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.

reluctant brideBut…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?

side profile of a young man arguing with a young woman

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…

catsCats. 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.

homer-simpsonWayyyyy 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…

scupsI 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.

blanket fortThe 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…

woman's tool kitThanks 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…

stealing flowersYoink.

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…

kid moneyReplace 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.

unicornWe 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…

batteriesHell, 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?!



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…

contract(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.

roller coaster(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.

drowning(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.

girl on phone(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.

messy car(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.

shopping girl

(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.

Recieving Communion #2(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.

sad man(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.

office gossip(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?

AngryBaby(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.

kid money(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.

redneck couple(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.

embarrassing(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.

lots of kids(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!woman-going-crazy

(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.exasperated-woman

(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.belly

(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.ugly-guy-hot-wife

(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.thin_girl

(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! ldp

(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. mark-dacascos

(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. man-and-dog

(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!

project runway

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?!bradys

(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.wedgie

(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.sword fight

(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.Prozac-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.young businessman holding a clock

(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.girl fight

(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.”drinks

(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.butt kicking

(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.headshot

(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.

muddy slaves

(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.


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

side pony


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.

ramses hat

(Don’t be jealous of my boogie.)

15. CGI sucked in the 1950’s.

pillar of fire

(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.

bloody water

(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.

joshua 2

(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.

red sea

(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.

god and homer

(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.)