Only the Lonely

There are so many people out there who seem to know what’s best for me and what I need to live my life. It’s amazing I’ve grown to the ripe old age of 39 (several times now) and am still able to function and even dress myself. How did I ever get along without them?! People love to tell other people what to wear, what to eat, how they shouldn’t cuss like a motherfucking sailor, who to vote for, where to spend their money, how they should get married and have children, or at least get into a committed relationship, and on and on and on. I know they mean well but seriously. I’ve got this. Stop telling me what to do. Especially when it comes to relationships. As we’ve discussed before, I’ve been married. And lest the ex get too much credit for my views on relationships, I can honestly say he’s not the only one who’s ever broken my heart and left me for dead. It’s truly been a group effort. So when it comes to the boyfriend stuff let’s just say, my name is…no. But there are the brave few that continue to insist that I can find a man and that I should find a man and that I need to find a man.

But…but…my cats and my tv!

Apparently, there’s so much in my life that’s missing because of the lack of on-premises penis. So I decided to take the majority of the arguments as to why I need a relationship and wreck the ever loving hell out of them. Just for funsies.

You’ll be lonely

Now, if I don’t get a man while the gettin’s good (and let’s face it, the gettin’s sliding downhill at an alarming rate), I will be cursed with an eternity of loneliness. Who will I talk to? Who will I share my day with? Who will I do things with? And go places with? Who will come see my plays? Who will bother me while I’m watching tv?

I can’t wait to tell you all about sportsball.

So how will I combat my loneliness without a boyfriend? I’m not sure. Let me ask Melanie, Jen, Mom, Melinda, Kim, Debra, Cory, Lindsay W., Lindsay A., Brandon, John, Brian E., Brian L., Carly, Kelly A., Kelly M., Kelly H., Linsee, Stephen, Dad, Janet, Alan, Bonnie, Nikki, Genesis, Pat, Fallon, Ashton, Nancy, Julie, Ravyn, Chris, Jan, Rex, Ingrid, Chrissy, Jamie or any of the other hundreds of family, friends, fans, and well-wishers I have. That I talk to. And do things with. And go places with. So loneliness is obviously not a valid reason to get a fella. And of course when it comes to good company, if all else fails…

Cats. That is all.

You need children

As we’ve also previously discussed, I’m not having children. Along with all the reasons listed in the link, I have to say kids aren’t for everyone. They are real, live human beings. They have feelings and thoughts and needs. They do! I read it in a book once. They are people and not a trendy accessory or pastime. I refuse to bring another person into this world because (a) somebody else thinks it’s a good idea, or (b) I’m bored and don’t have anything better to do. I don’t care how much children have enriched your life and you don’t care how they destroyed your lady bits. I’m not interested. And also, I’m never bored. Especially since FXX became The Simpons Channel.

Wayyyyy more enriching than a baby. With lady bits still intact.

I don’t really have that time bomb or clock or whatever it is that makes women want to squeeze something the size of a wet St. Bernard through a hole the size of a cat door. But if the mothering urge does overtake me and all else fails…

I have a real St. Bernard.

Who will do the man stuff?

Ok, I’ll admit it. There are certain things a man can do that I’d rather not. Like killing bugs and mowing the lawn and building things and fixing things. Of course, I can and will build my own blanket fort. And it will be rad. And no, you can’t come in.

The only rule of Fort Blanket is there is no farting at Fort Blanket.

God knows I hate bugs but I can use a can of Raid or hairspray or Febreze or whatever poison just as good as the next guy. I also have money, which I can use to exchange for the goods and services of a person who knows how to build and fix things, should I need them to do so. I’ve also found that a low cut tank top can get me all kinds of help from the all the men and about half the women at Home Depot. And if all else fails…

Thanks for teaching me this, Mom!

You’ll never get flowers and gifts

This one worried me a little. I adore flowers! And chocolates. And anything sparkly. But I had an idea. A wild crazy idea that just might work. So I went to Kroger. I went to the floral department and picked up a bouquet of roses. Only $10. I took a couple of steps away from the refrigerator case. I looked around. Nope. Nothing. Nobody ran up to me screaming that I can’t have these flowers. Nobody punched me in the face and took them back. I cautiously walked to the register. I handed the girl my credit card and lo and behold she let me buy them! Holy shit! I can’t believe that happened. She asked me who they were for and I said, “Myself.” And she said, “Cool.” Damn right, it’s cool! Now, I’m not sure if this will actually work for candy and shiny things but I’m pretty sure it will. So no, I don’t need a man to buy me gifts. If I want something, I’ll buy it for myself. Or ask Santa Claus. And if all else fails…

Yoink.

Who will take care of you when you get old?

Statistically, women live about 5 years longer than men. So really, if a woman marries a man her age or a little older (as is the norm), she’s looking to spend her golden years taking care of a sick and dying husband and then being left heartbroken and alone when she’s too old and wrinkly to appreciate finally being able to strut around the house in the nude and bask in her newfound bachelorette status. Then, some people would say, that’s when you need those kids you didn’t have to come take care of you. Not so fast. Who’s to say your kids aren’t assholes who are going to throw you in Shady Pines and forget all about you until the will’s read? Why take that chance? I’m currently saving for my own retirement that I don’t have to waste by “sharing” it with someone else. My plan includes a lovely 401k, a small pension from SAG, some scratcher tickets, and my own retirement palace in my sister’s basement where I’ll live with my cats and enjoy my choice of Fancy Feast or Meow Mix, depending on what Social Security the Republicans have left me. My sister also has 2 kids though, so she said I can borrow one of them to love me and take care of me when I’m old. I’ve been working hard to form a tight, loving relationship with them, forged by gifts and currency so if all else fails…

Replace your IV bag with vodka…got it.

What about…you know

Just say it. Sex. What about sex?! Now, my parents read this here blog so I’ll keep it brief. Parental figures, SPOILER ALERT, I have had/do have/will have sex. You might not want to read any farther than this.

We interrupt this blog for a rainbow and unicorn break.

Ok. You don’t need to be in a relationship to get laid. We all know it’s true. I can have sex whenever I want. The best part about uncommitted sex is that you’re not, you know, committed. You don’t have to talk about personal crap or care or get sucked into a tsunami of the feels. You don’t have to worry about taking him home to Mom, or him monopolizing your free time, or touching your stuff, or whether or not the cats like him. You can be friends, take care of your business, and move on with your life. And if all else fails…

Hell, a lot of married women probably need these, too. 😉

Don’t get me wrong though. If the right guy came along, sure, I’d totally go for it. But I don’t believe in settling or talking myself into loving someone just because other people think I’m supposed to. There are so many amazing men out there. But if I’m confined by society’s dictates and don’t live my life honestly and with an open mind and heart, I might miss him. If I fall in love, it will be with a man who enhances my life; but he will not be my life. He will be there because I want him, not because I need him. Yes, I’m single. You know why? Because I’m worth the wait. And as RuPaul, the Mother of all Queens says…If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you going to love somebody else? Can I get an amen up in here?!

#disbitch

Men have never understood women. And they never will. It’s in the contract we sign when our boobs are handed out. “From this day forth, thou shalt do anything and everything to confuse and disturb the entirety of mankind including, but not limited to, policies and procedures that are in direct contradiction to the sworn practices of moments before…” Part of those policies is the deep love and intense hatred of our fellow sisters. Women hate women. Yet at the same time, we adore each other and no one can understand us like one of our own. But for the most part, women are bitches. I hate bitches. There are all kinds of bitches and they are everywhere. I have a small group of amazing women that I love and would do anything for. The rest of them are relegated to either “that girl I don’t really know enough about to hate yet” and “dis bitch”. Today, let’s talk about dis bitch…

(I also agree that all sporting events and post-sex quiet moments will be punctuated with repeated inquiries of, “What are you thinking?”)

Dis Passive Aggressive Bitch

This is the bitch that doesn’t have the actual balls, or ovaries I guess, to stand up to your face and tell you why she hates you. She’ll give you backhanded compliments like, “I wish I was brave enough to wear that color.” or “Wow. You are so strong. If my ex found somebody else that fast, I’d just die of humiliation.” And the ever popular, “I wish I didn’t care and could grow old gracefully like you.” She will offer you clothes like this, “My sister lost all this weight so she has a ton of bigger clothes she can’t wear and you were the first person I thought of!” Bitch, please. This bitch will make friends with your ex while private messaging you about how, “I can’t stand him. You deserve so much better. Ugh, he’s so boring and ugly and gross. His loss, sweetie.” Really? Then why is your facebook filled with pictures of the two of you spending the day at King’s Dominion with captions like “Best day ever. Jason, you are amazing! And single. Whaaaat?” Fuck. You. Bitch.

(Let’s meet at Applebee’s to discuss how small his penis is. Love you, mean it!)

She’ll set up a girls’ night and either do it on a night she knows you can’t come or “accidentally” forget to invite you at all. “Oh no! I swear I thought you were on that email chain. You didn’t get my text either? Stupid phone. I feel just awful. But omg, we had so much fun!” Don’t lie. You didn’t text me. Texts never “don’t go through”. And it’s not your stupid phone. It’s stupid you. You know what your problem is? You’re weak and you’re jealous and you’re lonely. You have nothing else going for you so want to tear me down until I’m just as petty and miserable as you. Not going to happen. Cuz I’m a different kind of bitch. But more on that later.

Dis Bitch Is Better Than You

This bitch is the one who just lives to show you how amazing and great she is. Her life is wonderful. Her kids are ever so attractive and they’re the captain of every sports team, get the lead in every school play and they make nothing but straight A’s while eating nothing but broccoli. They wake up singing like fucking Mary Poppins and fall asleep reading the Bible. She’ll marry anything, whether she really loves him or not, just to keep up the appearance of her perfect life. She’ll try to guide your poor, pitiful ass to greatness and you should be thankful for the opportunity to learn at her perfectly pedicured feet. “Honey, you’ll never catch a man dying your hair from a box! You need to make it a priority to get to the salon. And you have to stop feeding your kids those Happy Meals. I mean, I wouldn’t dream of sending Brock and Persephone to school without a kale smoothie to open their minds to the joys of education!” Dis bitch will commiserate with you. “I know how tough it is when money is tight. When we had our pool put in, I had to stop my gym membership for a month. Well, I just had to stop eating until I could go back. I couldn’t look at myself if I weighed an ounce over 120.” Really? When my 15 year old car broke down and I had to borrow money from my boss to get it fixed so I could continue to go to work to pay him back, I didn’t eat either because I COULDN’T FUCKING AFFORD TO EAT. Damn, bitch.

(Hey, Brock. Your mommy’s gonna need you to come and show off that A+ you got in CPR class.)

But be careful with all your fake perfection. Everybody struggles. It’s life and it’s ok. Nobody’s perfect. Not even you, as we can all tell from the numerous empty merlot bottles in your vintage Crate & Barrel trash can.

Dis Messy Bitch

Now this bitch is just a damn hot mess. She cries all the time. She’s sick all the time. She’s hooking up and breaking up more often than Dis Better Bitch is getting her nails done. She hates her job. She hates the way she looks. She can’t ever seem to remember her wallet when you go out so everybody has to cover for her. Everyone has to change their schedule repeatedly to meet hers because she forgot the 137 other vitally important things she has to do. She is always late and half the time never shows at all, even though girls’ night was moved 3 times to accommodate her. There is a calendar on your phone, dear. Use it! Stop asking the world to revolve around you because you just can’t get your shit together.

(Can we change your birthday to June? I met this ah-mayzing guy this morning. I just know he’s the one!)

And don’t lend this bitch anything. She’ll borrow everything but never lend you anything. “I’m sorry your grandma died but those are the most favorite of my 27 pairs of black heels. No, not those either. They’re my second favorite.” Seriously, bitch? If you love your clothes, jewelry, money, children, etc. and would like to see them again, do not let dis messy bitch get her paws on them. You will never see them again.

(I thought for sure I gave your antique earrings back. They’re probably in my car somewhere.)

How she gets through each day, I have no idea. Surely, she should’ve been dead and eaten by bears years ago. And you know, you know, that if you lead this life you would have no friends and be living in a homeless shelter talking to your shoes and eating your fingernails. Yet she continues on. Living on the edge of sanity and reason. Succeeding despite herself. And then calling you crying because she’s gotten lost in Target. Again.

Dis Weak Ass Bitch

I hate a weak woman. Dis bitch is afraid of everything, including herself. She doesn’t have the guts to stand up for anything though she’ll talk her face off about all the millions of things that bother her. “I just hate that gay people can’t get married. It’s so wrong!” Really? A few of us are going to a photo shoot in support of gay rights. You should come! “Oh, gosh. Yeah. Um…I don’t think I can. My dad’s a minister and if he saw….” So you feel bad for people who are treated badly but you won’t stand up to try to stop it? You suck. She won’t stand up to bullies. She’ll watch mean bitches treat other people like shit but won’t say one damn word even though she knows they’re wrong. She follows other bitches around like a puppy rather than have her own ideas and her own say because the possibility of not being liked is worse to her than confrontation and (horrors!) an argument, even in her own defense. She can’t function without a man and doesn’t seem to care if he treats her like shit. And when you tell her, “Why the hell do you take that crap? I’d be so furious and kick his ass to curb so fast Vin Diesel would applaud!” She responds with, “Oh, no. He really loves me. He was just trying to help me be more healthy by telling me even a school of manatees would put me on Weight Watchers.” Dear Lord, bitch.

(You’re right. Sex will be so much better once you tape a picture of my sister on here.)

You want to feel sorry for her. But after a while, it gets old. You are a grown damn woman! Stand the fuck up and grow a backbone. If you want to eat steak and someone asks where do you want to eat. Don’t say, “I don’t care.” Say, “I want the Outback. I’m dying for some steak.” It’s not that damn hard. If somebody doesn’t like you, so the fuck what?! That’s their loss. There are billions of other people in this world to be friends with. If you see some kids picking on another kid, don’t walk by and ignore it. Say something! Tell those damn kids, “If you don’t stop bullying this child, I will call the police on you myself. You man enough to be Bubba’s girlfriend on the inside, son?” And it’s ok to be alone. It’s better to be alone than to be with someone who doesn’t treat you like the queen you are. Don’t be afraid and quit your damn whining, bitch!

Dis Crazy Bitch

This bitch is one loose cannon. She’s a little of all of the above with a dose of near insanity that’s almost scary. She curses like a sailor. She never backs down from a fight. She truly does not give a flying fuck if everybody likes her but she can polite you to death. She can drink an entire frat house under the table and still show up on time for church the next morning.

(Liquor before wine, feeling fine, eh Padre?)

Her relationships seem to be little more than ships passing in the night (if by ship, you mean genitals and by night, you mean parking lot). She remembers everyone’s birthday but forgets her underwear. She’ll wake up one morning and pack up her life to move to across the country “just to see what happens.” She’s fearless but extremely self-conscious. She’ll talk to anybody and can tell you the life story of the guy who checked her out at the grocery store. She can go from happy as a clam to near suicidal to pissed as a wet hen to peaceful as a Zen Master in a matter of minutes. She’ll drunk text you quotes from “The Simpsons” at 3am and then laugh at her stupidity the next morning. She’s a peacemaker for her family and friends and her retirement plan consists of living in her sister’s basement and sharing Meow Mix with her 7 cats. Nobody knows what to make of her. This is my favorite bitch though. Because dis crazy bitch is me.

Despite it all though, I wouldn’t trade a single one of these bitches for all the men in the world. Of course, I’d happily kick them all to the curb for 3 minutes alone in a parking lot with Johnny Depp. And I’m sure they’d do the same to me. Damn bitches.

Weddings, Birthdays and Babies, Oh My!

So I know that there always seems to be some sort of exciting event in people’s lives at work. You can count on it in any office, big or small. It affects everyone. It seems that I see the people in my office more than my own family sometimes so naturally (before the Prozac wears off), I feel inclined to share in their happy times. But it’s seriously starting to get ridiculous. I don’t know how many more lunches/cakes/gifts/gift cards/cards/flowers/showers/singing telegrams/bottles of liquor/decorations and so on that I can donate to before I have to choose between paying my electric bill and insulting Jack in accounting. And God knows if I don’t share in the joy of Jack’s 150th anniversary of being married to that horrid woman who calls the office every day and still calls me Christie (I hate that name), I’ll never hear the end of it. And if I don’t give $10-20 towards the gift, then he’ll be pissed because one time I gave Melissa a stuffed animal I won out of the claw machine when her cat died.

(Geez, I hit a cat on my way to work this morning and I didn’t get squat!)

The thing is, I like Melissa. She is my friend and she is a super nice girl. She knew all about that rash and the kerfuffle at the free clinic and she didn’t tell a soul! She’s fantastic. But I don’t like Jack. Jack is a dick. He is rude and lazy and a liar. He eats people’s lunches out of the fridge and thinks we don’t know and if you call out sick, he tells everyone you’re either hung over or knocked up. Why should I spend my hard earned money on someone like that? We’re not friends; we’re co-workers. Then there’s always the email that goes around stating, “If you would like to give toward the office gift, see Jane. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Yeah, right. More like, “You don’t have to give if you want to be known as the bitchy office cheapskate.” I’ve worked in small, medium and large offices. It doesn’t matter. Everybody knows everybody’s business. If you don’t give, they’re going to know. I’m not stingy but I could go bankrupt from buying pastel colored gift bags alone. It’s not that I want to be mean but jeez! It seems the gift giving requirements are getting more and more demanding every year.

(She can afford to get lunch from the 7-11 but not chip in for Mavis’ cruise? What an uppity bitch!)

I mean, congrats on your new baby. Babies are great. I don’t have one but I hear they’re endlessly amusing despite the smell. One of the attorneys in an office I worked at had no fewer than five, count ‘em folks, FIVE baby showers! And yet I’m still supposed to give her something!? What the hell else could that kid possibly need? It’s dressed better than me at this point. It’s insane. Who has that many baby showers and still asks underpaid staff for more gifts?

(Yes, a baby massage table is a necessity. I HAVE STRESS!)

And if you don’t pony up, you get that look of, “What did poor, pregnant girl/bride/birthday girl ever do to you?” or “Why do you hate babies?” or “Oh, of course you don’t want to give the bride a gift. You’re divorced. You hate love.” No, I don’t hate love. I just hate your love. But if I try to argue the point, I just look even more pathetic and hateful. It’s better just to hand over some cash and keep my mouth shut.

(Congrats on your bris, kid. Though this won’t be much comfort about a half hour from now.)

I want to know when us single people are going to get showers and parties. There are always a few of us in any office who are not married and do not have kids. We’re getting stiffed here! Shouldn’t we get some sort of gift-related recognition for being able to properly use a condom and not joining our lives to the first person who asks out of fear of dying alone? I think we should. Not gonna happen but it would be awesome.

(Yeeaahhhh, totally worth it. Maybe my standards are too high.)

Bottom line, I am sick to death of being guilted into buying anymore gifts for anyone in the damned office. If we’re close, I will know what’s coming up in your life and be happy to gift you for it and vice versa. As for the other 98% of the office, let’s try “don’t ask/don’t tell”. Don’t ask me for gifts and then I don’t have to tell you no. That policy has to be good for something.

(No, no, don’t explain. I should’ve known to knock before I opened the supply closet.)

There are, of course, birthdays. I think it’s nice if the office wants to have maybe one cake per month for all the birthdays in that month. It would save us all a lot of time and money. As for me, I love my birthday. Yes, I’m sprinting towards middle age like a starving cheetah on crack with the Sizzler in its sights but I still love my birthday. It’s actually more of a week span of celebration but I still call it birth-day. I have my family and friends who are required to celebrate and appreciate me accordingly. I don’t expect anyone at the office to get me anything. If you notice me wearing my birthday tiara and want to say “Happy Birthday. I can’t believe you’re only 29”, that’s great. And we can go to lunch together but I can pay for myself. Unless, of course, you insist. But if you are not family or appointed friends, then don’t spend your money on me. Just cover my donation next time Jenny gets knocked up again.

(Dear God! Don’t you people ever just watch tv?)

Dear Idiot (Part Deux)

A while back I did a couple of entries regarding people who annoy the ever living crap out of me on a constant and daily basis. I don’t remember exactly when because whenever there’s a new season of “Project Runway” on, time loses all sense of meaning. Regardless, you can read them here and here. They’re pretty awesome. They got good responses, so I thought I’d write another. As time marches on and I grow older and wiser, one would think I would also grow some patience with my fellow man. It turns out, it’s quite the opposite. I’m more irritated by people than ever. Why are people such jerks? I get so mad! Why?! Why are you like this, you damn freak?! I just want to punch you until you cry and then yell at you to shut up!

(Why can’t you be normal? Like me!)

Dear Idiot: Talky-Talkerton

I’m a friendly person. I have lots of friends and acquaintances. I love talking to them. The sound of my own voice is charming. But I know how to pick up on the non-verbal cues that my charm is wearing thin. Not everyone is as astute as I am though. Some folks will just keep talking. And talking. And talking. And talking. This drives me crazy. If you see me peeking at the clock over your shoulder, slowly backing away from you or putting my fingers in my ears and singing “Baby Got Back”, you need to stop talking. Please, shut your face hole. I don’t want to hear anymore. You are boring me. And I hate being bored. It ranks right up there with watching the news and eating broccoli. I might be a great actress but even I can’t act like I give a shit about your upcoming weekend of wallpapering your grandmother’s bathroom but for so long. Even though wallpaper paste makes you nauseous like that time you threw up funnel cake at the Salem Fair where your favorite ride is the Scrambler but they don’t even have it anymore, but they do have the bobsled thingees where you ran into your ex’s new girlfriend and she hasn’t barfed up any funnel cakes lately because HA, she’s gotten fat, God how you hate her. Sometimes, to try to distract the talker, I’ll start talking. Ok, I listened to you talk for 42 ½ minutes. It’s my turn to talk now. How about you listen to me for a bit? Quid pro quo, Clarice. But you know what that gets me? The stink eye for interrupting! I’m like, so rude.

(As I was saying, Lowe’s didn’t have Grammy’s plaid wallpaper so I had to go to Home Depot. And then…)

You know what? Just shut up. Stop talking. Forever. Leave me alone. I don’t care what’s happening in your life. God only gave me so much time on this earth and I don’t want to spend it listening to your endless prattle. Just. Stop. Talking.

Dear Idiot: Stranger Danger

Dear Stranger. Don’t touch me. Ever. Why are you touching me? Seriously. Stop it. Why in the hell do people who don’t know me, touch me? Back when my commercials were on tv, I had a few people who would come up and poke me and say, “I know you! (poke-poke) I saw you on tv. (poke) Omg, I totally know you! (poke-poke)” Ok, you did see me on tv but you don’t know me. And stop poking me, dammit, before I bend your bony, pokey finger so far back you’re whistling Dixie. But I’m not on tv anymore and still, kids, old ladies, grown men, etc. all seem to think it’s ok to touch me. They pat me on the back, hold my hand or arm or even touch my hair. It happens in grocery store lines, at Wal-Mart, at work, in restaurants and so on. When I lived in Glendale, a couple of guys would stand right up behind me, put their face in my hair and smell me! I know I’m kinda soft and usually smell good but don’t touch! What is wrong with you? I’m not a dog that’s been left tied to a lamp post. It’s just freaking weird. Don’t get in my personal space. Especially if you haven’t even bought me dinner yet. And I know it’s not just me. I see strangers touch other people’s babies. Cuz I guess the best way to strengthen their weak little immune systems is to expose them to as many dirty hands as possible. And the worst is when you see some stranger rubbing some pregnant lady’s belly. Holy crap! Keep your creepy hands to yourself. A baby bump is not public domain! How would you feel if I just walked up and started patting your tummy? Though my guess is you would probably like it, freak that you are.

(Go ahead, touch it. It’ll bring you luck…I SAID FUCKING TOUCH IT!)

Dear Idiot: Don’t Ask

God, I hate this. That damn person who asks your advice just to do the exact opposite. WTF. And they’ll ask over and over. I told you what I think. It’s obviously not what you want to hear. Why do you keep talking?

Idiot: Should I wear brown shoes or black?

Me: Black.

Idiot: Hm…I think I’ll wear the brown.

…

Idiot: Should I color my hair blue-black?

Me: No. You’ll look horrible. Like a middle-aged, goth Elvis.

Idiot: I’m going do it. I love Elvis.

…

Idiot: Do these jeans make me look fat?

Me: They do give you a certain manatee-esque quality.

Idiot: I’ll wear them with this tube top. I think I look sexy.

Me: For a manatee, maybe.

Don’t ask me for my opinion if you’re going to do whatever the hell you want anyway. It shows you have no respect for my opinion. Which is fine. You don’t have to respect my opinion. But then why the hell do you keep asking me? Just do what you want and leave me the hell out of it. And don’t you dare do something stupid and try to come back at me with, “Why didn’t you stop me from <insert personal disaster here>?!” I tried but you wouldn’t listen. Why didn’t I stop you? Because you’re an idiot, that’s why.

(He wants my ATM card and the keys to my car. I should totally give it to him, right?)

Dear Idiot: Fisherman

I don’t particularly care for fish. And by that, I mean I despise fish. I’m not interested in putting anything in my mouth that swims and eats and breathes in its own poop and sex water. Regardless, I have no problem with fisherman. You like fish and fishing, good on you. But that’s really not what this entry is about. It’s about people who fish for compliments. Yeah, those people! And especially the ones who do it by insulting themselves first. And it’s up to you to correct them and reassure them they are amazing. Knock it off, you asshole. Now, I’ll admit that sometimes I’ll make a joke about my weight or age. But first, it’s cute when I do it. And second, I’m not looking for a compliment. I’m just trying to be funny. It’s like when you have some impossibly fit and sexy friend who moans about being fat, you just want to stab her in the forehead.

(I’m huge. I just can’t seem to get back to my birth weight, no matter how hard I try!)

This also goes for smart people whining, “I mean, learning Greek, Latin, Russian, Japanese, Chinese and Hebrew were a breeze but I am just too dumb to pick up the subtle regional accents of this ancient Aramaic. I’m such a loser.” Yes, you are. But not for the reasons you think. And the guy who says, “The only work I can get is as Channing Tatum’s lookalike stand in. Curse these chiseled features and taut physique.” Shut up, you walking air and space museum. I know you just want me to tell you how smart or thin or good looking you are. But I’m not going to do that. I can’t afford to feed your ego and my crippling shoe addiction at the same time. Get over it. Appreciate and accept the gifts God gave you. And stop bothering me.

Dear Idiot: Lonely for a Reason

Ok, this goes for both men and women, so guys don’t get all mad because I talk from a woman’s point of view. This is about the idiots from both sexes. I hear from people and see on Facebook all the time that guys “just want a nice girl.” That is a lie. A big, fucking, vicious, dark and terrible lie. You don’t want a nice girl. If you did, you’d have someone. There are nice girls everywhere. But the truth is, you want a hot, young, rich, sexy, model girl who, for some reason, finds middle-aged desk jockeys attractive. This is not something you obviously advertise but there is some small part of your heart and brain and penis that thinks there honestly is some vague possibility this could happen for you. So you don’t give “regular” ladies a chance. Because surely there is some 19 year old Victoria’s Secret angel just waiting to spend her time with you listening to you talk about how much better music was when you were growing up in the 80’s and what kind of wallpaper your grandma likes in her bathroom. Then she wants nothing more than to get some sweet, hot monkey love from you all night long because you are just a machine, baby. And you know what? It’s fine to have that thought. Go for it. It’s not going to happen. Ever. But much luck to you just the same. I would be happy to meet a nice and funny guy. I’m ok with that. Is there a part of me that would prefer to get down with Lou Diamond Phillips circa “Young Guns, II”? Of course!

(Chavez y Chav-…awwww, dayum!)

But I don’t go around complaining I can’t find anybody. I’m sure I could find someone. If I tried. Which I don’t. But that’s another story. So for the love of God, stop acting like all you really want is “a nice girl/guy”. Because nice girls are just that. Nice. And usually funny and smart with a nice smile and may have a few extra pounds around the middle and some gray hairs at the temples or slightly uneven boobs or a weird little mole somewhere. And all this goes for you too, ladies! But if that’s not ok with you, fine. Just stop your bitching about not being able to find someone. There are lots of someones. Apparently, just not for you.

So that’s it for today. Thanks for tuning in. I hope you enjoyed this entry of what’s pissing me off. By the way, if you take a shot of your favorite liquor for each time I tell someone to shut up and/or stop talking in this article, you’re probably feeling pretty good about now.

Reality (Sound) Bites

Reality tv is everywhere. We all watch it. But as an actor, I hate the majority of this crap. Despite the fact they are generally just boring and mind-numbingly stupid, these cheaply produced freak shows replace scripted tv and literally take jobs away from real actors, writers, directors, crew and so on. But that’s another bitch session. Most of the reality shows I’ll watch are some sort of competition like “American Idol” or “So You Think You Can Dance” or “Iron Chef”. You know, things that require, what do you call it? Oh yeah, TALENT! Damn, how I love Iron Chef. 

(Today’s secret ingredient is…hotness!)

I almost never watch shows that just follow idiots around for no damn reason or shows where people are proclaiming to be trying to find love, when in truth the most they find is a brand new case of underpants critters. But regardless of the genre of reality craptitude, there are a few key phrases you hear on every one of them. And each time I hear some desperate loser utter these words, I just laugh more and more. And also start channel surfing for reruns of “Married…With Children” or some other similar show that has more intelligence than the Real Housewives of I Don’t Give a Damn.

I’m the Best (Designer, Singer, Pole Dancer). I’m Going to Win.

For all of these shows, the producers will do a pre-interview with the contestants and edit in clips from the interview during the actual show. At this time, before these people have met the competition or even realized what will be expected of them, they are happy to proclaim they are the best at their chosen profession or talent. Nobody can touch them. They’re making negative $35k a year doing this in Dogpatch, Nebraska and it is so damn obvious they are the master of their domain. They have got this. No competition. Everybody else go home. We hear Wayne Jake “Bud” Smeggledon (of the Earwig County Smeggledons, naturally) tell us it’s all over and he is going to take home the big prize.  Then we get to see Bud in action. He’s a moron. He’s freaking out, unable to find his tools or even remember which end of the tractor he has to fix before he can race it to the corral where they keep the pig he has to put in a tire and roll to the finish line. Or however they do these things on TLC. The evil and awesome editors intersperse Bud’s bragging and speechifying about his untouchable tractor skills with camera shots of him chasing his runaway tractor across a wheat field. Reality show gold. And, surprise! Bud loses. Believe me, as soon as you hear some ass talking about how he is the winner and there’s no possible way he could lose, call your bookie and bet on the other guy.

(Sumbitch. I ain’t never…hm, must be one of them Commie tractors.)

Personal Sob Story

Another very important part of these tool-o-ramas is the personal sob story. Nobody can just go on one of these shows and say, “I’m here for the money and/or exposure. I’ve tried every other avenue and failed. You are my last resort to make my dreams of fame and fortune come true.” Nobody wants to hear that shit, no matter how honest it may be. If you are on a reality competition show, you better be doing it for some sort of tragedy. Sick/dying/dead old people or kids is the best reason, followed by wanting to use your prize to do something nice for your mom or grandma who sacrificed so much to get you to where you are today. Making a testicle of yourself on national television. At the far end of the spectrum, doing the show for revenge against bullies or ex-lovers is an acceptable, though a less sympathetic story. 

(When I win that $500 grand prize, Lurlene’ll be sorry she walked out on me, leaving me nothing but Rufus and this sweet ass bandana.)

To share a story with you, I tried out for a show called “Rupaul’s Drag U”. It’s a show where Rupaul and her protegees take regular (read “unfortunate looking”) women and make them up to look like amazingly beautiful drag queens. I had no reason for doing it other than it sounded like fun. The producer asked me if I wanted to show off a weight loss or deal with a weight gain or if I was having a mid-life crisis, or if I was a tomboy who never wore dresses or if there was a man in my life I wanted to see what he was missing. My answers were all no. I just wanted to dress up and be fabulous. Surprisingly, I didn’t get on the show. Rupaul even said, “She’s not really in need of a makeover.” Which I think means I’m not woman enough to be a drag queen. Dammit.  Jeez, can’t I at least get a gallon of glitter as a parting gift?

Nobody Wants This More Than Me

You have got to be freaking kidding me. This is such a stupid and selfish statement. These people that say there’s nobody in the whole world who wants to win this dumb show more than them. Even though they’re in the same room with anywhere from 3 to 3,000 people who feel the exact same way. And this is because you know how everyone thinks? Because you’re just so damn special that your dreams are more important than anyone else’s? Because you’re willing to do anything to win? You don’t know what’s in somebody else’s mind and heart and you certainly don’t know that they’re not prepared to go farther than you to win. There’s always someone younger, prettier, smarter, faster and willing to do more to get what they want. I used to think I wanted to be a professional actor in L.A. more than anyone in the world. Until I got offered a recurring featured role as a whore on the HBO series “Deadwood”…if I’d be willing to go topless. Would they still be willing to take me when I showed up on set without any teeth because my parents knocked them down my throat for even considering such a thing? Hm. Guess I didn’t want it that badly after all because after much thought of the aftermath of such a decision, I realized my girls are not for sale. But of course, there were women who did want it badly enough to show their ta-ta’s. And kudos to them for doing it. They wanted it more than me. So saying something as empty and banal as “Nobody wants this more than me” is idiotic and just emphasizes the slowly fizzling brain cells that brought you to reality tv in the first place. So just stop saying that because chances are, there is someone who wants to win more than you.

(Like Anna Nicole. She really, really, really must’ve wanted it. Really…yeesh!)

Thank You For the Opportunity.

So as we get to the end of the episode or finale of this reality competition we’re watching, our pompous, arrogant, self-proclaimed number one contestant who is the best at everything and wants to win this more than anyone, loses. Looking stunned because (a) he really did think he was going to win despite his pathetic lack of talent or skill, (b) he gave the producers that private, nude audition they requested, even doing the doggie barks they asked for and everything, and (c) his mom told him he was the handsomest, smartest and most talented special guy she ever knew. And moms are never wrong! But they’re trying not to burn bridges. Like maybe after publicly getting the boot on the show, one judge or producer will find them next week and beg to offer them their own show. You gotta play nice, right? So as our loser gets ready to leave, he smiles at the judges, who are already halfway out of their seats to get to the after-party, and says “Thank you for the opportunity.” This always cracks me up because the look on the loser’s face is always very strained, like a cross between some severe constipation and the urge to bitch slap the judges for denying them their dream. “Thank you for the opportunity” is reality show code talk for “Fuck you”. I would love to see some loser actually say that to the judges one time. It would be epic!

Heidi Klum: I’m sorry, Sven. You’re out. Auf Wiedersehen.

Sven: What?! I’m out? Are you fucking kidding me? Screw you, Heidi. I have more designing talent in my pinky nail than you have Botox in your face. And that’s saying something. You know what? Fuck you. I’m outta here. And don’t try to kiss me. Keep your filth-spewing, no-talent mouth off of me. They ought to call this show Project Dumb-way.

But the losing contestants don’t say those awesome things. And that’s because…

You Haven’t Heard the Last of Me!

You gotta hand it to some of them though. They don’t give up easily. After being soundly rejected on national television, they get their exit interviews with the producers, at which time they will let us know, “I’ll be back. You’ll be hearing my name again!” Guess what, bobo? No, we won’t. I cannot name a single singer, dancer, model, designer, chef, actor, gator wrangler, drunk or desperate-for-love gutter slut that I saw again after they got tossed off the show they embarrassed themselves on. If you can’t play the reality show game of making yourself memorable with either your amazing talent, your sob story or how very badly you want this more than anyone, then I thank you for the opportunity to watch your public humiliation but your time is up. I will not be hearing from you again. Because if you can’t make it in lowest ranks of depravity on reality tv, you have very little to zero chance of making it through the beast itself that is the true entertainment industry. So yes, I actually have heard the last of you. And I am glad. Now, I can invest myself in the next crop of hopefuls as they whine, cry, rage, fail spectacularly and make glorious asses out of themselves for my viewing pleasure.

(Now shante’ and get the hell out. Can I get an “Amen” up in here?!)

 

Backstage Pass(ive Aggression)

It’s been over 3 months since I blogged. Really? Boy, how time flies when you’re stuck in an endless play from hell that makes you wish you were dead but at the same time you don’t have the balls or heart to walk out on your equally miserable co-stars. I feel recovered enough from the incident now and am ready to write. I’m not going to get into childish name calling and describing particular wretched incidents. That’s pointless and beneath my comic genius. And the fun of it would be over too quick. Besides, after I’m finished directing my show early next year, I certainly don’t want to hear any of that crap from of my cast. Even though I know for sure we’ll all have a wonderful time full of nothing but acting, creativity, fun, pooping rainbows, hugging, sequins, laughing and love. Right? Right?!

(And rainbow fringe. We’ll have ever so much fringe!)

But as an actor, I will take a few minutes to share some of my pet peeves of working in the theatre. These are things one would think are obvious and don’t need mentioning. We all know how I love the sound of my own voice though, so I’ll say them anyway. Now, I’m not calling out anyone in particular. These are just my thoughts and observations from different recent experiences. If you think I’m talking about you, you’re totally wrong. Unless you’re right. But you’re probably wrong. Mostly.

Free Labor

One thing to remember about most theatre outside of Broadway these days is people are not getting paid for it, including the local theatres where I am currently and happily ensconced. We all have day jobs and after working all day as secretaries and teachers and scientists and math-a-magicians, we practically swallow our dinner whole, and then we run to the theatre to rehearse for 2-3 hours a night for 6-8 weeks to put on a show. We spend our weekends learning lines and painting sets and developing showmances all for nothing more than the love of the stage and that sweet, sweet clap. I mean applause, not that other clap. And there is mad talent to be had in our town. But most of these amazing actors, singers and so forth didn’t feel the driving need to run to the big city and chase rejection and climb the tallest greased ladders in order to get their artsy on so they act locally. The point is, if someone is sharing their time, their life, their talent and heart with you FOR FREE, don’t go kicking a gift horse in the mouth. We’re all doing this for fun, so let’s play nice. And also, I hate people who throw the word “professional” around. Professional is not whether or not you get paid. It’s your behavior and how you treat your fellow artists that makes a professional.

(Pictured: Unprofessional. Funny, but not professional.)

Don’t Make Children Cry

If you are going to work with children (which to me means anyone 21 and under, unless they are males, then I mean anyone 50 and under), you must understand they have delicate feelings and are just finding themselves (thanks to internet porn for the most part) and their way in the world. You can’t scream at them or curse them or call them stupid and then expect them to then follow you around like you’re a god or get mad when they don’t. You have to be nice to them and build them up and help them feel safe and confident. And even if you accidentally stab them in the eye with a stage sword and their screaming and crying is working your last nerve and you apologized six times already and it’s getting hard to sound like you mean it and it’s not like there’s blood or they’re blinded or anything, just please kid, for the love of God shut up…even then, don’t yell. Don’t criticize and don’t make it worse. Just quietly get them to sign the insurance liability waiver and give them a hug. And maybe some candy. Yeah, definitely candy.

(Now remember, if I miss, it will grow back.)

Don’t Do Drugs

Now you may think this goes without saying. Apparently, it doesn’t. Don’t do drugs. You can talk about wanting to do drugs or that one time in college when you did drugs or when you thought you drank your boss under the table at the company Christmas party but you were really dry humping a potted palm the whole time. That’s ok. But don’t actually do the drugs. They make you foggy and confused and you might run the same scene or song about 50 times until your cast wants to stab themselves in the eye with swords as noted in the previous section. And you may also forget there are other scenes and/or songs in the show that you’ve never even read out loud before. And then when people remind you about said forgetfulness, you might get angry, which could cause a headache and/or the aforementioned crying children which requires more drugs. It’s a vicious circle, really. It may also cause you to do silly things like wander away from rehearsal and not come back while your cast wonders if you’re dead in a ditch or just got the munchies and had to run to the store for some Pringles.

 (Once you pop, you can’t stop!)

Don’t “Do What I Say Not What I Do”

I hate it when someone comes in with a bunch of rules… Don’t talk, be on time, stay focused, be quiet, don’t take pills from strangers, shut the hell up Christa, learn this by so and so date, etc. And then they turn around and do the exact opposite. Always late, not paying attention to what’s going on around them, always talking, not sticking to the schedule they set…that shit irritates me. It makes that person seem like they think they’re better than everyone else. One person in theatre is no better than another. It doesn’t matter who has what experience or if someone works backstage instead of on stage, we’re all the same. I’ve done work for Terry Gilliam and worked with Keifer Sutherland and Ellen Degeneres (who, by the way, told me I was “hilarious”. She totally did. I dined on that one forever. Ellen thinks I’m hilarious. I’m dying of happiness!) But Ellen didn’t treat me different from anyone else on set that day. (Even though I was the only was she said was hilarious. She really did!) None of the celebrities treated others that way. Don’t put yourself on another level and act like the rules don’t apply to you. Especially if you’re the one who made them. So, if punctuality is not your thing, fine. But then don’t bitch me out if I come in 5 minutes late. Which, by the way, never happens. Seriously. Punctualism is my religion.

(And the Lord said “Let there be clocks” and there were clocks and they were good.)

Don’t Tell People They Suck

Really. Regardless of whether or not someone is getting paid, never tell someone they suck. Just because it may take someone a little longer to learn something, doesn’t mean they suck. I’m a pretty good actress but, believe it or not, I’m not a great ninja. Really, I’m not. But if I’m volunteering at Ninjas-R-Us, I don’t need some ninja master in my face, telling me I suck. There are other ways to correct my lack of ninja awesomeness. Take me aside, try to find other talents I have that can be used towards the good of all ninja. Teach me. Guide me. Let me take a break from ninja boot camp to take a shot of vodka and go to the potty. Then maybe I’ll come back in better spirits and ready to be a better ninja. But the more you yell at me, criticize me, call me names like ninja-wuss and try to pound the tenants of ninja-ism into me, the less I will learn and the less I will be willing to try. And don’t call people out in front of the whole cast and crew. We’re done with ninja metaphors now, by the way. We’re back to theatre. It is extremely bad form to call someone to the carpet in public. Nobody’s perfect and everybody learns at different rates. If you have a problem with someone, take it outside and work it out. Embarrassment and humiliation doesn’t work with training animals and it works even less when trying to teach people.

(Your forgot your line? Bad actress. Very bad actress!)

Say You’re Sorry and Thank You

And when all is said and done, we’re all human. We all make mistakes. Pobody’s Nerfect (I saw that on a coffee mug with a bunch of cracks in it at the airport once.) So if you fuck up, at least be man/woman enough to say you’re sorry. That really can go a long way towards mending what could possibly be permanently broken fences. Don’t ever feel you’re too good to say that. Maybe you offended half your cast by insinuating they’re porn stars. Or maybe you repeatedly crapped all over someone who put their heart and soul into their character. Maybe you made a point of praising someone one day only to tell them how awful they were the next. Or even something as simple as ignoring those who always came in a little earlier, stayed a little later, maybe weren’t the prettiest or the most talented but still gave their all every single day. They should know they were appreciated. Thank you, a sincere thank you, is a wonderful thing. And is it really that hard to say, “I know I told you that you sucked like every day and you should fling yourself off the nearest cliff for offending the theatre gods with your crapulence and now you have a serious alcohol problem. Maybe you sucked and maybe you didn’t. But I didn’t have to say it in front of the local news crew, your whole family, your cat and your boss. And on your birthday. Mistakes were made. But you know what, actually I kinda sucked. And I’m sorry.”

(Now I can go back to blaming my parents for my crippling depression.)

And as a closing side note. For the love of God and your own body, whenever you are at the theatre, turn off your fucking cell phone! It’s disrespectful to all of us who worked so long and hard on the play and even the poor little dogs who went weeks without getting to go bye-bye because we had rehearsal. Whether you are cast, crew, audience, director or even Johnny Depp himself, if I hear one more damn phone ring, light up or vibrate during my performance, I will put that phone so far up your ass, you’ll be tasting Spice Girls ring tones for a month. Not. Even. Kidding.

(I’ll tell you what you want, what you really, really want…to respect this show and turn off that damn phone!)

What I Learned from The Moses Show

Every Easter, the fam and I sit down and watch the Charleton Heston version of “The Ten Commandments” or, as I like to think of it, “The Moses Show”. I won’t go through this one like I did Rudolph. I mean, this movie is like 37 hours long and ain’t nobody got time for that. But I love watching it and all the over the top acting, sets and costumes. Especially the costumes.

(Lookin’ good.)

Anyway, here are some observations and lessons I have learned from this awesome movie.

1. I do not have nearly enough people throwing flowers in my path as I walk by. I don’t know who is in charge of rectifying this, but let’s get on it people.

2. I do not own nearly enough bejeweled headpieces. Again, little help?

3. The Ethiopians that come to see Pharoah are black. The Egyptians are white. Both countries are in Africa. Things that make you go hmmmm…

4. Slavery sucks.

(Seriously. Can’t we just get the bricks from Home Depot?)

5. The desert sucks. It looks very hot and dry and sandy. Probably a lot of gig-butt going on.

(Gig-butt: noun. When the gluteal cheeks rub together due to sweat or any unnatural irritant causing an uncomfortable chafing sensation.)

6. Only the pretty slave girls get to be on water duty, which appears to be easier, less gig-butt inducing work. That’s totally unfair. You don’t see any curvy girls or girls with glasses serving water. They’re probably forced to do extra toiling.

7. The raising of Pharoah’s obelisk still makes me giggle.

(Tee-hee.)

8. Men’s side ponytails totally need to make a comeback.

(Hawt)

9. Vincent Price is the man in anything.

10. Moses decided to leave prince-ing to join his family at slaving. Cuz, that’s a good idea? I barely acknowledge my family at Wal-Mart. I would not be giving up all my luxury and leisure (if I had them) to go stand in the welfare line with them (were they in the welfare line).

(How bout you toil your ass over there and get me some grapes?)

11. Moses’ wife, Sephora’s, sisters were desperate ho’s. Just sayin’.

12. Sheperding is better than slaving. But still probably smells pretty bad.

13. The voice of God was done by Charleton Heston but he kinda sounds like James Earl Jones. It should have been James Earl Jones.

14. The dudes wore some really sweet hats in this film. Guys need to wear more hats.

(Don’t be jealous of my boogie.)

15. CGI sucked in the 1950’s.

(Pretend it’s hot, you idiots. We used like 137 orange crayons on that!)

16. My new motto: “So let it be written. So let it be done.” I must endeavor to use that in my daily conversation.

17. Aaron was kinda Moses’ secretary. Get this, do that, find this, plague that. Speaking of…

18. Plagues suck.

(Dude! I was totally just about to bathe in there.)

19. Why is it always the first born that gets killed in these things? As a first born, I can honestly say, the younger siblings are super annoying and deserve just as much death and plaguing, if not more.

20. Ramses wife was a Grade A bitch. I can’t believe Yul Brynner didn’t just give her a taste of the back of his hand.

21. Rich people can’t dress themselves. They always have somebody else wrapping their dealies for them. Is it really that hard?

22. The Exodus must have taken like forever. That was a hella lot of people with a hella lot of stuff. But there sure were some hot guys.

(Hot, slick, dirty, tied up…wait, where were we?)

23. There were always more slaves than Egyptians. And at the Red Sea, they’re all screaming like little girls. Man up! Y’all can take them. The first born plague killed a whole bunch of them anyway.

24. The parting of the Red Sea is awesome. I would totally have to touch the sea walls though. And it would be cool if you could see the fishes and whales and all waiting for the sea to come back together so they can get on with swimming in their own poop and stuff.

(Attention Israelites: Please keep your hands, arms, legs, feet and face out of the sea.)

25. I want a chariot.

26. I always thought God would kinda look like Moses did at the end of this movie. Except He’d be bigger and have longer hair. And His robes would be all white. And for sure He wouldn’t back the NRA.

(That’s the stuff.)

Happy Easter (late) and Happy Spring (also late)!

Ok, just one more for fun…

(Dammit. I put my head on the wrong one. Screw it. I’m tired. Nite.)

As Seen on TV

I’m addicted to “As Seen on TV” stuff. I mean, I don’t buy it. Well, a couple of things. But I love watching the commercials and trying to understand what kind of mind it takes to invent this stuff. I know that the world is full of idiots and these inventors not only know it but exploit it dramatically to make mad money by convincing said idiots that they cannot live without vital products like a small blender called “The Magic Bullet”, a frying pan that won’t leave a carbon footprint called “The Ogreenic Pan” or a giant cupcake mold called “Big Top Cupcake”. And how in God’s name did we dare call ourselves civilized before we had a blanket with sleeves called a “Snuggie”?! This could be an immensely long post and I know we would all love to listen to me wax poetic on many products but I’m easily distracted and there’s a “Chopped” marathon on Food Network tonight, so let’s just start with a few of my favorites.

(Your dessert basket ingredients are arugula, gummi bears, vegimite and goat legs. Start cooking…)

Eggies

Ok, I actually bought these. I like eggs and usually have egg whites for breakfast. I thought this would be a fun, easy way to make eggs and have them ready several days in advance. Aw, hells no! First of all, each Eggie comes in 4 pieces. There’s the top, bottom, ring and plug. None of the pieces thread together properly because the damn thing is made out of some sort of melted Barbie doll plastic. You better make damn sure you get it put together tight though or your egg leaks out into the water and floats around like some sort of marine afterbirth. You then have to grease, with oil or Pam, each Eggie. You have to pour the egg in the top of the Eggie which has a hole the about the size of a dime. Yeah, go ahead and practice with a shampoo bottle. Let’s see how much egg makes it in the bottle and how much all over your hands and counter. Then after they cook, which takes longer than a regular egg due to the thick plastic of the Eggie, your eggs come out misshapen and tasting of oil. These things were a God awful waste of time and eggs as well as some of my best swear words.

(The most important membrane leavins of the day.)

WaxVac

Q-tip conspiracy theorists, rejoice. Apparently, we have been lied to our entire lives from parents to grandparents to teachers to doctors. Warning: Q-tips are NOT to be used in your ears. Ever. Apparently, you can actually deafen yourself. If you’re lucky. More likely, you will puncture your brain and you will either die or become so mentally disabled you will enjoy watching the Kardashians (I so fucking hate them) which is actually a fate worse than the previously mentioned death. Instead, you need to ram a battery powered hand vacuum into your head and suck out whatever ear sludge may be hanging out in there. I’ve never seen one in real life but I hope it has suck settings like “Dustbuster”, “Vampire” and “Compton Ho”. That would be cool. Regardless, you know the dude who invented this is rolling in the green, laughing at all the losers who would rather pay $19.99 for a WaxVac that either won’t suck or will take the skin right off your ear rather than pay $1.99 for 4,000 Q-tips. Side note: To avoid brain poking, just don’t jam the cotton swab so far inside. It’s really just that easy.

(Khloe still am the koolest.)

Gray Away

You’re late for a party or a business meeting and suddenly realize you’re channeling Bea Arthur instead of Angelina Jolie. What to do?! Well, the quickest way to fix that problem is spray paint your head! Yes, Gray Away can save the day. It will make you look younger and fresher and…damn. Even I’m not a good enough actress to sell this crap. Despite the fact I color my hair religiously, the gray comes peeking through within a couple of weeks. But this shit will not come off with brushing, rubbing or sweat. I feel so dumb. And, according to the ad, it comes in “shades to match every hair color”.

(Whether it be brown or dark brown!)

I wonder if the Gray Away people realize they are asking the same customers who are so inept at personal grooming that they cannot be trusted with Q-tips to spray hair color that won’t come off around their hairlines and not get any paint on their faces, hands, counters, loved ones or pets. Just saying.

Perfect (insert food name here)

As the Neanderthals with indoor plumbing we really are, it has become obvious that we can barely feed ourselves. Therefore, we are in desperate need of products to help us make the perfect meat loaf, perfect tortilla bowl and yes, even the perfect brownie. Now, you can buy the Perfect Tortilla Bowl and, with the tortillas themselves (sold separately), spend about $15. Or, at WalMart, you can buy some already made taco salad shells, 6 for $3.99. Yeah, I know. Math is hard. As for your meat loaf, which by design is an entree that screams for perfect presentation, and your brownies and so forth, let me offer you another solution. It will cook almost all your meals from casseroles to cakes, bread to meat loaf and yes, even those hard to manage brownies. I’m totally going to sell the shit out of this. It’s called…

(A pan. Yeah…just use a damn pan.)

Tag Away

This stuff is scary. Some people have skin tags. It’s not really a big deal. Some people have moles. Some have freckles. Some have weird little bumps on their wrist their sister insists is a rotting tumor. (Shut up, Melanie. It so isn’t.) These are all part of the little things that make us the special, happy, unique unicorns that we are. But if your skin tag bothers you, for the love of God, GO TO A DOCTOR. Do not medicate yourself with what I’m assuming is a mixture of Compound W, Old Spice and Guatemalan acid! Yeah, it might eat your skin tag but it might just eat a hole in you and you know you’re going to want to stick your WaxVac in it and that’s just going to make it worse. And what if your little nubbin happens to fall off into your boss’s coffee as your setting it before him as he prepares to give you your annual performance evaluation? Then where will you be? Please, leave removing pieces of your person to the professionals.

(I don’t want to look at picture of dried, dead skin chunks, so here’s a kitten instead.)

Lazy Ass

There’s not really a product called “Lazy Ass”. It would be cool, though. But there are a ton of items for people who are just damn lazy. Forever Comfy is a seat cushion. If your chair is hard or you ass hurts, just get a damn pillow. I’m sure there are several in your home to choose from. There’s a product called Easy Feet, which is a shower sandal with little brushes in it to wash your feet. Seriously?! Do not be too lazy to bend down and wash your own feet. If you don’t like bending over or standing on one foot is hard for you or you’re just too drunk to do so (like me), then sit your ass down in the shower and wash them. It’s not like everybody’s watching you. Also, you don’t need an automatic soap/lotion/toothpaste dispenser. Mankind has survived millions of years and I honestly don’t think anyone has ever died because they had to squeeze/pump their own toiletries.

(Won’t someone please think of the children?!)

On the Other Hand

I do have to say though, there are a couple of products I have bought that are really awesome. Heeltastic is this foot balm that makes the gnarliest of feet super soft and smelling like foot and cough drops. Also, the Robostir really is helpful to stir stuff so you can step away to work on another dish or, if needed, to go pee. I love my Spin Pin. It’s a little corkscrew shaped hair pin. One pin will hold up my entire white girl afro. It’s truly amazing. And the Bump It made my Peggy Bundy Halloween costume a first prize winner. So at the end of the day, I guess they’re not all bad.

But for the safety of you and your family, don’t forget…

(Death Sticks)

The 11 Secretarial Commandments

Please take note of the following commandments as they apply to any and all administrative staff in your realm. I have written these down so those that plead ignorance shall be ignorant no more. These are truly words to live by.

1. Thou shalt not interrupt thy secretary’s lunch. If I am eating, or on my way to eat, do not try to stop me. My stomach has been on the same schedule for many, many years. It will be bad for your digestion, should you mess with mine. Do not text or call or try to speak to me at lunch. It is my time away from you. The reason you pay me is to do work for you. I don’t do it because it’s fun or I particularly like it. Therefore, on my break time, I am not thinking about you nor do I want to. Whatever you want can wait 1 hour. If not, it’s probably beyond my help anyway.

(I told you. I get cranky when I don’t get my lunch.)

2. Thou shalt not look at pictures of my sister on my desk and say “Damn, she’s hot!” I know she’s hot. And in mentioning her hotness at all, you are obviously stating how un-hot I am in your pointless estimation. I am your secretary and I don’t need your drool all over my desk. I have spent my entire life knowing she is hot (and I am funny). You don’t need to remind me. Also, if you think saying this will encourage me to make some sort of connection with my hot sister, you are sadly mistaken. The last thing I want is to see more of you because you are dating my sister.

 (Dude, were you like adopted?)

3. Thou shalt not contact me before or after my appointed work hours. I will work hard for you between the hours of 8:00am to 12:00pm and 1:00pm to 5:00pm. Don’t call or text or try to find me on Facebook. Any and all drunk texts will be kept in a file entitled “Why I Deserve a Raise For No Reason”. Be warned ahead of time. This behavior may also result in my cornering you to show you pictures of my pets in hilarious/adorable situations and forcing you to listen to me sing Christmas carols when it’s not even Christmas so you will understand what “Don’t bother me” really means. Never forget, I can make your life a living hell, so let’s play nice and keep work at work.

(Thk u, Mr. Johnson. Now fwding this 2 ur wife. Lol, Myrtle.)

4. Thou shalt not question. I have been a secretary a long time. I know what I’m doing. If I said I did something or I’m going to do something, I will. Don’t ask me to “call and confirm”. That is a waste of my precious time and it pisses off the people that also know how to do their jobs. Trust me. We must have trust to make our relationship work. If there is a problem, I will let you know. Otherwise, believe in the power of the secretary. Her powers are stronger than yours.

(Are you sure I sign here? Maybe I should sign at the top. Can you check on that?)

5. Thou shalt remember Secretary’s Day and keep it holy. This speaks for itself. Do not ever try to “IOU” Secretary’s Day. There better be flowers and food involved at the very least. Cash is acceptable as well. A mere card is unacceptable and don’t even try to get me to make reservations for lunch in my own honor or order in and expect me clean it up. I deserve better. And if you remember me, I will be more willing to do extra nice things for you because I feel appreciated.

(Eh. It’s a start.)

6. Thou shalt not expect me to babysit your kid(s). If you choose to bring your spawn to work, they are your responsibility. I like kids. They’re cool. But you are paying me to work. I will say hi, and pat them on their cute little heads but do not expect me to feed, potty or entertain them. I have enough “kids” in this office that need my attention to keep them out of trouble. I do not have any time left over for yours.

(She said the least I could do is make myself useful and make some copies.)

7. Thou shalt not steal my pens. I know you have them. I’ve seen you chew on them and now I don’t want them back. I hate when I have 10 pens in the morning and none by 4pm. You know where the supply closet is and it is not my desk. Your arms did not fall off. Get your own office supplies. And what did you do with the 10 pens you stole from me yesterday? Use one of those. That also goes for paper clips, sticky notes, binder clips, folders and paper.

(No, I have not seen your damn pencil. Paranoid much?)

8. Thou shalt look upon my face and not my funbags. Yes, I know I have a great rack. I do my best not to flaunt it too much but by the time you get to be a grown man (or grown lesbian), you should be able to have a conversation without checking out the girls. They can’t talk back to you. Only my face can. I measured it and it’s exactly 13″ from my eyes to my boobs. You can look up at me. I know you can do it.

(But I’m not looking at your boobs!)

9. Thou shalt protect me from screaming phone calls. If your colleagues, clients or wife call and yell at me, I expect you to tell them not to talk to me that way. I don’t take screaming from you or even my loved ones and I sure as hell won’t take it from a stranger. Just like I will protect the receptionist from people who scream at her, I would like the same from you. Or the permission to scream and curse back. That would work, too.

(He says he doesn’t return your calls because you’re a fucking bitch who smells like ball sweat, ok!)

10. Thou shalt not ask me to do personal things for you. That includes jury duty, driving school, kids’ plays, etc. If I want to go to driving school, I will get my own ticket. I have my own jury service. I do not want to help you do your taxes or anything else like that. I have enough to do without keeping track of how many carbs you’re eating behind your wife’s back or when your mother’s birthday is. Now I will gladly tell people your door is closed because you’re on a conference call and not because you are really taking a nap. I will tell a client you’re on another call when you’re really playing “Wheel of Fortune” on the computer instead of taking their call. That’s fine. But let’s keep it business, ok?

(Why won’t I take your prostate exam for you? Let explain again…)

11. It puts the work in the basket. Use the inbox. Remember that scene in “Silence of the Lambs” where Buffalo Bill had the girl in the well and he would lower the basket down to her and say “It puts the lotion in the basket.”? And by God she put it in the basket, didn’t she? Scared out of her mind, wounded, hungry, almost completely in the dark and dealing with a mad man, she still managed to follow the simple basket directive. And Buffalo Bill’s basket didn’t even have a label in pretty, bold Monotype Corsiva font saying “IN BOX” on it! That girl still knew that was where the lotion went. In the basket. Not on the floor, not in the bucket he dropped her food in, not in her pocket, she didn’t throw it out of the well. She put the damn lotion in the basket. Do I have to toss people in a well and dress in drag to get them to understand “It puts the work in the basket!”

(Is it just me or is my cubicle getting smaller?)

I had to make 11 commandments because I have a thing for odd numbers. I’m sure there are more but I’m tired now. Take the gift of these words and heed them well. Your professional life can only be enhanced by it. The hand that types the papers, rules the world.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: A Tale of Bullying, Runaways and Fighting Back

I know we all watch the claymation tv special “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” each holiday season. It’s a classic. As with all holiday tv specials, as I watch it at home, my mom is blessed with my continuous amusing jokes, questions and comments. But since this is the season of giving, I decided to write all this down for y’all so you can experience watching it with me. So let’s pull up a comfy seat (this might be a long one) and enjoy “Christa’s Christmas Commentary”. Ha! Look! I used C’s for all those words just like a Kardashian uses K’s. Except, oh yeah, I KNOW HOW TO FUCKING SPELL! God, I hate them. Moving on…

(More attractive to me than Kardashians…and he has actual talent)

The show starts with Burl Ives as a snowman kinda gliding across the snow at the North Pole narrating for us about the bad weather. Because blizzards at the North Pole are a new thing? I’m not sure if they meant the snowman to look like Burl or if he just happens to look like a snowman. Eerie coincidence just the same.

Then we go to Mrs. Claus bitching at Santa for not eating enough. She wants him to be fatter. “Do it for the children.” Manipulative much? He is a bit skinny but I wouldn’t be so hard on an old man with an obvious eating disorder. To escape her endless nagging, Santa goes out to the caves to see Donner’s new baby. I would think Santa would keep the reindeer in some sort of stable or barn, but what the hell do I know. Cave it is.

(Santa slumming with the help.)

Rudolph appears a bit drunk or something. He can hardly stand up and he slurs “Saaan-ta?” and gazes vacantly through squinty eyes. But hey, we’ve all been there, right? No judgment here. Santa vaguely praises the kid and says he should make a good addition to his slave team. Huh? Oh! Sleigh team. Whatever. Then Santa sings a song about how he’s the King of dinga lings. Not something I’d want to advertise. Oh. Mom says it’s King of jinga lings. What’s the damn difference? Six of one, really.

Since Rudolph has this weird glowing nose, Donner decides that he has to do something to cover it up. Let’s not take him to a doctor or anything. I guess Santa’s health plan isn’t all that it could be. But why does his nose make that God awful noise? That’s very disturbing. And why doesn’t anybody notice it? It’s way more annoying than the glow.

(You’re more embarrassing than Uncle Stephanie. And that’s saying something.)

Moving on. Elves building toys: There’s a real asshole Boss Elf and a bunch of singing elves making toys. Awwww, totes presh. (That’s teenager for “totally precious”.) We then meet Hermie Elf who doesn’t want to sing or make toys but he wants to be a dentist. No crime in that, is there? Oh, apparently it is a crime because Boss Elf is handing Hermie his ass. Because Boss Elf’s way is the only way and I’m not going to make a whole deal over the obvious similarities to close minded people wanting those who are different to adjust to their lifestyle. Wait, isn’t Hermie in that boy band, One Direction, now? They call him Niall. You can tell by the hair.

(Yep…I think we have a winner!)

Hermie then sings a song “I’m just a misfit. Why am I such a dumb shit?” or something. Stick to dentistry, my friend. Singing’s not really your bag. Rudolph sings a reprise of the same thing. I feel a real personal kinship coming up between these two. Ooooo, foreshadowing.

Commercial time. Thank God. I gotta pee.

Ok, we’re back. Time for elf practice. Hmmm, have you ever noticed the boy elves can be fat and ugly and wear glasses but all the girl elves are small, blonde and cute? That’s some bullshit, right there! The North Pole Human Resources Department: Diversity Division has really dropped the ball on their hiring practices. But good old Hermie skipped elf practice. OOOoooo…Boss Elf is so angry. What’s his damn problem? He needs some sweet loving or something. Hermie’s running away. Yay! Fight the establishment, Hermie!

Now it’s time for reindeer practice. Why is Rudolph talking like that? Like he’s all stuffed up. It’s just a little dirt on your nose. I put make up on my nose every day and I talk fine. Lay off the drama, Rudy. So right before it’s Rudolph’s time to jump, some girl deer, (Faline, Celine, Clarice, Sharon ???), all slutted up in Kardashian level makeup (I just hate them so damn much!) flirts with Rudolph and he jumps higher than everyone.

(Wanna guide my sleigh, nose boy?)

Sharon collects the money from her friends from where she bet she could give Rudolph his first boner.  Oops. Rudolph’s nose make up comes off. Santa gives Donner a proper dressing down for not drowning his son when he was a baby like he should have. So Donner should be ashamed of his kid’s birth defect per Santa? Where the hell was Peta during the filming of this thing?

Clareen gives Rudolph some lip service about being fine the way he is and the forest animals roll their eyes behind her back. But Rudolph’s not buying her shit and decides to run away. Oh, look! It’s Hermie. “Let’s be independent together.” he says to Rudolph. Umm, independent means doing it alone, stupid.

(Independently needy.)

Commercial break: Time for a snack. I’m out of popcorn and liquor. Dammit.

So on the run, Rudy and Hermie meet Yukon Cornelius. That’s too much to type, so I’m calling him Cornie. I think he’s on something. He’s tweaking pretty hard. And he keeps licking his pick ax. Freak. Cornie has a St. Bernard! I shall call him St. Corn. So now the little trio is traveling together. Cornie pulls the sled and the dogs ride. Cool. I’m liking this dude.

Now the Bumble chases them briefly.

(Feel my wrath…briefly.)

They escape. Ok. That was kinda pointless. Rad special effects, though. (insert sarcasm) Now if, as Cornie says, a Bumble’s one weakness is sinking in water, how the hell did he get out of the water when he fell off the edge of the iceberg? Yeah. Think about it. Cornie sings about silver and gold which I think he needs to buy more of that sweet smack. Even his mustache is high.

(Look at St. Corn’s sweet little barrel!)

Back home, Donner pretends he cares (because the script tells him to) and says he’s going to look for Rudy. It’s all your fault he left, dick! But the women are supposed to stay home because this is man’s work. Of course, the women don’t stay home. They go out on their own because they are stupid women and I’m sure this will cause mad trouble later.

The gang has found their way to the Island of Misfit toys. So far we have eating disorders, abused baby reindeer, misogyny, bullying, runaways, drugs and now handicapable toys. Yep, I’m feeling the spirit y’all. What’s wrong with the doll? Why is she there? Is she like a bitch or something? And I don’t see what’s so wrong with a spotted elephant. Shit, kids this year are screaming for stuffed animals with plastic backs that put on a psychedelic light show before bedtime. Spots ain’t nothing but a thang. And if the water pistol is full of jelly, just wash it out and add water. It’s not brain surgery.

(Oh God! The Horrors!)

This island reminds me of Big Gay Al’s Big Gay Animal Sanctuary from South Park. Omg, was this thing stolen from South Park? Eh, probably not. Or I’m sure they would’ve sued.

So after the Lion King, who’s sick of the whining of all the misfit toys, makes the Traveling Trio promise to bring Santa to clear the trespassers off his land, they go to bed. But then Drama Queen Rudolph decides to play the martyr and runs off on his own. Because his nose will make the Bumble come back. Yes, Rudolph. The Bumble’s whole life revolves around YOU. Pfffttt. And I’m supposed to be sad because you wandered off in the freezing wilderness like an ass? Not bloody likely.

Commercial Break:  Why do I have to pee again?

Back to the show. Rudolph has grown up. How long was he gone? He’s got a huge rack of antlers and his voice has dropped. Among other things, I’m guessing (tee-hee). He goes home because…fuck the wilderness. Santa says his parents have been gone “months” looking for him. Either Rudolph grew hella fast or it took them a while to really start looking for him. I’m guessing option B on this one. So now Rudy has to go searching for the searchers.

(You best go find those damn troublemaking women and give them a taste of the back of your hoof.)

And of course he finds them in the first place he looks. The Bumble’s house. Why look there? Rudy says he “knew just where to look”. Why? Cuz women always find trouble? Wtf? Bumble’s got Sharon in his fluffy, giant fist. Yay! Eat her!

(Mmmm, venison.)

Cornie’s here! The Bumble gets knocked out by Cornie dropping a rock on his head. Haha, they put x’s on the eyes when he’s knocked out. He’s not out for long! Bumble’s up! Look out! He is pissed! Oh wait. His teeth are gone. Every single one of those giant pointy teeth. It took Hermie like literally 12 seconds to remove all his teeth. Damn, that’s impressive. Hey! Why is Cornie pushing Bumble over the edge? Just to be an asshole? Really? Well, that was mean. But Bumble took Cornie with him, so that oughta learn him.

Now Rudolph’s gotta get those useless women back to Christmas Town. Where did he learn that stone age crap? Wandering around in the wilderness and becoming a man, I guess. They’re back in town just as everyone’s settling down for the end of this saga. Cornie’s back with his sled full of drugs and dogs. Hi, St. Corn! Bumble’s a pet now so I guess they worked something out.

(Don’t make me come up there!)

It’s obvious the writers are getting tired (so am I) and are just trying to wrap this shit up. Elves are singing Holly Jolly Christmas! You know the one..”I don’t know if there’ll be snow, so have a cup of beer”…and then it goes “Somebody waits for you, kick her once for me!” That song. The elves are now partying. Santa’s getting ready to head out. Santa’s fat in like mere minutes. Half hour tops. Score one for the Mrs. That can’t be healthy. Maybe Mrs. Claus needs to deal with her insecurity issues. You can’t keep him fat so he won’t stray, honey. It just won’t work.

(It’s that biscuit down your throat or my foot up your ass, boy.)

Anyway, off they go. I think Rudolph farted on all the jerks who were mean to him and are now behind him in the sleigh. Haha, that’s funny. Wait a minute…I just thought of something. If Rudolph can’t control his glow (which i’m sure he would have earlier in the show if he could) how can he assure Santa a safe ride? His light could go out at any moment!

(Ummm, Rudolph? One quick question…)

Or maybe he learned to control it during his lion king puberty. I don’t know. That part could’ve used a montage, come to think of it.

Oh God. It’s still not over?! Santa has to get the stupid misfit toys. Santa usually comes in the chimney and puts toys under the tree, but the misfits have to jump out of the sleigh with umbrellas. Sucks to be them.

The end. Finally. But I still have so many unanswered questions. Did Santa get the weight back off and if so, how? Did Rudy and Felice get together? Did Rudolph and Donner fix their tenuous relationship? Were the misfits accepted at their new homes? Do new misfits go to the island? How much kibble does Cornie feed the Bumble? Do his teeth ever grow back and he attacks Cornie and rips out his throat for pulling his old teeth and pushing him in that ice crevice? What did St. Corn get for Christmas? Oh well, maybe they’ll answer all that next year.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

**In memory of my precious Buttons. The best Christmas gift I ever received.