Conversation in the bathroom at a dive bar in my hometown

Me:  (to myself) This stall won't lock

Stranger: (from the other stall) You got to pull up on that shit!

Me:  Ok, it worked.  Thanks!

Stranger:  It ain't like it gon prevent nobody from bustin in and whippin yo ass!

Me: (peeing) well, I sure hope that won't happen.  That could get messy.

Stranger: Guh!  If somebody start whoopin yo ass when you on a turlet, your piss and shit will stop.

Me:  why would anyone want to beat me up when I am on the toilet?

Stranger:  Guh! I just got out the pin-tin-churry.  That shit happen!

Me: (coming out of the stall to wash my hands next to her)  I don't think I would be able to fight back.

Stranger: (incredulous) YOU A PUSSY?

Me:  Kind of.

Stranger:  No. You got to defend yo-self! If somebody bust that do' open and start whoppin yo ass, you just gon let em beat yo ass?  While you shittin???

Me:  I just want people to like me.

Stranger:  Dumb ass white girl.  I ain't got time for this shit.

aaaaaand scene.

The one where you come hang out at my house with my high school friends and we spend the whole time talking about people and teachers you don't know

I was browsing facebook the other night and found this posted:

Calling all past Drill Team members. Oct 12th will be the 25th anniversary of its start. Sheila wants past members to come out to the WHS football game to reunite and possibly do the fight song on the field. Let Julie know who all can make it out. No inappropriate dancing! We are LADIES!

I am not one of those people who thinks high school was the best time of my life. I was a drama nerd and a misfit and served a short stints in band, in the color guard and on the drill team.



When I read that post on facebook, my immediate thought was hell no.  I haven't seen these people in 15 years and most of the memories I have had to do with me being grounded whether it be by my parents or by the school.  Then the comments started rolling in and I started remembering the good times.  Also, the times that were not good at the time, but since the statute of limitations has passed, have become amusing.

I was a horrible person to Sheila, the Director.  I honestly feel terrible about it now.  She wanted so badly for all of us to be ladies and shake the typical whore core connotation that goes along with dance teams.  She picked songs for us to dance to like the Flintstones theme and Smoke on the Water, but we got to pick our stretching music which was, almost always something by the Beastie Boys or radio edits of NWA.  Of course, the stretching would sometimes turn into a competition for who could get their ass to pop the most or who could stick their boobs out the farthest.  Ms. Shiela would shake her fingers ferociously and threaten demerits and we would be like, "What??  WE'RE STRETCHING!  GOD!" Eye roll. "what? we are stretching our eyes. god...."

During practice, me and a few of my pastiest friends would hang out in the back of the gym and learn how to dirty dance from this black girl named Patricia.  She taught us how to do The Granny (one hand on hip, one hand on knee, hump air violently) and the The Dog (both hands on bleacher or bumper or ground if necessary, bend knees, hump air violently).   Sheila busted me doing the dog in the stands during one of our home games and I got grounded for the next two games which was so lame.  However, I could not shake the feeling of pride and street cred oozing from my pores as the black girl on the drill team screamed, "Go white girl!"  It was worth it.

During Friday night football games, we got third quarter off and had to be back promptly for fourth.  I was habitually late either from smoking cigarettes, stuffing my face with nachos or stuffing my face with some loser (retrospectively) in the parking lot.  I kept my hymen til college and was a professional tease, but I REALLY liked kissing.  One time I came back late, my french braid amess and my giant red bow askew, holding the hand of some undesireable and Ms. Sheila pulled me to the side and said we were not allowed to hold hands with boys while in uniform.  This meant no kissing!  This meant no sneaking out to the parking lot to hop on some dudes tailgate and swig from his bottle of Goldschlager while he unsuccessfully tried to finger me through my orange-hued dance tights!  She was single-handedly ruining my life!  This was BULLSHIT!  So I quit my senior year. 

Now that I am older, I am remembering this with fondness instead of that crawl-under-a-rock feeling I had about it once I graduated and realized what a little slut bag hellion I was.  So now I think I am going to go to that game on Friday night.  Sheila will probably shit her pants as soon as she sees my face, but I will only do the dog when her back is to me.  If I have learned one thing over all these years, it is how not to get caught.  I'm looking forward to meeting up with these girls I had shennanigans with and seeing what kind of women they've become.  And hopefully, Ryan will turn down his tailgate for me!!

Triflin'

Lately, I have been feeling pretty overwhelmed at work. In order to alleviate some of that, I have turned to screwing with people.

I have a friend at work who sometimes gets a little raunchy over our company instant messenger. He is in a higher position and can't afford any negative attention,but for some reason I haven't quite figured out, he trusts me. What a dummy.

I have recently learned a new trick on messenger where you can change the "subject" on a conversation. So, on the top of the message box, you can write anything you want. During a particular cuss word-filled rant, I decided to use this function so what he saw at the top of our chat box was "Crystal - Currently Monitoring Conversation"

He immediately closed the chat window and three seconds later my phone rang. I could hear him physically shitting his pants over the phone. "Oh my God, who do you think is monitoring this?! IT?? HR?? Crystal, if they ask, you have to tell them I was joking and that you aren't offended!"

And then I changed the subject again:

Luckily, he laughed instead of driving to my office and bludgeoning me with a stapler.

Now he is on vacation. I had to go to his location for a meeting. His door was locked so I texted him that I needed to use it for a meeting and got permission to gain access from security. For some reason, he trusts me. What a dummy. Once in, me and three of my work friends spent an hour and this is the finished product:

He gets back from vacation tomorrow. Fortunately, I will be driving to Fort Worth tomorrow. Unfortunately, I am starting to feel guilty that nobody will be there to help clean it up...especially since we wrapped his pens individually. I feel kinda sorry for him, actually. I hate being such a good person sometimes.

Bite your fingers, tiny hands!

I didn't think anyone even looked at this but when I saw Chris and John's comments, I was all, "I have a reason!!" and I'm not even being sarcastic. Also, I don't want to burst any bubbles here, but tiny hands? Yeah. Hands not so tiny. I've seen them.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

We'll see...

I got a fancy app in hopes that maybe I will blog more. I need to do something with my time instead of checking Facebook/WWF/my areolae for stray hairs/obsessing whether I have West Nile Virus and/or SARS and/or cantaloupe induced salmonella.
Ok, I just have to say that this autocorrect on my iPhone is seriously screwing with me. When I wrote cantaloupe, it thought I meant "can't elope" and it reminded me of when Mr. Belding thought Screech and Lisa were going to get married and he said, "Screech! You can't elope!" to which Screech responded, "Don't call me a cantaloupe, you melon head!". HAHAHA
Still pisses me off though. Autocorrect, not the amount of Saved by the Bell and Full House quotes I know by heart.

I went to a training class where I had to simulate working on a drive in a shop. Of course, I am the only girl in a room with ten dudes. So it is another guy's turn and he was at the front of the room about to begin when he said he needed earplugs. I'm nothing if not annoyingly helpful. I thought I had a plastic package of earplugs in my pocket so I said "here!" reached in my pants and pulled out a Carefree maxi pad.
He said, "I don't think that will fit in my ear."
I just realized I said I reached in my pants. For clarification purposes, I reached in the pocket of my pants.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Yo baby pop yeah you

I haven't been blogging because I have been busy with a kid. And facebook. And Pinterest. And drinking wine in all my spare time....including now. However, I am feeling like blabbing tonight and it is too late to call people on a school night and everyone is asleep so I can't perfect my chair routine to "Freeze Frame" lest I wake someone up and they want a bottle of milk or sex. So I will take it out on my poor laptop who is all, "I thought you were on vacation!" Never gets a break, this one.

Something that happened recently: I got fake eyelashes. I was getting my nails done and the lady who always asks if I want my lip waxed even though I don't have a mustache said, "oh, honey, you wan eyelash. only 80 dollar." and I was like, "what? i wan eyelash?" and after a few minutes of broken English and frustrated nodding on my part, I was laying down with tape over my bottom lids getting eyelashes individually glued on for an hour and a half. Having your bottom eyelids taped down for that long is scary as shit. You can't open your eyes and sometimes the lady doing the whole thing gets up to DO SOMEONE'S NAILS without telling you and you can hear her in the background criticizing someone else's mustache. When I was finally done and she gave me the mirror, I was in shock. I looked like this. I could hardly open my eyes and she gave me some bull about how I will get used to it and how I look very pretty. I have braided them and taped them to my eyebrows. Also, the whole "if i can't see you, you can't see me" rule does not apply. I found myself deliberately not making eye contact with people in hopes that they wouldn't notice the hungry spider vaginas peering off my face, but no such luck. Folks were like, "WHOA! Did you get fake eyelashes?" So, the moral of the story is, when you're having a bad day, it could always be worse. You could have made the decision to spend $80 getting false eyelashes put on and they look ridiculous and you have to walk around with that shit superglued to your face for 3-6 weeks.

What else...

My profession allows me to visit many different oil field locations in places like East Texas. Sometimes, when I get to talking to these good ol' boys, my grammar may slip a little. I may even say things like, "Whoooo doggie, them some hot coveralls" or something like that. I think it has to do with me feeling like I am back at home and I usually get a warm reception from the guys at rigs. So one day when I was at work, a cowboy actually told me my grammar was atrocious. He asked me if I even went to school. Now, I pride myself on knowing how to use proper grammar. That was the only class I ever aced in school. However, I tend to use creative license in every day speak and on my blog (gimmie a break I am drinking). Kind of like when I refused to name my kid Gladys or Hillis because I didn't want to put people in the position of using the s' or the s's. God forbid someone give me a homemade sign to hang in her room that said "Gladys's Toys". I couldn't live with it. Even though that may be the correct usage, who really knows? That is something I am not comfortable with and I am not going to subject my child to years of scrutiny when she is referring to her posessions.
ANYWAY, so this guy told me my grammar was atrocious and I have since set out to prove to him that my grammar is, in fact, amazing. He wound up friending me on our office instant messenger and I am finding it stressful. I am using complete sentences and expressing my feelings in actual words instead of emoticons or phrases like "i b chillin. what u doin?". Do you guys know how hard it is to end a sentence without a preposition??? So I have found myself using "with which" a lot. What makes me sound like a bigger douchebag? I finally broke down and told him the pressure he was putting me under (the pressure in which he was putting me?) and he didn't even know what a preposition was!!!!!!! fml.

So yeah, I have a kid. She just turned 1 last week and she is awesome. I am going to leave you with a music video she made to LMFAO's "Sexy and I Know It" because I have become one of those parents that forces people to stare at her kid. Yep.

Blogger won't let me embed it for some reason, so here is a link to the video. Warning: She has passion in her pants and she ain't afraid to show it.

Don't Make Me Cut A Bitch

Amber, over at Everybody's Working for the Weekend, recently mentioned on her facebook page that she is hormonal and started crying when her pet bird bit a hole in her shirt. One of her friends commented, "When I was pregnant with Ally and Kelly Clarkson won American Idol I cried so hard and so long that I had to sleep in the next day and go to work late...and I had never watched AI until that night."

The point is, when you're pregnant, you really turn into another person. My opinion is that you're not allowed to drink or smoke weed or eat a bunch of sushi or whatever you normally do to cope...that, in addition to the fact that none of your clothes fit, you're experiencing fun things like baby elbows in your ribs, boob/crotch sweat and involuntary farting at work. All of that sucks so it is completely normal for your fat-ankled camel's back to be broken by several straws a day.

That reminded me of a time when I was 8 months pregnant. I had just finished teaching a class and I was tired and trying to get home. So I rounded a corner and there was a vehicle stuck in a ditch with a tow truck hooked up to it blocking the entire roadway. About 200 feet in front of them was another tow truck partially blocking the road and the lady tow truck driver was outside watching. I needed to turn around, but the only way I could do it was to pull into the driveway on the other side of the that tow truck and back up that way. There was still plenty of room between her and the ditched vehicle so I started to go and the lady tow truck driver flipped her shit. She started screaming at me and calling me stupid and at one point, she was like, "What the fuck are you doing???!" At that point, I decided it would be a good idea to put my truck in park and get out and start waddling over to her throwing my hands in the air and I think I said something like, "What are you going to to about it, bitch?" [Ed. note: this is kind of embarrassing for me to admit. I wish I was that gangster on a regular basis. Please keep in mind that if someone looks at me sideways, I make it my mission to either get them to like me by buying them things or showing them my boobs.] So she, obviously scared that a severly pregnant lady was about to attack her, screamed back, "You need to turn around, bitch!" so I started waddling faster because I will be dammed if she gets the best of me. I did not stand in front of a classroom for 6 hours and pee my pants a little bit every hour to deal with this crap. I was just about to go thug on her when I heard "BEEWOOOOP!" and turned my head to the left where a cop was sitting in his patrol car watching the whole thing. I had never even seen him in my blind rage. He didn't even get out of his car. He turned his speaker on and said, "Come on, ladies, get it together. Ma'am, get back in your car" and then he proceeded to give me directions on how to get my truck out of the area all via the loud speaker. He wasn't about to get out of his patrol car and enter into the danger that was a pregnant lady in a waddling rage. He wasn't ready for this jelly. Crystal Street Cred = 10.

After I got back into my car, I called my husband so we could talk smack about the lady tow truck driver together and he would make me feel better about the whole situation and we would giggle and then he would massage my feet when I got home because I'd had such a hard day. HAHAHAHA @ my silly expectations. I actually wound up getting an earful about how I need to be careful with his unborn child and blahblahblahsomeotherirrationalbullshitblahblahblah and I wound up hanging up on him and crying the whole way home.

Lessons to be learned: Lady tow truck drivers suck and men should always just smile and agree with whatever their wife says...especially if she is pregnant.

Bamail!

I was going through some old emails and ran across this awesome one from my friend, Ba:

Hey, what do you think of my new goal: I bet a friend at work that I could say the word "bitch"
but have it last at least eleven full syllables. One syllable, of course, is the standard. Two syllables is f-cking child's play; every two-bit white-bread investment banker downtown says "beeyotch." Three syllables is elementary school crap: ever heard of "bee-eye-itch-nitch"? Of course you have. Even four syllables is ridiculously unchallenging: "bizz-nitch-ess-es" (this is singular; plural is "bizznitchesseses").

Anyway, I challenged myself to eleven got-damned syllables. This is a pretty tall order because I once tried nine syllables, and, with my entire firm watching, I crashed and burned. The medics and EMTs that were on hand had to use their fire extinguishers on me because at syllable number seven, I became engulfed in flames (but I was wearing an Evel Knievel-type white jump suit and a helmet). I was laid up in a hospital for about two weeks.

So yeah....

I have avoided blogging for awhile. I was refusing to have a mommy blog...not that mommy blogs are a bad thing, but it is kind of weird to go from writing about mcribs and my husband's undescended third nut to cradle cap and stories about how I rushed my daughter to the doctor because I thought she had measles, but she only got bitten by an ant. I thought I'd have plenty of things to discuss besides the baby, but my entire life is babybabybaby. I frikkin LOVE the kid, by the way. She is, by far, the coolest person I have ever met in my entire life and she doesn't even talk! That's probably one of the reasons I like her so much - she lets me do all the talking.

However, I am trying to put off work so I decided screw it, I am going to blog. I will ease into it with labor. I got induced; 24 hours later I was pushing; 2 hours after that, the doctor decided that my hips were too small and I had to have an emergency c-section. I, of course, started freaking out and crying and then they gave me some drugs and I talked to the doctor about lord knows what while she was elbow deep in my guts. Literally. That is not a sexual euphamism. I was freezing. Probably because my insides were strewn about the OR. I thought about screaming "FREEEEDOM". Ha I am hilarious. So then, she sewed me up (7 layers of stitches!) , sent the baby off to the nursery with Ryan and wheeled me off to recovery. While in recovery, and still quite loopy, I had the same nurse that I'd had during the day and I noticed she had a mole on her chin. Only, I didn't know it was a mole and I said, "HEEEEEY! When did you get your face pierced???" to which she replied, "What?" and I said, "YOUR FACE! IT IS PIERCED!" and she looked at me crazy and then I said, "I'm sorry. I'm all fucked up." Then Ryan made it back to me at which point I said, "Hey! Aren't you glad our baby isn't black!?" and he told me to be quiet because there was a black family on the other side of the curtain. So then I felt the need to explain that the reason I said that was because I did not have sex with a black man, therefore, my baby turned out white and not black. Not that I would mind having sex with a black man, but I am married to Ryan who is white. Ugh. Shut up, Crystal.

Right up to the second I heard her cry, I was completely baffled why someone would go through this more than once. Why do people have more than one child on purpose??? Now I know.

So then a bunch of stuff happened that you probably don't want to know about and I got the kid home and got no sleep. She sleeps great, but I was in anxious mom mode and was constantly checking on her to make sure she was breathing.

She is pretty perfect though and is now sleeping 11-12 hours a night and rarely cries unless something is wrong. I am completely smitten.

The McRib is back. There is officially nothing to be upset about now.

The McRib is back y'all!! It couldn't have come at a better time either because I don't care about my weight right now.




I have had two conversations today regarding this, both with men, both who said something to the effect of, "Real bbq is better" and since I haven't blogged in forever, I figured it was worth mentioning.

I have to admit that real bbq does rock my world. However, sometimes it is nice to slum it. It is kind of like sex. Sure, I prefer intelligent, clean cut, classy, professional men, but come on...sometimes it is nice to knock it out with some idiot west Texas roughneck who uses poor grammar like "we was" and "i ain't" and smells like sweat and tequila shots. As long as no one sees me.

For the record, I have never been with a roughneck before, but I imagine it would be shockingly similar to eating a McRib...in my truck in the back of a dark parking lot shoving it into my face as quickly as possible.

I'm hungry.

In other news, I weigh a lot and I waddle and sound like Isaac Hayes when I talk. This is a picture of my foot:



And this is how my foot used to look. Yeah. Just so you know and are aware.