Tag Archives: sisters

#disbitch

Standard

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.

Sister Act

Standard

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.