For all my fatties

If anyone ever needed a visual explanation of why they their body jiggles, let me direct you to the truth, in your face. Because This Is Why You're Fat.

Scary stuff on here. Meat stuffed into meat and then deep fried. Cheese on EVERYTHING. Maybe there is some merit to a kosher diet after all...

Brilliant

I've shared this with my Facebook community, but would feel wrong not sharing it to my kvetchers. Most impressive mashup of Alice in Wonderland and Three Six Mafia. Not work appropriate audio, however, unless you have headphones.

Don't do this

If your kid still needs a paci, then he's too young for you to cut a hawk and bleach his hair.

(You can however paint nails - that's totally appropriate sisette - Angle baby was not harmed and looked super cute.)

Somebody's turning 29!

But it's not Ette 2, that old bag!


Happy Birthday Babe
xoxox

omg - how did I not know about this??

Because I've lost my status with the gays, that's why. I moved up to suburbia where gay men are about as rare as Vietnamese food. This pains me because I love my gays - I love them almost as much as Kathy Griffin does. Who doesn't love having a real husband and a gay husband?? The real one has to lie to you and tell you how good you look in those jeans...god forbid he tells you your ass looks like cottage cheese under pressure. But a gay husband? It's his calling in LIFE to tell you your booty is about to burst and to retire the size 4's. And you take his goading in stride - you laugh, you shrug, you agree with him. And then you go buy shoes together because those always fit. These are NOT real-husband activities. God no. Ette1, learn from my mistakes, and get ye a gay husband STAT.

Under previous circumstances I would have SO been nominated for the Miss Fag Hag pageant. But alas, I'm no longer "relevant" and thus had to retire my crown to these hags. Good luck, bitches, I envy you all.


This post is in honor of my number one all-time favorite gay husband Thomas. You are sorely missed....

What is with this weather?

If I wanted to live in a cloudy, rainy, chilly climate I'd move to Seattle. I'm east coast, baby, and it's mid-May. Doesn't Mother Nature know how it goes?? April showers bring May flowers, dammit. And yet nary a blue sky in sight.

Dreary dreary dreary. No sundresses. No sandals. Only umbrellas and galoshes. This is B.S.

Screw politics, give me french fries

You know what I don't understand... it's going on a hunger strike. Why would anyone do that? Something bad happens to you and to protest you make something else bad happen to you?! I mean a hunger strike to fit into a dress is one thing, but as a political statement - no way.
Imagine if I stopped eating every time I was pissed at Pants for not picking his underwear off the bathroom floor - I would never eat. I would weigh 10 pounds and he'd be just fine with that. So you are locked in a foreign jail for spying and you decide not to eat anything? What do you mean? You are living on the cold, wet floor of some Iranian jail with creepy looking guards watching your every movement, far removed from friends and family with nothing to do all day long and you stop eating?! Hello, meal time would be the best part of the day. That piece of pita with hummus slathered on it would taste like filet mignon with butter whipped mashed potatoes on the side. Why would you give that up. Plus you need your strength to try to whittle your way out by carving a whole in the dirt wall cell. I don't know, maybe it's just me. Maybe it's my Jew perspective, but not eating is not the route I would take. It would be something more like non-stop, constant whinning until the guard got so sick of my voice that he just opens the door and looks the other way. That's how I got a Wii this weekend!

Fashion Finders R Us

Ever see a dress in store that you love but they didn't have your size? So you figure no prob, I'll just go buy it online - but then you search for like a million years and it doesn't freaking exist on the internets?!!? And so then you make your mom and sister call all the Macy's stores in the United States to try to track it down. Do you know what it's like speaking to all the Macy's? Try to imagine, not too many english speakers there, not too many friendly salespeople who are happy to leave the checkout counter to hunt down the dress in question. Just to find that they don't carry it. Well fret no more my friends. Just call Ette2. In a matter of about 5 seconds she'll get you the phone number for the manufacturer, who not only has the dress, but will sell it to you for the wholesale price - half off!!! And all for the rock bottom price of giving her the power to sign your marriage contract. Done and done. Hope I only need one fashion favor from her, because I'm aiming to just get married the one time.

Lost: 1 Samsonite roll bag

So in another effort to prove the infinite reach of the interwebs, I found another website today that I think deserves a shout out... IsThisYourLuggage.com

This crazy (but somehow mitzvah-doing) person buys lost luggage at the airport auction (where luggage goes to die after they can't find someone to claim it) and then takes it home, empties it out, and photographs the contents, sort of in the hopes that it will help connect luggage to owner. So in the instance that the owner of the luggage, who apparently didn't think to check back with the airport/airline, and let months and months lapse -- if that person happens to know about this website and check it regularly, they may very well be in luck, should they be able to identify that pair of lace-edged panties.

Only problem is, this person seems a little creepy, and I'm not quite sure I'd even want my stuff back after it's been laid out on some stranger's bed and photographed. I'd probably let you keep it for art's sake.

Divorcing

It's a sad day for me.

Brillz

AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com

Sometimes I forget the US is stupid

Let me qualify that...sometimes I forget that in general, we are a nation full of uneducated, racist, stereotype-breeding, beer-drinking, gun-toting idiots.

And when I have those moments of clarity, it really makes me sad to be an American. This feeling is intensified when these emotions are displayed outright in the form of Facebook status updates. The way I see it, if you have racist feelings, or if you are part of some Confederate flag waving organization, you should hide it in your basement with your guns and your porn.

So here's my open letter to the anonymous - even though you suck I won't call you out on here because I'm better than you, and I have class.

Dear Racialist Facebooker,

When you Friend Requested me, I pondered the decision, my mouse hovering over the "approve" and "deny" options, as it's been what - fifteen odd years since we last saw each other? I didn't particularly think you were that cool then, which is why we haven't spoken since...we didn't exchange numbers, or addresses, we didn't keep in touch. In all the fifteen odd years I haven't once Googled your name, not even slightly curious where you ended up or what kind of man you turned out to be. I don't care. But I accepted your friend request because it seemed the kind thing to do.

And now you are sandwiched between some of my favorite people, placed on a pedestal of sorts as I refresh my browser, curious to see which of my actual friends have something intriguing or beguiling to say. And there you sit, like a fat lump, with your racialist comments and really bad jokes (I mean really, "How many Mexicans does it take to landscape your yard? Juan?" REALLY?? Is this the best you've got???) and no censor on your malt liquor-slugging lips.

And I really have no one to blame but myself. Because the onus was on me to deny you entry into my world. To not allow you to be put in a tailored little column of people I actually care about. So I am forced to endure your ignorance and cursing, because you, Racialist Facebooker, use Facebook as your platform to spit malicious crap no onegives you the time to share with them face-to-face.

So, in closing, I've decided that rather than delete you from my friends list, I am going to leave you there, because you are a very bold reminder of exactly the kind of idiocy this country is up against.

Yours Truly,

Ette2, the Jew

I'm not quite sure if I'm comfortable with this

It's no secret that magazines and newspapers are pretty much screwed - every day another one bites the dust, and the sound of trees sighing in relief can be heard across the land. But truthfully, I'm not okay with it. I'm okay with blogging my inner-most thoughts. I'm intrigued with the idea of sharing my stream of consciousness with whomever will listen.  I'm totally up for the Facebook Reunion Tour and seeing who got knocked up, who's doin' who, who found Jesus. The truth is, I use my fingers for every form of communication these days - it's a shame they don't just convert sign language to the QWERTY placement, we'd all be pros. 

But there's something about that fresh magazine smell, when you fan through the pages and they just smells papery and important. And the newspaper's crisp edges are still sort of crimped together in a couple corners so you have to lick your ink-stained fingers to spread them apart. I just love the ritual of it all. And sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop and coffee on a Sunday morning instead of my NY Times and coffee just seems a little bit too much like an Ikea commercial for my liking.

So here's to hoping a few of the good ones stick it out. I've made my list below for those I'm rooting for -- the rest, take it or leave it -- siyonara suckers.

New York magazine - I do the weekly crossword religiously. It's part and parcel to me not turning into a scorching monster on Mondays.

The New Yorker - I don't read this as often as I should, but it's smart, sophisticated, and it's got literary clout that should not be negotiated. I want to be able to read this when I'm 45 and need to be inspired by something other than my dog's cuteness or a pair of espadrilles.

Lucky Magazine - a girl needs her magalog. That's magazine catalog, for those of you who don't know Lucky. You bitches already took Domino. Step. Away. From. Lucky. Or I will seriously hurt you.

Westchester Magazine - I live in Westchester, and I need to know what these people find important, so I can make fun of them and continue on my quest for county resident domination.

NY Times - it's bible-esque, just don't mess with it. Thursday Style section, weekend op-eds, Sunday business section...it's why newspapers were invented.

The rest (and yes, that includes you, Vogue, you've been a disappointment to me the last year or so...Anna's eyesight must be going) can kiss it. 

I'm not even listening to you

For the record, I will not accept that Jon is cheating on Kate until they both are sitting on Oprah's couch talking about it. So everyone can just stop asking me if I saw the news, blah blah. I'm not interested. They are in love. Kate is tough but she needs to be because of her thousand kids. That's that. Leave them alone and focus on other heading-straight-for-divorce couples like Mariah and her son Nick.

Nine words women use

Since I am too busy to be creative I'm stealing from my bro-in law who got a dumb email forward, but it gave me a giggle. I know we've sunk to a new low. It' my fault, not ette2. In June I'll be back to providing the kind of bitchy complaining you expect from me.

(1) Fine: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.

(2) Five Minutes: If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.

(3) Nothing: This is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in fine.

(4) Go Ahead: This is a dare, not permission. Don't Do It!

(5) Loud Sigh: This is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing. (Refer back to # 3 for the meaning of nothing.)

(6) That's Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can make to a man. That's okay means she wants to think long and hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

(7) Thanks: A woman is thanking you, do not question, or faint. Just say you're welcome. (I want to add in a clause here - This is true, unless she says 'Thanks a lot' - that is PURE sarcasm and she is not thanking you at all. DO NOT say 'you're welcome' . That will bring on a 'whatever').

(8) Whatever: Is a woman's way of saying F--- YOU!

(9) Don't worry about it, I got it: Another dangerous statement, meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking 'What's wrong?' For the woman's response refer to # 3.

My Dad Loves 24

My Dad loves to have long conversations. He tends to draaaaag things out with loads of "uhhhhs" and "aaahhhs" injected into otherwise mundane questions or thoughts. For example - "So, uh, I was uh wondering if uh you happened to watch the uh President's speech...it was uh, pretty impressive." Now if you had timed that, you'd know it took him 4 minutes and 34 seconds to ask me that. So my conversations with my father never last less than 2 hours and twenty minutes. He wonders why I sometimes take a few days to return his phone call and I try to explain to him that it's because I have to block out a chunk of time on my calendar to speak to him where I can have no distractions because the slightest glimpse of Gossip Girl on the tube and I've completely forgotten what we are talking about in between trying to piece together verbs and adjectives between all the damn "uh's."

So tonight he called to check in and see how the new daytime digs worked out for me today. I was kind of in a chatty mood so I thought I'd update him on all fronts of my life...like, Leia the Wunderdog is so snuggly, it's really nice...our New York Times delivery guy never double bags the Sunday Times and it really annoys me b/c it shows up half wet....I bought a Dirt Devil Kone and it's changed my life. The usual riveting conversational prose. Oddly, Pops was kind of rushing me through, not asking the usual 20 questions about each fact I presented him with ("Is that Kone with a K? Why do you think that is? Does that thing use a vacuum bag? What kind of charge does it take?") Instead it was "Aha, that's nice...okay, so anything else?"

And then something unbelievable happened. For the first time in my entire life, my father ended the conversation before I was ready to get off the phone. "So uh, it was nice talking to you but listen, 24 just started and I gotta run...okay? Talk to you soon? Okay? Gotta go, love ya, see you..." Click.

I just got dissed for Jack Bauer from my highly intellectual statistical engineer father. Crash and burn. 

Telemarketing Genius

Stupid Techmology

So when Ette1 and I started this site, we knew we were going to be an overnight sensation. Thus, we followed all standard blogger protocol including setting up an account with Google Ads, adding a legal notice and installing HTML for a site tracking device.

So far, our Google Ad has netted us zero dollars.

Our legal ad has netted us zero libel suits. (that's the only plus here).

And our site tracker mysteriously disappeared months ago.

Well, due to both our ineptness and our laziness for figuring out how to re-install the thing, we've let it slide. But curiosity struck me now as I wondered just how many tortured, Jewish souls we were touching with our blog. So, bitches - it's back. Mind you, it stopped tracking eons ago, so our 9,000 site visits is completely inaccurate - we are MUCH more loved than that, thank you very much.

But from this moment on, all of your visits count. We're watching you, readerettes. We know when you've been sleeping, when you're reading, how long you stay for. And trust us, we WILL use it against you.

Happy reading.

Wine Vs. Whine

One I love to drink and the other I love to do.

Happy Friday, Kvetchers. Go pour yourself a drink. Or if you're like me, save the water it takes to wash the glass and drink straight from the bottle.

Sports!

A man I know who will go unnamed, but is known for wearing clothing items on his bottom half, spent approximately 4 consecutive hours last night switching between baseball and basketball games on TV.  Yes yes he took short breaks for snacking and some computer time, but the TV stayed on and the good majority of that time his butt was planted to the couch.  As he was getting ready for bed and he caught me eyeballing my guilty pleasure Millionaire Matchmaker, he made some snide comment about how much TV I watch.  Seriously?!  When I pointed out his TV time, he responded by saying he was watching sports - which is different. 

OK boys, lets set this straight.  Sports is TV.  Unless you are on the field with the ball, or running up a court or sweating and not from extra hot pepper sauce you put on your pizza - then you are watching TV.  We can call it reality TV if you like - but it's TV.  It's basically a soap opera for that matter.  Most soap operas have a good guy and a bad guy, one you are really rooting for and one you want to see fail.  And they have some ups and downs and trials and tribulations, but in the end, one always wins and you leave feeling frustrated or pretty darn satisfied.  And next week, they'll do it again.  Sports / Soaps - same thing.  And boys, sports is not more important or urgent than regular TV.  In fact the one good thing about sports is that if you miss it there are news segments and web sites and even a whole other DVR-able show called Sports Center that will tell you what happened during the game, a complete blow by blow, so you don't miss a moment of the action.  We don't have that for regular TV.  If I miss my favorite show I'm shit out of luck.  How come Ramona and Simon hate each other one week and are playing a game of tennis together the next?1  I don't know, because I missed an episode and I may never know.  

Point made, sports not more important that regular TV.