Recession Shmession

Last night the bling-eratti were out in full force in NYC. Chalk it up to perfect weather, but I say NYC doesn't seem to have gotten the memo about the recession. I saw not one but two pairs of Chanel gun heels. Yes, Chanel made a high heel with the heel shaped like a revolver. And let's just say they will set you back $2,200. No, I did not forget a decimal point in there. That's two thousand two hundred dollars for a pair of high heels.

While out on the town for a bachelorette party, we ended up in the lounge at the new Cooper Square Hotel. It's a beautiful enough space, and certainly fulfills every cliche on it's checklist (model waitresses, the flamboyant gay hotel bar manager with the expensive suit and the kerchief poufed just so out of his lapel, the requisite music industry group who found it necessary to invite their pug out for the evening, etc...) But what really got me was when I exited my toilet stall in the ladies room, I was gently greeted by some poor member of the waitstaff, a pretty enough girl but apparently not tall enough/pretty enough/skinny enough to make it to front-of-house waitstaff status, this minion was dismissed to the loo with a tray of wine glasses, asking every chick who just peed if she'd care for a glass of chardonnay. I kid you not. As if I was potty training and getting a reward for actually "making" in the toilet. "Could I offer you a glass of wine? We're so grateful to have you use our restroom." I wanted to snatch this poor girl up and shuffle her out of the toilet catacombs to above-ground level, rush her out the front door of the place under the comfort of my wing (armpit), and let her breathe the fresh, New York City air, so she could once again feel womanly. And worthy. And not like a urinal waitress. And then I remembered that I was in a luxe hotel on Bowery (it's own wild contradiction) and that the outdoors smelled a little like pee too. And I remembered that we were in a recession and this girl was lucky to have a damn job. So I snapped back out of my Save-a-Toilet-Girl daydream, whisked a glass off her tray and traipsed back upstairs to my friends.

Only in New York, kids. Only in New York.

My parents are totally random

Is this happening to you guys too? Your parents reach a certain age and then do totally wacky stuff. My dad forwarded me one of these "warning emails" that you are supposed to pass on to everyone you know to potentially save a life. Doesn't seem so un-parent like unless you know my Dad. He cares about serious shit like being Jewish, and Republicans and the Holocaust. This one is about bad pancakes. I don't think we ever even ate pancakes at home, but now this is his big concern.
Once he didn't speak to me for three months - not kidding - three months because he found out I smoked some herbal and was sure it was the gateway drug to a lifelong addiction to meth. Well sorry pop, all that did was make me want to blaze even more and now you just gave me a craving for some IHOP.

Read below if you are concerned about the pancake epidemic.



A student at HBHS (high school) had pancakes this week and it almost
became fatal. His Mom (registered nurse) made him pancakes, dropped him
off at school and headed to play tennis. She never takes her cell phone on the
court but did this time and her son called to say he was having trouble
breathing. She told him to go to the nurse immediately and proceeded to
call school and alert the nurse. The nurse called the paramedics and they were
there in 3 minutes and worked on the boy all the way to the hospital. He
came so close to dying. Evidently this is more common then I ever knew.
Check the expiration dates on packages like pancakes and cake mixes that
have yeast which over time develop spores. Apparently, the mold that forms
in old mixes can be toxic! Throw away ALL OUTDATED pancake mix, brownie
mixes, Bisquick, cake & cookie mixes, etc., you have in your home.

P.S. Tell this to your children, grandchildren, nephews, nieces and
anyone else who keeps these types of mixes in the cupboard.

Weeds

Today, on the drive home from the Cape, I found myself daydreaming about my garden and what's happening with it. What weeds I can pull when I get home. What my veggies have done over the weekend. What flowers need watering. What I should cut and bring in the house.

The world certainly works in mysterious ways, I'll tell you that much. Never in a million years did I think I had a gardener's mentality. The only thing I knew about weeds were they were good for a smoke. Now I can spot one a mile away, as I race to get my gardener's gloves on.

I guess this is what they mean when they say your 30's are different. Or else, the 'burbs got a hold on me. I've apparently joined the ranks of Westchester women who've traded their heels for hoes and would rather primp their garden than themselves. I don't know whether to be scared or grateful.

Astrology 101

Uh oh.  After a glorious weekend together, Ette 1 and Pants decided to ruin it by hypothesizing about their signs and whether they make a good astrological love match.  Here's what we found.  As you read, replace the words Leo, Lion or Fire with the name Pants and the words Pisces, Fish or Water with the name Ette 1.  It's not a good story.

A vivid imagination and childlike sense of play bring these two together. Pisces will be drawn to the self-assurance of the Lion, perhaps hoping that confidence will rub off on them. Leo knows its found a compassionate heart in Pisces, one that has the capacity to love deeply and be loyal. Pisces can be a wide-eyed admirer of Leo's charisma. The Lion feels lucky to have found such a good listener. Dates can take a spontaneous turn, both able to take off their adult masks, and let go. They're apt to see the humor in life, and try to keep each other entertained.

The trouble with this mix of elements, is that fire can leave water parched and missing emotional nurturance, and water can drown out fire's enthusiasm. Leo's constant need for approval can be draining to Pisces. The sensitive Pisces mirrors and absorbs moods, and they may lose their sense of self around the more demanding Lion. A dreamy, confused Pisces is maddening to the Leo looking for more direct, passionate contact. When Pisces is embedded in a sea of negativity, they're the ultimate wet blanket for the Lion's dreams.

Both pride themselves on being the generous type. Together they can throw fun, magical parties that are way over-the-top. Leo's radiant nature has an impact on those around them, while Pisces' gift is felt on a more subtle level. Leo can use its personal power to nurture the self-hood and expression of Pisces. Through osmosis, Pisces takes Leo further into the mysterious, and that only heightens their creativity. This is a challenging pairing that thrives when both realize they're artists at heart, but working in different mediums.

Well we're no fools, we're not going against the stars on this one.  Engagement is off

Elevator Ettequette

You know what makes me crazy. People who box you in on the elevator. I step in and move to the back like a normal person to make room for others and then some schmuck gets in turns to face the front and then takes a giant step back all up into my personal space. I want to scream, there's three feet between you and the door and a mere two inches between your backside and myself that doesn't want to be molested by your backside. And then if you flick your gross hair, it's all up in my facial. I can't stand it and its an everyday occurrence. Some people just accept it and suffer in silence till they get to their floor, but not me. I'm not mature enough to just say, would you mind giving me a bit more space, but I always shift so my bag hits them in the back or something so they realize that they are impeding on my area and then make a move. We live in NYC kids. Our personal space is extremely important - back the heck off me in the elevator. This is why I close the door when I see you coming.

5head

Do you have some totally irrational insecurity that bugs the hell out of you but there's nothing you can do about it? Of course you do, we all do. I'm not talking about a fat ass or anything - because basically you can do something about that - get off it for one. But I like my big butt, what I don't like is my big forehead: a la Tyra.

I always kind of felt like my hairline is just a half an inch too far back and that I'd be hot stuff if it were down just a smidgen. But then I saw my favorite new show, NJ Housewives and my favorite new character Teresa who obviously has the opposite problem.

I don't know how that girl feels confident enough to be on national TV with that weave, but I wouldn't be able to do it. But watching her makes me reconsider my own hairline, and I guess it could be worse, so I'll move on to my other insecurities, like how my voicemail voice sounds so high-pitched and wierd and then there's that one eyelash that won't freaking curl. All the others curl up nice and this one rouge bastard insists on sticking straight out. Annoying.

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.