Saturday, February 5, 2011

If I Was Oprah's Half-Sister...

On January 24, 2011, Oprah Winfrey announced to the world that she has a long-lost half-sister known only as Patricia. The two met for the first time last Thanksgiving as Oprah and her fake boyfriend, Stedman Graham drove to Milwaukee, WI for dinner and 50 years of catching up. While this is a wonderful happily-ever-after moment in time for Oprah and “Patricia”, it’s all totally weird for me because I spent a lot of time the week before this news broke, wondering what my life would be like if I woke up one day as Oprah’s half-sister. This is my story...

On the morning of the first time meeting my new sister, Oprah, as she likes to be called, I will wait anxiously at Starbucks for her to pick me up. I will be holding a cup of cappuccino and some of my DNA. She’ll give me a half-hug, the way she hugs most poor white people, and we’ll head to our doctor’s office in downtown Chicago, where it will be confirmed that we are in fact, half-sisters. After the results are read, Oprah will reach down and hug me like a real sister. I will no doubt lose my breath and a tear will fall down, staining my light tan cheek. Her hugs will feel a little contrived at first, but I know in time she’ll learn to love me. Then we’ll go back to her massive apartment where we’ll unwind and get to know each other before she takes this shocking news to the media.

After a gourmet meal prepared fresh by one of her many servants, Oprah will lead me to the living room where she will brush my hair while I tell her stories of my youth. Then I will take my Afro off and let her play with my real hair. Hours will fly by like hummingbirds. I’ll revert to a child-like state and put my finger in her face, cleverly close to touching her nose, but not, and it will annoy her as she yells for me to stop poking her and I’ll be like, “I’m not touching you...” There’s so many of those games that we’ll wanna catch on up and I’ll try to cram them into one night, thinking it’s endearing and she’ll break down and cry and she’ll call our mom, but I won’t be ready to talk to the woman who gave me away all those years ago. This will be a good time for quiet thinking so I’ll grab the latest book of the month from my sister’s shelf and I’ll pretend to read while staring at her from a corner.

Oprah, being older and slightly more mature will speak first, inviting me to stop pretending to read and sit next to her as we make amends for the childish behavior I displayed. I’ll oblige because she’s now holding a plate of cookies and I have no self-control. I’ll invite her to cuddle in front of me on “our” sofa and when my claustrophobia overwhelms I’ll have no choice but to climb on top and rest my head on three of her breasts, while we watch The Color Purple. As my favorite scene comes up I’ll shout, “Daaaaaaamn, you were big!” We will laugh uncontrollably and while she is laughing the hardest I’ll sneak a $20 from her wallet and two frozen chickens from the kitchen and throw them into my satchel.

Our biggest challenge will come the next morning when GAYle (a.k.a. Gayle) shows up uninvited. Oprah’s best “friend” will think she has to approve of me and my sister’s new-found relationship. I will hate her and her big-ass teeth. She will hate my hair, my dance moves and basically everything about me, as she should, because everything about me is better than everything about her and deep down she knows this. But to my chagrin we have plans to go camping and it’s documentary time for the road trip. With cameras on Gayle and I will be on our best behavior. She will clearly be envious over the amount of time Oprah and I will spend talking during the drive. When we arrive at Yosemite National Park we’ll immediately begin setting up tents & Gayle will be surprised to realize that this time I’m sharing a tent with the Big O. Snap. Oprah and I will drink Moscow Mules by the campfire that Gayle stokes, and we’ll wrap each other’s hair in curlers and throw turkey burgers and fifties at bears while laughing because we’re rich. I’ll say, “Nite-nite, Gayle. Sweet dreams”, and she’ll know I don’t mean it as I zip up the tent.

A week later Oprah is ready to reveal to her fans the amazing news. I’m gonna be backstage and when I hear, “Here she is, Chrissyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Cooooooooooostaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”, I’ll come out dancing, forgetting which show I’m on as I look for Ellen. Then I’ll be all like, “Sike” and I’ll tear up next to my sis as she dramatically tells the story of how she came to accept her Italian-Russian half-sister and how this affects all of mankind. She’ll tell the audience, “Never once did she think to go to the press. Never once did she think to sell this story.” I’ll be crossing my fingers behind my back while nodding in a creepy way and smiling suspiciously, pretending it’s true. And in Oprah fashion I will choke up and cry as I tell these same people of how my life wasn’t complete until the moment I held my sister’s face in my hands. I’ll say, “It was like looking in a mirror.” I don’t know if the audience will be able to contain their emotions. I’ll continue on, telling about my past and I’ll answer questions. When Oprah offers me a refrigerator from her Favorite Things show 2010 I’ll thank her and tell her I have no home to put it in. Then when I give the audience my orphan Annie grin Oprah will feel compelled to announce that she’s buying me a condo in the Gold Coast area of Chicago. A standing ovation will ensue. People everywhere will be inspired and begin to search for the babies they once abandoned, hoping for the same fairytale-like ending. No other story will top this one, however.

Harpo Studios will produce follow-up shows based on our story and I will punch Gayle and tell the world it was an accidental reflex thing and I didn’t really mean it. And when Oprah is serving me tea at my new home while we discuss my role as Editor of O magazine, as well as my new sitcom on OWN, I’ll whisper sheepishly under my breath, “sike.”...

Friday, November 12, 2010

Heads up!

To follow my new blogsite or read a new series of blogs about new adventures in Missouri go to:

Thank You!

xoxox and a long o...

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Skinny Jeans

Gynecologists around the U.S. sent a collective "Thank You Note" today to the makers of the popular Skinny Jean.

..."We want to thank whomever is responsible for the comeback of the Skinny Jean. Thank you. No really, thank you." ...

Reports claim that since the revival of the world's skinniest jean cases of vulvodynia, vaginismus and overall crotch-itch have skyrocketed. Doors of ObGyns have been swinging off the hook with angry, skinny women all complaining of the same symptoms; vaginal burning, itching and swelling. They all walk in slowly, like an ostrich. An ostrich whose pants are too tight.

When asked about this growing epidemic one tiny Gyne said, "We don't usually say crotch." Then she covered her mouth with her skinny hand and giggled.

Another less tactful Gynecologist said, "Take a number. I mean, look, their vaginas are "talking back". Like when you feed sauce to an ulcer. They asked for it. I just feel sorry for their vulvas. Not really."

Not everyone is happy with the rise of the Skinny Jean, however.

When not asked, the ever so vocal Oprah Winfrey interjected, "We're sending the wrong message to white people, I mean, young girls and gay men." Then Oprah asked if her new spandex pantaloons made her butt look big. When everyone said, "Yes", she smirked and said, "Good!"

Darcy Evans of Philadelphia agrees. When asked to comment on how skinny jeans make her feel she finished chewing her cheese steak and replied, "Those is white girl pants." And then she muttered something that sounded like, "I don't trust your skinny smile". Her friend quickly remarked, "She's just bitter they don't come in her size." But Darcy just rolled her eyes and finished that cheese steak.

Somewhere in Arkansas, business owner Bob Smith complained that the "new Skinny Jean arrival here" is causing excessive tardiness in his office. He said it took one employee 45 minutes to walk her dog because she couldn't bend over to pick up her dog's feces, leading her to miss the morning sales chant. Then Bob hiccuped and his stomach poofed out revealing his own Skinny Jeans. He quickly sucked it back in and smiled. "The price of fashion", he said.

Skinny Jeans are making quite an impression in the world of fashion, but some would say Americans are becoming obsessed. At least one woman did. "This is getting out of hand. Americans are becoming obsessed with beauty and ignoring their vaginal health", said the hippyish woman wearing Lee Boot Cut jeans and a yellow cardigan.

Perhaps she's correct.

Just last week Gap Kids jumped on the bandwagon, making skinny baby jeans called, Skinny Baby. A skinny mom admitted to cutting back on breast milk in order to get her little girl in those Skinny Baby's. "It's a suburban thing, you wouldn't understand", is all she would say. Ya, you're right suburban mom, I probably wouldn't understand. I'm Italian. My Grandmothers served ham hocks for breakfast and if we skipped breakfast we ate breakfast twice for lunch. I haven't seen a skinny jean since I was 4. And they weren't mine. But I'm not bitter.

Speaking of dominant mothers, we asked a group of Greek protesters outside a newly opened Old Navy to explain their protest. The group leader grabbed my cheeks, slapped me and asked, "Have you ever seen a Greek in Skinny Jeans, I ask you? It's just not fair. There's nothing here for us." "Make 'em in a size 16!", shouted another. "Our self esteem has plummeted since the rise of those little pants", said a group of curvy protesters standing side to side. "My ankles are swollen", said a passerby. We all scratched our heads and looked around, and not surprisingly, none of us had ever seen a Greek or anyone from South America in such jeans. Hmm.

California Governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger just signed a Bill preventing anyone over 142 pounds from wearing Skinny Jeans. "The Bill serves to protect the State from future forest fires", he said right before he removed a chicken sandwich from his wife's mouth. That's awesome, Arnold, because we all know that incessant thigh rubbing from overweight foreigners is the cause of most forest fires.

Another downfall of wearing jeans that skinny is infertility. This leads us to wonder how Keith Urban and every other country musician has been able to father any children. It also makes us wonder where Nicole Kidman puts all those "babies" she's apparently had. I mean, seriously.

Despite the health risks associated with wearing Skinny Jeans, Americans will continue to do so, enduring all, until the inevitable comeback of MC Hammer's Balloon Pants. This makes Darcy Evans very happy because as she just texted to her friend, "Bitch, I'm hongry!"...

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The Mile and A Half High Club...

Recently I traveled to Chicago on a certain airline of which name I will not say, but it rhymes with BrUnited. Now, despite not having brushed my hair in four years I think I'm pretty harmless looking. I perpetually look 12. Or 2. Yet everytime I travel I'm the one getting "pulled" to the side for extra security checks, baggage invasions, and intrusively wanded, which to some counts as sex when it hits your cervix. Being relatively newly single, this time I didn't mind the extra attention. But, Geezus.

It all happened so fast. The TSA man circled my ticket with his colored sharpie and gave me a creepy look that said, "I know what's about to go down, Ms. Costa, and I can't wait."

Shoeless, I made my way up to the grey bins, ready to pass through the metal detectors. And after I did, still belt-less, cell phone-less, and bag-less I was motioned to the "side" by a large woman named, it should be. While there, I was further stripped down, hair pulled, "wanded", ass-banged and given a small cup of water. You can really get parched in these situations. And all the while everyone was watching, including the little Asian girl with the salt water taffy and hopelessly sad eyes. And then it got scary. A bunch of A-Holes in blue shirts were digging through my carry-ons as if I was smuggling cocaine or Nick Nolte. Apparently they didn't find what they were looking for amidst my self-help books, boy panties, unfinished poetry, Superman knee-hi's and pictures of Tina Fey.

Across from me stood a petite frightened woman who was very much in the same predicament I was. I felt sorry for her as she cringed at the sight of the "love" wand. She took it well, however, and I was impressed. Small she was but she had the vaginal capacity of a much larger woman.

As Marge gave me the signal that I was clear to go I re-dressed and blew her a kiss. "Thank you, Marge", I said. "Thank you." She was a woman of few words but something in her He-Man Thundercat growl told me she knew I was "that" kinda Girl. I proceeded to my gate with my belongings, a little less dignity and a smile. It was quite the throwdown and not every airport is capable of providing such. And one never knows when one will find it again. After all, who's it hurtin'?

Was it a case of "racial profiling", I don't know. I'm mistaken for a Latina woman often. And if so I say, "Por favor darme más."

As I boarded the aircraft I quickly realized the difference between BrUnited and Southwest Airlines. Southwest crews tell jokes and act a fool. It's like flying with fun clowns & jesters. BrUnited, not so much. They're very serious about their time. And they love their videos. Instead of a flight attendant I had a video to ignore. I don't wanna know what to do if we crash. I'm pretty certain I'd forget what Betty said if we did crash and manage to survive anyway. And all though I do enjoy the spacious seating in the exit rows, I'm not being very honest when I smile, & nod & say I'll accept the responsibilities of sitting in such seating. And the pilot's red eyes didn't at all make me skeptical. As soon as we were in flight the tv screens came on again, this time announcing their new merger with another airline. But all my newly hypoglycemic self wanted to know was, "Where the fuck is my treat?!" I'm used to being "spoiled" by Southwest's generous bag-giving of pretzels and or trail mix peanuts. These "guys" provided a beverage and a sloppy business man sleeping next to me. I don't like assigned seating. It's not fair.

There's always a lot of turbulence when flying to and from Chicago but it was excessive this time and quite nauseating. I couldn't help but to close my eyes and grab the arm rest, squeezing and tugging hard as we flew through. Thirty five minutes later the "sleeping" business man next to me politely informed me that, "That's not the arm rest." Then he thanked me. Several times. But who's counting? Other than him... There's only one thing this man likes more than honey roasted peanuts when 30,000 miles in the sky. But they "Proudly Serve Starbucks Coffee", so I can forgive and forget.

I resorted to listening to music the remainder of the flight. Three songs into Michael Jackson's Bad album I got a violent nudge from an angry flight attendant. "We announced ten minutes ago that all electronic devices needed to be shut off and properly stowed", she said. How was I supposed to hear the "captain" when I was listening to my Ipod and texting above the clouds? I told her it was shut off and I just had the ear phones in my ear still. I lied, and all of a sudden I was back in second grade denying to Miss Nelson that Lamar and I were looking at her starch white panties under her denim skirt during circle time. As punishment I had to write. It felt more like a win-win to me. Even now. (looking off & up to the right and smiling) I could tell the bitter flight attendant didn't believe me, however, so I said, "Ok sir." She got the point. Then the man next to me asked her for another Coke and instantly her and I shot him a look that shouted, "Are you f*cking serious, dude?! You want Starbucks, a gay hand job, AND a second can of Coke?" That's when I knew my next ex would be that quick-witted flight attendant with loads of baggage. And for the next ten minutes we had a lasting relationship. One of my longest.

Upon landing I grabbed my bags and headed far from the gate, feeling all shades of cheap and used. I got on my Palm Pre and immediately booked another adventure, winking to all the flight attendants and TSA agents as I passed. I heard somebody yell, "I love you, Costa!", but I know what that means. It translates as, "You make me laugh and I love you for that but I don't wanna stick around and raise your big-headed children." "Me voy a volver!", I announced in Spanish. "Me voy a volver!". "That's what she said", someone quipped back.


Sunday, August 15, 2010

OCD or straight up crazy?...

When I was younger my Great Grandmother told and retold the story every Thanksgiving of a man who walked the streets of Italy eating Lupini beans (of the legume family for any non-mediterraneans reading this ) and tossing the skins behind him. As he tossed the skins there was another man who apparently was so hungry he picked up the Lupini skins and ate them. I don't know how long this man followed the other around Italy eating his scraps and I don't recall the point of the story. I do recall hearing it many times and every time I remember thinking, "That's disgusting", while thinking of all the saliva, dirt and bodily fluids that covered those bean skins. I even lost my appetite for nearly four minutes.

That may have been the first clue that young Chrissy had one of many forms of OCD.

Present day: Though I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks this I realize I may be in the minority here. Whenever I feel something wet hit me while walking, or see something weird on my burger, I always think, "Was that semen?" When the young boy smiles at me while handing over my morning coffee...I have to wonder. Why else would anyone smile at 6am?

I was caught in a rainstorm recently. It was coming down hard. (that's what she said) I had five blocks to walk and needed to get home where I was certain my over-anxious dog was stuck in the hamper, hiding because of the thunder. I decided not to wait out the storm and to just run in the rain. And I love running in rain. How fun does it look in the movies, right? But what they don't show you in the movies is how fucking impossible it is to run in the rain while wearing sandals. You may as well shellac your shoes with baby oil because the result is the same. So instead of fighting the inevitable ankle sprain I took my shoes off and bolted. A half of a block later I realized I was running through the 'hood with bare feet. All of a sudden that childhood fear of getting AIDS in my feet began to creep in. I stopped and looked down. The ground looked clear of needles, used condoms and Magic Johnson, but I still wasn't convinced I was safe. For the next several blocks I walked diligently home, monitoring my every step for anything that could infect my body. Twenty minutes later I arrived safely home, soak and wet from tip-toeing through the streets, and found my dog locked in the bathroom at the bottom of the hamper.

Just last week a womyn at bingo sneezed and blew herpes on me, and some semen too, apparently. At least that's what it felt like.

Don't even get me started on sweaty male mustaches and all the funk they transmit. Never trust a mustache. It's like over-fondling a pigeon.

While there is a downside to having OCD, there is also an upside as well. You become much more organized and usually smell awesome. And it's probably why I love movies like Pulp Fiction, 21 Grams and Memento. Look at me with my glass half full.

While I admit my cognitive thought process has always been one in question, I still am not ready to pop a pill. I prefer natural alternatives. Like recently I started "meditating". I hear it works well if you can peel your eyes from your fellow meditators and focus on nothing. I have a hard time with that. You have to surrender and trust all that's around you, so there's also THAT obstacle. And while it's best I shut my mouth for a while it still feels unnatural to have all those floating thoughts bottled up and levitating above my Higher Self.

It's kinda funny to watch a person who has OCD and A.D.D. sit in silence. All sorts of random thoughts (more so than the average day) make their way to the surface. Thoughts with no beginning or ending, like "the last salmon" just show up out of nowhere. And it's funny, so I laughed. It'll take some time. And while it's hard to shut off your cell phone for a few hours there's many benefits to meditating. I believe many relationships could benefit from some silence. Some people even look prettier when they have nothing to say. I've had some of my worst and best times alone with my silence. (looking off to side and smiling) And if that doesn't work there's always SAMe...or boxed wine.

I gotta go, the waiter just spilled a drink on me. Or did he?...