Something Fishy

I just loved this little widget. Click anywhere to feed the fish and watch the fun.

A Wild Hair

I don't know... Lately it seems I have been encountering a lot of people with a little too much power - or at least the notion of it.

A celebrity friend telling me to "get right on that" was the tipping point. Naturally, the only thing I "got right on" was my computer to send a "don't think so" email. Have you heard back? Nope, me neither. And frankly, I don't give a rat's ass.

Just prior to that I was stopped by the Putinist TSA (Transportation Security Agency) power midget who determined that my tweezers (no shit, tweezers) were too sharp and re appropriated them for herself.

Apparently, I couldn't be trusted with a fucking pair of tweezers. What did they think I was going to do, threaten the flight attendant? Something like, "get away from that door or I'm gonna tweeze those eyebrows one tree trunk at a time"? Don't think so. And if you believe that, you might also believe they throw $300 bottles of La Mer in those bins and don't dig them out later. Exactly. And now this little fucker has a pair of tweezers that cost more than her DSW pleather pumps.

Oh well, I got even with them. The following week I fedexed all the good shit directly to the hotel. So there.

One Way Bitch

The art of being absurdly selfish.

Here is a prime example. Non-Actress Denise Richards, ex-wife of Charlie Sheen has made a deal to drag her children through an ill-plotted reality based show as she "comes to terms with the recent loss of her mother and divorce". What the fuck is this? And is her plan is withhold her grief until they can put a crew together and put her on camera? And what will her kids think when they watch this 20 years from now and see mommy trying to squeeze out a boo-hoo tear?

Of course Denise isn't the only One Way Bitch. I'm sure you know a few. They get for themselves and "forget" you. It's all about them. Know a One Way? Post your favorite One way here so we cal all hate her together :)

Cheeter, cheeter...

Oh alright. So I've been cheating a little. It's not that I don't love blogger, I've just been itching for a change. I'm not going away, just taking a break and playing on Squidoo. it's fun, a really interesting business model (brain child of Seth Godin) where people can make money by blogging - kind of an affiliate deal. Check out my page if you like:
How Fabulous Is That?

Pay it Forward

It's true - I'm not all mean all the time.

No, ye ole piker is not flip flopping. Just taking a break... a reflective period of sorts for the new year.

True story. I collect belt buckles for fun, some fancy sterling silver, some just funky bronze. All depends on my mood. SO, a month or so ago I was shopping on ebay for belt buckles and found a kitchy bronze buckle from the Chili Club for best chili. I don't even make chili really, but I thought it was fun and my brother does have a bunch of restaurants. I left a maximum bid of $6. and when I woke up in the morning I got my winning email from ebay. It was a whopping $5.65. plus shipping.

A day later I get this crazy email from some guy and his wife. He is distraught that they didn't win the buckle. Their friend was the second place winner... it was going to be a gift, and if I ever consider selling it please let them know. Strange. If it was so important why didn't the guy leave a bid for ten bucks? I send a nice reply stating that I didn't even get it yet and I bought it because I though it would be cool for my brother. They reply with a nice but disappointing note.

A few days later I get the buckle in the mail. It's cool. But did I really HAVE to have it? Would my brother like it or even care that much? I don't know why, but I sent an email back to the guy and asked him to send me his mailing address, I am shipping the buckle off to him. Dumbfounded the guy writes back "please, let us pay, anything, how much do you want?"

I replied, "I don't want any money, thank you". It's simply my way of paying it forward. Don't know why, just felt like it was the right thing to do. They promised to pay it forward when they have the opportunity, and I believe they will. A random act of kindness? Don't know. Just felt good. Try it, I promise, you will feel good too.

Happy New Year.

PS. I really am working on my next post (yeah, I know, I've been lazy). It's entitled "One Way Bitch". Hehehe... I'm baaaaccckkk.

Oh yes, I want spam…

NOT.

Of course I don't WANT spam. But it’s practically unavoidable these days. For example, last night I was trying to order something on the Internet, and there it was – the dreaded "negative option".

In other words, rather than allowing you to check a button that says "yes. I want to be on your mailing list", it is already checked and it's up to you to uncheck it. If you don't uncheck it, or miss it, you're on the list by default (that's why they call it negative option).

Back to last night. The checkout page was a mess and every time I hit the submit button (three times), it gave me a new message, first, "please mark the required field", okay, did that. Then "please re-enter a password", okay pretty sure I already did that. THEN, "please verify your email address" DOH. By the third try, I realized that some of the fields did not automatically re-populate after I got the error message. Hmm. What rocket scientist built this prehistoric site I wonder.

So now I am checking really hard, and notice the "yes I want to be on your mailing list " box also defaults to a checked box each and every time you come back to that page. That really pissed me off because there is no reason to make the default checked every time. And you know if they get you on the list – you are NEVER getting off. You can send 100 replies, tell them to “take me off your fucking list”. Nope. And then, you run out of time. You get tired, and resolve yourself to forwarding the shit right to your trash.

But you know what? It still feels like they fucking won.

To sir, with love.

Okay, I’m not a kid anymore, that part I get...

But I keep myself in shape and I’m told, I don’t look bad – for my age. So at the ripe old age of 48, I find myself standing in front of the Adriana Goldschmied store, otherwise known as “AG Jeans”. The store is a little too bright, but otherwise quirky-cool sporting a table made of shrink-wrapped jeans.

Neither of the two young sales girls looked like they gave a shit about, well, anything. But, as much of an imposition as it appeared to be, we were there to shop. I pulled a few pairs of jeans in both size 31 and 32 since I was not familiar with the fit. I don’t know if AG embraces vanity sizing or what, but to my surprise the 31’s seemed a little loose.

I peak my head out of the dressing room “these 31’s are actually a bit loose, how about a 30?” I ask. A few moments later I hear a young girl outside my dressing room. “Excuse me, SIR?” I go about trying on the second pair of jeans. “Sir, SIR”. SIR? Who the fuck is she talking to? I open the door and there she sands with a pair of jeans in hand. “They run really big, these are 29’s try these” she says. Dumbfounded I look at the jeans and then back at her. “That is very sweet, but at 48 years old, I don’t think I’m getting into a size 29”.

“I don’t know, my father is 38 and he wears a size 29, maybe they’ll fit”, she says. BLECH! The reality sinks in - the kid’s father is practically a kid!

Well, I don’t feel old, so who cares right? Wrong. Call me 48, call me sensitive, just please - don’t call me SIR.

Lovely Rita, meter maid...

Kick her in the ass.

Okay, we all know that when you park on the street, you feed the meter or risk getting a ticket. Personally, I think if you take a gamble you deserve a ticket. Generally speaking, it’s not a good idea to break the law.

Having said all of the above, laws can be very subjective, except when it comes to parking tickets. Every day I pass this knobby kneed, black sock wearing Nazi standing around with her pad, waiting for the meters to expire. Today I saw her giggle the thing as if she was going to shake off the last minute. Fucking bitch. Luckily, I had a quarter and slipped it into the meter right in front of her. “Is this your car” she asks. “Nope, it’s my friend’s car" I replied. “Well, you’re not supposed to do that” she screamed. “Yeah, neither are you, shit head”.

I clearly ruined her day. Good. I hate people that live to create misery for others. She isn’t feeling bad, or waiting five seconds. She is standing there hoping to “catch” someone who waited an extra two minutes for the doctor. That’s bullshit. I don’t ever believe that was the intent of the law. Enforce the law with reason and passion, not sadism.

Come on. Drop in a coin and ruin a meter maid’s day.

Going nowhere, fast.

Where in he world did all of these hostile drivers come from?

Once or twice a month I take a two-hour drive, most of which is on the highway. The speed limit is 65 miles an hour, which seems pretty reasonable to me. Unfortunately, it appears I stand alone.

See, if you drive in the middle lane, monster trucks come up behind you and try to fuck you up the ass, forcing you out of the middle lane. If you move into the left passing lane, some asshole in a black car with gold trim will be trying to fuck you up the ass. Or maybe it will be Paris Hilton, who may just smash into the back of your car for fun, but hey, that’s her manager’s fault, so that doesn’t really count, right?

Of course you could move into the right lane, except you’ll probably end up behind some 3000 year old hag, some ignorant bitch slapping her kids in the back seat while she’s trying to drive, or some jerk off in a hunk of shit hoopdie on the cell phone, trying to make the radio louder all while attempting to drive a car. So it appears the right slow-ass-lane is not much better. Seems either way, you’re fucked.

All of this would not piss me off quite so much if I didn’t find myself at the toll both sitting right next to the same assholes who tried to fuck me up the ass with their car. Of course, they will rudely cut five other people out so they can quick, get through that toll faster and fuck some Jetta up the ass, who in all likelihood will be sitting right behind them at the next toll booth.

Well, they say every dog has its day. So I’ll just keep praying that the next time one of those lunatic drivers tries to fuck a car up the ass, it’s an unmarked cop car.

Lost in translation

I can speak English, a touch or French and even a teeny bit of Italian, but baby talk? Apparently not.

I was asked recently to watch a friend's 4 year old child for a whopping three hours. It was in their home, they were really stuck and three hours didn't seem unreasonable. The moment mommy and daddy walk out the door the kid turns into a whining monster.

"I nee dep duce ina reb oxeeee". What? Okay, the kid wants something, that much I got. "What do you want Robbie?" ""I won dit dep, dooce! Duce inda, wiva saw, NOW". Holy shit. I start to panic walking around the kitchen pointing at everything in sight. "This? This? This?" "NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" "RAHHHHHHHH". It's forty minutes later and I have already touched every fucking thing in the house. Meanwhile the child is beet red and screaming his head off. I need to sit down. I sit on the sofa and land on a toy. "Mineeeeee, mineeeee". Okay, that I understand. I give the brat the toy and he falls asleep. A few LONG hours later mommy and daddy arrive home.

The child wakes up and runs to his mother whining "I nee dep duce ina reb oxeee... witt asa". My friend replies, “I'm sorry sweetheart, it's too late for a juice box”. What? What the fuck was that? How did she get juice box from nee dep duce? The kid continues to whine a bunch of jibberish and yet somehow mommy knows exactly what to say. I quietly slip out the door.

Hmm.Well, I just hope they don't ask me to watch the kid again, because if they do, I'm gonna say "I da wanna fuging dod dat". And yet somehow, I don't think she will understand.

The joys of tipping.

I fucking hate the concept of tipping.

The whole concept sucks. I pay my employees. Shop owners pay their employees. Why do I have to subsidize a restaurant's payroll? That's just wrong.

In fact, many cultures view tipping as an insult. Tipping in Japan for instance, is considered condescending. Right fucking on. You're hired to do a good job - it shouldn't be an option.

Customarily, one would be expected to tip more generously for really good service. But what if the service blows, or if it's practically non existent? I didn't have to ask myself that question until recently...

It all started with this little Italian restaurant that has great food. Unfortunately, half the time I would get stuck with this arrogant snot nose waiter. WTF, I like the place and I really don't want spit in my food, so I deal, and of course he always gets his obligatory tip. Until recently, when dude got my order wrong twice in the same night and pretty much called me a liar in front of three other people. At that moment, I knew the answer to the aforementioned question. I didn't care if this asshole wrapped my dick in an Italian flag and sucked my knob - he wasn't getting a fucking penny. And he didn't.

Note: While tipping is poo-pooed in Japan, you can be sure the guy delivering your sushi will have his palm wide open. Welcome to America, kid.

There's one in every crowd.

At some point, we all get annoyed or down right pissed off with people. We're only human, it's natural. But some people can't or won't communicate honestly, instead using a physical gesture to express their discontent. This is not only disturbing, it's also idiotic.

Why is this idiotic? Take this simple test:

You are at a bar with other people trying to have a conversation. But you can't get a word in edgewise because some asshole won't shut up for two fucking seconds. This continues for an hour. You are pissed, but you really don't want to leave yet. Do you:

A. Continue to grin like a fool and pretend not to be bothered.

B. Pray silently that they choke on an olive.

C. Roll your eyes so others can tell you are annoyed.

If you answered "C", you are indeed an idiot. Because if others can see you roll your eyes there's a good chance the asshole might see you too. And even if the asshole doesn't see you, they will see others react to you and most likely figure it out. This could be problematic because the asshole at hand may also be your spouse, boss, an IRS agent or someone who was planning to pick up the tab.

Eye rolling is a tricky habit. It's a passive aggressive way of saying "die bitch", and if you do roll your eyes, you do it because you want people to know that's how you feel. This is a similar trait to shaking your head, a deep exhale or rubbing your temples as if you have a headache. You think you are being subtle? Well you're not.

Note to self: You will always get caught. And when you do - you will end up looking like the asshole. Save yourself the humiliation and just don't do it,

Oh, yes. If you answered "A", you are probably too nice to be reading my blog. If you answered "B", you're mean - but at least your not an idiot. And yes, of course I answered "B".

Look me in the eye and say that.

Okay listen. I know we aren't all perfect. But one abnormality, well, makes me fucking dizzy.

Most people don't give a shit what you have to say. They shake their heads and grin while you are talking, impatiently waiting for any break or pause so they can jump in and monopolize the conversation. But there actually some people that care more about being interested, than being interesting. These are people that actually look you in the eye when you speak.

I like to think I am one of those people who look you in the eye. Herein lies the problem. There are some people that have one eyeball that appears to be looking in a different direction than the other eyeball. This is deeply problematic for me, because I never really know which eyeball to look at. I find myself splitting my attention between eyeballs, almost like playing pong. Makes me dizzy as hell.

Innately, what I really want to say is "hey, you stray eyeball, over here". To make matters worse, I recently discovered that this is an easily correctable condition - yet I know someone who can have this simple procedure, but is "afraid" to have it done. Afraid? You're fucking scaring the shit out of everyone else with that thing.

Please, if you have a naughty eyeball that won't stay put, do us all a favor and yank that puppy into place, will you?

Hairy and scary. Part 2.

You can’t have too much money, but you can have too much hair.

Although the hair I am talking about is not on your head. Perhaps it doesn’t bother most people, but hair in all the wrong places just weirds me out. Of course women tend to be better about hair management in general.

Women have figured out that a single pair of tweezers can go a long way. It still doesn’t mean you won’t see a woman that has a mustache like Hitler, but it’s a lot less common then men’s hairy orifices.

As men get older, they tend to get hair, and I mean an abundance of hair, in the most undesirable places. There's is a man that works in our office building, a very well educated professional who has a fucking bush growing out of his nose. I want to say something… but what? “Hey, what are you, fucking Rapunzel? I can't even look at him.

Worse yet is one of my doctors, this dude has trees growing out of his ears. Like he's gonna get a pick and fucking style it or something. Ears and noses shouldn't look like a Chia pet. It’s gross.

Hint: it's called trimmer.

Snot funny.

Everybody has at least one nasty habit.

Picking your teeth, ear, ass or nose all qualify as nasty habits. Of course, having a nasty little habit isn’t embarrassing – it’s getting caught that makes it hideous.

Most intriguing though, are people who do not even attempt to hide their nasty little habits. I have one associate that scratches her scalp all the time, and then proceeds to sniff her fingernails in clear daylight. If you have to sniff remnants of your scalp to find out if it smells bad – you can bet your ass it does.

But this one is the hum dinger. I can only refer to this individual as “someone I know”, because I really don't want my head bashed in. For reference, let’s simply refer to this individual as “the boogie roller”, an individual who has crafted his exceptionally dirty little habit into a hobby of sorts. First, our boogie roller mines a nasty hunk of snot, and then proceeds to work it between this thumb and index finger, forming a round, sticky ball of snot. He will then proceed to play with it, in front of people, for longer than I would chew a stick of gum.

Once bored with his snot ball, he proceeds to flick it haphazardly into the air. This garners a reaction similar to sitting at a hockey game when the puck looks like it’s coming in your direction. Everyone talks about this gross out - except to him. He is simply known as "the boogie roller".

So contain your nasty little habits to the bathroom, and if you really feel the need to share, flick them over to post secret.

Hairy and scary. Part I

Why do so many men insist on wearing one long hairy hedge over their eyes? The dreaded "unibrow" appears to be the result of men’s unwillingness to learn how to properly groom their often massive brows. Gentleman, get with it. Unless you want to look like Bert here, a unibrow is simply not appealing to anyone.

Good grooming isn’t an affront to your masculinity. Really. Any woman, wife, girlfriend (or gay guy if you are secure enough) can help. Or, you could actually go to a salon where they can offer you options from plucking to waxing.

However, please DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME before getting some assistance. Because the only thing worse than a unibrow, is the perfectly clean dissection of a unibrow, resulting in an un-naturally hard edged, wide space which just happens to be exactly the width of a Gillette razor. This leaves you with eyebrows that look as if they were cut out and pasted on your head – again, not a good look.

Think about it. If people aren't getting real close to you, maybe it’s because they fear one of your wild unibrow hairs will poke their fucking eye out.

The envelope please...

"Just Don't" Contest Winners.

You people rock, this was really hard. So I asked a group of my piker friends to help me choose, and we decided to also give two second place prizes as well. It was really tough, but the winners are:

First Prize: $50 Gift Certificate to FabulousStationery.com

KK said...

"Just don't... Buy a bluetooth wireless headset. You're really not that important, no one wants to hear any of your personal and/or business related conversations, you look like a freaking alien & you appear totally stupid talking to yourself everywhere you go".


Second Prize (tie): $25 Gift Certificate to FabulousStationery.com

Skwerly said...

"Just don't: Regale a newly pregnant woman with tales of your friend who just had a miscarriage".


Second Prize (tie): $25 Gift Certificate to FabulousStationery.com

Divine Bird said...

"Just Don't... Offer advice about something I've researched very thoroughly, of which you have little to no understanding. No, PublishAmerica is NOT a good idea if I want to sell my novel. No, I can NOT make my money back by making that garment/piece of furniture/etc and selling it. No, I do NOT have the skills or desire to turn X hobby into a moneymaking venture."

This was fun and I will positively do it again. Winners, to claim your prize submit you email address in a post, I will NOT publish it, and I will email you a gift code.

Thanks for all the great entries and for reading. Suggestions for the next contest welcome :)

Oh doctor, may I kiss your ring?

This post is a quickie but I had to get this off my chest.

Listen, I'm not stupid. We all need doctors. But I don't understand why people in this profession are anointed with a title as if they were royalty. Why are you Mr. Smith and a doctor is Dr. Smith? And how come when I call a busy restaurant and can’t get a reservation my “doctor” friends always seem to get one?

When I am sitting in the bar waiting for a table, it’s “follow me please”. But when my friend the doctor is waiting it’s, “Oh, DOCTOR SMITH! Right this way”. Fuck you. I already know you’re a proctologist, so why does an asshole expert get to be treated any differently than me?

If the President of the United States is referred to as “Mr. President”, an asshole specialist (or any other doctor for that matter) should be Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. just like the rest of us.

And no, even though you’re my friend, I really don’t want to shake your hand, "doctor". So there.

The orange people.

Nope. This post is not about oranges, or people who eat oranges, or even Anita Bryant.

This post is about the increasing number of people who appear to look orange. Why? Why would someone want to look orange? And how much crap would one have to slather on to get this zesty color?

Someone enlighten me, please. Are these overly made up, orange-faced women buying the wrong color, or too much color, or putting it on wrong? They must look in the mirror. Can’t they tell they look like fucking Ernie?

But the quest for orange doesn't stop at make-up. There's always a little fake bake, fellas. Where you climb into a giant easy bake oven and pop out looking, ta-da, orange. And can someone tell me what the fuck “Hollywood Tan” is all about? Aside from George Hamilton, I don't think the rest of Hollywood thinks being orange is a good thing.

Still, the most insane orange-ization technique of all, has you standing in a fake bake booth where they, no shit, spray paint you from head to toe, with, you guessed it, orange die. And you think you've got problems.

Hey, all you orange people, you look awful.

Congratulations, you’re not dead yet.

Or in other words, Happy Birthday.

Remind me again why one’s date of birth is such a sacred day? A day that demands we all remember it. Celebrate it. Make a big deal about it. Be nice. Buy a card. Maybe even a gift. A party. For sure a cake, with candles, so you can blow them out and make a wish. Hey, I can see it if you are one year old, or maybe one hundred years old. Otherwise, it’s really just a big fat imposition.

And I don’t know about you, but birthdays only remind me that I am getting progressively older. I for one, do NOT need a reminder of that.

I also don’t want to keep track of a hundred birth dates. I don’t want to feel compelled to pay two bucks for a card that has some schmarmy bullshit in it written by some hillbilly in Kansas City. I don’t want to attend parties and eat cakes with bleached white flour and processed sugar paste icing. And I sure as shit don’t want a guilt trip because I don’t want to fly a fucking birthday balloon, or be in a bad group photo with all of your “friends”. If I was really your friend, you know better than to ask me.

I just wish people really knew how I felt about birthdays. Hey wait, now they do… maybe there is something to that wish thing.

"Just Don't" Contest.

How to win a $50 gift certificate to FabulousStationery.com.

You know those bothersome things people do or say that make you nuts? The kind of thing you see or hear coming that makes you want to say “JUST DON’T”!

Well, it's time to share them. Post your best "Just Don't". Keep 'em short. I pick the winner by the end of the month. Have some fun, and good luck.

My "Just Don’t" contributions:

Butter an entire slab of bread and shove it in your mouth at the table.

Make shit up. If you really don’t know what you’re talking about, shut the fuck up.

Tell me how to drive – particularly if you don’t know how to drive yourself.

Make a cell phone call in an elevator.

These are a few of my “Just Don’t” peeves. Share some of yours with us and maybe you’ll be the lucky winner of a $50 gift certificate to FabulousStationery.com. Contest ends 1/31/2007.

Pick a name, any ONE will do.

For many years, when a couple got married, it was customary for the wife to take her husband’s last name. Traditional perhaps, but it has always seemed a bit archaic to me. This post is inspired by people I actually know, although I have decided to change the names to protect myself.

So, you live your whole life with a given name, say, Candice Lane. Then one day you marry the man of your dreams, let's call him Dick Kane. Taking his name would render you Mrs. Candy Kane. Ouch.

It didn’t take long for women like Candy to wake up and tell Mr. Dick where to stick it. And why not? It’s a name not a pair of shoes, and there’s really no need to change one's name. So, Candy remains Candy Lane and all’s good, right? Not so fast. Apparently, Candy truly loves Dick, so it seems easy to stroke his ego by making a compromise. This results in the dreaded hyphenated Candy Lane-Kane. Hmm.

Now, go and try to find Candy Lane-Kane in a telephone directory of last names. Not happening. Or, search for Candy when the last name is first… which sometimes shows up as Kane-Lane, or Lane-Kane, or worse. Nobody really seems to know how to handle it. So remind me who this was convenient for?

Last but not least, Candy has a hyphenated “Lane-Kane” kid, who marries another hyphenated named kid and ends up with some fucked up name like Penny Lane-Kane-Eaton-Spain. Please. Everyone is entitled to a name – not “names”.

Call me crazy, call me asshole, just don’t call me crazy-asshole.

Do you have any gum?

Why are you asking me that? You know I fucking do.

But this is the kind of person that will always ask you for gum. As if you were a handbag for the asshole’s gum. Some people could ask you everyday for the same thing - a mint, a cigarette, a xanax, it doesn’t matter what it is. These people are just cheap, lazy or really dumb.

For example, if you chew gum all the time and never have any gum, it’s probably because you are lazy, although you could be cheap, too. If you think you don’t smoke because you don’t buy cigarettes, you qualify for all three - cheap, lazy and really dumb.

In short, buy your own shit. If you need gum, buy gum. If your breath stinks, buy mints. My handbag is already filled with my own shit.

The repetitive nightmare.

Right about now, everyone is asking the most annoying question of the year: “What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?” Most people ask this question because they are likely doing something stupidly extravagant, and want you to validate it.

Personally, I think New Year’s Eve rituals SUCK. First of all, you need an "out fit". If you go to a restaurant, you are assured a horrendously expensive meal, crappy service (let’s face it, your server wants you to die so they can get out of there too), a party hat and blower (worth a quarter) which you get to share with a bunch of loud, drunk assholes you don't want to know.

And God forbid you don’t have a date (been there). Then you would have to suffer the humiliation of being the only person standing without a body to kiss at midnight. Are we having fun yet?

Oh, Oh! How about having a party! Yeah, that's a real good idea. But that also costs a fortune, people ruin your house and you are always faced with guests from hell that won’t leave. And of course you wake up New Year's Day to a total shit hole.

Is it me, or do these options seem to suck?

We already have our plans for next year. We are going to Costco, buying a big fat steak for ten bucks, renting a video and sleeping in late. And what of the people that think we are losers for not having a party, or going out and spending a fortune?

Well they can kiss my ass – at midnight if they like.

Wishing you a Happy and Healthy New Year :)

The Christmas Invoice has arrived.

Weeks of planning and shopping.

Parties.

Food.

Gifts, gifts, and more gifts.

Wrapping paper! Yes, It’s not enough you have to buy a gift. Now you have to buy a suitable box, and hand wrap it in special paper.

Then in one day, it’s over. You owe a fortune. Your place is a mess. There’s wrapping paper everywhere, and you’re stuck with a bunch of ugly, plastic sweaters. AT BEST.

But that’s okay. Because the older I get, the less I mind the ugly sweaters.

As kids, our Grandmother would always say, “If you have your health, you have everything”. Naturally our response was, “yeah whatever, we want the presents”. We were just kids.

Thirty years later we’re not kids anymore, and we get it.

Having your health is the real gift.

Take care of yourself. Take care of those you love.

And Very Best Wishes for a Happy and Healthy New Year.

Mind if I butt in?

It depends. Mind a foot up your ass?

Nobody enjoys waiting. You drive around looking for a parking spot, you find someone pulling out and wait. Just as you throw your car in reverse some asshole sneaks in and steals your spot. It’s not an accident. They saw your rear lights on, they know you waited for the spot, but they really don’t give a shit. You can hear them laughing too, “Ha, ha, fuck you, you snooze you loose, jerk off”.

The worst of course is when you are waiting in line and someone blatantly butts in front of you. They don’t want to wait either, but most buttinskies don’t care, because they know people generally won’t say anything.

I have often wondered why so many people don’t say anything. I suppose some people are genuinely kind people. Or, perhaps these non-complainers aren’t in a rush, don’t care, or are simply “path of least resistance” types. HEY, say something! Shaking your head in disapproval doesn’t mean shit. If buttinskies cared at all they wouldn't be so fucking rude to begin with. They are no better than you - and if you can wait, so can they.

Me, I WILL say something. If you butt in front of me, I will remind you nicely first. If you still don’t move, I might just kick you in the ass. And f you steal my spot, I will run over you with my car, or perhaps simply introduce my key to your paint.

Funny, eh? Who’s laughing now, jerk-off?

PS: If this strikes a cord, consider seeing "Friends with Money". Frances McDormand's "Jane" has some similar issues :)

Cover that shit up, will you?

No. I am not a prude. I think a little skin can be very sexy. My problem is when people show way too much skin. If you are overweight and happy – good for you. If you are thin and happy - good for you too. I think people should feel comfortable in their skin and be happy with whatever weight works for them.

Having said the above, show a little decorum will you? Sure, a little skin can be sexy. But too much skin is a turn off no matter what weight you are. Less is more in my book.

We met a couple for dinner at a very chic restaurant in LA. This chick is a full-time trainer and must do a thousand classes a week. She has a great body. But she came to dinner in a fucking tube top! Wait, let me take that back, is was actually more like a rubber band, because her entire stomach was showing. Her body may be great, but she looked like a fucking idiot. I couldn’t resist the urge to try and cover her up with my napkin.

On the other hand, walking down Collins Avenue in South Beach we saw an abundance of big, huge, fat girls wearing tight little tops with rolls of fat hanging out everywhere. What the fuck is up with that? Buy a mirror. I don’t want to see that shit.

You wanna walk around half naked? They have a place for that – it’s called the fucking bedroom.

How many shrimp did you have?

I fucking hate cheap people.

You go out for drinks or dinner with friends, and unless it’s a special event, or you are specifically “invited” out, you are most likely expected to pay your way.

Sure, it’s always nice when someone is feeling particularly generous and picks up the check, but otherwise, be prepared to throw your credit card into the pile. This is pretty much the understanding in my circle of friends. You go out as a group, everyone has what they like and splits the check. Sounds reasonable, yes?

But then, there is the occasional hole of the ass, that decides they don’t want to “split” the check – at least not evenly anyway. As soon as I see someone scrutinizing the bill for more than a moment or two, I know it’s coming. It’s that, “you know… we really didn’t have appetizers… and you guys had drinks too, and…”. This is when I lose it. SHUT THE FUCK UP. Split the check like a mensch and can the petty bullshit.

Historically, I would say “just pay what you think is fair”, and swallow the difference.

This practice has since been replaced with me saying, “you know what, it’s on us, you can get it next time”. Of course, there will be no “next time” because I hate cheap people and it seems well worth the cost of dinner to rid oneself of such a cheap fucking turd.

And yeah, I had fucking dessert too.

Got a match?

Yeah. Your ass and that door.

Like a hundred million other Americans, I too was a smoker. When I was sixteen it was cool. Then people started to drop dead. And the warnings on cigarette packages got bigger and bigger and bigger.

They say reformed smokers are the worst. “They” must have been referring to me, because if you are a smoker, I am your worst fucking nightmare. Freedom of speech? Abso-fucking-lutely. Freedom to do anything, legal (maybe even a little illegal in some states) is okay by me. I am for freedom, rights and choice. Except in our house, where you have no rights when it comes to smoking.

You wanna kill yourself? Have a ball. Just do it outside.

All of my friends are aware, no smoking in the house. No ifs, ands or butts. However, while entertaining recently, one of our guests disappeared into the bathroom for an extended period of time. When she finally opened the bathroom door, a cloud of smoke came billowing out behind her. “Hi babe” she says. I remain calm. “Hi babe, been smoking in the girls room again?”. “No, whaddaya mean?” she says lying through her teeth. She touches my face as if to pacify me. “Then how come your fingers smell like a fucking ashtray, babe?"

“Oh, okay! (She snaps defensively) You caught me. I had the fucking fan on! What do you want, my fucking kid?”

“No thanks babe, the little fucker smokes too!”

Funny, I haven’t heard from her lately.

What's in a brand name?

I suppose if your name is Paris Hilton, the answer could be “everyone”.

Yes, of course I hate Paris Hilton. And I swore I would never write about her and contribute one more shred of notoriety to her name… and here I am. So for my own sanity, I will say this story is more of an observation about marketing and the power of a strong brand name, than it is about "her". Besides, the story was too good and I needed a context for it.

A recent conversation (really):

Me: Why do all three of these girls look like Paris Hilton?

Friend: Because they all want to be her, so they emulate her.

Me: Why?

Friend: Because she’s rich, glamorous, pretty and famous…

Me: But isn’t she supposed to be a plastic, phony slut, too?

Friend: Whatever she’s doing it’s working, because she’s making a fortune, and everything she touches is hot, if she’s got it, it’s “in”.

Me: But she was selling porn, of herself. And now they say she has herpes.

Friend: Really? Is herpes in?

This is no joke. Paris Hilton is a girl who successfully took her nationally-branded, registered, trademarked family name and literally created her own brand extension - HERSELF. Call her an ugly slut with no class, but if she has the power to make one rational human being ask if herpes is “in”, just because it’s rumored she has it, that’s pretty powerful (and fucked up) shit.

Here's a girl who knew exaclty what to do when she discovered she had "a family brand name with nearly one hundred percent household penetration". Although I understand she personally, has penetrated less than 10 percent.

Your perfume smells like poo.

"I'm not wearing perfume".

Ruh roh.

It’s a rare individual that has it. That highly powerful, intense smell, of B fucking O.

I used to think it was because people didn’t wash properly, but over time I realized this is not the case - some people are just natural stinkers down to the gene. It’s not their fault, and hey, I’ll deal with the smell, but sure as shit I’m not touching, hugging or kissing, in any way shape or form, anything that smells really bad from a distance.

This particularly includes any sort of a transfer of your DNA. Including the dreaded hand shake. I know this is a socially accepted ritual, but please, don’t do me any favors. I don’t want to shake some sweaty palmed, boogie-laden hand I don’t even know. Sue me. I don’t want a schmear of your smelly DNA. It’s your DNA, you keep it.

So yeah, I guess sometimes I can be a real asshole. But hey, at least I don’t smell like one.

100% all natural tits. Yeah, right.

We always look forward to our yearly sojurn to sunny South Beach.

The Delano, home to the uber-plastic, c-listers, social climbers and over the hill models is our favorite part of the trip. Where else in the world can you lay by the pool, while watching the likes of Julian Schnabel trapse around in purple pajamas?

Hotel aside, the pool is a sight to behold. The long lush path sourrounding the pool is lined with scores of shiny, tan, bikini clad bodies, sporting the world's largest collection of artificial boobs ever gathered in one place. Probably the only thing "real" here are the Louis Vuitton and Balenciaga handbags, which are about as scarce as jellybeans (let's face it, if you can afford fake tits you can afford a real LV bag). A woman chatting me up must have caught me glancing at her robust DD's, to which she replied "they're all mine". Yeah sure, so are my shoes, I bought them too.

The fucked up part, is that these women must think these fake tits look good (isn't "fake" and "good" an oxymoron?). Listen, even if you are not a tit expert, you can spot a pair of fakes a mile away. They look fake, they don't move naturally AT ALL, and in most cases they are positively too big. This is one thing (well, two things I suppose) that do not deserve to be supersized. Note: bigger is not always better.

I suppose this is our fault. Somewhere, somehow, men suggested that only huge titted women are sexy. Right. Tell Kate Moss that. Hey, wait, there she is now! "Yo Kate, over here, share some of that shit will you?". Fuck, she just went back into her 1000 dollar a day bungalow.

Oh well. Point being, if you are thinking about buying boobs - don't do it. You won't look sexier, you'll just look phony. You would be better off spending the money on a good shrink, because finding out you're already sexy, isn't a booby prize :)

PS. Don't try to post the "I did it for myself" BS, unless of course you are a hermaphrodite.

Don't steal my shit.

I am looking everywhere for my umbrella. It's raining and I need it. It's not in my office. I was sure I left it here. I walked home in the rain and got soaked. I was pissed.

The next day I see my umbrella on the floor of my associate's office. "Hey, where did you get my umbrella?" I asked. "I borrowed it" she says. No, you fucking stole it, bitch. If you don't ask, it's not borrowing, it's stealing. Don't take my shit.

The shitty umbrella was a cheap Costco special. But it was my shitty umbrella. I bought it so when I need it, I have it. However, if you take something of mine without asking, then I may not have it when I need it. That sucks and makes you a thief. What's worse, is that people think it's okay to "borrow" your shit without asking.

Hmm. Think that's okay, huh? How about if I just stick my hand in your jewelry chest and borrow your gold watch? Then when you want to wear it, and it's not there you can freak out. But, hey, don't worry, I just borrowed it and wore it out in the fucking rain.

Streisand Concert Live – Opening Night

For the first time in over twenty years Barbra sings: “Have I stayed too Long at the Fair?” That’s a really good question.

Let me start by saying there truly is only one Barbra. Her voice is an instrument that is like no other. Politics aside, many would not argue that she is possibly the greatest living singer of all time.

Yes, there’s Ella and Sarah and so on, and don’t bother posting arguments about who I forgot and/or who is better. It is a widely accepted opinion, which I share. If you disagree – hey, it’s a free country, get your own blog.

I have seen Barbra live three times prior to last night. I am very grateful, and feel fortunate to have heard her in near perfect voice. The unfortunate part is that I now have a benchmark. While still being the remarkable talent she is, in my opinion, her voice was considerably less “perfect” than her past live performances. Having said that, 80 percent of Barbra is still worth the price of admission, an experience over twenty thousand people will never forget.

I have little doubt that she choose Philadelphia for her opening night, because it was enough under the radar that she could review her brains out (it was taped from every angle) and make the changes needed before she gets to New York or LA. This is a great thing because personally, I believe she will, and needs to make some changes.

The set was nothing more than a twisted railing with little white Christmas lights, which, thank God did not twinkle. It looked cost-effective, not elegant or minimal. The props consisted of a small vase of pink signature roses. Her first outfit has positively horrendous. A long, black beaded skirt slit up the side worked nicely, but the beaded “sweat shirt” style top with two big pockets and hood was not flattering at ALL. To her credit, she did make a self-deprecating joke about her weight. The second dress made up for the first, it was much more flattering in her signature empire style. Both outfits in black, natch. Overall though, she looked good.

The song selection seemed a bit hackneyed. A few good standards, a few things she hasn't song in a long time, and a lot of filler.

There were two bits of filler that were really bothersome to me. The first is that she included “Il Divo” a group of four young men designed to assist in her style of “live retouching” – filling in the high notes and covering any short comings. I kept getting this feeling, that when all four men sang together, it felt like one of those pathetic Idol sing-a-longs, where the competitors are forced to sing together and pretend to like it. So it really made me laugh when I got home and googled Il Divo, only to discover that the group is indeed a Simon creation! Man, it really sounded like that. When exiting I overheard a woman complaining, “I don’t know why they were here, she didn’t need them". Actually, yeah, she did. They successfully screamed loud enough to cover some of those long, high notes she was forced to break up into tiny, little bite-size bits.

The second bothersome schtick was a skit with a Bush impersonator. I don’t disagree with current sentiments about our leader, but poking a hot stick at him for fifteen minutes came off as bothersome and disrespectful. Her comments after this “skit” attempted to dissipate any upset, but I could sense the mood of the room was heavier and never truly recovered.

Everyone knows she has strong political views and like the rest of us, she is entitled to them. But frankly, I don’t think anyone was paying the steep price of admission to hear her rant for fifteen minutes. The fake Bush, along with the merry band of faux Idols, all interacting with Barbra via the teleprompters VERBATIM, came off like a giant “karaoke sing-along with Barbra”. I sat a few rows behind Rosie (who looked really fantastic btw) and she didn’t seem as enthusiastic as she did at Barbra’s last concert… but that is a completely unofficial observation. I can’t image she hasn't already raved on the telly today.

So, if you have the chance to see her, positively go for it. If you’ve never seen her before, it will be a memory you will cherish forever. And if you have seen her, go anyway, because as jaded and critical I can be, I still cried when she sang. So, has she stayed too long at the fair? In my opinion no, but she's getting damn close.

Can you say Baby Jane?

I am having a lovely lunch with my friend and her sister. We order some coffee, and as I ask for the check my friend excuses herself to use the wash room. The sister quickly says, "Oh, I have to freshen up". And with that she throws her bag on the table and begins a process akin to Mission Impossible.

Out of her bag comes out a mirror. Then a little round tub, then two tubes, a colored pencil, a small brush, a large brush and some sort of compact. She then methodically uses these instruments, one by one; first is a lip liner, then lipstick, then some sort of lip lacquer applied with a teeny paintbrush. I cannot speak. A sigh of relief, it appears she is almost done.

Shit. She is not done. She has now yanked her lower eyelid down to the table as she applies some sort of color to the inside lid. Then comes an outside color, then the upper lid, then her eyebrows. Christ, is she going to rob a fucking bank or what? I force a smile believing she is just about done. Nope, she's still not done. Now she needs some cheek paint... okay, I think we're done... could it be... nope, here comes a big fat fluffy pad she uses to blot her face. She snaps her compact shut and returns the war paint to her bag. "See, isn't that better" she asks?

"Oh, yes" I reply lying through my teeth. What I really wanted to say is, “No you freak, you look like fucking Baby Jane!” Or worse yet, maybe even a drag queen. And this she calls freshening up? I call it covering up. And the kicker is, the woman under all that shit, looked a lot better before she transformed herself into chucky the clown.

The morale? Don't buy the hype ladies, a little lipstick is one thing... you don't need all that crap to look beautiful. You already are :)

Sorry, it's my back. I would love to though...

As a teen I always loved to dance. We would get dressed, go out, get shit faced and dance until dawn. Fast-forward thirty years. I don’t get shit faced so much anymore, and somehow, dancing freely doesn’t come as easy, when you’re not shit faced.

Enter my favorite pet peeve – weddings. I have a positively “no dancing at weddings” policy. It’s a no-win situation. Either you’re a kid that can dance your ass off, or you are dancing like your parents. Men in particular (well, most straight men I should add) can’t dance for shit. It's fucking embarrassing to watch adults happily dancing like Elaine on Seinfeld. What's up with that? And all I can see is 100 copies of my mother dancing some kind of altered funky chicken at my Bar Mitzvah. It’s not pretty.

Worse yet, every ugly, old, single hag attempts to drag me to the dance floor. Try having an excuse for every one of them. And then there are the people that just want to make you feel like shit for not dancing. “Come on, what’s wrong with you, dance and have some FUN". Yeah, well only being anywhere but here, eating rubber chicken, listening to some American Idol, karaoke search wannabe singer belching out Jeramiah was a Bullfrog, would be fun to me.

If you have a cronic "back" problem, that is very convenient. If not, just say you do, like me.

Give me Liberty or give me... Gucci?

I remember not that long ago they said Pucci was dead...

Three years ago, when Tom Ford was still calling the shots, I fell in love with a printed Gucci shirt in a western motif. It was a basic, small floral print with western style patch pockets in a complimentary pattern. I had to have it. The price was $625. I no longer had to have it.

A short time later I was in the very swanky Paul Smith store in New York. I have long been a fan of Smith's funky shirts and great fabrics. Smith's shirts are also not inexpensive, but considerably less than Gucci. After spending an hour or so in the store, I had this feeling... these shirts reminded me of something familiar but I couldn't put my finger on it. I racked my brain all day and a few hours later it came to me - Liberty of London!

The seventies were all about Liberty and their ties were piled to the hilt at Bloomindale’s. Mostly floral patterns in soft cotton and silk, they fit perfectly in the 70's mod mood. The moment I got home I ran to google "Liberty of London", and to my surprise I found almost nothing. I finally found the website of the "Liberty" department store in London. It was essentially just a splash page.

The next morning I called Liberty and spoke to a salesman in the men's department. They had no catalogue but he managed to photocopy the current swatch book and mailed it to me. A week later I opened the mail and almost lost it. OMG! There was the print of the Gucci shirt... and the Paul Smith shirts! I jumped on the phone and called back my salesman at Liberty. "This looks exactly like the Gucci shirt" I told him. "It is, we supply fabrics to Gucci all the time" he replied. "Paul Smith too, I asked? "Oh, certainly, Paul Smith too". They had me at Gucci.

Liberty makes beautiful quality shirts for men in almost two dozen patterns every season, at a bargain price of about $100 USD (even a dress shirt at Banana is $75). Simply call the store, get some swatches and order away. There is a fixed shipping price of about $30 USD no matter how much you order - so stock up and get your friends on board. From th USA, call Liberty at: 011.44..20.7734.1234

And when you wear your terrific Liberty shirt, you can also feel good about getting a shirt that others bought with a Gucci or Paul Smith label, at about four times the cost. Ain't life grand.

Bitch, Bitch.

This post is for dog lovers...

We have a black standard Pomeranian named Maxine. I do the first walk of the day, usually around 7:00AM. I may be awake, but I’m not exactly pleasant at this hour. Yet for some reason all of the other “dog people” seem to think that just because I am walking my dog too, it gives them license to talk to me, and/or my dog. I hate that. This is not a social event for me. I simply want to get the job done and go home.

This morning a woman starts walking over to me with a coffee cup and shit bag dangling from the same hand. I immediately drift in the opposite direction. Then she does the thing I hate most, she lets her dog off the leash, just in time to distract Maxine from her business at hand. Fuck. “Is she friendly?” The imposer asks. No, she’s rabid I wanted to say, but I just nodded yes to avoid the aggravation. She then leans over, shit bag in hand, and says “can you give me your paw?” Maxine looks at her as if to say “Who the fuck are you? You don’t even have a treat, bitch”. Maxine's attitude was not a deterrent. The woman continues to ask twice more, and before I get a chance to speak, Maxine quietly lifts her leg and pees on the woman’s shoe.

Good girl Maxine! I couldn’t help myself. I must say it really did get rid of the bothersome bitch and her bitch. But please kids, don’t try this at home.

Thank you for holding that...

I hate elevators. Wait, make that people and elevators.

Don’t you just love dashing for an elevator, breathlessly asking, “hold that please” while the person inside simply grins and watches the door close in your face? The only revenge is managing to jam your foot in the door before it closes, forcing them to wait another 5 full seconds so you can ride along too.

Having said all of the above, I can live with the latter. What I can’t live with is riding on the elevator with people who have extreme BO, talk excessively, talk loudly or crack gum. But what really provoked me, was this morning's experience, the biggest stinker of all – the elevator fart. What possesses people to let one slip in an elevator? Beyond being totally vulgar and rude, don’t you think someone should be able to hold it for, say ten or twenty seconds?

Interestingly, the one person that held the elevator... didn't hold her, well, you know.

A real turn-off.

Let me start by saying, it's really simple - if you have a cell phone, and it's ON, you better take my call.

I positively detest calling someone on their cell phone (knowing full well it's on and the recipient is staring right at the caller ID) while waiting for the phone to ring within a second of it's life. Okay, I admit it, sometimes I make up a story if I can't talk, but at least I answer my cell phone.

See, the great thing about these here cell phones, is, that they have this nifty thing called an off switch. So if you are otherwise engaged in a conversation, or unavailable, use the switch and turn your fucking phone off. Otherwise, you'll be looking at that phone letting it ring forever while saying "not getting that, no fucking way, it's him". And you know what? That "him" on the other end, will be me, and I will be fucking pissed.

On the other hand, I may be the "him" present when you look away, mid-sentence and glace at your phone to see who's calling. And I will be equally pissed, because you are so fucking rude as to have your phone on and disengage from the person who is standing right in front of you. Trust me, it's nothing but a turn-off to play second fiddle to a cell phone.

Better you control your phone, than it control you, eh?

Oh yes, I want to smell like Sarah too!

Okay, listen. I don't generally say nasty things about people for no good reason, but this picture came in an email from Lord & Taylor today and put me over the edge. With all due respect to Ms. Parker, (who I liked very much in The Family Stone, but it's a one time watch so don't buy it) this woman is exhaustibly overexposed. I don't know about you, but between the Sex in the City billboards touting the reruns, movie promos, the Garnier Hair spots and now this, I'm over her.

Notwithstanding, I would love to know who talked Garnier into signing Parker to endorse their product. Is it me, or is one hair color less flattering on her than the next? And now, I get this email and I am laughing my ass off. The little bit of her hair that's showing looks fried! I would bet almost anything that the aggressive cropping off the top of her head was NOT by design. They didn't think twice about lopping that thing off of her chin, why not crop out the hair too? All designed to sell her new fragrance, Lovely. And you though you were having a bad hair day.

Slip in between these.

Many years ago I was traveling through Europe with a very worldly friend. Our last stop was in a super luxurious hotel. The moment I slipped in between the sheets I was in awe - these sheets were so soft and supple, and I slept like a rock. At breakfast I mentioned this to my friend who immediately replied by saying "I already checked, they're Frette". Fre, wha? I felt like a total dumbass because the only sheets I had were called Springmaid. "There's a Frette store here, let's go and see", she suggested.

I didn't have to walk in the front door. I could tell from the window this shit was not cheap. I was right. In 1986 the price was equivalent to almost $500 bucks a set. They just happened to be on sale, and for the bargain price of $300 USD I got a set of 500 thread count Frette sheets that has ruined me for life. Just so you get your bearing here, a set of Frette sheets today starts at around $1,000 - $1,200 and goes up to unspeakable sums of money. Since then, I made a little friend in Italy who worked at a Frette store. She would drop me a note whenever there was a sale and I would buy them from the store in Italy (which for some reason was considerably less than buying them here).

This lovely woman has since retired. I befriended her replacement who ended up screwing me royally by not shipping everything… and now I have a set that is short two pillowcases. Fuck her. I was not going to do that again. But in the interim something happened. The old standard 180 thread count sheets started driftng to 200 or more, and suddenly, sheets with thread counts of 400, 500 even 1000 were popping up everywhere.

When recently shopping for sheets on-line I made a fabulous find. I don’t know if these are all discontinued items or what, but my bed isn’t that trendy. Lookey here, from Smartbargins.com. Hotel Collection 500TC Striped Sateen Sheet Set at $59.95, (that's a king flat, fitted and two king cases) and I can’t tell the difference at all.

Yipee. No more self-exfoliating sheets ever again.

It's not all about YOU.

I don't know what saved me from knocking two 90-pound women off their heels at Starbucks this morning. I must have been in a really good mood.

First, let's agree, that for all of Starbucks fabulousness, it does a shitty job with the sugar. These little fix-it stations are always too small and narrow. But of course, if you go to Starbucks you already know that. So you would never just stand there, talking shit to somebody for like, seriously, 10 minutes, with your handbag and everything else laying on the counter, leaving 3 people just standing there waiting, huffing and puffing and looking at their watches, right? But you know they did.

What the fuck are you thinking, bitch? This shit is hot, and I got shit to do too, so get out of the fucking way and make some room for us.

The moral? Don't be so inconsiderate, because if you are, one day some asshole is gonna call you on it, right then and there, and it might just be me.

Can you hear me now?

411 directory assistance has been giving me agita for years now, and it’s only getting worse. I positively cannot believe I must now “dial one for English”. I wonder if in Spain you have to “dial one” for Spanish? That’s fucking insane. If you are in Spain or France they don’t give a shit if you don’t speak their language, there’s no push anything. My grandparents came to America right off the boat and couldn’t speak a word of English - they had to learn.

Apparently computers can’t learn. Does this conversation with an automated idiot sound familiar? “What city and state”? Atlantic City, New Jersey. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get that”. ATLANTIC CITY NEW JERSEY! “That’s Laurel Springs, New Jersey, correct?” NO! IT’S ATLANTIC FUCKING CITY NEW JERSEY YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! “thank you, please hold for an operator”. Hmm. So, if this is supposed to be cost effective, because it costs literally NOTHING for a computer to do the work, how come it costs an additional thirty-five cents for the computer to connect the call?

Hey, 411, go fuck yourself. Can you hear me now?

Don’t finger my nuts, please.

I grew up in a family where we didn’t put anything out to eat that came in a container. My grandmother’s rule was that any packaged food had to be transferred to a serving dish before being offered to anyone. Yes, she was fancy.

I have a one of her very fancy Lalique bowls that I decided to use as a nut dish. So when we had friends over recently, I washed out the dish and filled it with beautiful mixed nuts. Within 15 minutes I cringed to discover a guest fingering through the nut dish, apparently seeking out one particular type of nut. In the process she touched every nut in the bowl. I just really wanted to say, “Hey, I think you missed one”. But I bit my tongue instead and when she stepped away I tossed the fingered nuts and replaced them.

A week later we were having friends over again. Being the crafty individual I am, I devised a plan to stop the fingering of my nuts. This time I bought only cashews, placed a nut spoon in the dish (yes, she had one of those too) and a dozen tiny bowls next to the dish. After all, you’re supposed to eat nuts with your fingers, so supplying everyone with their own little bowl was the perfect answer.

Our guests finally arrive. I pour some drinks and from our open kitchen I see a friend fingering the nut dish. Geez, there’s a fucking spoon asshole, can’t you see that? I try to contain myself, but watching the relentless finger picking, AROUND THE SPOON made me crazy. I walk over to hand him his drink and he is looking me dead in the eye as if to ask what is wrong. In an attempt not to embarrass him I discreetly shoot a look at the nut dish and whisper “spoon, spoon”. Demoralized he lifts the spoon, scoops up some nuts and then… PUTS THE SPOON IN HIS MOUTH!

At this point I simply have to laugh. I remove the spoon from his hand and take the little nut bowls away. I have a new attitude. My guests are now free to finger away, because the nuts I eat, don’t come from that bowl. So there.

What I call a lousy hand job.

I loved this wonderful body shampoo made by Fresh, the scent was Verbena (nice lemon tones). Aside from the fine product inside, the packaging was superb - a soft pliable plastic bottle with a simple flip top. Clearly designed for ease of use in the shower. The product was naturally killed. The only similar product Fresh offers is their Sugar Lemon body shampoo. Who knows, perhaps they thought these two products were redundant.

What they didn’t think was redundant was the marvelous packaging with the flip top. The Sugar Lemon stuff comes in a HARD moronic screw top bottle that is impossible to use in the shower. So instead of flipping the top with one hand and squeezing some product out, you need to drop everything, screw the thing off, pour it out and screw the top back on – all while manipulating a sponge or whatever. Super smart, don’t you think?

It amazes me how such a big company can be so out of touch. They didn’t even need a focus group – all they had to do was take it home and try it. If they had, they would have come back to the office the next day and said “this is fucking ridiculous”. Duh. To add insult to injury, they still offer one product in the original packaging on their site (hidden under “original” products) in one peculiar scent that smells, well, let’s just say it’s not to my liking.

Note to Fresh: Please fire the moron that thinks anyone in the planet can manipulate a screw top while trying to use body shampoo in the shower.

Notwistanding, it's still Fresh, and if you are lucky enough to be reading this between August 22nd - 25th, you now know about the sale. A handful of stuff but it's selling fast and cheap. Fresh.com.

Hey, you look great. Did you lose weight?

No, actually I’m fatter than ever asshole, but thanks.

I can’t tell you how many times I hear people ask the “weight” question. I think people are under the impression that if you ask someone if they look thinner, that it’s a good thing and they will like you. First off, my weight is nobody’s fucking business. If you ask me about my weight and I weigh more, I will hate you. If you ask me about my weight and I weigh less, I will think you are implying I needed to lose weight and I will hate you even more.

To add insult to injury, the above statement implies you can’t look good unless you are thin. That’s stupid. I bet nobody tells Scarlett Johansson she’s a dog because she has a big ass. She’s gorgeous at any weight. My advice is to stick with just the “You look great part”, unless you are insincere, in which case I would suggest you just keep your mouth shut.

Please, do NOT pass the baby!

Every time a friend of mine gives birth, I shudder at the thought of going to the hospital. I really do love babies, and it sure is fun to see these little miracles that often look like mini versions of their mommies and daddies, it’s just that I truly am not baby material.

I am not paternal in nature, and the last thing I want to do is offend anyone… but the whole ritual just freaks me out. “Do you want to hold the baby?” I am always asked. No. I really don’t want to hold the fucking baby, but you can’t say that. “Be careful, not like that, hold its head, and put your arm here, isn’t that nice?” No. It’s not fucking nice. People always assume you don’t know how to hold THEIR baby. “Be careful, don’t drop her”. Right, like I don’t know not to drop the kid on the fucking floor.

Please, we will all be better off if you do not subject me to your “baby holding idiosyncrasies”. If I love you, I will love your baby. But it’s your baby, better you hold it. I do not want to be responsible for holding your baby the wrong way, causing neck trauma or turning your baby gay. I do however give nice gifts.

Flying for peanuts, kinda.

Two words that freak people out pretty consistently are “no returns”. As a consumer it really comes across as a totally sucking policy. And in many cases a “no returns” policy can suck in a bad way, but in some cases it can suck in a really good way.

A few years ago I caved in and went for the Amex Platinum Card. One of the benefits that attracted me most was this: book one business or first class airline ticket with Amex and get a companion ticket free. Well, if you fly business or first you know that’s worth the price of admission right there.

When I called to book a flight to Italy this fall I got a surprise. Being the spoiled brat that I am, I only fly direct, and that makes it even a little hairier to get a decent fare. Flying direct via Alitalia from Newark NJ to Rome, business/first class fare (Alitalia has only one combo class called Magnifica Class, which is very nice) was $5,811 (plus taxes in all cases). Of course with the buy one get one free benefit; it comes to $2,905, or almost three grand per person. Pricey, but still better than 6k each (isn't it shocking that people pay the published fare of $12,000 for two first class tickets? Who are these people?).

Suddenly, out of the blue, the reservationists mumbles something like “I wonder if there’s a non-refundable fare” which I could barely hear above the clicking of her keyboard. "Yeah, try that" I said. A moment later she says “well there is a non-refundable first class fare for $2,493 but it doesn’t qualify for a get one free”. Okay, two of these non-refundable tickets are still $1,000 less than the cost of one standard first class ticket (and you don't need Amex or a Platinum card to get this fare). The only downside is if you die, or if a catastrophic event prevents you from going, in which case you are hit with a $200 fee to change the date. Big deal, you're still ahead.

So we snatched up the $2,493 ticket (or $4,986 for two) with glee. Note that the price range on expedia was $4,106 - $6,120 PER business/first class ticket with ONE STOP. There was NOTHING direct. And a coach class flight, direct, during this time period with Alitalia was $1,340. I recognize some of you may still pooh-pooh the $1,153 difference between coach and first, but that’s a personal choice. I for one believe that flying twisted into a coach class pretzel for nine hours is no vacation.

The point here is that many non-refundable fares are not available on-line (none in first that I could find). So before you buy, regardless of the class you choose, call and check ALL fare codes including the non-refundable fares, it may be worth your time.

So, are we there yet?

Talk about a crappy read.

Maybe it’s me, but I can’t seem to grasp the concept of sitting on the crapper while reading the newspaper – in a public toilet, no less.

I work in an office building which has a bathroom equipped with three stalls. Beyond the stalls are two urinals where I occasionally stand and do my, uh, business. Now, given that I only use the bathroom a few times a day, I find it highly unusual that there is almost always someone sitting in a stall reading the newspaper. Why? It seems distracting to me and all I want to do is pee, wash up and get out.

I suppose to some people this might be a way to get out of working. But the question is, how crappy does your job have to be, when sitting in a public rest room is a better experience? Notwithstanding, who really wants to “ring the alarm” by making so much noise people know you’re in there? Someone please enlighten me if you can.

In the meantime, to all of you who feel it necessary to multitask while on the crapper, please note that at least one person thinks this practice just plain stinks.

Don't cry for me Argentina...

I’m buying your fucking wine by the caseload.

There are thousands of good wines from France to California that offer grand snob appeal and prices to match. But you don’t have to spend a fortune to get great wine anymore. Argentina for example, has been turning out some splendid wines in recent years.

Case in point is the Bodegas Norton Malbec 2002. Malbec was originally used as a blending grape in Bordeaux. It has deep color and firm tannins. In Argentina, the high elevation of the vineyards produces an entirely different version of the grape, with notes of plum, boysenberry and blackberry fruit and sweet, lush tannins. Think of Malbec as Argentina's version of Zinfandel, but with greater depth and more polish.

And the Bodegas Norton Malbec costs a whopping $8.50 a bottle. Really.

Friends also rave about the Australian Shiraz called Wishing Tree. This lovely wine prices at about $7.50 a bottle. It took me a while to get past the screw top, but as soon as I did, I realized – the only real screw job is paying $50 for a bottle of wine that is remarkably close to the quality of a $7 bottle.

A good resource is Wine Library.com. Nice selection, great prices. Cheers.

Are you talking to me?

Because if you are, speak fucking English.

Today I spoke to a West Elm representative about a delivery. ""Hedo, we wan can na do delibry to you on dat day otay?" What? What the fuck was that? I couldn't understand a single word she said. Don't know about you, but it really pisses me off when I call a company for customer service and end up talking to some moron who can't speak a word of English... how can you communicate, when you can't, well, communicate?

Notice to any company, customer service department or otherwise: if your representitive calls me and can't speak English, I will hangie da fuckie up on youie.