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20 Mar

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OKC WTF

17 Feb

I’m just going to leave this here for you. You’re welcome.

An Open Letter to Matt Lauer

30 Nov

Dear Matt Lauer,

Remember when you were in the news about a decade ago for wearing “mom jeans”?  Man, do I remember how people mocked you for those high waisted, faded, frumpy jeans.  As I recall you were also rocking a red sweater.  You kind of reminded me of an SNL skit, or a sad cat lady.  Yet you were still kind of okay.  That’s when you were still cool.  When families all over America would tune in to “The Today Show” to hear what you had to say.

You were the good guy.  Kind of handsome – aside from those awful jeans, a family guy, the boy next door.  The type of guy that girls like me found dreamy.  Charming, really.

How disappointing for us all to find out what an absolute douche bag you are.  How many hearts you’ve broken, worlds you’ve shaken, lives you’ve made miserable.  What an awful person you are, and poor choices you’ve made.

I’m glad those women came forward and told the truth about you.

Read your “apology” statement that you came out with.  I don’t think you’re sorry.  Scratch that, you are sorry, but you’re only sorry that you got caught.  You’re also a sorry bastard.  You know what you did wrong.  You know that you were being a fuck wad when you were you gifted your coworker a sex toy and told her how you wanted to use it on her.  What is wrong with you??  Don’t you know that you’re not supposed to do that unless the other person is clearly into you?

Guess what, Matt Lauer?  You can take your mom jeans and fuck yourself in your left eye.

You’re dead to me.

Insincerely yours, Catherinette

Dishing it Out

31 Oct

Let me ask you a question here, and give me your honest response.  Like your real response, what you really think.

So, if you worked in a place that had signs that said things like, I don’t know, something along the lines of:

Please wash your dishes.

This sink does not have a garbage disposal.

If there are dirty dishes in the sink, the sink will not be cleaned by cleaning staff.

Would you be an asshole and leave your dirty dish in the sink?  Would you expect someone like the dish washing fairy to appear, wave her wand, and magically wash your dishes?  Are you that person that hates their job so much that you think, “fuck this place and everyone here, I’m going to leave the container with yesterdays half eaten oatmeal in the sink.”  Is that you?

I don’t know why it continues to surprise me that people can be so disrespectful that they ignore the signs.  Everyone here reads, everyone speaks the English, and yet not everyone can be bothered to clean up after themselves.  Me not know why.

This afternoon I found the sink half filled with someone’s leftover salad.  Why? There’s flipping sign that says there’s no garbage disposal.  We have a composting bin immediately behind the sink, and yet this turn dumped their salad and dirty plate and walked away.  And now, again, the sink is clogged.  Shocking.  I know.  Last week when I encountered a similar encounter I took pity on my other work makes and scooped out all the limp lettuce that some douche bag had left behind.  Pretty sure that I have some kind of awful skin condition that will never be cured.

I dream about finding out who the dirty dish bandit is.  I dream about going to their house and leaving dirty dishes in their house.  Granted, lord knows what I’d be walking into.  Perhaps their sink is just as disgusting as the one here.  Maybe I’d take their dishes and put them on their pillow so they’d have to take notice.

Oh to dream…

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.

‘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.

Don’t squeeze me in the middle

21 Aug

The terms “diet” and “vacation” do not go together.  People who travel rarely worry about dieting.  Rather it’s more of a “fuck it.  I’m on vacation, I can eat an entire pie if I want to,” mentality.  You know it’s true.  When was the last time you were away and you turned down the extra drink or said no to dessert?  Of all of the places I’ve ever traveled, Australia is the place that has the most delicious food.  Living there for six months gave me the time to eat like the world was coming to an end, so it’s no wonder that I gained 20 pounds.  None of the clothes that I took with me fit when I brought them home, I even had to buy legitimate fat pants – from a fat pants store.  Not a proud moment.

You know what seriously sucks about getting fatter?  Seeing the number/letter on the tag in your clothes go up a size or two.  Just knowing that I have to buy an XL instead of an L, or a 14 instead of a 12 (and that’s still a tight squeeze) makes me want to cry.  My initial reaction was just to cry into a glass of wine and help myself to another cupcake – not helpful.  New strategy in place: back to weight watchers, and back to investing in Spanx and other shapers.  On the bright side it’s not like anyone is going to catch me wearing them because it’s been about a half a century since anyone has seen me naked.

For those of you who don’t know what a slimmer is, it’s basically an item of clothing that sucks all of your fat in.  There are all kinds you can buy, and the one I chose was kind of like a tank top, a super tight tank top.  The beauty of using something like a slimmer is that it evens out all those lumps and bumps and you’re able to fit into clothes without looking like a giant sausage.  But it’s important to make a smart choice with the slimmer you buy, because if it doesn’t fit right it will do nothing nice for your fat rolls.  Instead it will squeeze you in all of the wrong places and make your fat pop out in even more unsexy ways than if you weren’t wearing it at all.

Two nights ago I went shopping and was psyched to find a Tory Burch dress I could pretty much squeeze into.  Yes it accentuated my lumps and bumps, but with a shaper/slimmer that sucker looked gooooood!  Found a slimmer tried the dress back on, and bought both.   Yesterday morning I put on my new slimmer, wrapped myself in my hot new dress, and rolled out the door knowing that if I ran into any of my secret boyfriends they’d notice my total hotness.

One tiny little problem…about 10 minutes after sitting down the bottom of the slimmer would begin to roll up towards my middle thereby making my stomach squeeze out of them bottom and making it look like I had been cut and half.  Not a cute look.  Know what I found this out?  Half way to work.  Did I go back and change?  Nope.  Instead I thought, “if I just pull the bottom down lower, it won’t roll back up.”

Did that work?

It sure as shit did not.

As long as I just stood and did not move, the outfit worked.  The second I started walking, sat down, took a deep breath, or blinked the fucking thing would roll up and shameful things happened to my body.  Each time I’d have to find a way to get to the bathroom and pray to god that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew on my way.  No joke, I went to the bathroom 10 times yesterday.  10 freaking times.

So you know what I did?  I went to my friends’ house for dinner and confessed my dirty little secret with the slimmer and how horrible the whole entire day had been.  And I told them this while I was eating three scoops of ice cream.

Perhaps I need a different strategy to hide and lose my fat rolls…