I Love When People Take My Sass and Run With It

If you recall from a few days ago, I had an offer to discuss selling my site. Not like, a hey, we-want-to-buy-Quirky-Chrissy offer…More like a hey, we-buy-sites-are-you-selling offer.

After the first try, I ignored it…but when he went in for the second attempt, I delivered what  I hope made him laugh a little bit. His first response was all business, but his response to my response was baller.

It was like a mullet. Business in the front; party in the back. I just needed to pull the cap off. Which I did with a little help from you. I used some of your suggestions in my response e-mail, and I think you’ll appreciate how that went over. SassTaye Diggs and ShemarThanks RyanRyan was a real trooper about the whole thing. So thank you, Ryan! I like to think that you came here, saw my blog post and responded to my survey. In my little daydream here, I truly believe that you were the one who answered my survey with, “Just say thanks but no thanks.”

To the rest of you who responded to my survey, you’re hilarious and beautiful people. I think we’re going to do more surveys, because this was ridiculous amounts of fun for me!

Do you like to sass people in e-mail? Would you have had a little fun with this? What’s the sassiest thing you’ve done recently?

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!

Death Bug AKA: How I Almost Died Last Night

So last night I had something terrifying happen. Not like Surrounded by Zombies and Stupid People Scary (a la Walking Dead), but Giant Bug is Going to Kill Me in My Sleep Scary.

Giant Bug Fell on Computer

I wished that I had had the foresight to take pictures of the bug while it was there…

This evening, I tried to kill a GIANT bug with a Kleenex Box. I thought that I got it, but it fell from the wall to Brian’s computer…so I tried to get it off…But then it disappeared. I found it on the floor, and thought…I will wait until Brian gets home to dispose of it.

I went back to making chili.

Homemade Chili

Turkey Vegetable Chili. 🙂

I came back 10 minutes later and it was gone. I thought to myself, Chrissy…that evil bug is going to hunt you down in your sleep.

No bug on the floor

So I looked around for it… and it was high up on the wall…

The bug on the wall

Apparently I did not so much as injure this evil beast and I was not going to risk my life to try killing it, again. But I was definitely going to keep an eye on it. About 20 minutes later, I noted that it was WAY high up in the stairwell wall…

High up On the WallAt this point, I was freaked out. This beast really was headed for my bed. I hope Brian gets home soon…

So I went back to the chili… and decided that I was going to take pictures of this bug… which is how I ended up with the empty stairwell wall (the first pic I took, of course).

And it was gone! I looked around, and just to my right…on the stairs was this evil bug staring at me.

Chrissy and the Death Bug

This is as realistic as last night’s photo shoot got…

So I got up close and personal and took a picture of my arch-nemesis of the evening…

Up Close with Death Bug

Death Bug.

Death Bug's Path to My Room

Luckily for Brian and I, Death Bug had a difficult time maneuvering through Dexter fur on this ledge dealie

So I hoped and hoped and hoped that Brian would come home and kill Death Bug sooner rather than later…

I went back to Twitter and Facebook and Blog…and continued to watch Death Bug attempt to climb the stair ledge. After 20 minutes of this, I went back to the kitchen to check on chili…I came back…and again, Death Bug was gone.

So I scrambled up to my room, careful not to get near Death Bug. Searching. Not in the bathroom. Not in my room.

I should have killed it when I had the chance… it’s probably better this way…if you can’t find him, you won’t kill him. You don’t need another insecticide on your hands, Christine.

Not in the hall. Not on the wall…

Oh Crap. What if Death Bug is under my bed already? I’m going to die. Death Bug is going to crawl up my nose and eat my brains like a zombie bug.

I continued my search for Death Bug throughout the house.

What if Death Bug wants to contaminate the chili!??!

And so I ran to the kitchen, and there was Death Bug…racing toward my chili. Well, I certainly couldn’t let Death Bug poison my chili… especially after last time–when I went to go buy pazcki on Paczki Day and accidentally left the chili to burn in the 40 minutes it took me to buy Polish donuts…Burnt chili is not delicious. And it was a HUGE batch. Anyways…

Death Bug in the Kitchen

Going after my chili!

So, with Death Bug being on the floor, I took the opportunity to throw on some shoes and smash the little bugger to smithereens. So much for not killing it.

Update: That night, Brian got home late. Like 1 AM late. So it’s a good thing that I took matters into my own hands and killed death bug. Or. So. I. Thought.

At about 3 AM, Brian woke up and panicked majorly…He saw something hovering/crawling/flying above him. A huge bug. I sat up and reached for him, thinking he was sleeping…and he yelled, “No! Don’t move; it’s right there!”

Apparently, death bug was, in fact, trying to kill us in our sleep. And I had only killed one of an army of death bugs. The next morning? One right outside the garage. Death bug. Evil death bug.

What buggy experiences have you had lately? Anything tried to kill you in your sleep?

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!

For the love of the game: A born fanatic

Thank God my mother raised me right.

(Preface: If you’re not into Jesus or politics, keep reading–I promise I have a point)

I was *NOT* born to be a religious fanatic

My parents instilled a strong belief in God, but more importantly, they allowed me to believe (as I did and do) that good people who lead strong, genuine, and caring lives will be rewarded, regardless of their faith. While I believe that there is a God (and a forgiving, loving God, at that), it is not my place to push Him on others. It is not my place to HATE others for believing in something different than what I believe.

As a child, I had heard in various adult conversations that only Catholics shall go to Heaven. But as many children, I questioned in honor of my pals. But what about my friends who aren’t Catholic? I thought to myself, that if they are good people, they will be okay. You know why? BECAUSE GOD LOVES US. /end Jesus talk.

I was *NOT* born to be a political fanatic

I have tendencies for both sides of the main court. I suppose that makes me an independent. I was educated by my parents to watch, listen, and learn, but also to see what was going on behind the scenes. It is my duty as a voting citizen to do my own research.

Whether or not someone says one thing, they may very well do another. To be the most informed voter that I can be, and remain as unbiased as I can be, is the only way that I know to do my part. I truly believe that in our current society that I am more often than not voting for the lesser of two evils, and not for the better leader.

I was, on the other hand, born to be a sports fanatic

When I was a baby, Mom would whisper in my ear, “You love the White Sox. You hate the Cubs.” and the all-important, “You love the Bears. You hate the Packers.”

This picture is the sole reason that I believe it is perfectly acceptable for little girls under the age of 2 to wear sports gear in pink as opposed to in team colors. I asked if this was my brother. Mom told me “no.” Until I pulled the picture out of an album and looked at the back that said, “Christine 1984,” I didn’t quite believe her.

You think I’m making this shit up, but I’m not. At all. I come from a family of sports-crazed chicks. My grandmother (Dad’s mom, one of my namesakes, who I never had the joy of meeting) Regina (Jean) jumped on the White Sox bus with a ball and made every player on the bus sign the ball before she got off. What a spitfire!

My mom, a die-hard, White Sox loving, Bears loving lady, has a list a mile long of her exploits in the sports world. From kissing baseball players to stalking football players, my mom’s done it.

In fact, when I asked her for her wild sports stories, she e-mailed me this (I literally cut and pasted for entertainment value–OK with a few modifications…my mom has little regard for typing quotations and doesn’t quite get the difference between all caps and normal type–sorry Mom! I love you! Really folks, Mom’s got impeccable grammar–she’s defo one of the reasons I’m such a grammar Nazi… it’s just the typing thing):

#54 Tom Hicks Bears…1980…I was working at the phone company, and answered the phone,
“This is Miss Nudd, how can I help you?”
The man on the phone says to me, “Hi Patti, this is Tom Hicks”
I almost died and had to put him on hold and said, “Tom Hicks knows my first name!” He had gone to the same high school as me, and knew my sister; I knew his little brother.
Scott Fletcher White Sox Winning ugly playoff team 1983…Working at phone company again…
“This is Mrs. Woj, how can I help you?”
“I’d like to install a new phone.”
“Ok..what is you name”
“Scott Flectcher”
“Uhmmm Scott, you play baseball?”
“Yea..you a fan?”
“Oh boy! Am I?!…I stayed out all night pregnant* for playoff tickets.”
I then proceeded to install his phone.

*For the record, friends, she was preggo with yours truly.

White Sox 1988?…White Sox playing Yankees. Dad and I were waiting after game near the Sox player parking lot…I saw George Steinbrenner (Owner of the Yankees.) About 15 people were standing with us…I yelled
“Mr. Steinbrenner!”
He walked over and talked baseball and signed autographs for 10 minutes..great guy..bad reputation.
Derek Jeter: Another Yankee…Great rep…bad guy
Dad and I were on the field after winning a contest with Old Kent Bank. It was Derek Jeter’s birthday.
He walks by I say” Hey Jeter…Happy Birthday”…he gave a me a nasty glare and without a word, walked away.
many more will continue in an hour or so.

Mom never finished, but I figure that’s plenty of tales, considering the list goes on and on and on… so you can see why I feel it is absolutely necessary to continue the tradition of training die-hard sports fans… I give you exhibits A: my niece, Princess B.

Baby sports fan in the making. My niece at 2. For all intents and purposes, we’ll call her, Princess B. Note the pink Chucks on her feet.

My only claims to fame (other than the childhood encounters that my parents got us into because they owned a bar-and I have pictures of me with a bunch of White Sox greats whilst wearing a New Kids on the Block tee-shirt) are a couple of slightly embarrassing encounters and one awesome wave. (I’m really good at being embarrassing whilst fangirling — please see exhibits Jenny Lawson and Cary Elwes for proof). Getting hammered with my pal Marissa behind home base (in Scout Seating), I yelled over to Ozzie Guillen, “Hey Ozzie!” waving frantically in order to grab his attention. Drunk Chrissy was convinced that mom would have done the same thing. Of course, we were losing at the time, and he looked at me, annoyed, and gave a little half wave back.

“Hey Ozzie!!!!!”

Then there was my first Bear. To this date, I have only met one Bear. The newish punter, Adam Podlesh, was at the Chicago Auto Show in February, and I was determined to meet him. Cletus and I had planned a lovely afternoon downtown to check out the zoom zooms and more. Podlesh was at the Toyota display taking pictures and signing autographs. I walked up there with my picture to sign and Cletus with the camera ready…and the only language my brain could muster was a dulled, awkward, starry-eyed “hiiiii.” He looked at me a little funny and asked if I wanted to take a picture first or sign an autograph first. “um…sure” I said. Wow, quite the verbal mastermind, I was that day…So we took the picture. It was awesome. Then he asked if he should sign the autograph to someone, I said, “Um to um Chrissy. awkward pause Um. That’s me. awkward smile” He smiled at me like I was a little goofy, but hopefully endearing… “Thanks, uh duh grin,” I told him. Then I asked if I could hug him. And he said it was okay. So I hugged a football player. I like to think that I made his day by being a crazed and dazed fan…

But the best time was when I was at training camp in Bourbonnais, and Robbie Gould waved at me. No, seriously, he waved at me. I yelled out, “Hey Robbie!” and I was planning to snap a picture. When I clicked the snap button, I quickly realized that WHAM! I was videotaping it! (Of course, finding that video now seems to be near impossible. BUT IT HAPPENED.

That’s right. Famous.

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!

Speeding Excuses

I heard on the radio that the excuse most frequently used by speeders is: “I have to go to the bathroom.”

I’ve used that one…sort of. Let me give you a hint: It didn’t work. My boyfriend at the time was actually speeding so we could get to a bathroom, so I could pee…$250 (Hello, Wisconsin) and 40 minutes later, I finally got to pee. Ironically, the words I said, not 5 minutes before getting pulled over, were, “Don’t speed too much. I don’t want to be the reason you get pulled over.”

Funny, most excuses don’t work for me. My mom on the other hand seems to get speeding tickets pulled away on a silver platter.

Excuses that apparently work

My mom was pulled over on the way to the University of Chicago for her first Interferon treatment. When the police officer pulled her over, she said to him, “I’m on my way to my first chemo treatment!” and proceeded to cry. Whilst essentially true, and genuinely upset about the prospect, this excuse got her off the hook.

Many years before, mom was driving with me in the front, and my baby brother asleep under blankets in the way back of the station wagon. I’m not sure if she was pulled over for speeding or something minor, but the police officer saw me in the front without a seat belt (at 4 or 5) and asked why I wasn’t wearing a seat belt. My mom exclaimed, “I’m a terrible mother! I’m sorry officer.” The officer never noticed my brother illegally seat belt free in the far back…and I put my seat belt on. Again, mom was told to move on free and clear.

Another time, while cutting through a neighborhood near ours with a “Dead End” and “No Outlet” sign, mom was pulled over. After yelling at the police officer (AKA bitching) about how our neighborhood has cut throughs all the time and ranting that there was no fancy sign for OUR neighborhood across the street, the police officer again set my mother on without so much as a warning.

Excuses that apparently don’t work

Crying. I’ve tried it. It got me no where but yelled at.

Playing dumb: A few year ago, I was attempting to quickly get home from the grocery store while cooking dinner. I had run out to get a few things to add, and was trying to make good time. I pulled out and made an illegal right turn on right a few blocks from my house. I got dinged and the police officer asked if I knew what I had done. I told him that I didn’t, but he proceeded to ask, “How long have you lived in Glen Ellyn?”

“My whole life, officer.”

“And you didn’t know there was no turn on red there?”

“I’m not very observant.” Whoops! I was trying to come off as ignorant…but apparently came off as snotty and smart-ass. Note to self: dumb people don’t say words like observant in the proper context.

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!

Memories of a Long Lost Sister

In January, my brother and I sent a baby gift to our then unborn niece. Our unborn niece that we may never have the pleasure of meeting, let alone knowing. My estranged half sister, Deven, who disappeared from our lives more than 15 years ago, just had a baby.

Many of my friends don’t even know that I have an older sister. To them, I’ve always been the oldest in my household. But I still think about her. I still love her. The love of a sibling doesn’t just go away, even if she made us cry, even if she abandoned us.

I occasionally attempt to keep tabs on her life, and through the sheer force of the interwebs, I found out that she was having a baby. So I sent an olive branch. Though I didn’t expect for it to induce a response, I would have been thrilled to welcome my big sister back into my life.

For the first thirteen years of my life, she was a power player. My inspiration. My pal. She spent almost every weekend with us, and my room was her room. (Of course, I’d have to clear a pathway free of toys from the door to the bunk bed ladder so she could walk through). We went camping, went on vacation, and visited her at college; we did all the things younger siblings are supposed to do with their favorite big sis. We loved her.

I’ll never forget the time she called home from Purdue, and I was talking to her about coming to visit. She promised to take me to parties and sneak me some beer. I replied, completely seriously, by telling her that “I prefer cocktails.” Of course I was 8 and referring to Chrissy Cocktails (AKA Kiddie Cocktails with pineapple juice, squirt, and grenadine).

She used to always get me the best Barbie stuff. I still have the blue and pink ’57 Chevy that she bought me for Christmas one year. She and her visiting friends would play Barbie with me, while we watched Guns N Roses on MTV. She introduced Brian and I to the classic 80’s and 90’s movies, like Labyrinth, Goonies, The Princess Bride, and of course–Night of the Comet (AKA The Zombie Movie that we ALWAYS wanted to watch).

I have so many more memories of my sister. I often wish that she was still a part of our lives. I feel the saddest for my niece, who may never know the joy of having an Auntie Chrissy. (And Auntie Chrissy is pretty much the best Auntie in the world…not that I’m biased or anything).

So my brother and I sent her several gifts of love. A rubber ducky, some books (as all children receive books from Auntie Chrissy), and Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. The Johnson’s was to remind our sister of us, as naked babies in a bath tub singing:

“No more tears!
No more tears!
We’re going to stick with Johnson’s for years!”

I guess I’ll never know what happened to make her leave us. But I cherish the childhood memories that I have.

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!

Happy 4th of July

It’s the 4th of July.  I can’t help but think about past Independence Days. I’ve had to work many a national holidays, including several July 4ths. When I was a catering manager, we had an incredibly busy conference during the first week of July every year. Every person on staff was working full-time, some even over time. Myself included.

In 2008, I was scheduled to work 13-15 hour days throughout the course of the week. I was not happy about having to work through another family holiday, but I was willing to suck it up for the OT. On the first day of the conference, I was scheduled to start at 5 AM. I rolled out of bed, showered, and raced my butt into work. For almost the first 3 hours, I ran my ass off, working as hard as I could to get everything handled. At about 8:30, the staff was able to take a breakfast break.

We all sat down to eat some eggs and bacon, and one of my bosses, Marissa, looked me in the eye and said in the most serious tone, “It looks like somebody forgot to put makeup on this morning.”

I started to mumble that I was planning on putting it on during the break, when my lead server–who was one of the quietest and sweetest girls that I knew–looked at Marissa and asked, “What’s the big deal with that? Why does that matter?”

Marissa glared at her and said, “Well, that’s part of her uniform. Makeup makes her look more presentable. Presentation is important.”

Well, I was young and sassy, and I would be damned before I let someone tell me how to present myself. So I stopped wearing makeup, most of the time. Especially to work. I wasn’t going to let anyone determine whether my appearance is acceptable based on the makeup that I was wearing.

Maybe it was because of this sassy ‘tude. Maybe it was because of my klutzy self. Maybe it was just something that happened. By the end of that day, I couldn’t walk. I had somehow sprained my ankle through the dinner rush (this is something that happens more often than it should. I am the world’s biggest klutz). My plan was to head out to see an 80’s hair metal band at the Taste of Lombard, our local festival, after my shift ended sometime after 8–I was super excited about it. But I couldn’t walk. I was pissed at the universe.

I was crying in a stairwell because I didn’t know what to do. One of the sous chefs, my pal and confidante Jack, came in and calmed me down. He backed me up and helped me get myself together. He reinforced that we worked at a place where jerks reigned supreme and we could survive by being better than anyone else there. (He was great for my ego.)

I left there, limping, but Marissa never noticed.

The next morning, at 5 AM, my ankle was so swollen, I couldn’t fit it into my safety shoes. I went into work wearing gym shoes, hobbling as best as I could, and after an hour, Marissa took note of my shoes.

“Why aren’t you wearing your safety shoes?” She demanded.

“I sprained my ankle and can’t walk very well. It’s so swollen that I can’t fit my foot into the safety shoe comfortably.”

“Well, you need to wear them. Go put them on now.” She looked at me, impatiently, as if I was her 7-year-old daughter.

“Marissa, they won’t fit.” I was almost crying. I was in a ton of pain, and trying to work through it, though I really had wanted to call in sick… “I can’t wear them.”

She stared me down, scrutinizing me,”Well, if it’s that bad, maybe you should just leave.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Secretly, my 4th of July dreams were coming true…sort of, “I…uh…”

“You know what, Chrissy? Just go. If you can’t walk, and it hurts that bad…just go home. We’ll see you tomorrow.” I didn’t trust the tone of her voice, but I decided that I would leave anyways.

So I left. It was the 4th of July; I managed to not be at work, but I couldn’t go out and enjoy the day. I set myself up in bed for the majority of the morning and afternoon, I watched the Mr. Darcy version of the good Pride and Prejudice (in which I fast forward to all of the Mr. Darcy parts), and waited until the fam showed up for a BBQ. I didn’t get to go see the fireworks with my pals at the Taste; I had to sit with the parents at their friends’ house because I couldn’t walk, but I got to eat potato salad and watch fireworks.

I found out later that Marissa was walking around all day telling the staff (MY staff. MY employees.) that I had probably sprained it in a drunken stupor when I went out the night before. I may have had my moments, but that certainly was not one of them. And really…who was she trying to kid? She was the biggest lush of us all.



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!