The Catherinette Chronicles

When wearing pants, the hem should be no more than approximately an inch from the ground.  This means that if, when you’re standing, I can see your socks then you are violating this critical rule.  I will mock you for wearing flood pants (or “high water pants” as other call them). 

Years ago, when I met Mary Southern Belle through Claude, he was wearing high waters.  The man is a tall drink of water, handsome as sin, has a voice like honey, a glorious southern accent, and is gay as can be.  That night we met I asked him if he had a straight twin brother that was secretly in love with me.  Sadly, the answer was no. 

Mary Southern Belle is very tall.  As such, he requires clothes for tall people.  For some unknown reason, MSB fought this and decided to wear pants made for the average man.  When I commented to Claude that MSB’s pants were too short, Claude took one look at him and said (in his best southern accent), “I do declare, it looks like Mary is preparing for the flood.”

Don’t be like MSB.  Unless your pipes just sprung a leak or the rains are causing local flooding, I don’t want to see you in short pants.  And don’t even get me started on tapered pants!  **shudders**

*This public service announcement is brought to you by Catherinette Singleton: making the world a better place by mocking those lacking in good manners, good looks, and fashion sense.

At one point or another we’ve all been forced to deal with that woman.  You know the one that I’m talking about.  The one that’s supposed to be helpful, has a look on her face like she’s constantly sniffing a big whiff of poo, and would rather stick her hand in a meat grinder than actually help you.  Kind of like this:

Most of us are lucky to not have to deal with such “helpful” bitches on a daily basis.  We just randomly encounter them, deal with them, and then bitch to all our friends about how the woman was secretly begging us to slap her right in her insolent mouth.  It just so happens, that I had the joy and pleasure of actually working with a woman just like this.

Bitchy McBitcherton (B McB for short) was our department’s administrative assistant for a few years.  You’d with that kind of title that she would be aware that assistancewas part of her job.  Oh no!  Not B McB!  The last thing she ever wanted to do was actually help you with anything-which was in fact what she was hired to do. 

When she initially started Foxy once asked her to help her get ready for a class.  B McB’s job was to order all of the supplies and put together the binders for our new hires.  When Foxy asked her to order me Investments R Us brochures, she threw a little conniption fit.  “I was told that I was not going to have to do that,” was her response.  “I wasn’t hired to order supplies!”  Um, yeah, in fact that’s exactly what she was hired to do.  Rather than get into an argument with her, Foxy went ahead and ordered the stuff and put the binders together.  She never went back to asking B McB for anything.

B McB had dreams.  She thought that after she put in her time, she’d be promoted to a higher position in the department.  I’m not sure what kind of crack she was smoking if she thought that something like that would ever happen with her nasty ass attitude.  Even the bosses would roll their eyes at her.  One time Big Boss Lady asked her to make some copies of documents for an important meeting.  B McB told her that she was too busy doing something else and she’d have to make her own copies.  You know what she was busy doing?  I mean, aside from being a bitch?  She was on the phone telling someone about her stupid dogs. 

She then asked for more responsiblity.  When they gave it to her, she complained to the senior manager and told her that we expected too much from her and she could barely do her work.  I’m not sure how that was possible as she wasn’t doing any of her god damned work to begin with.

I’m sure it’ll come as a total shock to you to hear that she was transferred to another department.  That’s secret code for “managed out”.  Foxy and I were so sorry to see her go that we drank an entire bottle of champagne and then set pictures of her on fire.

Last night I went over to my sister’s house to celebrate Damien’s 4th birthday.  It’s hard to believe he’s lived to this age.  I was sure, when he was little, that he was going to end up under the wheels of the car or drowned in the bathtub by a family member.  We don’t call him Damien for nothing-he truly is one of Satan’s minions.

I was telling my brother-in-law a story about how I had a friend that would threaten to call Santa Clause every time her kids acted up.  This would cause her children to immediately behave themselves.  Why had I never heard of this tactic before?  My brother-in-law mentioned that he had successfully calmed down Damien just the night before.  When Damien refused to go to bed and started throwing a little tantrum.  His dad asked, “Do you want me to call Santa Clause?”  Damien responded with, “Do you want me to cry?”  But he crawled right into his bed and went to sleep.

I don’t have kids of my own, but I used to babysit a ton growing up.  And I babysat some pretty bad freaking kids.  There was the 10 year old that wanted to play 2 minutes in the closet with me.  Another one that peed on my on purpose when we were at the pool one day.  Then there was one that threw the vacuum cleaner at his brother’s face.  Oh, and let us not forget that one bratty kid that grabbed his father’s service revolver during an argument one day.  Yeah, they were bad.

If only I had known that you could just threaten to pick up the phone can contact Santa in the North Pole!!  Instead, I had to yell at the kids, tell their parents that the kids were sent straight from Hell to ruin my life (and pee on me), or punish them by sending them to bed at 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon.  Damn it. 

Now, you know what would be truly awesome?  If there was a tactic like this that would work with adults.  You know what I’m talking about.  Some unruly client that’s making ridiculous demands.  Your significant other getting out of hand and arguing with you about nothing.  A friend of yours that’s constantly running late because she gets distracted by shiny objects.  Just imagine being able to curb all those behaviors.  Only, I’m not sure who you could threaten to call. 

Unless you’re dealing with celebrities, in which case threatening to dial Perez Hilton would probably get them to settle the hell down.  Perhaps someone should have told Britney Spears they had Perez on speed dial when she was in the middle of all her vag-flashing antics.  Then again, she has calmed down.  Perhaps that’s exactly what happened.

Here at Investments r Us, we share our work space with some of the number crunchers.  My group is a relatively loud and friend bunch.  We congregate in the aisles, we tell inappropriate jokes, hell, we even smile from time to time.  The number crunchers, on the other hand, are completely devoid of any personality.  As a matter of fact, I’m not sure if they are actually alive, or just robots programmed to do excel spreadsheets and walk around like zombies.

There’s this one bitchy woman with the world’s worst hair.  Not only is she committing a serious fashion crime by sporting a far too bleached blond atrocity on her head, but she also wears tapered pants that are 2 inches too short.  It looks like she’s preparing for a flood.  We have been in the same work space for about 2 years.  At first, I tried to be friendly with her.  When we passed each other in the hallway, I would smile and say, “Good morning.”  She, in turn, would look straight ahead of her.  It’s like I wasn’t even there.  After 8 months of this behavior, I just stopped trying.

Well, now there’s a new guy in the group.  Porn Stache is in his mid 40’s and is about 5 foot nothing.  He’s a petite little thing and I’m halfway tempted to kidnap him and dress him up like the Swedish Chef from The Muppet Show.  I fight this urge every time I see him.

This afternoon as I was walking past him in the hallway, I said, “Hello.”  Oh, he responded all right, but not with a “hello.”  Not even a, “hi.”  Instead, he farted.  What the hell??  Who freaking does that?  He farted and then he smiled at me!  I was so stunned that I just stopped and looked at him. 

I think I prefer Flood Pants’ lack of greeting to his “salutations”.

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The first step is admitting you have a problem.  Well, I have a problem.  A big fat, sugary, delicious problem covered in sprinkles and shaped like Christmas ornaments.  I cannot stop eating Christmas cookies.  Really, I can’t.  Yesterday I had 15 of them.  Today, I’ve managed to make it with only one-but I know that there are more Christmas cookies in my future.  I can’t stop eating them!! (That’s what she said.)

The other day my sister, Lucy(fer), and Damien came over for a few hours.  My sister was nice enough to bring some shortbread (buttery, delicious shortbread) and a container of Christmas cookies.  “I’m taking these with me,” she said.  “They’re for the kids.”  I’m pretty sure that when she said “kids” she meant hers and not my quickly expanding thighs.  She forgot the container, so I’ve been grazing since Monday.

Here’s the thing, the cookies want me to eat them.  I can feelit.  I can tell by the way they sit on the dining room table and just taunt me with their sprinkley goodness.  I have zero willpower when it comes to those bad boys.

Last night I had a really wonderful idea.  And by “wonderful” I mean “totally stupid”.  I thought that if I made some No Pudge brownies that I’d stick to eating those instead of shoving Christmas cookies down my throat by the handful.  Instead, I ended up piling 3 brownies on my plate, 2 pieces of shortbread, and 4 Christmas cookies on my plate.  All of which were promptly inhaled-along with a very healthy glass of 2% milk.

Someone, please help me.  I need an intervention.  I’m waiting for Candy Finnigan or Jeff VanVonderen to show up at my house and for my loved ones to tell me that “Our relationship will change in the following ways” if I do not accept help today. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a brownie. 

And 12 Christmas cookies.

And some shortbread.

We’re on day 4 of “Singleton’s Spinfest 2008″ and it’s really turning out to be a magical time.  Yesterday I parked my rapidly expanding backside on the couch and started the process of cleaning out my DVR.  You’ll be delighted to know that I’m all caught up on CSI, Fringe, The Mentalist, and Gossip Girl.  Oh that Chuck Bass and Blair Waldorf just kill me. 

Today is shaping up to be a similar day.  I’m stuffing my face with Christmas cookies while catching up on season 2 of Californication.  Man, that show is so freaking hilarious!  If you haven’t been watching, you should ask yourself why.

You know what?  You’re in luck.  These spins have put me in the giving mood, and it just so happens that I found a little something to bring a smile to your face.  No, it’s not a naked picture of James McAvoy or Chace Crawford.  Or James McAvoy and Chace Crawford together.  Nay, my dear friends, it’s a little snippet that proves why you should be watching Californication.

If you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to rotting my brain…And I’m just about to run out of Christmas cookies.  Might have to turn to chocolate.

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I have come to the conclusion that 2008 has been a crap year.  You’ll never guess where I wound up on Sunday morning?  The Emergency Room.  AGAIN!  No, it has nothing to do with what landed me in the hospital early in the year, but it still pretty much sucked anyway. 

It all started on Saturday during some Christmas shopping.  I was standing in Best Buy when it seemed like the world just started spinning around me.  “Hmm,” I thought to myself, “Have I been secretly boozing up and suddenly I’m hammered out of my mind?”  That would have been strange as it’s been over a week since the last time I had a drink.  Still, the sensation that I had was the same as when I’m so wasted that I can barely walk.  That’s exactly how I felt.  I could barely walk, I couldn’t drive, and 10 minutes of standing made me want to throw up and pass out-it reminded me of my college years.  Those were good times.   Typically because they ended up with a drunken hook-up.  But at 35, hanging out with mom at Best Buy, it’s not quite the same feeling.

Between yesterday and Sunday, the feeling just got worse and worse, so I ended up in the ER.  Vertigo, that’s what the doctor says I have.  Oh, and the best part?  He says that I’ll probably have it for at least 3 more days.  Great, no, really.  It’s awesome being trapped in my house when the only way that I can get around is by crawling on the floor so I don’t fall over and hurt myself.

2008, I blame this all on you.  I hate you.

The bathroom is NOT for eating.  It is for doing your business, and possibly hooking up (assuming that you’re the type of person that does that).  This one’s for anyone that’s every gone into a public restroom.  There is no reason on this earth (or on any other planet, for that matter) to take food or beverage into the bathroom. 

Taking your food or beverage into the bathroom is disgusting, and unsanitary.  Don’t you have any idea of the number of germs in those places??  And god forbid, do you really want your lunch to smell like someone else’s “business”?  I didn’t think so.

For some ungodly reason, several of my coworkers at Investments r Us will buy their lunches, take them into the bathroom, and then head into one of the stalls to do whatever it is they’re doing in there.  I often wander into the bathroom only to find a sandwich, chips, and a soda sitting on the counter.  Disgusting.  There are little microscopic bits of poo floating around in the air settling themselves on that food.  Gross.  I don’t even leave my toothbrush in the bathroom, much less food!

Do yourself, and those around you a favor, leave your lunch at your desk before running off to the nearest restroom.

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*This public service announcement is brought to you by Catherinette Singleton: making the world a better place by mocking those lacking in good manners, good looks, and fashion sense.

I just spent the last 90 minutes getting drilled in the mouth, and being surrounded by Pro Lube, and dental dams.  And I don’t mean in the same way that Foxy Luv does-in stall #1 of the men’s room at the local bus station.  Rather, it was take 2 of my wonderful root canal.  You know the stupid ass emergency root canal that I had done the day I left for my trip.  The one that is going to cost me $1000 and will cause me to sell all my eggs to raise the money.

God I hate my dentist.  Dr. Giggles is one of those men that makes the lamest ass jokes and thinks they’re hilarious.  Meanwhile everyone else just stares blankly at him and then sighs.  Here’s an example of something he nearly wet himself laughing over:

Dr. Giggles: You know what I found to be really funny?
Hygienist: What’s that doctor?
Dr. Giggles: When I was in Russia in the middle of winter, and I saw all these ice cream stands.
Hygienist: [Blank stare over her mask]
Dr. Giggles: People were actually wandering around eating ice cream in the freezing cold! [proceeds to laugh so hard that he had to turn off the drill so he didn't hurt me]

 Not funny.  Right?

Here’s what would have been funny.  If I had been able to shout “that’s what she said” after he said the following things:

• There it goes, it slipped in so easily.
• Plenty of wiggle room in there.
• Can you clean her up?  I’m making a mess here.
• Man, that is so tight I can barely get anything in there.

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Okay, Batman, riddle me this:

• 1400(ish) employees
• 4 buildings
• 1 cafeteria
• 4 cashiers
• 6 microwaves in the cafeteria

Who did that f’ing math? 

This afternoon I went to the cafeteria with Disney.  It took him 5 minutes to get in line, order a sandwich, grab himself a drink, and pay.  It took me 15 minutes to wait for a blasted microwave.  I swear to Christ it’s impossible to get a stupid microwave during those hours.  It’s like trying to get tickets for a Jonas Brothers concert.  You either have to line up 8 hours before the ticket office opens or you’ll be shit out of luck.

And it’s always the same.  The microwave I get is always the one that someone just used to reheat some stinky ass fish or make popcorn.  This means that my lunch will be tainted by the nauseating smells.  All I can taste are someone else’s fish or burnt popcorn.  No one wants that.  No one!!

When I’ve asked Facilities Management why we can’t have microwaves in each of the pantries (there are 2 per floor), they give some lame ass excuse about “fire hazards” and “dangerous”.  You know what?  I bet if those bastards had to microwave their god damned lunch in the cafeteria during lunch hours that they’d be singing a different tune.

Note to self: never ever take anything to work that needs to be heated.

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