blech

It's hard to be funny when you feel like crap. And today, I feel like crap. A bit cloudy, actually.

So what's there to be funny about...nothing funny about tea and chicken noodle soup, so I'll leave you with this....

You know that song "Blinded by the light" by Manfred Mann's Earth Band? I love that song. Whenever it comes on I sing it at the top of my lungs. I always thought the lyrics were a little strange, but then again, so are a lot of lyrics. I mean, you kinda have to be a little weird to write good music, I've experienced that firsthand. (I told you I would come back to this topic and I never go back on a promise.)

So I sing and I sing, and until somebody finally had the guts to tell me otherwise, I've been singing this:

Blinded by the light

Wrapped up like a douche

A little roamer in the night.

Well, I guess Manfred Mann didn't exactly mean to call his "roamer" a "douche," as the real lyrics, just made aware to me are:

Blinded by the light

Revved up like a deuce

Another runner in the night.

I happen to like my lyrics better.

Do I know you?

I need to know. This is something that's been bothering me for a while, and there is no Emily Post solution to this problem. It is killing me inside. I think about it all the time. Not really all the time, but some times. Okay, I think about it never except for right now, but whatever - that' s not the point. I need to know - if someone sends you a friend request on facebook and you don't know them (or don't remember them, but you know you must know them because they are from your hometown, graduated high school with you, were on your swim team, etc...), or worse yet you know them and don't like them, or at least didn't like them the last time you saw them 13 years ago, is it silly to deny their friend request? I need to know.

Is it considered socially irresponsible to allow those people into your network if you really don't know who they are (or, again - you don't like them)? Or is it just plain petty-betty to deny their internets outreach - I mean really, what access are they really getting into your world...a couple photo opps of you when you were drunk? Or getting married? A glimpse at your favorite movie?

I am torn by this whole thing. I like the idea of having my tight knit Interwebs network of peeps I can call on or turn to in the middle of the night with my "Current mood." It's reassuring, really, especially if you are feeling lonely. It also sort of makes me feel a little like Amy Sacco in the early 2000's when she was all Bungalow 8 exclusive - you know, before the days when they let any old peon with a hundred bucks in there.

But I also kind of like the idea of someone I don't like or even know being able to see how ridiculously cool I am. Especially if they express interest. How do you feel, readerettes? Let me know.

Or better yet, facebook me.

But only if you know me. And you know I like you.

Pleased as punch

I am fired up right now...the Democratic Nat'l Convention started today, Michelle "Oh hell yeah" Obama is giving her speech shortly. It's a good, strong day for change. I'm going to get my politic-on in a minute. What else changed today? Well H-ette and I FINALLY got our money back in our ongoing legal battle (for those of you readerettes who know the dirt, you know how stressful and dramatic this whole thing has been) so we are, quite simply, "pleased as punch." At least that's the emotion we are feeling according to father-in-law-ette. He really used that expression, I kid you not. And he's normally a very cool guy, I think he was having a senior moment, we won't hold it against him.

Anyway - life is now moving and shaking. Good things are happening. I think we are on an upward streak. It's my world and you all are just living in it. At least today.

On a final note, and to bring this little ditty back full circle, I saw a bumper sticker the other day that was sheer brillz. I'd like to share its words of wisdom with you now...

Is America ready for a black president?
Why not? We have one now who's retarded.

Where is it?

You know when you have a lot of stuff, you're bound to misplace things now and again. It's only natural for a sock, or a lip gloss, or even a book to go missing (by the way, why do people say 'It turned up missing' - if it turned up than how can it be missing?? That's a peeve of mine...but that's neither here nor there - some people are stupid, I guess that's my answer.) But when things you really knew you placed somewhere specific went missing, doesn't it just eat you alive? I personally find myself to be fairly organized, so when something I know I placed somewhere (like my bag of nail polishes, or my extra set of house keys) I start to develop conspiracy theories. I run through the list of who's been in my house - who could have rifled through my stuff and ripped me off.

Well husbandette has been there, he is automatically my first culprit. I give him the third degree. "You must have moved it. Stop messing with me, ha ha, it's not funny, hand it over." After three or four hours of this interrogation I conclude that he probably doesn't know where my bikini is. So my mind starts racing. Was it the cleaning lady? She's a 250 lb, 60 year old Polish woman, would she have wanted my bikini? Probably not - but it's the only viable option so far so I consume myself with reasons why she would have taken it. Then it occurs to me that my girlfriend was over last week and I was showing her my new cute shoes, up in the bedroom...did I lend her my bikini? No, that's not like me - I don't like sharing runways with other gals, some things are sacred.

This whole experience leaves me anxiety ridden...which makes my mind wander to whether or not I should be on anti-anxiety medication. Now H-ette is mad at me because I angrily accused him of hiding my bikini. I start wondering, am I crazy? Did I even have a bikini or was it just a figment of my fashionable imagination? I'll never know.

From now on, I'm keeping a computer log of everything I own and where it is located. When I use something I will check it out, like the library. That way when something goes missing, I'll pop a pill and start pointing fingers. Don't mess with me, people.

Sucka-free Friday

So Ette1 up and left for Tahoe on holiday. You know, it's ironic really, that the girl kvetches a few short days ago about all the extra work falling on her shoulders - all the girls she gets to be bitchy to and delegate her work load to just up and go on vacation, and then POOF - just like that she calls me like a roamer in the night (be advised I will come back to this phrase in a future post) breathy and excited as she heads off to the airport for her week's vacay, throwing in at the end a 'thanks for taking care of the blog while I'm gone.' But you see, the funny thing is, she didn't run this by me before hand. In any normal work environment, she would have told me in advance that she'd be off for some fun in the sun and would I mind bitching on both our behalves while she was gone. I mean, really. When I went on honeymoon, I showered her with praise for all her hard knocked kvetches. I emailed her from Hawaii with positive reinforcement for her three weeks of double duty. Is it too much to ask for a little love back? I don't have minions I can delegate work to (except for husbandette, and at times in-law-ettes who are retired and like to stay busy, but even then it's not important delegating - it's mundane things like picking up dog food. Or dog poop) so it all falls on my pale, fragile shoulders.

If you haven't yet figured it out, ya'll are stuck with me for the week. So those of you 1-lovers, the ones who are blatantly members of only her fan club (and you know who you are), don't say I didn't warn you. However I put it out there that you are free to laugh and comment my posts as well - I promise, your secret is safe with me.

Happy Friday, suckas.

It's as good a day as any...

...to say thank you to our readerettes.

It's not often we recognize our readers for their support - every once in a while we bust your boobs for your cruel comments, but truthfully we love every minute of it, and even more truthfully, we don't like half of you enough to "formally" acknowledge you. However, for the constituency we do love, we know that if it weren't for you, we would be posting our gripes out in the infinite-ness of cyberspace with no destination. So, in preparation for the BlogEmmy we might one day win thanks to our witty cynicism and hysterical banter, I'd like to accept this (faux) award on our behalf.

(please close your eyes, if you will, and imagine I am wearing something fabulously hot - like a Members Only jacket. And some Louboutins of course. I am walking up to the podium...oh...oops, I tripped, hold on...I'm back up, every thing's okay, I make it to the mic):

"We'd like to thank our our loyal fans. Kvetchette would not be possible if it weren't for you all finding the humor and relavence in the images we steal from other sites, and appreciating the constant bitch-roll we work hard to provide. We'd like to thank our families, who love hearing our kvetches, and are eternally grateful we've put our bitching to good use. There is nothing more rewarding in life than calling your pops and having him tell you he almost spit up his after-lunch Snapple at one of your genius observations about taxi drivers. Or President Googles. The same goes for bro-sef or sis-ette. Or mother-in-law-ette. Because it's really all about family. We may kvetch so you don't have to, but we kvetch more so so you don't have to hear us kvetch to you personally anymore. And that's the damn truth. Throw in a little boobs, butt and even VJ and we've found the recipe for success and longevity. Thank you, readerettes!! Keep the love comin'!"

It's been another poopy day in a poopy week.

Work is crazy and you know how I like to just like to "delegate" to my direct reports, so I spend my days bossing people around but leaving most of the actual work to them... Well half of those bitches are taking vacation or too busy with other other things so it freaking falls to me to get it done which, for obvious reasons, is not making me happy. But you know what did make me happy today? Pants! He came by the office to deliver me flowers for our 4 year (not counting the six months we broke up) anniversary.

The reason I post this is tri-fold:

1. To thank him (without having to actually do something for him in return)
2. To make all you other people who didn't get flowers feel jealous
3. To post something without having to really think about a funny idea since I'm too busy to deal right now

The moral of this story is, when you guys are having a rough week, just stop to smell the flowers. They are at my desk. They are mine, so don't get all up close and put your body on them. In fact, don't smell - just look at them and enjoy.

Row row row your boat...

Things to know about whitewater rafting:

1. There's a reason why they tell you not to bring beer with you while whitewater rafting. Whitewater + rocks + Heineken mini keg on board = Foam. Lots and lots of foam.


2. When the rafting dudes tell you that it's max six people in a boat, don't think you are exempt from this rule and load in seven folks who don't work out and three buckets of lunch. Your boat won't move.


3. When whitewater rafting, keep all hands and arms inside the boat at all time. It's easy to lose a limb to a wily oar or a jagged rock. Or if you are a real puss, a big wave.


4. If you agree to go whitewater rafting with a group, you are obligated to row. There is no sightseeing, sunbathing, or daydreaming. You risk getting smacked in the head with an oar. It won't be pretty, I can tell you that right now.


5. When they give you a bucket to stash your lunch in, make sure the bucket lid is sealed. There's a reason they provide you a bucket with a sealed lid. You will fight the rapids for three hours, pull ashore, starving, and open your bucket, foaming at the mouth for your turkey and swiss sammie, and when you find it to be soaked through and through (you can wring the mayo out of it) with dirty Delaware River water you will want to drown yourself. Yum.


6. Rubber boats are not soft. They hurt the ashen. Bad. Bruised tailbones are throbbing tailbones.


7. Don't think that whitewater rafting is a leisure sport - that's your first mistake. Rowing is serious business. You will be rowing your hurt ashen off. You can substitute about a month's worth of gym visits for one go at this activity. I think...I haven't been to the gym in ages so I wouldn't really know.
8. When someone plans a whitewater rafting trip that is a 2.5 hour road trip away, convince the group to stay overnight in the local weirdo Amish country town. The only thing worse than rowing an over-filled raft down a lazy river for 15 miles is having to get in the car afterward and drive three hours home. In traffic. With a slow-leak flat tire. Where you can't go over 50 mph.

It's Career Day here at Kvetchette

As some readerettes know, my dad was involved in a little work accident that left him with a bum middle finger – the upside is he like automatically flips everyone the bird since he can’t really bend it anymore and the downside is he can’t really do his old job anymore – which is really an upside because now he can find a newer, funner, more bad-ass career. The question is – what should his next move be? Not so easy to figure out a job for a brilliant guy who has limited writing skills in English since he’s a foreigner and basically can’t use his right hand.

Here’s what we came up with so far:

• Courtesy of Pineapple Express, Process Server: All he needs to do is drive around and hand over summons. This is awesome because he’d be kind of like Dog the Bounty Hunter, he can wear cool headbands and grow a mullet. And it’s so bad-ass to say, “you’ve been served.” He can drive around thinking of different accents to use when he says it.

• Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream tester: Screw my father, this is basically my dream job. Think of what your day would consist of. 9-10, Strawberry Sensation with yogurt-covered-pretzels mixed in. 11-12, Chocolate Thunder with malted milk balls. 2-4 Vanilla Ice Ice Baby with mini-chocolate chips in the shape of diamonds. Jeeze, some of these sound good, maybe I have a new career a-brewin – Ice Cream Developer.

• Books on Tape: He can record for basically any middle-eastern character. Jafar from Aladdin, You Don’t Mess with the Zohan (the book), The Ten Commandments as Moses (Chartlon Heston didn’t even try to fake an accent), endless possibilities.

• Toll Taker: Don’t they make like a lot for basically sitting on their asses all day? And they get little tvs that they can watch the whole time, so he can keep up on his soaps.

• Marijuana Grower: Um, nuff said there, basically like the best job ever. Oh and one note, FP.

Good luck Dad!

White people are crazy, when you get right down to it

I have just discovered my new favorite website. (Sorry 1, it is even better than our ridiculously funny, super-smart, ultra-relevant blog) It surpasses all other sites - shopping, blogging, news, gossip. It is simply the best thing ever and I can't believe I have just happened upon it. It couldn't have come at a better time.


It needs no lead in. It is quite simply, and perfectly I might add:


Stuff White People Like


Should you readerettes be too lazy to actually click on the above and take my word for it, I will provide you with a brief romance synopsis of the kind of gems you will find on this brilliant site:


#90 Dinner Parties - white people spend days choosing playlists for their parties...how to really take you from course to course. They ensure that toilet paper rolls are stocked in the loo. They make sure there are no "signs" laying out of their bottom feeder habits, like trashy tabloid magazines...oh no. Instead it's only artsy fartsy magazines and architecture books.


#85 The Wire - (this is for you, H-ette) - white people think this show is the best show on television because they find it 'authentic.' What the average white person would know about authenticity of a Baltimore ghetto and serious drug dealers is not important. It's the fact that it's available as a box set on DVD and therefore they can tout is as the best thing ever and conveniently available to order from Netflix.


#63 Expensive Sandwiches - Sliced meat between bread that generally start at 8.99. 'Nuff said.

Now stop wasting your time here. Go check out the site already.

I didn’t win the Mega Millions this week.

And I find it annoying. I know that the odds are like a zillion to one and only hicks from Alabama ever win the money, but without fail every time I get a ticket, something stirs inside me. I get all anxious and excited and I truly believe somewhere deep down that this week I could win it. I’m not one of those people who randomly buys a ticket, sticks it in their awesome Balenciaga bag and then forgets she ever had it to begin with. I place mine in a safe spot, tucked away carefully until the that 11 pm drawing when I pull it out and shush everyone in the room (everyone being my dog, since Pants works late these days) and intently listen for the numbers. I think to myself, someone has to win (except half the time no one wins and the money rolls into the next drawing, but regardless, someone will win at some point) and it could be me. These numbers are nice and random – the computer selected them, so I can’t blame my stupid bad luck for choosing crappy numbers. It really could be me. And then I think through the phone calls I’ll make when I win. Who do I call first? Do I call Pants right away, or will he want to use the money for stupid shit like season Eagles tickets or something – I figure I’ll call him but tell him we won half the amount so he won’t pre-spend it on his dumb stuff in his mind. I guess my parents or sister next, maybe I conference them, so one isn’t offended that I called the other first. But that seems like a complicated maneuver, not sure how to do that on my phone, maybe I’ll try to figure that out first. I’ll have to explain to my sister that she’s already rich so I likely won’t share my winnings with her. Then I wonder to myself if I’ll go into work the next day. Do I even bother going in and saying goodbye to everyone as I explain my new career path – managing my millions. Or do I just call in rich. Then I remember it probably takes like a year before you actually see any money and will probably need to keep my job for a while and get annoyed at that thought. By this time the numbers announcement has passed and I was on the wrong channel so I missed it. So I log onto the Mega Millions site to see the numbers and they of course are not up yet. So I refresh the page every 10 seconds. And with each click of the mouse, I get more anxious to see my numbers up there on the screen. Eventually they come up. And I don’t win. Not even a single number matches. This is bullshit. I rip up the ticket and go to bed cranky.

Flying the Not-So-Friendly Skies

I now understand why seemingly normal people go balls out ballistic while on board aircraft's, and end up forcing emergency landings and end up detained for days on end by the government, all because they got feisty on board. It's not that hard to do anymore.

H-ette and I were in Montreal for the weekend. Some quality family time was in order and we really needed to get away to boot, so off we went. However, whilst this seems like it should be an easy fete, it proved to be a nightmare.

Staycations?? I don't see no stinkin' Americans taking staycations this year. No, no no. The airports were slammed, the lines were hellicious, the patience thinly veiled as an evil calm. Flying there was maybe a 4 on a scale of 1 to 10. Nothing to write home about but we made it, we were fine.

Coming home, different story. Our flight, in August, in reasonably normal weather, was delayed. SIX HOURS. Six hours I was stuck in Trudeau airport in Montreal, listening to every goddamn announcement being made in both English AND French. I wanted to claw my eyeballs out. It gets to a point in airports when things start to close. That time, I might add, is way too early in my book. The bars, magazine shops and coffee shops are pulling down their gates at 8pm. WTF? The entire airport is full, delays are rampant, nobody's going anywhere anytime soon, and my only source of entertainment...sipping a latte while I sit in the magazine shop and read through every trashy magazine cover to cover without purchasing a single one...that plan is shot to shit now. I must resort to keeping myself entertained, or worse, allowing H-ette to entertain me. Which he doesn't do well because he was smart enough to get a smartcard for his Blackberry so he's listening to tunes and jammin out and I want to kill someone.

So fast forward four hours and we are finally on the stupid Buddy Holly plane. Sister's patience is wearing thin. Plane takes off. Plane is in the air. Air Hostess and her gay host friend come through the insanely small cabin with their drinks cart. Ette2 has to pee. She's been holding it since takeoff. In her defense, she nursed a large coffee (which she got the bartender in the bar next door to spike to at least make it interesting) for 3 hours, and now she has to go like a racehorse. Annoying Air Hostess is coming through the cabin at an unbelievably slow pace. She's pouring hot coffees, hot teas....margaritas. 2 can't go to the loo until Air Hostess passes her row. As Air Hostess passes her row, 2 makes her move. Air Hostess sternly tells 2 that she must remain in her seat as the Fasten Seat belt sign is on. 2 smiles and politely tells Air Hostess that she has to go to the loo and she will be quick. Air Hostess gives her the evil eye, says "No means no." And blocks the aisle with her cart until 2 sits back down. 2 is not happy.

2 waits patiently. 10 minutes pass by. No turbulence. No turned off seat belt sign. 2 is now holding her vag like a 2 year old. She makes eye contact with Air Hostess, waves her down. Air Hostess remains vigilant. "Federal Regulation requires that you stay in your seat when the seat belt light is on." I remind her that there is no turbulence, and that she just served piping hot coffee to 32 travelers, so I am a little unclear why I can't be trusted to pee in a bowl. If the plane starts shaking so erratically, they will have more to worry about than little old me in the loo, as the entire plane will be suffering from 3rd degree coffee burns.

Air Hostess crosses her arms, shakes her snooty head. 2 is now not just desperate, she is PISSED (no relationship between being pissed and pissing, btw). She remains in her seat with a scowl for another 15 minutes. At which point, the captain comes on the intercom to tell us that he is beginning our descent and we should be in Newark in 20 minutes. 2 has had enough. She stands up, and marches to the front of the plane. Air Hostess moves directly in front of the bathroom, crosses her arms. 2 tells her that if she doesn't move the F out of her way, there is going to be hell to pay. She pushes past Air Hostess as Air Hostess tells 2 that 2 will be solely responsible now for the pilot postponing descent, bc she is in the loo. 2 tells her to F off. 2 does her business, feels like a woman again, exits the bathroom and heads back to her seat, after laser beam eyes are exchanged between Air Hostess and 2.

Fast forward five minutes. Air Hostess' little Air Host friend sashays up to 2 and H-ette. He leans in and quite loudly for all in the vicinity to hear says "For future reference, what you just did is against federal regulation and you can be detained for disobeying your Air Hostess."

I will leave you with that, readerettes. What I said to Air Host is unprintable. However this long and drawn out explanation leads me to my original point, which is that flying BLOWs. Drive if you can. Or take the train, at least that shit is semi-romantic and the seats are bigger. Because flying will eventually cause you to lose your cool in the air, and you may or may not be detained for breaking Federal Regulation. Whatever that is.

That's our guy!

I often wonder what I would say/do if I were face to face with our main man, Mr. Googles. I think, would I cower in his all-powerful presence, feeling vulnerable with Secret Service men hovering all around me? Would I be humbled by his charismatic, world-leader greatness? Would I tell him he is the biggest loser idiot ever?

I'm sticking to the latter.

People I hate

I'm back for another round of people I freaking can't stand.


Ryan Seacrest is so near the top of that list. I find him completely obnoxious, overexposed, too short and annoying. And you can just tell he thinks he's freaking god's- gift. On top of that he owns hollywood, he produces all these stupid shows on E and he's just raking in the freaking cash - and he's not even a Jew! Wrong right?! I feel bad for that geeky guy who hosted American Idol with him the first year. Seacrest probably had him killed. I don't like him and I want him to go away.

Holiday on Lake George

So the surprise trip, for those of you who were wondering, was to Lake George - or as we say Lake Jorge. Here are the high and low-lights:

• Reststop Burger Kings are far superior to normal Burger Kings, and they give you free hats.
• The commericals lie, it is not a three-hour drive from New York, it is a five and half hour ride, behind stupid slow drivers, and traffic jams for no good reason, and road construction and pouring rain.
• In the Adirondacks you actually experience fresh air. It's a concept that is not familiar to most new yorkers, but it's actually pretty nice. It's a mix of pine tree scent with campfires.
• The Adirondacks, or specifically Lake George, is also the mini-golf capital of the world.
  
• Hot Tubs are gross - you know that icky foam that it creates around the edges of the tub - I swear it's made of dead skin cells and body lice. I lasted 4 minutes in the tub before I had to jump in the shower to scrub my entire body with a pumice stone.
• Little known fact - mosquitoes live in forests - when people enter forests, people get attacked by mosquitoes.
• Pants is not a good car driving partner - when he's not making you listen to punk rock, he's sleeping.
  
• Pants is a good boat driving partner - luckily there was no music on the lake, expect for when I tried to sing the Miami Vice theme song on our little power boat.
• Canadians talk funny

Ok, I’ll admit it, I have Olympic fever.

I was home alone yesterday and I couldn’t help but watch. It’s been a couple weeks since Pants made watch any sporting events and the desire for competition must have seeped into my subconscience some how and I couldn’t turn the tv off.

It started off simple enough with the opening ceremony that we DVR’d, pretty amazing, but I fast-forwarded through most of it… great, there’s drums, lots of people in unison, exciting, etc… But then I caught women’s synchronized diving. I couldn’t not watch and not because of the amazing feats of physical accomplishment – because the physical on these women. Female divers aren’t like the female swimmers, they are fit but don’t have that beefy, man chest the swimmers are all workin with. And they are in these little suits, and they stand backwards on the diving board so you can’t not look at their butts. There was this one Chinese diver – who actually won, who had a huge ass – but in a good way. All the rest of them had tight little diver butts, but this girl had a giant pooper. It was looking at a car accident, I knew I shouldn’t stare but I couldn’t look away.

Then I watched gymnastics. There is some rule about the girls having to be at least 16 – well, someone is lying about their age, because these girls aren’t a day over 10, and that stupid sparkly makeup they wear isn’t helping them to look more mature. I couldn’t even justify looking at their butts because they are basically children and that would be way to pervy. The shit they do is crazy, but after seeing like a hundred double back tuck flips, you get desensitized. It’s like, yeah I’ve seen that before, that’s not so hard. I’m basically on the couch eating these snickers ice cream bars that Pants bought and thinking to myself, that’s not so such a big deal, I could probably do it if I practiced a lot.

Finally I tuned into the men’s swimming relay. I’m all for Americans winning, but I’m not having Michael Phelps-mania like everyone else. He kinda has a dumb looking face, like he sucked his thumb for too long, and that man-fish body of his sort of scares me, I always think his pants are going to fall off – there are no hips to keep them up. But when they raced the stupid shit-talking French by the end I was basically screaming for them to win, and some unknown American dude pulls out this unbelievable come-from-behind victory. He basically hands Michael Phelps his second gold of the game. It was so intense and awesome. So despite myself, I may be tuning in for more of the Olympic games. And maybe it’ll inspire me to put down the snickers ice cream and hit the gym again.

Olympics Are for Kids

Watched the opening ceremony last night for the Olympics. Parts of it were pretty spectacular. The whole time I was thinking, were these people held and chained and whipped until they got the choreography down pat? It wouldn't surprise me. It's such a shame to see what probably cost hundreds of millions of dollars in unnecessary fireworks and hoopla when half the people are still holed up in Fema-esque closets. But whatever, I'm not providing you with any groundbreaking opinion on that, so we'll leave it be. My time is better served commenting on our President's presence at the ceremony. In addition to shots of him looking bored to pieces and checking his watch, I am sure conversation (if any) between Mr. Smarty Pants and his Lady were quite interesting during the four hours. I would like to provide hypothetical snippets for you here:

"Hey Laura, wanna share some lo mein with me? This thing is gonna take a while."

"Where are the cheerleaders?"

"It's too bad they don't have an Olympic sport for searchin' the Googles...I would win that fer sher."

"Why they lettin' Georgia get their own category here? Did they break off from the US? Why didn't Condeleeza tell me about that?"

"Madagascar. I really liked that movie. Them animals talkin? That's some funny stuff."

"Iraq is here? Iran? Someone get me that red button I like to push. Quick!"

"Chad - I love me some Chads. Them people's how I got to be President in the first place..he he he...the ole' Chad."

Why Date Night with A Girlfriend Rocks

1. She knows you are both paying from your husbands' credit cards. Or at least cards your husbands' contribute toward paying - so she orders the expensive bottle of wine.
2. She is perfectly willing to share with you. Salad, appetizer, entrees even...Eat half and switch plates - that's the way to do it, and H-ette doesn't share so much so it makes me feel like I am out for a real treat when I get to try halibut AND snapper.
3. She offers constructive criticism. And she won't be mad or disappointed if you break or cheat on your diet while dining.
4. She won't judge you when you tell her you've been paying your gym membership for the last year and you haven't gone once. In fact, she'll laugh with you about it and then give you the number to cancel it.
5. She doesn't expect anything. She doesn't want to make out with you, suck face with you, take you home...it's pure conversation - no hidden ultimatums.
6. She can very discreetly make fun of the excessive-plastic-surgery-lady at the next table without anyone being on to her - something H-ette is working on, but has not yet mastered.
7. Dessert? Why yes! We'll take the pie AND the molten lava chocolate decadent you died and met the devil cake.
8. She cares. She really does. She knows your conundrums and your issues, she remembers that you had that "doctor's" appointment and she asks about it, she recognizes when you are PMSing, she is on top of her game.

Go out and find yourself a girl's date night. I highly recommend it.

Happy Pantsday

I was going to write a whole long post about how they are considering allowing passengers to use cell phones during flights and how that will be the most annoying thing ever. I can't stand being on the street near someone on their phone, let alone stuck in a seat with some loud ass yappy bitch for 6 hours. But then I realized it's 7 and when I leave here my mini-vaca starts - so fuck that dude. I'm out.


But I did need to give a shout out to Pants, its his birthday this weekend. He turns a ripe old 29. He's not happy about getting closer to 30, but I sure am glad he's joining me in our final year of youth. We're off for a surprise getaway - hope he enjoys it, if not he can suck it.

That bitch forgot my sauce.

Have you heard about this guy who called 911 because Subway didn’t put sauce on his sandwich? That’s right he called the police to alert them that the subway sammy guy screwed up his order. Needless to say the coppers weren’t happy – they of course went to investigate and enjoy a 5 dollar foot long, but after that dude was arrested for like not taking 911 seriously enough. Which gave me a good idea. How many times have you been pissed off by bad service? Bitchy counter people, cheese on your burger when you didn’t order cheese, not enough hot fudge on the hot fudge sundae at McDs, just generally not having it your way… There should be some sort of service, someone you can call and complain about it. That way you can leave the cops to their important work of busting stoners at concerts and posing as hookers to catch sad guys who can’t get laid – and you still get to vent. I’m not talking about a leave-a-message sort of service, some sorry jerk should have to pick up the phone and hear out your entire grievance and then apologize – wholeheartedly. They should nod with agreement and sound shocked at the really bad parts and at the end tell you “you are obviously right and the other party is obviously wrong and also rude, and probably also ugly.” You will get it out of your system so you don’t have to carry around the negative vibes and no one gets hurt. I’d even pay for this sort of service. Half of what I do at therapy is basically bitch about how people wrong me and that’s $175 a pop. I’d rather pay $8.95 for a monthly subscription to the “You’re Right, They’re Wrong” line it takes five minutes and instantly puts you in a better mood – so worth it.

Obey the law.

Just got back from a two hour visit to county court, where I had to go before the judge for a speeding ticket I could not flirt my way out of. Being the law-abiding citizen I am, I have seen very few courtrooms in my day. I'm always half fearful and half enthralled by the 'system.' Well today I was just plain irritated.

We are in a recession. The hardworking man is losing jobs left and right. Baby daddies are still away from their baby mamas fighting a war that won't end. The dollar is worthless. It's not a good time in the world. But if you're the government, you might as well be the only stripper left in Vegas - it's time to cash in.

This is how it works, for those of you who haven't yet been schooled on the 'system' we rely on to keep our roads safe, to enforce the law, you know - all that mundane crap. Bear with me:

1. You are caught doing something bad. Petty theft, arson, assault, speeding, talking on your cell phone while driving, having sexual relations in a public place.
2. You forget to wear a low-cut shirt that day, happen to have a zit on your chin, look a little more haggard than usual, or you just lack smoothness in general and thus you can't talk your way out of the situation with Mr. Officer.
3. He issues you a ticket/summons/arrests/frisks you, whatever the deal. You are then ordered to go before the court, where you can plead your case and a judge will decide how much more money your insurance company will bleed you for, how many days you will get gang-raped in jail, or if he'd prefer you to go serve soup to homeless people.
4. You show up for court on your appointed day. Judge unleashes The Negotiator, who already knows you are there, calls you into a secret little room where he asks you what you are bargaining down for. So whatever crime you have committed is irrelevant. (Note: this is chance #2 wear the low cut shirt and/or really gussy up so don't go messing it up twice, or you have no one to blame but yourself) You now have an opportunity to 'bargain basement' your way out of your crime. It helps if H-ette is a lawyer and helps guide you through this process...if yours is not, I have no problem renting my H-ette's services out for a reasonable fee. So now, the Negotiator gets to decide how much money the gov't is going to rob you of today. Will it be $100? $200? Your checkbook is in his hands. He sizes you up, makes a judgement call, scribbles it onto a piece of paper which you hand to the judge when you walk out of the little room, and Judge says 'So, I see you've negotiated down to applying mascara while driving. That will be a $150, please see the clerk.'
5. That's it, readerettes. If your naive little souls didn't believe before that everything has a price, add this to the list of proof that it does. It's about class and caste, my fellow Ettes. Always has, always will be. The state will pull you over time and time again for speeding not because they care about the safety of other drivers, because they just cashed in on your dumb law-breaking ass. So if for no better reason than to stop getting pimp slapped by our government, OBEY THE LAW!
   

You know we are in a recession when women don’t even enjoying seeing man pubes anymore.

Playgirl has folded – probably due to poor advertising sales and weak subscriptions. Here are my feelings about Playgirl.

There is no way that women even subscribed to that magazine. Girls don’t get off by seeing half naked men. If he were holding a wad of cash and a box of Louboutins, and just happened to be undressed, then great, but otherwise, not so much. Girls aren’t interested in seeing hot naked guys. We look at their tight muscles and 2 percent body fat and we basically are just jealous. It sends us into a whole tailspin of bitterness about the fact that it’s so effortless for guys to get toned while we suffer on the elliptical for hours on end with no measurable benefit to ass fat. Plus, there’s nothing really sexy about it, you know we aren’t sneaking off to the bathroom with our copy of Playgirl for some alone time. For that we’ll pop in a Pretty Woman video or something. Instead of folding, Playgirl should just rebrand itself. Isn’t Instinct magazine basically Playgirl but actually branded for gay men? They should change Playgirl to PlayGay and focus on the core customer. Us girls will stick to girl magazines like Star and US Weekly that show you the cellulite on celebrities so we can feel better about ourselves.

You know this is killing Jen

You know how much it sucks to break up with someone and then hear that they are dating someone else right? You secretly hope the bitch is ugly or has a huge ass and you make sure you look hot whenever there is a chance you'll bump into them. Well this sucks to the nth degree, not only is your ex dating like the most beautiful girl in the world, she's popping out kids like pez and there they are on the cover of People magazine looking blissfully happy with each other. I feel bad for Jen.

But I feel worse for all these kids. Truth be told, parents only have so much love to give. That bs about their love being limitless is totally untrue. You love the first one, the second one is cool and the third rounds it out a bit. Beyond that there is a sharp decline in the love factor. (Unless you are Jon & Kate plus 8 - they love all their kids equally - except for Maddy.) On top of the fact that it's hard to love a lot of people, Brad and Angie are busy people. They shoot movies all over the world - they build houses and talk to refugees. They move around a lot. There is no way they have the time to devote to their 13 kids. Let's wait 12 years and then see the People cover with little Shiloh discussing her heroin problem resulting from growing up in a Hollywood household. Didn't we learn from Woody Allen and Mia Farrow.

Reason #462 why the back of the bus is only cool when you are ten

A man got beheaded on his Greyhound bus excursion in Canada. Yup, his seatmate must have gotten about all the 'ey's' he could bear, and he pulled out a hunting knife and stabbed the 22-year old over, and over, and over again. And then he cut his head off.

So as our economy goes to the crapper, gas prices reach all time highs, airfare is laughable...we are all looking to alternative methods of transportation to get from point a to point b. Before the days of H-ette, I used to take the 'ole Greyhound bus down to pop's place in Cherry Hill - because it was cheap, convenient and I liked the overhead lights which allowed me to read. However, all in all, the bus rides were somewhat creepy, because, well, buses are just kinda creepy. It's not like being on a train with hundreds of people, and space and big windows and a train conductor who meanders through every once and a while. A bus is about forty people in way-too-close proximity, with no option of getting up/getting off/switching cars or seats. It is what it is. So imagine your seatmate ends up a raging psychopath, is toting a machete and wants blood. Now that's a hell of a way to save a couple bucks on transportation. So let's leave the bus riding for the school children. That's the only time it's fun, when there are no seat belts, you can stand up and get out of your seat and sit in the back making faces and flipping the bird to the people in the car behind you.

I'll tell you what, it's first class for me all the way. Most psychos are too cheap to travel first class, which ensures my safety. I'm not sure if that's a proven fact, but I can pretty much guesstimate that most "transportation" crimes take place in subways, on buses...not in First Class on a 747 with all-you-can-drink bloody mary's. Nope- that's reason to celebrate - not murder. So I'd rather arrive alive than save a couple greenbacks. Who's with me?