Drunk Chrissy is a Motherfucking Genius

It is last night, right now.

By that I mean, I am typing this and it is Monday night. November 30. Not today. Today is likely any day but that. Unless it is November 30 in another year, many days from now. When I am typing this. Drunk. You get what I’m saying.

Brian told me…well…reminded me how fucking much I love drunk writing. And I said to him, “Brian, I don’t have anything to say.”

But then I remembered I totally just ballered the fuck out of our wine rack. Because I’m a motherfucking genius. And you all need to see the brilliance that is drunk me.

Store sloped shoulder wine bottled backwards to keep them from falling off your wine rack. For magnums of wine, you may need to get creative.

So we’ve had this problem with sloping shoulder bottles in the $12 wine rack I bought at Savers (One day, I plan to spray paint it or something to make it look fancy, but until then it’s dusty, rusty wrought iron). The problem is that the sloping shoulder bottles slide down and out without warning. The last thing in the world I want is for one of our fancy pants bottles of two buck chuck or non-cheap wines (it’s hit or miss here – we serve both kinds) to fall to its shattering, wine-spilling, alcohol-abuse end on the basement floor. And so I placed the sloping shoulder wines on the wooden rack atop the metal rack and swore never to buy sloping bottles again (which is a dirty rotten lie because I love pinot noir and Kim Crawford sauvignon blanc – when it’s on sale or at Sam’s Club).

Wine Rack Hack for Magnum Bottles

Well, we went for our wine tasting at Cooper’s Hawk (restaurant, wine club, bar, joyous place of boozy goodness) and after all of my and some of Brian’s wine, I decided I needed to make room for last month’s magnums of Decadence (some fancy pants wine celebrating Cooper’s Hawk’s 10th anniversary that I didn’t pay extra for).

And so it was time to solve the problem of the fucking wine rack and sloping shoulder bottles. And I thought. And rearranged. And fucked around with the wine. Eventually, the Decadence ended up on the top of the wine rack, cradled in the wood rack.

Storing magnums of wine is easy when you're creative...or drunk.

Storing magnums of wine is easy when you’re creative…or drunk.

Wine Rack Hack for Sloping Shoulder Bottles

Now…what to do with those sloped shoulders…I couldn’t drink ’em because as good as five bottles of wine sounds on paper, it just wasn’t going to happen on a school night. I didn’t want them on the ground, lest we randomly flood or some shit like that. And so I thought.

And I thought some more.

And holy hell did I think enough to drop a couple more F-bombs on that fucking wine rack…

Until I put the bottle in backwards.

Wait, what? It works? Fuck yeah, bitches!

Store sloped shoulder wine bottled backwards

In case of emergency, store wine near a fire extinguisher. Or not…whatever.

All you have to do to keep those suckers from falling off the rack is put them in backwards…against a wall (or a sort of almost wall. Whatever).

And now I’m fucking sober. It was probably the time it took me to make graphics. That shit always takes forever.

Are you a fucking genius after a few glasses or wine or cocktails? What brilliant ideas have you discovered after drinking? Were you expecting me to break shit? Because I totally didn’t. Booya, Grandma!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Drove Drunk and Got Pulled Over by a Cop

I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life. Don’t let that be confused with regrets. I regret nothing. Everything that I’ve done has brought me to the place that I am today. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Without further adieu, some of my more idiotic moves…

Cutting a bald spot on the crown of my head during the formative years.

Spending a long New Year’s weekend in Indiana with 5 stoner couples with 6 movies constantly looping and the smell of weed permeating the cabin.

Smoking my very first cigarette…at the age of 23.

Going on a date with (and continuing to date) a guy (who turned out to be a drug addict) whom I met on Craigslist.

Spraining my ankle doing a drunken happy dance.

Quitting my job because my boss asked for my letter of resignation instead of waiting for her to fire me.

Dating the same guy over and over and over again, for three years expecting different results.

And the number one stupidest thing that I’ve ever done: Driving after drinking. Never. Ever. Ever. Do this. A few years ago, I was really really stupid. Really stupid. After several libations on my own one slow Friday evening at Flaherty’s, I decided that I wanted to go sing some karaoke at another bar.

I got drunk, drove to another bar, and got pulled over by a police officer

I tipped my bartender, who didn’t seem to mind that I was a little intoxicated as I was leaving. In her defense, I looked and behaved just fine. But a small part of me knew that I probably shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. But I was bored playing my 207th game of Mah Jong that night, the bar was dead, and I had friends drinking at another bar.

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I decided to take the main road, instead of the familiar back roads. Driving from one town, through another, to a third town, I noticed a police officer driving behind me. I did a quick check of my surroundings: speed limit (check), seat belt (check), breath (gum? no, but shit, there’s not much I can do about that). There’s no reason that this police officer should need to pull me over. Phew!

I mentally pumped myself up, Just a few more blocks and I would be safely into the next town, out of this cop’s police jurisdiction. The bar was just on the other side of the city line. Come on, just a few more blocks. Don’t fuck up.

The next thing I knew, the all-too-familiar red and blue lights flashed at me from behind. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

So I re-checked my surroundings. Do not panic. Do. Not. Panic. I looked for my insurance card, which I was infamous for not being able to find. Found one! From last year. Hopefully, it will do.

The police officer walks up to my window and I roll it down.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No, officer, I’m sorry, but I really don’t.” I genuinely had no clue. To my knowledge, I had done nothing wrong. Well, sort of. Nothing that warranted pulling me over. Plus we all know I’m a terrible liar. PLUS it’s a proven fact that cops can see right through my bullshit when I try to lie.

“Did you know that your license plates expired last month?”

Oh my God, really? “Oh my God, really?” I knew that my shock was evident by the sympathetic look on the officer’s face. I kept babbling, “My dad and I were just talking about this. He had asked me when I needed to renew my plates, but I thought that they weren’t up until April. That’s when I got the plates. I got the car in November of 2006. I haven’t gotten anything in the mail that says I need to renew them. I’m so sorry.”

The police officer looked at me and asked for my license and insurance. I passed him my driver’s license and was holding onto my expired insurance card–waiting to pass it to him. He scanned my license quickly, and never once even took a second look at the insurance card. He handed my license back to me and told me to go get my plates taken care of the next day. He told me it may be a hefty fine for being late, but he would not write me a ticket. He proceeded to wish me a good evening, and to drive safely before he walked away.

This mistake could have cost me everything. Click To Tweet

Not once did he ask me where I had been.

Not once did he ask me where I was going.

Not once did he ask if I had been drinking.

I took that as a sign from God that I should never. Ever. Ever. Drive drunk again. My one free pass, I called it. I was a mere two blocks from the bar that I was heading towards. I panicked and called my best friend, Mark, who was at the airport on his way to some other country. He told me that I was stupid, and I shouldn’t be driving. He told me to calm down and leave my car at the bar that night. So I got to the bar, and called my flavor of the week. He met me at the bar and took me to his place when it closed. The next morning, he got me to my car, and all was well. But holy shit was I freaked out.

I’d like to tell you I never drove drunk again, but that would be a lie. And there would be fewer stories to share with you. For the record, I don’t condone drunk driving nor do I do it anymore. Ever. At all.

Have you ever done something incredibly stupid and gotten caught? Any run-ins with the law that you escaped by the skin of your teeth? Drunk driving stories? Tell me your tales!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Got So Drunk, I Swallowed Live Goldfish

When you’re in college, you’ll do anything to be one of the bad asses who can drink like a fish. I think I got that confused with swallowing live fish. They sound really similar, right?

When you're in college, you'll do anything to be one of the bad asses who can drink like a fish. I think I got that confused with swallowing fish.

My first semester of Sophomore year at Bradley University was my most alcoholic semester. It was also my highest GPA semester. Go figure.

Bradley frat parties always trumped ISU frat parties. Where ISU frat parties were selective with their entry, Bradley frat parties welcomed anyone and everyone. Where ISU frat parties were mostly frat guys and select chicks, Bradley frat parties had lots of dudes (not all frat guys) and lots of chicks. Where ISU frat parties were BYOB, Bradley frat parties provided libations to those of age (with wristband proof). And if you knew a guy in the frat, wristbands weren’t hard to come by.

I suppose that’s why Peoria police started cracking down on frat parties at BU pretty hard core as of my Junior year. Lucky for me, I had a fake ID (well, a “real” ID that had someone else’s name on it) by then and was drinking at bars, not parties.

But this was Sophomore year…and Bradley parties were in their prime.

Our little group of friends planned to head over to the SAE party known as Rubber Ducky. Now, SAE at Bradley had a pretty bad rep, but they were loads of fun. I always had a great time when Katie and I would trek over there. Gin and Tonic night is the precise reason why I don’t drink tonic. Ever. Gin and I are still friends, but mix that bitch with tonic and memories of weekday morning hangovers are plentiful. Plus tonic tastes like shit.

So Rubber Ducky. A party in which the frat boys celebrated safety. And ridiculous amusement. A giant bowl of colorfully packaged condoms adorned the front table like a bowl of candy on Halloween. A brother in a duck suit wandered around greeting guests. And a huge baby pool filled with water and goldfish dominated the back yard.

The thing about those goldfish–people swallowed them. Live.

So before we went out, I made Katie, Sheila, and Mark promise promise promise that they would not let me eat a goldfish. They promised. Several lemon drops later, we were on our way to the party.

As soon as we arrived, I ran into Porno Steve, a man who was the single biggest reason for my lush-like freshman year of dare drinking.

Porno Steve yelled to me, “Hey! I’m at a frat party!”  He didn’t do frat parties. Ever. He was the pre-game captain, but never made it to the main event.

“Awesome! What’s goin’ on?”

“You should eat a goldfish!”

“Yes! I should!” I responded immediately. Where was Mark? Where was Katie? Where was Sheila? I didn’t even think. We walked over to the kiddie pool where I squatted down, cupped my hands, reached in, and caught a tiny little fishie. I brought the squirmy fish to my mouth and I downed my first goldfish in one full swoop.

Yes, I said first.

I looked at Porno Steve with drunken, glazed over eyes, searching for admiration, but all he said was, “I didn’t see it! Do it again.”

So I did.

Again, searching for his approval, I looked at him and said, “I did it!”

“I didn’t see it! Do it again!” I was about to reach down into the kiddie pool again, when Mark pulled me up.

“Hey Chrissy, you’ve already done two. He’s full of shit and messing with you. I think you’ve had enough.” Mark reminded me that I didn’t want to do one in the first place. But it was so easy…and I was so drunk.

Then while I was sitting on a bench, Jack, one of the frat brothers that I knew came over, dangling a little goldfish above my face. He held it by its tail fins and I didn’t think. I looked up, opened my mouth, and swallowed the squirmy fish that fell into my throat.

That was the last thing I remember about Rubber Ducky.

The next morning, I was so hung over that I couldn’t even eat potato triangles. And I loved potato triangles.

All I could say to Cletus and Robbie the entire day was, “Poor little fishies.”

What is the craziest thing you’ve done while under the influence? Have you ever swallowed live fish?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Things You Shouldn’t Do When the Side Effects of Your Meds Include Anxiety

I pinched a nerve in my back. Which, if you’ve never done so, is one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever had the “pleasure” of dealing with. I believe that’s what I did about a month ago, when I thought it was just from yoga-ing without stretching…but now I think it was just something waiting to happen. And the yoga-ing was the straw that broke the camel’s my back. It wasn’t nearly as debilitating the first time, and it went away relatively quickly.

This time, it came back with a vengeance. A vengeance that was not willing to part with me quite so quickly. And it all happened days before I was supposed to board a plane to New York for one of the biggest parties of the year. Brian almost didn’t even let me go!

So I went to the doctor. Who prescribed muscle relaxers(corti-something something) and steroids (prednizone) after taking 37 seconds to press my back in 3 places (which will cost me something in the 3-digits)…thus diagnosing me with a pinched nerve in my lower back (sciatic nerve methinks, but non-radiating). She has since refilled the steroids (with a different, apparently more potent version) and told me to get my butt to physical therapy, a place I’m all too familiar with. And now that I’m  off the drugs, I’m stuck with a twice-daily PT routine that feels as tough as my most intense yoga class. Or personal training.

But when I was on the drugs, I got some serious fucking anxiety. Now I have a tendency toward anxiety and depression,  and whatever good Prednizone did to my back, it was wicked and evil to my brain. It was the worst anxiety attack I’ve had in years. And I’ve had a few.

So I did what any normal girl would do when hopped up on pain killers with a side of anxiety. I did everything wrong.

Things you shouldn’t do during an anxiety attack

When the meds for the pinched nerve in my back made me absolutely insane, I decided to do these really stupid things that only magnified my anxiety to the nth degree. Learn from my lessons people.

Have your palms read

In my infinite wisdom, while out with some girlfriends at a ladies day out event, I thought it would be brilliant to have my palms read. Sure I didn’t really believe in any of that mumbo jumbo but figured I’d give some quack 20 bucks, and she’d tell me some of the badass things in my future. Of course, I didn’t realize that her visions would be vague and could lean toward the negative or positive depending on where my head was. And fucking being the lunatic on drugs that I was,  I definitely leaned toward the nego. And my anxiety was through the roof the rest of the day. And just to drive the nail a little deeper, I fucking believed that bitch. The minute she told me I was on a lucky streak, I took everything she said and mentally filed it away.

Consume alcohol

With all that anxiety, you may find yourself in search of chocolate. When the only chocolate in the house requires baking (fuck that) or is the last piece of Easter candy (a hollow cookies and cream bunny) that you planned to snap photos of for a potential blog post next Easter (that you’re probably not going to write anyway), you know what you have to do. You open a bottle of Bailey’s and pour a largely portioned shot (twice) and take pictures. Since your tolerance is pretty much shite, you’re drunk…and you anxiety is now magnified even more. You’re probably going to start crying pretty soon, aren’t you? Oh, you’re too smart for that shit? Me too, guys. Me too.

Upgrade your website host

When your anxiety is already raging, there’s no time like the present to fix what ain’t broken. Well, my site was kind of broken. But not really It was running super slow, and the people at DreamHost told me if I  spent more money, my site would run faster. And everyone wants that, right? So I jumped on my computer after a few shots and went to town. I also panicked the fuck out and spent 30 minutes chatting with customer support who told me I should avoid making any changes for a couple days while it transferred over. They also said some other stuff which I promptly forwarded to Brian.

Contact your boyfriend who’s out with his friends

So now I’m freaking out about my stupid soothsaying palms, drunk, with a broken website…and alone. Brian was out with a friend,  catching a flick. After movies, they tend to stand outside and talk…sometimes for hours even when it’s balls cold outside. I couldn’t handle that much more of my anxiety alone. I needed to drag someone else into my crazy bullshit. Since Brian voluntarily lives with me knowing I come with my own brand of crazy… I played the part of psycho girlfriend.

First, I checked the runtime of said movie. Then, realizing he was still in the movie, sent a text…something along the lines of “hey. I’m crazy right now. My anxiety is killing me slowly. Please come home as soon as possible so I don’t accidentally die over-analyzation.” I made that last part up. I don’t think I actually thought I was going to die. But my brain was not pleased with where I was at.

When he didn’t respond shortly after the movie was out, I sent a Gchat message. Because crazy requires company…and gchat lets you see if someone has seen your message.  And I could be a little less anxious knowing he hadn’t actually seen my message. See? Batshit crazy. But I was just like…”hey no big deal, but just…let me know you saw my message. Kthxbye.”

When in doubt, visit Facebook

As if my anxiety wasn’t already rockin’, I took to Facebook where everyone’s joys were flying all over the place. Why is it that when you’re super anxious, Facebook is all look how happy everyone is? And when you’re flying high on life, it’s all, “OMG look at all this SAD.” Why? Because Facebook is a dick. Luckily, I have some pretty bad ass friends who I shared my anxiety with. They told me I probably shouldn’t have done anything I did, but hey while you’re here, let’s talk about squirrel-foxes, macaroons and nannies. Best. People. Ever.

Thankfully,  the drugs are out of my system and I’ve returned to normal levels of crazy. Well…normal for me, anyway.

When have you had to deal with crazy side effects?  Any experiences with psychics or palm readers?  Do you get anxiety? What have you done while anxious that just increased your anxiety tenfold?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I’d Like to Raise My Glass to My Parents for Being Hilarious

I grew up in a bar. I don’t say this to shock you; I say this because it’s true. And it’s not a bad thing.

Every summer, Tuesday nights were exciting because my brother and I would pick up cheeseburgers and kiddie cocktails on our way to Dad’s softball games. We’d snack out of Styrofoam containers while Dad threw killer pitches. Then we’d get bored and run off to the playground next to the field.

After the game, we’d head back to the bar where Mom was occasionally serving drinks and Dad was celebrating with the team. The other bar kids and I would jam out to 80’s hair metal on the juke box, hustle grown-ups at pool, race around the back alley, and convince bar patrons to steal a grocery cart from the store across the street. Sometimes, we’d even walk a couple blocks to get Blizzards from DQ or candy and cheap toys from the local drug store.

It was fun.

We knew our parents were drinking alcohol. They didn’t call it “Mommy Juice.” When my brother or I asked our parents what they were drinking, they were honest with us.

“This is beer.”


“This is cognac.”

“This is scotch.”

“This is tequila.”

“This is wine.”

And you know what? My brother and I – we weren’t stupid. We knew what alcohol was. We saw a lot of alcoholics come and go from that bar.

So when one of us would ask, “Can I try?” and our parents said yes, they weren’t stupid either. Before you get all Trolly McTrollerson on me or my amazing parents, let me inform you that the Illinois State Liquor law does not have an age restriction for parents allowing their children alcohol in the safety of their own home. Which was the only place we were allowed to try our parents beverages.

My brother and I tried our fair share of Bud Light tastes and the occasional sip of cognac, and every time we tried something, we would spit it out with a resounding “YUCK.” Because gross. Our child palates weren’t down with alcohol, and we couldn’t understand how on God’s green earth our parents could consume such slop. Give me a 7up and grenadine any day.

Our parents talked to us about alcohol when we were very young. They were honest. And you know what else they were? They were hilarious. They drank. They made jokes. They made jokes about alcohol and parenthood and every other aspect of their lives. Because if you can’t laugh, what’s the point?

Even I, as a young pup, would make my fair share of alcohol jokes. When my sister, Deven, was away at college, she teasingly promised a nine-year old Chrissy that when I came to visit her, she would take me to a party and give me beer. I firmly stated to her, “I prefer cocktails.”

Of course, I was talking about kiddie cocktails, but everyone laughed. I got my sense of humor from my parents. Thank God.

Because right now, Responsibility.org is asking mom bloggers to “refresh their funny” and remove alcohol-related humor from their repertoire. You can watch this video that shows their preferred messaging.


While I’m not a mom blogger or even a mom, I’ve got a few things to say about this.

I respect the Talk Early campaign. I’m all for talking to kids about alcohol. Hands down, talk about it. But you know what? Alcohol is a legal substance for people over the age of 21 in the United States. It’s often younger if you live in another country. Parents aren’t going to stop drinking on behalf of their children, so why should they kill their senses of humor on behalf of those same children?

I’ve heard that parenthood changes you, but I sure as fuck hope that when I have tiny humans, I don’t lose the ability to make a quick joke about vodka. Because…Chrissy Water, as my friends call it here in the Chicago suburbs, isn’t going anywhere.

My parents talked to me about alcohol. They made jokes about alcohol. They still make jokes about alcohol. Shit, my dad and I drink to the forest fire (IT’S A JOKE, PEOPLE). And you know what? I didn’t go out and start drinking like a lush at 12 or think my parents were alcoholics or anything like that. And you know what? Most of my friends didn’t either. The kids who are drinking underage aren’t doing it because their parents made a joke about wine when they were babies or children or even teenagers. They’re doing it to rebel. They’re doing it because their friends are doing it. They’re doing it because they can.

Refresh the target not the punchline. Alcohol jokes are targeted at adults. Let's worry more about what the kids are doing than the parents, eh-

Me? I waited until I was a respectable freshman in college, sneaking booze the proper way. By getting a junior to buy my Boone’s Farm.

Responsibility wants to start a conversation. They’re even offering a fancy monetary prize to three BlogU15 bloggers who write about Refreshing Their Funny. This post is an entry into that contest, and no one paid me to say anything in this piece. Especially considering my whole disagreeing with them thing.

What about you guys? Do you believe parents should stop posting images and jokes with alcohol as the punch line? What are some of your favorite jokes and memes? When did you start drinking?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

How to Make Your Boyfriend Hate You

If you’re new around here, you may want to start The Grown Up Story from the beginning. But you may not, and that’s okay too. This story stands alone.

The Grown Up and I had been dating for approximately a month when I decided to bring him along to a birthday party for a friend of mine, Brad. He was several years my senior-we were celebrating his 30th birthday, and it was kind of a big deal.

My girlfriends and I had spent the previous year hanging out with Brad and his group of friends, drinking, flirting, drinking, drinking, and more drinking. It was a group of hot messes all dealing with their own version of relationship anxiety (each of us were battling our own volatile demons from relationships past), and in order to forget about them, we drank. A lot.

Recipe for disaster - new boyfriend plus bar.

By the time The Grown Up came around, we were all starting to drift to our own spaces and rebuild the worlds that crumbled to bring us together. So I hadn’t actually hung out with this group in a few months. But was anticipating a shit show of a party-one we’d been talking about for a year, and so of course, I RSVPed yes for both The Grown Up and myself.

We arrived for dinner at an upscale bar in the suburbs, where we sat near one of my most lovely, cheerful friends who was SO giddy with excitement to meet The Grown Up. She squee’d and oohed and awwed because he really was smart and wonderful as I had described to her. She told me, as good girlfriends tend to do, I deserved someone this amazing,  and I believed her.

Unfortunately, she would not be joining us for the second half of the evening. And none of my other girlfriends had decided to join us for the epic birthday party to end all birthday parties. So I had a grand total of two actual friends (the birthday boy and his bestie) and several acquaintances to hang out with me and my new boyfriend on a party bus downtown to a bar in Wrigleyville.

Why was I the only one who couldn’t see this was a recipe for disaster?

So we hopped on a party bus, and the Grown Up made quasi friends with some of the guys in the group. If you recall, on our first date he revealed he wasn’t good with people, but it felt like he was doing a pretty damn good job with them from where I was sitting.

When we got to the bar, though, all hell broke loose. There was drinking on the party bus, and then we had a table just off the dance floor reserved for bottle service. For those of you who may not know, bottle service is when they have full bottles of liquor at your table for your group’s consumption. Needless to say, I got pretty fucking drunk. The Grown Up wasn’t a big hard alcohol drinker, so he had a couple of beers, but nothing crazy.

I dragged the poor man on the dance floor and rubbed up on him like a horny college student. We danced with my friends, and some of the girls in the group became my dance floor besties, grinding on each other in a fight to be the sexiest group of girls under the colorful LED lights. We weren’t. The music seemed to get louder, the smoke thickened around us, and the room started spinning. I was there, but I wasn’t.

Eventually, The Grown Up returned to our table. I followed, realizing that I wasn’t being the generous, sweet girlfriend that I wanted to be. He seemed, frustrated, but I didn’t know how to respond. So, I apologized. For what, I don’t even know. Was I apologizing for being drunk? For him not having a good time? For not knowing everyone in our group? For my friends who weren’t entertaining enough for him? I just knew I felt awful. And drunk. And feeling awful and drunk is never a good combination. So  I drank more. I sat down on an elevated booth bench that extended out past the booth and The Grown Up stood in front of me, trying to make conversation over the music. It didn’t work out well.

Somehow, whilst sitting (SITTING) on the booth bench, I managed to fall over. I wish I could tell you how. I really really do. But I couldn’t. And I fell. Off the bench. Onto the floor. Like a complete asshole. I wasn’t even showing off that time. I fell down, and The Grown Up helped me up as I apologized. Again and again. We collected my purse, and the items that had fallen out of it. The Grown Up was growing increasingly frustrated, and we couldn’t just…leave because we had taken a party bus to get there. We were slaves to the party schedule.

We left the dance floor area, and proceeded to sit at a table downstairs, where I continued to apologize profusely for my errors. The Grown Up tried to chat with me, but I could tell that I was irritating him. I thought I was going to start crying right then and there. But I didn’t. I braved through the awkward last 45 minutes with my boyfriend of less than a month and got on the bus. I continued to apologize until the moment I passed out in The Grown Up’s arms on the bus, about 2 minutes into the drive home.

On the drive home, The Grown Up was almost puked on. Someone DID puke, just not on him. Someone almost spilled beer on him. He ended up helping clean the bus a little bit. He gave extra money to the person who organized the party to tip the driver extra. And I slept. Like an asshole. And kept apologizing when I woke up.

We left the bus and The Grown Up drove me home. I was supposed to sleep at his place, but he took me home instead. I panicked. And apologized even MORE.

I was a hot mess. I felt sick to my stomach. I had really fucked things up, this time, I was sure of it. What was I thinking?

The Grown Up told me to go inside and sleep it off, that we’d talk the next day. But I couldn’t understand in my idiot drunken stupor what was going on. Was he breaking up with me? I didn’t know. But I was terrified.

Eventually, I went inside. And cried myself to sleep.

I really hoped he would call the next day.

How do you handle problems when you’re drunk? Have you ever freaked out about your relationship because of something you did or said? What’s the stupidest thing you’ve done while drinking?

Click the image for the final story in the tale of The Grown Up.

I waited a long time for this. And now it's the End of an era

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

How to Drunk Yoga in 12 Easy Steps

So you know how sometimes I do things so you don’t have to? This is one of those times. So please. Kids. Don’t try this at home.

Yoga is fun. Yoga is fucking awesome. Yoga is one of my new favorite things to do. Sometimes, I think in my head at night well, I can yoga or I can write, but I can’t do both.

As evident by my recent posting schedule, you can see where my head has been. And last night after happy hour (that ran well over an hour) was no exception. The thing is…Drunk Chrissy wanted to yoga AND write. And she had a brilliant fucking plan. That went something like this.

How to drunk yogaHow to drunk yoga

Step 1: Drink expensive beer and eat $2 tacos. The beer/beverage choice is up for discussion, so really, pick your preferred poison.

Step 2: (which is really like 10 steps in one, but it doesn’t really matter how you get home, as long as you’re not driving) Go home.

Step 3: Make a snack. You can’t be expected to be brilliant without your hungry drunk brain cleared.

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Step 4: Decide that you’re going to try amazing feats of yoga. You have no fear. (No, really. DON’T. TRY. THIS. AT HOME).

Step 5: Find your unsuspecting victim. I mean photographer. I mean boyfriend. Tell him you have a genius plan and you require his services. When he tells you that shoveling your massive driveway is more important than yoga pictures, pout just a little.

Step 6: Have another snack. If your first snack was salty, opt for something sweet, now. If you like.

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Step 7: Lay down on your mat and flop into a position that takes way more work when you’re sober. Twice.

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This is a position called plow pose. It’s a real pose. And it’s usually a lot harder for me.

 

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This is my attempt at shoulder stand. Apparently you’re supposed to do this before plow…I did it after.

 

Step 8: Lay back down and watch the room spin just a little.

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Step 9: Decide it’s time for headstand and race to the hallway that allows you to do it.

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Step 10: Get your inversion on. I prefer headstand…one, because I discovered this week that I can do it and two because it doesn’t wreak havoc on my wrists.

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I walked up the wall. It was fun.

I walked up the wall. It was fun.

Step 11: Collapse into the room spins.

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Step 12: Go to bed, drunky.

See, that wasn’t so hard? Still best not to do this. I probably could have hurt myself.

What stupid shenanigans do you get into after a few beers? What yoga poses are you proud of or excited to try?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

New Year’s Resolutions…You’re Doing Them Wrong

Show of hands, Blog Friends…

Who’s making a New Year’s Resolution this year? I’ll bet it’s related to weight, money, happiness, or education…amiright?

New Year's Resolutions

Fuck that shit, you guys. Everyone makes THOSE resolutions. It’s time to get serious about your life. Do some hard thinking and really plan out the year that you want. Lucky for you, I’ve come up with the perfect system for resolution making. It’s seriously flawless. I’ve taken the liberty of breaking down the ultimate resolution checklist by month to make it easy for you to achieve your goals. You’re welcome in advance.

January Goals

Do fucking nothing. You’ve spent the last 2-8 weeks preparing for the holidays, whether you celebrate Christmas, New Year’s, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice or whatever…and before that, there was that whole Thanksgiving feast thing to worry about. Slow the fuck down, young padawan. January is a month of rest – not a month of fixing your life. You’ve survived the last however many weeks, months or years without hitting up the gym…I’ll bet your body can do another 4 weeks while you cuddle in front of the TV doing absolutely nothing.

February Goals

Get the fuck out of town. If you’re in a cold-weather climate, you’re probably cold, tired and depressed because you haven’t seen the sun in weeks. Even if you’re just hitting up a local indoor water park for the weekend, buck up and get away. Even if it’s not cold, go somewhere different. Use the time away to think and unwind. You’ll be revitalized to really get moving on these resolutions you’re about to start.

Marco Island Florida

Valentine’s Day

  • If you’re single, ACTUALLY ignore Valentine’s Day. Don’t say you’re ignoring it and then go out with all your girlfriends to celebrate you. Go to work. Eat a regular candy bar and not 27 mini candy bars in your favorite game of heart-shaped chocolate roulette. Eat your regular frozen dinner and skip the bottle of wine tonight. Spend a few hours playing Candy Crush or whatever it is you do when you’re not doing anything important. It’s just another day.
  • If you’re in a relationship, go ahead and do something on Valentine’s Day. Even if you could give two shits about that “silly Hallmark holiday,” you’ve got a honey to hug, so hug them.

March Goals

Drink more. It’s still cold. And gray. And snowy. Or rainy. And the days are still pretty short. So go ahead and enjoy a bottle or two of wine. Your waistline won’t mind…Plus it’s good for your heart (I AM NOT A DOCTOR. I’M A MASTER OF BULLSHIT. DO NOT LISTEN TO MEDICAL ADVICE THAT I PRETEND TO GIVE.)

April Goals

Go outside, lazy. The weather is finally picking up. It doesn’t matter if you’re just dining al fresco in 65 degree weather…get your ass outside. You’ve been cooped up inside eating and drinking for 3-5 months. You could use a little Vitamin D.

Spring Tulips on State Street

Plan for something amazing. It’s now time to start thinking of a summer getaway. If your local weather gets sweltering, head north for a cool, breezy summer vacay. Or head somewhere even warmer. Or plan a getaway to meet up with a bunch of people on the internet that you’ve never met before (or that you meet every summer just like summer camp only better). Do  what you want, yo. It’s your vacay.

May Goals

Wish me happy birthday, bitches. As I was born in the beautiful month of May, you should plan to stop by and say happy birthday to me. I mean. You know. If you want.

Pick some flowers. Just, you know…don’t be an asshat and pick flowers from your neighbor’s garden. Go to a field or park where you are allowed to pick flowers. Or try your own backyard. Dandelions and other “weeds” totally count. But not that kind of weed. It’s like you’re not even listening to me. Sheesh.

June Goals

Overuse your grill. If you don’t have a grill, you’re doing it wrong. Stop cooking inside. Your home will stay cooler, and your food will taste better. If you don’t believe that everything tastes better on the grill, you’re wrong. And that’s that.

July Goals

Drink a cold one (or twelve). It’s summer, and what’s summer without a frosty beer? Try something new, this time though…No more of that Miller Lite bullshit. Journey outside your boundaries of piss water, and drink a crafty craft beer.

I love this beer.

I love this beer.

Cash in on those vacation plans. Whether you’re heading to a small local getaway like the Wisconsin Dells, a nearby beach, or a local lakeside escape, go enjoy a weekend or week of summer. You’ve been working hard on your resolutions; you deserve it.

August Goals

Plan out your Halloween costume. For real this time. Don’t SAY you’re going to have a plan and then forget until October 25, when you’re forced to tease the fuck out of your hair, thrown makeup all over your face and pretend to be a crazy lady.

Halloween teased hair

 

September Goals

Get your Christmas shopping done. Imagine you. In December. Without a fucking shopping care in the world. You don’t have to worry about who’s got free shipping. You won’t have to step foot in a mall from November through January. Pat yourself on the back this year and get that shit over with early.

October Goals

Go ALL out for Halloween. I’m talking costumes. Decorations. Treat bags for the kids. Get wild and have fun. You know you’ve always wanted to.

Eat your favorite candy. It’s okay. You didn’t make a goal to lose weight this year. You’re following the resolutions that will allow you to have more fun this year. So go ahead. Buy that bag of Almond Joys. I won’t tell.

November Goals

Celebrate Thanksgiving, and DON’T call Thanksgiving or a dinner with friends, “friendsgiving.” Thanks in advance for limiting the hipster buzzwords from spreading like gonorrhea.

Avoid getting suckered into Black Friday. God created the internet for a reason. You can do all your sale shopping from the comfort of your home…while you’re still in your underwear. Or naked. Just…you know…avoid taking selfies.

December Goals

Plan for next year. Don’t wait for me to tell you what to do. Make your own list this time. Maybe you can give me a few pointers, because I’ll surely tap out halfway through December in stress mode.

Eat, drink, and be merry. Seriously. You only live once. Enjoy it.

Happy New Year, guys! What goals would you add to this list?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Martini Glasses Are Fucking Useless

Martini Glasses

I have a martini glass collection. It started as a joke in my early twenties, after I broke every single martini glass at the bar my family owned. I had an affinity for cosmopolitans (thanks in part to my Sex and the City addiction), and my body had an affinity for falling down and breaking shit. It was a match made in broken glass heaven.

After I broke all three martini glasses at our shot and a beer joint, I was no longer allowed to possess a martini glass in my hand at the bar. (Of course they replaced the ones I broke). At the time, my little brother was the bar manager. Every time he trained a new bartender, I’d sit on the patron side and test their mad skill. I’d teach them how to make a cosmopolitan. And then I’d giggle profusely, making them question my educational abilities. I’d grin at my brother, lift my glass and clink his imaginary glass in celebration. And then I’d take a big swig of that delicious vodka delight. And giggle some more.

He’d run over and tell the nervous bartender that I could drink cosmos all I want, but they weren’t allowed in martini glasses if they were being handed to me. I was banished from those ridiculous and easily breakable glasses.

So of course, my best friend Mark thought it would be funny to buy me a pair of martini glasses for Christmas.

They lived in my car for a few weeks before I finally, not-so-ironically broke one and took the other inside into my house. It sat on a lonely shelf in my bedroom for a few months. For
my birthday that year, I received one of those fancy pants Lolita martini glasses. I thought it was the greatest fucking thing ever. I was an idiot.

I decided that I would start a martini glass collection, and made it my business to find Lolita glasses on clearance to cheaply add to my collection.

Almost a decade later, I’m now the proud owner of a shelvy thingy full of useless. Fucking. Martini glasses.martini glass collection

You may remember we recently bought a house. I have a place to store and display those fancy fucking martini glasses. Except for the one I broke while I was unpacking them.

What you may not know is that I volunteered to host Christmas for 30-40 people this year. And that I’ve already hosted a couple of large gatherings. And you know what? No one drinks fucking martinis at house parties. They drink beer. And wine. And other shit.

Last week, after Thanksgiving with Brian’s family, I realized that if I’m hosting Christmas, I’m going to need cordial glasses for Bailey’s. And rocks glasses for Manhattans. And snifters for brandy or something.

So I called my mom, who was sleeping. Dad answered, so I asked him, “How many cordial glasses do you have?”

“Four?”

Oh God.

Okay.

When I cleared out the bar after we went out of business, I never thought to grab ALL the glassware. I took shot glasses and stupid shit…like a CASE of fucking martini glasses.  A case. A whole fucking case.

And now I’m a grown up who has to buy cordial glasses and rocks glasses, but has a fucking armory of martini and shot glasses.

So me and martini glasses? Not friends. Even though I have a collection of them hanging out in our dining room.

Do you have an unplanned collection of anything? What do you collect? Have you ever broken a martini glass? Do you think martini glasses are stupid & useless, too?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Ladies and Gentleman, Meet Dark & Twisty Meredelf Grey, Our Elf on the Shelf

I never PLANNED to get an Elf on the Shelf. In fact, the first I ever heard of the damn thing was when a co-worker told me about Jen Mann from People I Want to Punch in the Throat being a hilarious mom blogger who wrote about the Elf on the Shelf. Until then, I was blissfully unaware.

After that point, I jumped into the elf judgement. The elf hatred. The oh-my-god-really-Santa-isn’t-good-enough-for-you-people judgy judgy bullshit. I swore I’d never get one. I planned a life without an elf. Even if tiny humans were to happen upon my world, it would be tough cookies for the kids, because their elf was still secretly hidden (and never coming out to spy visibly.) I was down with this plan. Until I wasn’t.

A Skypeversation with Katie

A Skypeversation with Katie

I still think the elf is SUPER creepy. But I kept thinking of all the fun I could have with the elf.

And so a few weeks ago, I went out and bought one. And then I took her home and put her on a shelf. And I thought about names for her… I wanted someone strong, and maybe a little sassy. So I came up with a little list of possible names for her.

Name ideas for your girl elf on the shelf

Grown-Up Names for Elf on the Shelf

Okay…Sort of grown-up names… *cough* kid at heart *cough*

Elizabelf Bennet. She won’t settle for less than love.

Princess Elfsa. She can build ice castles in her sleep.

Britnelf Spears. She’s stronger than yesterday…and she’ll probably do it again.

Katniss Elferdeen. She fights hard, and she’s not afraid to say no.

Jennifer Lawrelf. She might fall down a lot, but she’ll laugh with you about it.

Hillary Clintelf. Because she gets more flack than she deserves. And she’s a pretty strong lady.

Meredelf Grey. She’s stronger than she thinks, and she can really hold her tequila. Sold to the tequila drinking doctor with mommy issues who’s bad with sisters.

When I brought her out for the holidays, she BEGGED me to take her Black Friday shopping at the liquor store. She said tequila was on sale, and she just HAD to get a bottle. While I shopped for wine and whiskey, Meredelf scampered off to another aisle. I found her in the tequila aisle swooning.

Elf on the shelf at the liquor store Meredelf Grey loves tequila

I really had to drag her away from the booze, but we made it home safely, and sober. She was practically pleading with me to buy it. Unfortunately, I tapped my budget with other shit. I think she’s going to take it out on me. I’ve heard she’s really good at holding grudges.

Do you have an elf on the shelf? What did you name her (or him)? If you don’t have one, what would you name your elf?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!