JENNIE: Ooof, my stomach hurts.
MA SMASH: Again?
JENNIE: Still. My stomach has hurt for a week.
MA SMASH: Maybe you should have it looked at.
JENNIE: Why?
MA SMASH: To see if anything's wrong.
JENNIE: Well, I mean, it's only been a week. I doubt I've managed to grow some kind of a stomach tumor in a week.
MA SMASH: I wasn't thinking of a stomach tumor.
JENNIE: Oh. I was.
MA SMASH: I was thinking of some kind of gastritis.
JENNIE: Why?
MA SMASH: Because you're managed to irritate your own stomach now.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Tuesday, March 9, 2004
Diseases I do not have
Whew. Even typing that subject line makes me nervous. I am very superstitious, and a hypochondriac, and so am convinced that by stating outright that I am well, I will call down upon my head plagues of boils and pestilence, if not necessarily frogs and locusts.
The fact is that I am a reasonably healthy 27 year old woman who thinks she's dying all the time. There is no reason for this: I don't drink as much as I used to, and I doubt that my three-cigarette-a-week smoking habit construes much of a cancer risk. (I gave up drinking tap water to compensate.) I work out. I get lots of sleep. I'm sort of stressed out, as a general state of mind, but that's just sort of me.
But, as of this writing, I do not, to my knowlege, have cancer, or AIDs, or nasty rash-causing things, or Tourette's syndrome, or a personality disorder, or incontinence, or MS, or anything of that nature. I have low blood pressure, low chloresterol, and a good medical history on both sides of my family.
However, about once a week, I sit bolt upright in my bed, wide awake, convinced that I am dying of something awful. Something fast. And painful. And disfiguring. Face cancer maybe. The kind of thing that would make it so that no one would ever want to kiss me again, or even invite me to their parties.
My point is that my only real problem is that I'm neurotic. But if you've been reading this journal for very long, you probably already knew that.
The fact is that I am a reasonably healthy 27 year old woman who thinks she's dying all the time. There is no reason for this: I don't drink as much as I used to, and I doubt that my three-cigarette-a-week smoking habit construes much of a cancer risk. (I gave up drinking tap water to compensate.) I work out. I get lots of sleep. I'm sort of stressed out, as a general state of mind, but that's just sort of me.
But, as of this writing, I do not, to my knowlege, have cancer, or AIDs, or nasty rash-causing things, or Tourette's syndrome, or a personality disorder, or incontinence, or MS, or anything of that nature. I have low blood pressure, low chloresterol, and a good medical history on both sides of my family.
However, about once a week, I sit bolt upright in my bed, wide awake, convinced that I am dying of something awful. Something fast. And painful. And disfiguring. Face cancer maybe. The kind of thing that would make it so that no one would ever want to kiss me again, or even invite me to their parties.
My point is that my only real problem is that I'm neurotic. But if you've been reading this journal for very long, you probably already knew that.
Musings from your favorite pinko
Now, I don't wish gall bladder surgery on anyone, but it's occurred to me that while they're in there tinkering around with Ashcroft's insides, maybe the doctors could remove THE EVIL, while they're at it.
Sunday, March 7, 2004
Friday night story
So, Saturday night an irish guy tried to pick me up by singing and complimenting me, which was entertaining, but my Friday night bar experience was, in many ways, more educational. My attorney and I went out to a few bars, and at the last place we went, she met this cool-seeming guy and started chatting with him. I am an excellent wingperson, so I started talking to his friend, to give Horowitz time to work her magic. Anyway, his friend was pretty stoned, fairly young, and determined to get me to come home with him.
STONED GUY: C'mon home with me. C'mon. We'll smoke some mad weed.
ME: Oooh, tempting. But no.
SG: Oh c'mon. Oh c'mon. Oh c'mon. Listen. Listen. Listenlistenlistenlisten. You're really pretty, okay? And you should just go come back to my place. And smoke weed.
ME: Um, no.SG: Whyyyy? Whyyyy? Whyyyy? Oh COME ON. Listen...
And so on. The evening culminated in him forcing his phone number on me and then telling me that in his opinion, my lipstick was too bright. The hell? That kind of talk gets no one laid, buddy.Anyway, my point is that I've noticed some interesting trends in guys' approaches in bars. A year or two ago, they were trying to give you their e-mail addresses, or get yours. This was good, because it was less threatening that trying to get your phone number, so it probably worked a good bit of the time. Unfortunately, it must not have helped them to achieve their ultimate goal, or something, because now, they're just flat out trying to get you to come home with them. My friend Matt, who has a girlfriend and has my e-mail address and is not trying to get me to come home with him, has suggested that Maxim must've had an article lately on this new approach, suggesting that guys just go for the gusto. It's all very interesting, and when I write my book, I will help you all to understand this and many other fascinating urban dating phenomena.
STONED GUY: C'mon home with me. C'mon. We'll smoke some mad weed.
ME: Oooh, tempting. But no.
SG: Oh c'mon. Oh c'mon. Oh c'mon. Listen. Listen. Listenlistenlistenlisten. You're really pretty, okay? And you should just go come back to my place. And smoke weed.
ME: Um, no.SG: Whyyyy? Whyyyy? Whyyyy? Oh COME ON. Listen...
And so on. The evening culminated in him forcing his phone number on me and then telling me that in his opinion, my lipstick was too bright. The hell? That kind of talk gets no one laid, buddy.Anyway, my point is that I've noticed some interesting trends in guys' approaches in bars. A year or two ago, they were trying to give you their e-mail addresses, or get yours. This was good, because it was less threatening that trying to get your phone number, so it probably worked a good bit of the time. Unfortunately, it must not have helped them to achieve their ultimate goal, or something, because now, they're just flat out trying to get you to come home with them. My friend Matt, who has a girlfriend and has my e-mail address and is not trying to get me to come home with him, has suggested that Maxim must've had an article lately on this new approach, suggesting that guys just go for the gusto. It's all very interesting, and when I write my book, I will help you all to understand this and many other fascinating urban dating phenomena.
A typical Boston night out
An irish guy tried to pick me up last night by telling me that I looked very attractive with my glasses on, and by singing me "Whiskey in the Jar." I didn't tell him that as a lifelong Boston-area resident, the latter tactic has been tried on me about once a month since puberty and I'm now immune. Also, he wasn't terribly cute. But I must say, I enjoyed the attention.
IRISH GUY: You must know, you're very attractive. Especially with the glasses.
ME: Oh, you start.
IRISH GUY: Let's see you with 'em off. Oh, lord! My heart! You're even lovelier without 'em.
ME: (Taking them away from him and putting them back on.) Yes, yes. They're for your protection.
And so on.
IRISH GUY: You must know, you're very attractive. Especially with the glasses.
ME: Oh, you start.
IRISH GUY: Let's see you with 'em off. Oh, lord! My heart! You're even lovelier without 'em.
ME: (Taking them away from him and putting them back on.) Yes, yes. They're for your protection.
And so on.
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