Archive | gross RSS feed for this section

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

Advertisements

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.

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…

Catch up with Ketchup

5 Aug

First of all, it’s a good idea to stay away from Catsup and always go with Ketchup.

Second, Ketchup only belongs on certain foods.  Let’s review, shall we?

  • Hot dogs
  • Burgers
  • French fries

Yeah, think that list pretty much sums it up.  There are some of you who will freak the fuck out about the fact that there are so few things on the list.  Let’s be clear here, tomato candy syrup is only right in some places.  It does not belong, nor should every appear anywhere near the following:

  • Rice
  • Eggs
  • Steak
  • Chicken
  • Cereal
  • Sandwiches
  • Mashed potatoes (what the hell is wrong with you?)

Quite possibly the most disgusting combination and biggest violation of the ketchup rule is mixing ketchup with eggs.  Is there no order in this world?  Why?  Why would you do that?  That’s like adding salsa to eggs – also very disgusting.

You’re being gross.  Stop it.

And why would you ruin a perfectly good steak with ketchup?  It’s embarrassing to go to a fancy steak restaurant and have someone order a $50+ steak and then immediately ruin their fanciness by ordering ketchup on the side.  Yuck.  And also, not fancy.  We are at a fancy restaurant, unless you’re getting a burger or fries (which why the hell are you doing that if we’re at a fancy restaurant?) we should not have ketchup at the table.

The Truth About Getting Older

28 Apr

Let’s take a moment to talk some truths on what it’s really like to get older.  Not talking here about how wrinkles suddenly begin appearing on your forehead, or your neck.  The neck wrinkles are what really throw me.  I have a girlfriend who is six years younger than I am but she’s got the neck of a 70 year-old.  How does that happen?  At 39, I’m proud to have the neck of a 32 year old.  But do dudes really notice that?  Don’t think I’ve ever heard a dude say, “She was hot, but her neck wrinkles were a total turnoff.”

But I digress.

Let’s talk about the important stuff: how fucking terrible hangovers are when you’re older.

It’s cute when I hear my young friends say shit about how they were hungover.  How they had a tinge of a headache, took an hour nap, and then felt so much better.  I remember those days – about 20 years ago.  A hangover in college was nothing – it literally felt like I was about to get a bit of a headache.  All it took was a glass of water, a 15 minute nap, and I was golden.  Fast forward two decades and it almost feels like I need to call 911, have a full blood transfusion, a new liver, and a lobotomy to feel better.  Fucking worst.

The really stupid part is that they’re so easily avoidable, I mean, how hard is it to just say no to that one last drink?  That delicious drink that is heaven in a glass?  My limit is four – I know it is – and yet there are times when I think to myself that as long as I drink another glass of water that I’ll be fine.  Then 3 hours later I’m laying in my bed having a panic attack because I know the hangover is going to get me.  A legitimate panic attack – not awesome.

For those of you who are still young, here are all the awesome things you have to look forward to:

  • Headaches: headaches that feel like your brain will explode out of your forehead causing your eyes to pop out, and then your brain to ooze out of your eye sockets.
  • Dry mouth: the Mojave dessert will reside in your mouth.  No amount of lip smacking, tongue tapping, or water will be able to quench the dryness that settles in your mouth.  You could take a match and strike it on the roof of your mouth.
  • Queasiness and vomiting: you will want to vomit the world.  Your stomach will rumble, and you probably won’t be able to hold down the water that would actually help you get rid of the hangover.  There will even come a moment in the middle of the night where you might think, “I should probably just make myself get sick and I’ll feel better.”  Then while you’re vomiting last night’s half digested pepperoni pizza you come to the realization that no, vomiting is going to make you feel better.  Only God striking you dead on the bathroom floor will make you feel better.
  • [And now the part that no one ever wants to talk about] Stomach cramps and the big D: get ready for (I’m struggling to actually write the word because I hate talking about it so much that I’m just procrastinating and trying to avoid it but I feel like I need to tell you how it really is so I’m talking myself into it and trying to avoid it all at the same time so I just am trying to figure out how to just write it and it’s making me nervous and grossed out at the same time but here we go so get ready…) explosive diarrhea.  It’s going to happen.  You, my friend, are going to get to a moment when you say to yourself, “I am rotting from the inside.”  It’s going to happen, and you might cry while it happens because it’s so incredibly disgusting, and you should cry.  Because you did that to yourself.  You did that – you made your body do that and it’s your fault.

Typical recovery time can be anywhere from 24 to 48 hours.  No joke.  And I’ll tell you what?  They morning you wake up after having fought off the hangover is like being totally reborn.  You could conquer the world you feel so fucking amazing.  And three days later when you’re at Happy Hour and you’re still apprehensive about whether or not you should have one more drink, I hope you remember when you were sobbing on the toilet because your insides were coming out your backside.

And that, young friends, is what you have to look forward to.

Proof He Wants Me

8 Mar

At least he does in my mind…

So yesterday my boss and I were off to a meeting together, the following conversation ensued.

  • Hot Boss with Dreamy Blue Eyes: I have to go stop in the bathroom.  Can you wait for me?
  • Me: Sure.  Do you want me to hold your stuff?
  • HBwDBE: Great! [Hands me his coffee and folder] I have to take a dump.  KIDDING!
  • Me: Good luck!  If you’re not out in five minutes I’ll send help.

That totally happened.  He said that to me.  I’d still totally make out with him.