Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Dear Christopher Guest,

Just in case you're reading my blogs I wanna say that although (or all though, depends on who's keeping score) you don't know me, I really like you. You make me laugh. Okay, with that being said I want to get to the reason I'm writing. While at the gym today I came up with the next mockumentary you should write. I could help you. I have experience. In 1996 I wrote G.I. Joan. It was about a chick in the military who had to fight her way through the system before she could prove herself in war. I didn't finish the script because I must have gotten distracted somewhere along the way. Could have been a cupcake, but whatever. So a year goes by and in 1997 the movie G.I. Jane was released. You may remember this one. Demi Moore plays a Navy Seal, fighting Master Chief and all the other men ("Suck my dick!", remember that line? funny.) to prove herself. Sound familiar? That's what I thought. I wrote that shit. I'm not accusing the writers of anything, for I was living in Lawrenceville (Pittsburgh) at the time and there's no way they were reading my notebooks. Speaking of, Danielle Alexandra hasn't done much since writing that script, whereas David Twohy has kept himself a little more busy. Me, on the other hand, I'm still waiting for my break.

Okay, another example of my experience... In 1986, at the age of 10, I wrote, in the back of my mind, the 4th Halloween. You'll love this for obvious reasons. So I thought Michael Myers should have a niece or nephew with whom he connects with but kinda wants to kill. Two years later, in 1988 Halloween 4 was released and guess what the plot was. Michael Myers returns to Haddonfield to kill his niece, but kinda feels a connection to her. Holy shite. So I know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, back to the script you should write. Another mockumentary, this time focusing on personal trainers and their clients, and their lives inside the gym. I think it should focus more on the clients though, and their foolish banter.
I hear a lot of conversations between the trainers and their clients, and mostly it makes we want to put a dumbbell up my ass. Today I caught part of a conversation, and the trainer was like, "Wait, did you say geranium? Oh, I thought it was a tulip?" I also overheard a client say, "My husband's brother's son can't eat cheese anymore either. I don't know what's going on in this world". And, "I've worked really hard to get that car and I don't want to park it next to those other cars."

I can't help but to think that the trainers also want to stick barbells and such up their own asses. We, I said we... You could focus on the competitiveness of the trainers to get clients and the clients' self-absorbed lives. With, of course, the occasional client, such as myself, that comes in solo to work out, looking, feeling and possibly smelling like a sweatsock.

These are just some ideas. Feel free to write me back anytime and we can get this thing rolling.

Thanks for your time.

Love Always,

Chrissy Costa

p.s. - your wife's commercials make me wanna eat yogurt again...

Monday, December 7, 2009


Okay, I am reasonably tall-I mean, average at least..let's say like 5'6" .5, if that makes any sense to the non-seamstresses out there.
So, why is it that I simply cannot find a pair of pants that don't get scuffed in the snow?
I mean, really?
For example, I have fairly long legs, so my friend tried to buy me a pair of "tall" pants for my birthday this year. I tried them on and looked like Chrissy Costa trying to wear pants for anything taller than a gnome.
They were really long, that is.
So, I, of course, had to bring them back.
Next, I went and got "regular" length pants, and was really excited to wear them today.
Of course, last night it snowed and, um, even though I have little wedgie shoes on my cuffs are still soaked in snow salt..
um, how is that possible?
Am I already shrinking at 35?
Well, thath brings me to another issue...
Why is it that we are born shorter than our parents and, in many cases, stay there, but by the time they are in their 70's or such, they are like down to our kneecaps.
My mom is like the cutest, but she is starting to resemble Lilly Tomlin in my favorite movie of the 80's The Incredible Shrinking Woman-
Speaking of, I always wanted to be Lilly Tomlin, but that only came true in the gay way.
At least, I think that is the case--I mean, if I keep buying shorter pants and they keep dragging on the ground, then, um, perhaps the next step is me shrinking so much that I end up falling down the drain of a sink too.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Assault By Masturbation...

When I attempt to initiate a conversation with somebody and they're not really interested, I tend to notice the signs. The "uh-huhs", the lowering of the head, the stomping off the bus (and I don't even ride on busses, but i guess i can blabber). So I quickly shut my pie hole and pretend to read a book or something. In fact, I've always said I don't go to parties i'm not invited to. Figuratively and literally, I mean it. Unfortunately so many do not follow suit.

Why is it that people, acquaintances and strangers alike, feel the need to talk to me when I'm clearly paying no attention? For as long as I can remember people have come up to me and told me bizarre things I would be better off to have never known. I love the elderly and I'm always open to hearing their stories. Over and over and over again. I don't mind. But I also attract looney-bags. They wanna marry me. And hobos always tell me the dirty things they wanna do to me. (Am I supposed to do the dirty things in a cart?) Like I'm gonna take them back to MY place, yah. I can ignore these "interactions". Most of the time. But everyday people I'm in contact with talk way too much about things I mostly never care to know. People give way too much information to a girl who asks a lot of questions...when she's interested.

It's quite selfish, actually. Here's an example...It's a true story.
I'm sitting alone ( i won't say where) at a table, eating lunch, texting and writing a blog (clearly busy) when in comes some perky woman that I barely know, fresh and ready to assault me with her mouth. Not in the good way either. She's rambling on about her plans for vacation and I'm getting indigestion from shoveling food into my mouth so I can get the F out of there. Twenty minutes later she's still talking, barely catching her breath. I'm the only other person in the room so I assume this info is meant for me. I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes and went like, "Psshhhh", but she didn't notice "the signs". She didn't even make eye contact with me. If she could hear the soliloquy in my head she would have stopped talking. But she kept talking and I was there, not participating. And she didn't stop. It was a crime! Maybe not like a 911-worthy crime, but at least a 311 type of crime. I was verbally masturbated on. And she didn't even ask my name. Or if I've ever been to the Bahamas. I don't even think I was supposed to be part of her conversation. But I was forced to hear it. I feel cheap and used and dirty. She didn't just verbally masturbate in front of me, she did it all over me. Without my approval or a safe word. Only after all this took place, later in the day, I realized I should have taken steps to prevent this. Steps like, pretending I couldn't hear her, talking in Spanish, shatting on myself. I bet if i would have shat in my seat she would have left. I should have thrown my shoe, caused a distraction so she'd be forced to look at me, the person she was "talking to". Maybe the guy who threw his shoes at George W. just couldn't take hearing him anymore. I could have tipped the vending machine over. Set a fire. Pulled my pants down. Why do I always come up with a solution when it's too late?

Take heed and learn from my pain. I have, and now I'm armed with mental dental dam and ready for the next assault by a verbal masturbator.