Monthly Archives: July 2012

Dr., Dr., Gimme the News


Recently, I had some sort of severe throat disorder that required a doctor’s attention. I figured the throat thing would work itself out in one way or another but then I made the mistake of showing my mom all the cool petri-dish-worthy stuff in my mouth when she yelled at me “Unclean! Get thee to yon physician. Apply the leeches. Burn thy toothbrush. Thou art the unclean!” Yeah, my mom talks like that. So, I had to go to the doctor. Now, let me state, I HATE going to the doctor. Not because I’m afraid of needles (I’m not) or I don’t want to be poked at (hey, attention from a rich guy is attention) but mostly because of three things…waiting, weighing in and paying up. And since my co-pay is so high, I try to gather up as many health issues as possible before making an appointment so I can get the most bang for my buck.

(Don’t forget to check that thing on my ass while I’m here.)

Pre-Exam Broo-Ha-Ha

When I first got to the Dr.’s office, I found out my 119 year old doctor had retired. WTF?! Seriously? Dammit! This dude was awesome. He wore his pants up under his armpits and last time I had a throat thing, he was looking in my ears and said “Can you open your mouth? Thanks. I needed more light in here. HA!” Can’t beat 1930’s humor for bedside manner. So, now I have to see the new dude. Ugh. Fine. Whatever. So they gave me new forms to fill out. I like forms. I pretend it’s an interview for my E! True Hollywood Story, “Christa Woomer was born a female on 4/17/75 to perfectly healthy parents. Her maternal grandfather was diabetic. His diabetes was a result of a childhood accident that crushed his pancreas. Will this accident that caused this deadly disease skip her generation or will it follow Christa to Hollywood? Find out after the break.” It’s super entertaining in my brain. After I filled out the forms, which I signed with a full-on autograph flourish telling the nurse to “follow your dreams” and including a smiley face and heart, I got to sit. And wait. And sit. And wait some more. God, I hate waiting. I truly believe I read this issue Highlights Magazine when I was 9. Oh, Goofus. Will you ever learn?! Then they called me back for the dreaded…WEIGH IN. We all know that doctors’ office scales are full of crap and horribly, horribly wrong. So I told the nurse lady, “Look. I have a pretty good idea what I weigh. So why don’t I just close my eyes. You do your thing. Don’t tell me. And then I’ll open my eyes and we’ll move on.” This usually works pretty good. Except this time. I closed my eyes and listened to the girl move the dealies around. She said “Ok.” and when I opened my eyes, Miss Mensa 2012 hadn’t moved the weights back to zero. Damn you to hell! I so didn’t need to see that number. I mean, I know it and I know your scale is a lying sack of shit. But really? Where can I get a vodka sample in this joint?

(Funny…your self-esteem weighs almost nothing.)

Pass or Fail Exams

After I finally got in the exam room, I sat for another ten minutes or so. I’m starting to think that the exam room in a doctor’s office has special healing powers and the reason they leave you in there for so long, looking at drawings of the inside of your head or uterus, is because that little paper wrapped table has some sort of voodoo power that is part of making you better. The longer you wait, the more mystical healing you receive and the better you will feel. So then the doctor came in and asked me 537 highly personal questions (geez Doc, nosy much?). Because I totally know if my great-great grandmother on my father’s side had hemorrhoids and if my second cousin on my mom’s side was slow from a chromosome thing or that time he poked himself too hard in the ear with a stick. Yeah, that kinda stuff always comes up at Thanksgiving. Then he “palpated” me. Get your mind out of the gutter! It means he pushed on my guts. This is always very difficult for me as I am adorably ticklish.

(Internal bleeding is no laughing matter, Susie.)

After the palpation, which mostly consisted of me laughing hysterically and finally rolling off the paper covered healing table and onto the floor, the doctor diagnosed me with a triad cootie consisting of strep, thrush and tonsilitis. He gave me a band-aid for where I cracked my elbow on the chair during my fall and, since it had been so long since my last visit, told me I need to go to “The Lab”. Dammit.

The Lab

Now, I was off to the lab. More time off work. Ugh. Because we all know how I love work. My first lab stop was to give fluids. Since I had to starve since 8 pm the night before, I showed up kind of cranky. I don’t function well without my Fruity Pebbles. As I stated before, I’m not afraid of needles. I’ve given blood. I mean, like on purpose. Not just in a bar fight. The tech who took my blood this time was amazing. I barely felt a thing. I’m fascinated with watching my blood fill up the little test tubes. She took 6 tubes of my blood. I actually told her “Um, do you really need that much? I was kind of using that blood.” She responded with “Yeah? Well, I’m using it now.” Dang! A blood thieving lab chick with some sass. I should hang out here more often. After taking away all my hard earned blood, she sent me to the potty for a urine sample. Now, I’ll be honest. I know my body pretty well. I’m not stupid and I know where all my bits and pieces are and what their main function is. But I will be damned if I can ever find where the pee comes from. I swear, she could’ve gotten a better sample from what I got on my hand than the three dribbles that actually made it into the cup.

(I totally didn’t scoop most of that out of toilet. That would be wrong.)

From there I got to go to another lab for my very first mammogram. The first lab said, “It’s in the building directly behind us.” I went around their building and you know what I found behind them? About 17 other freaking buildings! They told me to look for “Women’s Imaging”. And after wandering around the hospital for a half hour like an idiot, I found a place called “Center for Diagnostic Testing”. Yeah, that’s just like “Women’s Imaging”, you fucktards. I asked the girl at the front desk where I should present my bosoms and she said “You have to make an appointment.” Um, ok. Make me an appointment. “I can’t do that.” Well, who can? “You have to call.” Ok, what’s the number? Sighing like I had just tried to rip off one of her tits, she tossed a card in my general direction. I said thank you. Can’t wait to talk to you again. I know we’re going to be fast friends. She rolled her eyes. This whole encounter took place without her looking up from her computer even once.

(Yeah. I fucking live to help people.)

So to spare you the details, I had to take even more time off work for my breasticle test. Now, I was kind of nervous for this one. I have a great rack. It’s always been good to me. But I didn’t know what to expect. Would my poor girls be squished into oblivion? Would I have to man up and not cry? Would I have to slap the tech for insulting my lady lumps? What if the tech said (like the doctor did looking at my throat deal) “Oh, God. What a mess.” I just didn’t know. It was actually fairly anti-climactic though. And I found it very interesting to check out the girls smashed under the plexiglass. How could such luscious fun bags look soooo…weird? As I was contemplating this, the tech finally said, “Christa, you might want to stop looking down and move your face away from the radiation.” Ah, gotcha. Anyway, boob parade complete.

Back to Square One

Now after all this, I get to go back to my doctor next week to get the results of my adventures. I’m sure I passed everything. I’m pretty smart and I totally cheated on my pee test. I also get more palpating, testing of lady parts and most likely more probing with steel instruments and tongue depressors. It’s kind of like an alien abduction but you get to pay for it. Maybe he’ll leave me with the healing table long enough for me to procure some free swag. One can never have enough antiseptic wipes or purple latex gloves. I’m sure there will be a lecture of some sort stating that even though I look amazing on the outside, the inside is important too and just because vodka and water look alike does not mean they are interchangeable. And he’ll tell me my liver is sad and I don’t need to salt my Fruity Pebbles. Bloppity-bloppity-bloop. I will nod sagely and try really hard not to stare at the hair in his nose that moves in and out when he breathes. I will promise to do better by my innards. And I will…for a while. Until I get distracted by something else.

(Something else…)

And to think, all of this started from a sore throat.


Randomness in my brain…


I get tons of messages on this blog (ok, well, it was like 3 messages. but you know. whatever… shut up.) from people telling me I’m funny and they enjoy my wit and wisdom. They beg for more blogs. More and more and more blogs! I haven’t been able to find a subject to write on recently. I’ve been very distracted by stuff like tv, men, the internet, Words with Friends, burritos and so on and so forth. I actually meant to write this blog like weeks ago but I got totally sidetracked by some shiny stuff.

(Must write blog toni…ooooOOOOOoooo, sparkly!)

Long story longer, I’m just going to write some random thoughts and hope they’re funny.


I hate paying my bills. I don’t know why companies get their panties all in a bunch if I don’t pay them on time. Seriously, Verizon? Out of all of the millions of customers you have, my measly $150 is going to make or break you if you don’t get it by the 17th? That’s a damn lie! And if it’s not a damn lie, you really need to learn to budget yourself better. Anyway, I always pay you eventually, so why are you acting like just because I’m a little behind, I’m never, ever going to pay my bill again. Look Drama Queen, you need to chillax. This needy thing is very unattractive.

(Here you go, Mien Fuhrer. Better late than pregnant.)


Now onto the news. The news is boring. Really, really boring. I almost never watch it. I figure if it’s super important, I’ll see it on TMZ or my mom will tell me about it. Is it too much to ask that I get to learn about what’s going on in the world through, say, hot shirtless guys or interpretive dance? I would care a hell of a lot more about the national deficit if that chick on the Today show rapped it to me. (Her name is Suzy something…what kind of financial guru is named “Suzy”?) Boss rhymes and a sick beat would definitely keep my attention. I know grown ups are supposed to be able to sit still for a half hour and listen, comprehend and care about this stuff but I just can’t. Thank God I have a DVR full of Simpsons and King of the Hill to keep me entertained in the morning.

(Mmmmm, Serbian refugees…now I get it.)


I also don’t get why I have to “behave” at work. It’s bad enough I have to go to this place for 8-9 hours a day. Yes, I know. We all have to work. If I don’t work, I don’t have money. If I don’t have money, I can’t buy vodka. And if I don’t have vodka, I’ll never get my hands steady enough to write that fucking check to Verizon! Anyhoo, when I’m at work, I’m expected to do things like be nice, be polite, don’t look at porn on the internet, don’t curse like a sailor, don’t hit stupid people, don’t steal office supplies and so forth. This can make for very long and boring days. I can understand “be nice and polite” and maybe even “look at porn on your own time” policies but really, no cussing? How can I properly convey my rage towards the stupid people I’m not supposed to hit without using colorful language? They won’t know they’re stupid unless I yell it at them and include descriptive adjectives like the f-word. And are you really going to use all those office supplies? Surely a few boxes of paperclips and a couple of laptops wouldn’t be missed.

(Burn “Kenny Rogers Greatest Hits” for Mom’s birthday…check.)

Adult Situations

When I hear some sad woman say, “Chocolate is better than sex.” my immediate response is, “Then you must be doing sex wrong.” Or when I see these commercials for the sex lotions to help the lady achieve whatever fireworks and rocket ships and submarine antics she requires. What the hell is up with that?! Seriously, ladies. If you need this stuff, you obviously have a lazy man. DO NOT encourage his laziness or lack of skill by using these things. Take that money and buy him a book or a class or something to teach him how to do it right. Maybe I’m weird because I think that way but in my mind, I feel like we don’t require a lot of you guys other than carrying heavy stuff, killing bugs and telling us these jeans don’t make our butts look big. Man up and learn how to do the bed stuff properly. That is all.

(Sexy times? Really. Ummm, okayyy.)


I have yet to understand why I have to be this adult person. My brain is pretty much stuck somewhere between the ages of 15 and 19. I still laugh at stuff that most grown up people don’t think is funny. Whenever I have to call L.A. Superior Court for work, I can barely ask for Department 69 without giggling. I’m actually kind smiling now just typing it. Hee-hee, Department 69. I also think that any and all videos/pictures of guys getting hit, kicked, punched, slapped, head butted or in any way injured in their testicles is freaking hilarious! I stick my tongue out at people. I can’t chew gum in front of my mom because apparently, I don’t know how to “chew it like a lady.” (That means don’t pop, snap, crack, blow bubbles or make any other sort of noise with said piece of gum.) I carry a Smurfette lunch box. I have colored paper clips at my desk along with colored pens and pictures of puppies and kittens in my cubicle. I hate vegetables and cannot even pretend that jicama is “just the same as potato chips”. It is so NOT. I also have an appalling love of pop music. I’ll say it-I love Britney Spears! I know all her songs by heart as well as the choreography of “Oops, I Did it Again”. Yes. I do. Good music to me requires the ability to be sung loudly in the car but the lyrics don’t really need to have any deeper meaning than “ooo baby”, “I want you/You want me” or “I love you and/or dancing”. I still call my sister names. I’ll also moon and/or flash her on Skype because that is also still so damn funny to me. Haha-boobs.

(Pictured: Stupid Melanie Garbage Face)

Girly Girl

I love being a girl. It must really suck to be a guy. No make up. No purses. NO SHOES! I would literally kill for any of these things. I love everything that is brightly colored, fluffy, sparkly, soft, lacey and cute. I hate bugs. I despise them. I hate smelly things. I hate sports. But I love men. I yearn for the man who will tell me I’m pretty. That I’m soft. That I smell good. Feminism can kiss my ass. I want a guy to hold the door for me. To buy me presents. To sing me a song. To hold my hand. To remember a stupid thing like how much I like peanut butter and chocolate anything. I am a complete sucker for puppies, kittens, bunnies, rainbows, unicorns, dolphins and flowers. Note to the men out there: you’ll get a lot further with flattery and flowers than anything, ever. And that includes the aforementioned sex ointment.

(ahhh. ah. oh. ah…so pretty…must. hug. flowers…)

Soooo long story short. I’m a girl. And I freakin’ love it!

Well, that’s all I have to say to my tens of fans for now. I so wish I could write about my day job. Now that would be fun! But since I am so attached to my paycheck, I’ll leave it alone for awhile. I also think it would be fun to do some sort of Christa TV Show Round Up. Except there’s not a lot of good tv on now. Then again, any kind of round up is super fun. I better go. It’s sooo hot here in L.A. so I really feel the need for some cool mint Oreos…with sparkles on top! Til next time…