Tag Archives: girl

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?!


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!)

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.