More Spring 2006

Thursday, March 30, 2006


I just realized that I write terrible emails. This is one I just sent:

And in the middle of my crisis, while I was eating a turkey sandwich and contemplating death by Drain-O, Imajean Roach came in and sat her fat ass down. And wanted a receipt for her payment. By check.

Mother of fuck.

That's it. That's all it said. No subject line or anything. God, how my recipients must hate me.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Emily Postal

So, someone has to stay on my ass about etiquette and buying thank you cards to send out and shit.

Apparently, it is customary to list what that person bought you and throw in some gushy line about "everytime I use my (insert gift here), I will think of you!"

After finding that out, you KNOW not getting a vibrator is really killing me right about now.

Anyway, why do people do that? It seems strange to me.

Since I got a lot of cash, here's what I'm thinking:

"Thank you soooo much for the cash! Every time I stuff a bill in a stripper's g-string when Chris & I hit the titty bar tonight, I'll think of you!"

Too much?

Edit: Wow, that didn't take long. I'm kidding, goddammit. That money is going to a good cause - illegally bought Xanax to keep me from killing every motherfucker in the house before my wedding. Cheers! And if you have any mood altering drugs you want to send me, I'm so not kidding. Really.

Less Like The Debaucherous Orgy I Had Planned

For those of you who are interested, my bridal shower was awesome. It was also tame and conservative and polite.

I know what you're thinking: HOW IN THE BLAZING BLUE FUCK DID THAT HAPPEN?

I'll give you the short version:

Chris's mother. And his godmother. And another super nice lady he grew up with who would never tarnish her pristine soul by saying something like, say, just as an example, "If you were fortunate enough to be born with a cock, you should play with it at every available opportunity, I don't care if you are at work."

I don't know anyone who would ever talk like that.

Anyway, there were a few people there who weren't sure what demographic was going to be at the shower, so they remained tame.

And I'm talking about you, The One Who Wishes To Never Be Mentioned In My Blog, you know who you are. You held your tongue, but you brought with you fabulous Anna (Hi, Anna!!!), who was my first real blog reader meeting, and for that, I forgive you for holding in all those 'fuck's.

I got rolling pins and lots of cash and a great buzz (that I enjoyed alone. No one else was drinking. Next time, I'm making it a rule that you have to drink or you can't come. I just said, "next time". There won't be a next time, baby, if you're reading this. But in a hypothetical world, if I had another bridal shower, everyone must be inebriated. I love you. I'm gonna have to make up for that with a blowjob, aren't I?) and I was honestly shocked when everyone started to leave. It seemed like it had been a very brief visit when in reality it had been two or three hours. I was having conversations that had nothing to do with boogers or farts or X-Box and I was enjoying it that much.

My friend, Corina, bought me the most scandalous item of the day. It's white chocolate body dusting powder, complete with a feather, and Chris held it tenderly in his hands and followed me around the house all evening with big puppy-dog eyes while I slurred, "Do you realize I am the only woman in the history of the world who had a bridal shower and didn't get one solitary vibrator?"

I'll post pictures after I've pre-approved them. Or at least a picture.

Monday, March 27, 2006

My Daughter Has MASSIVE Cajones

Devon reconnected with his friend, Drew, a couple of weeks ago and they made plans to spend the weekend practicing the eleven-thousand inflections that can be used on the word, "dude", eating their way through my paycheck and not showering.

Virginia has always been fascinated with Drew because he's nice to her and soothes her wounded soul when Devon calls her a booger-head. She was literally giddy at the prospect of seeing him again after so long.

When we went to pick him up, the boys went upstairs to pack up Drew's entire room to bring with him while Virginia and I waited in the foyer and clenched our buttholes.

They have a very nice house.

It wasn't long before Virginia started hopping from foot to foot.


"Yes, baby."

"Can I go upstairs?"

"No, honey. You could break the bannister. Or smudge it. Don't touch anything."

9 seconds later:

"Mommy, I want to go see Drew."

"You'll see him when he comes down. Quit breathing so forcefully. You'll humidify something and I'll end up hooking down on Hollywood to pay for a Monet."



Once in the car, Devon & Drew tripped all over each other in conversation trying to catch up on all shit they had missed while out of touch. Important things like Warcraft techniques, some band called Lemon-something and who had the most armpit hair.

Kidding. I kid.

Virginia was desperate to keep Drew's attention. They were in the back and she was gazing at him with adoration. She had not blinked one time since he got in the car and Drew was visibly squirming. I was watching in the rear-view mirror and rooting her on.

"Dude! Did you see that new game-"

Virginia broke in.


"Yeah, Virginia?"

"I'll be six on the 30th."

"Oh. Awesome."

He turned back to Devon.

"Man, my mom can't find a 360 anywhere. We looked-"


"Yes, Virginia?"

"My front teeth are coming in."

"I see that. They're nice. So, Devon, dude, what else did you get for Christmas?"

I could see Virginia's brain working furiously. Her brow was furrowed and the first tendrils of panic were taking hold.


"Mmm hmm?"

"I get heartburn sometimes."


"I hate it when I burp and it tastes like throw up."

My inner voice is screaming, "Oh, God, baby! Down in flames, down in flames!! Distraction tactics! Veer left, LEFT!"

Drew continued to be a good sport.

"Yeah, I hate that, too. It hurts. Um. Devon, what movies did you see this summer?"

And it was then that my sweet baby, my precious not-quite-six-year-old threw caution to the wind, wore her heart on her sleeve and made the massive mistake that we as women have a tendency to make: she showed all her cards.

She looked at him with the intensity of a veteran fatal attraction and said in one long exhalation, "Ihaveacrushonyou."

After the fallout and holding her later to explain to her that Drew wasn't unhappy about her admission, he was just shocked, she asked, "Why, Mommy? Am I the first person to have a crush on him?"

"No, sweety, I doubt it. But you're probably the first person who was brave enough to admit it."

She looked at me uncertainly.

"I was brave, Mommy?"

"Yes, baby. What you did was very hard and I want you to remember that you can always say just what you feel, even if others don't seem happy about it. Don't ever be afraid of what you feel."

"Ok. I won't be afraid."

God, I hope not.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Introducing Daisy McKnob

On March 1st, my wedding present to Chris was born.

Today, I received this in my email from Search & Rescue (where I bought her from) and my brain turned to shit. All I could say was, "Wookit da werinkly babeeeee!"

Here's the epitome of cuteness:

And if you can handle more cuteness, here:

I have just spent the last twenty minutes spewing unintelligible baby talk to her image. Imagine what I'll be like when I can actually bury my face in her smooshiness.
Edit: I don't do blogger uploads so good. Fuck it.

Thursday, March 23, 2006




"Hey, Jamie, this is Crystal. Are you coming to my bridal shower? Cos' you haven't RSVP'd. Dammit."

"Well, there's this thing and I can't seem to find anyone to-"

"I plan on being drunk enough to thoroughly embarrass myself and as many other people as possible. Excluding you, of course."

"What time should I be there?"

2 minutes later:



"Hey, hoochie, it's Crystal. You're coming to my shower, right? I need as many potholders as possible."

"Yeah, right. I don't know. I was supposed to go to the basketball game with-"

"I plan on being drunk and embarrassing myself and as many people as possible. Excluding you, of course."

"Sweet. I'll be there."



"Hey, snatch, you're..."

What? It's the only way I can get people to come.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

I Wanna Be Somebody, Be Somebody Toooooo

When Devon first moved here, there were many awkward moments while we were getting to know one another. I wasn't always the cool, sophisticated paragon of wit that you all know and love, so I reverted back to my painful adolescent self-consciousness. I was extremely nervous that he would think I was a complete idiot. Because of this, I could often be found hovering around him, wringing my hands and sweating.

I have always been very passionate about music. My taste is all over the place, thanks to my parents, and I have been laughed at on more than one occasion for my collection of Kenny Rogers cd's.

Fuck you.

One day, I walked in to find Devon perusing my CD collection and my heart stopped.

Here we go. This is where he disowns me as his mother.

"Mom...what's A Perfect Circle?"

"You don't know? Wow. Do you know who Tool is?"

"No. And is Korn any good?"

"My God. What did they do? Make you listen to show tunes?"

"No. Just the radio. Mostly pop stuff."

"Good grief. The horror."

"Who's Neil Diamond?"

"You're much too young for that. You're not ready. Grab some Sevendust and Godsmack and follow me. We'll start light."

Since then, he has developed taste that is very much like mine. He still likes the occasional rap song and I tolerate it by screaming at the top of my lungs for him to turn that ridiculous shit off, but, for the most part, we agree on just about everything.

Additionally, he thinks I'm utterly cool. This is validation like I cannot begin to explain. But I'll try.

In junior high and high school I was a complete outcast. I was different in every way imaginable. My nomadic upbringing had exposed me to many cultures and I had taken away with me a small habit or affectation from each of those. I was an anomaly before being an anomaly was cool. I also primarily went to a school in Llano, Texas, where the absolute highlight of a girl's life was that time she won rodeo queen, beat Boots Landers in a beer funneling contest and then topped off the magical evening by fucking the football team.

I was angry. I was hurt and humiliated all the time because of the taunting and jeering and being the butt of everyone's jokes. I would keep my game face on all day long and go home every night and sob in my room. I was crippled by my love for my parents and not wanting to hurt them any more than they hurt by seeing my pain, so suicide, although very appealing, was not an option. I loved them too much. But I hated my life and I despised myself.

I was horribly shy and introverted and very much a pacifist. I was confused by the animosity that was directed at me and I did not know how to respond, so I never did. I bottled everything and to keep from losing my mind, I found my release in music as a lot of teenagers do.

The music that I listened to was indicative of my repressed rage. Ozzy Osbourne, King Diamond, WASP, Megadeth, Pantera, Sepultera, Metallica - that was really all I felt I had. It was the one thing I would not compromise on and I was fiercely protective of the only companions to my grief. I wore my concert shirts with pride, even when I was sent home to change because they were deemed too vulgar or violent. My choice in music was a daily buffet of material for the ones who felt the need to trample on me and bruise my soul.

When Devon sat with me and listened to some of the music that I enjoy, I waited anxiously for his approval. I very much remember that lonely, broken girl and I didn't think I could stand it if my own son ridiculed me.

When he grimly smiled, balled his fist and began thumping his thigh to the rhythm, I knew what he was feeling. I thought, here is a way for you, too, to express the anger you've felt all these years. Here is a way for you to release that without harming anyone else or doing detriment to the morals that you live by. Here is a way to share it without having to come to me because you think I won't understand. I was thrilled that we shared that bond.

I got a new car a couple of weeks ago, and it has a CD player in it. You would think I've won the lottery.

Most mornings, we listen to a radio station that does a bit that Virginia just loves, because her unabashed gut chuckles make Devon and I smile for the entire ride.

This morning, however, as I was reaching for the volume and trying to drive, I accidentally hit the CD button and engaged the music that I usually only listen to when I'm alone and having a bad day. Blackie Lawless began shrieking about his ambition to live his way and be somebody. I couldn't help bellowing along with him for a moment. At some point, I glanced over to see Devon looking at me in horror. I faltered for a moment. I was, for a split second, embarrassed. Then he grinned and shook his head. He said, "I love you, Mom. You're weird, but it's cool."

And just like that, I was healed.

As we made our way through the beginning of the morning, I paid tribute to that lost girl by singing loudly, off key, and with the confidence she had never loved herself enough to have.

Thank you for that, Devon.

Monday, March 20, 2006

A Steady Diet Of My Own Words

Things I have scoffed at that have come back to bite me in the ass:

1. Ages 5 - 15: My mother warned me several thousand times that I would pay for all my bullshit with a daughter who would throw it back at me tenfold. I would laugh and say, "Nuh uh, cos' I'm not having kids! Hah!"

I ate those motherfuckers without any seasoning at all.

2. Age 18: "Be careful with your credit."

I somberly nodded and then took my shiny, new Sears credit card and maxed it out on really ugly clothes and some equally hideous shoes. They (Sears) still want my head.

3. Age 19: "Never trust a man who drives a Camaro." Dear God, the heartache that heeding this advice could have saved me.

4. Age 21: "I don't care if you don't drink now, when you turn twenty-one, you'll start drinking like it's your job." My answer: "Whatever. I will not."

I spent my twenty-first birthday having a shot contest at a restaurant with a geeky little ninety-pound guy I worked with.

I won.

I also threw up on the manager's shoes and am now banned from Bennigans in Midland, Texas, till the end of time.

5. Age 25: "He's too young/old/broke/stupid/scary for you."

I would immediately propose to him and hand over my vagina if someone said this to me.

6. Age 29: "Yes, you will have another baby if you find the right guy."

I vehemently denied this. I begged doctor's to take all my shit out and use it to benefit science or make a hat or store their loose change in there. I didn't give a shit, just GET IT OUT.

Now, I'm eagerly anticipating getting knocked up so I can stop playing commentator during sex and saying things like, "Aim for my belly button. You hit the dog last time and scared the shit out of him."

7. Age 29 and 3/4: "Turning 30 is hard for a woman. It's depressing."

I though this was the silliest shit ever. The day of my birthday, I collapsed in a heap of snot and sobs, went home, crawled up under the blankets and stayed there for three days eating Cheetos and drinking boxed wine.

8. Age 31: "It gets better. I love being thirty-five."

Really? Well, la-dee-dippy-fucking doo for you. I want to be twenty-one again and you can eat me.

That's how I used to feel. Upon watching Chris's nineteen-year-old sister struggle with becoming an adult, I don't think you could pay me to do that shit over again.

9. Age 32: "Everyone gets cold feet before their wedding."

Not me. Nope. Not happening.

Today, the something as innocent as actually seeing the invitation and the words, "marriage" and my name next to it sent me to the floor in convulsions. When my co-worker rounded the corner, I popped my thumb out of my mouth long enough to say, "I think I'm too young. Holy shit. I can't even make a casserole."


"Look, baby. See the moon?"

"That is not the moon, Mommy. It's too big to be the moon."

"I promise it is. It's a harvest moon. It looks so big because it's full."

"Full of what?"

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Holy Shit! I'm NOT just a walking vagina!

For those of you confused by this picture, please refer to the comments in the last post.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Things I Learned While Remodeling & Spring Cleaning With A McKnob

1. A man's storage room is like a clown car. The amount of shit that spills out will be completely disproportionate to the size of the room.

I opened up Pandora's box at noon on Saturday. After asking several questions like, "Why do you have this part if you don't have a 68 Camaro?" and, "Didn't they used to give these away at carnivals if you popped three balloons in a row?", I finally accepted defeat. I stuffed things back in and had to throw myself against the door when the whole house tried to fall over on it's side.

2. When he gets ready to grout tile, throw yourself on the floor, hold your breath and refuse to move until he READS THE INSTRUCTIONS. "Ehh, I got this," should henceforth be known as your cue to get prostrate, sister. Otherwise, you will spend four hours on your hands and knees, wiping up excess grout and screaming at the dog to quit sneaking slurps of your extra large vodka and sprite.

3. It's amazing what you can be motivated to do when things are not moving along as steadily as you would like. I myself can now completely remove a toilet in under five minutes.

4. When you ask about the garden and he says, "Whatever you want, honey. I don't care", just accept that he's lying to shut you up. When you pick a pretty floral fountain, he will pout and stall and veto you until you wake up from a daze to find a Jack Daniels whiskey barrel with a hand pump on it in the middle of some really ugly, fragile flowers that cost far too much and will probably die within a week.

5. He has that tool. Yes, he does, he just doesn't know where it is. He has every tool ever made, but it's probably hiding in the storage room and no one should venture in there. Ever.

6. Apparently, much to my horror, there is no "I" in TEAM.

7. How hard you're working can be gauged by how much butt crack you're showing. In an attempt to impress upon him how very hard I was working, I finally started grouting with nothing on from the waist down.

8. No matter how much he wants it to be valuable, his friends unsolicited advice on how to properly lay tile is complete and utter shit. I taped an enlarged copy of the instructions to the ceiling over our bed so he would have to look at it every morning. I also took his cell phone away from him so he couldn't call Bubba and ask him how he got that damned mortar off the dog.

9. As with any other home improvement project, glue-like substances and a drunken attempt to geometrically align anything will end in a tragedy of biblical proportions.

10. Next time, pay someone to do it. If anyone tells you that ANYTHING to do with remodeling is "so easy and inexpensive, you just-", tear out their fucking jugular and bring it to me. I'm going to hang it in my new eleven-billion dollar bathroom.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Item #677985564

This weekend, while Chris was at work, the UPS guy, the mailman, FedEx and DHL all had their weekly meeting at my house.

You know why?

Because my soon-to-be-husband is a complete addict when it comes to EBay.

At present, we have four gas tanks in our dining room (they keep coming in bent and he keeps asking them to send another one. The only problem is that he also forgets to ask UPS to pick up the defective ones), two family sized tents in our living room, a box that contains a leather police holster is sitting on our fireplace (don't ask), a reel for a fishing pole on my kitchen counter and I won't even go into the shit that's hiding under the bed and in our closet.

The eighth delivery finally sent me over the edge. I felt like Mr. Dursley when all those fucking owls keep getting in. I was not going to allow ONE MORE PACKAGE INTO MY HOUSE.

When I called Chris and told him I was picking him up from work and dropping him off at Lakewood clinic to make macaroni picture frames for a couple of months, he did what he inevitably does: he started planning. How could he keep his shopping addiction and not incur my wrath?

That night, he was wandering around, randomly picking things up and inspecting them with a very determined look on his face.

"Chris...what are you doing, honey?"

"Oh, nothing." He picked up a picture frame that had been proudly displaying the standard happy family with great teeth that normally comes with any frame. "Are you ever going to use this?"

"It is being used. Look. Fake, happy family on a beach. I love those people."

"Are you ever going to use it for pictures of people we actually know?"

"Oh. No. Why?"

"No reason." He tucks it under his arm and off he goes. I am used to his eccentric behavior, so I go back to painting.

An hour or so later, he approaches me with some brass candle holders.

"These have been in the closet for a while. Do you like these?"

"No. My mom re-gifted them to me, though, so I don't have the heart to throw them out."

"Ok." He spirits these away. I remain impassive, oddly enough.

Twenty minutes later, I take a break from remodeling to go get something to drink. Chris had strategically placed the candle holders on the floor and was taking pictures of them. Now, I'm intrigued.

"Uhh, honey?"

"Mmph," he grumbles.

"Whatcha doin'?"


"Ebay? You're trying to sell something?"

He nods his head. Apparently, taking pictures of hideous, brass candle holders requires great concentration.

"You're going to list those candle holders as your first ever item for sale on Ebay?" I persist.


"Okie dokie. That ought to kick start your career as a merchant."

"Do you not want me to sell them?"

"Oh, I'm not worried. They're ugly. You'd have to be retarded to buy those God awful things."

First, I would like to apologize to Mr. Michael Parsons of Cambridge, Illinois.

Second, he made like four hundred dollars from a bunch of ugly, tacky shit and some 311 tickets (to a sold out concert here in Memphis. Buyer has not made good on payment, so they're still listed. Go get 'em, kids).


Since I have no Cheetos that look like the Virgin Mary or toast that resembles David Letterman, I have to resort to my intelligence and my wits. We have so much shit, people.

I gotta run. Dusty wouldn't keep the damned beret on long enough to have his picture taken and now he's eating the Coca-Cola commemorative Dale Earnhardt bobble-head doll.

Cha ching!

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

More Useless Advice from Auntie Crystal

If someone expands on an innocent question you have posed to them be replying, "Ya know, there's an interesting story behind that", pick up the nearest weighty object and bludgeon them to death.

It will be less painful for both of you.


The birth of my daughter coincided with my retirement from the bartending world and my decision that I didn't want to see my feet anymore so I was going to get fat and grow huge tits.

No, seriously. I've been a size 8 my entire life and after having Virginia, my fat person sprang to life and attacked me. She had just been waiting for the right opportunity and I was too exhausted from taking care of the milk vampire that I had given birth to to fight Fat Me off.

So, here I sit, my wedding mere weeks away, and I'm icky. Chris isn't exactly svelte, but he's tall and country, so he can pull it off.

I can't.

We're remodeling the bathroom, so the mirror is sitting in our bedroom. I went in yesterday to use the computer and sat down. I was waiting for something to load, so I was spinning in the chair (does that ever get old??? no? I didn't think so) and I stopped in shock when I saw Jabba the Hut was in the house.


I decided to leave the mirror there as my motivation to exercise. Eating is not a problem for me as I rarely have time for it and I've never been lured by sweets or anything. The problem is that I sit for my job, I take care of my kids and Chris, and I'm utterly exhuasted. I mean, down to the bone EXHAUSTED. And, no offense, but if you don't have children, no need to chime in with your tips and ideas about exercising. I don't mean to piss anybody off, but I'm really sick of people with no children telling me how I need to lose weight by working out 1 or 2 hours a day.

1 or 2 hours?? Ok, sure! My kids can lose weight with me BECAUSE THEY WON'T BE EATING. And just to assure you that, yes, I'm really telling you the truth, here is a run down of my day:

5:45 Alarm goes off.
6:00 Tell Virginia for the twentieth time to get up or I'll set her teddy on fire.
6:05 Turn on the stove and hold teddy over it, bellowing at the top of my lungs to GET UP.
6:30 Leave the house.
7:10 Drop kids off (yes, it's that long of a commute. No shit)
7:40 Arrive at work, sit at my desk and cry for half an hour.
(this is the part where everything goes dim for a little while)
5:00 run screaming to my car
5:30 pick up my chirruns
5:50 run screaming from my mother's house
6:00 drive amongst some of the most utterly stupid people ever created
6:40 get home
7:00 do homework with Virginia (whoever the fuck came up with the idea to give five-year-old children homework did not have a job or any sense whatsoever)
7:30 explain, again, very patiently, that mommy is college educated and is CERTAIN that she is correct regarding the spelling of "balloon"
7:45 start dinner
8:00 meet the fire department at the door
8:30 herd my young one to bed
8:45 go back and assure her that monsters aren't real
9:00 start laundry
10:00 finish laundry and cry myself to sleep

So, honestly, I have little or no time to myself.

Last night, Chris sat down at the computer. I was folding socks and I glanced at him to see that he had stopped spinning (whee!) and was staring at the mirror in complete and utter shock.

I sighed and said, "I know. If Hans or Luke were here, I'd have them throw me into that gaping maw."

Crazy Earl's Used Cars

Ok, that's not where we went, but close enough.

After we got there and the prick that lied to us told us the car we had come to buy had been sold (I was not surprised), he immediately tried to get us to upgrade. I stood mute and played the docile female - which, incidentally, left bloody marks in the palms of my hands from digging my nails in. I do not do the subservient role very well - and Chris did all the talking.

After he finally convinced this fuckbag that we weren't there to buy a Lexus, the guy comes back and says, "You know what? Since it's the last day of the month, we're willing to do something CRAZY for you!"

You know what crazy ended up being? Trying to charge us $11,200 in interest after lying to us and keeping us there for almost two hours.


I'm going back tonight with a bazooka and a bottle of 151.

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