Dear Idiot…

Dear People in Love,

I am so happy you’ve found each other. I really am. I love love. I just don’t love your love. You two need to stop slobbering all over each other in public. The table at the restaurant is for eating food, not eating each other’s faces and horrifying children and old people while ruining my appetite. Your back pockets are for carrying wallets and condoms. Not secretly squeezing some of that Grade A new boyfriend ass. Go home and get it on all day and night. Hell, even tape it and put it on YouTube if you want. Just stop dry humping each other in line at the store. You knocked over the gum display. And that’s just rude.

Love,

Christa

(I dare you to smell your hand now.)

Dear Guy Who Cut Me Off,

Congratulations, asshole. You are now one whole car ahead of me. You are still stopped at the same light as me. You just get to sit there longer because you got there first. You are a wizard among men for almost damaging my vehicle, your vehicle and both of our selves so you could get to the intersection 4 seconds faster. Not only do you get to be in front of me, now you also get my wrath. Think of me when karma happily kicks you in the nuts for being such a jack ass.

Sincerely,

Christa

(Christa says “hey”, Speed Racer.)

Dear People Trying to Open My Eyes,

I know there are horrors in the world. I know children die every day from hunger and abuse. So do animals. I am very aware of this and it upsets me greatly. But for the love of God, please stop posting pictures of starving, dead babies and bleeding, suffering animals on Facebook. This is a social networking site. For like, socializing and stuff. Not giving people nightmares. There are ways to help these situations and get sympathy for your cause without exploitative, disturbing photos that cause people to turn away immediately in abject horror and, therefore, giving your cause no thought at all other than to make the pictures go away.

Thank you.

Christa

(And they poop rainbows, too!)

Dear Emotional Wreck,

I understand from your Facebook post that there is something terrible and depressing going on in your life. I also understand that you say you don’t want to talk about it, based upon your mysterious “Don’t text or call. I don’t want to talk about it.” post. But let’s be honest here. If you really didn’t want to talk about whatever it is (I’m guessing it’s a guy who didn’t do what you wanted), you wouldn’t post that stuff on Facebook. You’d just turn off your phone and computer and take a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to your room and watch Titanic. But you do want someone to ask. So stop fishing and go ahead and say, “Johnny Depp broke our date because he said his grandmother died but he just posted pictures of him and Grammy Depp and Christa Woomer at Disneyland. I hate him and everyone else should, too!” There. Now don’t you feel better after saying how you really feel?

Your friend,

Christa

(Why does everyone keep asking me what’s wrong? I’m fine!)

Dear Person Busier and More Important Than God,

I understand that you are, without a doubt, the busiest person on the planet. No one has nearly as much work as you do and no one could possibly accomplish in a month what you do in a single day. You are a machine. You should be given a plaque for all that you manage to do whilst being the only one in your office who ever does anything. Brava! I also understand that if you go on vacation or get sick or have to take time for a number two bathroom break, you think the office will crumble without you. Let me ease your mind on that count. We are all replaceable. Even you. When River Phoenix dropped dead in front of a nightclub while filming “Interview with a Vampire”, he was replaced in mere hours by Christian Slater. The only irreplaceable one is God. But if you think you are more important than Him, I’ll let you discuss that amongst yourselves. And since you are so damn busy, shut the hell up and go do all that work you’re always bitching about.

Sincerely,

Christa

(This never would’ve happened if you only took a ½ hour lunch.)

Dear Person with Bratty Kids,

I know that babysitters can be expensive. But if you really feel it necessary to bring all 8 of your screaming, misbehaving, rude loin droppins to the store with you, please make sure you either beat them or drug them or whatever you have to do to keep them from running into me, stepping on my foot, taking things out of my cart, knocking down old ladies without apologizing, shoplifting, farting, sneezing and coughing on products I was thinking of buying and, in general, causing mass public chaos and shrinkage of my reproductive organs.

Yours truly,

Christa

(Drink up, Timmy. It’s Dress Week at Ross.)

Dear Person Behind Me,

I’m flattered by your fascination with me. I understand that I am an intriguing individual whom you would like to get to know better. That being said, we are in line in a public shopping store. Please remove yourself from my ass. We are not German Shepherds. There is nothing you can really learn about me by being so close to my butt despite what some scientists might tell you. There is no need to inch up on me. I’ll be done as soon as I can, then you can have a turn to buy your items. Don’t make me fart on you. Seriously. Back off. Now.

Kindest regards,

Christa

(I told you, if you bumped me one more time…)

Dear Negative Nellie,

Stop being negative. You are alive. You have a job. You have a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food in your stomach. Quit your bitching before God gives you something to bitch about.

Always,

Christa

(Cheer up. You could be…well, either of these two.)

Dear Women in Public Restrooms,

Why in the hell are there always pee drops on the toilet seat, ladies? First off, you’re supposed to use the little butt paper to cover the seat so you don’t get any ass-related diseases from others. Because we all know that the butt cheeks of every stranger we pass is just crawling with germs. If you are a tough broad though and don’t want to use the butt paper, then just sit your ass down and pee! Stop hovering and swaying and dancing or whatever the hell you’re doing that makes you leave whiz all over the seat like some kind of urinating lawn sprinkler.

Thank you.

Christa

(Yes, fellas. This is how we actually pee.)

Dear Driver with Cell Phone,

One of these days, I am going to pull up next to you, get out of my car, tear your car door open, rip that fucking phone out of your hand and beat you half to death with it. The law says you cannot drive and hold a cell phone to your face. Are you insane, stupid, selfish or all of the above? And it’s not like you’re having Syrian Peace Talks, either. You’re discussing with your other idiot friends driving and talking on their phones which Real Housewife of Who-Gives-A-Shit made the biggest ass out of herself last night on tv. Here’s a hint: It’s ALL of them! Those shows are worthless. Go get a Bluetooth before you hurt yourself or someone who doesn’t deserve it. Like me. You can get one for as little as $19.99 at a discount retailer near you. Bottom line, sweetheart. The law applies to you, too. Put. The phone. Down.

Thank you.

Christa

(You’re gonna be calling Jesus when I’m through with you.)

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Sister Act

So we all know that after Buttons, Scuppy, vodka, Homer Simpson, my Kindle Fire, tacos and my lucky polk-a-dot underwear, my very bestest friend in the world is my sister, Melanie. To be honest, when she came along, I was not exactly sure she would be a good fit for our family. She was small, loud, hairless, toothless and arrived home with no decent toys to share whatsoever. So I tested her mettle by trying to give her to neighbors, locking her naked in the bathroom, strangling her with my truth lasso (this was during my Wonder Woman period) and feeding her quarters. Surprisingly for an infant, she took it all in stride and I decided we could keep her. My parents were grateful for my benevolence.

Melanie is 2 years, 7 months, 27 days, 5 hours and 15 minutes younger than me…approximately. But if you did not have this guesstimation, you would think were twins. Probably because she looks old and I look young (so I tell myself) but mostly because we are so close in our hearts. When we were younger (like last year), I called her Smelanie and she called me Cracker.

(You can’t handle the cute!)

Childhood

Being a big sister is a big responsibility. I had to work very hard to teach Melanie about the world when we were kids. Before puberty took over, Melanie was way easier to handle. She reacted well to threats and guilt. An example of a typical conversation while playing at a friend’s house.

Me:                 Melanie, run home and get the ball so we can play.

Melanie:        Why do I always have to get the ball?

Me:                 Because. Now go get it. I’ll let you play this time. I promise.

Melanie:        But I don’t want to go get the ball.

Me:                 Fine, then. Be selfish. Now nobody gets to play ball because you’re lazy. Thanks a lot.

Melanie:        Ok. I’m sorry. I’m going.

This kind of logic always worked. Even when I had a $5 bill and she had five $1 bills and I explained to her it wouldn’t be fair unless she gave me two of her dollars. Then we’d both have 3 bills and we’d both be happy…my mother made me give her the $2 back. It’s obvious that my mother did not have a little sister and thus did not understand the lesson I was teaching Melanie as her big sister. Pffftttt…whatever.

(You’ll never learn to escape the box if you never get in the box.)

I also spent one afternoon braiding every hair on her head into tiny little Bo Derek braids and putting a bunch of rubber bands around them. It took my grandmother hours to get them out. When we wanted to play electrician, I would screw the faceplates off the outlets and then let her dig in the hole after it was off. I somehow managed to convince her that Angela Lansbury on “Murder She Wrote” was a killer and she was always scared to go to bed after it was on. When we played “Dukes of Hazzard” she always had to be Cooter, even if it was just the two of us playing. Ok, I’ll admit. I actually laughed out loud when I typed that. Man, that was funny! But in all seriousness, the fact that Melanie lived to adulthood is proof that God really does perform miracles.

Adolescence/Teenage Years

This period of time, also known as the War of the Woomers or the War of Totally Tubular Proportions (circa 1986-1992), was really tough on my parents. We fought over everything! Clothes, accessories, shoes, makeup, food, friends, pets, tv, music, electricity, politics, religion, who could breathe, who could grow, which one of us was really adopted…it was endless. We couldn’t say good morning without the other one responding with something like “Ugh. You made it through the night again?” One time she threw an open can of Sprite in my face in front of everybody at the bus stop. Once I literally tackled her for the last Band-Aid (she had a cut of some sort-allegedly). She had taken it from my side of the bathroom. I didn’t need it but I still tore it up so she couldn’t have it. We got into a physical, scratching, hair pulling fight as teenagers because I wanted the deadbolt on the front door locked and Melanie did not. As you can see, these were all serious, life threatening issues completely worth kicking each other’s asses over. (insert sarcasm here) Melanie might be little, but she’s mean, tough and scrappy. Since I’m bigger, the only way I ever won was if I sat on her.

(What did I tell you about looking at the sun on my day!)

But whenever my mom would say, “You know what? You two want to kill each other? Go ahead! I don’t care anymore. Go on! Hit her, Christa. Kick her, Melanie. You want it so bad? Kill each other. I dare you.” Then we would be like, “Geez, Mom. Calm down. I don’t want to hurt her. She’s my sister. You’re such a drama queen.” I’m surprised my mother didn’t drink more.

Young Adulthood

After I graduated high school, there was a huge change in the dynamic of our relationship. I’m not sure how or why but we started hanging out for no reason and realized, we really liked each other. We had so much fun together and really complimented each other. I was outgoing when she was shy. She was brave when I was a coward. She helped my fashion and I helped her stop wearing her bangs like a rooster.

(Who else is hanging their head in shame right now?)

I was on time when she was late. She was nurturing when I was a bitch. We took turns staying up and keeping watch for Freddy Krueger while the other one slept. She would flirt with cute guys she wasn’t interested in so I could mack on their friends. I would dry hump unsuitable guys from behind who were trying to dance with her when she didn’t want to. When she was in labor, I was the first to honestly tell her, “This is really not cute.” And she was the first to tell me the same about my ex-husband before he was my ex-husband. We’re both funny as hell. When I said, “I think I’ve had enough to drink tonight.” She would say, “You can’t listen to you. You’re drunk. Have another!” I so love my sissy! We’ve bowled together. We’ve gone clubbing together. We’ve traveled together. We’ve read the same books and loved the same movies. We’ve hated the same people. We’ve discovered a love of history together. We’ve run from the cops together. We’ve laughed and cried and vomited together. And that was just last summer!

The Here and Now

I can always be myself around my sister. I can tell my sister anything and vice versa. No judgment, no censure, no repeating it. In fact, sometimes she doesn’t even remember I told her something vitally important. We can rail, bitch, yell and cry at each other and then be fine like nothing happened 15 minutes later. My mom can’t understand that. But that’s just the way it is. As time passes and Melanie ages, we only get closer. She is now the mother of 2 teenagers. (Let us all take a moment of silence to pray for her……..thank you.) I am an actress in L.A. She sings in the church choir. I sing at karaoke. Our conversations revolve around work and what body part hurts most today. Our partying days are long behind us. Even though we live 2,300 miles apart (which, despite the laws of physics, both sucks and blows), I know she is always there for me. And I am always there for her.

(This is the least drunk-looking growed up pic I could find)

Out of all the stuff my mom’s ever given to me, I can honestly say Melanie is my favorite…followed by the time she introduced me to Ryan Seacrest. I will say, when my dad took me to the nursery and showed me baby Melanie screaming behind the glass, I very pragmatically said, “I’d rather have a pony.” I humbly admit, I was wrong.