laundry, cookbooks that I'll never use and HOLY SHIT, WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE REMOTE THIS TIME??

Thank you for opening my eyes. Who needs neighborhood scenery when there are fights to be broken up, dinner to be cooked, husbands to be kissed and chubby cheeks to be gobbled?


May is the Thanks! Mom campaign for the National Marrow Donor Program which means that all fees are waived. Please, find one near you and go get swabbed. It costs nothing, it's painless and it could save someone very small and helpless. Someone who just wants to gnaw on their toes, learn to toddle and hopefully, one day, give his or her Mom a heart attack when they swallow a bee.

Blogher07 Recap, Part One: I'm Juvenile and Proud of It

I have divided my thoughts into two posts because my feelings are honestly mixed about the whole weekend. Since some of you have no desire to hear my whiney, introspective bullshit, I broke it up to make it easier.

And yay for bullet points!

  • I kicked the weekend off by being denied a refill on my crazy medication, reeling in horror when my son walked into my office with 2 saucer-sized hickeys on his neck, getting a flat tire on the way to the airport and begging scary, drunk men to change it only to beat feet to the airport to find out the fucking flight was delayed. Yippee! Let the good times roll!

  • My husband drinks about once a year, but when he does, he chooses tequila. I know. Go figure. We both decided it was prudent to begin our mini-vacation with adult libations so we headed to the bar. He always gets carded because he has a baby face, so he tried to order with some authority. Deepening his voice, he confidently barked, "Tequila. The bottom shelf will be fine." When the waitress and I both blinked at him, he sheepishly said, "Oh. It's called 'house', isn't it?" She carded him.
  • While sipping, I asked, "Honey, did you think to pack my razor for me? I forgot it." He proudly answered, "Yep. And I packed your floopa, too."
"You mean my loofa?"
"What's that?"
How could I not love him?
  • Cell phone: Free with 2 year contract. Ringtone that my Arab friend thinks is funny as hell because that's what sounds when he calls: $2.99. Having that cell phone go off in a very subdued room full of impatient passengers at the airport while I'm sitting in front of a group of middle eastern men: priceless.
  • Upon arriving at the conference, we were invited to sign up for a "Birds of a Feather Lunch", which was basically an option to lunch with people that are like you. I jokingly asked the coordinator, "Do you have a group of mom's who curse a lot?" and she pointed at the lady next to me. "There's the sheet," she answered. I was shocked and turned to the woman perusing the sheet. "Huh," I said. "Well, how the fuck are ya? Ha." She thrust the sheet at me and ran away. MAM or Making an Ass of Myself, example number one.
  • The next event on the list of Things That Make Me So Nervous I Could Poo Down My Leg was a "speed dating" event in which we were to stand in 2 massive, rotating circles and meet and greet each person for sixty seconds. While shaking hands and talking, it went something like this:
"Hi, I'm Emilia. I write a blog about the environmental impact of toxins released by the northern, flat-billed quadrapus and I've won seven awards from the President. What do you do?"
"I sell insurance. And I write about my husband not knowing how to insert suppositories into our baby's ass."
"Hello, I'm Jean. I have twelve children, all scholars, and I make necklaces out of unicorn hair. How do you do?"
"I need a drink. And I named my blog after the three things I thought really defined me. Do you know how sad that is?"
"Hola. I'm Flora. I swam here from Cuba with my entire family on my back. I came to this country with eighty-two cents and some coffee and I now own a banking empire. What do you-"
"I say 'fuck' a lot."
The only thing that kept me from feeling like the worlds biggest asshole was when I heard someone squealing my name and looked over in time to see this tiny, beautiful brunette hurtling toward me at breakneck speed. She launched herself at me and we hugged like we'd known each other for years. She then stepped back and said, "I'm Liz! From Memphis! You gave me your number!", as she thrust the cutest calling card into my hand. I was so overjoyed to meet someone so enthusiastic and friendly and funny and warm and then - she was gone. It was like that all weekend. "Liz, did you-" and then you realize you're talking to yourself. She is a tasmanian devil and I loved her.
  • Chris and I walked until I thought we were going to die. Chicago is not a fat people city. Everyone has their trainers on or they're riding a bike or giving themselves a sea-weed enema, meanwhile Chris and I are huffing and puffing and calling a cab to take us two blocks. When we arrived at the airport to leave, Chris remarked, "Jeez. This airport is huge. And they don't have any of those lazy people walkway things. Holy shit." Meanwhile, Memphis airport is 28 feet long and the whole floor moves. God bless the south and pass the funnel cake!
  • Speaking of airports, Chicago is beautiful and inviting right from the moment you step off the plane. So much culture and art and too many things to do. I noticed when we returned that this is what Memphis has to offer (and they advertise it with pride): cotton pickers, lumber, and Elvis. Oh, and a sign in the restroom that says, "Please don't blast shit on the walls". So, y'all don't stampede us now to see the wood and some dead guy. Holy fuck.
  • We attended a conference loosely based on privacy in blogs, sexuality and what's too much to share and the ensuing dangers of doing so. Always Aroused Girl was one of the speakers and I felt horrible for her. She was obviously nervous as hell and looked like she'd rather be masturbating with a cactus than sit on that panel. However, at the end of the session, she graciously gave out bags of goodies. My husband was like a kid in a candy store with all the free stuff and he scampered over to claim his. While walking through the ballroom to lunch, he began rummaging around and whipped out a giant, pink floppy dildo. He then began auctioning it off in the lunch line. Right after asking, loudly, "Why are there so many lesbians here?"
  • At the cocktail party that night, you could find my husband stalking the waiters carrying hors d'oeuvre's. I was somewhere holding up a bar, plucking at my shirt and trying not to audibly fart. I'm sure we were a hit.
  • I have pictures. Lots of pictures. I will post those in Scrapblog tonight.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Blogher o7

I am here. I am the only person without a laptop. I have made an ass out of myself too many times to count and someone gave me a bag with dildos in it.

this is fucking awesome.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Bits & Pieces

I have been far too excited the last few days, what with the release of the newest Harry Potter and the whole Chicago thing (Gaaaaaaah! Harry Potter!! I smuggled the book to my job. I keep hearing the building pop and creak as it settles and flinging the book underneath my desk like it's a vial of heroin and I'm going to be caught with a needle in my arm. Which, in essence, it is. Fuck you and fuck your possessions, I must read about a fictional boy with a fictional storyline that includes words like muggle, Quidditch and Lord Voldemort. Stick that in your wand and smoke it) to do anything but embrace my writers block. So, here's some random shit.


I met a lovely lady today (Hi, Amanda!) who reads and likes this crap. I was amazed that she was nervous because I was the one who was concerned about farting in her presence (Hi, Amanda!) or doing something completely stupid like opening my mouth to speak - which I did a lot of (Hi, Amanda!), or saying something inappropriate, like, "Hey, I know you have to have a mammogram today (Hi, Amanda!), but get drunk with me. At 11 a.m. On a Monday." She was delightful and completely nonchalant about the fact that:

a. I drank four margaritas in the span of an hour

b. I only did so because the waiter, who was seven, went all Mrs. Robinson on me and kept bringing me topshelf margaritas (which is alcoholic speak for "A whole lot of fucking booze and a splash of sweet and sour") and there was this two-for-one thing and I didn't mean to drink a gallon of Grand Marnier and I have to pee.

Where was I? Oh, HI AMANDA!

I have a new friend. And she has a vagina. I couldn't be more proud.

Hi, Amanda!!


My sweet, wonderful husband has lost his mind. He was an agent in a past life.

"Ok! I got your cards ordered -"

"What cards? Chris, what have you done?"

"-and I'm hoping we have a balcony, I can just let them float-"

"Chris. Stop it. I already let someone put brain altering chemicals on my head to cover the gray. And I've been twitching. Lots of twitching."

"-new outfit. I'm thinking something sleek, sexy-"

"Gah. Stop it."

"Look, I love you, honey, but I swear, I went in the closet the other day and Flock of Seagulls were playing a set in the back."


"_endorsements, or something. Do you know how much more expensive it is to order t-shirts by small volume? And they need, like, two weeks to embroider the boobs-"

"Forget it. I'm taking my mother."


Chris has been tentative about telling his family what I won and how I won it.

"She...umm...wrote something."

"Oh, how nice! Like, poetry?"

"No, not exactly."

"A psalm?"


"Oh. Well, what did she write?"

"You don't - she can't - She says Eff-you-see-kay. A lot. But she's good at saying it. Really good."

"Uh huh. Did you have her sign a pre-nup?"


My son is home. I woke up the other morning to the indignant cries of, "Who the crap ate all my Hot Pockets?"

I smiled and went back to sleep. My son is home. My husband is a lunatic. My daughters are plotting to overthrow the government. My dogs ate the entire fence, piece by piece.

All is right with the world.

Saturday, July 21, 2007


Does the fact that I pre-ordered the last Harry Potter months ago via Amazon make me a dork? Or that I sat outside last night and patiently waited for UPS to show up, only to be disappointed and call Amazon to tell them they could suck my dick and I wanted my effing book?

Or that when I went outside just now to clean the rat's cage (Uck) and saw a package sitting by the back door, I squealed loud enough to bring Virginia running? And then went inside, ripping cardboard and throwing it all directions, ran into Devon's room (and scared the bejeesus out of him because he was still asleep) and put it within millimeters of his nose, breathily sighing, "Looooook at it"?

And that when I finally calmed down long enough to explain to my daughter what precious, precious object I held, she put her hands on her hips and looked at me long enough to say, "Gee, Mom, you're a dork".

Yeah. I guess so.


Thursday, July 19, 2007

So That's Why It Sounds Like Vomit

The neurosis has started.

Well, that's not exactly true. It started the night I found out that I was going to Chicago for Blogher. I was just excited that I'd won something and after I cleaned up the piddle off of the floor, I noticed my son looking at me very thoughtfully.


"Oh, nothin', Mom."

"No, what? Don't give me that shit. You were thinking something. What?"

"Well, you might want to...dress nicely for this thing. Right?"

"Yeah, babe," Chris chimed in. "You can't go wearing an old AC/DC t shirt and some stained sweat pants."

I started having trouble breathing.

"Oh! And you need to get your hair done," Devon continued. "The ... top. Mostly. Gray."

My stomach began to churn.

"Manicure," Chris finished.

I ran for the bathroom. Chris came to check on me and, oddly enough, my heaving sounded something like this:

"Blaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwg! Blawwwwwwwwg! Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwg!"

I can't wait to meet some of you at Ralpher.


Reading over the keynote speakers and the topics did nothing to help my nervousness. Now, it's something like this:

"Holy shit. How much does she make? Wow. I must really suck."

"Ads. People hate ads. I have ads. Ugh, that probably explains why those people unsubscribed. I must really, really suck."

"Gah. Everyone graduated with a fucking PhD. I was ranked like, 9th, in UIL typing. Wow. I do suck."

"Business cards? What? I wonder if I should just take my work business cards and scribble my website address on the back."


Tuesday, July 17, 2007

You Would Think Ed McMahon Just Showed Up At My Door. Naked.


I won! I won! I freaking won!


Thank you thank you thank you to every single person who's supported me and been here and clicked when you really didn't want to click and looked at all my stupid, out of focus pictures and put up with my whining and my bullshit! I'm repaying you by ... how am I repaying you, again? I'm open for ideas!

And when I'm this excited, I'm likely to stick a broom up my ass and do the chicken dance on video!

Now! I have to go call everyone who labeled me a loser in high school. It's gonna be a long night.

Monday, July 16, 2007

In The Mail Today

"Chris! Look! Scrapblog sent me a package!" (Hi, Alex!)


"Can you take a picture of me that makes me look ten years younger and ... thinner ... less gray ... no wrinkles?"

"Sure. Let me finish brushing my magical unicorn and I'll get right on that."


Thank you so much, Alex, but, umm....I should have clarified. The title of my blog is no exaggeration. I wear men's extra large.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Friday, July 13, 2007


Dear Mean-Spirited, Unfair, Stone-hearted dental insurance company,

I spent hours upon hours in a dentists chair. There were instruments used that haven't seen the light of day since the Spanish inquisition. I shamelessly hit on the dentist with a runner of drool on my chin, and if that wasn't bad enough, think about me flirting with the man who sees all that fuzzy shit on the back of my tongue. Oh, he wants me, alright. I lost wages, spent a fortune in co-pays and pain meds and generally made an ass of myself.

Then came the surgery.

I have been through enough. I have spent enough. And you telling me that if I had had the surgery 2 days later the claim would have been considered? Why not just come to my house and jump out from behind a tree to hit me with a brick. That's what it felt like.

See, the thing that really sucks is that I had no choice but to have the surgery. The dentist poked a nice sized hole in my canal (or there was a hole poked somewhere...he claims it was spontaneous. I have spontaneous holes appearing in my head. Somehow, that wouldn't really surprise me very much) and he said if I didn't get my ass to the surgeon, stat, my tooth would fall out, the adjacent ones would start to spread, my eyes would sink back into my head and Clay Aiken would become president***. What would you have done? They made the appointment with the surgeon for me and sent me on my merry way with capsules of morphine and I still had the presence of mind to call the receptionist and ask her if the surgery was covered. You told her it was. You lied.

I realize I live in Mississippi and you may think I have no need for my teeth, but really, I do. I assure you that I'm a hit at family reunions and men call me all hours of the night to lure me into relationships simply so their genetic code will include a full set of choppers for future generations.

And the real pisser about this whole thing? The surgery didn't work. I went to the dentist because I couldn't chew very well on one side and now I can't chew on either side without horrendous pain and suffering. I tried to find a bright spot in my otherwise orally dismal future and I thought, "Hey! If I can't eat, I'll lose weight!" Great plan, right? Wrong. The only things I can eat have to be exactly room temperature and offer little to no resistance. Do you know what choices I have? Do you know what I've lived on for the last 2 months? Donuts and pudding. By the end of the year, Richard Simmons will be crying by my bed while Leonardo DiCaprio runs around like a retard in my living room.

It's not right. And how dare you tell me I can't appeal your decision. I can appeal any motherfucking thing I like. I can appeal my husband's decision to wear pants that display way too much buttcrack. I can appeal to God for a chin that doesn't desperately wish to sport a goatee. I can appeal the movie industry's decision to ever use Keanu Reeves in any film, ever, ever again. I CAN APPEAL ANYTHING.

I don't have $700. If I did, I wouldn't need insurance. And if I had known you were going to be such dicks about this whole thing, I would have never had the surgery.

In closing, may your cereal be soggy and your penis be flaccid. And if you have a hoo haw, I hope it closes up. Assholes.

Eat shit,

Crystal McKnob

P.S. You suck.

P.P.S. So much.

***this is, in no way, an invitation for anyone to start raising hell about how Clay would be a better president. But you can bitch all you want about shitty insurance companies. Let 'er rip.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007


The pictures are up at Scrapblog. It's a small part of what was donated (my sister spent about $150 in all), but she's being very, very frugal for good reason.

Thank you all, again.

Too Much


We have been under review in our office and the process is grueling. Being under a microscope is never fun, but considering we've lost three people in the past 2 months, one of them our secretary, the sheer amount of work and documents and idiocy we have to deal with on a regular basis is enough to drive a person nuts.

Today it all reached a boiling point. We had corporate suits up our ass and questions asked and legal terms defined and consequences made to sound very grave. My coworker, the one we'll call Sally, gets anxious over which toilet paper to choose. Today, I think she finally snapped.

After the inquest, we were sitting in my office, staring at one another, bug-eyed and twitching, when the neighboring agent came in. He popped his head in and looked from one to the other, frowning.

"Y'all okay?"

Sally just continued her thousand yard stare while I searched through my drawer for something to drive into the side of my head.

"Huh," he said. "Well, I just had an interesting lunch. That customer of mine is a drunk. He finished a whole pint of vodka in one swallow on the way back here. And look what he gave me." He held out his hand and showed us two tiny, beautiful plastic bottles of pineapple flavored rum.

I reached. "Gimme."

"I have to save them for my wife."


"Well, she just had that boob job. She's in pain."

I was dazed. "I almost had a boob job until the surgeon told me he'd have to slice my nipples off and then slap them back on. Like they're friggin' pepperoni. Which reminds me. I have to go refill my prescription."

Sally finally came to. "Prescription of what?"


"Why the hell does talking about a boob job remind you that you need to take your crazy pills?"

"I have no idea. Your hair is sticking up."

We went back to staring at one another. I finally stood.

"I have to get out of here. I'll be back."

I left and went to Target to drop off my scrip. While I was there, Sally called.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

"No. I'm not hungry."

"Me, either. But my head hurts. Can you pick something up and I'll pay you for it?"

"Sure. Don't worry about it, I got it."

I stopped by the Pizza Hut inside the store and got a personal cheese pizza out of the ready-made stand. I also picked up two enormous Dr. Peppers and headed back to work.

I sat in Sally's office and we both just looked at the pizza. It was covered in pepperoni.

She sighed and said, "Par for the day."

"Mmm hmm. You know we might have to go through this whole review thing again next month."

Her eyes fell out of her head.

"What? Oh, hell no."

Then my co-worker, my straight-laced, never lied, doesn't poop or curse or masturbate, co-worker, opened her desk drawer and slid me a tiny bottle of the pineapple rum. As she screwed the lid off of hers and tossed it behind her, she said, "It's a sad state of affairs when you have to drink and pop pills because of your fucking job." And then she swallowed the thing in one gulp.

"Amen, sister," I said as I swallowed mine. I then pointed to the pizza. "Now, hand me one of those nipples."

Tuesday, July 10, 2007


Our pastor broke up with our church. He was basically being bullied about the "founding members" wanting him to do things he didn't feel were right for our congregation, so he resigned. He is developing his own church and Chris and I readily followed him, along with about fifty other people.

Fifty large people. Really, really large people.

Remember that post? The one where I said that our church had an unusual number of very overweight people? Yeah, well, that's us. We fatties decided to stick together and follow our beloved pastor. The skinny folks stayed behind. Whatever. More for us to eat.

Anyway, as a welcome for the new church, Pastor Ken rented out the pool at the Desoto Athletic club for 2 hours last Sunday. We were invited to bring as many people as possible, oh, and could you also bring a covered dish? Cos' us big people? We get HONGRY.

As Chris (my teddy bear husband), his sister (his teddy bear sister) and yours truly (one McMuffin away from a double chin, people) waddled our way through the gym, I cringed. I was carrying a bucket, not a tub, a bucket full of potato salad. Chris was lugging Harmony (not svelte, either. She has four chins) and all her assorted shit and his sister was carrying a giant box of fried chicken. The gym was undergoing renovations and to get to the pool, we had to walk through the exercise area, the weight room, racquetball and basketball courts. The smells of chicken and potato salad and sweaty, fat people filled the air. All eyes were upon us.

When we reached the pool, I breathed a sigh of relief until I turned and noticed that the entire back of the gym is a glass window. All those people, peddling on stationary bikes, going nowhere, burning calories, watching us. Hating us.

Here's the thing I noticed, though. While I was gingerly pulling off my t-shirt and debating on whether or not to wear my shorts, my husband freely abandoned his clothes and cannon-balled into the pool, soaking the 12 pound, seventeen-year-old lifeguard. I was easily one of the smallest people there and I was self conscious. Meanwhile, everyone else was having a great time and completely unconcerned about their appearance.

How free and fun and innocent we all were after I lost my inhibitions and just enjoyed playing with Harmony and visiting with people who weren't obsessed with perfect abs.

As we sat later and ate lunch while watching the health conscious people peddle to nowhere, Chris made the following observation:

"Here's irony, babe. A bunch of fat assed people going to the pool at an athletic club to sit around and eat fried chicken."

The pool looked filled with weeble wobbles, but those weebles were having the time of their lives. At one point, I glanced at the emaciated lifeguard and her face was all, "If one of you starts drowning, you are so going to die".

God bless the South and pass the fried twinkies.

Monday, July 09, 2007


I didn't realize it had been almost a week since I posted. I am very much alive, the Crotch Dust police department is wary of ever coming to my house again and although my husbands balls have been aching all week, it has nothing to do with me kicking him there. They just started aching. I'm sure you know I have been very sympathetic.

I took a few days off at my bossman's urging. He came in here last week when I was sitting and talking to myself, looked at the doodle I was working on (me with a noose around my neck and a dagger in the side of my head. Or it could have been him and he just mistook it for me. I told him it was me. It was me, bossman. I like my paycheck) and insisted that I take the 4th and not come back until today. I decided to be a complete and utter fucking moron and use the opportunity to have a yard sale. I would have been better off inviting a rugby team over and letting them each kick me in the stomach until I threw up my spleen.

I first went through the house. I asked Chris to go through our bedroom closet and check for sale items. The baby had been napping earlier in our room, so the monitor was still on and turned up in the den. As I was sitting on the sofa and talking to his mother, his very pious, proper mother, I heard a buzzing noise and then giggling through the receiver. My mother-in-law looked in that direction, puzzled. Bzzzzzzt. Giggle. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.

I shot up out of my chair like my ass was on fire and started scampering down the hallway, barely averting disaster as I bolted into the closet right as Chris was saying, "Look what I found, babe! Your bullet."

"Proof vest!" I shrieked.

She never asked. I still can't look her in the eye.

I then went outside and dragged out all the shit my husband couldn't live without (that intake for the 350 Chevy we don't own? Still in the storage room), labeled it and stayed up until 3:30 a.m. Saturday morning getting things ready, all while begging my dogs to shut up, shut up, SHUT UP IT'S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. IT'S ME, NOT A BURGLAR, YOU DIPSHITS. Our neighbors shot bottle rockets at the dogs on the 4th and I don't blame them.

I was up 2 hours later, blearily sticking neon price tags on Virginia's old toys and kicking myself for making such a stupid decision.

This was my second yard sale and last time people paid no attention to the time I noted in the paper (7 a.m!) and began showing up at six, so I knew the same thing would happen this time. And I was right.

My first customer was toothless old man who tried to buy Chris' antique truck for $200. I laughed and explained that that truck was worth more, sentimentally, than Chris would ever get, but that if I could get into the storage room (my husband has the only key), I would make a fortune off of bullshit he has no need for. The man went back to his car and got a crowbar out.

"I kin' get in them there doors," he said.

"Back away from the house, old man. I was kidding."

A couple of hours later, I was dazed and ready to kill everyone rifling through my carport. During a lull, I fanned myself and called Tracie, my closest friend and the yard sale/thrift shop queen.

"Hey, you have yard sales all the time. What the fuck gives? People pass up shit that's new, still in the box, but I had two old ladies fighting over a beat to shit toaster for seventy-five cents."

"I know. Weird, isn't it? Have you had anything stolen, yet?"

"Yes!" I exclaimed. "I haven't moved and a whole tub of CD's disappeared. A big, metal tub! And all the CD's! How does that happen?"

"Did you have some lady come up to you, trying to barter with you over a quarter difference and then pretending she didn't understand what you were saying?"

I was stunned. "Yes."

"Uh huh. Pulled up in a truck, right? And, like, eighteen motherfuckers piled out of there?"

"How did you know?"

"While you were arguing with her, those assholes were lined up, fire drill style, relaying shit back to that truck. I got their game, Crystal. I don't trust anyone anymore. Get your shit, gimme my three bucks and get the fuck out of my way so I can see what's going on behind you. People are sick."


"At least they stole shit that made sense. At my last sale, I had someone steal one purple flip-flop. One."

"No way."

"Yep. I keep going to yard sales and when that one-legged bitch shows up wearing my purple flip-flop, I'm knocking her ass down and getting my shoe back."

"Ugh, I have to go. Three old ladies are coming up the driveway in their walkers. It's so hot out here. Why in the hell-"

"Do not let one of those grannies use your bathroom. While you're inside trying to keep her from breaking a hip, the others are outside robbing you blind."

What is this world coming to?


For those of you who asked about Kristen and donated and prayed and sent her care packages, my sister shot me a couple of pictures from last weekend. She went shopping for her, paid her rent up and utilities and also got her a cradle/bassinet that is not pictured. She's very thrifty, so the money and packages are going a long way, but I wanted you to see a small part of the enormous thing you all did. I will post them when I get home this evening because I can't do it from here, but I will alert you when it's up.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007


I hate, hate, hate to be alone in this house.

(Not that I'm alone, Mr. Serial Killer. I have a weapons expert and a ninja staying with me)

Chris took the baby to his annual family reunion in Cootersnatch, Arkansas. I elected to stay home this holiday because I like my blood right where it is (the mosquitoes have eaten whole people) and I don't think I can handle one more rendition of their family song, "Skeeter Time In Pine Tree".

I've been alone for almost three whole hours and I'm done now. Thank you. Can everyone please come home?

It's another of my phobias. Some crackhead tried to kick my door in when I lived in Dallas and I've never been quite the same - excuse me for a moment.


Ok. The whole reason I started this post is because firecrackers are going off all over the neighborhood, the dogs were going bananas and our motion detectors keep beeping at me. I'm pacing around the living room, eye twitching like Tweak from Southpark, when I finally have had enough. I will not be frightened to investigate around my own fucking house.

I go outside and about shit my pants in fright when Dusty, the Wonder Sausage, comes barrelling around the corner and starts humping my leg and nervously whining. He got out. He and Daisy have been trying to eat the fence to get at each other (because they haven't seen each other in, like, 13 whole minutes and each other's asshole might smell different or something) and waking up the neighborhood, the part that can sleep through all the racket of the early fireworks.

As I'm attempting to open the gate and get Dusty back in the yard, Daisy mows me down, knocks me across the carport and next thing you know, it's a big, fucking free-for-all across the neighborhood with Dusty leading the way and Daisy galloping behind him, pissing all over herself and slinging slobber-super-glue in all directions.


See, Dusty, I don't worry about too much. He has his tags on and knows his way home. He will find his way back in, one would think, much like he found his way out. Daisy, on the other hand, ate her tags or buried them or some such thing and Chris has yet to replace them. Since she cost as much as my first car and I genuinely worry about her well-being, I was torn. Let her go and let Chris deal with it when he gets home or go after her? As I'm feeding the mosquitos and contemplating, a car comes whizzing by at a respectable 70 miles per hour and I imagine my sweet Dusty as asphalt mashed potatoes. I came back inside to get some old barbecue from the fridge and I make my way out to stand in the middle of the street like a proper asshole and whistle while tossing barbecue in all directions.

Every single person on the planet is cooler than me.

Finally, I hear the ankle biters one house over start yapping and I know which way to go. As I round the house and enter the darkened side to whisper threats in my furious, whispery voice, our neighbor, Phillip, comes out behind me and aims a 9 mothery-fucking millimeter at my head because he wears glasses the size of the Hubble telescope and cannot discern who I am.

My husband is sooooo getting his ass kicked when he gets home.

After I narrowly escape being killed by my blind neighbor while holding a tub of old barbecue, lips pursed to whistle and eyes bugging out of my head, he helps me get the stupid damned dogs in the backyard while EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE, stands outside and I have basically announced to the entire locality that I AM ALONE AND HELPLESS. PLEASE COME KILL ME, TAKE MY HEAD AND USE IT FOR AN ASHTRAY UNTIL THE FBI TRACKS YOU DOWN.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

I come inside, face swelling off from all the mosquito bites and smelling like week old pork butt and covered in dirt and grime. I am freaked out so the first thing I go and do is get our gun. Which is really great. So, now, I'm pacing the floor again, scratching and twitching, grimy and smelly, holding the gun like it's a teacup full of shit (at arms length with my pinky in the air), when there is a very official knock on the door.

Do I think twice about putting the gun down before I answer what can only be a cop knock? Do I imagine that when they see the crazed look in my eye, the bumps and the dirt and the barbecue sauce on my nose and THE REALLY BIG GUN that they might kill me first and ask questions later?

No, I do not.

I would like to thank the Crotch Dust police department for not shooting my lumpy, filthy face off. I would like my husband to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut for not getting Daisy the sonofabitching replacement tags four crapping months ago when she lost them the first time.


Dusty is out again.

I need to go make more coffee and put the clip in.

Sunday, July 01, 2007

How I Will Miss Him

A three way conversation between me, T-Mobile and Devon on Friday:

"Yes, ma'am, I have my son, Devon on the phone with us. He's having a lot of trouble checking his messages and getting any reception at all."

"Ok, Mrs. McKnob. Devon, are you there?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Can you tell me where you are or what city you're near?"

"Ummm, looks like we're somewhere near 'You shore do got a purty mouth'".

Dead silence.

I adore my son.


There is new stuff up at my Scrapblog if anyone wants to see. I'm completely addicted. It takes me mere minutes and for someone who still can't figure out how to work the digital thermostat (it's, like, thirty degrees in here right now), that is saying something.

Such As

Can someone please tell me such as what this ignorant troglodyte such as is trying to say? I have watched this at least ten times and I'm frightened and a little in awe. Such as.

Role Model

Devon is a procrastinator and I have no idea where he gets it from.

I'll finish this later.


So, this morning, he's running to and fro in the house looking worried.

"What's up, Devon?"

"I need a newspaper. School thing."

"Why are you doing it two minutes before the bus gets here?" I asked.

"I forgot," he mumbled.

I had a huge cup of coffee this morning and I was feeling froggy.

"Get my keys," I told him. "Meet me at the car."

"Why?" He looked at me suspiciously.

"What? You don't trust me?"

"What do you think?"

Once in the car, we started driving around the block.

"What are we doing?" Devon asked.

"Shhhh. Hush."

I continued to creep along, looking in both directions. Just as Devon was getting frustrated, I spoke.

"How important is this?" I asked.


"Ok. Get ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Shush, boy. Wait."

I slowly pulled up to the curb in front of the house belonging to the little asshole who made Devon's first year in junior high miserable.

"Get their paper," I commanded.

"What? I'm not-"

"Get it! Get it! Now! Hurry!"

"I don't have any shoes on-"

"Blah blah blah! Get the freaking paper! You need a paper! Get it!"

I shoved him out of the car and shut the door.

As he ran across the yard and snatched the paper up, I laid on the horn and then took off. I drove home, giggling and twitching.

When I turned the corner to my street, I saw movement in the neighbors back yard. I looked, and there is my son, running like his ass is on fire and his hair is catching, arms and legs flying all akimbo as he hurdled fences and poodles. I pulled into the driveway, still giggling, and he met me at the door.

"You - I shouldn't have - do you know - Gah! I cannot believe you just encouraged me to steal and then left me! What kind of role model are you?"

I was not fazed.

"The kind that makes sure you won't ever forget to do your homework again. Oh, and good job with the running and all. You should have gone out for track this year."

I'm pretty sure he'll end up killing me in my sleep.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Why Couldn't They Have Said "A Dead Body"

Chris' grandparents are two of the sweetest, most gracious people one could ever hope to meet. His grandfather is this tiny little man with impish eyes and I just want to stick him in my pocket and brush his hair all day.

They are also very religious and, until I met the people I go to church with, "religious" to me always equated to, "If you so much as breathe the word 'damn', my head will catch on fire and Satan himself will erupt out of the toilet to drag you kicking and screaming back to hell."

This presents a problem for me. I just shut the hell up when I'm around them because I'm afraid I'll slip and tell Virginia to "quit, before I pull your shitting arm off and beat you with it" right after admonishing Devon to stop being a douche biscuit.

Last night, we all sat around and ate homemade chicken and dumplings (I love me some Granny cookin') and tried to find something appropriate for everyone to watch.

Easier said than done.

I love House. He is a vicodin junkie who hates all God's creatures. No can do. Chris loves Mythbusters and it is virtually impossible for him to get through an episode without enthusiastically squealing, "Fuck me to tears! Did you see that shit blow up?"

We settled on Family Feud. Because it has the word "Family" in it. It's family oriented.

As we all sat and watched, Chris' grandpa began to talk to him about the various church activities they had been participating in.

On TV, the commercials were over and the new survey question was posed: "100 people were asked this question, top 4 answers on the board. What gets hard when it gets cold?"

Oh, shit. Family show or not, this will not end well.

All conversation ceased as everyone turned to participate.

I was trapped in between the grandparents and making mad, googly eyes at Chris. Turn the TV. Mute it. Kick the sonofabitch in. He was oblivious.

"Water!" Virginia screamed.

Number one answer.

Time running out.

"Umm, Chris?"

He turned. "Yeah, babe?"

"I think we should watch something else. I think maybe, umm, America's Funniest Home Videos. Or anything else, you know, anything." Googly eyes. Gesturing wildly with my forehead. I could not have been more of a dipshit if I tried.

"I like this show," he whined.

"Yeah, me too!" Virginia echoed. Little shit.

"Jello?" Devon tentatively answered.

Number three answer.

I tried the telepathy thing again. Turn it! You 'tard! TURN IT. Nothing.

"Well, what else, kids?" Grandpa asked.

Devon and Virginia began suggesting things. I was momentarily distracted when Virginia suggested 'bread'.

"Bread, Virginia?" I scoffed. "Bread isn't really an answer, sweetheart. I think they're looking for-"

"Survey says! Bread! Number two answer!" Louie Anderson raves.

Shut your face, Mom, Virginia says through her telepathy.

"I wonder what number four is," Devon says.

"I have diarrhea!" I shriek. "Excuse me!"

As I attempt to pull my fat ass out of the sofa, I lean forward to gain momentum and right as my behind is squarely in Grandpa's face, the number four answer was revealed.

"Survey says! Nipples!"

I'm buying Little House on The Prairie seasons on DVD and playing that on loop for the rest of their visit because I can guaran-friggin-tee you that Michael Landon never said 'nipple' in his entire life.


I am fuzzy. I am floating and it is peaceful and pink. Suddenly, I am on the corner of a busy intersection waiting for the light to change when someone pushes me from behind. As I flail forward and look down, I see that the street has disappeared before me and I am falling into darkness.

I jerk awake, arms pinwheeling, and the moment before my head smacks into the coffee table, I have time to think, "I have no idea where I am, but I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be air born."


Wednesday, August 29, 2007

I'd Rather Sleep With The Bowling Ball

Our babysitter quit. She's going back to school and, although I applaud and support her decision, I'm a little sad. She loved Harmony like her own and it's hard to find someone you completely trust your children with. I will miss her.

In a mad rush to find someone to replace her, I put a bulletin in our church newsletter offering money and effusing about Harmony's various attributes. Which, when you're 8 months old, aren't many. She's cute, she smells nice (unless we feed her refried beans, and then, holy hell, you almost have to stuff pure patchouli up your nostrils to camouflage the stench of her farts), she can't crawl, yet, and if you feed her every couple of hours and give her a ball to play with, this is the easiest baby on the planet. She's just happy to be here.

When a couple of days went by and people weren't beating the door down to keep her, I started to get nervous. At the 11th hour, when I was sure I was going to have to smuggle her into work, hide her under my desk and feed her spoonfuls of peanut butter to keep her from da-da-da-da-da-da-da-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA 'ing me right out of a job, Chris' grandparents came through and offered to drive in and stay with us to help out. It's only right to let them have our room, so last night, Chris and I inflated the air mattress and tried to settle in to get some sleep.

Here's the problem: between the 2 of us, we weigh almost 500 pounds. Read that again: Air mattress.

I found my sleep spot, curled up, got the pillow between my knees just so, adjusted my head, sighed and closed my eyes.

My husband never sits down. He falls backwards and hopes for the best.

So, the next thing I know, I'm careening through the air, squawking, my ear plugs violently eject and go hide under the sofa and I'm face down on the sonofabitching floor.

We should just keep a camcorder going.

Night 2. I'm sure I'll have something to complain about tomorrow.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Weekend Wrap Up & Some Random Stuff

To start my Monday morning off just right, a customer called me and provided me with a few minutes of juvenile entertainment.

"Hi, I was looking at my renewal and it says that a deductible isn't ... app ... allicable. No, alpicable."

"What was that?" I asked.

I knew she was trying to say, "applicable", but it's much more fun this way.

"App-li-ba-kel. No, that's not right. You know, where something doesn't count."

"What doesn't count?"

"The deductible."

"Now, why would you think that?"

"Because that's what the letter says."

"What letter?"

"The one I got with my renewal."

"And it says what?"

"It says, 'Deductible not app - applibelkull."


"No, no. App - lick - a - bull. There."

"You lick Red Bull? What?"

"Are you on drugs?"

"Prescription only, ma'am. Not applicable."

"Yes! That's what I'm trying to say! That!"

"That you're on drugs?"

I love Mondays.


Devon and I went to Wal-Mart on Thursday night to pick up some last minute school supplies. I was exhausted and not thinking clearly, so I told him to just get what he needed and I would mindlessly swipe my credit card at the register. This is how I approach back-to-school time, you see. It's the only way I can spend that much money (and pay interest! Yay!) on that many glue sticks and Bratz folders and other useless shit without walking into school on the first day and asking to please speak with the other twelve children I'm obviously supporting.

I was numbly standing behind him in the aisle and watching him obsess over rulers when he turned to me.

"Look at this, Mom. Who in the world would need an eighteen inch ruler?"

And without thinking, I replied, "John Holmes."

The lady passing me began shrilly giggling and my son looked puzzled.


I coughed. "Um, actor. Way before your time."

"But, why-"

"Just pick a damned ruler! I have places to go and interest to pay! Gah!"


I have a confession.

I am a gamer. I love XBox 360 and Wii and PS2 ($600 for the Ps3? And another $60 for the games? Who the fuck is your demographic, Sony? Kids with a part-time job selling heroin?) and I remember the day our Dad bought us a Commodore 64 and my love affair with game platforms began. We eventually graduated to an Atari and I was the Space Invaders queen. My parents bought me a hand held Pac Man that was shaped like the Pac Man and I slept with it until I was 20 11.

These days, I love horror games. The creepier, the better.

To try to save money, I enrolled the family in For a monthly fee, I get 3 titles at at time to keep and play for as long as we wish and have no late fees and all that crap. Plus, the postage is paid. Golden.

My only complaint is that they don't have a tremendous selection. My son knows this and uses it to his advantage.

"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommmmmm. Mom."

"Sleeping! Eyes closed!"

"The BioShock demo is out."

"I'll be there in thirty seconds."

After getting me on the hook with the demo, he launches his next phase of the attack.

"So, Mom. BioShock comes out today."

"Mmm. I know. We need groceries. We're out of milk. Don't talk to me about buying anything."

"I've been reading reviews. It's received a perfect in every category. Awesome, huh?"

"Yeah. Milk. Meat. Vegetables. Costly. La la la. I can't hear you."

"You get these things called Plasmids and they control your abilities. And you can upgrade your weapons, even create weapons out of stuff you find laying around."

"Growing children. Need to eat."

"And this one ability? You create bees that pop up right out of your veins and they attack and kill."

"Let's go to Wal-Mart. You guys can live on rice, right? 20 bajillion Chinese people can't be wrong."

Now, here's where he hasn't figured out how to perfect this scam of his. You see, once we get the game home, I'm as good as useless for a few days until I finish it. He mopes and whines because he has to wait.

"When do I get to play? Why can't you be like normal Moms and bake cookies and crap?"

"Does this game have a plasmid for that? No? Then shaddup and wait your turn."

Hello. My name is Crystal and I'm a gameaholic.


The baby monitor that sits in the living room and our inability to remember to shut it off when we go to bed has caused some issues in our home.

Devon had Julio over the other night and they were parked on the sofa watching a movie. Chris and I bid them goodnight and retired to our room.

---- HOLD, please. I just went all 18th century on you. Give me a second. Ok, better, wow. How doth that happen, pray tell?----

The conversation that played in the living room via the baby monitor was something like this:

"You're not doing it right."

"Yes, I am. Give me a second."

"That's not right. You don't put it there."

"There's a hole? See the hole? What else would it be for?"

"I don't know, but that's not where you stick it. Why don't you let me do it?"

"Because, the last time you did it, you wouldn't give it back."

"I like playing with it."

"Well, it's mine. I like playing with it sometimes, too."

There was a knock on the door and Devon called through, "Hey, guys. I know you're trying to plug in the laptop, but Julio doesn't and he's gone all catatonic and won't blink. Can you turn the monitor off, please?"

Hope you all had a wonderful weekend!

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Look, Ma! No Hands!

Harmony is learning to self-feed. Virginia is dubious.

"She doesn't know how to eat?"

"Yes, Virginia, she obviously knows how to eat. She has eight chins. But she doesn't know how to feed herself."

Her eyes widened and she looked at Harmony, all, "Good luck with that, kid", and went back to her coloring book.

Part of the problem is that the cereal puffs are so sticky that when they get any moisture on them, they immediately adhere to whatever they touch. She gets them stuck to her hand and when they won't fall into her mouth, she flings her hand around like she's trying to get rid of a booger and I end up with sticky cereal puffs all over the house.
Watching her slowly attempt to eat the puffs is much like when I was a bartender and watching the drunks try to eat. I would root for them, much like I do for her.

"There...there! Little higher! Lower...correct your trajectory...almost got it! Almost! Shit. Right in the eye."

Today, I left her with several pieces directly in front of her on her play mats. She looked down and then looked up at me as if to say, "This, again? I have two teeth. Can I just get a steak?"

I walked down the hall to check on Virginia (who wasn't feeling well) and when I came back, I glanced down at the mat. All the pieces were gone. I immediately began to celebrate.

"Yay! Yay! Look at that big girl! What a big...girl."

I then looked closely.

"Oh. Well, we won't call that a failure. We'll just call that a fashion statement."

EDIT: Is it wrong that we're so broke that I pull them off her outfit and put them back in the canister? No? Good.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You. No, Seriously. Don't Ask.

Last December, right before I had Harmony, I got a thick envelope from the IRS. Now, everyone knows that if you get a skinny envelope = good. Thick envelope? = sell all your shit, dreadlock your hair and run for the islands cos' you ain't gonna have a pot to piss in by the time they get through with you.

I was confused. I have been working full time since I was fifteen and I always prepare my own taxes. It's relatively easy when you have nothing, make nothing and never get anything back (my tax return was frozen and sent to the state of Texas every year to keep Devon's stepmonster supplied with weed and bon bons). I made a decent salary in 2005 and I claimed zero exemptions - even with 2 children and being single at the time. For the first time in almost a decade, I got a small return. I paid some bills and took my son to Six Flags to take his mind off of the whole upheaval in his world and that was it. What could I have done wrong?

According to the IRS, a whole lot of shit.

The first thing I did was make a phone call.

(Ok, that's not true. The first thing I did was freak the fuck out, but, hey, I was staring at a bill for several thousand dollars and nine months pregnant with a baby that didn't want to come out for the 2006 tax year. Understandable, I think)

I got a woman on the phone and calmly explained to her that I was not self employed and didn't understand why I was being charged a tax for being so. She quickly took some notes, removed the tax and said I would get an adjusted notice in the mail.

"So easy!" I thought. "I love the IRS!"

I am an idiot and I should be publicly flogged.

A few weeks later, I got an amended return, but it was still for several thousand dollars. I did all of my research, procured the plethora of documentation to dispute the findings and mailed them back. A few more weeks went by and I received another fat envelope. In this envelope was a DeLorean and an old, white haired guy named Doc who took me back in time and undid all my hard work.

I took a deep breath and called the IRS again. This time, I got a woman on the phone who sounded eerily like Roz from Monsters, Inc. When I explained my dilemma to her, she went into auto pilot.

"In order for you to dispute the amount, you need to legibly copy the entire phone book in triplicate on letterhead that says, 'Bush RULES!', and then submit that along with eleventy-billion other useless forms and after you do all that, sacrifice a Kapachuan monkey on an altar made of twinkies and pray for the best."

"But, I've already done all of that."

"I have no record of that here."

"But, I did. I did the thing with the phone book and the monkey and-"

"Did you use an altar?"


"Made of twinkies?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Creme filled?"

"Yes, I mean they were fat-free, on sale-"

"So sorry. You have to start over."

And this is how it's been for almost a year. I submit all the ridiculous documentation and they change the rules. Last week, I called back again for the ninth (no exxaggeration, friends and neighbors) time.

"Hi, my name is Crystal McKnob and I'd like to speak to James, please."


"Yes. He has three kids and a mole on his left testicle. We've developed quite the relationship, James and I."

"I'm sorry. He's not available."

"Um, okay. Can you help me?"

What a stupid, stupid question. Never ask this question of any government employee. EVER.

"What is the matter, ma'am?"

After explaining it over again, this lady pushed her auto pilot button.

"In order for you to dispute-"

"Ma'am! Ma'am? I'm sorry, so sorry to interrupt you, but I've already done this and been through this numerous times and I just-"

"- the amount, you need to legibly copy the entire phone book-"

"Helloooooo? Nice IRS robot? Is there anyone there who speaks human? I don't need to hear this again. I can recite it."

"Hold, please."

Today, I finally met with an accountant who looked at all the paperwork before her and basically told me I'm screwed with a capital I.R.S.

I was aghast.

"Holy shit. It's not like I'm Donald Trump. I was a single mom with 2 kids and a crappy Nissan Altima. Why are they doing this?"

"Because they can."

"Ok, ok. So, what about this thing called an Offer in Compromise. We just had a baby and barely make ends meet-"

"I have a client who's dying. He has no income, three children under the age of four and his wife works at WalMart. They won't give him an Offer in Compromise. They'll wait till you're dead and sell your viable parts to pay your debt."

How do you say, "Boobs", in Aruban?

Saturday, August 18, 2007


This....this goes out...*sob* every one of you lovely children who decided to visit my little blog today. It.....GAH!.....means so much to me.

This. This is for you.

(to the tune of Ebony and Ivory. I know most of you are, like, 12, and won't get the reference, so go ask Uncle Bobby to put his Schlitz down and 'splain it to you)

There You Are, Anonymity

There you are, Anonymity
Tell me how in the hell did you find me?
"There" or "their" or "they're" it's a mystery, oh Lord teach them, please!

We all know that you're the same, no matter where we go
Can't spell for shit, so very dumb
You should learn to write, please learn tonight
if you have time before Mommy tucks you in, and the whacking begins!

There you are, Anonymity,
Tell me what in the world, are you, like, 3?
You're so brave behind that made up name like Blaze123

Anonymity, Anonymity, puffing your cyber-chest for the world to see
Anonymity, Anonymity, Dungeons & Dragons is calling thee

We all know that grammar is so hard and you let it show
There are verbs and nouns, you can't type grunting sounds!
So just curse a lot, you've got your shot to let the whole world know
And don't worry, I'm sure your dick will grow!

There you are, Anonymity!
go to bed, little boys, and get some sleep!
When you wake in the morning I'm sure there'll be new Diggs to see!
And you can go to their blog and make up names and gain

Anonymity, Anonymity, being as big as you wanna be
Anonymity, Anonymity, my daughter's hurled better insults at me


I ... I love you guys! Thank you! Goodnight!

Friday, August 17, 2007


Hey, you guys! There's a party in comments over at this post! Never one to leave you guys out, I thought you should join in the fun!

Thursday, August 16, 2007

You Ain't Nothin' But A Hound Dog (That Eats EVERYTHING)

So, this is how it goes. You make some flippant remark about how freaking hot it is and the universe goes, "Oh, really? You think it's hot? What if you were a camel? Huh? What if you were a service person stuck in Baghdad lugging around 200 pounds of equipment and eating dehydrated dog turds? HUH? WHAT THEN, SMARTY PANTS?"

I got home yesterday and noticed that it was unusually warm in the house. Since I have it in my head that turning the thermostat down makes the fornits work harder to make ice cubes to cool the rooms or some such thing, I went to set it to sub-zero. And found that it wasn't working.

I wasn't immediately alarmed. Our unit is like that jukebox in Happy Days - you literally have to punch the shit out of it sometimes to wake it up and remind it that IT'S A HUNDRED AND SIX OUTSIDE. WORK, YOU FUCKING CLAPTRAP.

After I punched and cursed and threatened and cried and none of that worked, I went to find Chris.

"Air's not working, babe." Again, I wasn't alarmed. Chris is the redneck McGyver. He's McGyver with copious buttcrack. I've personally seen this man take a hair net and some mustard to successfully patch a hole in the roof. There is nothing he can't fix.

His eyes widened and he began chanting, "Dead dogs. Dead," as he walked out the door.

Devon, Virginia and I were confused. I picked up the baby and we all gathered in the kitchen to look out the back window and see what the hell he was talking about. He walked into the backyard, went out of my line of sight for a moment and while we're all standing there with our noses pressed against the glass, I see black foam flying in a hundred different directions and hear him screaming, "DEAD! DOGS DEAD!"

Now, I was a wee bit alarmed.

My husband read in a magazine, while taking his constitutional in the potty, that covering the A/C wires in insulation could give you an extra 2 degrees of blessed coolness. And since that 2 degrees might very well mean the difference between him getting some lovin' and me laying in a sweaty heap screaming at him to quit breathing so warmly, he was all for some insulation. The only problem putting the insulation on was that what had before been a bunch of near invisible wiring now became a giant, black hot dog for Daisy to chew on. And chew she did. Right through the wiring.

So, at 10 p.m. last night, the kids are laying under the ceiling fan moaning, the baby is stripped down to hear diaper and too lethargic to do much more than fart and I'm calling hotels. I live in Crotch Dust, Mississippi. How hard can it be, right? And then I opened my big mouth while waiting for the first one to answer.

"You know what would really suck? If there was some Shriner convention or some shit and all the hotels were full. Hahahahahahahahaha. Hahahahaha. Ha."

Yeah, hardy har har.

"No, ma'am, we're full."

"Yes, ma'am, completely booked, I'm sorry."

"Nothing available, ma'am. Maybe another night?"

"No, ma'am, you cannot come sleep in the vending room. No, ma'am, I - Ma'am, shame on you. I am married."

Finally, after the fifth call, I was in tears.

"Look, you don't understand. I wear a G cup. It's 90 degrees in here already. I could drown the whole family in boob sweat. What the hell is going on that no one has rooms?"

And then she stood there and, with nary a drop of sweat on her upper lip, cheerily replied, "Oh, it's Elvis week!"

I'm sorry, but, WHAT?

Let me ask that again: WHAT? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?

Ok, I know the man was an incredible performer, but fuck you and your blue suede shoes if you flew in from Kerflop, Kansas, to stand in the hundred degree heat with the rest of the dipshits to to hold a candle. You could have done that at home and it would have been just as effective.

The man is dead, has been for thirty years and nothing any of you nutballs do will change that.

At eleven o'clock last night, it was Ugly on Parade in the lobby of the Gold Strike casino & hotel. Nothing says, "Gambling Junkie", like dragging your kids, their school backpacks and your seven-month-old baby into a casino on a school night. The desk lady looked at me all crazy and I just couldn't take any more.

"Could you make it snappy with the room key? We only have, like, six hours before we have to drive these little snots to school and there's a slot machine with my name on it. Do you cash welfare checks?"

Don't you wish you lived ten minutes from Graceland AND the casinos of Tunica?

(And no offense, Elvis. I was personally moved to gyrating my hips and sneering in the car this morning while listening to you belt out your version of "Walk A Mile In My Shoes". You are, and shall forever be, the King of Rock and Roll. Thank you. Thankyaveramush)

Tuesday, August 14, 2007


You know what one of the joys of being fourteen is? Well, other than sleeping all summer.

My son has complained non-stop about going back to school. I have listened to his incessant whining and just nodded and tried to be empathetic, and then by the end of the summer, told him to shut it and man up. Geez. At least he's not working in a sweatshop for $4 per week.

Today, I asked him how his day was and you know what? The fact that his biology teacher is getting married and her last name will now be Glasscock and his Geometry teacher is horribly afraid of bellybuttons? Turned his whole outlook around.



On another note, did I mention that it hit 106 degrees here today?

Our sweaty baby keeps looking at me, all, "When the hell did we move to Libya?"

Favorite Day

Ahh, the first day of school. The first rays of sunlight. The sounds of the school bus passing my house by because I gave birth to a bunch of vampires. The smell of cinnamon rolls burning on my piece-of-shit cookie sheet. On to plan B.

I love this day. I love Virginia's excitement, Devon's morose acceptance of his horrible fate and the fact that these little shits will be comatose by 7 p.m. instead of me screaming at them to stop eating everything in the house and go to bed at 3 o'clock in the morning.

I love Julio staying the night and me waking everyone up by yanking their blankets off of them and trumpeting, "It's the first day of school! Oh, how I long for the days when my biggest worry was how big that zit was going to be!"

They glared at me, muttered and finally began stretching and yawning. I became a drill sergeant.

"Move, move, move, maggots! Breakfast is waiting!"

Oh, the sight of them shuffling in their tube socks and Spongebob pajamas. I wiped away a tear.

"Mom?" Devon asked. "How long has this cereal been sitting in this milk?"

I frowned. "I don't know. An hour?"

Virginia poked at it with her spoon. "It's soggy."

"EAT UP, SOLDIER! Deployment in t-minus 22 minutes!"

Devon sat down. "God, I hate the first day of school."

After watching them stare at their cereal for ten minutes, I offered them some freeze dried apricots and herded them out to the car.

First stop, high school! I lectured as I drove, cos' I can multi task like that.

"Now, being a freshman the first week is kind of hard. Well, my entire high school career was hard, but that's because I smoked, read Marx and had a thing for Megadeth. Man, that sucks because I would be so cool now. I would-"

"Mom," Devon muttered.

"Oh, Devon, I'm so proud of my little fish! My fishy! My own little Nemo!"

"Can we just get out here?" he asked.

I looked around.

"Devon, we're, like, three miles from school."

"I know."

"It's going to be a hundred and six today."

"I know."

I pulled up to the curb at the high school and gave them my last minute advice.

"Be assertive, but not pushy. Don't eat anything from the lunch room that isn't clearly labeled or you can't identify and, oh! If they offer you free condoms in health class, make sure you tell them you already have an ample supply because we still have some left over from-"

Devon flung the door open and took a flying leap out onto the curb. I stopped and looked back at Julio. "What's his problem?"

Julio smiled and opened the door. "Have a good day, Mrs. McKnob."

I rolled the passenger window down. "Make good choices!" I screamed.

Second stop! 2nd grade!

Now, in a bizarre twist of fate, Virginia's second grade teacher is the wife of one of my old regulars back from my bartending days. She used to come in occasionally and demurely sip a glass of wine while quietly watching me and my regulars play shuffle beer or scream obscenities at the TV.

"Virginia, this is Mrs. Masters," I said as I introduced them.

"Hi, Virginia!" Mrs. Masters said. "I knew your mom before you were born...back when she was a bartender!"

Virginia looked at me accusingly. "Mommy, you said you used to be the President."

"I was kidding, Virginia. Just like I was kidding when I told you the reason squirrels are so fast is because they get together every morning and drink coffee."

Her eyes bugged out of her head and she threw her hands up in the air. "What?! Well, great! Next you'll be telling me that the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy didn't have a baby with horrible, bucky teeth and that's not really the reason I always get dental floss in my easter eggs!"

As I pulled out of the parking lot and threw a fearful glance at the traffic goblin, I thought, "Man, I can't wait to do this all over again with Harmony!"

Sunday, August 12, 2007

A Couple Of Things...

If you haven't seen the new Postsecret video, It's incredible. It's here.


Well, I guess it was only a matter of time, but my church found my blog. Contrary to what I thought would happen (words like lynching, casting out, exorcism come to mind), they were so supportive and complimentary, although I'm sure a few of the mom's would love to force feed me a bar of lye soap. Since it's okay now (I'm sorry Brother Ken. I'm trying to clean up my potty mouth and my inability to go a single day without making fun of my kids), I'll tell you how they found me.

The wonderful, fabulous and incredibly talented Peggy did our church website for us and did it for a mere fraction of what she should have charged me. I am forever in her debt and holy crap, is this site wonderful. Go see her and get a makeover. Seriously. You won't be disappointed.

And if there was any ever doubt about whether or not I've found my spiritual be accepted and loved after reading some of this stuff? You're right, Melissa...I am most definitely in the right church.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Free To A Deaf Home


It’s not working.

Virginia’s friends find it perfectly acceptable to call at 6 a.m., 10 p.m., whatever. I finally told them that Virginia had been sent to boarding school in Pakistan and if they EVER called the house again, I was going to marry her off to a rat farmer and change her name to Veepa.

Then came the telemarketers.

“Chris, why are we getting a hundred phone calls a day from people wanting to give you information that you requested? What information is that important? Lottery numbers? Where Hoffa is buried? Lindsey’s coke stash? What?”

He was meek.

“I was trying to get a laptop. You know, for free.”

“Are you serious? You thought that signing up for all that crap would actually get you a thousand dollar laptop? I’ve always wondered who fell for that shit. Now, I know. We need a plasma TV, babe. I’m just sayin’.”

“Shut up.”

I finally got rid of the telemarketers by telling them that my husband had been sent to jail for armed robbery and sobbing on the phone about how hard it was going to be to feed all of our babies.

Problem solved.

This morning at about six a.m., I was having this awesome dream about Matthew McConaughey and his bongos when Dusty the Wonder Sausage started doing that annoying staccato bark.

Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark.

Bark, bark.



I finally got up and went outside to investigate. We’ve had this dog on a run lately because he was Houdini’ing his way out of the yard. Now, this is a dog that manages to stand up, unlock the gate, go to a pay phone and call for hookers and a pizza, but he wrapped himself around a tree once and instead of reversing his steps, he kept running around in a circle like a fucking retard until his slack wouldn’t even allow him to lick his own ass.

As I was untangling him and screaming at Daisy to keep her slobbery schnozz out of my crotch, Dusty saw his opportunity and ran. And ran. And ran around in circles, giggling and dodging me until I gave up and went inside to go back to bed.

I quietly crept into the bedroom, thanked the gods of slumber that Harmony had slept through the whole thing and found the most warm and comfortable spot. My head aligned perfectly with the pillow and Matthew was rubbing his bongos and getting them ready when Daisy started that ear splitting, ovary shriveling howl she reserves for the special occasions when:

a. I’m having a dream like the one I was having

b. Dusty has grown opposable thumbs and unlatched the gate. Again.

I got up, got dressed again and went back outside. Daisy was shrieking by this time, devastated that Dusty just left her behind and surely, surely he’s halfway to Kansas by now with some slutty dachshund named Mona. There is no Arizona, people.

I stood in the front yard, in the quiet, still morning air and listened to the mosquitoes buzzing around my head. I whistled as quietly as possible while mentally preparing the ad I’m going to place in the paper to get rid of these mother effing dogs.

Dusty finally comes trotting back into the yard and stopped at my feet. He looked up at me and I looked down at him. Neither of us blinked. Finally, he broke and whimpered.

“That’s right, dog. I’m the one who made the appointment to hack your nuts off and I can do so much worse. Never cross me, sausage.”

I tethered him in the backyard and stumbled back to my room. I gingerly removed my clothes, crawled back into bed, and holy shit. Warm spot, head aligned with the pillow, bongos. Thank you, God. Thank you.

Wheeeeeeeee! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabaaaaaaahhhhh! Gliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Loosely translated, this is Harmony for, “I know you’re out there woman! I can smell your boobs! Come play with me! Tickles! Zerbits! Feed me some of that mushy shit!”

I hate those fucking dogs.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Distraction Tactics

Every couple of months, my boss takes me and some of our referral sources to lunch. I have been in a funk the last few days, mostly due to lack of sleep, and I was sitting rather quietly, attempting to blink and poking at my salad. The subject had turned to proper dress within an office environment and one of the ladies was expressing her discomfort over a former co-workers refusal to wear a bra.

"She would wear this green sweater and stand in front of my desk so that when I looked up, I was at eye level with her boobs. And all I could think was, 'Oh, look, Snoopy's wearing green today'."

When what she had said finally sunk in, I laughed so hard I cried all my mascara off. And then I laughed some more.

Just in case you're still puzzled:



Friday, August 03, 2007


My husband was horrified this past weekend by the sheer volume of laptops at Blogher.

"Crystal, you need a laptop."

"No, Chris, I do not. I need sleep. Food. The occasional apple martini. I do not need a laptop."

A couple of days ago, he shanghai'd me and forced me into Circuit City where the lovely salesman, John, joined forces with him.

"John," Chris said. "Please educate my wife. Guide her. Make her your grasshopper."

For the next twenty minutes, John effusively spewed about hard drives and DDR and pixels and ports and active something and skittles and neon boots. He then led me to the laptop they had on sale.

"This," he beamed, "this is the number one selling laptop in Europe right now."

My husband pointed and danced from foot to foot in his excitement. "Europe!" he exclaimed.

I nodded, dumbly. "Europe." I then turned and walked away from them and their laptop boners.

My husband hunted me down and pounced.

"Crystal, if you're going to write-"

"I can't hear you. I'm perusing CD's."

He glanced at my selection.

"See, this is what's wrong with you. Seriously. A-Ha? And what's that? Oh, my God, Crystal. Twisted Sister?"

I sniffed at him.

"Go away. I cannot justify the expense of a laptop."

"You can't justify the expense of new underwear, sweety."

"Not true."

"Really? What does it say on your underwear?"


"On the front."

I glared at him.

"It says, 'Wednesdays child is full of woe'. And it's very appropriate right now."

"When did they stop selling those days of the week underwear? 1987? You're still wearing underwear from high school. Do you know how wrong that is?"

We went back to John who was waiting, jaws open, for me to swipe my credit card through his razor sharp teeth.

"She'll take the one, the Europe one," Chris told him.

I pulled my credit card out and after they wrestled me to the ground and pried it from my fingers, I sat on the floor and cried. I am now the owner of a laptop and more debt.

It's really pretty, though. At least the picture on the box is. I have 14 days to return it and I refuse to open it.


My daughter was looking at our Chicago pictures and carefully watching my face as I grimaced at every single picture I appeared in. She finally patted me on the shoulder and said, "It's okay, Mommy. Some people are just fat."

I feel all warm and fuzzy.


My niece delivered a healthy, six pound baby boy yesterday. I'm waiting for pictures, but thank you all again.

And thank you for opening your hearts in the comments on the last post. I was pretty blue about the whole thing, but after reading all that and seeing that I did, indeed, make impressions, I could care less about the ones who didn't have time for me. I have no reason, no excuse to wallow. You have all been through so much and your willingness to step forward and comfort me is so selfless.

I know I've said it ad nauseum, but you guys are the most supportive group of people. I got all weepy. It was really, really gross.


Oh, I got published in a book. If you have any extra yen laying around, you should buy one and learn some English. Heh.


DISCLAIMER: Oh, crap. If you really want to learn English by reading blog excerpts, then by all means, buy that book. But I don't get anything from it. It was more than enough for me just to be published in something. I don't want anyone spending money thinking they're paying for my new underwear or anything and I know you crazy folks will do just that. Love y'all.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Blogher07 Recap, Part Two: The One Where I Talk About...Ewww...Feelings and Shit

When I found out I was going to this conference, I was horribly nervous. You see, meeting new people is not my forte. Especially when those new people have boobs and claws and cell phone bling. I was terrified.

People who have read my stuff think that when they meet me, I will be funny and charming and witty and all the things I'm not - at least not right away. I get quiet and I watch you for a bit to see what lines not to cross, what barriers there may be, what interests you have, what makes you tick. I'm also painfully shy when it comes to girls and, although I hate to be one of those people who blames her current personality on past wrongs, in this particular instance, I can't not.

I grew up nomadically, as some of you might know. I vividly remember my first day of school. My mom spent money we didn't have to buy me a new dress and some earrings and when I walked in, I was automatically labeled as a scapegoat. I was seen as being weak because I never stood up for myself or spoke or did anything much more than look at people, wide-eyed and timid. I remained that way for over two decades, through various middle schools and lots of high schools, through one horribly abusive relationship and more moves than I can count.

It wasn't necessarily the taunting and ridicule that bothered me as much as seeing how it affected my parents. My mother had to quit school in the sixth grade to go home and take care of her fifteen brothers and sisters and while she was in school, she was just like me. She wanted more for me. My dad is very sensitive and I've always been like him, so seeing me hurt was torture.

Girls are cruel. I learned that at an early age. When I was a freshman in one particular high school, I used to sit outside on the front steps rather than face the lunchroom and sit alone in front of everyone. I would dream about graduating and going to college where there would be so many people that I could be anonymous and not get singled out for the latest prank. As I was sitting there and daydreaming, a cheerleader approached me.

"Hey, Crystal. Wanna go to lunch with us?" She gestured to the girls behind her. All A-list. All popular, all the fucking time. I was stunned.

"Sure," I quietly answered. As I stood and walked down the steps with them, I looked around to see who all was seeing this. Me, going to lunch with the in crowd. Me.

I look back at that lonely, naive girl and my heart hurts.

As this was a rural town, everything was five miles down the road. When we stopped at a 7-11, everyone piled out and invited me to go in with them. I went in, and while I was in the back of the store, they left me. Rather than walk the five miles back and face what I knew would be a day just packed full of laughter at my expense, I used the payphone to call my parents to come pick me up.

When they arrived, I laid in the backseat and cried as quietly as I could while my dad sat up front, smoking and wiping his cheeks occasionally and my mother ranted about how awful, how horrible those girls were and how she was going to report them to the principal. I'll never forget how that felt. I had this burning desire to make them proud of me, to be someone. I wanted that so very much.

In between the years ahead, various things would happen. I became somewhat more able to contain my feelings in front of other people, but I went home every single day and wailed in my room, a failure, an outcast. My health class started a suicide betting pool that revolved around what month I would kill myself and in what manner.

I have let most of that go. I try, as much as I can, to remember that those girls were just that - girls. I attempt to keep an open mind about the people I meet and give everyone a chance.

But, my heart is right here. Right...there. See it? I wear it as big as the boobs on my chest and you can crush me with your indifference. You frighten me. I am scared of you and I will freely admit that.

You can hurt me and it's so easy. I won't fight you. I will cry, but you probably won't see it.

I walked into that conference with my best friend at my side. He was wearing a huge grin and crocs with socks. I am so proud to call him my husband. At his incessant urging, I approached a writer that I recognized. I stammered something to her and she kindly dismissed me. I returned to his side, a tiny bit shrunken. Later on, at the cocktail party, I had it happen to me a few more times. I got snubbed. I floundered. I made a fool of myself. I offered people my cards only to find a few of them blowing across the ground later on. I noticed. I took it personally and I admitted defeat for a moment. I went inside and fought to keep from falling apart as tears spilled down my cheeks and my husband urged me to keep plugging along. I wiped my face, went outside and tried again. I met one really terrific woman who talked to me and helped me to feel not so alone and different. And then I walked and tried to meet new people and continued to feel like I was interrupting people's conversations (which I was) and very much on the outside looking in.

During this time, my mother called. She didn't really understand what this trip was about, what it meant to me and she thinks a blog is some kind of fungal infection. But, she was so proud of me and I couldn't figure out why. I didn't really do anything, did I?

"Hi, Mom."

"Hey! How's it going?"

"Oh, good. Chris is trying to find a place to pee. All the men's rooms are designated for women. How are the kids?"

"Good, good! Did you get your award, yet?"

"What award, Mom?" This is not the first time she has misunderstood me and given me more credit than what I deserve.

"The award? They're having this thing for you and the other winners, right?" I could hear my father in the background, asking for updates and what was going on and I fought to keep my voice steady.

"No, Mom. It's not for me. It's...hard to explain."

"Oh. I thought - I just-"

"It's okay, Mom. I probably didn't make myself clear. I love you. I have to go, now."

There will always be parties I'm not invited to. There will always be groups of people that don't need or want another member. There will always be popular kids.

I didn't go to this thing to learn how to increase my traffic or what ads to choose or how to keep from vomiting on a reporter when he interviews you (yeah, right). I hope and I dream that someday, somehow, I'll be able to look at my daughter and say, "Yes, I can take you to the park and not work!" And that's it. I don't need to be rich or famous or any of that. I just need to be with the ones who love me just the way I am, fucked up and broken. I need that. I went because I thought maybe in some infinitesimal way, I could make enough of an impact on someone to somehow make that a possibility for me. I don't know what I was expecting and I don't know what I'm trying to say, except this:

If you go to Blogher next year, and you do nothing else, find her. See her. She looks lost, frightened, alone. Maybe you could approach her and ask her who she is and is this her first time at Blogher? You have no idea how much that small gesture may change her life. If she somehow screws up the courage to come and talk to you, please, don't dismiss her. A kind word, an exchange of pleasantries and maybe cards and then she'll move on. Please acknowledge her...she just wants to feel visible.

And on that note, I would like to sincerely thank:

Liz (where'd she go?)

Yvonne (kindest eyes and the sweetest smile that I've ever seen. I instantly felt at ease with her)


Kris (she humped my leg. Rowwrrr)

She's squirrely. And hollow. But never at the same time. (she also made me feel at ease and for that I am so grateful)

Isabel (she perty)

Alex from Scrapblog (simply the nicest man and probably felt just as out of place as I did being that he's a penis person and all)

SJ (she wore bright pink hair to the conference and all my husband could ask her about was how she got it that pink and what product she uses. He's so gay)

Connie! I can't find your card and that makes me very sad.

Angela of CPAMom (whenever I needed a friendly face, I could look up and there you were)

Dana (even though I didn't get to meet you, and that sucks a big dick, I still thank you for trying. That means a lot to me)

Lotta (I thought what you said was right on. And I really enjoyed talking to you)

And you! The girl! Pregnant! From Missourri and says, "Yesterdee". Where are you? Where's your card? WHY AM I SO LAME?


My doorbell rang this morning. I wiped away the eye boogers and looked at my clock. 9 a.m. Everyone knows not to bother me before the baby wakes up, which is usually about 10 a.m. Something was wrong.

I got up, threw my robe on and opened the front door. I stepped outside and immediately thought we were in the middle of the Rapture. People were out on their lawns, children were crying, there were concerned voices and people pointing down the street.

"Hallelujah!" I screamed. Then, when I realized I was still standing there: "Well, shit."


I jumped and squeezed off the flow of pee that threatened to soak my Saturday underwear.

"Phillip! Quit that! You always scare the shit out of me!"

"Sorry. I rang your bell."

Phillip is our neighbor. He is a newly converted Jehovah's witness. They got him. He had a cell phone in one hand and a pamphlet in the other.

"The Rapture?" I asked.

"If it is, why are you still here? You need this." He thrust the pamphlet at me.

I flapped my hand at him. "And I suppose you're just a hologram."

He frowned and puzzled this over for a moment. "I have to go home."

"Phillip, you're the only Witness I know who periodically takes breaks from handing out the Watch Tower to go hit his bong."

"God gave us that herb, it's natural-"

"Blah, blah. Why the hell are you ringing my doorbell at nine in the freaking morning?"

"Oh. Your dog got away. That's what all the fuss is about down there."

"Dusty the Wonder Sausage? He always gets away, everyone knows him-"

"No. The other one."

"Daisy? The brain tumor? What the hell?"

"Yeah. She's scaring the shit out of everyone trying to clobber 'em and lick 'em."

"How in the world...?"

"I don't know. I have to go."

"Yeah. Thanks, Phillip. Good luck with that whole Jehovah's thing," I absentmindedly told him.

As I watched Daisy chase a full-grown man up a tree, I called Chris on my cell phone.

"Babe. You have to come home. Daisy's terrorizing the neighborhood."

"Ohhhh, man. Just throw a bone to her. She'll come home."

"You know I can't control her. She's a beast."

"Crystal, you are such a wuss. Just put the leash on her-"

"Do you remember the burn marks that she left on my palm the last time? Or the road rash from when she pulled me over? Come home."

"Can you-"

"You're absolutely right. I'm a namby pamby and I should just eat my spinach and hold her down until you get here."

I have a wooden spoon and some Snausages. Who's with me?

EDIT: This is Daisy. Beast.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007


"Why are you grumpy?"

"I'm not grumpy. I'm....grumpy."

"My mistake. So, why the attitude, dear husband?"

"Well, you didn't exactly make me feel desirable this morning."

"This morning? I didn't even see you before you left."

He sniffed indignantly. "You don't remember."

"Chris, I'm taking Ambien. People have dressed in drag to go shopping, followed by robbing a liquor store and taking a salsa lesson and they don't remember a second of it. Give me a break."

He crossed his arms and stuck his bottom lip out.

"I was feeling amorous."

"Okay. And I turned you down? Was I mean about it?"

"I believe your exact words were, 'Ooh, gross, how can you think about something like that when I just had a dream about my parents? Ewww!', before you rolled over and started snoring."

"Well, you have to admit, that is oogy."

Not speaking to me.

Harmony's personality is evolving.

When she eats her cereal puffs, she grasps them between her index finger and thumb and then delicately attempts to transfer the puff to her mouth. There are still some tumblers falling into place in this whole complex maneuver, and sometimes she licks the puff and never opens her pincers to allow the cereal to succumb to her gaping maw. When this happens, the puff sticks to her finger. She spreads them and holds her hand in front of her face, gazing upon her rebellious food with disdain. She will then methodically open and close her chubby fist until the offending snack has glued itself to the center of her palm.

The whole family is fascinated with this process. It has become our nightly entertainment. To hell with "Let's Make A Deal", let's throw some cereal on Harmony's tray and watch her comically serious attempts at independence.

When the cereal is stuck to the center of her hand, the intensity magnifies. First, she closes her fist and feigns ignorance, as if to convince the rest of us that, yes, she did accomplish what she set out to accomplish and WE CAN ALL QUIT STARING AT HER, THERE IS NO PUFF HERE, MOVE ALONG, PEOPLE.

Once she realizes we have no intention of going anywhere, she attempts the same process with her other hand. Usually, she has the same results. The frustration is palpable. With all of us staring at her, she will close both fat little fists and shake them in the air as if to say, "Dammit! So much food and so little coordination!"

This is my favorite part.

With all the dignity she can muster, she will calmly place both hands on each side of the tray, little sticky, sweet lumps grasped tightly and with no hope of ever being released. With her brow furrowed in concentration, she will then lean forward, poke her tongue out and snare one of the puffs with the tip. As she sits back and thoughtfully chews, looking very pleased with herself, we all applaud.

That baby is a McKnob.


Virginia and I have been reading, The Secret of Blackbeards Cove. On most nights, I tuck her in and read a chapter or two before kissing her goodnight. We're very Osmond.

"When Paul reached the window, he looked down into the chapel and saw Mrs. McNemmish' coffin in the center-"

"Wait, wait, wait," Virginia demanded.

I sighed. This happens at least every third paragraph. There's aren't any pirates, any more, Mom. What the heck is a Nantucket, Mom? Why do we have to use the duct tape, again, Mom?

"Mrs. McNemmish is dead, right?" Virginia asked.

"Yes, V."

She looked at me and rolled her eyes as if to say, Good Lord, woman, do I have to teach you everything?

"This author is crazy. If she's dead, she can't be coughing, now can she?"

I think she has a little bit of McKnob in her, too.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007


Chris' family had another reunion this weekend. They have four reunions a year. FOUR. I can only imagine that this is because they all like each other and no one drinks, so there's no danger of Uncle Terry getting shitfaced and hitting on all the teenaged girls or Grampy having a little too much wine and falling into the corn dressing, face first.

Not that something like that has ever happened at my family reunions.

While I was scampering from one dark corner to another to avoid a particularly zealous aunt who is very, VERY fond of me, I watched as family members passed Harmony around and fought over who got to hold her next.

In a moment, it took my breath away. One frail, older generation was tenderly holding the new generation, softly touching her perfect baby skin and marveling at her tiny teeth and the dimple that makes it's way out of the edible layers of fat when she smiles.

I am approaching middle age. My oldest boy will be fifteen in January. One day, sooner than I realize, I will be stroking that perfect skin on someone's new baby and saying things like, "Enjoy it, it goes so quickly." I will be sitting in my padded chair watching grandchildren play hide-and-go-seek and grumbling about it being past my naptime. I will gleefully show my dentures for pictures, because, really? I'm a hundred freaking years old. Who the hell do I have to impress anymore?

I walked over and pried Harmony away. I held her, smelled her skin and kissed the silky hair on top of her head. I then sought out my son. I put my arm around him, held him close to me for just a moment, long enough for him to be properly outraged and grossed out by my PDA. I memorized Virginia's face, her sweet, childish laughter and the way she runs with abandon, and so fast.

I appreciated it.

And then the aunt found me and licked my face off.

Monday, September 24, 2007

The Elusive, Camera Shy Boy

While dropping my son off at a homecoming football game this weekend, Chris rolled his window down and advised him, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

As Devon was walking into the crowd of people in line, he retorted over his shoulder, "And where would I do that? The bleachers?"

He never learns.

I rolled down the passenger window and screamed, "If it was good enough for me and your father, it's good enough for you!"

Poor kid. He simply has no choice but to be dazzling in order to to survive high school with a mother like me.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

This Book Belongs To Summer Ward

Virginia got to pick something out of the treasure box because she went ALL LAST WEEK without pulling a color for talking. What they should have given her was a gold-plated roll of duct tape encrusted with diamonds because that shit will never happen again, but instead she got this:

She proudly presented this to me and told me that she wanted to give it to me for helping her get through that week. I'm like her Chatterbox Anonymous Sponsor, only when she feels like talking, we just sit and stare at each other until the urge passes. It's more stressful than you would think and there are times when I'm sure her head will rocket off of it's body if she doesn't get to say something, ANYTHING.

The whole family stood around and we gave her proper hurrah's and ooh'ed and ahh'ed over the book, because it really is so much more than that to her. It's the beginning of her learning self- control and that the teacher and the whole class don't necessarily want her to re-enact every single episode of Hannah Montana for their listening pleasure.

Although, as her mother, I'm here to tell you: I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF IT. EVER. Even when I make her pause so that I can go rummage through the medicine cabinet for mind-altering drugs and then come back just in time for her interpretation of season 2. WHEEEEE! Y'ALL ALL COME TO MY HOUSE WHERE THE FUN NEVER STOPS!

Later that night, I was flipping through the book and I noticed something strange.

Inside cover:

Back inside cover:

Back of the book:

And all I can think is that I really want to meet the person who had the balls to pry this book away because, in case you hadn't noticed, THIS BOOK BELONGS TO SUMMER WARD, BITCHES. Picture it...some crazed first- grader, eyes all glassy and bugging out, carefully pasting these stickers on her "precious" and sliding it back under her pillow after she lovingly turns the pages each night. Like, say, maybe this girl.
And now that I have it, I am afraid.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

My Pee Smells Like Cheerios. And Other Things You Really Don't Want To Know.

I usually don't answer those, "Getting to Know You", emails, only because I have very poor self-esteem and I think, "No one really cares what my favorite color is, do they?" But, I was feeling froggy today. So, just in case you have nothing better to do, here is the one I just answered:

1. What time did you get up this morning? Crap. I'm up? I thought this was all a horrible nightmare.

2. Diamonds or pearls? Pawnshop. Baby's need new shoes.
3. What was the last film you saw at the movies? The Bourne Decision or Dilemma or whatever the hell that's called. I was worn out just watching it, but I highly recommend it.
4. What is your favorite TV show? House

5. What do you usually have for breakfast? Whatever my kids haven't gone through like a horde of starving locusts.
6. What's your middle name? Dawn. Very Southern. Y'all.
7. What food do you dislike? Oysters. They're like warm snotballs that sit in their own excretions. I dated a guy like that once.
8. What is your favorite CD at the moment? Rod Stewart , Best of

9. What kind of car do you drive? Mercury Sable
10. Favorite sandwich? Cheeseburger

11. What characteristics do you despise? Pretentiousness, bullies, suck-ups.

12. Favorite item of clothing? pajama pants. Oh, and my ball gag.
13. If you could go anywhere in the world for a vacation, where would you go? Italy. And I'd get so fat they'd have to keep me there and fly Richard Simmons over to cry by my bedside.
14. What color is your bathroom? A horrible shade of green that my husband refers to as "Shrek Poo". IT LOOKED DIFFERENT ON THE SAMPLE, DAMMIT.
15. Favorite brand of clothing? See # 11
16. Where would you retire? Anywhere with a beach. Britney and I could be all fat and crazy together. LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!
17. Most memorable birthday? I will say my 21st, even though I had to be told what happened and I threw up. A lot.
18.Favorite Sport to watch? Pygmy tossing. What?

19. Furthest place you are sending this? Southaven, Mississippi. I don't have Brit Brit's email address. LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!
20. Who do you expect to send this back to you? Well, since Amanda has, like, 12 chirruns and is always up to her ears in stickiness and boogers and poopy diapers, probably my husband. (I couldn't find other Liz's email address because I suck)
21. Person you expect to send it back first? My husband. With the subject line reading, "Quit sending me this SHIT. I'M WORKING, HERE."
22. Favorite saying? Don't start none, won't be none. But you have to bob your head back and forth when you say it or you're not allowed to say it at all. And I'm watching you.
23. When is your birthday? November 17
24. Are you a morning person or a night person? Put it this way...if I didn't have to work, you wouldn't see me emerge from my bedroom until after noon. I'd just put out bowls of cereal and some crackers on the table the night before so the kids wouldn't starve to death.
25. What is your shoe size? 9 1/2.

26. Pets? Oscar (RIP, buddy. May you have many unsuspecting caretakers to fling poo pellets at in rat heaven), Grouch (I have had him outside and the cage open for 2 weeks. He won't leave. HE WON'T LEAVE), Dusty the Wonder Sausage and Daisy the Brain Tumor.
27. What did you want to be when you were little? I was going to marry Jon Bon Jovi and be the keyboardist in his band after I had David Whats-his-name killed. As I often lament, that Dorothea slut messed that all up for me.
28. What are you today? Female, Caucasian, occasionally medicated, always late for everything. And thinking that someone let a typo slip.

29. What is your favorite candy? Those hard candies with the fizzy shit in the middle. I like to put three or four of those in my mouth and drop on the floor, spasming, with that foamy crap spilling out. Freaks people out in a MAJOR way.
30. What is your favorite flower? Pretty much anything that makes it through a season in my garden. All my flowers are crispy and it makes me sad in my pants.
31. What's the next day on the calendar you are looking forward to? October 12th. Chris and I are doing that time-share crap in Vegas. We're going to the sales pitch with overalls on and we're going to say things like, "Consoli-what? Is that some crack about my momma?"

32. What church do you attend? Faithpoint!

33. What are you listening to right now? My husband telling me about the baby. She is in Arkansas in the backyard, hanging in her jonny jumper, and swinging back and forth to kick the cat. Daddy is so proud. (No animals were harmed in relation to the innocent joy of a 9 month old, so don't go all PETA on me)
34. What was the last thing you ate? a cookie
36. Do you believe in Angels? Absolutely

37 . If you were a crayon, what color would you be? I would end up being the crayon that gets eaten by the kindergarten kid with the bucked teeth and the runny nose.
38. What is your pet peeve? Noisy chewers (I will kick you in the ass if you smack gum in my vicinity. Yes, Mom, this is directed at you) and people who la-dee-da in the left lane when they know a line of cars is behind them and OH MY GOD IT'S THE FAST LANE YOU IGNORANT DOUCHE BUBBLE GET OUT OF THE FREAKING FAST LANE IF YOU CAN'T- sorry. Moving right along.
39. Last person you spoke to on the phone? My husband

41. Favorite soft drink? If you don't know the answer to this, you shouldn't have received this email. Please delete it immediately.
42. Favorite restaurant? Carraba's

43. Hair Color? The middle? or the bottom? Or the roots? Man, be specific.
44. Siblings? 3 half-brothers and 2 half-sisters (although, I don't consider my one brother half or my 2 sisters. They have "full" status. The other 2 brothers I have not seen or spoken to in 21 years. They could run by me, screaming and on fire, and I wouldn't know who the hell they were) My parents learned their lesson after they had me.
45. Favorite day of the year? Any day that presents another opportunity for me to mercilessly torture my kids. It's what I do. Oh, and Christmas because I have so much fun keeping the magic of Santa alive for Virginia.
46. What was your favorite toy as a child? Indoors, a book. I know. What a nerd, right? Outdoors, I was very much into poking around in the woods and other places I could potentially hurt myself.
47. Summer or winter? I would say Summer, but I just received a memo from Fall and Spring. They have filed a discrimination suit.
48. Hugs or kisses? Both. And if it's Matthew McConaughey doing the kissing, I'd like some tongue, please.
49. Chocolate or vanilla? Vanilla.
50. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? No pressure. I won't drink myself into a coma if no one answers this. I won't feel bad. Don't worry about me, I'LL BE JUST FINE.

51. When was the last time you cried? LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!
52. What is under your bed? *shudder* We don't talk about him.
53. Who is the friend you've had the longest? Tracie. (Am I supposed to count the people who got a restraining order?)
54. What did you do last night? Answered emails (and I'm still not done), ate pizza, went to bed. I know. You want to touch me, don't you?
55. Favorite smell? Freshly cut grass. HINT, FREAKING, HINT, DEVON.
56. What are you afraid of? I can't even type it. But it rhymes with "poach". And if I see one, get the fuck out of my way because I will mow you down in my haste to exit the premises.
57. What makes you laugh? My children, my dad, the letters I get from the IRS that say, "WE CAN SEIZE YOUR ASSETS". Seriously. Here's some books and a box of macaroni. Have a ball.
58. How many years at your current job? 4. I'm very proud of myself because my resume reads like War & Peace.
59. Favorite day of the week? Saturday.
60. Favorite book? Toss up between the Potter series and the Dark Tower Series.

Now, copy, paste and forward this to everyone in your address book, including those people you've not spoken to since the Eisenhower administration, and you'll get a phonecall from a kid in Michigan who has a rare form of cancer and needs 3 cents for every email you send. If you don't, you will be run over by a burning bus full of nuns. Or something like that.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Ask And Ye Shall Receive

The one about the breast pump, for those who have been asking:

Monkey Nipples

Would it be nice if I had a search function? Or would that be a waste of time?

Friday, September 14, 2007


Devon never learns. I sometimes think that he enjoys seeing what I'll come up with to teach him his lesson about whatever it is he's pulled this time.

"Mom, you have to come to school with me tomorrow."

I avoid high school like it's my high school. I hate the banners, the noises, the ... kids. They all smell like evil.

"Why would I do that when there's so many other things I'd rather be doing, like, like - having my asscrack hair tweezed! That sounds like fun! Or, ooh, I know! I'll have someone come over and stick an egg beater up my-"

"I have five tardies. If you don't come, they'll...well, I didn't pay attention, but it can't be anything good."

"Why do you have five tardies?" I asked.

"Because when I miss the bus, you can't get it in gear and take me-"

"Stop. Think about what you're doing. You're already in shit. Do you want to compound that shit?"

He sighed. "Because I keep missing the bus."

"Exactly. If I have to go, you will sit and keep your mouth shut."


"No. You will not say a word. If you do, I'll take my shirt off and try to climb into the counselor's lap. Capiche?"

"Man. I wish you were stupid."

We arrived early this morning, before any of the other inconvenienced parents. I side-stepped a few of those nasty cheerleader-type girls, sat down in the office and pulled out my hand sanitizer.

"What are you doing?" Devon asked.

"Evil," I mumbled.

He looked nervous.

A boy went flitting by me. His hair was painted red and white and he had pom-poms hanging out of his pockets. I looked at Devon. "SPED?" I asked.

"Spirit week."

I grunted.

"Glenda!" Someone squawked.

The lady in question picked up her walkie-talkie and pressed the button. "Yes, Mr. Cash?"

"I'm with some of these kids from ALC. I'll be a few more minutes."

"Ok. You have parents waiting." She put the walkie-talkie down.

"Oh, Glenda?"

She looked up at me. "Yes, Mrs. McKnob?"

"You forgot to say 'over and out'. Or 'breaker nine'. Or 'Come in, Big Daddy, this is Hairnet Hunny, come on, won'tcha, Big Daddy-"

"Mom!" Devon hissed.

I turned to him. What? I'm bored!

"Mr. Cash'll be here in a second. You can't miss him. He looks like a really pissed off goblin," he muttered.

"Can I quote you on that?"

"Oh, sure. Anything's better than what I know you have planned."

I looked at him in horror. "You have absolutely no faith in me."

Mr. Cash arrived. Devon's description was spot on.

"Hello, Mrs. McKnob. Sorry to keep you waiting." He turned and beckoned for me to follow him.

As he turned the corner, I stopped. Devon turned back and looked at me. Oh, shit, his eyes said. It has begun.

"Um, Mr. Cash?"

He turned, puzzled. "Yes, Mrs. McKnob?"

"Is there an office down here we can use?" I gestured to my right.

"Um. Well, my office is right here." He indicated the doorway to his left.

"Yes, I see that, and I'm sure it's ... nice ...but, I can't go left."

"You can't go left? You can't go left?"

"Oh, God," my son whimpered.

"Right. Ha! Get it? Right. I can't go left," I confirmed.

"Oh. Ok. Well, new building and all. There is an empty office down there...first door on your right, incidentally." He scooted past me, cut his eyes at me as if I might bite, and made a beeline for the empty office.

"Splendid." I clapped my hands and followed him.

"Mr. Cash," Devon asked. "Can I wait in the foyer?"

"Uh, no, no, son. You need to be present."

Resigned, he followed me.

Once Devon was seated ("Switch places with me! You know I can't sit on the right!"), I crossed my legs in the chair, Indian style, held my palms up and began chanting.

"Fladbar, bless this office. Bless this counselor and our bodies and our beings. Let this meeting be conducive and free from anxiety. I tremble at your greatness." I opened my eyes and nodded at the dumbstruck counselor. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Cash."

"Umm, okay. Well, as you know, Devon isn't a discipline problem-"

"Mr. Cash? Can we not refer to him as Devon? I'd prefer we call him by the name I gave him on his Clambozian birth certificate."

Mr. Cash turned pink. "Oh? And what might that be?"

Devon was an alarming shade of purple. "Yeah, Mom, what might that be?"

"Oh, honey. You know that I don't like that name, and the only reason you use it is because that stupid judge said you had to at the trial." I pulled a tissue out of my purse and blotted my eyes. "But you will always be Rupert in my heart."

"Fine!" Mr. Cash squeaked. "Rupert! Great. Moving along. This should only take a minute. Ahh, he has ... five tardies, but this is the first time I've ever seen him, so no discipline issues. If he can just make more of an effort to be here on time. Does he ride the bus?"

"Oh, yes," I answered. "But he misses it sometimes." I wagged my eyebrows at him. "You know boys and their masturbation. Hour long showers, and all that."

Devon slid down in his seat. "Kill me. Just kill me."

"When he misses it, can you just bring him, Mrs. McKnob?"

"Mmmm? Oh, yes! No problem. But, it might take me awhile to get here. I can't turn left. Against my-"

"Fine. No problem. Devon - I mean, Rupert - just come see me if you're late again, sign here, off you go. Buy bye. Nice to meet you. Take care." He practically shoved us out the door and went scampering down the hall and out of the office.

Devon turned to me.

"Wow. Just, wow. Exceeded even my expectations." He watched Mr. Cash skipping down the hallway and then faced me. "Well, I was going to ask Leslie out, but I guess I can kiss that idea goodbye. I'll be dead by the end of the day."

I ruffled his hair. "Oh, hush. He's like a psychiatrist. Everything in that office is confidential unless he thinks you're being neglected or in mortal danger."

"I am. To both."

"Whatever. Don't miss the bus again."

"Can you just drag me behind the car until I'm dead?"

"Go on. Have a good day at school. Rupert."

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Living Vicariously

I received a letter from Virginia's school yesterday, alerting me that she was deemed INELIGIBLE (and they said it just like that, INELIGIBLE, as in, GO AHEAD AND PUT AN X-BOX CONTROLLER IN ONE HAND AND A DOOBY IN THE OTHER BECAUSE SHE'LL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA LOSER!) for the gifted classes that her 1st grade teacher referred her for.

I was stupefied. This is the same child who does algebra...the same one who nonchalantly explained mind over matter to me...the same kid who has already asked for a hysterectomy because she's seen what childbirth and rearing can do you to your skin and your psyche. "Besides," she told me, "I don't want a baby coming out of my vagina because it will hurt. I'll just adopt, like Angelina Jolie." Tell me that kid isn't genius.

I called to speak with the administrator of the program because things weren't adding up. When Virginia completed phase 1 of the testing in the spring, she scored a 99 on all of the sections. They gave her phase 2 of the assessment the day after school started (which, um, can you possibly throw some more pressure on her? New class, new teacher, new friends, and, hey! What does this flesh-eating-monster-blob inkblot do for ya, kid?) and she bombed, miserably, in every single section.

"Hi, Mrs. Truit. I'm Crystal McKnob, Virginia's mother."

"Hello, Mrs. McKnob. What can I do for you?"

I explained my dilemma to her as succinctly as possible.

"Yes, I see", she said. "Her results in the spring were very good."

"So, see? I want her to have this opportunity. She reads at a 5th grade level, so she gets bored with the schoolwork in the classroom and she talks a lot and she's always coming home with frowny faces and we want smiley faces but I can't be mad at her because she finishes her work so quickly and then, really, what's there to do but talk, so she-"

"Mrs. McKnob?"

"Sorry. She talks a lot because she needs more work, more challenge."

"She actually did very well on this last test, as well."

"Are we looking at the same piece of paper? Because if I'm interpreting this correctly, she's, like, one IQ point away from being a hammer."

"Well, no. There are different interpretations of these tests and this one is much different than the one she took in the spring, but all this tells me is that she's lacking in maturity a bit. She's, what? 7 years and 4 months? So, that's not unusual."

"Ok, break this down for me because I'm about ten seconds away from hiring a tutor and scheduling a CAT scan and making the whole family go vegetarian because what the hell, man?"

"It's okay. This test is not academic as much as it is situational, so there are no 'right' answers, per se. Points are given based on the creativity of the answer, among other things."

"Such as?"

"Well, as a for instance, one of the questions is, 'What do a knee and an elbow have in common?'. We give the children one point for saying they both bend, 2 points for saying they're both joints, and so on."

"What did Virginia say?"

"Umm, well...she said they can both be used with deadly force. And then she drew some karate stick figures."

"See! That's creative!"

"They were hitting what are very obviously men in their private parts."

"Did you know that Mississippi has no law saying a sex offender has to live away from a school or park? Do you know how many we have living in a five block radius?"

"Mrs. McKnob-"

"I will not let my daughter be defenseless. I'm not going to teach her salad forks versus dinner forks instead of how to change her oil. I believe the ability to do as many things for ones self is the key to a healthy self-esteem, a well-rounded conversationalist-"

"-think that's a bit aggressive?"

"No, I do not. Did you actually speak with Virginia, Mrs. Truit?"

"No, my assistant administered the test."

"Did she speak with her?"

"I ... I don't know. I'm sure in six months, when she's matured a bit, she'll fit into the Spotlight program quite nicely."

"Thank you, but, no, thank you. I'll help her develop her gifts on my time."

I went to the book store and bought several books with riddles, illusions, and trivia. I bought books with word problems and word games for the car. When I got home last night, I followed Virginia to her room and watched her eyes widen as I shut the door.

"Did I do something wrong, Mommy?"

"Nope. We're going to play some games. Every night, we'll play one game. And we'll play games in the car, too."

As she curled up in my lap and we began looking at riddles, she said, "Happiness is having your mom's boobs as a pillow." Then she giggled.

Lack of maturity, my ass.

Monday, September 10, 2007

HMOh Shit, It's That McKnob Woman Again

"Baby. Wake up. There's something wrong with my face."

"Crystal! Holy shit! You need to go to the ER. Now."

"I think it's just an allergic reaction. Cedar. Must have been cedar."

"Doctor, Crystal. Your eye ball is deformed. Not just your eye, your eye BALL. Ewww. Can I touch it?"

"No. I'll go tomorrow. I'm very sleepy. And my face hurts."

"Wait! Let me get the camera. This is a blog right here."

I have created a monster.

And here, for your amusement, is me after 15 hours and a massive prescription bill. And that crazy in my eyes? It's the answer to, "Don't move! Last one, I swear! Perfect lighting, you look so gross!"

I do look like shit, but, hey, one tends not to be concerned about eye liner when trees are trying to kill you.

Friday, September 07, 2007

The Ones We Don't Talk About

Of all the people I know, my friend, Tracie, is the complete package. She is disgustingly beautiful, smart, has one of those delightfully round bubble-butts and she's hysterical. I hate her immensely.

I called her a little while ago to arrange a meeting this evening to help her with a tax problem (I know. The blind leading the blind, eh?) and we talked for a minute.

Typically, everyone has that family member that is batshit crazy, but in Tracie's case, she takes these poor souls under her wing and does everything in her power to help them. When she finally realizes that they can only help themselves, she sits back in defeat and then washes her hands of them.

I cannot help myself.

"So," I asked. "How is your crazy Uncle Marty?"

She chuckled for a minute.

"Oh, wow," she answered. Then she began to laugh in earnest which always makes me laugh. In between peals of laughter and catching our breath she tells me what happened.

"Well, he still lives in that trailer, no electricity, no plumbing and drinking all day with that crazy wife. There's a house out that way that I clean, so I'm driving down the other day and I round the corner," she explains, "and all I can hear is that music from The Wizard of Oz when the Wicked Witch is on her broom-"

"Oh, hell," I gasp. "What?"

"There he is riding along on a bicycle with, with-" (more giggling) "a milk crate tied to the front."

I am not ashamed to admit that I lost my everloving shit right there.

"Picture it, Crystal. Tube socks all the way up to the knees, bad polyester shirt and that seventies hairdo with the wings flipped back-"


"I almost feel like I should start taking tours up there. You have to see it to believe it."

"My God, Tracie. That's a fantastic idea. We could pack up the AA meeting and take them out there-"

"-and say, 'Now, look, kids, this is what happens when you give your life to the drink'. I should just install a circular driveway right in front of their trailer."

"Ahh, he's a hoot."

"It's his wife that will really make you sick. You'll go out and here she comes, pants unzipped, hair all fucked up, sticking straight up in the back with grass and rocks stuck in it and she'll tell you, 'I just made me a whole buncha money!'. And all you can do is say, 'Well, gee, I guess I don't have to ask how. That fat guy pulling away? Yeah, he's waving, you might ought to wave back'."

"I think y'all should apply for Family Feud."

"Super. We can all ride to California in the milk crate."

Bill of No Rights

I don't enter the political arena and I never talk about current events or movie stars or any of that shit.

But this makes me so mad I want to throw things.

I have been accused, on this blog, of being a racist, but can you see what I'm talking about when I say that Memphis is like an entirely different planet and that the racism in this city is wholly reversed? Nowhere else in the country would this shit fly and stick. It's utterly ridiculous and all this does is open the door for every asshole with a sore vagina to whine about their work environment and get someone fired for doing nothing more than their job.

If this situation involved the firing of black men, the good Reverend Jesse Jackson would be up the city's ass before you could say, "reparations", and, for once, HE WOULD BE RIGHT TO DO SO.

Where are these guys cheerleaders? Where is Reverend Chip Cleaver?

And on that note, I present to you the Bill of No Rights by Lewis Napper and ask that you add to it in comments, if you want to. I have to go hit something.

Chris? Can you come home? Devon hits back.


ARTICLE I -- You do not have the right to a new car, big screen TV or any form of wealth.
More power to you if you can legally acquire them, but no one is guaranteeing anything.

ARTICLE II -- You do not have the right to never be offended.
This country is based on freedom, and that means the freedom for everyone, not just you! You may leave the room, turn the channel, express a different opinion, etc., but the world is full of idiots and probably always will be.

ARTICLE III -- You do not have the right to be free from harm.
If you stick a screwdriver in your eye, learn to be more careful. Do not expect the tool manufacturer to make you and all your relatives independently wealthy.

ARTICLE IV -- You do not have the right to free food and housing.
Americans are the most charitable people to be found, and will gladly help anyone in need but we are quickly growing weary of subsidizing generations of professional couch potatoes who achieve nothing more than the creation of another generation of professional couch potatoes.

ARTICLE V -- You do not have the right to free health care.
That would be nice but, from the looks of public housing, we're just not interested in government run health care.

ARTICLE VI -- You do not have the right to physically harm other people.
If you kidnap, rape, intentionally maim or kill someone, don't be surprised if the rest of us want to see you fry in the electric chair.

ARTICLE VII -- You do not have the right to the possessions of others.
If you rob, cheat or coerce away the goods or services of other citizens, don't be surprised if the rest of us get together and lock you away in a place where you still won't have the right to a big screen TV or a life of leisure.

ARTICLE VIII -- You don't have the right to demand that our children risk their lives in foreign wars to soothe your aching conscience. We hate oppressive governments and won't lift a finger to stop you from going to fight, if you'd like. However, we do not enjoy parenting the entire world and do not want to spend so much of our time battling each and every little tyrant with a military uniform and a funny hat.

ARTICLE IX -- You don't have the right to a job.
All of us sure want all of you to have one, and will gladly help you in hard times, but we expect you to take advantage of the opportunities of education and vocational training laid before you to make yourself useful.

ARTICLE X -- You do not have the right to happiness.
Being an American means that you have the right to pursue happiness -- which by the way, is a lot easier if you are unencumbered by an over abundance of idiotic laws created by those of you who were confused by the Bill of Rights.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Forget the Pink Pony...

I want one of these.

Meet Aye Aye.

EDIT: It really is called an Aye Aye. Apparently, though, they only look like this when they're babies. Which makes me want one even more. I will pet it and feed it and call it George.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007


I write about the funny things that happen in my family or my life, but I don't tell you much about the things that most would consider mundane.

The family and I went to the mall yesterday just to kill some time and walk around. On the way there, I noticed that Devon's shoes were looking stretched and ragged.

"Devon, you need new shoes. We'll get some at the mall."

I don't mention to the kids that I have $32 in the bank to last me until I get paid again or that they'll have to go on the credit card, because, hey! I have $32! Some people have nothing. No home, no full belly, nothing. I am grateful and kids shouldn't have to worry about shoes.

Since it was buy one, get one half-off, I surveyed the room and fell madly in love with a pair of New Balance sandal thingys. Then I remembered that Chris' work shoes were sporting a sun roof in the top of one and I put them back down while he hunted for a new pair.

Now, this isn't a sacrifice and I'm not saying it is. It is a privilege to give for my kids. It is an honor to be able to do things for my husband. I have healthy, happy kids, a gentle, adoring husband and I'm so lucky that most people want to puke. I just wonder sometimes if they ever really notice the things I do so that they can have what they want and need.

Last night, after we got home, I started bitching about the garbage needing to be taken out and the dishes in the sink and nag, nag, nag and that's really my way of saying, "Ok, I'll be all big about giving up stuff, but you're going to pay for it by listening to me bitch and moan in a passive-aggressive display of weenie-ness."

And then, when I took a breath to start a new tirade, my kids and husband shyly presented me with this. I fell in love with her the last time we went to the mall and yesterday they made a big production out of keeping me occupied so that Chris could sneak away and buy it for me. When, on the way out of the mall, I stopped by to admire her again, the sales lady managed to keep a straight face and not give me the slightest hint that my husband had just been there moments before.

My parents used to buy Swarovski animals for me, one every holiday, and when their storage unit was broken into during a horrible time in our lives when they were jobless and in limbo, all my beautiful creatures were stolen. These pieces represented a happier time in my life, a carefree time, one full of innocence and whimsy. Last month, when my family saw me looking at Pinky through the glass, they were able to see me as I was when I was a child and the sheer delight on my face impacted them.

They remembered. They cared. They noticed. And I don't deserve such love.


In other news, I was in a local magazine today. I went to the library and stole all their copies (it's a free publication) and when the elderly librarian starting crowing at me as I hurried out the door, I turned and blurted, "Back off, old woman! I am not afraid to push that walker out from underneath you!"

I am so ashamed.

In Need Of A Good Therapist

When I was a bartender, I met interesting characters. Occasionally, I would fraternize outside the setting of the bar until I realized that all these people? They're completely unhinged and I would do well to never forget that.

One such couple, Mike & Lorraine, used to invite me and my then boyfriend to play darts with them. Mike & Lorraine were a seemingly normal, handsome couple. They made me laugh and I don't need an excuse to throw pointy shit while imbibing adult beverages so I cheerfully accepted.

Two hours into the night at their house, Lorraine had Mike in a head-lock and was poking him in the forehead with a dart while screaming, "How good looking is she, Mike? Huh? How well does she market that beer on that commercial?!"

We realized that this was an absurdly abusive relationship (Mike was 6 feet, 2 inches and well built. Lorraine sued the city for building the sidewalks too close to her ass) and that Lorraine had a bit of a problem with jealousy. She scared the shit out of us, so when they invited us for a second outing, we grudgingly accepted because I didn't want her to beat me up.

After this particular outing, we were on our way back to the bar so that I could pick up my vehicle when Mike announced that he had to pee. Lorraine was driving, so she pulled into a deserted parking lot and we idled while a somewhat drunken Mike stepped outside the truck. As he was coaxing his penis to come out so he could pee ("S'cold out here!"), Lorraine picked up his cell phone and started going through his calls and messages. My boyfriend and I looked at each other and cringed because anything could set her off. My boyfriend held up his hand, five fingers splayed, and slowly began the countdown.

Five, four, three, two, one-

"Mike, who the hell is Ashley?"

Mike was still talking to his penis, which wasn't cooperating, and he turned to look back over his shoulder, confused. "Huh?"

"Ashley! It's right here in your phone! Who the hell is Ashley?"

Mike had just enough liquid courage in him to make a huge mistake. "Oh, right, Ashley. She's my other girlfriend, Lorraine. Yeah, I screw her when you're not with me which would be in the bathroom at our house when you think I'm taking a shit because that's the only damned time-"

Lorraine was rounding the front of the truck before Mike realized she was no longer in the car. He saw the demonic expression on her face, hideously distorted by the headlights of the truck, and he did the only thing he knew to do. He ran.

As he did this high-stepping, bowlegged gait across the parking lot, he held tightly to his penis, which ironically, was the very thing that was going to ensure he got caught. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw her advancing and he shrieked like a girl before attempting to move faster.

It was at this time that the combination of fear and physical activity worked against him and his bladder finally let go. Hot urine shot out in an arc and Mike decided two things:

1. He couldn't stop running

2. He didn't want to combine the humiliation of running from a girl by pissing on himself

He wrenched his penis to the right and the stream followed. He was still managing to stay out of arms reach of Lorraine, but she was gaining. He tried to reason with her.

"Lorraine! I was kidding! Stop this! I have new shoes on!"

"Stop running! Take it like a man!" she screamed back.

I remember being somewhat impressed with the neverending stream of pee.

As we watched in morbid fascination, she caught his arm, turned him around and punched him in the face. A look of disbelief and shock replaced her maniacal expression, when, with a bloody smile, Mike readjusted his penis and finished what he'd started all over the front of Lorraine.

They broke up.

Monday, October 29, 2007


Halloween wears me out. It used to be so simple. Now you have to worry about your kid inadvertently taking ecstasy, acid (dude! someone get me a tootsie roll, STAT!), heroin, eating bodily fluids, getting candy from some guy who looks normal from the waist up but has a skirt and butt-plug on behind the door or offending some politically correct, self-proclaimed "vampire" because your daughter is dressed as a bat.

But try telling that to a seven-year-old. Nothing sends her head all a' whirl like the thought of getting something she's not allowed to have at home and getting it from complete strangers. Holy shit, if they'll give you candy, what else might they slip in there for you? A pair of scissors to run with? How about that creepy ass, over-priced pony that you haven't shut up about since last year? A real tube of lipstick? COFFEE?! The possibilities are endless!

This year, we had a church function on Sunday complete with a hay ride. Virginia was amiable enough about it, but she demanded to know if this was in lieu of Halloween on Wednesday, because if so, she was holding her breath until I came to my senses.

"Virginia, go get dressed," I demanded.

"Can I wear my costume?" she asked.

"No, it's too cold."

"I won't get cold! I promise! I want to wear it! Please? Please?!"

Normally this kind of tactic is met with an icy mom-stare followed by the disappearance of my lips and the threat of bodily harm (my favorite being that I will pull her head off and throw it at her if she doesn't move her skinny little ass. Very effective), but I was feeling jovial.

"No, Virginia. Besides, you don't even have your boots for the costume, yet."

She glared at me indignantly, put her hands on her hips and snapped back, "Well! I do not need boobs to wear a Halloween costume, Mom!"

I stupidly blinked, thought about correcting her and then gave up. "Can't argue with that. Go get dressed."

Meh. You choose your battles.

Thursday, October 25, 2007


This is the sound Virginia makes when you wake her up in the morning.


Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Party Time

If you've been following along, you know that while my daughter, Virginia, is extremely bright, she has the attention span of a twinkie and the energy of a meth addict.

Today, she came bursting through the door, full of joy.

"Whooo hooo! Par-tayyy! Whoo!"

I was having a deep and disturbing conversation with her brother about why it is so not okay to use his cell phone to fish his watch out of the toilet and honestly didn't give her much of my attention.

She tried again.

"Whooo! Party! At school!"

I turned from my debate.

"I'm sorry, Virginia. I heard you, baby."

"Yeah! And we get to bring all sorts of cool stuff like-" she pulled the note from her book bag - "beef jerky!"

"No one loves beef jerky more than you," I absentmindedly told her while I dismantled the cell phone. It emitted one feeble beep and then died. Shit.

"And...and! Batteries!" she continued.

"Mmmm," I nodded.

"Hand Sanitizer! And Q-Tips!" Her eyes bugged from her head in her feverish excitement. "Coffee!" She fell over and began writhing on the floor in ecstasy when what she had been saying really sunk in with me.

"Umm, Mom?" Devon asked. I numbly looked at him. "What the hell kind of party are 2nd graders having these days? And how can I get an invite?"

"Virginia, give me that paper," I commanded.

She dutifully handed it over.

Dear Parents,

On October 24th, we will be sending the first of our care packages to the troops. Items we still need are...

Party on, Virginia.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Customer Feedback

I'm not really sure how it happens, but there is a tractor beam around me that attracts lunatics. I'm not complaining, because it provides blog fodder, I just don't understand it.

Thursday, I went to Wal-Mart again. I just can't seem to get enough of incompetence, poor personal hygiene and kids ramming into the back of my ankles with runaway shopping carts.

In actuality, everyone in our house has been sick for the past 2 weeks. After we all exhausted our life-sustaining supply of twelve pounds of snot each, we realized we were down to package of crackers and something in the vegetable drawer that was probably never a vegetable.

When I found the kids cutting that up into quarters and trying to entice the dog to take the first bite, I knew I had to venture out.

As I was standing in the dairy aisle, blearily studying the ingredients in yogurt ("Aids Digestion!" it says. Which, translated in my world, means, "Keep Your Husband from Blowing Atomic Farts All Night! No More Hives For You!") and sniffling, I heard a man start bellowing behind me.

"Hellooooooo? Is anybody in there?"

At first, I thought for sure I was having an acid flashback. I wished for something other than Pink Floyd. Maybe some Bach. I sniffled again and decided to buy cheese and yogurt to decrease the odds of having my skin melted from my bones.

"Hellllllooooooo? HELLLLOOOO?"

Shit. I couldn't deny it. I turned to see a disheveled, elderly man with his head stuck in the milk cooler, hollering like a cow giving birth.

I said cow. Heh.

Anyway, I was only mildly entertained. Nothing really shocks me in Wal-Mart any more.

As he continued to bleat and demand attention, most of the shoppers stopped to watch. I snuck up close to get a better view and so I could hear everything. As he turned his head to and fro inside the cooler, peering into the darkness, I stealthily moved to the Hillshire Farms Christmas Display behind him and pretended to look it over. Because, you know, when it comes to whack-a-doo people just running hither and thither in a store like WM, you can never be too careful. I hope to go out with nobility, face-down in my soup, not having been beaten to death with a smoked sausage roll.

Finally, he got an answer. "Can I help you?" It was a disembodied voice from the darkness and it gave me the willies. I've always thought the milk cooler was creepy. They can see you. You can't see them. I don't think that's natural.

"Yes!" the man screamed. "Your milk is bad! Bad! Spoiled!"

I considered telling him to stop buying it everything it wanted and make it work for things, then thought better of it. Smoked sausage rolls hurt.

"Umm, okay, sir. Which milk?" the voice in the darkness asked.

The old man looked down, snatched a carton off the bottom shelf and attempted to shove it through the back of the cooler.

"This one! Organic soy something! Very wrong! Something very wrong with it!"

"Your kind of milk," I muttered.

He whipped his head around and stabbed me with his crazy eyes. "Heh? Whadju say?"

"I farted," I squeaked, backing away. "Too much Robitussin."

"Well, I don't think sausage is going to remedy your problem, now is it, missy? You should buy yogurt." He then turned and went back to his assault on the milk cooler. "Milk! Organic! Soy! Spoiled!"

"Ok, sir, I'll try to help you. When did you buy it?" voice asked.

"I was gonna eat it with muh' fiber! I eat fiber on Tuesday!" old man barked.

"Sir, did you bring the spoiled milk with you?"

"Well, no I didn't bring it with me! I sent it off to the guv'ment! They should know you're selling spoiled milk!"

"The government. Ok. And you made that purchase at this Wal-Mart?" voice patiently continued.

"What a stupid question," I said under my breath.

The old man looked in serious danger of having a coronary. His eyes bugged and his vein throbbed and he screamed, "Well, hell, no, I didn't buy it here! I don't live here! I live with my daughter and my duck in Walls, Miss'ippi!"

"Oh," I said.

"Uh huh," voice said.

"Bad milk! Stop selling bad milk!" The old man jabbed the carton at the voice again and then shakily returned it to the bottom shelf.

As he did, a tired woman looking partly bemused and thoroughly embarrassed approached the old man.

"Daddy!" she hollered. "Daddy! Leave that man alone! There was nothing wrong with that milk, you just don't like soy!"

"Heh? What the hell did you do with my duck?" he asked her.

As she took him by the arm to lead him away, she made eye contact with me. I saluted her with a sausage. She smiled and gently guided him toward the front of the store.

I was going to follow her and ask her what she did do with the duck when a voice said from behind me, "Ma'am? Can you shut the door, please? It's getting warm in here." I screamed and ran to the hardware department.

I never said I was brave. Just nosy.

EDIT: I just received this in an email. All I can say is, "MOO". (Thanks to Downie Talbot for this for the heads up)

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

NO. Well, okay, yes.

There is a book that has been sitting on my end table for a couple of months. It is called Scream Free Parenting by Hal Edward Runkel and it was sent to me, free of charge, by a lovely man named Austin Bonds. He only asked that in exchange for the book, I review it.

It sat there and taunted me. I screamed at my son and threw the book at his head and thought, "Hmm. I should really read that." It wasn't that I didn't want to. I just have no time.

My problem is that I cannot say no. To anything. No matter how little time I have.

As such, there is a case of Purely Cotton toilet paper and facial tissue sitting in my living room and today, I received a box of concentrated coffee (I'll let you know how that works out when I'm wired for sound). I suck at reviews.

The toilet paper? Awesome. I have given it out to friends and family for the sole purpose of being able to ask, "So. Chafe your ass at all?" The answer is no. The facial tissue? The jury is still out. Harmony hates it, but then she hates anything that hovers in the vicinity of her face with the purpose of cleaning it. She loves boogers and dried corn and cereal bits, so leave her alone, thankyouverymuch.

Chris uses it and shrugs, but we're saving the trees! I scream. So, he shrugs a bit more enthusiastically. Add that to the fact that it's a small business and Native Indian owned and I would buy it if it were in the grocery stores.

I fret for these folks and I know that they're struggling to get their business or book or product out there, so I cannot say no. And then sometimes I'm just plain stupid. As a for instance, I recently gave away a piece of my sidebar for advertising. The owner actually wanted to pay me and I was all, "Umm, price? What? Is free okay?" Chris had an aneurysm and now I have to run all advertising questions through him because he knows sooo much more about it than I do. Seeing how he's been in advertising for never, not at all, not once. Much longer than I have.

I don't know what I'm doing here, but I do know my weaknesses.

When I first met Chris, we had this conversation:

"I have 2 children. I'm done. DEE-OH-ENN-EE. Done. Don't ask, don't pressure me, because hell will freeze over before I have another baby."

You can see the result of my stoic resolve right here.

En route to Vegas? This conversation:

"Ok, Chris. When we go to this timeshare thing, don't let me say a word. I'll be submissive and quiet and mousy. You do all the talking."

"Ok, babe."

"We do not need a timeshare. WE DO NOT NEED A TIMESHARE. Don't you dare sign anything and WE DON'T NEED A TIMESHARE."

In all fairness, Don, the salesman, was very nice.

"But, think about the vacations you'll be giving your kids," he said.

I started twitching. "Gah! Chris, you need a napkin!" I squeaked before I ran to the snacks table and stood, chewing my knuckles and watching Don talk to Chris.

When I returned, it was time to go look at the timeshare. I saw all the kids playing in the pool, frolicking in the sand, the hot tub, the appliances and OH MY FUCKING GOD I BOUGHT A TIMESHARE.

The picture they took of us to put on the owner card is classic. I look like someone just stuck an oar up my ass.

In my typical, passive aggressive manner, I called twenty minutes after leaving the resort.

"I don't want it. Cancel it," I stammered.

"Well, you have to send in the form, but you just bought it...why in the world-"

So, I said the first thing that came to my mind.

"My husband and I are getting a divorce! Cancel it!" I shrieked.

"Over this?" the operator asked.

"Yes! No! Stripper! Mai Tais! I have to go!"

I hung up the phone, avoided the phone calls from the sales manager and sent in the revocation form, via priority mail.

Later that same evening, we saw a t-shirt for sale that said, "No, I Do Not Want Your Damned Time Share", and we giggled about that. A little. Sorry, Don and Jim. I am a wiener and I'm okay with that.

As it turns out, I took the book (Scream Free Parenting) with me on my trip to Vegas, and it is incredible. The concept is a fairly simple one: how can we raise children that are expected to act mature and calm and rational when we're screaming like freaking lunatics and hitting the bottle every night acting very inappropriate ourselves. I have honestly put some of the exercises to use and Dusty isn't slinking around the house, shivering and falling over every ten minutes. Good sign, y'all.

Now, this is not an invitation for people to come out of the woodwork and start asking me to do stuff for them. Don't even think about it. (*Unless you are with Smirnoff. Or Swarovski. Or Ferrarri. Or really anyone else because I refuse to hurt your feelings).



A big, fat thank you to everyone who assured I was in the top three of the Bloggers Choice Awards for humor. That means a lot to me and I haven't forgotten the fabulous panda someone will get. I'll send it anyway, but I don't think I'm going to win because there's Mr. Fabulous and some guy called the Sneeze who flew the fuck in from NOWHERE, y'all, and is stomping our asses. Doesn't matter. I'm content with wherever I land. That goes for the Weblog awards, too (and someone graciously pointed out that right now, there are just nominations, not votes, yet, so really that one hasn't even started).

Shit. I missed you guys. Where have you been?

Tuesday, October 16, 2007


This is Crystal's mom. Has anyone heard from her?

The last time I talked to her, the connection was really bad but she was at some bunny ranch (those bunnies have to be hard to ranch. I mean, how do you herd them? You'd start with 12 bunnies and end up at the end of the week with 8,372. Imagine the poop! Gracious!) and said something about getting a divorce, Vegas style.

What does that even MEAN?

I called the credit card company and her last purchase was a shovel and she rented a 4-Wheel drive vehicle.

I'm very confused.

Friday, October 12, 2007

The Welcome Wagon

We arrived in Las Vegas and hailed a cab, full of energy and excited about our weekend away together. When the driver got out, I greeted him.

"Hey! How are you?"

He glared at me.

"Terrible. Small bags first."

His voice was the product of years of filterless cigarettes and screaming at the dog to shut the hell up, he's watching the Soprano's, for chrissakes.

I glanced at Chris. He shrugged.

Once in the car, I told him the name of our hotel.

"That means nothing to me. Do you have an address?"

"Umm, no. I'm sorry. I just figured-" I stammered.

He whipped out his cell phone and called Carla. Carla had no idea where our hotel was.

"I tell you what I'm gonna do," he said. "I'm gonna pull over here, you go in and find out where this hotel is. I'll wait here."

After encountering massive resistance, shitty attitudes, repetitive sneers and the bellboy who suspiciously eyeballed me while I blinked back tears of exhaustion and perused the phonebook, I already wanted to go home. I was pissed. I finally found the address of our hotel and went back outside to our driver. Chris had stayed outside and bonded with him and he was a new man.

"Oh!" He exclaimed. "Only been open about a year. Didn't recognize it."

En route, I seethed. Chris, ever the optimist, attempted conversation.

"So, if you had two days to spend in Vegas, what's the first thing you would do?" Chris asked the driver.

"Get rid of my fucking wife," he growled. And then he giggled like a Japanese schoolgirl.

The weekend is looking up.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Shock Therapy

The 2007 Weblog Awards

Much to my dismay, we had to find Daisy the Brain Tumor a new home.

After she killed the fence, Chris and I discussed our options. We had such hopes for her as she was sired by one of the best tracking dogs in the country, but to work with them takes a great deal of time, something we're very short on. I had hoped to work with her and have her find Jon Benet's killer and Brit Brit's common sense, but it was not to be.

We made a dozen phone calls each and finally agreed to give her to a guy with a farm and another dog. He was so eager to pick her up that he drove out that very evening. He met her and hugged her and enthusiastically told us how many years he'd wanted a bloodhound.

"I just never had the money," he explained.

I empathized. Daisy was Chris' wedding gift and she set me back over $700. We gave her away, only because finding her a good home was more important than the money.

At least that's what I told myself when he pried the AKC papers from my vice grip.

As corny as it seemed, I brought Dusty the Wonder Sausage out to "say" goodbye. They nuzzled each other and howled and then sat and solemnly made eye contact while the truck drove away with Daisy in the back.

"Oh, wow, Chris. They know what's happening."

"Oh, bullshit. They're dogs."

"Look at them. They know. And Dusty looks positively crushed."

"Ugh. I feel like I'm stuck in Old Yeller. I'm going in."

Since Dusty was alone and I felt like I had just forcibly separated Bert & Ernie, we decided to make him an indoor dog again and let Virginia be his human. She was eager to begin his training. Chris was not so enthusiastic.

"Crystal, just find another home for him."

"Absolutely not. He's a wonderful dog, Virginia loves him and for shit's sake, he's Dusty. He's the Wonder Sausage. I can't just give him away."

"Ok. But you have to promise me something. If he's not housebroken in 2 weeks, he's gone. If he so much as sneers at Harmony-"

"-I will find another home for him myself," I finished.

The first night was uneventful. Virginia did a fantastic job of taking him out on a regular basis and getting up with him when he needed attention. He slept in his kennel and seemed depressed, but not problematic.

The second night, he could not decide if he wanted to sleep inside, outside, in the bed, kennel, on Virginia's head, HOLY SHIT, THE CHOICES.

She was quite the trooper about it, but finally, at 3 a.m., she put her face directly in mine and whispered, "Mommy?"

I sat bolt upright and screamed.

"Gaaaaah! Women and children first! Johnny Depp goes down with me!"

"Mommy, Dusty has ... sinonmeah."

"Insomnia. Give him an ambien. But don't let him near the knives."


"Ok, ok."

The next night, I was exhausted and asked Chris to get the electric fence out of the storage room. Our neighbors gave it to us before they moved and we just never had need for it. Chris puttered around outside while I did laundry and then he came in.

"I need Dusty."

Virginia distrustfully handed his leash over and took the doll socks off his paws. "What are you gonna do to him?"

"Teach him not to leave the yard so he can go outside by himself if he needs to."

I followed him outside. "This won't hurt him, will it?" I asked.

"Nope. The box says it's just mildly uncomfortable."

He put the collar on Dusty and took the leash off. Dusty immediately ran full-tilt-boogie across the yard and when he reached the perimeter, I literally saw a blue flash and the fat little shit did a complete back-flip. He righted himself and looked at me, twitching and shivering.

"Oh, my God. Mildly uncomfortable, my ass. Take that friggin' thing off of him, Dr. Frankenstein," I told Chris.

"What about-"

"I don't care. We'll teach him the hard way. I'm not going to torture him just to get a little more sleep."

"Crystal, it's not that bad, you just-"

"I'm sorry? Did you just see that miracle of physics go all Mary Lou Retton on us? That cannot be natural."

That night, the barking began. I don't know if you've ever heard a Bassett bark, but it's less like a bark and more like a BAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. It is impossible to ignore or sleep through.

The following morning, Chris dug the bark collar (also courtesy of our old neighbor) out of the storage room.

"Let me see," I asked him. I turned it on and jiggled the plastic sensor. There was a short beep and I received a shock not unlike sticking your tongue to a 9-volt battery. "Now, that is mild. We'll see how it works."

We placed the collar on him and he froze. After a minute, he tentatively took a step out of the kitchen and looked back at me, all, If this shocks me like that thing did last night, I'm shitting in your mouth while you're sleeping.

When he seemed to realize that this was not a collar that restricted his movement, he stuck his tail up in the air, held his head high and jauntily headed for the hallway. It was about this time that the tags on his collar made a jingling sound, the collar emitted it's beep and Dusty went ballistic.

Quiet was not an option.

As the family and I watched in horror, he did a Scooby Doo on the wood floors and ran in place, eyes bugging out of his head until he finally got traction. He rocketed down the hallway and slid into the far wall with a dull clunk. It was a vicious cycle. He would bark, the collar would shock, he would run into another wall and bark again. Rinse, lather, repeat.

As I chased him from corner to corner, he scrambled to get away from me.

"Chris! Help me before he gives himself brain damage!"

When we finally had him calmed down long enough to remove the offending collar, I held it in my hand and Chris and I watched him warily make his way to his kennel. En route, he stopped, sat up on his rump and fell over backwards, paws paddling the air. Completely aware, he stopped paddling, stood up, turned in three complete circles and then sneezed. After completing this bizarre ritual, he danced from paw to paw, shook his head and scampered into the cozy darkness, sideways.

I was stunned. "Well, that was interesting."

"I told you. We should have just found another home for the damned dog."

I glared at him and held the collar out. "Here, put this on and keep talking."

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Thank You ...

Laura B! I am up against quite a few extremely popular political blogs but the thought alone reminds me why I keep posting even when Harmony is hanging by my hair and Virginia is at me feet, barking and asking me to "give Fluffy a cookie".

The 2007 Weblog Awards

EDIT. I said at "me" feet. Arrrrrgh, Matey.

EDIT #2: Kevin, who runs the Weblog Awards (Hi, Kevin!) emailed me and said, "Hey, dumbass, you might want to link people to the categories you're actually nominated in. Numb nuts."

I swear that's what he said.

I'm here and here. Thank you, again.

Monday, October 08, 2007

Giving Thanks and O'Possum Stew

See that? Up there?
That, my friends, is an omen.
I didn't want to leave my house on Wednesday.
"Chris. I'm going back to bed. There's a dead 'possum in my garden."
"What the hell does that have to with the price of rice in China?"
"It means something. My ancestors knew it. If an Indian looked out and there was bird shit in a splatter pattern 72 degrees North of their home, they wouldn't leave that teepee for a month. They'd sit around and smoke broccoli and chant and it worked. They knew."
"You're making that up."
"Am not. Fact. My grandma told me."
"Your grandma has a serious love of the hooch and a stuffed beaver on her mantel she calls Flubby."
"Exactly. Wise woman."
After much cajoling and a call to my grandma (I don't think she really paid attention to what I was saying because she just kept telling me to throw some taters in a pot and cook that sumbitch up), I reluctantly left the house.
An hour later, I received a text message from my son. He was breaking out in giant hives all over his body. I left work and started for his school, detouring by Target to quickly pick up a prescription I had been waiting over a week for.
"Hi," I greeted the girl at the counter. "You have a prescription for McKnob. It should be generic this time. Last time you tried to give me golden capsules with Leprechaun jizz in them. Expensive."
The technician found my bag and scanned it.
"Um, Mrs. McKnob? I can't release the prescription to you. The computer says you're pregnant."
"Wow. That's impressive. I didn't even pee on a stick. Ooh! Can you give me some lottery numbers? Guess my weight!"
"I'm sorry."
After having a long, heated discussion with the pharmacist ("Oh my GOSH. It's non-narcotic! No club-footed, crackhead babies, even if I were pregnant!"), I got my bag and drove to pick up Devon. While he was buckling in and scratching, my phone rang.
"Crystal?" It was my baby sitter. "Harmony has a fever and this huge blister on her tongue."
"Oh, great. I told her not to trust anyone named Carlos, even if he's potty trained. He just wants you for your fat rolls, I warned her."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm trying to maintain my sanity. I'll be by in a minute."
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in the elementary school office.
"Just put your reason for check out next to Virginia's name," the office aide told me.
When we arrived home, I carefully skirted around the 'possum that Chris had not disposed of (I draw the line at things that remind me of my ex-boyfriends mother) and hoped for a peaceful evening.
"You have mail. From the IRS." Chris handed me an envelope.
My face started twitching.
Later that night, I called Devon out of his room and asked him to go get the groceries I had forgotten in the trunk. He sullenly pulled himself away from his XBox game and complied. When he carelessly tossed the boxes down on the counter and stomped to his room, I snapped.
I threw his door open. "What is your problem?"
He gave me a dirty look and one of his hormones leapt from under the bed and ate my face off. After I subdued it, I confronted him again.
"You are unappreciative. I give-" I stopped and sniffed the air. Hm. Chris must be polluting the bathroom and lighting matches. "-you guys everything and I get nothing but-"
"Babe?" Chris called from the living room.
I ignored him and continued.
"-I never take time out for myself and-"
"Babe?" Chris called more urgently.
"-I'm always working on things for the family so you could be-"
I stormed out of the bedroom. "What? What? WHAT?"
"The kitchen's on fire."
I grabbed the boxes from the oven top (Devon throwing them down hit the knob just right and caused the eye to heat up) and ran outside. I opened the grill and placed the boxes inside as it hadn't rained in weeks and I didn't want the lawn to catch on fire. As I was poking the remnants of my hard earned money, Virginia spoke up behind me.
"Mommy? Why are you barbecuing the cinnamon rolls?"
"Old ancestral recipe," I wearily answered. "Now, hand me that 'possum."


I am alive and will be posting today (and, holy hell, what a week it's been), but I just got this email and this is more important.

She's a friend of mine and her son is coming home (yay!), so she's legit, please let me know if you'd like to help and I will make the arrangements.

Dear Friends,
I received and email from one of the wives in the FRG (family rediness group) at Ft. Riley. There are 93 troopers that will coming in with my son that are single men that live in the barracks. When these guys come in, it will be a while before they have access to their personal belongings.

The army has forbidden the FRG to ask for donations to help get these soldiers returning from Iraq set up.

At the present time there are 93 guys, that will need sheets, blankets and pillows. The sheets need to be twin size.

I know money is tight for everyone, so if you have extra sets at home and would like to donate, I will ship them to Angela Bender at Ft. Riley. If you could do a gift card for Wal-mart that would be most helpful as well. If you know a company or an organization that would be willing to help please let me know.

We have been given the window of October 16-19th for their return, THANK GOD. I need to get on this ASAP.

These gentlemen deserve to come home to a prepared bed rather than an unmade mattress.

Anything anyone can do will be most appreciated.

Many, Many Thanks,



I just got this, as well:

I just spoke with my contact Angela Bender. She gave the troop treasurer's address. She also stated that she has called Wal-Mart and they are very limited as to how much merchandise they have. I don't know if your readers will be sending money or gift cards or what. Angela was so very grateful and wanted to make sure the money was used for the intent for which it is being sent. If they are sending a gift card, then probably a Visa gift card would be better, as she can go anywhere and get the items needed.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart, which is just full of gratitude. Thank you for supporting my son and all of our Troopers.

Proud Army Mom.
The address is:

Michele Stroh
3134 Hosmer Court #1
Ft. Riley, KS 66442

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

And Another Damned Thing...

When in line with five other really tired, hungry people behind you, that is SO not the time to teach your kids economics.

All I wanted was my pizza.

The lady in front of me wanted to assure that her kids get that extra fiddy cents an hour when landing a job, all because they can count.

She ordered her pizza and I sighed in relief. It took her five minutes to decide on the type of crust. There have been the same three types since the 1960's, but, please, take your time.

"Oh, my daughter wants a slushee." She gazed down at the youngest. "Go ahead, Megan."


Shit shit shit.

"I want a slushee. A pink one," Megan declared. The elderly cashier looked positively orgasmic with delight. Well, roll me in sugar and call me cookie, isn't that fucking precious.

"That will be ONE DOLLAR, AND EIGHTEEN CENTS!" the cashier hollered. Because we all know that if you don't understand the math? Holler. No speaka dee English? Holler. If Crystal has a migraine? Holler.

"Ok." Megan whipped out her Hello Kitty coin purse and with her tongue poking out, methodically began counting out pennies.

Sweet bleeding Abraham, someone fucking gut me and cover me in bleach. It will be less painful.

"And eighteen cents!" Megan declared after what seemed like an hour. The entire line behind her breathed a collective sigh of relief.

As I inched forward, using that "breathe down your neck so you'll move faster" mentality, the mother spoke.

"Now, your turn, April."

Oh, HELL TO THE NO. Somebody better get that little bitch a tissue cos' she's about to be upset when I tell her the slushie machine is OUT OF MUH'FUCKIN ORDER.

I intervened. "Ma'am, no offense, but could the rest of us order and pay? And then little Argyle-"


"Whatever, she can count out pennies till the cows come home."

"We were here first."

I was stumped.

The cashier still had the dopey, beatific smile on. "ONE DOLLAR AND EIGHTEEN-!"

"We can all hear you, gramma. Me, them, the next county over. No need to shout," the Hispanic man behind me said. I fell a little in love with him.

"Oh, well, just so cute, learning to count-"

"Darling. Super. Moving right along. April? Shall we?" I flapped my hand at her. She turned and began the painstakingly slow task of counting more pennies.

I turned to the Hispanic man. "What the hell with twelve dollars in pennies? Did they lose all their dollars at the strip joint?" He was impassive. Meh, wouldn't have worked out, anyway. He was shorter than me.

"There!" April cried triumphantly.

"Yes! Awesome! Good job, April! High five! Here's a dollar for next time!" I crowed.

"Don't take the dollar, April. Go on. Go over there with Daddy and tell Kimberley to come here."

Kimberley? What?

As we all stood dumbstruck, all of us, an older girl came over.

"Kim, order and pay for your slushee," Mom said.

The cashier beamed. "Yes, that's-"

"One eighteen, Kim. Time's a wastin'," I said.

We all had faith in Kim. She must have been at least ten. Old enough to have dollar bills, surely. Right?

As Kim opened her wallet, we all held our breath. The group leaned forward for a better view of her coin pocket and there were cheers and hugs all around when she pulled out a crumpled one dollar bill.

She laid this on the counter and then looked at the coins uncertainly.

"Eighteen cents," I offered helpfully. The mom shot me a nasty glare.

Kim pulled out two dimes. Yes!

"No, honey, that's twenty. You need eighteen," Mom said.

I almost had an aneurysm. "She'll get two pennies back! She can pass them on to the younger ones! They love pennies!" I sputtered.

"I'm trying to teach them correct change!" Mom snapped.

Kim looked concerned. "It's okay, honey," I said. "Nothing you did."

Kim turned back to the change. She reached for the dime and looked up at her Mom. Seeing the okay, she put that back in her coin purse. She then slowly withdrew a nickel and placed that on the counter.

"Good!" Mom said. "That's fifteen. Now, what do you need?"

Kim chewed on her bottom lip. I slapped my hand to my forehead. The Hispanic man began praying to the Virgin Mary and the cashier was loudly whispering, "3! 3 cents, honey!"

Kim pulled out another nickel and we all groaned. She put it back. She reached for the dime on the counter and I inwardly screamed, "Holy shit! It's one eighteen! A dollar and eighteen cents! Your sisters know it! Mom knows it! A brain damaged monkey missing three toes could figure it out! I just want my MOTHER EFFING PIZZA!" before she withdrew her hand. She slowly counted out eight pennies, making eye contact with her mother each time she placed a penny down and smartly closing her wallet when the deed was done. She got her slushy and off they went, these mavens of the accounting world.

I stepped forward. "Good heavens. I need whatever you have pre-made and a large-"

"Oh, dear," the cashier frowned. "Oh dear, oh my."


"She gave me too much money, by four cents. If she's going to learn-"

"Mabel. It is Mabel, right? 90 percent of the free world can't count and that's why we have these lovely machines that spit your change back at you. If you so much as think about calling them back here and starting that dog and pony show again, I will put you through the oven. With extra cheese."

My pizza was cold.


Things that have pissed me off today:

1. "Hi, my name is Crystal McKnob. I applied for your card to get the 15% discount in store about 2 months ago, and they declined it. I never got a letter or anything. Can you help me?"

"Sure. Give me all of your information. Then, when you finish, you might as well repeat it at least 3 times because I just smoked some really good opium in the back and I'm not paying attention to you."

"Ok. My social is blah blah, address, blah blah, blah whaa whah whah whah whah."

"For verification purposes, can you tell me your mother's maiden name?"

"Lillian of the McDougal clan, lass!"

"Excuse me?"

"Little joke. Maiden. Never mind. It's Smith."

"Mmmm. I make, like, six dollars and hour, I live with my overweight brother and he has a dog that shits in my shoes every morning. A sense of humor is not something I can relate to. Now, what was your address?"

"I just gave that to you. Along with my social, date of birth, retinal scan and the location of Hoffa's body."

"I need those, again."

"Fabulous. Here we go. Blah blah blah whah whah whah, etc, etc."

"Mmm hmm. Yes. I see it here. You should receive a letter within 30 days."

"Umm, ma'am. Did you look at the date of the application? Or hear me when I told you, no less than three times, that I never received a letter?"

"Oh. Can you verify your address?"

"Holy shit. Can you just tell me why I was declined?"

"No, ma'am. That information is confidential."

"Can I get another letter?"

"No, ma'am. But-!"

"Yes! What?! Tell me! Give me hope for the future of customer service!"

"Since it's been over 30 days, you can apply again!"

"I think I'd rather try to buttfuck a wolverine. You can go back to your opium, now."

"Is there anything else I can help you with to-"


2. I was in Wal-Mart tonight. I hate Wal-Mart. I hate any store that forces me to shuffle through aisles the width of a pack of gum while staring at the backside of some woman who hasn't ever met a cupcake she didn't like coupled with listening to hordes of unwashed, unattended children screech in their incomprehensible demon-language so that their stoner parents can shop for Doritos and Coke that are going to be paid for by my tax money. KILL ME.

But, I try to make the best of any situation.

While slowly grinding my way through the frozen food section (I'm really excited for you that you ran into Betty Joe from your Weight Watchers class and you haven't seen each other in three whole days but can you please MOVE YOUR FAT ASS OUT OF THE MIDDLE OF THE AISLE, I NEED HOT POCKETS. THANK YOU), I glanced over at a lady shopping for wieners. In her basket was an adorable baby around Harmony's age. The baby solemnly looked at me and the first thing I noticed was the nub of a chicken leg sticking out of the baby's mouth.

No meat, only bone.

Gnawed and gone.

I giggled and said to the mom as she turned, "I don't think there's any help for that chicken. He's gone, I say, gone!"

The mom sneered at me and said, and I quote, "I doan know what the fuck you talkin' 'bout", at which point the baby pulled the bone out of her mouth, pointed it at me and with an identical sneer, said, "'Fuck you talkin' 'bout".

Well, you and your charming offspring have a lovely day.

3. "Hi, prescription for Crystal McKnob."

"Yes, that will be $113."

"Excuse me?"

"It was $178. Your insurance saved you $65."

"Oh, I feel much better. Can I talk to the lady who answered the phone earlier and told me my scrip was $10? I like her more than you."

"Do you want this or not?"

I'm leaving this weekend and going to my sister's in Franklin so she can hold me and feed me alcohol and tell me everything will be okay.


(You won't get the title if you've never heard this. It's the 7th one down, titled "Lockitdown!")

I feel sorry for the men that come here to read and they get hit in their unsuspecting faces with crap like this, "pap smears" and "mammogram".

Who on God's earth thought it was a good idea to take a procedure that is so vile and attach the word, "smear", to it? Whoever you are, you were wrong. Wrong in so very, many ways.

I never post half naked pictures of myself or talk about ess-ee-exx, so I feel bad, what with the holidays coming up and all. The men shouldn't have to be subjected to women's issues. So, here:

Sometimes, in the shower, I use the mint shampoo as soap because it tingles.

Just keep reading that, over and over and don't go any further into this post. Trust me.

So, yesterday, I'm in stirrups and some strange woman is making small talk with me while she squeezes my nipples.

"So, how was your Thanksgiving?" Squeeze, pinch.

"Why are you pinching my nipples?" I asked.

"Oh, well, it's part of the breast exam, we check for discharge." She looked horrified.

"I know, I just wondered if anyone's ever really asked. Especially mid-squeeze. Awkward."

She nervously laughed and covered up my boobies.

As she stepped out in the hall to ask for assistance, I scooted my butt down to the end of the table. When she turned around, I asked, "So, is this the part with the periscope? Land ho, and all that?"

"Umm, it's called a speculum."

"Yeah, I know. It was a - nevermind."

I try to relax. I breathe and I take myself away to an oasis somewhere, but, oh my God. There is nothing natural about a 2 foot piece of metal sliding into your hoo-haw, especially when it's been shipped in from Antarctica for the occasion.

And then it expands.

All the while, I'm thinking,

"Does it seem weird to her that I shaved? I mean, she sees these all day long. Not like she would care if it looked like I was growing a chia pet down there."

"Oh, God. What if that was cheap toilet paper when I gave my urine sample? Cheap toilet paper that is now balled up and playing cling-on in my ass crack. I have toilet paper balls in my crack. I just know it."

"I should have worn socks. My nail polish is chipping. Oh, what the fuck, Crystal. She's pretty distracted by your cervix right now, you moron. I doubt she's offended by your toe nails."

"I wonder how many times someone has to fart in your face before you just go numb. God, that would be horrible."

And then, when they're finished, I always feel like they should hold me and tell me I'm special AND THEY NEVER DO.


"So, Virginia, how was 'Beauty & The Beast' at school, today?"

"Ugh, what a rip-off," she said with obvious disgust.

"Umm, what?" I asked, astonished.

"It was terrible. It was puppets. Which could have been good, but the coordination was off and Gaston's accent was wretched. He didn't sound the least bit French."

"Uh-huh. You're seven. You know that, right?"

She looked at me like the incredibly stupid person that I am. "Does that mean I have to embrace mediocrity?"

"Virginia, I will only tell you this one more time. No more talking to Angelina Jolie."

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Scarecrow Pimp

Methinks that if I were a children's book editor, I would pay more attention to the very first page of the book and the way it's worded.

I could be totally wrong.

Monday, November 26, 2007

The Golden Snatch

Ok, first of all, it took me about a millisecond to come up with that title and that is so very sad (and if you have no idea what Quidditch is, you won't think it's funny. But it made me giggle)

Chris and I saw Beowulf in 3D this weekend because it has a CG Angelina Jolie and in Chris' world, any Jolie is better than no Jolie.

Here is my review, or a synopsis of our discussion during and after the movie:


"CG Beowulf ass is hot. Are you seeing that? That is ... buttery. It's like a warm, buttery-"

"Yeah, I got it, Crystal. Hot ass. Thank you. Got it."

"Buttery hot."

"Shut up. Please."


"You know, Chris, that Angelina Jolie doesn't really look like that naked?"

"Sure, she does."

"No. It's a law. Nipples can't stay there after you've been pregnant. It's a law."

"I felt her up at Madame Tussaud's. She looks just like that."

"You need help."


"See that? You never learn. You penis people never learn."

"Crystal, it's Angelina Jolie."

"She has a stinger-tail-braid thing."

His grin was positively love-sick. "I know."

"So, freaky-stinger thing and all, if the fate of the human race was on your shoulders and you had to make a decision between complete annihilation and her golden vagina-"

"-then you should make sure you have clean underwear on."

"Ugh. Weak."

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Bringing Crazy Back

Find a shelter or a bathtub or an interior closet. Hell hath frozen over and the end is nigh.

I found a a cd that everyone in this family likes...including the dog. When it's on, instead of piercing me with a stare that says,"Please to throw me in front of a postal truck?" he just gives off the impression that he might be a cutter. Huge improvement.

I bought the disc for one song (the slow, sappy one) and I have literally worn the whole CD out. The first time I heard track 2, I listened, stunned, before shrieking, "Earthquake! Grab the vodka and head for the closet!"

Devon looked at me and grimaced. "Eww, that's not an earthquake. You're dancing. Or as close to it as someone old can get."

I glanced down and discovered that my hips were, indeed, moving and ... thrusting. Scandalous.

Whatever, right?

Let me explain:

1. I bought a cd. I have the internet and I bought a cd.

2. I bought a cd by someone who isn't dead or eligible for Medicaid.

3. I bought a cd by someone who is considered hip hop. I think. Whatever he is, I'm the girl who still gets teary when I think about Dimebag Darrell eating it. Timbaland is a genius.

The only bad thing I can say is wow, the language. I'm not one to censor (have you been here long?) but some things miss V doesn't need to repeat.

"What's he saying, Mommy?"

"Oh, wow, he's saying... 'putzy'. Another word for...hairy."

"Yeah, if you're granola," Devon chimed in.

"Shut up, boy, and skip to the next song."

I have a totally inappropriate, old woman crush on Justin Timberlake, now. I turned 34 and lost my mind, y'all.

(this is not a paid advertisement)

Monday, November 19, 2007

A Post With Visual Aids

Saturday was my birthday, and as a gift to myself, I went to see my sister in Franklin, Tennessee. There is never a dull moment when I see her and it usually goes something like this:

"What the hell is that?"

"Oh, there's all kinds of noises out here."

"Ok, so what the hell is that? I would rather not spend my birthday being hacked to pieces by Jason Voorhees. Where's your gun, Leslie?"

"We don't have one. It's probably the goats."

"Goats? What are they doing? Moshing to Nirvana?"

"I dunno."

I went to investigate, turned on the flood light and the goats stopped sharpening their horns on the side of house long enough to favor me with a most displeased stare. Of course, if they had grinned at me, I would have had to lay off the 'shrooms.

Then, I swear, one made a gang sign. I turned the light out.

"I need another drink."

Some time later, Leslie was reading my blog and catching up.

"You should see the gnome that's in Blaise' room," she said.

I scampered to his room (he was not home) and we both stood and stared in awe.

"I must have him," I breathed.

"Yeah. I have no idea where he came from."

"What is he doing?"

"Now, that is the question, isn't it?"

"He's fabulous." I spirited him away and stuffed him in my duffel bag.

"Let's go do something fun for your birthday," Leslie offered.


We headed to the nail salon for a pedicure and en route, I heard a song that I really liked. My niece was in the back seat and I figured she was most likely to know who it was, so I asked her. She answered and I filed it away in my mental rolodex. Later, I asked Les to stop at Borders so I could pick it up.

"What was the name of the band? One-something?" I asked Leslie. My niece had since gone.

"Wait, wait...I got it. Wonder Puppets."

"Wonder Puppets? WONDER PUPPETS? You're serious?"

"That's the name of the band. That's what she said," Leslie insisted.

"You deaf bitch. Phonetically, you at least triggered my memory. It's One Republic."

She sniffed. "It sounds like Wonder Puppet."

"Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

"Don't tell anyone about that," she insisted.

"I won't, pinky promise," I assured her.

We had an incredible time and my birthday was relaxing and rejuvenating. There were only 2 disappointments. I did not come home with this or this.

But I did come home with Russian Navy blue toes.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Stating the Obvious

Yesterday was a complete train wreck. As the kids and I were driving home, Harmony started wailing.

"Mom, pull over here," Devon said.

"What, are you walking?" I asked. "It's great birth control for you. Make yourself comfy."

"No, I meant I'll get in the back seat and entertain her."

"Oh. Awesome. Do that Monty Python thing, she loves that."

I pulled over, he moved to the backseat with the girls and we merged back onto the highway.

Virginia loves to be helpful, but when Devon is being helpful, it is her mission in life to outdo him AT ANY COST.

As he quietly began crooning to Harmony, Virginia turned on her amps, plugged in her electric guitar, complete with whammy bar, and began singing. (I use that word very loosely)

"Whhhhhoooooo, ooooooh! Peaaaaaaace and quietttttt! Whooo, booby doo doo! Peaaaaaace and quiewhywhywhywhy-yet!"

After about sixty seconds of this, I began rubbing my temples. Harmony was looking at Virginia as if to say, "Who are you? And why are you making that noise? Are you in pain?" Virginia Lee Roth or the artist formerly know as Please Shut The Hell Up continued her assault on our ears.

"Peeeeeeeeeeeaace, I said peaaaacce and some of the quiet, quiet, quiiiiiiiieeettttt-"

Devon, ever the logical one, finally snapped. "Virginia! It's not 'peace and quiet' if you're bellowing like a cow giving birth! Please stop."

She closed her mouth with an audible snap and haughtily said, "Mom, I'd like a karaoke machine for Christmas, please."

"And I'd like a bottle of paregoric," I muttered.

"What, mommy?"

"I said put if on your Christmas list, sweety."

Dear Santa,

I'd like the best pair of ear plugs an elf can make. And a roomba. Love, Crystal McKnob.

(subliminal message go buy a ham, over there, in the sidebar, end subliminal message)

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Ha! Further Proof That He Never Listens To Me

Chris and I met with some people last night about a fantastic business opportunity. Afterwards, we didn't speak for a while as we were both lost in our thoughts. I was thinking about the potential for this venture and he was thinking about...well, who the hell knows. Angelina Jolie covered in butterscotch sauce would be my guess.

"So," I asked, breaking into his reverie. "Do you have any reservations? About the proposition?"

He blinked, inhaled deeply, sighed and said, "Now, why would I make reservations? You're going out of town for your birthday." And then his eyes glazed over, again.

"Wow," I muttered. Then louder, "I'm thinking about setting my head on fire."

"Totally up to you, babe."

"Uh huh. Did I tell you the dog stood up and recited The Canterbury Tales today?"

"Mmmm hmm. He needs a bath."

"You're hearing one word of every sentence I say, aren't you?"


"I find it really interesting that shithead."

He looked at me, confused. "Did you just call me a shithead?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Feeding the Stereotype

I own a small piece of land in Tennessee, on a lake. Today, I received the following notice of amendment to the POA rules:

The following rules were added July 21,2007:
A. Vehicles in lake: Owners will be charged the removal costs incurred by the association plus a $100 per day fine for any vehicle left submerged in the lake. The fine begins 24 hours from the time the vehicle become submerged. (Added 7/21/2007)
Good to know we at least have 24 hours. I can rest easy, now.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Idle Hands

Yesterday was a holiday in our school district. Yesterday was also the day I finally decided to start playing on an eight-ball pool league again, and last night was my first match.

(I won, incidentally. Our country's fascination with poking or whacking at balls with sticks and trying to make them go into a tiny, little hole is astounding.

I digress)

I got home around ten o'clock expecting everyone to already be in bed.

Devon was still up and on the computer. As I fumbled around in the kitchen to get some water, I caught up with him.

"So, how was the day off?" I asked.

He giggled. "Awesome."

I looked up, suspicious. "What did you and Julio do?" I narrowed my eyes and scrutinized his face. "And why do you have a black eye?"

"It's Sharpie."

"You put Sharpie around your eyes? How much did you inhale? Why the hell would you put Sharpie around your eyes?"

The grin on his face worried me. A lot.

"We were on a mission," he whispered.

"Oh, my God. What did you do?"

"Look! Look!"

He turned the computer monitor toward me and showed me a picture of him and Julio, dressed head to toe in camouflage and sporting the aforementioned Sharpie. I didn't recognize the scenery behind him.

"I have to sit down," I gasped. "How long before the authorities get here?"

"Mom, it's not that bad."

"What-the-hell-ever. You're just like me. I need a drink. Don't tell me, yet."

"Go look in my room."

Ok, can I just say that the words, "Go look in my room", when coming from your brilliant-but-reckless teen-aged son CAN NEVER BE GOOD. EVER.

I approached the door and hesitated. I mean, you just don't know what you're going into. Hookers. Some guy who was walking his dog on Mason street and can't remember anything after the chloroform. A golf cart. Britney Spears.

I held my breath, opened the door and was confronted by a tribe of garden gnomes.

"Devon, there are gnomes in your room." I am an idiot.

"I know! Aren't they great?!"

"You have gnomes in your room. A lot of them. Why do you have gnomes in your room?"

"We kidnapped them! From, like, seven yards. Can you believe people have that crap in their yard?"

I was dumbfounded.

"You stole garden gnomes. Lots of ugly, mismatched garden gnomes." Still an idiot.

"And a stop sign."

I whirled on him.

"Please tell me you're kidding," I said.

"Ok. I'm kidding." He stared at me. I stared back.


I flapped my hand at the gnomes. "Well, give them their ring or whatever they're here for and get rid of them. They're creeping me out."

"Aww, Mom, consider it an early birthday present."

"I'd rather have more fuzzy slippers."

"They'll grow on you."

"Doubtful," I said. "Besides, if any girl sees those in your room, you'll be a virgin until you die."

A look of horror crossed his face. "I'll put them in the garden shed."

I went to bed and woke Chris up.

"Did you know that Devon and Julio kidnapped a whole legion of garden gnomes?"


"They didn't really steal a stop sign, did they?"

"No idea."

We sat in silence for a minute. Then, "Crystal, are you gonna tell him about the time you organized that group of drunken dipshits to steal that 200-pound plaster horse from that store parking lot? And that you sent ransom notes?"

"Taking that one to my grave, buddy."

EDITED TO ADD PICTURE: (the date on this camera is waaay wrong. And now I'm wondering who the hell took pictures of them all gussied up. I'll get back to you)

EDITED AGAIN: (Julio is almost freaking invisible except for that jacket. He's like a chameleon. Must get him to steal things worth money. I'll get back to you)

Monday, November 05, 2007

Under Pressure

EDIT: What a beautiful thing to be a part of. I don't know if I qualify (that whole pesky "no more than 5% gray" thing, but if I do, I'm chopping. And you don't have to be a woman to do this).


I'm changing my tag line to, "Enjoying A Daily Ass Kicking By The Political Blogs"

The 2007 Weblog Awards


In other news, I got through Halloween without killing anyone.

As we walked around the neighborhood, Harmony in her stroller, Virginia by my side, I was appalled at the number of vehicles driving their kids from house to house. And some of these chubsters needed to be walking, not having Mom driving them around in perfect, 68 degree weather while they load up on Hershey's and Ho Ho's, for shit's sake.

"Wow," I quietly mumbled. "That is the epitome of laziness. No wonder we're the fattest country in the world."

"Mommy?" Virginia asked. "Why aren't we driving in the car like them?"

"Because we have a pulse."

"I'm tired."

"You're seven. You can run in a hamster wheel for twelve hours a day and not break a sweat. I'm old and fat. Shut up."

She giggled and Harmony farted.

At the next house, the obviously drunk man in a lawn chair tried to give Harmony a candy bar.

"Lookit!" he leered. "Lookit the cute bay-bee! She's a dinosaur. Roar, dinosaur! Coochie 'oochie gooh! Bubbadububbadubabba!"

He leaned forward and came dangerously close to toppling out of his chair. He then extended one finger, nail encrusted with filth, and moved it toward her face.

Harmony looked at him with that expression that only she can give with those ice-blue eyes. You have lost your fucking mind if you think you're touching me with that booger farm, buddy.

"Oh, no thank you," I said as I backed away, "she doesn't have any teeth for candy."

Virginia was aghast. "That's a lie, Mommy. She has two teeth."

"Get your Twizzler and move your ass, child," I furiously whispered.

Meanwhile, Willy Wonka leaned forward to put the candy bar in Harmony's outstretched hand.

"Umm, sir?" I tried again. "Thank you so much, I'm sure she'd love it, but she can't have that."

"Well, why the hell not, lady?" He snapped at me. "She has two teeth!"

"And you, sir, have a mullet, but that doesn't necessarily mean you should watch NASCAR," I angrily replied.

He blinked at me. "I love NASCAR."

"Right-o. Well, this conversation is pointless. Just give me the fucking candy bar."

When we returned home, Devon met us at the door. Since he was grounded and opted not to walk with us, I asked him to fold laundry.

"I'm done, Mom," he declared.

"Why is that still there?" I pointed to a garment balled up on the sofa.

He looked sheepish. "I wasn't sure what it was."

I picked it up. "Devon. It's my bra, son."

His eyes bugged out. "That's a bra? I thought it was a freaking catapult or something!"

"Go to bed."

"It's not even 8:30!"

"Ugh. Help Virginia sort her candy and pull out the razor blades and hypos."

As they sat at the table and sorted candy, I marveled at Virginia's generous nature.

"Here, Devon, since you didn't get any candy, I'll share with you," she said.

She dumped the bag on the table and began separating what she was going to give to her brother.

"I don't like this, or this...or this. I don't even know what that is. You can have this, I think it's healthy. Yuck. Oh, and this," she said.

As Devon eyeballed his meager collection of crappy candy, Virginia thoughtfully chewed on her bottom lip.

"You know what?" she finally announced. "I might change my mind about liking this stuff." And with that, she swept it all back in the bag and went to her room.

I'm so proud I could just shit.

Friday, November 02, 2007 & 2007 Weblog Awards

I'm up and will be writing monthly for Mommybloggers!

Don't look at that picture. I look like a she-man. Rawwwwr.

The 2007 Weblog Awards

You can vote here

Thank you, again. I'm in the finalists and, again, that's all I could ask for.

Well, that and the elusive pink pony.

And don't forget to vote for Dad Gone Mad for best parenting blog!


I have been behind on emails for a while, but I feel like crap when I don't answer, so in between that and comments, I'll try to answer some questions here: (introspect, I suck. Sorry)

1. Subservient No More - I don't do anything. I swear. I submitted my site a couple of years ago to and they gave me a good review which brought me a few readers (and I greatly appreciated that. I had no traffic and they are very discerning and they will beat the shit out of me and gah) and then the digg effect hit me and that helped. But, honestly, I have had them most loyal, superbly supportive readership and it has happened mostly by word-of-mouth. They talk about my site and that can help you more than anything.

2. Janie - I stopped breastfeeding after my boss started stealing my milk out of the fridge for his coffee. (Kidding, Paycheck! I kid! Ha! ha ha!)

My milk dried up. It's as simple and as sad as that.

3. Pyschic geek - I think there was some confusion. I don't have fake boobies. But my husband got a fake booby for Christmas and Harmony has decided that is her surrogate Mom. It's as simple and as sad as that.

4. Egads. I have three chicken beard kiss me Ambien! I am not functioning. Let me know if you have a question that I have not answered and I promise to answer.

Love you guys. Wheeee!





Resolutions That I'll Never Keep. And Some Other Crap.

It's not subtle, but it is unexpected.

One year, in an email response to the typical "New Year's plans" question, you write, "Well, I have a date with a bottle of tequila at 3 p.m. and another date with this guy who does sidewalk art at eight. Damn, that reminds me...I have to pick up some olive oil and my leather poncho. If you don't hear from me by Monday, call my Mom.

-On second thought, call my therapist. She actually likes me."

The following year, in response to the same question, you instead answer, "Meh. Tonight is the only chance I'm going to have to wax my chin."

When you hover over the send button and actually read what you just wrote, you realize, Oh, my God. I'm dead. I'm as good as cast in the next George Romero film because I cannot be breathing.

It's not that I don't like the whole New Year celebration. It's just that I don't really give a shit, any more. Wheee, I made it through another year without succumbing to flesh-eating bacteria or my dog going rabid and eating my face off.

Hell, I celebrate that daily.

And with that in mind, now that I have completely depressed myself and you, faithful supporter of my mood swings and aversion to much-needed medication, I present to you my list of resolutions:

1. To start taking a multi-vitamin. My doctor said I need one. Although, being that I'm dead, I don't know how much good it will do.

2. To finish the mother-effing proposal that Danny has waited so patiently for. I have started it at least ten times and then Chris will find me at 2 a.m., drooling on my keyboard while I dream about giant boobs chasing me and the dog is carefully eating my socks. With my feet still in them. Gah. Ambien.

3. To learn to sleep without Ambien, because, DUDE, the things it does to my brain.

4. What?

5. Exercise for one month, in a row. Stop lying to people and telling them that I have ruptured three discs by trying to run without duct taping my chest.

6. Give up caffeine. I will not be a junkie.

7. Dr Pepper has caffeine in it, doesn't it?

8. A great big, WHATEVER, to number 6.

9. To quit reciting the Lord's prayer every time I ride shotgun and give Devon driving lessons. I think it makes him nervous.

10. Oh, and to stop hanging my head out the window and screaming at bystanders that "he's going to kill us all!"

11. To lobby to change the driving age to seventeen because after riding with him, I am afraid to leave my driveway. THERE ARE SO MANY TEENAGERS OUT THERE.

12. He is a very good driver. (Hi, sweety! Remember, speed kills!)

13. To quit referring to my sister, Leslie, as the "one who got all the good genes. God, I hate that tall, skinny bitch." Love you, Les!

14. To call my other sister, Lucy, more often. She sends a birthday card for every member of our family, every single year. And gifts. I think I bought her a cup of coffee in 1998. I had a coupon.

15. Shit. He's going to feel left out and then Mom will be mad at me because he was always her favorite and ech. Hi, Steve! Oh, and Hi, Tobin! (Long-lost brother extraordinaire)

16. To stop being bitter about not being Mom's favorite. I don't care. It's no big deal. Seriously. But, boy, she looooves me at Christmas time. I buy the best gifts. What's that, Steve? The sound of IN YOUR FACE WITH THE DIVINE VENETIAN GLASS EARRINGS I GOT HER, HAHA, MOTHUH FUCKAH, HOW DO YOU LIKE THOSE APPLES, HUH? SO WHAT IF YOU WERE BREASTFED AND I LIVED ON THE SHIT THAT FELL INTO THE BOTTOM OF THE FRIGIDAIRE, I'M NOT-

I'll work on that one.

17. To quit prank calling my mother and pretending I'm Sheik Ahmed and bitching at her about how she still owes me a virgin daughter (she threatened to give me away to an Arab when we lived in Kuwait. Daily. I believed she could legally do this until I was 27).

18. This list is far too long. I will probably only keep one of these resolutions, max. After reading back through them to narrow it to one I can keep, nothing just jumps out at me, ya know?

So...what is yours?


My son turned thirteen in 2006 and immediately began thinking that I'm a complete idiot. He will be fifteen in one week, and I have graduated from blithering idiot to pathetic twit. It's a hell of a lot more pride-inspiring than the other 2 year degree I have.

While driving home last night, his friend, Julio, was telling us about how his parents solved an argument.

"My mom and dad couldn't agree about how to properly spell 'camaro', so they drove around until they found one."

"They didn't have to go very far, did they?" I asked.

"Dude, why didn't they just look it up on the internet?" Devon asked.

"Well, I kind of get it," I defended them. "Before I discovered the Google, I used to just call Blockbuster."

They both looked at me, perplexed.

"Yeah," I explained. "You can segue any movie ever made into a question about what you're really trying to find out. As a for instance, I would have called and asked them if they had that movie, the one with the camaro in it."

"Uh huh," Devon urged.

"When they start listing them off, you just say, 'And how are you spelling that title?' Problem solved."

Devon was fascinated. "Seriously?"

"Shit like that would bug the hell out of me, names, dates, spellings. I called them for everything. I had one give me the recipe for a vodka gimlet. We started out talking about which James Bond movies they had in stock."

"And they never caught on?"

"The turnover is horrendous. You never talk to the same person twice. But those kids are a wealth of useless information."

"Oh, wow," Devon breathed. "Why don't you blog that kind of stuff? That's hysterical. You don't write any of the really funny stuff."

Well, I guess I know why I have no fifteen-year-old readers.

Friday, December 28, 2007

I'm Going To Request That He Change His Birthday To June. Maybe I'll Have Money For A Gift

Happy birthday to the McKnob that has six teeth and still poos her pants with a dedication and ferocity that makes her daddy proud.

Happy birthday to the larger McKnob who has all his teeth and still gives me the big, "Who, me?", eyes every time he farts. (Even though I know it was him because he has killed all my house plants) (yes, it is his gas and not my inability to remember to water them more than once a year) (Hi, I am responsible for three children).

Coordinating this simple dinner tomorrow has been more challenging than I imagined.

I made the first of many phone calls, this one to my mom.

"Hey, Mom. We're having dinner at Applebee's tomorrow at five-thirty for Chris and Harmony's birthday. Can you be there?"


"Well, there's something you don't hear from your mom every day."

"What? When? This damned dog won't stop . . . STOP IT. Can someone get this dog off my leg?"

"Five thirty. Applebee's."


"Ok, then. Bye."

The second call was to a mutual friend of our's.

"Why Applebee's?" she asked.

"We have a gift card," I explained.

"You're taking them to a birthday dinner that you're buying with a gift card that someone else gave you?"

"On second thought, you're not invited. I don't even like you."

My mom called me back.

"What should I get for the baby?"

"I don't know. She's turning one. She doesn't care. Someone gave Chris a rubber booby as a gag gift and she claimed it and thinks it's the best thing ever. She tries to nurse on it and squishes it, for hours, fascinated. It has teeth marks on it, that's why I don't nurse anymo-"

"Crystal, shut the hell up. What should I get Chris?"

"Another rubber booby."

"Where would I get one of OH MY GOD THERE HE GOES WITH THE LICKING, AGAIN, WHAT THE FUCK? What am I, chicken-flavored? Steve, can you please call this dog-"

I giggled. "You said 'fuck'."

"You're hearing things. And don't you dare tell anyone I said that."

"I won't."

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Happy In My Pants

Hey. You.

Domain ? (Network)
IP Address
? (
Continent :
North America
Country :
United States (Facts)
State: Florida
City :

Time: 8:58:53

Guess what?

Visit Number: 1,000,000

Do you know what that means?

a. I'm a loser because I knew it almost immediately and I have been feverishly refreshing my Sitemeter every 3 seconds until it hit that number.

b. that I'm a loser.

c. that people who design Chia pets have a riveting life compared to me.

d. loser

I have nothing to offer you except my thanks, a half a box of leftover Nabisco crackers (fat free!) and some belly-button lint I saved because it looks suspiciously like Jay Leno.

Totally yours is you want them.

Friday, December 21, 2007


I saw the Trans-Siberian Orchestra last night. I have been wanting to see them for years, but their tickets are fairly expensive and we've just never had the extra money at Christmas.

This year, Chris bought them months ago and surprised me for my birthday. Gold star for him, because, seriously, DUDE.

Here are some of my observations:

1. There was enough hair, collectively, on that stage to keep Locks Of Love overwhelmed for a year.

2. This woman is not human. And nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.

3. This guy busted out with the Charlie Brown theme and then somehow segued into Chopin and I wet myself.

4. Tommy Farese sang some song, I don't even remember what it was but it was incredible. And then his Hair went crazy and ate the bass player.

5. It doesn't matter if you like rock, blues, classical or the sound of tiny leprechauns singing dirty limericks, you will find something to love about this show.


7. My husband was the one that screamed, "FREE BIRD!!", during a lull in the guitar solo. He cracks himself up.

8. The Hair got depressed after it ate one of the backup singers and sat quietly in the corner, weeping, before security hauled it away.


10. The lady next to me was drunk and smelly. I forgave her that because the narrator told me I had to be nice, being this was a Christmas show and all. When she elbowed me for the twentieth time, I leaned over and whispered, "My husband? He ate one of those huge chili-dogs with extra onions, so I apologize beforehand if you lose an eyebrow or anything." She leaned the other way. God bless us, every one.

11. It is well worth every penny. This show left me awestruck, and they did it for three hours. I don't think I've ever done anything for three hours.

12. Open flames, big hair and lots of hair product = some day, something really bad is going to happen and I hope they have a fire truck waiting outside. That's all I'm going to say about that.

13. They broke into, "Proud Mary", and geriatrics everywhere went ballistic. No one broke a hip and it was a beautiful thing.

14. Do you know they had a headline the day Ike turner died and it said, "Ike Beats Tina Turner To Death"? I mean, seriously? Who let THAT one slip?

I had one thing going through my mind through the entire show...but...


Merry Christmas. Keep your hair under control.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Holly, Jolly Christmas

We finally put our tree up on Sunday night. We had been delaying because Harmony is quite the turbo-crawler and, hello? Shiny, breakable crap.

Since we have been in this house, I have tried, diligently, to create some family traditions during this season. So, while Chris falls out of the attic and the tree lands on top of him, I slowly heat the milk.

While he's limping down the hallway, dragging the dusty box and using language that would make his mother blush (Hi, Mrs. McKnob!), I stir it to keep it from congealing.

While he tries to figure out the blue tabs, red tabs, green tabs, GREEN TABS? IT'S A CHRISTMAS TREE. WHICH GENIUS CAME UP WITH GREEN TABS? and Devon is bitching about not having a real tree, I fill each cup with precisely six ounces.

While Virginia chants, "Are you done, yet? Can I do the lights, now? Now? Can I do them, yet? What's taking so long?", I sprinkle the marshmallows over the top.

While the baby completely ignores all the crap on the floor and crawls into the cardboard box that the tree came in, I stir the cocoa to mix in and melt the marshmallows.

I place each cup on a tray and carefully walk to the living room to share my chocolately-love with my family. And this is how it goes:

  • I hand Harmony her sippy cup and draw back a fucking nub when she gets a whiff of what's in there. As she greedily gulps it down, she's eyeballing the whole time as if to say, "Woman, I don't know where you've been hiding this crap, but if you so much as think about reaching for this cup, I'll chew your other arm off."
  • Virginia immediately spills hers all over the dog. He just looks at me with those sad eyes and then begins licking his raisin sac where his berries used to be.
  • Chris snatches his, drinks it down and burps, loudly, while handing the cup back to me. Someone stop me before I am overcome by lust.
  • Dusty excites himself so much he walks under the tree while Chris is putting on the top layer and starts humping it with wild abandon. My dog has a tree fetish.
  • When Chris snaps at Dusty to stop molesting the tree, he scampers down the hallway, hits the polished wood and slides into the far wall. I now have a dog-shaped, cocoa-flavored imprint.
  • After watching Chris and Devon rewrap the lights fifteen times because they aren't just so, Virginia gets fed up and stomps to her room, shouting, "I want to do the balls! Don't touch the blue balls, Mom said I could do those!"
  • At this point, I temporarily take leave of my senses and start screaming across the house, "Get back in here right now, young lady, or no blue balls for you! We are having fun! This is supposed to be fun! GET YOUR NARROW ASS BACK IN HERE AND START HAVING FUN THIS INSTANT."
  • As I sit on the floor in defeat, the baby throws her empty sippy cup at my head and starts wailing while Chris crawls under the tree and tries to pull Dusty off the back limbs. Several of the blue balls fall off and crash to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. I am contemplating a hari-kari style death with our tree topper when Devon shakes his head and says, "God, that is so sad. Even Charlie Brown thinks our tree sucks."
Someone pinch me. This is all too wonderful to be real.

Saturday, December 15, 2007


Since the dawn of man, parents have been using soap root from the grassy lands or Suave from the dollar bin at Target to shape their kids wet hair into ridiculous do's.

Does that ever get old? Ever?

Nah. I didn't think so.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Sneaking Around

Dusty has been acting strange lately.

We made him an inside dog again now that Daisy is gone and the last couple of weeks, he will sit by the door and whine and cry and cut himself until I let him out. At first, I thought it had to do with Virginia dressing him up in doll clothes and making him "dance" with her. There she is, on her knees, dancing around to some Hannah Montana song and holding Dusty up on 2 legs. He is wearing a bonnet and doll socks, topped off by a pink tutu and looking at you as if to say, "Either kill me, now, or I will drown myself in the toilet."

This last weekend, I was in the kitchen washing dishes when I heard an unfamiliar bark from the back yard. I looked over and the puzzle pieces all fell into place.

Dusty is getting it on.

With a tree.

At first, I thought he was scratching his back. Then, upon closer inspection, I saw his tube of lipstick was out and the unfamiliar barking was coming from him.

There are a few things you need to know before watching this video:

1. A cocker spaniel puppy got into my yard last week when it rained. He scared the shit out of me by jumping up on my kitchen window while I was cooking and streaked mud all over it. I haven't cleaned it. Meh.

2. I don't know if I mentioned it, but Dusty's tube of lipstick is OUT.

3. He is the source of the unfamiliar barking. While he is thrusting, he is growling and snapping and basically saying, "You're MY bitch, little tree." I couldn't get the window open without him hearing it and turning around, thereby ruining my attempt to humiliate him further by posting his naughty, vocal affair on YouTube. I tried this no less than a dozen times.

4. At the end of the video, I was laughing so hard I couldn't continue to tape him. I will have to remedy that and give you a video with sound.

5. My feet smell like Playdoh. What the hell is that about?

On with the show:

Love Like This is 4-EVAH

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Just Like Me

This morning was awful.

I strapped Harmony into her car seat and put her on our sofa so she could see everyone bustling around in our morning routine.

(Routine my ass. Our morning fire drill. Our morning madness. Our morning meltdown.

You get the point.)

She is very much a dictator-type personality and I can only imagine that she thinks she's barking orders when she babbles in her secret baby language while looking at us like we are the WORST EMPLOYEES EVER. I mean, we don't do anything she tells us to do most of the time. Gah.

As I stepped to the kitchen for a moment, I heard a horrifying crash. All of the maternal instincts I have shifted into overdrive as I dropped what I had in my hand and skidded into the living room.

The car seat was upside down and there was no sound coming from under it.

I quickly turned it over to find a very pissed off, purple baby drawing in her breath to scream and fire me and possibly have my limbs cut off because, holy shit, I just let the boss get hurt.

I pulled her out and held her, apologized over and over. My God, how could I have let that happen? I was baffled as to the mechanics of the whole thing because our sofa is wide and she had been wedged in the corner. Regardless, when she is determined, she will find a way.

As she began to calm down and a small bump rose on her forehead, she also began to act very lethargic. I called the babysitter and told her I was taking Harmony to work with me because, although I didn't think she hit her head very hard, I wasn't taking any chances and I wanted to keep an eye on her.

As we drove toward my work, I heard a very wet, gurgling sound from the car seat. I pulled into a ditch, jumped out and climbed into the backseat to find Harmony covered in vomit and non-responsive. She was breathing, but I couldn't get her to open her eyes.

This is the part where I officially lost my shit.

The drive to the ER was the most horrible, gut wrenching drive of my life. I have never felt so weak, powerless. I have never been so frightened. I have never begged God to please, please, let me die if it just means that my baby is okay. I have never been so angry at myself or felt so guilty and repugnant.

Our time in the ER was one where I was surrounded by women who wanted to help and offer empathy; nurses, the lab techs, even the administrative women stopped in to see Harmony and tell me that it was okay, I wasn't a bad mom. They would then share a story about the time their kid fell out of the basket and onto the concrete at WalMart. Seriously, someone do something about WalMart and their baskets because apparently they are spitting kids out left and right.

When I was calm enough to accept the diagnosis that her head wasn't broken, she just had a bump followed by a little disorientation and a lot of panic on my part, I cried, again.

Harmony ate popsicles and babbled orders and screamed at the doctor holding her down to look at her pupils. She smacked me across the face and chuckled, her whole belly shaking, because I cried, "Ow!", and she thought that was hilarious...and I think she wanted to make sure I didn't pull that stupid shit, again.

And thank you, God, she is okay.

I took her into work with me and put her down by Miss Pat (who speaks Babygibberese) so I could retrieve the rest of the supplies from my car. As I walked toward out plate glass door, I puzzled over Harmony's acrobatics and thought, "Impossible. I cannot imagine how in the hell she did that to herself-". I turned the knob to walk out. The door stayed stuck fast (the wood had swelled) and I walked full-tilt-boogie into it, bouncing my forehead off of the frame and hitting my knees.

And as my beautiful, bumpy baby girl chuckled again, I thought, "Well, at least that question is answered."

Thursday, December 06, 2007


Whenever I check out at the grocery store, I always grab one of those cards that add a dollar increment of your choice to your bill, ostensibly to go toward the needy. Chris gives me grief about this all the time.

"You know you're probably paying for blow and strippers for some fat guy with a bad toupee," he starts, "and that the percentage that actually goes to the needy is negligible."

"My conscience says I'm buying footie-pajamas and Zwiebacks for orphaned babies, so shut your heartless mouth AND LET ME HAVE MY DELUSIONS."

I also do it because when I was homeless in Reno, they would have found me frozen in my Geo (McKnobsicle!) had it not been for the Catholic church (and I'm not Catholic. I'm Southern Baptist. By all rights, the nuns could have burned me at the stake and I think God would have understood) and the food bank. I cannot look at fruit cocktail to this day, but it kept me alive and I feel obligated to pay it back or forward or sideways or somewhere other than at the Dollar Tree, where Virginia will inevitably talk me into buying some shitty toy that will break 3 nanoseconds after we leave the store.

Needless to say, it's kind of personal to me.

Tonight, while the cashier was scanning the donation card, the bagger's face lit up long enough to show a modicum of forced interest.

"What are those card things?" he asked.

"It's a donation card," the cashier helpfully offered.

"Oh. I thought it was a coupon," he mumbled.

I was fascinated.

"A coupon for what, sweety?" I asked.

"That place," he said as he flapped his hand in the direction of the card. "The Food Bank."

I was curious and decided to let this play out.

I have a lot of really stupid ideas.

"Do you know what the Food Bank is?" I gently asked.

As if speaking to a small, mentally challenged child, he answered, "It's a bank. Where they keep food."

I blinked at him several times. "How old are you?"

"Twenty," he answered while picking at the zit on his chin.

During this exchange, we had attracted another male employee who was now standing behind the bagger. When he heard this answer, he exclaimed, "Dude! You musta got your friggin' PhP or C or whatever in 'stupid'! Ha!"

"Fabulous." I turned to the cashier. "Can you pend my transaction, please? I forgot alcohol and that simply will not do."


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