Tag Archives: women

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?!




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.

The 11 Secretarial Commandments


Please take note of the following commandments as they apply to any and all administrative staff in your realm. I have written these down so those that plead ignorance shall be ignorant no more. These are truly words to live by.

1. Thou shalt not interrupt thy secretary’s lunch. If I am eating, or on my way to eat, do not try to stop me. My stomach has been on the same schedule for many, many years. It will be bad for your digestion, should you mess with mine. Do not text or call or try to speak to me at lunch. It is my time away from you. The reason you pay me is to do work for you. I don’t do it because it’s fun or I particularly like it. Therefore, on my break time, I am not thinking about you nor do I want to. Whatever you want can wait 1 hour. If not, it’s probably beyond my help anyway.


(I told you. I get cranky when I don’t get my lunch.)

2. Thou shalt not look at pictures of my sister on my desk and say “Damn, she’s hot!” I know she’s hot. And in mentioning her hotness at all, you are obviously stating how un-hot I am in your pointless estimation. I am your secretary and I don’t need your drool all over my desk. I have spent my entire life knowing she is hot (and I am funny). You don’t need to remind me. Also, if you think saying this will encourage me to make some sort of connection with my hot sister, you are sadly mistaken. The last thing I want is to see more of you because you are dating my sister.

sis photo

 (Dude, were you like adopted?)

3. Thou shalt not contact me before or after my appointed work hours. I will work hard for you between the hours of 8:00am to 12:00pm and 1:00pm to 5:00pm. Don’t call or text or try to find me on Facebook. Any and all drunk texts will be kept in a file entitled “Why I Deserve a Raise For No Reason”. Be warned ahead of time. This behavior may also result in my cornering you to show you pictures of my pets in hilarious/adorable situations and forcing you to listen to me sing Christmas carols when it’s not even Christmas so you will understand what “Don’t bother me” really means. Never forget, I can make your life a living hell, so let’s play nice and keep work at work.

old lady texting

(Thk u, Mr. Johnson. Now fwding this 2 ur wife. Lol, Myrtle.)

4. Thou shalt not question. I have been a secretary a long time. I know what I’m doing. If I said I did something or I’m going to do something, I will. Don’t ask me to “call and confirm”. That is a waste of my precious time and it pisses off the people that also know how to do their jobs. Trust me. We must have trust to make our relationship work. If there is a problem, I will let you know. Otherwise, believe in the power of the secretary. Her powers are stronger than yours.


(Are you sure I sign here? Maybe I should sign at the top. Can you check on that?)

5. Thou shalt remember Secretary’s Day and keep it holy. This speaks for itself. Do not ever try to “IOU” Secretary’s Day. There better be flowers and food involved at the very least. Cash is acceptable as well. A mere card is unacceptable and don’t even try to get me to make reservations for lunch in my own honor or order in and expect me clean it up. I deserve better. And if you remember me, I will be more willing to do extra nice things for you because I feel appreciated.
treasure chest

(Eh. It’s a start.)

6. Thou shalt not expect me to babysit your kid(s). If you choose to bring your spawn to work, they are your responsibility. I like kids. They’re cool. But you are paying me to work. I will say hi, and pat them on their cute little heads but do not expect me to feed, potty or entertain them. I have enough “kids” in this office that need my attention to keep them out of trouble. I do not have any time left over for yours.

kids in office

(She said the least I could do is make myself useful and make some copies.)

7. Thou shalt not steal my pens. I know you have them. I’ve seen you chew on them and now I don’t want them back. I hate when I have 10 pens in the morning and none by 4pm. You know where the supply closet is and it is not my desk. Your arms did not fall off. Get your own office supplies. And what did you do with the 10 pens you stole from me yesterday? Use one of those. That also goes for paper clips, sticky notes, binder clips, folders and paper.

Woman with Pencils in Hair

(No, I have not seen your damn pencil. Paranoid much?)

8. Thou shalt look upon my face and not my funbags. Yes, I know I have a great rack. I do my best not to flaunt it too much but by the time you get to be a grown man (or grown lesbian), you should be able to have a conversation without checking out the girls. They can’t talk back to you. Only my face can. I measured it and it’s exactly 13″ from my eyes to my boobs. You can look up at me. I know you can do it.

butt touch

(But I’m not looking at your boobs!)

9. Thou shalt protect me from screaming phone calls. If your colleagues, clients or wife call and yell at me, I expect you to tell them not to talk to me that way. I don’t take screaming from you or even my loved ones and I sure as hell won’t take it from a stranger. Just like I will protect the receptionist from people who scream at her, I would like the same from you. Or the permission to scream and curse back. That would work, too.

yelling on phone

(He says he doesn’t return your calls because you’re a fucking bitch who smells like ball sweat, ok!)

10. Thou shalt not ask me to do personal things for you. That includes jury duty, driving school, kids’ plays, etc. If I want to go to driving school, I will get my own ticket. I have my own jury service. I do not want to help you do your taxes or anything else like that. I have enough to do without keeping track of how many carbs you’re eating behind your wife’s back or when your mother’s birthday is. Now I will gladly tell people your door is closed because you’re on a conference call and not because you are really taking a nap. I will tell a client you’re on another call when you’re really playing “Wheel of Fortune” on the computer instead of taking their call. That’s fine. But let’s keep it business, ok?


(Why won’t I take your prostate exam for you? Let explain again…)

11. It puts the work in the basket. Use the inbox. Remember that scene in “Silence of the Lambs” where Buffalo Bill had the girl in the well and he would lower the basket down to her and say “It puts the lotion in the basket.”? And by God she put it in the basket, didn’t she? Scared out of her mind, wounded, hungry, almost completely in the dark and dealing with a mad man, she still managed to follow the simple basket directive. And Buffalo Bill’s basket didn’t even have a label in pretty, bold Monotype Corsiva font saying “IN BOX” on it! That girl still knew that was where the lotion went. In the basket. Not on the floor, not in the bucket he dropped her food in, not in her pocket, she didn’t throw it out of the well. She put the damn lotion in the basket. Do I have to toss people in a well and dress in drag to get them to understand “It puts the work in the basket!”


(Is it just me or is my cubicle getting smaller?)

I had to make 11 commandments because I have a thing for odd numbers. I’m sure there are more but I’m tired now. Take the gift of these words and heed them well. Your professional life can only be enhanced by it. The hand that types the papers, rules the world.

Car Log-Day 4: The Smell of America


Amarillo, TX to Checotah, OK

When we were packing up for this trip, Mom asked me if I packed a jacket. I said, of course not. It’s not jacket weather and we’re traveling the southern route through the U. S. of A. But she said, you might need it. Um, no, Mom. I’m 37, ok. I don’t need a jacket. Well, she packed one anyway. So I got up this morning to take the dog out to walk in Amarillo and holy flurking shnit, it was cold! Like 50 degrees cold. I was freezing my fun bags off waiting for the dog to walk in about 42 circles, smelling the same one tree, two bushes and McDonald’s straw while trying to decide whether or not this was a good place to pee. It was good enough last night but maybe today was different. It required a lot of investigation. And sniffing. And thinking. And staring off into space. And sniffing. And watching traffic. Oh, for the love of high school football, just pee dammit! Long story short, I got Mom’s coat. I hate it when she’s right.

(I wouldn’t recommend running with those, son. Seriously.)

Anyway, another long drive, 5 ½ hours. But it sure was a much prettier drive today. The country is starting to get greener and more hilly with copses of trees. I also saw lots and lots of cows. And horses. As I’m driving through Oklahoma I decided, this-this right here is the smell of America. Rural, farm folk with their land and their crops and their American dreams. Hm. I wish we could change the smell of America to Obsession for Men. Then I sang the theme from Oklahoma until Mom threatened to punch me in the neck.

(You’re doing fine Oklahoma! Oklahoma, O-K-L-A-harrghhbfthprt)

I finally took Mom to one of the Indian trading posts so she’d shut the hell up about it. It was a Cherokee one with a giant Indian Chief head carved on the roof and a big cockroach in the bathroom. We got souvenirs for the girls. The moccasins were beautiful but like $50 a pair. Um, NO! I couldn’t find any fire water so I got a very pretty opal and silver ring. Still waiting to see if it gives me super powers. About 4 hours of the drive through Oklahoma it was very windy. It took a lot of concentration and paying attention to keep the car steady. For four hours. I couldn’t scratch in two places at once or anything. By the time we got to the hotel, I felt like Randy from A Christmas Story.

(I can’t put my arms down!)

After we checked into the lovely America’s Best Value Inn, we went to the Mexican restaurant next door. OMG. That was the best Mexican food I’ve had since Casa Vega in Studio City. It was that good. It was awesome. So if you’re in the neighborhood in Checotah, OK, you just have to go to El Jarocho.

Now, it’s time to relax. Only 3 days left. Another long one tomorrow and then a very short one the next day, then just 5 more hours and we’re home! Tomorrow, we’re stopping outside of Memphis. I didn’t want to stay too close to town in case we ended up in the bad part of Memphis which is, you know…Memphis. Au revoir from me, Mom, Buttons and Scuppy.

(If the cat can do it, so can I!)


Car Log-Day 2: College, Creepers and Construction


Kingman, AZ to Grants, NM

So to start off with the good, there was no barfing or large animals stuck between seats. Also, there was only one highway to drive all day and I ate popcorn for breakfast. I accidentally knocked on the wrong hotel room door and a hot guy opened the door and I said “Oh. You’re not my mom.” He said, “I can be your mom.” Tee-hee. Then, I went to fill up the car and gas prices are $0.53 less than L.A. Halle-freakin-lujah! And that was about it for the good part of the day for a while. To start off with, I got us lost. Somehow, when I exited the 40 to get gas, I wound up on some other freeway juncture and took a wrong exit and ended up at Northern Arizona University. We drove around there for about 20 minutes until we found the highway again. To be honest, I prefer a university with more ivy.

(If you look real close, you can see me crying in that car in the background.)

After that little side trip, we stopped for a potty break and Scuppy decided she wasn’t interested in being a Go-Dog anymore and refused to get in the car. Even with the promise of a bite of leftover chicken fried steak, she wasn’t budging. After cursing, pulling, pushing, threats and cajoling, she finally decided to get in. Truly, if a St. Bernard does not want to be moved, she will not be moved. She only got in because she was tired of standing up. Then after about 30 miles of 35mph construction zones, losing an hour to the time zone change, 312 Indian trading posts that Mom whined to go to (she went to NONE) and 1,537 squished bugs on the windshield, we arrived in Grants, NM. Or, as Mom calls it, Grams.

(Yes, I have an army man hanging from my rear view mirror. Don’t you judge me.)

So we arrive at our hotel and it is GROSS! The air conditioning is not working and it was like 95 degrees. My room smelled like sulfur, Mom had no toilet paper. When we complained about the air not working, the desk clerk said “Open a window.” We had no screens! Not mentioning our animals getting out, if we leave those windows open overnight, we might as well pin $20 to our asses and yell, “Victim here!” So, we moved to the Travelodge across the street. And yes we got a refund from the first place since mom told the desk clerk, “You can give my refund to me or to my lawyer. But I’m getting it back. Your choice.”

So at the new hotel we decided to relax in the hot tub, which was amazingly empty, only to be accosted by a guy calling himself Gabriel Heart. He started telling us his life story and how he was saved by Jesus and did we believe in Jesus and the Mayans are right, the world is ending and if we want to stop by his room (118), he could give us some great literature…and all this time, he’s scooting closer and closer to Mom and all I could think was, I’ve seen enough 48 Hours Mysteries to know about guys like you. You get one inch closer to my mother and you’re going to be talking to Jesus face to face, not just in your delusions.

(I don’t usually bother women who are all alone in a hot tub in Dirtpile, NM…)

Yeah, I totally made Mom come with me to walk the dog later. Anyway, now we’re settled in our rooms with the door locked, fresh towels safely stowed in our luggage, ready to go to sleep and dream of the free continental breakfast in the morning and another 5 hours and 5 minutes of driving fun. Next stop, Amarillo, TX. I’m so psyched for a rousing game of “Call That Dead ‘Dillo!” Buttons is praying night and day for opposable thumbs so she can open her crate and punch me in the face. As for Scuppy…

(We’ve got how many days left of this “adventure”?)

Until tomorrow…

Randomness in my brain…


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

(Must write blog toni…ooooOOOOOoooo, sparkly!)

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


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

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


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

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


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

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

Adult Situations

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

(Sexy times? Really. Ummm, okayyy.)


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

(Pictured: Stupid Melanie Garbage Face)

Girly Girl

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

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

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

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

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.



(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.



(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.


(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,


(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.



(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,


(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,


(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.



(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.


(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.


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

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