I will not relax!

You know what really stresses me out? When wedding vendors say "Relax." I cannot relax sir. My wedding is three weeks away, I have sent you a large deposit for your services, you barely speak english (and I no spanish), and when I ask you things like did you download all the songs I asked for, you respond with phrases like "We have lots of music," or "You don't have to worry, you are working with the best," or "We've done tons of weddings." All of these responses, meant to calm me, actually enrage me. I am a hyper New Yorker who works in event planning. I don't work on island time. I need solid answers like, "yes in fact we went on itunes and downloaded each song to your specifications, I can show you the receipt if you like." So I called him yesterday to get to the bottom of our playlist and it turns out he's on vaca with the fam until two days before our wedding. So seriously, somebody better bring a boombox for backup. Thank goodness I'm having three weddings, so if this one bombs then I can do it again in good ole USA, where nervous yelling and demanding emails actually get you somewhere.

I'm a winner

You may remember such posts from me as "Sports Sucks" or "Sports is draining the life out of my soul inning by inning and I want to break the TV just so that I don't have to listen to another second of the roar of the crowd or the sneakers squeaking on the court because my ears are bleeding."

But a World Series bid does wonders for a girl's tolerance for the game. When your hometown team wins, you feel like a winner. Same way as when you find out a famous person you really like is Jewish (Zac Efron) or when a Jew wins the nobel prize, all the Jews feel just a little bit better about ourselves, because we're basically related and we're all a part of that special little group. When a bunch of rabbi's are arrested for major corruption in NJ, well then we just decide not to read that article.

But the point is, Philly is awesome, Jews are awesome and I am also awesome. We are winners.
Let's go Phills.

Game over, Ette1

This weekend marked an important milestone in Ette1's life. Her booty-shakin' days officially had their last major, unmarried hurrah on Saturday night, in cheesy, tacky, and altogether PERFECT Atlantic City. If you're gonna go out, go out with a bang, right?!

The girls hit the road Sat morning and everything went off without a hitch. We started the car ride with a few repeat plays of the best song on earth, Don't Be Tardy for the Party by Atlanta Housewife Kim. Pretty much the best song ever written. It took my group about 2 hours and 14 minutes to actually find Lincoln Tunnel and get OUT of NYC...I'm not really sure who's responsible for the detour signs navigating you toward the tunnel, but they should stop smokin' the reefer. We did no fewer than 4 major circles, as if we were sort of in a vortex spiral making our way to the mother ship. I mean, seriously. It shouldn't be that hard to get out of the city. What if there were a nuclear attack? Ette1's bachelor-ette's would be dead. Gonzo.

Once we arrived in AC it was another feat finding the parking garage. We decided to be frugal and self-park, b/c seriously, we're tough, and we can shlep our own overnight bags a few extra feet, right? We self-parked for $5 (could have stayed for 6 months and still would have only paid $5, btw) and then Ette1 led us on a scary, trek through stairwells better left for hookers and homeless people. I think there was actually a hooker and a homeless person making out when we entered the stairwell. (Business is not so good, I guess). Ette1, I hope that Pants has a better sense of directional intuition than you do, and can keep you out of harms way, because a pretty young Jewcy thang like yourself should not be opening dank, urine-stained unmarked doors. Ever.

Finally, we entered the Tropicana. Oh, glorious Tropicana, where do I begin? Your musty aroma? Your crazy, overweight clientele? Your fake potted plants? Seriously, Trop...you are a brilliant establishment and we loved every moment of our stay. Ahem. Cough. So without boring you with the gory details...Ette1 was showered with love, penis toys, sexy panties, garters, and champagne. She danced her tuchus. Ette1 felt the empowering, cool metal feel of a stripper pole beneath her virgin palms, as she test drove what it would feel like to be a slut-ette. Granted, she kept her clothes on, but she really enjoyed it because she hopped up there a couple times to show us what was up.

Overall, many lessons were learned throughout the weekend, and I'll share a few of them with you now:

1) Tequila is for SURE the way to go. No hangover. Shot after shot, and we all felt pretty great Sunday morning.
2) Girls from Long Island should not be in Atlantic City. Especially not if they are from "Sigh-ahhh-setttt." They have their own casino, right? They should go to Foxwood's. At least that's what we think after lots of shots of tequila.
3) Crazy people love casinos. And I think casinos thrive off crazy people.
4) Being told by a pedi-cab driver that we could get that t-shirt we're admiring in the window for even less money by "Jewing them down" makes you feel kind of gross. And just reminds us that we're glad we don't live in Atlantic City.
and last but not least...
5) Pants is one lucky man. Because Ette1 is not only one hot mama who knows how to work it on the dance floor; she's a major doll, a funny gal, and a stellar friend.

Love ya girl. One month to go!

A preview of what me and my girls will be looking like on sunday

Roomers, since she's driving



Sissette, she'll prob lock the door so we can't get in to help her



Ette 1 and 2, since we're dancing till we drop

Everyone else

I freaking can't wait

Let's talk T.P.

Something really bothers me about people and toilet paper. It's not the empty roll I am often met with. It's not the messy overcompensated re-roll of the last user who was too excited apparently and yanked off more than she needed, then tried to reverse the roll, leaving a loose, saggy mess. No, I'm talkin about the backward roller. Toilet paper rolls are meant to be grabbed from the top down -- didn't you know? When someone puts the toilet paper in the roll backwards, and I am made to yank behind the roll, or roll in reverse, it royally f's up my day. It's just plain rude. I once called out an ex boyfriend of mine -- when I was confronted with the incorrectly loaded T.P. roll in his bathroom -- that he had it all wrong. He went into such a state of confusion, and then, in a moment of unfamiliar clarity, realized that what I was saying made complete sense. He later told me (long after our relationship had ended) that every time he changes his T.P. he thinks of me. Sweet. Glad I could help.

So from now on, just remember: load (haha, no pun there) the goods so the end piece rests on top, and can be pulled forward. And I swear, if I go to any of your houses and that crap is the wrong way, I'm unraveling the entire thing and leaving it there, like a cottonelle rug.

I hope you had fun

That's right Pants, I hope you enjoyed your bachelor party this weekend.  It's fine that you don't want to tell me what you did, or who was there or where you went.  It's ok that you didn't answer any of my text messages, and didn't call all night.  I'm not upset that you came home this morning looking like a zombie and went immediately to bed.  It's no biggie that you only got out of bed twice, once to pee and once to drink some gatorade.  It's even fine that you have no explanation for that stain on your shirt.  That's fine.  I hope you enjoyed your special evening.  Because now it's my turn. Whatever you did, I'll do - but worse.  So you better hope  that nothing slips out this week my friend.  I know people, people who know things.  It would be bad for you if any of them happen to let slip any details of your activities. Because then I will be active too.  What's fair is fair.  Watch yo self!

You got me sick

Dear _______,

So apparently, the health notices and flu safety messages that the business management has wallpapered the bathrooms, cafe, and hallways with went unnoticed by you. Too busy to stop and smell the Purell, huh? Or maybe you thought you were immune? Well you weren't -- as was made evident by your 2 days of in-office hot flashes and sneezes. Well you know what, you may be feeling better now. Yeah, sure - you're feeling like a friggin rockstar. But guess what? I'm sick. I don't feel so hot. And you know why? Because I share air with you every day and you decided it was too important for you to stay and "work" rather than heed the swiney warnings and go home to quarantine yourself.

So here I sit, laid up in bed, sniffly and sort of making those whimpering sounds that are both upsetting and therapeutic...and H-ette is now affected by your stupidity too b/c he's taking care of me, while fearing for his own health and weekend plans. Although I will say, I really feel closer to H-ette when he becomes the caregiver -- it's a role he's VERY good at...the man rubbed my keppy all through The Office tonight and he even drove 20 minutes to get me real Jew Food from the good place. We're talkin' the real deal matzoh balls. That's love. So I guess I can thank you for that, at least. For givin' my hubby an excuse to be my knight in shining knishes.

See you on the other side, sucka. I'm dropping a hit of Nyquil and hitting the hay.

Ette2