It's a damn shame.

Why would anyone want to burn down a topless coffee shop?

Is this what the world is coming to?

I'm wracked with grief. My eyes are sore and bloody from sobbing.

Why, god? Why?

Lying Liar

I don't particularly care for lying to my kid. Like, if Lily asks me straight out if there is a Santa Claus, I am not going to tell her that yes, some grizzly old fucker is able to haul his fat ass around the world in one night and drop off stuff you can get at the neighborhood Target to every child who's been good that year. I can't say that with a straight face. Instead, I'll smooth Lily's hair and kiss her forehead and try and turn the question around (a solid, well-practiced tactic of passive-aggressive parents everywhere), as in, "Well, Sweetie, it's a wonderful thing to believe in. What do you think?"

This lets Mama off the hook, because I know Lily's candy-colored, hyper, 5 year old brain can't focus on the question long enough to really decide what she believes, and she's already moved on to the next thing ("Do you think he'll bring me a Bratz doll anyway, even though you think they look like trampy Barbies?")

Anyway, lying isn't my favorite thing to do. Sometimes stretching the truth is
necessary, though. Like in the case of the loss of Lily's first wiggly baby tooth, which she yanked out while watching "Little House" and ran to show me with blood dribbling down her chin, I told a little fib. I helped her place the dainty little nub, almost like a doll's tooth, in the special "Toothfairy Tin" her grandmother gave her, and we stuck it under her pillow.

Then, viola! Next morning, when the tooth was gone and a folded-up dollar bill was in its place, I, with my giddy mommish tendency to cherish these once-in-a-lifetime moments, was as surprised and joyful as she was that the tooth fairy had actually visited. (I also mused that probably "A dollar was a special treat for the first tooth, and maybe the tooth fairy would be bringing nice, shiny quarters from here on in").

This morning, however, I told a flat-out lie.

See, last night around bed time, the cats were making a fuss about something in the hall. I flipped on the light, and there on the floor, curled up in a fetal ball, was a teeny baby mouse. Aaaah, shit. That's what I said, too. Loud enough, unfortunately, for a certain someone to hear me over the whirrrrr whirrrr of her Cinderella electric toothbrush, and Lil came running to see what I was cussing my face off about.

She watched in horror as I coaxed the not-yet-dead victim into a tupperware container and deposited him on the windowsill right outside the kitchen.

"I bet he'll be fine in a few minutes...just in shock," I smiled and gave Lily a hug. When we got into bed we talked about how Baby Mouse would find his way back to his his warm nest where Mommy and Daddy Mouse would take care of him and nurse him back to heath with mouse tea and lots of kisses. Sigh. Lil said she wanted to check on him first thing in the morning, and if he'd disappeared, that meant he was alright.

Right.

So, after the kid drifted off to sleep, I made my way into the kitchen to get a drink.
I checked on the sill and there was Baby Mouse, in the exact position I'd plopped him, very much no longer alive. I saw as I glanced closer that his little ear had been torn and his stomach was starting to leak out from underneath him.

Ahhhh, fuck.

So, I made a decision, and this might make me a shitty person or a good mother, I still haven't decided.

I reached out the window and gave Baby Mouse a gentle, one-finger flick down, down, down to the great street below.

Then I drank a double bloody mary with extra tabasco.

This morning, Lily bolted out of bed and skidded into the kitchen. Bleary eyed and slurping coffee, I barely realized what she was doing when she came and bounced, thrilled, onto my lap. "He's GONE! He's GONE! He's okay! The mouse went home to his family!"

I smiled. I nodded and said, "Yep, he must have. He's gonna be fine."
Then I hugged my daughter close and made a tiny contrition to the great judger above (whomever that might be) for this teeny transgression.

Sometimes the truth is just nothing but bullshit.

We want the precious

I have been too busy to write much lately, but I will take time to photoshop a picture of my kitten next to that Lord of The Rings guy. I promise I am not gonna turn into one of those bloggers who only writes about her cats. I hope.



That shit's funny though.

I need a kick start on blogging here. Who has an idea of a topic for me to write about?

Crazy Cat Ladies!!

Well, this has been quite a week. I don't have long to write, because I need to resume the patrolling of Lily and our new Kitten, Nugget, to be sure he remains alive and not squished to death, as she cannot seem to stop carrying the little guy around like a baby and putting him in baskets like he's her own personal baby doll ("Stop checking on me, mom! You woke him up! He's FINE!").

See, we had to put our elderly cat friend, Cleo, to sleep this week (my brave parents did the actual deed), and at 17 she was ready and went peacefully.

We realized though, that we really liked having two cats, so I located this very interesting organization online that traps, neuters and releases feral cats in NYC. The older woman I talked to on the phone was adorable if not a little too friendly (I learned all about her recent hysterectomy during our first phone call)... I imagine she spends a lot of time with her cats.

We met her at a residential house in Queens in which there was a basement containing about 50 feral cats in cages and their babies. Holy shit! She catches these kitties, spays and neuters them, and tries to adopt their babies out to good homes. I was impressed.

We picked out this little guy, and brought him home in a car service, where he barfed all over me and crawled up my neck onto my shoulder while our driver, a Bengali gentleman, kept asking me out for a light Indian dinner and a Bollywood movie ("Tomorrow?" "No. Thank you. I'm not interested." "Monday? You work Monday?" "Thank you, no. I'm really not interested in going out with you." "I'll call you Monday then.")

Lily and I camped in her room and watched Little House on the Prairie DVDs while Nugget, our newest friend, jumped around and snuggled and got to know us. Poor Sea Monkey was barred from the room (this kitten is tiny, and I didn't want him thinking he was a toy), but they have officially met this morning and seem to be getting along ok.

I'll keep y'all updated...

xo

When you're trying to elicit sympathy, it's best not to threaten

Dear Man in Dirty Red Tee Shirt on 7 Train,

I realize that you've probably had a tough life. I do. And I'm sorry for that one leg of yours that is significantly shorter than the other makes you walk with a limp. I'm sorry that your malformed foot doesn't quite fit in your sneaker and that it takes you longer than the average crazy person to make it down the middle of the aisle during your nightly canvassing of the rush-hour 7 train.

But I have a bit of advice for you, red-shirt wearing, hostile beggar. When trying to garner empathy from your fellow commuters (and collect gin money), it's best not to threaten to kick our asses if we don't give you change.

When you pulled your shirt up to show us the deeply-grooved scars on your back, and that short Mexican guy snickered, he was only doing so out of discomfort. I don't think that calling him an Oompa-Loompa-Looking-Motherfucker really added anything to the mounting tension you created by being both hostile and vulnerable at once, concurrently begging for money and telling us we are all assholes.

If I might, perhaps I can offer you a bit of advice, sir. Maybe take a trip to Times Square and watch how the more polished, seasoned spare-change solicitors do it. I think the best course of action is:
1. Enter train at a stop.
2. Briskly walk the aisle giving spiel about how you're living in a shelter but trying to get a job.
3. Ask politely for extra change.
4. Tell us God Bless.
5. Exit at next stop so as to not to create discomfort among fellow passengers, and try again in the next car.

I think that's really what works.

Here's what doesn't work:

Standing in the middle of the train, stop after stop after stop, shouting expletives with your shirt hiked up over your head, calling your fellow riders 'Foolios'.

It just makes you look silly.

Just a little friendly advice, sir. Food for thought, if you will.

Have a blessed day!

Love,

Krissyface

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! And I'm sorry about the title of my last post.

Apparently Mom didn't like "Snakes on a Plane".

My parents are retired English teachers, and they actually read my blog. I know. I don't understand it either.

I come from a family of big readers and grammar savants; in fact, I'm the only person in my immediate family without a graduate degree. Because really, you don't need a Masters to excel in WiseAssery.

Still, I like that my parents read the blog, even if they do give me crap about some of the content. They don't believe anyone should be censored, even though I know they secretly hope some day I will start to curb my rancid tongue and maybe talk about my vagina a little less.

I really appreciate my parents' open-mindedness with regard to reading and writing, though. As far back as I can remember, my sister and I were always allowed to read whatever we wanted. As long as we were reading something, my parents didn't care if it was the back of the cereal box or an Archie comic or Jackie Collins; they just wanted us to love the process of reading as much as they did. And we both inhale books like giant piles of uncut cocaine.

When I was maybe eleven or so, my mother picked up Judy Blume's Forever at a rummage sale and tucked it away in a corner shelf of our living room library and told me that I could read it "When I was a little older and ready".

Why not just dangle a salt lick just out of reach of my giant, panting animal tongue? Of course I snuck that book into my bedroom whenever I had a chance and dog eared every page (especially the ones where the guy introduced his girlfriend to his penis, whom he named "Ralph", omg), sharing it with friends and even sneaking it into school a couple of times. I was cool as shit because I had that book. It was my golden ticket; I used it as a bargaining chip to get invited to slumber parties. Of course, after I fell asleep the popular girls took it and read it under by flashlight after dunking my hand in warm water to get me to pee my sleeping bag. But I digress.

I think by the time Mom asked me if I felt 'ready' to read the book, I'd memorized the sex parts so thoroughly I could recite them. I'm pretty sure I did.

Anyway, the point is, I have really cool parents. I don't think I tell them that enough. Thanks, mis padres, for your unconditional acceptance and understanding when it comes to the unpredictable (yet endearing!) antics of your errant elder child.

Happy Mother's Day, Mamacita. And Hey, Dad. Nice to see you too.

Love,
Krissy

There's Motherfuckin' Swine Flu on this Motherfuckin' Plane!!!

I was traveling this weekend and was startled/entertained/confused by the number of people I encountered in various airports across America (because I'm a jet-setter, doncha know...actually, no. I just buy my tickets on Priceline and cannot afford a direct flight anywhere so I get to see the insides of various airports as I run to connecting gates spilling my Starbucks all over me) sporting this look.



Now, come on, people. Really?

When my plane descended into Laguardia, I launched into a mini-sneezing fit because recirculated air always makes my nostrils itchy, and the woman next to me was practically turning herself inside out trying to avoid sharing any breathing air with me in such a confined space. I gently wiped my nose, put my hand over hers and patted it, saying, "Don't worry. I think the meds I'm taking have made me less (cough, cough) contagious." Then I planted a big, wet french mouthkiss on her.

I'm not trying to make less of this potential pandemic (okay, yes, I am), but I do think people are overreacting just a weensy bit here.

I found this website that actually sells "Swine Flu Masks". Click here if you want some of that shit, but warning...limit three per customer! So, you and your husband and child are safe. But your baby is shit out of luck.

But you can buy some of these instead.



Hey, get an extra one for your babysitter and see what kind of long-term damage you can inflict on your child's emotional development while keeping him all Swine and Dandy and flu-free!