how to properly start off your 2011....

Just about every month or so a boy falls hard and fast for Chrissy and then abruptly disappears with nothing more than a John Doe e-mail and a lame excuse. "I think you are great and all, but I'm really just looking for someone with eleven fingers." Okay, that was a stretch but you get the idea.

Cue this month.

It was my first (and absolutely my last) internet dating experience. It started off strong with a healthy two thousand text messages a day and eventually blossomed into actually seeing each other in person. I thought it was moving fast, but hey, isn't this what forced, awkward internet love is supposed to feel like? The computer would not have told us we were a 93% match if it didn't really believe we had the power to force our lonely selves into a fake relationship based on a series of 5o questions. "Do you believe dinosaurs existed?" Okay, I guess that question could weed out some potential crazies.

We went on a couple of dates and I actually thought things were going great. Then came the random John Doe e-mail. I guess we met online; might as well break up online. It even had this " :( " Yeah, that's right. A sad face emoticon. Until he put that, I wasn't really sure if he was actually sad about sending me to dumpsville: population 1. I think he felt emasculated because I am undoubtedly funnier and quicker than he. I mean, I already have this blog up and I got his "get out of here" e-mail but an hour ago. Wait, that makes me look like a bitter old hag. FUUUUUHHHHH. Oh well, it's the truth. Or is it......

I want to be bitter about the "sorry, it's not you it's me" e-mail that I just received but to be honest, how could I? We did not really know each other. Well, I barely knew him I guess you could say. My creeping abilities were weak in comparison with his. If anything, I knew just about as much as he was willing to tell me. But flip the page and I am sure he could tell you my ACT scores and what I wore yesterday. (We didn't even see each other yesterday! get it?) Okay, okay. Yet another HUGE stretch. But he did find my Myspace (I swear I deleted that, heh.) AND this very blog. I wouldn't doubt that he is reading it right now. Hopefully not while I'm typing it. (shifty eyes, checks under bed.) But if so..... Hi Brian. Sorry you had to be the joke in this month's post. I am surprised you even talked to me at all after finding this for the first time. Oh, and Happy New Year.

I should actually feel fortunate. I went on an online dating site, met the dude for four dates, and did not manage to get murdered. Not everyone can say that. I should feel lucky that instead of meeting a psycho murderer, I met an every day asshole dude. I can do that without the internet. Okcupid.com..... delete key..... *click*

Here is hoping the rest of my year is just like the first two days. Or otherwise I would have nothing to blog about. So for that, I thank you.

xoxo

Wouldn't it be funny if I made a dudes who dump chrissy calendar? I won't. But fuck, that would be funny.

revenge is a dish best served cold.

My life has been a series of unfortunate events as of late. Constant car problems including a flat on the interstate and a hit and run, my father having a heart attack, mitts needing emergency vet attention because her eye magically puffed completely closed (pirate cat), losing my phone (that's a blog in and of itself) and I was "dumped" (using that term in the loosest way possible) by someone I did not really like that much in the first place. Burn. That is just a taste of my last two months. Chrissy v. The Universe. It's a scary thing to think that life itself is against you.

Lets get back to the dumper. Lets give him a name. Something simple and easy to remember. How about "Smeremy?" He decided he did not want to make me dinners anymore right around the time that I decided I did not want to eat dinners with him anymore. (No, this is not some sort of sick euphemism. He made me Indian food; it was actually really good.) It didn't even hurt my feelings. I think I was mostly bitter because he beat me to the punch. "Hey, you cannot "dump" me! I was going to "dump" you! Blast!" I'm generally a good sport so we are still friends. This was a few weeks ago. No harm, no foul.

Moving forward to Saturday night. Alison had a lovely holiday cocktail party and all friends were looking exceptionally snappy. Fancy cocktails were being chugged like keg beer, "simpler times" were had and spills were a plenty. It was a great party. After a cool 4 or 5 hours of drinking, Smeremy and I are had a little conversation. He said something I did not particularly like about having some sort of angry boner for a friend of mine and I got pissed. Not real pissed though. Almost pissed by principle. Remember, I was not even into this guy. Drunk, pissed off attitude is hard to explain or control. I spent the next hour or so avoiding his presence and then decided that it is probably best to just go home. I mean it was 3am.

I gathered my coat from the bedroom and made the rounds to tell my friends I am leaving. When looking for my friend Stuart, I happened to wonder onto the back porch. I close the door behind me and.........dammit! It's just me and Smeremy outside. There was a fresh snow fall. He was leaning on the railing looking out to the city. It would have been romantic if either one of us would have had even a remote interest in the other. I decided to be nice, "Hi, I was just looking for Stuart. Are you okay?" He turns and looks at me, looks back over the edge and without saying a word.......pukes from three stories high. The natural caretaker in me got him a glass of water. At first I wished that everyone could have seen it happen. But then I thought for a second......maybe that little performance was meant just for me. Though the smallest sentiment, I would like to say "Thank you Universe. It seems as though you have not forgot about me just yet."

Projectile vomit. It is the little things that get me through my days.

letters from friends.....

This is an actual letter I received from a dear friend yesterday. I am truly flattered that friends know that they can confide in me with such serious important issues. Without further adieu....

I feel like I can discuss this with you:
A few months ago, I was reading some sex horror stories (true stories!) and one of them was about a girl and her boyfriend and how he stuck a champagne bottle up her ass, and her mother-in-law walked in and she pooped all over the fancy Mother in law's couch. Okay. Fast-forward to the next day, when I'm listening to The Moth podcasts, and one is about a recent divorcee who started screwing a younger guy. The sex was amazing, so much so, that she....pooped the bed. It wasn't even anal.
So ever since these consecutive poopsex stories, I've been terrified of pooping during sex. I can't focus on anything else but pooping! I had never even thought about it before. Has this ever happened to you? Is this a question better suited for Savage Love or something? I've totally got hang-ups now.
Love,
********


PS- General life updates from you are welcome.

Dearest ********,
I have definitely had the fear of such a situation. Especially after a huge fancy pants romantic dinner. There is no room, you know? I'm scared of farting even. But then again, sex is filled with crazy bodily fluids and weird random things can happen. My sister shit her pants when she gave birth to her first kid but not her second. Yeah that wasn't during sex but it really is just luck of the draw. There is always the "not tonight, my tummy hurts" excuse. But sex is gross and gross things are bound to happen. Once, I had sex on the first day of my period. everything was fine and dandy, no mess was made during. It was a fucking miracle. Then, right when it was over and I said that I was going to go get situated "BAM!" I bleed all over myself and the floor. Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches. We basically just laughed it off and never talked about it again. Embarrassed? No way. I say shit the bed. If you shit the bed and he flees it was never meant to be. If you shit the bed and he stays, that's love.

forever your girl,
chrissy.wynn.

p.s. I love that you assumed this situation had happened to me.




If any of you readers have advice for ******** please leave it in the comments. thanks!

what's your emergency?

I would love to tell a story that did not involve drinking or puking but that is apparently all I do. This next story encapsulates both.

Rachel was having the first bbq of the of the warm season in Chicago, which isn't even until June. I even had enough courage to invite a few attractive gentlemen who came to the cafe (baller, yeah right). The party started at seven but I had to close up shop and was going to be late. As we were getting ready to leave, around 6:30, the kitchen sink's grease trap starts to overflow. It literally smelled like year old shit and had the ability to penetrate the skin and stay with you for life. Rarely do things gross me out but this little number had got me; the bog of eternal stench. After staying a half hour after work, Katherine and I, and our new musk, grab a drink to take with us and head to our cars. Should I change? Nah, I'm a fucking dirtball for real. Right when I sat in my car, splash, Sanpellegrino all over my lap. Okay, now I HAVE to change.

I floored it and got home and to the party in record time. No dinner, no time. It's like I was asking to get as drunk as possible as fast as possible. Just inject it start into my blood stream. No really, I want to look like an ass, that's how I roll. I started drinking and was having the best time. You can always tell when I cross the line between buzzed and drunk when I decide it's a good time for me to start smoking weed. Hey, I had to look cool in front of the dudes I invited, you know how that goes. Mixing incredibly trashed and getting high...... That was the beginning of the end.

When you pass out in your friend's attic on a "pillow palace", you know it is time to go. I sat up really fast, looked at Rachel with half eyes and jetted. I ditched my car and opted for a cab. The words Belmont and Western barely even escaped my mouth. I fell asleep(ish) half way through my ride. Please don't hit any bumps. Please don't swerve. My cheek is stuck to the half opened window and right when we are stopped at the Milwaukee and Western el stop, the inevitable happened. I start barfing all over the outside of the cab. Everyone can see me but I honestly didn't give a fuck. I thought, like most people in that situation, that I was dying. The cab driver starts throwing newspapers at me and yelling things at me and rolled my window down all the way.

I cleaned myself off with the newspapers and started to feel much better. We pulled up to my house and he asks me what I plan to do about the puke on his car door. Uh, here's five bucks, go through a car wash and I am really sorry? My fare was eleven dollars and I planned to give him twenty five for the trouble. Not good enough according to him. He tried to tell me that I owed him fifty dollars (!!!!!) for his troubles. I tried to be super polite. "There is no way that is correct" I said. "Give me fifty dollars!", he yelled as he locked the doors. Oh hell no. He had unleashed the fury. "FIFTY DOLLARS MY ASS! Why don't you call a supervisor and if they say that it cost fifty dollars I'll consider it. And even then, come on." So he called his boss, talks for a few seconds, and said "excuse me, it's forty dollars for your mess." Mess? I've seen babies spit up more than what I did on the OUTSIDE of the cab. "How do I even know that you called your boss? You could have called a friend and said what ever you wanted. I don't believe a single word you say. And where does it state that if you puke on the outside of a cab you owe them money because I'm reading my cab passenger rights posted on the back of your seat and it doesn't say I owe you shit. I won't believe you unless I hear your boss say it." The cab driver flips out and kept saying "You want me to call someone?! You want me to call someone?! Fine!" He held up his phone right by my face and dialed 9-1-1. Shit just got real real. "What's the emergency?" Cabbie proceeds to say that he has a passenger who is refusing to pay her cab fare. Bullshit, I'm refusing to let him steal my money. The lady says, "Uh, okay, I guess I'll send someone over."

I lived less than half a block from the police station and the cops were there in seconds. "What's the emergency?" Cabbie kept saying that I wouldn't pay my fare and taht the vomit was going to take three hours to clean and I kept saying he was trying to steal my money and that he locked me in the cab as a hostage. The cops have both of us step out of the cab and come onto the sidewalk. In the end they declare me the victor based on how little vomit was actually on the car and all I had to pay was my eleven dollars. Victory was indeed mine. I pay him the eleven dollars and for some reason I ran home even though it was half a block away. I felt bad for a second but realized that this couldn't have been the first time it has happened to him and it really comes with the territory.

happy belated father's day.

I pulled into the Grab-a-Java parking lot at five in the morning, just like every other morning, put the car in park and just sat. "I feel so hot," I thought. Sweat was pouring down my face as I entered the building. I couldn't even remember the code for the alarm. Before I knew it I was uncontrollably vomiting in the tiny little bathroom. My face was so far in the toilet that I could see everything that was living in there. Not pretty. I'm 25 years old and I'm about to call my dad to pick me up from work. . .

I spit out the last of the bile in my mouth and get in my dad's car. He decides to take me back to his house since he had the day off and I could use the constant monitoring. This was his first mistake. The events that unfolded after we made it home were completely beyond my control.

My dad's second mistake was telling me to go upstairs and sleep in his bed. We worked out a system. I had my phone by my bedside and instead of having a little bell to ring, whenever I needed something I would just call my dad, let it ring once and he would come to check my status. Status: puking every hour on the hour. Cause: food poisoning (Even though I swear I had the Black Plague. Can you get that from old Arby's mozzarella sticks? Yes, I went to Arby's. Yes, I ate the sticks after I let them sit for hours unrefrigerated. Judge not lest he be judged.)

In ten hours it was 10-0 and vomit was winning. Where is it all coming from? It was as though it took the bile in my stomach exactly one hour to reproduce and become the perfect amount for my gag reflexes to react. I couldn't even drink water without puking instantly. Puking water is the worse too. It mimics putting your thumb over the end of a waterspout that is on full blast except instead of the clean refreshing feel and taste of water it was the repulsive stickiness and taste of bile water. Back to bed.

Two hours had gone by and I hadn't puked yet. I must be in recovery mode; I'm going to call my dad. He comes up the stairs and I tell him that I no longer think I'm going to die but I feel this extreme pressure on my stomach. Maybe if I just fart it would relieve the pressure and I could sleep. Big mistake. With my dad still in the room, I squint my eyes, and then all of a sudden shit my pants. Did I push too hard?! My plan had totally backfired! I mean, I felt a little better but did I seriously just shit my pants, in my dad's bed, with him in the room, at age 25? Yes. And this is where unconditional love comes to play. Even though it smelled like something died, my dad just drew a bath and proceeded to carry me and my shit pants to the bathroom. I cleaned up and went back to bed until the next day. Every now and then I'll remind my dad that I shit his bed and wait for him to blush. These exact situations are what families are really for.

buckethead.

"What are you supposed to be?" "I am Snow White." Oh right, how did I not figure that out? . You are clearly wearing a striped skirt with your ass checks hanging out, a corset, and thigh highs. How did the red bow in your bleached out hair not give it all away? (I really can't hate on the bleachies. I was once a bleached head too. Moving on) How come men never wear sexy Disney costumes? I am dying to see a sexy Jafar or a sexy Mufasa? Where are all the little "sexy" dwarfs in cut off jean shorts and mesh belly shirts with tiny caps? I live for the day. Live for it.

*I try to avoid the sexy girl Halloween costumes that consumes the majority of the women that I know. I try to be something that I think really represents my personality. One year, I was bubbles from Powerpuff Girls. The next, Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous. "Acting" like a drunk comes naturally to me. Sometimes I like to keep it sweet. A doll. Pink cheeks, dress to the knees, white tights. It was almost too easy. Well, not as easy as Josh and Lisa's costumes. They showed up from Florida on Halloween night to surprise everyone. They had brought custom made costumes.....sheets.....with eyeholes cut out. Classic. I think Josh might have cut out a hole by his mouth so that he could smoke but other than that, pure simplicity. I was the only person at the whole bar who even knew it was them. Truly a disguise.


We leave the bar and go to a party at my friend Jay's house. There are all sorts of crazy costumes there! There was a duck, zombies, doctors, an entire lumberjack team, the occasional Disney skank and then there was "Buckethead." I am not exactly sure what Buckethead's costume was. A robot? The tinman? He literally just had an upside down bucket on his head. It is still a mystery to me. Buckethead proceeds to talk to me, hands me a balloon and follows it with a big grin. "Thanks for the balloon?" I tie it at the end and hold it like I am at the Illinois State Fair completely unaware why he even gave it to me. But I am drunk and when I am drunk I just accept gifts without question. He starts to laugh and says "you're supposed to hit it." Hit it? What does that mean? In my head I picture my self lightly spanking this balloon. Then it comes to me. Ohhhhhhh.......it's like helium. So I poke a hole in the balloon and suck out a little bit of the air. Buckethead is clearly annoyed. "I cannot believe you just wasted it. It was a whip-it." A WHIP-IT? I am a fucking adult! I never do drugs but come on, at least offer me some cocaine or maybe a little heroine. Make me feel like a grown-up. But a whip-it? Does this mean I have to move back in with my parents and start working at the mall again? Great.


To make a long story short(er): I end up leaving Buckethead, getting completely trashed (whip-it free), wondering away from the party and waking up the next day in a doll costume laying next to a lumberjack in a bed that is ten feet from the the ground. How the hell did this happen? More importantly, how the hell do I get down from this bed without a ladder and without waking the sleeping giant? So I jumped onto a bucket that was placed on the counter that was next to the excessively tall bed. I was free. All I had to do was walk home, passed all the yard sales, dressed like a doll. But in the end I was saved by a bucket.........*

My friend is from Brazil and he told me that if America had Carnival then maybe the girls here wouldn't dress so skanky around Halloween. I told him, "America doesn't have Carnaval but we definitely have carnivals." Tweety t-shirts, gravatrons, turkey legs, airbrushed hats and maybe the Beach Boys playing at the Grandstand. Talk about sexy. I think I am going to play safe next Halloween. Garth Algar. Imagine waking up with that in your bed. Aerosmith shirt on the floor and fried blond hair all over your pillow. "I like to play." Party on.

in the begining. . .

I would love to start my blog by officially stating that all people, places and "things" will remain true to each story. I will change no names nor respect anyone's privacy, including my own. I have this amazing ability to not be embarrassed. Oh, and apparently I decided I would use caps. Jokes on me.