Justin Timberlake isn’t the only one bringing sexy back

2 May

That’s right, fans.  I’m taking matters into my hands and doing what it takes.

And by “matters” I mean “every snack food I can find” and “doing what it takes” I mean “shoving them down my throat”.

Stupid PMS.  How is it possible to have so many cravings that can never be satisfied? It’s a miracle I haven’t eaten the island in the middle of my kitchen.  The only reason I haven’t tried it is because it’s black and gray and I can’t think of any appetizing foods that are black and gray.

In the last 45 minutes I hoovered:

  • An entire bag of chips
  • 3 candy bars (the mini ones)
  • A bowl of ice cream
  • 2 pieces of cheese
  • 1/4 herb turkey
  • 1 mango

I also managed to break out with 2 brand new pimples.  Welcome Simone and Simone 2!

Next up I’m going to sit on the couch and sob my way through the latest episode of Game of Thrones.  First I need a big glass of wine so I can rehydrate myself from all the tears I’m going to shed.

How much longer until menopause and hot flashes?

Let’s schedule a meeting to meet about the meeting 

2 May

Why? Why do we do this? How many hours of our lives (and the lives of others) are we wasting on talking about pointless things like who is formatting the PowerPoint deck, who will bring copies, what to do if so-and-so brings up finance, who will monitor the clock? It boggles my mind that some people have to plan down to the last detail – including who is going to close the meeting.

You know who cares?  No one.  Not a single soul cares.

Except for maybe the douche bag executive I work with.  He gets pissed – not even making this up – if the staple on a deck isn’t placed in the proper place.  He’s been known to tear it in to, and send someone out of the room to make copies again in the right place.  This is a man with an advanced degree, relatively good hair, and an ego that can barely fit in the room.

WHY??

Really?  Does the placement of the staple matter that much?  Is it such an inconvenience to perhaps remove the staple to reveal the corner word?  No, not really. What’s even less convenient is having to sit in that room in a meaningless meeting knowing that seconds of our lives are ticking away.  Seconds that could be spent with loved ones instead of reviewing bar charts that everyone will immediately forget.

Can we make a pact? Let’s do it. I will if you will. The next time someone invites us to a meeting let’s slap them in the mouth and yell, “no!”

What say you?

‘Merica

30 Apr

This. This right here is why we’re all fat in America and why the world hates us. 


What the double fuck? And why do we need this? And who is going to want to eat this? Other than stoners, drunk college students, people who lose bets, and a handful of people obsessed with Funyons. 

Seriously. Who thought that up? Listen, I like processed food too, but there’s got to be a limit at some point. We can’t be turning EVERYTHING into a taco shell and filling it with crap. And when you decide to alter the taco, there are rules. First and foremost let’s talk about taco shells. Real Mexicans don’t eat taco shells. We, the inventors of the taco, know the real way to eat tacos involves a corn or flour tortilla (one that is NEVER heated in a microwave)

I mean really, let’s deconstruct this. You are shoving a hamburger patty into a funyon taco shell and smothering it ketchup. No. No, you can’t do that. That is a crime against tacos. It is against all things that are good and holy to put ketchup in a taco. You might as well put ketchup on cereal.  No. YOU CAN’T DO THAT!!

I’m ashamed to be American right now. 

This is what happens when you drunk Tinder

28 Apr

Last year in an effort to continue with my streak of making bad decisions, I allowed myself to be peer pressured into joining Tinder.  Yes, my friends, I found myself in the vortex of swiping left and right.  It’s amazing how you can spend an entire Friday night sitting on the couch, binge watching the first season of the X-files, and eating your way to the bottom of a Doritos bag (the big one) while you exercise your index finger by swiping left or right in hopes of finding Prince Charming.

Let me save you the agony: Prince Charming isn’t on Tinder.  And if he is, he’s just looking to touch your cervix.

For those of you who are happily involved in a monogamous relationships, those of you who fear online dating, or for the 4 of you who live under a rock let me explain how this works.

  1. Download the Tinder app
  2. Connect it to your Facebook profile
  3. Write a little summary about yourself and what you’re looking for.  Include that you have zero interest in hook ups, one night stands, kinky fetishes, threesomes, and/or dating someone who has rage issues
  4. Upload some cute pictures of yourself
  5. Choose the age range of your target matches
  6. Choose the distance you’re willing to travel in hopes of meeting your match
  7. Start searching!!
  8. Scroll through zillions of profiles, swiping left for “oh god, my eyes can never unsee that,” or right for “oh god, let’s make a baby.”
  9. Hope that the dude you swiped right on also swipes right and BING you have a connection!  Now you can communicate in the safety of the app

It is a total time suck.  No joke, you literally can just spend hours swiping left and right.  It’s a bit like time traveling – you look at the time that’s gone by and wonder how three hours could have possibly gone by and why you’re still single.

There came a time during my Tinder adventures when I was home alone, and drunk (shocking, I know), that I was pissed that I wasn’t getting enough matches.  My solution? Widen the age range to 21-60 and just swipe right.  Man did that make me feel popular!  The sweet, sweet feeling of getting match after match was euphoric – kind of like what it must feel like after completing a marathon or reaching the top of Everest, only with far less exertion and zero requirement of physical fitness.

The next morning when I woke up I saw the horrors that were in my inbox.  A hangover is bad.  A hangover when you have to deal with Quasi Modo sending you dirty messages via an online dating app is even worse.  It took me hours to delete all those dudes from the app.

There was one, however, who I did write back too.  He was young.  VERY young, too young for me.  Yes, I’ve hit Cougar age, no I’m not ready to date or sleep with someone who could be mistaken for my son (except Zac Efron, I’d get up all over him and his hot body and I don’t care if someone thought I was his grandmother.  I’d totally dirty touch him).  So this guy was like 7 years old, but I gotta give him credit where credit is due.  When you see what he wrote, you’re gonna want to meet him just so you could say, “cool move, bro,” and then high five him.

Check it out…(it’s okay, you won’t get fired for clicking the link)

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HIRE ME!!

27 Apr

Since I decided to quit my job it’s meant having to focus my spare time on job searching. It’s as shitty as having to jump back into the dating pool after a break up. You have to present yourself in your best light, pretend you don’t have flaws, screen out the weirdos, and be willing to have some awkward encounters in hopes that you’ll find the right match.

In dating I’ve found that personality can go a long way. You can charm just about anyone and they’ll fall for you. That would account for my success in relationships. No. Wait. I haven’t had much success in relationships…

You know what would be awesome? If the world would be willing to hire and pay the big bucks to others who are witty and charming. Job offers left and right I’d have! I can picture it: I could apply to any job and during the phone screen I’d make the hiring manager chortle. Hired on the spot!! Top of the pay grade!! Corner office! Extra vacation. Hiring on looks alone would guarantee me a job in sanitation services (eg. a janitor) or working in fast food-hidden in the back.
Where’s my dream job hiding? Probably somewhere with my Prince Charming.

For now, I’m stuck with the reality that I’ll have to continue trying to find the perfect match professionally and personally. Ugh. It’s exhausting. I’ll clearly have to drown my sorrows in sugar. And booze.

Where are my fat pants?

Her career moves are like Elaine Benes’s dance moves

26 Apr

Seinfeld. What a great show about nothing. I miss it. No more amazing Thursday lineup on NBC. Instead there’s a reality show about talentless (Kardashians) wannabes, housewives with too much money and time on their hands, talent shows, the zombie apocalypse, or a medical drama.

I miss Elaine shoving people and yelling, “get out!” And her dance moves. She made me feel better about myself and my inability to move with the music.

I was reminded of her as a train wreck during a meeting this afternoon. Picture this: me as the fancy HR exec, a recruiter, and the fancy mucky much with great hair and zero feelings who is hiring a new secretary. Getting a meeting with this guy is hard to do. He runs one of the major business areas and is one step from CEO. You’d think knowing that the recruiter would be ready to go.

The two words that best describe her performance during this meeting are “hot mess.” She was 10 minutes late, confused as to the level, totally wrong on the pay for the role, and asking him questions that he’d already answered.

He cut the meeting short under the guise of having to grab lunch before his next meeting. I his way out she said to him, “the role sounds so great I might apply to it.” He turned around and walked out without saying a word to her.

The likelihood of her ever getting that job is the same as Elaine Benes winning a dance contest. Not gonna happen.

Be like Nike and just do it

25 Apr

There are times at work when I’m tempted to walk to someone’s desk, punch him in the throat, and then walk away.

This is one of those moments.

I landed in this high fallutin executive job awhile ago. In an ideal world people are supposed to do what I tell them. In the real world they stare blankly and drool on their desks. I’m not asking for someone to build a rocket that can go to Mars or for them to develop a cure to male pattern baldness. All I need is one lousy stinking report so that it can be sent to my uppity douche of a client.

Instead I get a series of inane questions and a request for a meeting. Great. Another pointless meeting. Just what the world needs now.

Here’s the agenda I’ll propose.

  • Stop being a douche bag (owner: asshole requesting the meeting)
  • Clarity on why you’re a douche bag (owner: me, 15 minutes)
  • Do as you’re told (owner: asshole requesting the meeting)

I have to practice controlling my eyes from rolling without giving myself a massive headache. Michael Phelps trained his entire life to became an zillion time gold medal olympian, if he can do it, then I’m pretty sure I can train myself to not roll my eyes.  Wish me luck.

TEAM CATHERINETTE!!

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