Cinco de Mayo

5 May

Psst…I’ll let you in on a little secret: Mexicans don’t celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Mind blown. I know. Totally try, google it. 

Now, since I am Mexican and I live in the US and I love margaritas I’m gonna go ahead and drink as many as I can without wanting to die. So join me! Let’s vow to swap out all our beverages for the day with margaritas, and to fill our bellies with tacos. Sombreros are optional. 

Who’s with me??

Oh, and more secret. God forbid Trump wins, Mexico isn’t going to help him build that wall. 

You need to let it go

4 May

My name is “No.” My sign is “No.” My number is “No.”  You need to let it go. You need to let it go, need to let it go.

That’s not even good writing!  And yet, I can’t stop wandering around singing it to myself.  You can imagine how cool I must have seemed wandering through the local Wawa singing that out loud when I was reaching in the cooler for a can of Diet Coke.  Somehow doing that doesn’t seem quite as sexy and charming as if some pop star was doing it.  Doesn’t translate into real life.

Damn you, Meghan Trainor, for sticking this damn song in my head!!

I need Taylor Swift to give me something better to sing.  Like “Blank Space” or “Wildest Dreams.”

Help me.

Smooth Moves

3 May

Being a dentist must be difficult, it’s hard to imagine another profession that’s as detested.  Just imaging laying back, the dentist shoving both hands in my mouth while he asks me about how work is going, and then having to spit in the little toilet sink is enough to make me break out into a sweat.  I generally find every excuse to postpone the appointment.

With things being so shitty at work now, and as I count the days until I can quit the thought of going doesn’t seem quite as bad.  Option 1 is to stay at work all day and listen to one of my clients complain about why we’ve changed to smaller cup sizes in the cafeteria, option 2 is to go to the dentist and listen to inane stories of travels to Florida for golf trips with “the boys”.  I choose option 2.

Several months ago my friend, Judy, sent me a thoughtful birthday gift – some delicious chocolate covered caramels from the other side of the world. I had popped one in my mouth and was thinking happy thoughts about what the next year would bring when I bit down on the caramel.  When I pulled my teeth apart I realized that one of my crowns had remained in the chocolate.

Not a good start to the year.

In January I went to see the Endodontist.  “You have to have a root canal!” she announced while staring at the X-ray.  “But I’ve already had a root canal on that tooth,” I told her.  Who knew you could have multiple root canals on the same tooth?  As it turns out when I originally had it done about 8 years ago that the dentist was a jack ass and failed to do it right.  That would explain why over the years why I’d suffered from the most excruciating mouth pains known to man. So there I was, fresh off my 32nd (+10) birthday being told that I needed to spend more time with hands shoved down my throat.

The sexiest part was when the tooth was taken down to the rotten nub that it was and she announced that I couldn’t have the crown put back for 6 months.  Yeah, nothing says sexy like a 32 (+10) with a tiny nub for a tooth.  SEXY!  How about adding that to your Tinder profile??

Fast forward four months, and I’m finally heading back to get it taken care of (fuck that 6 month rule of hers).  While I hate the idea of having to spend hour upon hour in that scary chair, I take comfort in knowing that every second in that chair means one that I’m not at work. You know things are bad at work when the best part of your day is leaving early to go to the dentist’s office.

Nothing like having gloved hands shoved in your mouth while being asked questions about your summer vacation plan to make you question your existence.

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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