Tag Archives: woman

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?)


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.

A Star Is Born…Eventually


As an actor, I get to go to lots of (never enough) auditions. My co-workers and friends are super supportive. And they’re always asking, “How did it go? What did you do? Did they like you?” and so forth. Actually, there are no easy answers to these questions. So, I’ve decided to blog on this issue so my non-actor friends can get a brief glimpse into real Hollywood auditions and my actor friends can nod sagely in agreement.

(What is my motivation for agreeing with yon blogging wench?)

Now of course, as usual, there will be a lot of hyperbole and comedy stylings in this entry. And by the way, that word is hy-PER-bo-lee. Not HY-per-bowl. I know, it was a surprise to me, too. It means a gross exaggeration. (see Mrs. Whittenburg, I was paying attention in class). Anyway, I love, love, LOVE auditioning! Even though after this article, you may not understand why.

Answering The Call

So I’m going to focus in on commercial auditions as that is what I’ve been doing for the most part recently. I have commercial agents (Hi, Kenneth and Nelson. You rock!). They spend their days submitting me, and I’m assuming a few other people, online for commercials. When the stars align and all their hard work and pagan sacrifices come to fruition, I will get a happy text. It says, “SMS Casting-You have an audition! Check your email for details.” Kaloo-Kalay! I will shove paperwork, old ladies and attorneys to the floor to get to that sweet, sweet e-mail. I check the email and it will tell me where, when and what I will be auditioning for tomorrow. I have people asking me, “Do you have any auditions coming up?” I have honestly never gotten more than 24 hours’ notice for any audition. So the answer to that question (unless you catch me between 4pm and 7pm the day before said audition) is no. Now, after the text comes in and I confirm with the agents and rain blessings upon their heads, I have to head home to decide what to wear.

(Does this say, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter?”)

So since I decided I just had to have straight hair for my headshots, I go home to smash my curls into flat oblivion so I match the pictures my agent sent in for this audition. After printing directions to the casting office farthest from my work place, picking the yellow polo that makes me look like suburban mom instead of the blue polo that makes me look like I work at Wal-Mart, picking the earrings that make me look the least pretentious and most trustworthy, emailing my boss to tell him I’ll be late tomorrow, praying and offering any other listening gods my sister’s first born, I go to bed early to rest up for my chance. Sometimes though, I’ll get a call for a super cool audition that says “Chef attire” or “Victorian attire-hats are a must”. I really like getting to take that stuff to work for a middle of the day audition. It’s easy enough to run to Michael’s and get a chef’s hat and apron or something. But finding that Victorian attire about killed me and my mom both. Who keeps Victorian clothes around? My mom’s old but I’m pretty sure she was born post-Victoria. I think…But necessity and passion for my art is the mother of invention, so my mom literally pulled the kitchen curtains down, a la Scarlett O’Hara, and made me a for true Victorian outfit. That’s some sweet ass dedication there, people.

The Audition

So as I noted earlier, it is, by law, a guarantee that any audition I have be not less than 45 minutes from wherever I am an hour before said audition. So I fight Los Angeles traffic and hopefully find parking within a half mile of the casting studio, I am ready to go. After I show up hot, sweaty and out of breath from fighting the Crips on the corner for my bag (my headshots are in there, bee-yotch!), I sign in and wait for my turn. After checking my Facebook, Perez Hilton, e-mail and playing 6 games of Vegas Pool Sharks on my phone, it’s my turn! The casting director will point the camera at me and ask me to “slate your name”. Now, when this first happened, I thought there must be some chalkboard or clapper thing that I forgot to get at acting school. Turns out “slate your name” means “say your name.” Ohhhh, I can totally do that!

(Hi, my name is…uhhh, what’s my line again?)

Anyway, after the formalities are over, I will have one of four types of audition.

No. 1:

Casting Director: Tell me something interesting about yourself.

Me: I have webbed feet.

Casting Director: Heyyyy, that’s great. Walk to the left. Your left. No, not toward me. To the left. No, your left. LEFT!

Me: How was that?

Casting Director: Great! Thanks so much. Have a great day.

<End of audition>

No. 2:

Casting Director: Read the lines on the board.

Me: You Can Energy Drink gives me energy every hour of every day!

Casting Director: Try British.

Me: You Can Energy Drink gives me energy every hour of every day, guv’nor!

Casting Director: Great! Try it New Jersey.

Me: Yo! You Can Energy Drink gives me energy every hour of every day! (fist pump)

Casting Director: Perfect! Do Southern.

Me: You Can Energy Drink gives me energy every hour of every day, y’all!

Casting Director: You are so versatile! Thanks so much.

<End of audition>

No. 3:

Casting Director: You are in Antarctica. You are cold. Freezing. You pee on yourself to stay warm but it only lasts a moment. You’re remembering your life before the cold. Your family and friends and pet rabbits. Oh, so many rabbits. And you are leaving them all. Leaving them…

Me: What am I auditioning for again?

Casting Director: Harry’s Extra Sharp Toe Nail Clippers.

Me: Ah, yes…you were saying?

<End of audition>

No. 4:

The free reign, improv whatever you want, balls to the wall, all out fun acting audition. They give you a very brief scenario and say “go!” This is when I shine, y’all. And actually the kind of audition I just booked my last job with last week. Because no one can “act” like a lazy employee nearly as good as me!

The Call Back

Now, after all the fun above is over, I wait for the next call. This is the call back. This is what separates the men from the boys. My agents say call backs are special and not to get upset if I don’t get one every time. Most actors get a call back for about one out of every 7-10 auditions. Personally, I get a call back about every 2 out of 3 auditions. I’m not saying that because I’m super great or anything (you can say that in the comments below) but just because that’s how it works out for me. When I go to the call backs, I do basically the same thing I did the first time, except now the actual director of the commercial is there along with some guys from the ad agency. You can tell which one is the director because he’s the one who actually looks at you and not his laptop or the food table to the far right (my right. no, right. well, it’s their left which is my…never mind). I always do the same thing (to start) in a call back that I did in the first audition. They called me back because they liked what I did before and I don’t want them to be all confused (“Hey. Where’s the girl with the webbed feet?”). Then, the director will give a few directions just to see if I can do what he says. Now, since I grew up with a military dad, if there’s one thing I can do well, it’s follow directions.

(You are an actor! You are in Antarctica! You will pee on your leg! You will sell toe nail clippers!

You will like it!)

I usually get a lot of calls for “real” people. Which I assume is opposed to imaginary people. I like those auditions. I don’t think I could really do well if I had to audition as imaginary. So they tend to spend call backs trying to match “real” me up with some other “real” people so we can make a “real” family that enjoys eating “real” wasabi peas or something. That’s always weird. Do I look like this kid? If not, can I fake it? Can I pretend I’ve been married to this loser picking his nose and trying to pretend he’s not wiping it on the chair? Well, I did it before in real life and I didn’t even get paid for it then, so…..let’s do it! And therefore, I work my call back like my ass is for sale and the rent is due tonight.

Booking…or Not Yet

Now, I play the waiting game. Like that movie The Crying Game but with less surprise penises. After all of this is said and done, there is a 3-7 day waiting period to see if I booked the job. If I book the job. HOORAY! These days are too few and too far in between because I should totally get every part I try out for, right?…<crickets>…Anyway they are the very happiest of days. Actually booking a job is a totally different blog, though. There’s a lot of rejection to deal with in this business. I know if I don’t get cast, it’s not because I’m not the awesomest. Cuz I am the awesomest. My mom, my sister and dog told me so. Thankfully, my mind does not accept rejection and if I don’t get a commercial I will make up one of the following excuses:

No. 1: The person who wanted to cast me (director/ad agency/client) has died. This is very sad. I hate it when this happens. This wonderful, creative being has left our world. His dying wish was that I would represent the product on screen but since he is now gone, the commercial and the role that the deceased wanted just for me is gone forever. Never to be seen again. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

No. 2: I see the ad I auditioned for on t.v. but the people in the commercial are not me. Hmpf! Now, how in the hell did that happen? I have to think of something else to ease my poor bruised ego. I know I was the cutest, smartest thing in shoe leather to cross the threshold into that room. So then I tell myself the person who wanted to cast me (director/ad agency/client) has had their cat kidnapped by communists. Yep. Even though he pleaded, “Please! No one will be able to sell Harry’s Extra Sharp Toe Nail Clippers like Christa Woomer! In the name of democracy and capitalism and justice, can’t I please cast the most talented commercial actress I’ve seen this millennium?” The communists laugh deep in their chests and say, “Niet! Not if you value your cat.” So, they made the commercial without me. How can I be mad? Come on, it’s me or the poor guy’s cat!

(Cats back for everyone!*)

When people ask me, “Do you think they liked you?” My answer is always, “Of course, they liked me!” We are talking about likeable, loveable, huggable me, here. And as you can see, auditioning in Hollywood is lots of fun, glamour, fame and excitement. I love being an actor so much. Each step of this process makes me smile. I wish I had more auditions and more fun every day. I thank God for making me strong enough to follow my dreams and move to L.A. Every time my phone beeps in the late afternoon, I know that rumble in my tummy is happiness and not just the Del Taco #4 combo I had for lunch. I can’t wait for the next adventure.

(“Follow your dream. You can be an actor if you really want to. Just make sure you can type or something to support yourself.”

Nikki Burgett-my high school drama teacher.)

Note #1: I never auditioned for this role and have nothing but love for Flo.

Note #2: I don’t really have webbed feet.

Note #3: I started this blog last night and now I’m ready to post with a brand new audition waiting for me tomorrow. WOOT!

Getting a Taste of the Back-o-Me Hand


So this blog is going to be about the day to day stuff that aggravates me to near violence. I could’ve titled the blog “Pet Peeves” but that doesn’t nearly display the irrational irritation I feel at the things I’m about to describe. Also, “Pet Peeves” sounds cute. It’s alliterative and sounds like pets-kitties and puppies. Not the things that people do that make me want to punch them in the throat. Some of these things bother me way more than others. And some of these things my friends do but I love them, so it doesn’t bother me so much. But when other people do it…I start feeling real stabby.

(Go ahead. Sing “It’s a Small World” one more damn time.)

Butchering the English Language

Some of you may be saying, “Why do I have to talk and spell good English? I ain’t never going to England.” Well, my friend, this is America. We actually do speak English here. In order to be a functional member of our society, you really should be able to speak and spell correctly in your native language. Now it takes some brains to be a legal secretary (my current day job). When I started at this office, I noticed the secretary before me had made labels to opposing counsel for every case and saved them on the server. Thanks, Ex-Secretary! Except she spelled it “lables”-every single time. How can you work at a job like this and not even be able to spell “labels”? Needless to say, my OCD took over and I renamed every file properly. Here are a few honest to God posts BY ADULTS as seen on my Facebook.

“Dont take it rong.”

“Your not specialer then me.”

“That’s beutifull.”

“She past the test!”

“Text me. I’m board.”

Wow. Just…wow. And these are sober, grown up people, who have high school and/or college educations. Do you have any idea how ignorant you look? How did you pass school? Did they just kick you out because they were tired of trying? I am appalled by this. It drives me insane!

(Me no function beer well without.)

This also goes into the new generation of texting. Omg srsly, y do ppl shrtn wrds lik dat 2 txt? Tbh, idk. Plz n thx, tho. As Melanie says, “Where did all the vowels go?!” I do use things like “omg” but I get to do that because I know if someone put a gun to my head, I could actually spell it all out properly. And I know without a doubt there is a huge population of up and coming youth that could not make that same statement. This type of communication is becoming more prevalent on Facebook, Twitter and all the other social media as well. The site Tumblr can’t even spell its own name right. Won’t someone please think of the vowels!

Time After Time

Everyone is late sometimes. I get that. Especially in L.A. where traffic is a bitch and you’re sitting there forever while you have to pee and Grandpa is trying to figure out how to cross 5 lanes of freeway because his exit is 100 feet in front of him and you just want to scream and ram into the car in front of you so it will just fucking MOVE! Sorry. Lost myself for a moment there. So yes, sometimes we’re late. But chronic lateness is just rude. It basically says to the people who are waiting on you that they are not important. It’s disrespectful. Oh Lord, I just sounded like my mother. If I start saying “Don’t dismiss me, young lady.” then we’re going to have a problem. Anyway, some of my friends are going to be late for their own funerals and I accept that about them. But it’s those other people. The ones who do it on purpose because they just don’t care about anyone but themselves. I don’t want to have to sit and wait 10-15 minutes for a meeting to start because someone, who already knew the meeting started at 9am, has to get coffee and go to the bathroom and check their email one more time before they can show up. I have to be at work on time but apparently, that rule doesn’t apply to everyone. Some people get to wander in whenever they damn well please. And not because of traffic or helping old ladies across the street. Just because they don’t feel they have to be in on time. If I, and millions of other Americans, can get our asses to our desks by 8:00 a.m., why can’t you! And that shit pisses me off like almost nothing else.

(It’s pain o’clock, jackass!)

Miss Manners

I don’t know if it’s because I’m from the South or just because I was raised right but where are the manners in this world anymore?  There are certain inalienable things I have carried from childhood to adulthood. 1. A fierce hatred of Spaghetti-O’s; 2. Sticking your finger in any head hole and wiping it on your sister is funny; 3. God is real; 4. Being rude will get me a smack upside the back of my head, regardless of age. I really hate being smacked in the back of the head, ergo, I am polite. The use of such phrases as “Please”, “Thank you”, “You’re welcome”, “Ma’am”, “Sir”, “May I” and “Excuse me” are rarely heard anymore. I hate that! Saying “excuse me” when you’ve just severed my Achille’s tendon with your Wal-Mart cart would really take the sting out. When I first moved to L.A. and was waiting tables I said, “Yes, ma’am” to a customer and she asked, “What part of the South are you from?” I asked her if my accent was that bad and she said, “No but no one here says ‘ma’am’ unless they’re from the South.” True story. Men don’t hold doors for ladies. Actually no one holds doors for anyone. We aren’t nice to each other anymore. It’s kind of sad. Oh, and here’s one that burns my potatoes. People who talk on the phone while they are in a public restroom. Ew!

(So then I says to Mabel, I says, “Gurrrllll…”)

Yeah, you’re gross. There is NOTHING you have to say that cannot wait until after you pee. I promise you. Either hold it or call them back. I will not control any bodily function if I hear you on the phone in the stall next door. I can promise you that. There are not enough barns is the U.S. for all these rude losers to have been born in. And if I had talked to my mother the way I hear some kids talk to theirs in public, I would’ve eaten my teeth. Maybe that’s it. Kids just aren’t being beaten like they used to. Ok, this is getting a little long so let’s do a quick written montage of a few more things…(please hear Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive” as you read this next part. No good reason other than I heard it on the radio on the way home and it’s a great song that should be stuck in someone else’s head besides mine right now.)

Other Stuff Deserving of a Kidney Kick

“Have you seen the…uh…” finish your sentence. I’m not Kreskin or Madam Cleo. I can’t help you unless you finish your thought. If you can.

“I hate seafood, you know. I have so much work to do, you know. My husband’s member is tiny, you know.” Yes, I know. You just told me, moron!

“I was all like ‘Hi, Greg.’ and he was all like ‘Hey baby.’ Like so cool.” You were not “like” anything. You said <insert insipid conversation>. He said <etc.>. Ease up Valley Girl. This is a new century. A new beginning.

“I went to the mall and had to return that top because it was too small. Does that make sense?” You spoke simple English. I understand simple English. Yes, I freaking understand. What a stupid damn question!

“She looks like a whore with all that makeup.” Says the girl wearing twice as much makeup and half as much clothes. Don’t call people out for something you’re doing yourself.

Liberry is not a word. It’s library.

Thee-ATER is not a word. It’s just theater.

Irregardless is not a word. In fact, spell check just underlined it in red. The word is “regardless”. Look it up. The internet can do more than just deliver lightning fast porn.

“I have 5 dollar and 24 cent.” No, idiot. You have 5 dollars, 24 cents and zero brain. It’s called plural. Again, look it up.

“Look at question number B.” I HATE this one! I get this from actual attorneys at work. Doctors of Jurisprudence say “number B”. B is a letter, not a number. Say “Look at question B” or “Look at question lettered B”. There is no such damn thing as number B!

“I could care less if he gets hit by a car.” No, you couldn’t care less. If you could care less, that would indicate you care some. God, I’m starting to get eye twitches writing all this crap down!

Lastly (for today), DO NOT treat me like I’m stupid. I’m no Stephen Hawking or anything but I am an intelligent, well-read woman who is a good secretary and a great actress. If you talk down to me, you are asking for it. If I don’t know something, I’ll ask and I’ll learn. But never assume you have to talk to me like I’m an idiot or a child. That’s just asking for a swift kick in the nuts.

(Yes, I know the difference between “your” and “you’re”.

“You’re” getting kicked in “your” balls right now!)

Thank you all so much for your time and attention as I vented my spleen. I feel much better now. What are some of your pet peeves?

And if you like totally like hart my blog, share it with your freinz, you know! I wood be soooo =D. Lmao. Peece out, biches…