Posts Tagged ‘bettheny frankel’


Monday, July 14th, 2014



J. Crew.  As if I didn’t have enough reasons to loathe you already.  Your jaunty, preppy clothes remind me of the jaunty, preppy YUPPIES who wear them.  Unless your name is “Brad” or “Todd,” “Lauren” or “Amanda,” you may not actually wear J. Crew clothes, but you’ve had their catalogues crammed into your mailbox, or worked with white people from Connecticut.  Redundant.  Wondering if J. Crew could be more pretentious is like wondering if Gwyneth Paltrow could be … well … more pretentious, making them quite the conscious coupling, come to think of it.


So now what, J. Crew?  In addition to the fact I don’t know what the “J” stands for, you makes clothes in colors so special you can’t even tell what color it is, like “Dark Cove,” and “Dusty Shale” and “Caribbean Sand.” A little arrogant – no? – to just toss together an adjective and a noun and let consumers figure out if your crew neck coordinates or clashes with their khakis.


There’s are some who believe  that all p.r. is good p.r.  Not so, J. Crew.  Not so.  Ask Anthony Weiner.

But clearly someone in your corporate office felt differently.  Because, when you should have been busy pleating your pants and pepluming your blouses, you instead spent your time creating TRIPLE 000, i.e., EXTRA-EXTRA-EXTRA SMALL jeans.  Many, many, many women are applauding you for inventing the size “triple zero,” as though “double zero” wasn’t an assault on every woman who eats.

Did you hear what the anorexics  — that’s right, I said it – are saying about this new faux-size?  “Well, I am rather petite,” said one woman.  ‘You know,” said another, “We’re supposed to be ‘sensitive’ to fat women,”  (and you certainly are, size 2s!),  “but no one knows the real pain one feels when a size zero is just too, too big.”   Oh, but you’re wrong, Human Wire Hanger Lady – I feel your pain, so much so that if I could get my hands around you without you slipping away, I’d tie you down and force-feed you beef tallow and a can or six of Duncan Hines Double-Chocolate Buttercream frosting.

“Wah, wah – I can never find jeans that fit me.”  I’d like to be more sympathetic but finding jeans that fit you perfectly doesn’t count as a real problem.  If this is something you find so distressing, clearly you haven’t had enough bad shit happen to you.  Here’s some:


1)   Your kid has Turette’s, ADHD, and you have no medical insurance.

2)   Your other kid is David Blaine.

3)   Your husband has a girlfriend.

4)   Your boyfriend has a wife.

5)   That freckle on your leg isn’t a freckle.

6)   Your neighborhood’s been gentrified and you have to move to another state.

7)   That other state is Montana.

8)   You just ate a protein bar and you think it had peanuts in it and you’re allergic to peanuts and your eye is all swollen and you can’t really breathe and – oh shit! – you left your EpiPen home!

9)   Your old boyfriend, the one who stalked you from middle school through college, is on the FBI’s “Ten Most Wanted” list for killing his old girlfriends. And someone’s knocking on your door…

10)                 Your father has Alzheimer’s and he’s moved in with you, but he keeps forgetting.


There.  Now you have some real problems.  Size “zero” still too big?  Buy a fucking belt.  Eat a fucking corn flake, half a pecan.  Stop puking your food up.  Stop running 5Ks before work every day. What’s the matter?  Am I making anorexics and/or naturally thin women feel bad?  First, as I am not a calorie, that’s doubtful.  Second, maybe when women who wear a size six stop feeling like it’s time for a gastric bypass, I’ll make an attempt to be more sensitive.


“Wah, wah – I can never find jeans that fit me.”  Yes you can.  Mattel makes them.  And now so does J. Crew.    I’m sorry but finding jeans that fit perfectly just isn’t up there with real problems.   If this is something you find so distressing, clearly you haven’t had enough bad shit happen to you.  Size zero too big?  Buy a fucking belt. Eat a fucking corn flake, half a pecan, stop puking your food up.  What’s the matter?  Am I making anorexics feel bad?  First, as I’m not a calorie, that’s doubtful and second, when size 6 women stop feeling like it’s time for a gastric bypass, maybe I’ll re-think my words and be more sensitive.

You know, everyone is so sensitive to fat people,” they cry, “but they think it’s easy being this thin!”   Did you get your hands on Anna Wintour’s diary?   You’re telling me that the same people whose goal it is, is to get as small as you, to have their collar bones protrude so much you could hang a coat on it, these same people who want to look like you and can’t because they don’t have your metabolism or genes or they enjoy a grape every now and then?  Those people?  The people who want to be you insult you?  “Move it, Skinny,” isn’t a term I’ve heard shouted at anyone on a subway.  In fact, if there ever were a group under-represented in terms of being insulted and discriminated against, it would have to be women who wear a size four or under.  But you know, passive-aggressively “complaining” how hard it is to be so thin just makes anyone else with keen observation skills and a bit of wit want to even things out just a tad…


1)   Heidi Fleiss laughs at you.

2)   Nicole Richie envies you.

3)   There was a lime in your Diet Coke – that means 90 minutes on the elliptical machine tomorrow!

4)   When you stand sideways, I can’t see you.

5)   When you stand straight ahead, I can’t see you.

6)   Bettheny Frankel thinks you could use a little meat on your bones.

7)   A soup bone thinks you could use a little more meat on your bones.

8)   Why is my forearm bigger than your upper thigh?

9)   Why is it when you wear jeans and an over-sized sweater, from far away you look like you have only one leg?

10)                   It must feel swell to wear a Honey Nut Cheerio as a ring.

Maybe it’s time to celebrate our differences.  How about a Cronut?

satire for the literate – OH REALLY?

Wednesday, July 13th, 2011

I have put this off but when really great material taunts you, year after year, eventually one must give in. And, as this could be the end of the road for The Real Housewives of New York City — in six months these women will be as relevant as The Jonas Brothers — this could be my last chance. And I’m taking it.

Let’s deconstruct the title: The Real Housewives of New York City.

Real – These women are about as real as a piñata. There’s less skin-stretching, filler and stuffing in the Museum of Natural History’s Hall of Mammals. You know those beverages that have to be called “juice drinks” by law because they don’t have enough actual juice in them? Think of them as the human equivalent of “Sunny DeLite.”

Housewives — Back in the 1950s, my mother was a housewife. My dad went to work, and my mom stayed home and raised us. She took us to school, went on school trips, shopped at the butcher, the baker and the fruit market, prepared the meals, sewed, did laundry, helped us with our homework, read to us, watched “Leave it to Beaver” and “The Beverly Hillbillies” with us.

These women may be a lot of things, but “housewives” isn’t one of them. So “girls” – which is what you refer to yourselves as even though you haven’t been girls since Central Park was a cow pasture – please find another common noun that describes you more accurately. And really – what’s up with “the girls” thing? Does it make you feel younger to call yourselves “girls”? I wouldn’t feel wealthier if I called myself The Beatles, so I’m not sure how that particular delusion works. Do you think that the power of suggestion will somehow fool us into thinking – “no – they’re not pushing 50. No, they aren’t Spanxed from their ankles to their necks. They’re really quite coquettish.”? Hmm…. (Oh, and Jill – Spanx – Skweezed? Screech at Bobby to call your lawyers…)

Real and Housewives — Perhaps Bravo’s Andy Cohen’s crossed eyes served as an impairment when casting this show.

Had he looked hard or harder or at all, he might have discovered authentic “real” New York City housewives, maybe even women who don’t down Pinot Grigio like it’s “The Last Supper” or wear earrings the size of light fixtures or record “disco” songs when their “vocal stylings” make me miss Madelaine Kahn’s “I’m So Tired,” from Blazing Saddles.

Next, note that part of the compound word “housewife” contains the word “wife.” Is it possible to be a real housewife if you aren’t a wife? That’s like saying you’re a real starfish only you’re a bagel. So, now we see that not only are none of them are housewives — half of them aren’t even wives. Let’s look closer. Closer…

Ramona Singer

Okay, she does have a husband, which technically and legally makes her a “wife.” But she’s a wife who married someone name “Mario,” whom she insists on calling “Mourrio,” and is about three cases of wine away from a stint at Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. The Upper East Side’s Scary Spice.

Vajazzle Brazil-Wax Queen Cindy Something

Did this show really need another woman as in touch with her chronological age as Dane Cook is with his entertainment value? “Housewife” Cindy is actually closer in age to social security recipients than the mommies at “Mommy and Me” classes and seems to be more interested in ridding the city of female body hair than raising those twins who will be sophomores in college when Mom is 75. She has at least one nanny per kid, a very annoying brother and very, very old parents. But a husband? I think you need one of those to qualify as a wife…

AlexandandSimon, a.k.a “Silex

Remember when the expression “They’d go to the opening of an envelope” was used as hyperbole? Well, Alex and Simon actually would. No. Really — manila, #10 envelope, Jiffy Bag, glassine, one of those envelopes with the cash-card you give at a Bar Mitzvah or christening? They’d be there and he’d be wearing something inappropriate, cringe-worthy, and probably made of animal skin and glitter. In their case, it’s clear that neither of them are “real housewives” because I’ve seen their sons, you know – the ones with the ridiculously pretentious names? Johann and Francois? The ones they force to speak French (for god-knows what reason as they live in Brooklyn), one of whom threw a fit and smashed around someone else’s thirty-dollar hamburger at “The 21 Club”, both of whom, I am guessing, wear Speedo mankinis when dragged to St. Barts in the off-season? Maybe when they make a show called SOCIAL CLIMBERS WHO LIVE IN CARROLL GARDENS AND MISTAKE THEIR CHILDREN’S ADHD FOR ‘GIFTED,’ they can have their own show. And wouldn’t that be special?

Sonja Morgan

First, isn’t “Sonia” spelled “S-o-n-i-a”? What’s up with the “j”? Is that because she thinks it looks fancier? It doesn’t. It just looks more Scandinavian-er Sonja is also not a wife, but a woman in her forties who thinks she is in her 20s, divorced from the 80-year-old heir to the J.P. Morgan banking fortune. Anna Nicole Smith with better table manners and no Howard K. Stern. Stop showing me your thighs and your ass, Sonja. Stop dressing up in Marie Antoinette shit and Caberet burlesque shit because real housewives don’t have the time for that shit. But I would like to see you weep again about the possibility of your losing your $14 million dollar townhouse because 1) it really wasn’t ever yours and 2) I want to feel financially superior to you. I already feel morally and ethically superior – just wanted to go three for three.

Bethenny Frankel
Even though you “spun off” into the egocentric center of an unwatchable show, (except when you berate your house-husband and his small-town parents), The Real Housewives of New York City catapulted you into the reality star you’ve become. Actually, you began on “The Apprentice: Martha Stewart,” which you’d hoped, everyone had forgotten. You were a caterer living with a long-haired dog, hawking Skinny Girl Margaritas, but you were not a housewife. You still really aren’t, but your husband is, so I guess that’s something.

Kelly Bensimon

Ah, Kelly – you’re kooky but that’s the worst I can say about you. You’ve grown on me. You’re the most genuine, most sincere, most attractive one on this train-wreck of a series. I like Kelly and she’s a real mom but not a real housewife. So, when they do “The Real Housemoms of New York City,” she’s a natural.

Countess” Luanne de Lesseps

First, aren’t the words “Luanne” and “Countess” mutually exclusive? “Luanne” is a name as in, “Luanne, go check the still to see if the moonshine’s ready,” or “Luanne – Go see who moved into the double-wide next door,” or “Luanne – there’s company– go and fetch us some vittles.” At best, she’s n she’s an ex-wife of an old coot of a “Count” less attractive than The Count on “Sesame Street.” She now dates a Frenchman named Jacques, who, she’s revealed, her –ex would never approve of because, “well…you know…Jacques is…well – he’s a Jew.”

Also, Luanne, darling, please note that we are not living in pre-Revolution France and therefore we are not only unimpressed with your title, we snicker at it. We know that even you think it’s important, we know it’s a made-up title that you got by merely marrying someone. It doesn’t really count, “Countess.” And after “The Count” divorced you, his next wife he takes also gets to be called “Countess,” and so on and so forth. And eventually, after so many Countesses, the title has about the same value as the Rolexes they sell on Canal Street. And stop singing. You can’t sing. Even if all of your rich sycophant friends say that you can. Marlena Deitrich, dead, has a better voice. Word.

Jill Zarin

Oy. What can I say about her that hasn’t already been said by her? Okay – at least I can say it more softly and without the cackle. Who thought I’d ever miss Whitney Houston shouting “Bobby!” It seems that every ethnic group and minority has some of its own that make the majority of the group cringe. As part of your ethnic group, Jill Zarin and, on behalf of all twelve tribes, I implore you – STFU.

So there you have it. Not real. Not housewives. And…

Q: If all of the Upper West Side moves to Park Slope and Cobble Hill and Brooklyn Heights, and they open up cheese shops and hipster boutiques and Fairway Markets and Whole Foods, when does Brooklyn become Manhattan?

A: It doesn’t.

Not New York City. Thanks, Alex and Simon. Maybe next season you’ll social-climb your way out of bridge-and-tunnel status. Now, there’s a story arc…