Parking lot derby

I work in an open office, which blows. You can never shut your door and escape, and you can you have to listen to other people fight with their loved ones all day long on the phone. Also, just try to make a doctor's appointment. It can't be done.



"Hi, this is J. Smash, and I'd like to schedule my pap smear. Oh, hi, boss-type person. Hang on. Just making sure the ole cooch is in working order, know what I'm sayin'?"



Nevertheless, my seating situation is pretty good. Our desks are just sort of scattered around this big warehouse space, but mine faces a window. Luck of the draw. I have a lovely view ... of our parking lot.



This affords me with plenty of distraction during the day, something I need desperately, of course. I was thinking for awhile of keeping a log of everyone's comings and goings, and then reading it out loud when they passed by my desk.



"11:45: Jane Shaw leaves for lunch. Despite only having come to work an hour and a half ago. What? This? Oh, it's nothing. Just think of it as evidence."



I don't have time for that sort of thing, of course. But I do have time for my next plan. Some of the sales guys have really fancy cars. (The editorial staff drive beaters, as a rule, but I'm sure you guessed that.) The sales guys who are really crazy about their cars park them way at the far end of the parking lot, like a quarter-mile away from the door, so that no one will park anywhere near them. There's one car in particular, some kind of fancy bright-yellow sports car, that's always parked waaaay over by the dumpster all by its onesies.



What I want to do is to follow that car around and park right next to it. When I get here in the morning, if the car's there, I'll park beside it. If the guy who owns it isn't in yet, I'll keep an eye peeled through the window and dash out and move my car as soon as he arrives. Then, if he moves it after lunch, I'll move mine, too.



This could be a lot of fun! I'll keep you posted.

Go ahead and panic. The end times are near.

Okay. You should definitely say your prayers and pack a bag, because the Apocalypse is upon us. How do I know? Let's take the following factors into consideration:



1) The Red Sox won the World Series...

2) ...during a lunar eclipse...

3) ...both of which events I watched with my boyfriend.



Let's talk about the word "boyfriend" for a minute. I haven't had one for about six years now, and suddenly I do. I find that I feel somewhat retarded calling him my boyfriend, though. It seems embarrassing, like when 50 year old women talk about having boyfriends. I feel like people who aren't currently living in a dorm should get a different label to use. And bear in mind that I'm from New England, so just forget about the word "lover." Ditto for "partner", you goddamn hippie.



Anyway, my Friend and Traveling Companion Matthew flew up from New York yesterday afternoon to watch the game in style at my friends' house. He kept saying that this was the game and I kept hitting him. But it was The Game, as it turns out, so now he'll be impossible to live with.



I honestly don't know what to say about our having won the World Series, though. I've written like six essays on it, and scrapped them. I don't think it's sunk in yet. I'm still sort of delirious and shock-y. And I will definitely have no idea what to do with myself next week.



I'll miss the chips and dip at Isaac and Cathy's house, that's for sure. Do you have friends like this -- grown up friends? They have nice furniture and lots of plates and things and when you come over they can actually offer you a drink instead of saying, "Um, dude, if you hang on a second while I look for my wallet, we can go around the corner and get a beer or something." Anyway, Isaac and Cathy were responsible for feeding and housing most of our little crew for the past month, bless them. They seem to like all of us, still. Fools. Now we'll never go away.



How many months is it til Spring Training? I need to start counting down. But first -- a much needed nap.

Wisdom from the distracted

Everyone knows that boys are stupid. But did you know that their stupidity is contagious? That's right, it is. Associating with boys can make you stupid, even if you're a female person. This is not always bad.



For example, I am still at work right now, partly because I have a lot of work, but also because I have a beautiful bouquet of orange Gerber daisies on my desk. My favorite color is orange. My favorite flower? Is the Gerber daisy. Is it any wonder that I'm a little out of it?



The rest of you fellas should hunt down the boy who sent them and stone him to death, because he's ruining everything for you.

Good times in enemy territory

The Bronx is up and the Battery's down, and Jennie wore her Red Sox hat all over the town.



I spent last weekend in New York. The intention wasn't to lord it over Yankees fans, I swear. That was just a happy accident. The real purpose of my visit was to hang out with my good friend Kate Smyres on the occasion of the thirty-third anniversary of her birth. As she pointed out, next year, if she survives, she'll have beaten Jesus.



I always forget how awesome New York is. Let's start with the fact that no one was mean to me for wearing a Red Sox hat. I got a few dirty looks, maybe, but mostly people were either indifferent or elated. Apparently, there are a number of refugees from the Nation hiding out in NYC. And really, no one gives a crap what you do in that city. It's very liberating. It made me forget about my elbows and knees and stop twitching for awhile, as if the energy of the city had absorbed all my nervous tics and siphoned them away.



Also: you gotta love a city where everyone is a stinking lush. Jeebus H. Christmas, I felt like a teetotaler. I got off the bus at the Lucky Star Bus Terminal and Fruit Stand at around 5:30 on Friday night and went to drop my stuff off at Smyres' apartment in Park Slope, and then we immediately went out and started drinking and didn't stop until I got back on the bus Monday morning. At brunch on Sunday, I expressed to my friend Matthew, a fellow Masshole now living in Williamsburg, that I thought my liver might fall out and go seek a more congenial host and he said, "Ah. Well. Welcome to New York."

Weird

Someone got to my blog by Googling "Death by rat bites in ireland." Wha?

It's our time. It's our time up here.

I have no snide comments to make. I have no shit-talk to offer. I am so happy. God bless the Red Sox Nation.

Funniest link ever

Is this a dorm? A prison for baseball fans? I don't know, but it's pretty dang funny.

A-Rod is a big old girl

If we're a bunch of characters, then what are the Yankees? I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, and here's what I've come up with: The Yankees are a bunch of spoiled prep school girls who are used to getting everything they want, and have no idea how to cope with being told no. "But Pa-PA said we might go to first base. And I've so looked forward to it. Out of my way, you cad, or I shall be very cross! Perhaps I will slap you."

Curt Montague Schilling is your daddy

Also your father. Also your boss. Your master. The man who writes your checks. The guy who might well call in the vig. He's the guy. The dude. The bull goose looney. So fuck you. FUCK YOU, YANKEES FANS. What can you do, with sutures holding your tendons together? Take a ladylike nibble at my nether regions? Oh, HEY. That's what I thought.



I'm not ashamed to tell you that I cried a little tonight. Not as much as A-Rod cried, but that's okay.



I am all out of eloquence. All's I can say is, this was a good night. A really good night.

Just a bunch of characters

Gary Sheffield is now saying that he never called my large Dominican boyfriend and his teammates a walking disaster. Or, at least, I think that's what he's saying. I can't be sure, because he keeps sobbing like a little girl.

Line up here for your free beating

There's a lot I could complain about right now. I'm a registered Democrat and a Red Sox fan, and my brother-in-law went to Iraq on Wednesday. Things have been better in Smashville, you know? But instead of complaining about politics or sports or anything really important, I'm going to whine about my new upstairs neighbors, because my theory is that the way to be the Best Blogger in the Whole Wide World, which is, of course, my greatest goal, is to be even more trivial than every other blogger. This isn't easy, mind you. There are folks out there who make Jean Teasdale from the Onion look like Hemingway in their accessiblity and relevance. But I'm doing my best.



Anymchoodle, here's my point: I'm going to kill my upstairs neighbors. Those of you who have been reading this site since its earlier incarnation on LJ will remember that I have a bad history with upstairs neighbors. Part of this is because my house was never intended to be an apartment building, so the walls are pretty thin. This means that my neighbors and I, whoever they are, get to know a lot about each other's musical taste and sex life. But most of the problem is that everyone else sucks except for me. This realization is what lead me to choose to live alone in the first damn place, but until I get my own private island, merely having my own apartment won't be enough to isolate me from the surging tides of humanity, apparently.



My previous upstairs neighbors were a woman a few years older than me, her 11-year-old son and their ratty little dog. This was annoying enough. My current neighbors are three guys in their early 20s, and I think so far, I'd rather have the dog back.



Here are their sins to date:



1) Tearing up the hallway whilst moving in. There are workmen out there right now, patching up the plaster, and, I hope, painting over the gouges.

2) Leaving the goddamn light on in the hall at all hours of the day and night, which is going on my bill, I just know it. Yes, I know that's illegal. Life is hard.

3) Not even saying HI to me for FUCK'S SAKE when we run into each other in the hallway. This is only one of them, but c'mon now. Manners.

4) Having a drum set. They haven't played it yet, but it's only a matter of time. I saw it when they moved in. Nothing gets past me.

5) This is the worst one. You better sit down. Not taking their garbage out, ever, in the whole three weeks they've lived here, but rather stacking their bags and boxes and bottles and BOX SPRING and BAR STOOL and OTHER ITEMS NOT STARTING WITH "B", BUT STILL FURNITURE OF A LARGE-ISH NATURE, I ASSURE YOU by the side of the house as if the FUCKING JOADS LIVED HERE.



I'm really sorry for all the yelling, but I feel better now, and isn't that what blogging is all about? Please go back to your regularly scheduled surfing. I think I'll be okay.

Before this week is over, I will probably:

1) Have a heart attack

2) Physically menace and possibly attack this one guy who always wears a Yankees cap in the office

3) Get committed to McLean's

4) Require a liver transplant

5) Develop a permanent eye-twitch



In other news, it's not my fault that Mike Mussina is hot. I'm not proud of myself or anything like that, so there's no use berating me over it. It's just that he's so serious. It's really adorable. And I think I can help him. Or at least keep him distracted and away from the ballpark. No sacrifice too large, that's my motto.



Also, in further baseball-related fragments, I'm starting to think that my friend Cathy is right: Maybe Manny isn't a total bag of hammers. Check out the look in his eyes when he thinks the camera isn't on him. He looks rather shrewd, doesn't he?



This is the most disjointed entry ever, but I am so tired. So here's my last point: we know Schilling's ankle is all fucked up. There's no need to pan to it ever other second when he's on the mound, Fox "We Suck the Cock of the Devil" Sports. When they're not doing that, they're showing us dip shots of Schilling spitting tobacky all over his chin. Way to kick a guy when he's down, fellas.

Great answers to everyday questions

Someone: How are you?



You: Itchy.

Put a helmet on Hubley

Yesterday, instead of writing, I went to the motorcycle show at Lars Andersen field. One of my favorite things about being a writer, I've decided, is that in order to avoid doing my favorite thing in the world to do, namely write, I will try almost anything. This is great, because I'm pretty timid by nature when it comes to new things. But because I have all these deadlines to avoid, both actual and self-imposed, I wind up trying all sorts of fun things, like going to the motorcycle show. If you ever hear that I'm sky-diving, you'll know I've gotten a book deal.



Anyway, the motorcycle show was great. I went with my friend Christine and her boyfriend Robbie and our friend Eddie. It's a great group to go to just about anything with. We're all fairly mellow and self-sufficient in terms of wandering around on our own at these things, and everyone has an interesting perspective to offer, partly because we're all from different places.



Christine is very sweet, quiet but tough the way some shy people are, and weighs as much as my left thigh. She had a belt on that would have made a dandy garter for a normal-sized person, except that it had an enormous KISS buckle on it. I'm pretty sure that she could have whipped it off and used it as a weapon if necessary. And just think how funny you'd look, with KISS-shaped welts all over your face. She's from Boston, but you probably figured that out from the KISS belt. We love metal in Boston. It's a whole thing.



Robbie's from Maine, as I figured out when he called several members of the Red Sox "shitbirds" the other night. Shitbirds are the official state bird of Maine. I know this because Mainers are always yelling about them. Lot of pride in the great state of Maine. Robbie's also the funniest person I've met in a long time. We were discussing some of our snottier mutual acquaintances, and I said, "It's like you have to apply to be friends with these people," and Robbie said, holding up his fists, "Yeah. It's like, 'is there an application fee? All's I got is two fives.'"



Eddie is an Okie. At one point, we were in the Transportation Museum, which is this old barn that the Andersens turned into a garage for their many expensive automobiles, and we came upon a room full of saddles. "Oh, look!" Eddie said. "It's the Okie Room!" He then proceeded to point out various parts of the saddles to me, in case I should ever need to rope some doggies. Did you know that if you try to hold their leads in your hand, without using the pommel on your saddle, that you can break your wrist? Well, according to Eddie, you can, and I believe him. Fair warning.



Anyway, enough about where people are from. The point is that we had a good time. Motorcycle shows are only mostly about motorcycles. They're also about fashion and dogs. We saw some great dogs (as opposed to doggies, see above), including a weimaraner puppy who didn't feel very well, but still raised his wee liver-colored head gamely for a pat. Now there's a dog. Desperate for approval. I like that in an animal.



The title of this entirely back-asswards piece comes from a game Robbie invented called "Put a helmet on Hubley." The point of the game, I guess, would've been to put helmets on me, because I'd look funny wearing a helmet. I like games like that. Everyone wins! Anyway, we didn't get to play that game, because there weren't a lot of stray helmets roaming around. Most of them were on riders. But I did get to sit on the 2005 Triumph, which was so freakin' huge I couldn't get my legs around it. The guys from the dealership thought this was maybe the cutest thing they'd ever seen in their lives, I could tell. They kept saying things like, "Aw, you look really good on it!" And, "Well, maybe you could wear heels." To their credit, they didn't dissolve in hysterics the way I would have.

Superman is dead

He really is.

Shopping list

I just went to CVS. Here's what I got:



1) Heating pad

2) Bathroom cleansers (various)

3) Peanut butter M&Ms

4) Feminine hygiene products (various)

5) Pain relievers (two kinds, one specifically targeted for "irritability")



Who wants to mess with me? Who? You? I didn't think so.

Ms. Smash and the case of the soggy britches

This one time, I wet my pants in front of a lot of people. You can read about it here.

A cautionary tale

I love penpals. This is only one of many reasons why I'm addicted to Friendster. The other is that I love it when people e-mail me pictures of their dicks. (Perverts of the world: Before you hit "send", please realize that I WAS KIDDING.)



Anyway, one of my penpals asked me recently to send him a cautionary tale. I sent him the following story. It's kind of a bullshit way to do an entry, but I hate to leave any material unmilked:



A few years ago, I slimmed down a bit. Okay, a lot: I lost 30 pounds. The first time I went out drinking after said weight loss, I forgot to factor in my new weight when ordering my beverages. Three martinis later, I stood up from my barstool and promptly fell over, cracking my eyeglasses and cutting my eyebrow so badly that I needed four stitches to close it.



That's not the cautionary tale. This is: if you crack your eyeglasses and cut open your eyebrow while drinking, do not, I repeat DO NOT, go to the hospital where your mother works to be stitched up. Your mother's friends will tease you about your miniskirt and obvious drinking problem and then they will stitch your eyebrow up with bright blue thread, which will attract comment and honeybees in equal measure for the next week or so.



Finis.



Jen

Wheel! Of! Dicks!*

Here's something you don't know about me: Although I can't keep a relationship going for more time than it takes a dairy product to expire in a poorly sealed fridge, all of my formers come back eventually. Before you accuse me of vanity, let me assure you that I don't think that this reflects well on me. I mean, I'd like to think it's cuz I'm so hot that all the color goes right out of life when I'm not around. But I suspect that the real situation is that I'm a big, big sucker, and boys can smell it.



One of the problems we face in this mockery that we call dating life in the early 21st century is that boys have so many technologies at their disposal when they want to drop in on you once again. They can Google you, and find out where you're living or working or at the very least, how to contact you via e-mail. They can dig up your blog or your livejournal or your company Web site and figure out your IM and start sending you cowardly electronic pleas for forgiveness and renewed friendship.



It's been a busy year for me and the Boy-Go-Round, but I've developed a good attitude toward it now. Instead of moaning and groaning about why the boys keep going away and popping back up again, I'm starting to look forward to seeing which one of them will appear next. I'm thinking of starting a betting pool. Who wants in?



* (tm) Isaac Canney, one of the good ones. You can tell he's a good one, because I've never dated him. Ha! Ha ha ha! Sob. But seriously. He came up with Wheel of Dicks and it was so funny that I stole it from him. But now I'm telling you that I stole it, which makes this not stealing, but collaboration.

No sleep til ... no sleep ever, apparently

Did you know that people can go insane from lack of sleep? Of course you knew that. You've seen all the same shows and movies I've seen. You know about sharps and hot and cold and sleep deprivation and Chinese water torture. God, you're sick. You can't just watch a nice sitcom like everyone else? You disgust me.



I woke up this morning at 2:30 a.m. and could not get back to sleep for love nor money. There are a couple reasons for this:



1) I fell asleep listening to the radio, and at about 2:30, the dj started playing nu metal, for some unknown reason.

2) My Dad had surgery yesterday. He's fine. But still: surgery. Hubleys hate surgery. We don't even like to ask people for change for a five, never mind trust them to heal us. We think think they might want something in return, like the right to come over to our house and play with our things. Or maybe they'll expect us to perform surgery on them some day. It's all very suspicious.

3) My brother-in-law is going to Iraq in a couple of days.

4) It's getting cold out, and because I hate to be just like everyone else, I've arranged it so that the cold triggers a reverse-hiberation response in my poor little sleep-deprived body. Once the weather changes, I start waking up after just one REM cycle, as if that were enough or something. "No sense wasting time dreaming when I could be wide awake wondering if I'm riddled with tumors!" Sob.

5) No sense wasting time dreaming ... you get it. I'm a worrier. And a hypochondriac. I'm just plain nuts, is my point. But such fun at parties.

You forgot Poland

Actually, George, it looks like Poland forgot us.

Escape from Cambridge

I'm from Massachusetts originally, but that didn't mean that I had the slightest idea of where I wanted to live when I moved back to Boston after college. They don't hand out real estate guides when you're going to high school out in the 'burbs, you know? So when it came time to pick a place to live, I picked Cambridge, pretty much based on the fact that I'd always enjoyed Harvard Square as a teenager.



Lordy, what a difference a few years can make.



By the time I got to Cambridge, Pacific Sunwear had eaten Wursthaus ("The vurst food in Boston!") and the Tasty ("Except for ours!") and was beginning to spawn an entire mini-mall all up and down JFK. Funtime was over, okay? They even killed the Bow and Arrow Pub, which I would have thought had landmark status for appearing in the only Boston-based movie to feature people with actual Boston accents.



It was okay, though. I couldn't afford to live within a mile radius of Harvard Square anyway, so the only time I had to put up with it was when I went to buy my various youth-preserving serums at Origins. What? Shut up. I don't just roll out of bed looking like this.



Eventually, I left and moved to Roslindale, where my people are. Roslindale features more Virgin Mary-themed lawn ornaments than any other neighborhood in Boston, I think, with the possible exception of Quincy. Our Christmas decorations rock, too. But I've continued to think fondly of Cambridge, the way you think about guys you've broken up with due to circumstance rather than trespass.



Last Sunday, though, I went to visit a friend in Porter Square and remembered why the love is gone.



There was a street fair in Harvard Square, so all of JFK, most of Memorial between JFK and Western Ave., and one lane of Mass Ave. were shut down. This made getting to Horowitz's house in Porter nearly impossible; getting home was an epic journey.



I've blocked most of it out, unfortunately, but I can tell you that while I was making my third loop through the back streets between Harvard and Central, "Rescue Me" actually came on the radio, and I realized that the same creepy looking bicyclist had been riding just in front of me, ducking in and out between Harvard dorms, for about twenty minutes. He was wearing a red George Jetson biking suit, with a newspaper crammed into the rear pocket and sticking up like a tail, and his afro was kind of sticking out from underneath his helmet. He appeared to be talking to himself, but then, by that point, so was I. After awhile, I started to think he was following me on purpose, which would have been extra hard, considering that he was in front of me.



"Oh, there you are again," I muttered. "I know what you're up to. Don't think I don't. If you're going to follow people, you probably shouldn't wear red, jackass."



Fortunately, Aretha drowned out my insane ramblings, so he didn't hear me. He would have been totally within his rights to punch me in the nose.

I like The Third Man already

Here's why:



"It's all right. Paine. He's only a scribbler with too much drink in him. Take Mr. Holly Martins home."



Yes!