Where My Cats At

Excerpts from a Dog's Diary:

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 PM - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 PM - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 PM - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 PM - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

Excerpts from a Cat's Diary:

Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets.

Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards! There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage. Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.........For now...

Things that suck about being single in the city…

I have a friend, let’s call her Salma Hayek, who is one of those great girls who live in NY and have yet to find the man of her dreams.

And her family is hot on setting her up, so they pass her number, without her knowledge or permission, to any eligible guy they deem fit. And then she gets freaking ridiculous emails like the below.

Hi Salami,

My parents passed along your email address so I did feel compelled to reach out.

It's always an awkward thing when the 'rents do something like this, but it's probably easier just to be direct: I'm actually dating a fantastic girl right now. May parents didn't know I was (they are now) and collected your email in an effort to make an introduction. Obviously, not something I'm interested in doing in that context.

I'm always interested in meeting new people and making more friends. But beyond that, I'm working on someone special right now.

Take care, lady.

Here’s what wrong with this email:

- He spelled her name wrong – douche bag

- He wrote ‘rents – geek

- His grammar is shit (they are now)?

- He’s “working on” someone special – blech

- Why the f would this freakshow (1) think she’s even remotely interested in him if she’s never met or had any contact with him (2) feel as though he owes her some bs email about why he can’t date her (3) think she’d care that he’s working on someone – what the hell does that even mean (4) think it’s any less awkward for him to be emailing a total stranger unsolicited than for his parents to try to set him up?!

Ten thousand dollars says this loser’s someone special is going to dump him at which point he thinks it’s meant to be with Salma and reaches out to her to try to set something up.

You Must Be Crazy

So by now we all have heard about the crazy dude who locked his daughter in the basement for over 20 years, fathered all seven of her children, kept half of them in the basement dungeon with her and half he brought up to the real world to be raised by he and his wife, who by the way had no idea her daughter and grandchildren were being held hostage in her basement. For over 20 YEARS.

So rather than repeat the exciting details of this story, just click here for the whole shebang.

What I'd like to ponder here is how, exactly something like this happens. I'd like to know how a sprightly young 15 year old who probably has a set of lungs on her like a yodeler manages to remain a secret with no one - not even her own mother living above her - figuring out the truth. I'd like to ponder how in 24 years, not a single escape is attempted. There are rapists and murderers in the toughest maximum security prisons who manage to escape - c'mon, Prison Break anyone? - but this girl can't even escape from her own basement?? She's not chained down. They show those freakish pictures of a little mini apartment down there in dungeon land. A tiny bathroom, a dollhouse kitchen...showers, cooking...where the hell is the smoke from the stove going? No aromas coming from that pot, hmm? She births seven children down there. No screams, no audible cries from the babies, money being spent on clothing and food and necessities one might assume he was providing them with to some degree, and wifey doesn't notice any weird bank depletion's? Like, wouldn't you kinda know if you were feeding 9 mouths instead of five? Or at that point does it just all sort of blend together.

I just don't get it. If someone were in my basement, I'd know about it. If my daughter and 3 of her children were down there, FOR OVER TWO DECADES, I think there would have been some moments here or there where I would have suspected such a crime. Who doesn't go in their basement for 24 years?

Some thing's rotten in Austria.

I'm Movin' to the UK

Yesterday the fear of menopause was instilled in me with some stupid study that proclaimed women as early as 30 might start feelin' the flavor of old biddy-ness.

Today, however, my views on these random scientific studies coming out of universities in strange parts of the UK have taken a turn. The University of East Anglia in somewhere, UK is looking for 150 chicks to take part in a one-year study during which they must eat chocolate every day. For a year. And they give it to you. Something about someone thinking it reduces the risks of heard disease in women or something.

See ya'll in a year.

It stinks in here

OK Pants, I’m sorry please don’t take offense but this needs to be discussed.

When did it become acceptable for men/boys to fart in the presence of other people? Not just other people – it’s not generally something they do at work or randomly out loud in public places, but at home with friends and family they let them fly. You know you do, don’t deny it. And I don’t know who allowed this to happen. When I grew up my dad never farted in front of us – yes, he’d sit at the dinner table in his tighty whities and nothing else, but he’d never think to pass gas in our presence. And before you start in, yes I fart, everyone does, but I limit mine to the confines of the bathroom. (ok, sometimes I leave the door open when I’m in there and sometimes I do it when you’re still at the table eating dinner – but still it’s in the designated fart area.) Not the guys I know, Pants, Flan, Bro-In-Law, you are all guilty. You fart, you do it loudly and often and it always stinks, and it’s never just a poof of bad air that dissipates immediately – it’s more like a dense fog of putrid rotten egg smell that lingers in my air space for many minutes – enough time for you to fart again. As 2 so eloquently filled you in, my apartment is not very large, so 5 farts in an hour period make for not a very pleasant living space. And the worse thing, these guys don’t feel bad about it. They are basically proud of every little extrusion they make and the louder the better. I’m not singling out Pants – all the rest of you do it too and you think it’s funny and doesn’t matter, but it’s not and it’s gross. And I worry about what happens if Pants and I procreate – am I going to have little Shorts running around tooting all day and getting a good giggle out of it? Let’s all please take a moment to reflect – somewhere in your history you got it in your head that it was perfectly normal and acceptable to fart in front of others. That is not that case however. When you feel a little pressure down below you are too squeeze it up tight and stay still until the sensation goes away, and then make a mental note to yourself to visit the bathroom soon. This is proper procedure. If you cannot hold out, and can't get to a bathroom in time, you ease up the tension just a bit so you pass a little gas noiselessly. Then if anyone seems to notice the odor and starts to look around, you look around too like you are all annoyed that someone else farted. Farting 101 – learn it. We’ll deal with burping in our next session.

Oh. MY. Uterus.

Wow. Total shocker as I was reading my online news summaries this evening. According to a new study by University Medical Center Utrecht in the Netherlands says while menopause for most women hits us over the head between the ages of 40 and 50, there isn't really an average age to go by to mark the end of your fertilitious potential. Basically, the study is showing that some women begin menopause as early as 30.

Oy.

Like I didn't have enough shit to be worried about, now with 30 in my imminent future I can worry that my biological clock may completely shut down in a matter of weeks. Great. Not only is this another excuse for husbandette to get more bedroom action, it's cause for serious worry, which means more drinking or anti-anxiety meds, which isn't good for conceiving, but how do you deal because you're so stressed out that your time is going to be up soon and the sweats will take over, and oh my...round and round we go...I am freaking out already. I am so not ready to start losing my mind. I am already forgetful. I have enough OCD's as it is. I don't need to start forgetting where I parked my car, or getting freakishly hot in the dead of winter. It's not my time! It's not my time!!!!

Why is it just when you've relaxed a bit and started to accept your life and your age and you have the notion that life isn't so bad, you won't die from brain cancer for using your cell phone too much, diet coke won't kill you and yes, you locked the back door, and before you can stop and even smell the friggin flowers someone has to come out with some stupid study results like this. I could just hop a flight to Amsterdam right now and pop a cap in that Doc's ass.

I gotta go, I have to go check my basal body temp.

Well, that's one side of the story...

2 provided an interesting recount of the evening’s activities, to which Husbandette offered additional (obnoxious) commentary. As that is one side of the story, let me share the other. It went something like this:

Husbandette: Hey give me the dog, I’m gonna make her like me

1: Nah, lets’ leave her alone, she’s nervous

Husbandette: No, I know what I’m doing, dog’s love me

1: Well, she’s sort of scared, let’s let her come to you

Husbandette: I’m Cesar, its fine hand her over.

Hand off

Dog wails uncontrollably

1: Why don’t you put her down…

Husbandette: No no, this is all part of it, its working.

Dog is so scared of mean non-Cesar man she poops her pants – not Pants, her metaphorical pants

Husbandette doesn’t get the hint, repeat above.

For the record we love 2 and her husband and very much enjoyed their company. We shall not however be inviting them to our modest, yet comfortable and love-filled home again as they are angry people who try to harm innocent little animals who are defenseless against their rage.

Saturday Night Fever

Husbandette and I had a nice Saturday evening dinner with Ette1, Pants, Shwarez and her husbandette. Sushi, sake and conversation makes for a nice evening out. It was great to catch up with my peeps. I wish we did it more often.

What else happened Saturday night, you ask? After a night-cap at some random bar that 1 told us later is where she and Pants make out sometimes (her choice to take us there, interesting - says a lot about her, right?) we headed back to 1's"crib" for another nightcap sans the Semegrans as they had had just about enough of us at that point and wanted to get the hell out of there. So we get to 1's apartment which is basically the size of the inside of my car. Literally, if I had four people and a dog in my car, we could pretend we were sitting in 1's apartment. It's cute, she has new artwork and even a little bistro table. Lovely. So she runs in ahead of us so she can pick up the wee wee pads and not embarrass Bam the devildog. We finally get in, sit down, turn on the music, and that's when husbandette takes on his alter-ego of Caesar the Dog Whisperer. He decides at this point that he is going to use this time to "connect" with Bam. First attempt, he gets Bam in a good position, doesn't sneak up on her because we all know that's the wrong mode of attack. He casually gets her handed off from 1 in an attempt of trickery - let's fool Bam and she may not notice she's been passed off to a stranger. Hmm. Well I'm sitting on the couch next to them, and I'm watching Bam closely. At this point, she is shaking so severely, I swear she's having a seizure. Her little whiskers on her face are twitching, her eyes are twitching, it's really kind of scary and fascinating all at the same time. And husbandette is holding her with one hand, sort of levitating in the air. I am transfixed, can't take my eyes off this shivering, manic, seizing dog. All of a sudden I smell farts. Aw, that's so cute, she's so scared she's gone and given herself gas. Then, right before my eyes, I watch a quite large deuce fall from her rear right onto husbandette, where it kind of bounces off his thigh and on to the sofa. It was sort of gravity-defying. So he let's go of Bam and Bam goes scurrying under the TV unit in what can only be described as a combination of fear, titillation, nervous energy and intrigue. She bops around under there, back and forth, sticks her head out once in a while but for the most part she's had enough.

Fast forward to half an hour later. Either husbandette had a relapse in which he forgot the events of half an hour before or that pot was really that good. He again goes into Caesar mode, and this time, 1 has a less-cavalier approach. She literally "tosses" Bam at husbandette. He gets her by the backside, again tries his levitation technique, and again Bam shakes and shakes. It's getting increasingly difficult to watch her, it's actually making me a little dizzy. I am about to look away when I see droplets mid air and then "splash" onto husbandette's leg. Bam is pissing all over him.

So what did we take away from this experience? One, husbandette is not, has never been nor ever will be Caesar the Dog Whisperer. Two, pot smoking and dog handling do not go hand in hand. Three, when you are at someones house and you get pissed and shat on and it's not because it's some kinky thing you are into, well that's when it's time to leave and go home to your loving, cuddly, snuggly, wonderfully well-behaved dog, who never pees on anyone.

We Haven't Touched The Issue Yet

But I can't hold out any longer. We're talkin' bout polygamy.

So if you have a pulse you know about the big polygamist ransack last week which left about 432 wives stripped of their 'chillun' who were taken from the state on potential statutory rape and incest and minor-abuse charges and all that good stuff. Now, everyone has their own opinion about these folk. If you're a fan of "Big Love" you might actually slightly like them. I kinda like them, and I'll tell you why.

Polygamy sounds good to me because:

1. Sister Wives help you clean. It's like having Merry Maids service without having to pay $165 a visit! Three wives means six hands to help scrub toilets and wash windows.


2. Sister Wives help raise the kids, collectively. No more "Mom's the bad guy!" Now it's "Moms' the bad men!" All three or more of you get to help raise the children and play good cop bad cop. And you know what they say about it taking a village...


3. Sister Wives understand when you are hormonal. They get it because they get it too. Emotional support = Happy women.


4. Sister Wives take turns screwing the husband. You no longer have to hear about how infrequently your hubby is getting it. Tonight's Margie's night, send him over there to get some!! Two and a half days a week are yours and the rest of the nights? You get to watch Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy. How's that for happy union?
   

If those aren't good enough reasons to go out there are start recruiting ladies to join your little happy family, I don't know what are.

Ick

I hardly ever have cash on me, I use my debit card for nearly everything, so much so that the paint has rubbed off the thing and I can barely make out the numbers – and the security code on the back – forget it, that’s long gone. There are very few times when you actually need cash in the city – the rare times are when you are buying a candy bar from a bodega – they don’t take kindly to swiping a credit card for $1.25 and the odd cab that doesn’t have the credit card machine. So from time to time I hit up an ATM. The other day I took a cab and he owed me $5 in change, and this guy handed me the most disgusting, worn out old fiver I’ve ever seen. You know when they hand it to you and it feels basically like tissue paper, like a strong breeze will make the thing dissipate? It was all stained and bent and probably used to wipe dirt off of something somewhere. It made me wonder where this thing has been, it could have been in circulation for 20 years or more, in that time, who might have handled my five spot? Murders, rapists, drug addicts, republicans. How many disease ridden fingers might have folded up the bill and stuck it in their sweaty pants pockets, resting precariously close to stinky, soiled areas below the belt. I won’t eat a food item a stranger passes to me with bare hands, but I’ll finger this gross bill that maybe a 100 people put their coodies on? Ew, I’m so grossed out by the idea. I wanted to throw it out rather than placing it in my wallet, next to my nice, newer bills. But then I thought that’s too wasteful, and there are poor people, etc. I considered handing it to a homeless person, but there were none around in my UES neighborhood and anyway, they probably would think it’s too gross and dirty too. So I’ve been looking for a way a way to spend it and get it out of my life. Luckily this morning as I purchased my yucky Kosher for Passover yogurt I was able to rid myself of it. No more cash for me, I’m going plastic all the way!

Brainstorm suggestions

We're launching a new line of hair care products that protect color to beauty editors:

The big idea everyone loved was to create a CSI crime scene featuring bad hair. And have David Caruso host. I got yelled at for being too negative about the concept - No bad ideas in a brainstorm! I actually don't agree that there are no bad ideas but everyone told me to shut up, so there you have it. I have to write up this ridiculous concept to present to my client. They are looking for an upscale, elegant, salon-quality hair event to impress editors, and I have to write that editors will put on detective hats and try to solve the "hair crime" with our new products. Argh. Fourth graders could have come up with a more strategic idea.


Yes, this is obviously the guy you want pimping hair products.

Stuck in meetings

Will try to think of something funny to write while I'm in brainstorms. I'm sure everyone else's ideas will be stupid so I'll have a lot of material.

T H I S W E E K S U C K S

Pretty much everything about this week sucks. Except the weather, which is really perfect. And except for husbandette who's now home to love me again. Oh, and except for the gin and tonic I had at sunset today by the Hudson river, underneath the Tappan Zee bridge at that cute little yacht club. Oh yeah, and then absolutely stupendous Greek food for dinner. But everything else sucks. This is definitely an "I hate people" week. I can name no fewer than three people who I'd like to strangle. This week sucks. Except also for the kvetchette tee that Ette1 Fedexed to me, which is pretty much the cutest thing ever and she is the most thoughtful little thing ever. But everything else really does suck.

Oh, except for the Real Housewives of NYC reunion which was hill-air-ee-uss. Gotta love that Alex and her insanely scary social climbing husband.

Now I am going to go wallow in how badly this week sucked. Really.

You don't make friends with salad

My body is rejecting Passover

I have a rather delicate system. I suffer from Crohn’s disease. Terrible affliction… makes you poop a lot. In order to keep it all in balance and regular, I have to watch what I eat (and take a load of drugs). Stay away from fried and spicy foods you ask? No, stay away from healthy green stuff! My body hates ruffage. Salad, veggies, fruits, they go right through me. In order to enjoy my low-cal friends I have to supplement with good ole fiber – from bread, pasta, bagels, pizza! I don’t really understand the chemistry of how it works, but I do know: lean salad = mean belly, yummy pasta = tummy happy. So now as I’m spending the week being a good Jew, I’m starting to have some gastrointestinal problems. I had my usual boiled egg, tomato and cucumber breakfast (the Tel Aviv special) but instead of the tasty kalamata olive roll I usually enjoy with it, I washed it down with sliced mango. Then I went super veg at lunch with salad topped with just a bit of grilled chicken – no carbs in sight. Needless to say, now I’m paying the price. I suppose I could force feed myself some matzah to get in some grains, but it’s so dry and gross I can’t create enough saliva in mouth to choke it down. I’ll do the best I can with this whole Passover diet thing, but I don’t think G-d intended for me to suffer quite this much – he just wanted me to miss cookies for a while.

File this under Obvi

Star Jones just filed for divorce from her gay husband Big Gay Al.


You know it's a shame; when a hag meets and falls in love with that great gay guy, and then they get married on tv and pimp out their invitations with energy drink sponsors... you always kinda hope that's the sort of love that will last forever. Alas as we predicted, celeb marriages don't work, even if the couple is a hot tranny mess of fun entertainment.

In related news, rumors of another gay man marrying a tranny are confirmed as Jay Z and Beyonce file official paperwork. So the countdown to their divorce officially starts now I guess.

Hey There, Say Dare

My family suffers from OCSD. That's obsessive compulsive seder disorder. Basically, each year the "patriarchs" decide that we are going to complete the seder if it kills us, singing each and every verse of every song, (Dy'einu anyone?) having everyone at the table recite the four questions (even though no ne at the table is under the age of twenty, so to whose benefit are you drilling it home for 16 times is a mystery), as well as the mandatory return post-meal to "complete" the event (because everyone knows God will smote you should you eat and forget about the last few pages). So it will be. Last year we entertained ourselves by coining ours the "Vader Seder," as husbandette happened to find a table-sized talking Darth Vader who at the push of a button said things like "Your lack of faith disturbs me," and such. That was fun. Albiet the Bubbys and patriarchs at the table found our lack of seriousness disturbing. This year, Vader was forgotten in the weekend rush so the company of each other had to suffice for entertainment purposes. And so it will be. I have a few Passover issues I'd like to address:

1) If you are going to say that a certain part must be sung, than sing it! Groaning, moaning, off key mumbling is not singing. And it doesn't make it more "festive" than just speaking the words.

2) Tongue is not a meat. I don't care how you cook it, what you slather it in. It is gross and it should stay in the cow's carcass. I have no problem eating his rear end, but I draw the line at the tongue. And cooking it in ketchup like a meatloaf only makes me more nauseous, now that you've slathered it in what looks like blood.

3) Kosher for Passover loafs/logs/dessert rolls are just a little bit scary. Just a little.

4) The four questions are traditionally supposed to be addressed by the YOUNGEST AT THE TABLE ONLY. Don't go being a hypocrite and saying we must follow tradition and endure all seven hours of the seder and then reverse yourself by making 18 people recite the exact same questions. I KNOW why this night is different!! Thank you!

5) Hiding the afikomen is only going to get a reaction out of me if there's a monetary reward for finding the damn thing. My time is valuable. I'm not traipsing around the house looking for stale cardboard pieces above and beneath all your junk. Pay me.

That's pretty much it. I love my family. I love the time we spend together. I kid, really, I do. But next year? It's Passover at MY house with new Seder rules in effect. Invitation's in the mail.

Best part of vacation

He was stuck in there for a while!

It’s been like 2 ½ days and I’m already freaking sick of matzah.

The idea of Passover is to remember our forefathers in slavery and how when they were freed by Pharaoh the dough for their bread didn’t have time to rise so they put it on their backs and traveled
out of Egypt. What resulted was flat, dried out, tasteless crackers that we call matzah. All delicious bread items are banned for a full week – so we can remember how the Jews of old have suffered. And we kick off the week with a Seder that recounts the story of our sad, slave ancestors. The Seder at my house consists of dried up meat to go with dried out matzah, and my father dolling out passages to read from the Haggadah – the book that tells the story. Of course he always gives me the smallest parts and then skips me half the time, giving choice passages to my brother. So I make up for it by reading with accents and inserting She for He whenever it references G-D – they hate that. So like the good Jew that I am, unlike some Ette’s I know, I keep the holiday all week and stay away from pasta, bread, donuts, cookies and all sorts of yummy carbo-laiden treats. But some people take it too freaking far, there is some crazy rule about corn-syrup not being kosher for Passover that some freak show fundamentalist made up, see prohibited foods below. And then there are different rules that say if you are of European decent you can’t eat rice but if you are of Asian decent you can. Of course my Dad is Middle Eastern so we totally take his side and eat rice all week. You don’t know how hard it actually is when you can’t have bread items, there are only so many eggs you can eat in a day, and those sesame candies don't make up for it. And then I spend half my time trying to make bargains on other foods that my mom banned when we were kids. Like Breyer’s Ice cream is fine right, it’s just made of cream, milk, sugar and vanilla!?! So I stock up on all these Kosher for Passover products and my boyfriend ends up scarffing them down in between bites of pizza and bagels and I’m back to square one. OK, almost lunch time, guess I’ll have salad – again – which I hate cause it’s gross and not bready.

PROHIBITED FOODS

Leavened bread, cakes, biscuits, crackers, cereals, coffee ‘‘blends’’, wheat, barley, oats, rice, dry peas, dry beans, and all liquids which contain ingredients or flavors made from grain alcohol or vinegar (other than cider vinegar). For Ashkenazi Jews, the tradition is not to eat peas, corn, rice, beans or other legumes, because their flour closely resembles hametz; string beans are permitted. The Rabbinical Assembly has permitted the use of raw peanuts.

4/20

How it's possible that I (1) grew up in the burbs, (2) went to a state school and (3) reached the ripe old age of 29 without ever knowing what 4/20 was is beyond me. But I found out last week. Someone asked if I had plans for the weekend, to which I replied matzah but that's about it, she seemed surprised. Then she said they were celebrating her friends b-day on Sunday but he was bummed because no one ever really cares about it. Why I asked, what's the big deal about 4/20 - it's Hitler's B-day but that can't be the only reason not to celebrate. She was incredulous that I didn't know why 4/20 was significant. So I did a little research, and check out the Wikipedia explanation below, I'm actually pretty surprised I didn't know about this either - seems like just the kind of thing I'd be into. Unfortunately I didn't get to commemorate the important day because my supplier was at home seeing the dentist. Oh well, there's always next year.

420 (cannabis culture)

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

4:20 or 4/20 (pronounced four-twenty) is a term used in North America as a discreet way to refer to the consumption of cannabis and, by extension, a way to identify oneself with the drug subculture around cannabis. Phrases such as "420 friendly" sometimes appear in roommate advertisements, indicating that the current occupants are tolerant of cannabis users.^[2]

Origins and observances

Although many diverse theories exist to explain the origin of the term, one central root of the phrase stems from a group of teenagers at San Rafael High School in San Rafael, California in 1971; the teens would meet after school at 4:20 p.m. to smoke cannabis at the Louis Pasteur statue.^[3][4] The term became part of their group's salute, "420 Louis!",^[5] and became popularized in the late 1980s by fans of The Grateful Dead.^[6] Many North American cannabis users continue to observe 4:20 as a time to smoke communally. By extension April 20 ("4/20" in U.S. dating shorthand) has evolved into a counterculture holiday, where people gather to celebrate and consume cannabis.^[7][8][9] In some locations this celebration coincides with Earth Week.^[10][11][12]

Tot on the turnpike - never a good thing

Let me tell you about my ride home to Philly this weekend for the Passover Seder. Let me preface by saying I didn’t have to chip in for the car, and was picked up and dropped off, etc etc, so it was very generous of my sis and bro-in-law… That said, the ride sucked and here’s why.

Get picked up around 3, much later then we usually take the trek to Philly, but fine none-the-less, I got in a trip to the gym before the ride. They pull up in a rented two-door mustang. Not exactly the mid-sized vehicle we were expecting. Of course the trunk is full up of baby crap, stroller, bags, toys, etc. I am able to squeeze in my tiny little overnight bag and get the trunk closed. Giant baby in giant baby seat take up the back passenger side, while sis sits next to her also covered in baby toys, baby clothes, baby bags, etc. I somehow manage to wiggle my way into the front passenger side with knees firmly touching front console, can’t move front seat back any more because baby car seat takes up too much room. On top of me is my oversized pet carrier for undersized Chihuahua. I manage to strap in and we’re off, a mere 45 minutes later we make it to the tunnel. Ride is relatively smooth, baby whines so sister puts food in her mouth. Starting to get really hungry, gym trip has kicked in and metabolism is in overdrive, want to get home fast. We near exit 8, normally about 20 mins from destination point, when major traffic hits, we’re in stop and go mode for at least half an hour, baby whines, sister puts food in her mouth. We inch closer to rest stop think about pulling over for pre-Seder burger but decided we’re too late to stop. All of the sudden after my sister puts a large spoonful of mashed sweet potatoes into baby’s mouth we hear a loud, popping, gurgling sound. Potential diaper incident, but soon after two more big burping then sloshing sounds. Baby projectile vomits over herself, all her toys, car seat, seat belts, sister’s skirt, etc. Sister looks on amazed and paralyzed. Without easy access to wipes and towels baby sits in pile of vomit. Baby begins to wail. Over the next 15 minutes in awful traffic, bro-in-law makes our way over to rest stop. We pull over get baby naked, wipe her down, do our best to remove soiled items before we need to strap her back in to drive the rest of the way. Baby whines, sister does not feed her. Car reeks of vomit. An hour later we’re home. It was not a fun trip. Next time I’ll consider the train, but then you have all the stranger burping and smells, so there’s really no good options. Instead parents should move to NY.

Unhappily at rest stop, sans burger, not a good time for photos.

Happily at rest stop, changed out of puke clothes.

Birds are just as scary as fish

The Pope and the President should not come to NY.

For the record, I have nothing against the Pope, I’m sure he’s all full of good deeds and nice catholic values and everything, but there’s like no reason for him to come to NYC. Our little island is already crowded as it is. We tried to pass congestion pricing to ease traffic, but it was blocked. Maybe you haven’t noticed but we’ve already got a lot of people here. Walking down 5^th Ave in midtown at noon is like being stuck in an elevator with 25 oversized men with cameras. All we need now is to close a ton of streets, bring in a million pilgrims who want to see the guy and make life in the city even more annoying. Not to mention the fact that it’s an important Jewish holiday this weekend, and all of this hullabaloo makes it harder to get around for that. We were blessed by Jesus with amazing technology that can beam live images of basically anyone around the world with just the click of a button. Are you telling me the U.N. doesn’t have this capability? Pope John Paul whatever could have been sitting comfortably in his Vatican chamber, licking a big ‘ole gelato and telling us that abortion is bad without even having to make the long trek. Was that even considered as an option? If the guy needs to travel, why can’t we send him somewhere that’s a slightly smaller traffic nightmare, I’m sure Dover, Delaware could benefit from a visit. I say, wrap this little jaunt up by lunchtime and let’s close our borders to Popes, Presidents, The Beckhams – basically anyone who could cause more traffic.

Oh, and what's with the hat?

Turning Japanesa

Husbandette is currently in Tokyo bowing and such. Last night he went for the sushi dinner of all sushi dinners. He caught his fish, and then they killed it in front of him and POW! Sashimi. He has pretty much been eating like this for a week straight while I eat Lean Cuisines (because how much fun is cooking when it's only for yourself) Husbandette has a healthy palate. Read: Expensive palate. We go for sushi and he orders toro sashimi all the way. Well for those who don't know, that's fatty tuna belly - very expensive. He also happens to really enjoy kobe steak. Whenever we discover it on a menu, and confirm that it is indeed kobe beef (and not that imitation crap from Texas - those cows don't taste the same, even though they are fed beer and massaged too).

So, he comes home on Sunday and I have high expectations. I expect that we are going to be able to start saving some moolah, since he will be "high-end-fooded-out" and we can go back to being a normal American married couple who eats beef-a-roni and pizza.

Come home soon!

So happy for you

When you are in your early twenties and you and your friends are starting to get into serious relationships, it’s always exciting to see who will be the first to get engaged. And then as the years pass, you look forward to attending bachelorette parties and weddings, and it’s all good fun helping your friends plan their big day. As more time goes by you start to wonder when your time will come. Then you talk about it too much with your boyfriend, then you break up and are back to square one. Then of course you get back together and the countdown begins again, but in the meantime your friends are still getting hitched. So now as I’m nearing 30, hearing about someone else’s engagement is not quiet the joy-filled, magical moment it once was. Of course I still react in the same way, big smile, so excited for you, you are going to be a beautiful bride, blah blah, but really I’m thinking how did this bitch get a rock before me?! She and her boyfriend barely even like each other, and I don’t think he knows about that time when she was in Mexico… To be honest, I don’t even want to get married right now, I like not having that responsibility and I like being able to send my honey home to his own place when we’ve had enough of each other. But still I can’t seem to find real enjoyment in other people’s happy news. (Ette2 – I’m obviously not talking about you, your wedding was awesome and I was totally happy for you.) So whatever, I guess there’s nothing I can do about it. At this point, basically everyone I know is married or soon to be, so at some point I’ll stop hearing about new engagements, we’ll move on to people having kids and I for sure won’t be jealous of them. Kids are a pain in the ass. (Not my little niece, she’s perfection.) But every other little kid is annoying and snotty.

Why has Bam's agent not called us for this?

Things that suck about coming home from vaca

• Having to wear shoes again
• Crying babies on airplanes
• Annoying itch on back that you can’t reach from peeling skin after sun over-exposure
• People at the office whining about how much work there was while you were out
• Mosquito bite on your ass
• Pile of clothes that need laundering that still have that lingering hotel mixed with beach smell on them
• Finding the white pants in the closet where you left them
• Realizing your favorite face cream didn’t make it back with you
• Haven’t had a pina colada in over 26 hours
• Having to work
• Not having vacation again for a long time
• Other people taking vacations so you have extra work to do

Boo for me.

Sea pee

I like to think of myself as an adventurous person, I jumped out of a freaking plane once. Most things don't gross me out, except for maybe a big blob of mayo on a sandwich or giant burps at the dinner table. Other than that I don't get spooked too easy, but there is something about swimming in the ocean that just gives me the willies. There are little slimy squirmy fish everywhere and icky sea weeds and sometimes they brush by your leg or get tangled around your foot and it's totally scary. So it took me a while to get up the nerve to swim in the sea on our little vaca this weekend. After baking in the sun for hours, I finally got hot enough to take the dive, and tip toed my way into the water. And then of course I instantly realized I had to pee. So what you gonna do, crawl out of the water, towel off, drudge through the sand find a public bathroom to wrestle off a sopping wet suit... no that was out of the question. But with three pina coladas just swimming around in my blatter I had to make a move. There's the rub, to pea in the sea or not to pee. I decided to go for it. Way bigger fish then me have probably peed in the water and no one notices, I'm sure it won't be a big deal. But you know after years of learning to hold it in until you get to a proper potty, it's not so easy to let go. I waded there for a good while trying to concentrate on loosening everything up and letting go, while watching out for mysterious sea creatures of course. When my body couldn't hold it in any more, I finally was able to pee, and boy was it a relief. After that first time it was easy, so every time I had to go, I just popped into the water instead of heading back to the hotel. Then I realized, we're in the Carribean - the water is totally clear - so when I pee, there is a huge circle of yellow water around me - and I'm not the only one who noticed, it was a crowded beach. Awful right. And I figure I'm not the only one who must pee in the ocean, everyone does it right?! So I'm done with the water, between the gross fish and urine, I'm better off in the heated, swim-up bar pool. If anyone pees in there at least it's chlorinated, plus it's easier to get to the pina coladas.

Pass The Matzah and Don't Drop the Soap

So I've never given a second thought about what Jewish prisoners do at Passover. Wait, I preface this by saying I sorta don't believe there are any Jewish prisoners because generally we aren't a bad people, and when we are bad we are smart enough to cover our tracks and not get busted. I know, I know, that is so racialist of me. But really. I've never thought much about it, but thankfully New York mag got me thinking about it in this week's issue. They addressed Otisville Prison, specifically, which btw was ranked by Forbes as one of the "12 Best Places To Go To Prison." Like I said - Jews who get busted end up in the minimum security, a la the Canyon Ranch of prison systems.

So anyway, it was good to find out that Meyer Lanskyettes all over the country will be able to enjoy a TV-dinner style seder, replete with horseradish, homemade matzah, Haggadot (in place of prison porn) and shank bones (in place of the familiar prison "shank").

This is great news. I wish all my prisoners a Chag Same'ach. I'd sneak you in some Manischevitz to wash down that prison matzah but I'm a little busy this week. L'Chaim.

Glove In An Elevator

This video is pretty much insane. This guy, Nicholas White, worked for Business Week in 1999 in NYC. He goes outside for a cigarette and when he goes back in the building, he gets stuck in the elevator - for 41 hours. The video is a sped-up account of his time spent in the elevator, slowly going insane, courtesy of the security video monitor.

Two lessons here:
Don't smoke.
Take the stairs.

Left Lane Rage

I have a suburban gripe. I think something is being omitted from driver's tests these days. It's the old "Left lane is for fast passing, right lane is for slow-moving," adage. These days, anything goes on the open road, and I really couldn't be angrier. Today I had a few particular encounters worth sharing.

The first was a dude in his Honda Accord, cruising at about 63 in a 65 mph zone - in the fast lane - playing air drums with actual drumsticks, while he drove.

The second was with a woman who was born before cars were even invented, driving a Lexus sedan - in the fast lane - with her hazards on, driving about 50.

The third was the worst. It was a beat up Mazda, sans rearview mirror (I suppose this could be his excuse for not knowing there's 45 cars on his ass) driving with his lady and his baby in the backseat. In the fast lane, WITH NO REAR VIEW MIRRORS.

I think there needs to be a tax for the left lane. Or at least certain requirements that must be posted up (like carpool lanes):

1) You must have a car that is at least 10 years or younger. Sorry gramps, but that 1072 cavalier is not going above 60. Get over it and move to the right.

2) You should not be a member of AARP.

3) You should not have infants in your car. Anything in your car should be old enough to be facing forward.

4) If you see me riding your tailfeathers, that is basically the equivalent of me screaming in your ear saying "WTF is wrong with your dumb ass - move the hell out of the way!"

Thank you for listening. This has been a public servicette announcement.

Work It, Girl

I pretty much love Bravo. They own some of the all-time greats of the reality type. Project Runway, Top Chef, Blow Out, and Work Out. Work Out is an interesting one - it's probably the most ironic of them all because it's half an hour of watching personal trainers and their clients work their asses off in a gym to lose weight, tone, whatever. And here you are, sitting like the fat ass you are, on the sofa with a glass of wine watching people work out. It's kind of ridiculous. No, it's pretty much a lot ridiculous. But I love it, and I'll tell you why.

Two words: Jackie Warner. She is the lesbo who runs the gym in LA the show is about. She is butchy and she means business. And there is something about her that drives me crazy. I have a crush on her.

Seriously. I thought I had to be the only straight, married chick to be watching this show and secretly crushing on this lady. I told husbandette once about my crush when he asked me why on earth I watched a reality show of people doing squats and fighting over free weights. I told him flat out: Jackie Warner. And he laughed, and laughed and laughed. And then he told me I was crazy, and I was strange, and she was gross. Hmph. He's obviously just jealous. I'm not swayed.

But then today I opened the NY Times and there smack in front of me, front and center, is a 1,500 word article on how American Housewives Have Crushes on Jackie Warner. Yup, me and thousands of other sexually repressed honeys are after Ms. Warner. We want her to tighten our buns, strengthen our abs, and stand on our back while we do push-ups - a must at Jackie's gym. What does that mean?

Gotta run, I'm off to the gym.

Gosh

1's going to the Bahamas to soak up the sun with Pants and wear long flowy dresses on the beach just for effect. She will be attending one lavish, way-too-costly wedding of Alexette who probably spent more on this affair than is legal to do in the Bahamas. Which basically means she'll be getting belligerent drunk on really GOOD liquor. Less of a hangover.

Husbandette is flying first class to Tokyo for nine days of being wined and dined by the Japanese who think he's way smart and knowledgeable, but for whom he will have to bow to multiple times daily, possibly throwing out his back, for which I will not feel bad for him because he will be in TOKYO.

What do I get? I get to clean the house. I swear just as I unplug the vacuum from the wall the place is dirty again and dogette's hair is flying. I can't stand it. It's like a serious OCD of mine. So I will spend the lonely week in solitude, cleaning, because at least I'll have something nice to feel good about when it sparkles.

Thanks a lot, and have fun on your trips. Punks.

Sometimes my life is awesome

Have next to no time to post today because I had a work event in the a.m., am running into a meeting now and then packing tonight because I'm off to the Bahamas tomorrow. I can't even think of a complainy thing to say - sometimes my life is good.

Dad, I know you may pay a visit to casa de-complaino this weekend while I'm away, so please note, drawers are not for snooping in. If its not open and out on the table, there is no need for you to see it. No you do not smell any herbal items hidden away in that wooden box and those pills are just for my bad back - that's it. Please don't keep the door open so the dog runs away, and also don't step on her and please feed her sometimes. Enjoy everyone, see you on Tuesday night!

You Want Funny? Here's Your Funny

Anonymity

Posting Kvetchetiquette 101:

We Ette's are busy girls. Each and every day (with the exception of the weekends - those are the lords' days, and lord knows we are hungover on them anyway) we bring you posts. We have been diligent, witty, funny and addictive for those of you that like us. And we appreciate our readerettes, we really do. But lately we've been getting a little ferklempt over the issue of anonymous commenting.

You know us. You know everything about us from when we fart and poo at work to picking our nose under the watchful eyes of others. You know our shoe sizes our emotional issues and our favorite desserts (carrot cake and carvel). We open ourselves up to you, in moments of weakness, moments of frustration, moments of angst. And what do some of you give us in return? Mean, two-snaps-girlfriend comments, attacking our every word. Now don't get us wrong - the name of the game is funny and mean. So go right ahead and humor-bash us up. The problem we have is with the readerettes who don't have the chutzpah to even put their names. Or even come up with fake names! I'd much rather be scoffed at by Spitzer's Defense Attorney or Harry Balzac. You can torment us till the cows come home. But there's something grating about being teased by Anonymous. It's just not right.

So stand up and show yourselves, Anonymettes. If you are going to mock our creativity and Jewcy humor, at least have the Harry Balzac to identify yourself. We do.

Sincerely and truly yours,

Your favorite gals Ette1 + Ette2

The doctor is in

You know what’s awesome about being in therapy – it makes you feel like you are uniquely able to diagnose other people’s problems and then help them solve them. I’ve just been in treatment for three months and man do I know a lot about what’s wrong with you. I’m constantly pointing out people’s flaws, I spot them almost instantly. Like the lady who rang up my breakfast today was totally crabby, it’s obvious she had latent anger issues, probably resulting from her father leaving her at a young age to marry some young chicky. And then there’s a work associate of mine, she’s such a mega biatch that it’s obvious she has an inferiority disorder because she was teased in school for being overweight and didn’t have friends, and now takes it out on everyone who works under her. Don’t even get my started on why I think my boyfriend smokes, or why one of my BFs can’t find a man. Your issues are so obvious to me now, it’s crazy. I’d offer up helpful suggestions but I’ve found most people don’t appreciate the advice. I’m pretty sure that after a few more sessions I’ll be able to kick shrinkette to the curb and set up my own practice. Friends and family, if you do decide you need some expert advice give me a ring, turns out I’m very insightful – my shrink told me so.