Your Cat is not a He or a She. It's an it.

I can't remember who I was speaking with recently (conveniently for the purpose of this blog post) but I do remember our conversation and the moment that they became incredibly annoyed/offended that I got the sex of their cat wrong, which is absolutely ridiculous. Unless I get the sex of your 15 year old son wrong, relax.

Your cat/dog isn't going out for the football team or signing up for ballet classes so the sex of your cat/dog is useless. They don't have feminine/masculine traits that differentiate themselves from one another so how am I expected to know? It's not like the male cat has a deeper meow or has to shave for work in the morning.

The Sex of a human barley matters anymore, how could it possibly be relevant in the animal world? If the WNBA can exist, gender is clearly no longer pertinent and yet, "(Clearing throat) Sparkles is a HE." "Oh, really? Well, if you didn't give him such a gay name maybe I would've known that." The only way I differentiate gender is by cat and dog. Cats are the girls and dogs are the boys (unless they are a little sissy dogs). So when I see a cat I just assume it's a she, since it's the weaker of the two. And dogs are the dudes clearly, because they are much cooler.

And it's not like the animal knows it's being called a boy when it's really a girl. It can't get offended or get a complex about it's gender. Like the cat says, "I knew my whiskers make me look like a boy, now I'm embarrassed to play outside, the other cats are going to make fun of me."

You may be surprised to find out that I do have a cat and I LOVE "it" more than words and "it" is adorable. My little "it" may have male parts but "it" acts more like a woman, very needy, sensitive and "it" cries a lot. And "it's" sex isn't relevant because I'm not planning on setting it up with the female cat next door to make more little "its". The only thing I and anyone else needs to know about "it" is that "its" adorable and sweet and loves when you pet "it's" chin.

The same person who gets offended when you get the sex of their pet wrong is also the person who gets offended when you get their name just slightly wrong - like really mad. "Umm, actually, it's Christine, I HATE the name Christina." Yes, I know it's a different name but only by one letter.

I don't mind if someone calls me Kirsten when my name is Kristen. Actually, I'd prefer it. It makes me feel like I'm someone else for a few short sweet minutes. Yes, I AM Kirsten, I am strong, confident and cool unlike Kristen who is weak, depressed and scared. I'll take the different name and it's okay if you think my cat is a she.

A Pilot I was in Just Aired on TLC.

IMDB here I come.

'Dental Chickens' Phrase is No Longer a Mystery to Me... But Why They Think it's Good Advertising Is.

Now, take a look at this ad I've seen a couple of times. I seem to notice this unintentionally hilarious ad on days when I'm frustrated because it usually ads to my confusion toward the world... and today was one of those days because I just got fired from my waitressing job. And you can imagine the low point you hit when someone tells you more or less, you suck at bringing people sodas... but that's a whole 'nother blog for a different day.

Back to bad advertising... See, I consider myself a relatively smart person regardless of what I scored on my math regents. And I, for the life of me could not figure out what "We Cater to Dental Chickens" meant. At first I thought it could mean a number of things like 1. Chickens, regardless that we use them for the eggs need oral care too. Or 2. Business has been slow so we're branching out to the animal world (Hey, in a bad economy, you never know what people will do).

But each of these explanations weren't adding up because of the creepy picture along side of the headline. Now, I understand using a photo of a child because they're young, innocent and lovable to gain positive feelings toward your product... But to include an adult man with a receding hairline as well is a bit, tacky.

As a society we're all very aware of the influx of pedophilia lately. As a result, it's a little touchy displaying an ad where an adult man is uncomfortably close to a young child. In a perfect world, I'd like to think this adult man is the father of this young girl and he's only showing his admiration of his child. BUT, there is a problem with this ideal theory... the girl is walking a fine line between being his daughter and being another race completely... leading us to believe that she's not his daughter at all but a young child he's scooped up on his way to the duct tape and rope shop.

So, for the life of me I just couldn't figure out what this ad was getting at.

But, after posting this image to Facebook I immediately got an explanation. And I said Ohhhhhh I get it. They are catering to those who are afraid of the dentist... thus "chickens."

How could I not have gotten this? Of course I questioned my intelligence for a second but only for a second. Until I realized that I didn't get it because I'm SO smart that I thought "it couldn't be referring to people afraid of the dentist, that's too easy."

A link to their website provided by a helpful Facebook friend showed that some of the ways they cater to 'dental chickens' is by using get this, laughing gas and various types of sedation. In my opinion, if you are so outrageously afraid of the dentist that you require laughing gas or sedation the only people catering to you should be psychiatric doctors. Not dentists.

Please Keep Your Chair in an Upright and Locked Position. Atleast Until After We Crash.

I used to be a good flyer... until I got old enough to realize that the same men who wear Lee jeans are the same men who are responsible for putting my plane together. Actually, I think I realized it in college when I was dating an engineer from France who worked for Airbus, and when he made me Coq au Vin, a popular french dish and it sucked I thought if he can't even get chicken right... how is he going to get the structure of a plane right?

Like I said, I used to be a good flyer. But now I'm a wreck. The only way I make it 30,000 feet in the air is with some heavy doses of Tanqueray. Otherwise I'd have to be restrained in a straight jacket and beat over the head with some middle aged woman's carry-on that CLEARLY should have been checked. I don't drink all year until I get on a plane, then suddenly I turn into Chelsea Handler (with out the successful comedy career of course).

But my biggest beef lies with the people I like to call "Poker Faced" Flyers. They're sitting there so calm, so uninterested like they haven't looked out the window and seen that we are 30 THOUSSSANNDDD FEET above ground and if they have looked out their window they are so above it all because they think "Hey, we are humans, we are foolproof, we are GOD." Listen, confident humans, homosapians have walked the earth for 250,000 years and within those 250,000 years out of all the things that they've known to be natural, being 30 THOUSAND FEET above ground is not one of them. I have had moments where I'd like to stand up, turn around and shout (from first class of course) "Have you people not noticed that we are 30 THOUSAND FEET above ground???!!! Have you all gone mad???

But, despite my terror I get on a plane and I go... because I live 3,000 miles from my family. And don't think I haven't thought about driving all the way from California to New York to go to a cousins wedding for a weekend and then turn right around and drive back 3 days later.

But enough about me, I want to get down to business... I'd like to address one type of person, and you know who are. I'm talking you "Person Who Reclines Their Chair Before the Crew Says You Can." The last time I flew the guy sitting in front of me was clearly an asshole. I knew this because he had a lot of gel in his hair. But not only did he have too much gel in his hair, he had his seat reclined before I even sat down. Which is not only inconsiderate for the person trying to settle into their seat, it's against federal aviation law (yes, I am the federal aviation law police). And despite the crews failed attempts, he was a sneaky bastard and when we took off, his seat was reclined. Hey, inconsiderate dude, please just keep your seat up until they say you can put it back - in an emergency, I highly doubt your seat 2" closer to my face is going to make or break my chances of survival but AT LEAST give me the courtesy of knowing that I will have .1 second more time before I bash my head into the video screen in front of me. Listen, I am a considerate person so I know that if I recline my chair before the crew gives me the go ahead, I will make the guy behind me very uncomfortable because he is probably following the rules and will just be stuck REALLY close to his tray table until he feels it is socially and lawfully acceptable to put his seat back. On one angelic occasion I had a guy actually ASK me if he could recline his seat. It was adorable. He turned around, his little eyes peaking through the crack in the seats and he asked really nicely "Heyyy, do you think it would be okay if I put my seat back?" I was so taken aback by his consideration that despite his bald spot I thought for one brief second, I was in love. Maybe his consideration for other human beings comes from the humility of being a bald guy... who knows?

With in the past year there have, unfortunately been been a string of airplance incidents that have made my fears soar to great heights (or greats depths depending on what way you look at it). But, the biggest tragedy in recent months was the crash of AirFrance Flight 447 where 280 lives were lost. So, maybe I was right? If you can get Coq au Vin right...

My Idea of a Good Plumber Ad

This is a print ad I did while at Chicago Portfolio School. ... maybe this is why I chose stand-up comedy instead.

I'm Not a Bitch, I'm an Asshole.

Rappers, pleassse… Keep on rapping about “bitches.” I don’t mind…

I don’t consider myself a bitch so I am really not all that offended at your lyrics (is that even what you call words in a rap song?). I am offended however, that all women just tend to get all jumbled up and clumped together into that one word, bitch. And don’t worry this is not going to be one giant “bitching” session that men are the enemy or that rap music needs to reassess it’s terminology. It’s going be the complete opposite actually because Dr. Dre, I’m with you. Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks.

To our credit, not all of us women are bitches. Some of us are “assholes.” Believe me, as a teenager who was picked on by a bunch of bitches I can tell you there’s a difference. No offense to you women out there (even my own lovely mother included) but we are at some or most points in our lives either one or the other. Now, I am not saying that even Mother Theresa was a bitch or an asshole but what I am saying is that her Sisters probably were.

If you are a woman reading this, do you remember at some point in grade school or high school feeling threatened by another girl? If so, you probably acted in 1 of 2 ways. 1. You either said something about her behind her back and had your friend say it to her face for you or 2. You said something about her straight to her face but because she took it like a man, you became life-long friends. If you chose action #1, that means you’re a bitch. If you chose action #2, congratulations, you’re an asshole.

See, asshole women are like gay men. They’re funny, they’re loud, they’re opinionated and most importantly, they’re honest. And I would befriend any woman who’s an asshole in a heartbeat. A bitch? Not so much.

See, Bitches have pink cell phones and small dogs. Assholes have regular cell phones and German Shepherds. Bitches call you “sweety” and “hunny” while assholes call you by your last name or even better, a creative and witty nickname that hits upon your worst quality. Bitches only talk to you if other people are talking to you, assholes talk to you whether anyone else includes you or not, even though they may be telling you your bald spot is starting to show. A bitch would lie to you and tell you your outfit looks good because she wants to look better than you while an asshole would say “bitch, go change your clothes. You’re not walking next to me in that.” A bitch would snicker at your lack of a “name brand education” and tell her friend what a loser you are while an asshole would make a joke about your worthless associates degree but still bank on your success.

Sounding a bit harsh? It’s called honesty and unfortunately the lack of it is beginning to show up in your friend’s wardrobe and your sister-in-law’s new patio furniture. But, fortunately for you, I’m an asshole telling you the truth; get rid of your pink Blackberry Pearl and little shitzu, because it is making you look fat.

A Short and Sour Welcome.

Hi I'm Kristen. Welcome to Sweat the Small Stuff, a humorous blog dedicated to social commentary; the everyday, little things that just don't ad up and drive us (me) insane... Insane enough to blog about anyway.

Of course I find things like aids, hunger, pollution, and North Korea to be terrible, just terrible. However, I just don't find them as dangerous to society as people who don't signal when making a turn, those who get really over zealous with the divider-thing at the grocery store check out, people who recline their chairs on the airplane before they are allowed to, people who don't say "thank you" when you hold the door for them, people who stand on the escalator, people who stop 15 feet short at a red light.... and worst of all, people in general.

I think these are the real injustices of society. Don't sweat the small stuff? Well I'm telling whoever coined that phrase that the reason they didn't sweat the small stuff was because they weren't smart enough to notice it.

And, my fellow social commentators, I'm here for you if you want to vent, add your own experience, post something that annoys you or feel like your next door neighbor needs to be called out for being, well, a typical next door neighbor.

Make yourself at home, snoop around, scan some of the titles, they're pretty entertaining and if you have time... read the blog. And, if you have even more time, subscribe to my blog.

Enjoy!

Utica is bad for my image.