Back Again. Also: New Year's Resolutions!

I know. I know I know I know I know: I've been a terrible blogger. Please forgive. My New Year's resolution is to be a better proprietress of the Smash. (Actually, it's to eat more cheese and be less reliable. But close enough.)

My vacation in beautiful Boston continues. It's relatively warm, and I have a party to go to tomorrow night and a large plate of cookies at my elbow. The Law & Order marathon is on USA. I'm not sure, but I think my Dad is cooking something in the kitchen. Really, it doesn't get any better than this.

I realized something this week, which is that I can never ever retire. Even if I have the money someday, I'd never survive it. I made myself eat some vegetables today because I was afraid that scurvy would set in. I still haven't managed to take a shower. Ah, sloth.

And now, before I leave you and return to covering sofa cushions with crumbs and drool, I will engage in a popular New Year's tradition, and give you my actual resolutions:

1) Go to the gym. Boring, yes, but my friend Caryn and I are embarking on the new hottness, and I need to do something to offset all these cookies.

2) Be nicer to myself when I don't go to the gym (or snap at people, or eat too much, or fall down the stairs at parties, etc.).

3) Give money to something worthwhile, instead of spending it all on lipgloss and taxi fare. (Especially since I saw Sex & the City for the first time in ages the other day, and realized how loathsome those women are. Anything, anything, lord, just don't let me turn out like Carrie. She deserves Mr. Big.)

4) Call people back right away. (Sorry, pals. I'll do better!)

5) Wait five seconds before returning email. (Totally creepy to respond right away. I know I would think I was a serial killer, if I didn't know me better.)

So there you have it! Not insurmountable. Not even very significant. This is the way to make resolutions.

Memo to Menfolk on Match.com

I like a beverage, myself, but I'm probably not going to write you back if your primary photo shows you chugging a beer. I mean, I'm not opposed to beer-chugging, but it seems like if you're advertising that, I would never be able to be mad at my friends for saying "I told you so" after you fall down the stairs and have to go on disability.

Ma Smash on Face Transplants

Me: Have you guys been following this face transplant story? What do you think of all this?

Dad: What bothers me is that it's pretty obvious that the transplant is from a different face. It just looks weird.

Ma Smash: Well, honey, that's because of the stitches.

NYC Transit Strike

I love that they waited til I moved to the City to have their first strike in 25 years.

I mean, fine and all, because I live in downtown Manhattan, and so I can get just about anywhere I'd want to go for the next couple days. But if I lived in the outer boroughs, I think I'd be pissed. Also, extremely claustrophobic and freaked out. But then, I feel that way when I'm visiting friends in Park Slope and the F train is slow. So take that into consideration: I am weak, etc.

Anyway, inconvenience aside, I sympathize with these guys. Give them what they want, I say. They only work underground in a stinky tunnel with New York's worst collection of panhandlers, winos and pissed off yuppies. In fact, I'll chip in five bucks myself. Who's with me?

Tags: NYC | transit strike

Let's See: Nap, Write or Eat Cheese? (What Do You Think?)

The Donut: Jen? I have a deadline and I can't do anything. I hate writing.

Jennie Smash: That's because writing is loathsome.

The Donut: It is!

Jennie Smash: It's terrible. I don't know why we ever thought this was a good idea.

The Donut: I don't know either.

Jennie Smash: I hate it. I'd rather have a nap.

The Donut: Me too!

Jennie Smash: Or eat a whole bag of cheese.

The Donut: I did both those things today.

Jennie Smash: Me too.

The Donut: The sleep-to-work ratio, especially, is not so bueno.

Jennie Smash: Amen.

The Donut: Can you think of any reason why we do this at all?

Jennie Smash: Despite the fact that it's loathsome and impossible, it's our favorite thing in the world?

The Donut: No.

Jennie Smash: Oh. Well then there's my other theory.

The Donut: What's that?

Jennie Smash: Writing is our version of secret cutting. It lets the pain out, and then you're so relieved when it's over.

The Donut: That's really sick.

Jennie Smash: Yes.

The Donut: We belong in the hospital.

Jennie Smash: Yes.

Ho, Ho, Ho

More griping of the feminine variety has recently been posted at Ye Olde Black Table for your reading enjoyment. Please read it and enjoy.

Through the Magic of Telephone Technology, I Participate in the Smash Family Reunion

Jennie Smash: Does it bother you that I've bleached everything in my apartment three times?

Mrs. Piddington: Well, once probably would have been enough.

Jennie Smash: There was a roach, though.

Mrs. Piddington: I read about the roach. (Muttering in the background.) What was that, sweetie? Oh, John says that he likes roaches.

Jennie Smash: John's stinky. Guess what else?

Mrs. Piddington: What?

Jennie Smash: I went to the doctor today and my bilirubin levels are great.

Mrs. Piddington: What's that?

Jennie Smash: Ask Mom.

Mrs. Piddington: Hey, Mom, Jen's bilirubin levels are great.

Ma Smash: (In the background.) Well, I'll be damned.

Mrs. Piddington: What are they?

Ma Smash:(In the background.) Liver functions. Ask her if the bartender told her that.

Mrs. Piddington: Mom wants to know if the bartender told you that.

Jennie Smash: Tell Mom she's sort of an ass. Also, tell her my groceries are going to magically appear in about two minutes, like magic.

Mrs. Piddington: Mom, you're an ass. And Jennie's getting groceries from the grocery delivery man. (Muttering in the background.) John says you're going to have an affair with the grocery delivery man.

Jennie Smash: John's going to have an affair with the grocery delivery man.

Mrs. Piddington: He is not!

Jennie Smash: No, he's not. Guess what else?

Mrs. Piddington: What?

Jennie Smash: I got a million shots today from a 12-year-old nurse.

Mrs. Piddington: My nurse was 12 the last time I went in for a checkup. What shots did you get?

Jennie Smash: Tetanus and diphtheria. And another round of hepatitis.

Mrs. Piddlington: What's diphtheria?

Ma Smash: (In the background.) She's already had diphtheria!

Jennie Smash: Well, now I've had it twice.

Mrs. Piddington: Now she's had it twice.

Jennie Smash: Guess what else?

Mrs. Piddington: What?

Jennie Smash: I got pamphlets.

Mrs. Piddington: For what?

Jennie Smash: Tetanus and diphtheria. In case complications develop, from my shots.

Mrs. Piddington: Wait, they gave you pamphlets? Don't they know better?

Jennie Smash: Well, see, I need them in case I develop, let's see ..."soreness, redness or swelling.."

Mrs. Piddington: OK, you need to throw those away.

Jennie Smash: "...deep, aching pain and muscle wasting in the upper arm(s)..."

Mrs. Piddington: Are you holding the pamphlets?

Jennie Smash: Yes.

Mrs. Piddington: Take the pamphlets, and go into your bathroom, and throw them away.

Jennie Smash: (Crickets.)

Mrs. Piddington: Are you there?

Jennie Smash: Yes.

Mrs. Piddington: Take the pamphlets, and go into your bathroom, and throw them away.

Jennie Smash: I might need them later.

Mrs. Piddington: You don't need them. You've been immunized against diphtheria twice.

Jennie Smash: There's a weird girl on this one. She's holding her hands up like, 'Hooray! Diphtheria!' I need to keep it.

Mrs. Piddington: Tear out the weird girl and throw the pamphlets--

Jennie Smash: "Ever had a serious allergic reaction or any other problem with Td, or any other tetanus and diphtheria vaccine?"

Mrs. Piddington: --away.

Jennie Smash: I can't. My scissors are drying.

The Giant Roach of Sumatra

There is a roach the size of my thumb living in the walls of my apartment, and that's fine. What's not fine was that he decided to come out of the walls this afternoon and run over my dishes while they were drying off in the dish drainer in my sink. This led to an orgy of cleaning, bleaching and boiling, and then to a trip to the Astor Place K-mart to buy caulking, so that I could block up the crack between the wall and the counter, which is where the germy little bastard first appeared, before he ran all over every single one of my glasses, cups, silverware and appliances with his horrible poopy little feet.

On my way back from buying the caulking, two rats nearly ran over my feet on the corner of Bowery and Houston, right near the scenic Christie Garden, which is clearly infested with rats and therefore considerably less scenic in my mind than previously. I also saw a homeless dude who had kind of a weird vibe. I see lots of homeless people, obviously, but my radar went off with this one: Cross the street now, said the old radar, and so I did. I did think for a moment of the comic possibilities of being mugged while on my way home from buying caulking for my roach problem -- I still love you, New York! -- but decided that my personal safety and virtue were worth more than the joke.

In other New York stories, I went to my very first strip club last night. My pal Josh was in town celebrating his birthday. The original plan was very low-key: We were going to get together with a bunch of folks at a bar in Park Slope, and drink a bunch. Along about two in the morning, things took a turn for the absurd when I happened to mention that I had never been to a strip club. (It totally fit into the conversation, I swear. I wasn't all like, "So! Your job is going well, then, yes? And did I happen to mention that I've never been to a strip club?")

About an hour later, after a series of misadventures -- a cab ride that nearly ended in our being put out on the Brooklyn Bridge, a decidedly lower class gentleman's establishment with a hefty cover charge, a paucity of ATMs and restrooms, leading to one extended quest for cash and a pee-break behind a tractor -- we ended up a place called New York Dolls, which was full of naked ladies, just as advertised.

Now, an aside here: The reason I haven't been to a strip club before is that, surprise surprise, I sort of felt that they might objectify women. I felt sorry for women who stripped, and didn't want to participate in their oppression. Now, I'm not saying I've changed my mind about that. What I will say is that someone is in charge in those places, and it sure ain't the customers.

"You bet your ass they're in charge," Josh said, when I mentioned this to him. "If you don't think so, try running out of cash before you pay for a lap-dance. Two huge dudes will be only too happy to escort you to an ATM while you get cash."

We could have used those dudes earlier, actually, when we were looking for an ATM.

We were only there an hour, but in that time we managed to get Jayme a lap dance, because she had never been to a club either, and had expressed an interest; get Josh a lap dance, because it was his birthday, and because he likes them; and get me a lap dance, because Josh thought it would be hysterically funny to embarrass me.

The lap dance was not what I thought it was. I sort of thought, silly me, that it involved the stripper sitting on your lap, which I imagined, might be kind of fun, if you were a dude. But no. Here is what actually happens: A scantily clad woman (in this case, a very nice Bulgarian lady named "Donna", who appeared to be wearing bright red dental floss over her personal areas) sticks her knee in your crotch and then hits you in the face with her chestral region. That especially took me by surprise. One minute, I'm asking our new friend Donna about Bulgaria, and the next minute, I'm being slapped by mammaries. The first time, I thought it was a mistake, actually. I kind of wish someone had a picture, so that I had a record of what I'm sure was an expression of the purest astonishment.

Afterward, Josh sured me that I was a total pro.

"Are you kidding? I was dying of embarrassment."

"Oh, yeah, but that's the thing. You, like, looked over at me a couple times like, 'Dude, what the fuck?' Which is exactly what you're supposed to do."

We were very lucky, in the end, that we were not thrown out, since the Birthday Boy had a bit of difficulty adhering to the "no touch" rule.

"It just doesn't make any sense," he said later. "She put her ass on my chest and hit me in the face with her ginormous fake boobs. I just kinda poked her in the side a little. I wanted to see if she was muscley."

At 4 a.m., we all stumbled back out onto the street, ready for more adventures, but nothing else was open. It was the first time I'd managed to shut New York down, and I felt wide awake, oddly sober and very proud of myself. Two weeks before, I'd been so brokenhearted I thought I'd probably have to move back to Boston and live in my Mom's garage. One of the best things about this place is that you can have a month's worth of experiences in a night.

"Even when you're unhappy in New York, you're happy," my Dad said the other night on the phone. That pretty much sums it up.

Drunk Karma

Jennie SMASH!: my mind is gone
Drunken Mouse: hahaha
Drunken Mouse: that's the whiskey's fault
Jennie SMASH!: it's very sad
Jennie SMASH!: dude, the funniest part was that until i fell on those people, i didn't know i was drunk
Drunken Mouse: you fell on people?
Drunken Mouse: when did that happen?
Jennie SMASH!: on the train
Jennie SMASH!: although, i think that was train-related
Jennie SMASH!: not alcohol-related
Drunken Mouse: oh man. i totally don't remember that. i don't remember the train ride
Jennie SMASH!: HA
Jennie SMASH!: you're a good drunk
Jennie SMASH!: it's hard to tell
Jennie SMASH!: well, i fell on some people
Jennie SMASH!: they had to lift me up
Drunken Mouse: WTF? okay now you are just lying.
Jennie SMASH!: no, i'm really not
Drunken Mouse: no way i'd would forget that
Jennie SMASH!: i was making fun of the dude who passed out in the pizza place, and then the train started
Jennie SMASH!: and i went right over like a sack of potatoes
Jennie SMASH!: on two very nice ladies
Jennie SMASH!: and couldn't move
Jennie SMASH!: and they nicely propped me back up again
Jennie SMASH!: and then you said, "bet you wish you didn't make fun of that poor asshole in the pizza place"

The First Ever Contest on the Smash

OK, pals: I have a show to go to tomorrow, and I'm going to have to take the JMZ to get there. There's one small problem, however, which is that I'm still not sure that the JMZ train actually exists.

All right, if you want to get technical, I've taken the J before, although it only comes twice a year, as far as I can tell. I've even seen the M once. But I have never, absolutely never, seen the Z.

Which is why I'm having my first ever contest here at the Smash. Here's what I'm proposing: If any of you loyal readers can capture a picture of the Z, say, on your camera phone, etc., and send it to me at iscribblez@yahoo.com, I will let you pick your choice of reward:

1) Five real american dollars.
2) A two-dollar Metrocard and a three-dollar gift certicate to Starbucks.
3) Some combination of these prizes, adding up to five real american dollars.

C'mon, you can't lose!

Cold Number One Two Three

I get a lot of colds. This is for several reasons: I eat mostly cheese. I stay out too late, or, when I stay in, up too late. I hate exercise, and only do it when my vanity gets the better of me. And I clearly did not win the genetic lottery when it comes to health.

Both sides of my family are long-lived, but we don't let that slow us down when it comes to developing curious ailments. My grammy on my Mom's side used to get weird things like staph infections in her blood, or skin problems that disappeared suddenly after she got the small pox vaccine. On the other side of the family, we've got loads of diabetes and a little heart disease, plus a few folks who just took to their bed for one reason or another. Could have been MS or chronic fatigue or fibromyalgia. Could have been garden variety ennui. Who knows? On both sides of my family, well, let's just say we'd be eccentric, but none of us has ever had any money.

So being prone to colds ... that's not that bad. Except that I'm just now getting over my third goddamn cold of the year. THREE. It's December, people. Where will I be come flu season? UNDER THE GROUND, that's where.

My friend Smyres has a theory that all this cold-getting will benefit me in the end. "Suit," she says. "I figure that by the time the old avian flu gets here, you'll have built up an immunity. Whereas folks like me, who never get colds? We'll be stone dead." I want Smyres' collection of Johnny Cash records, if that happens.

In the meantime, however, I welcome all advice on building the immune system, as long as it doesn't involve any creepy hippie shit or like, taking care of myself. Actually, come to think of it, shut up. Achoo!

Oh, Whatever, They Always Come Back

I just realized what really bothered me about this comment: Who says I was the one who got dumped? I mean, I could have done the dumping. I could be stomping around Manhattan breaking hearts right and left. You don't know.

Now, the fact that I didn't think to kidnap my ex's cats beforehand might give you some clue as to how prepared I was for the breakup, but that's an awful lot of thinking on your part, comment guy, assuming that you don't know me. Actually, it's kind of creepy.

Which is why I've decided to pretend that that comment was from a vengeful ex-boyfriend who just couldn't live without me. Not the most recent one. I'm not expecting anonymous hatemail from him for, oh, at least a week or two.

As Good an Explanation as Any

JennieSmash: also IM hates me
DrunkenMouse: ha. your computer is angry because it doesn't have arms and legs
JennieSmash: HA

Phaedrus the Wonder Cat

For an allergic-type person, I'm a sucker for cats. Most of my friends have them, for one thing, and for another, well, as my Dad once pointed out, they have small faces like babies, making them perfect surrogate children for us city folk.

But the problem with cats is that they don't live as long as humans, and so if you get attached, which you will, you're bound to have to deal with a serious illness sooner or later ... by which I mean, sooner.

My friend Megadeth's cat Phaedrus has lymphoma. She's treating him with hippie medicines and steroids, and he seems pretty happy, but it's still sad to see him slowing down. This is a cat that used to look at visitors adoringly and then take a chunk out of their eyebrows.

Anyway, I got to see him over Thanksgiving, since he and MegaD live in Boston, and I did what any overcompensating aunty does: I bought him an embarrassing amount of treats. (Including catnip. Good aunties bring drugs.)

Below, you can see Himself and his new Evil Santa Hamster, which I purchased for him. We put some catnip under his hat, to inspire Phaedrus to chase him. Megadeth reports that it's working.

More Sniffling

So, I have a cold. Yes, another one.

I'm so embarrassed about my inferior immune system that I resolved not to say anything to my coworkers about feeling ill. Of course, the fact that I look like shit and sound like the cartoon version of a person with a stuffed up nose make it harder for me to pull off the illusion of health.

First thing in the morning, I had to talk to one of my editors about something. We settled the business at hand, and then she said, "Um, is your nose horribly stuffed up?"

"Yebs, ib is," I said. "I hab a cold. It's OK doh, I gob sick dis weekenb, so I don't think you can catch ib."

I don't think people believe me, though, because everyone in my office has started wearing surgical masks. I mean, I don't want to talk things too personally, but I'm pretty sure that this is on my account.

In other news, I have definitely decided to stop licking the poles on the F train, you'll be happy to know.

Withdrawal

My Internets crapped out yesterday, and I thought I was going to have the DTs. This is especially weird when you stop to consider that I didn't even use email until my last year of college. (And yes, we had email when I was in college. I'm not that old. I just had a late night, OK?)

Long story short and even less interesting, this means that I'm sitting in the Delancey Starbucks right now, typing away to stave off withdrawal and drinking coffee and feeling much better. It is freakishly clean in here, however. Those of you who are in New York are already familiar with the controversy of putting a Starbucks in an "edgy" neighborhood like the LES. Personally, I like their iced Americanos, so I don't care. I will say though that sitting at this antiseptic IKEA-style table and looking out the window at a knock-kneed hobo with a weeping sore by his eye is sort of a strange contrast, and it's making me feel a little dizzy. But then again, I'm just having my coffee now, so who's to say where the dizziness comes from.

The other night, I was in a brand-new pizza place with my friend the Drunken Mouse, who is a native New Yorker, and therefore pretty amused by my hokiness most of the time, and I kept remarking about how clean the place was.

"Look at the grout!" I exclaimed, pointing at the floor. "It's white!"

"Yes, it's very clean," the Mouse said.

"Have you been to the bathroom? SPARKLING! It was freaking me out."

He put down his slice. "Listen, in about three weeks will be plenty grungy, just like everything else in this city. Let's not hate on clean, OK?"

This from a guy who thinks my hand sanitizer is weird.

Now, Pull Out All Your Eyebrows...

I had a horrible dream last night. Christina Aguilera was giving me makeup tips ... and they seemed like a good idea.

Now They Tell Us

Spotted on the train: Do not fall in love.

Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite

On the train yesterday, Mizza informed me that the city is apparently infested with bedbugs once again. This happens from time to time, I guess. I've gotten used to "water bugs" in my tub when I get home from a long break, but I really cannot handle this.

"If you get them," Mizza said. "I recommend the following: Leave your apartment with the clothes on your back, which you will promptly have deloused, and perhaps burned. Abandon your lease and all your belongings and start over in a new city. Also: You've scratched your nose three times while we've been talking, and if there's something you'd like to tell me, you can do it from across the aisle."

I am dead serious, folks. If the bedbugs find me, there won't be enough SSRIs on the planet to stop the screaming.

Ah, Youth

I just took the train back to NYC, and ran into my friend Mizza on the way back from the cafe car. Apparently, I not only know everyone in New York, I also know everyone on every major form of transportation in the tristate area. Sweet.

Mizza and I hunkered down with pizza and sandwiches and told each other our same six stories. Then we started listening in on our fellow passengers. It started because we passed the stop for Conn College, and Mizza was concerned that we should wake up the kid across from us.

"He totally goes to Conn," he said. "Look at him: Peach-fuzzy chin beard. Plaid shirt. Zippery backbag with tags. He's an environmental science major, but he doesn't know it yet. He's, like, a little high almost always, and he's really getting into jazz."

As if on cue, Conn College started to rouse himself. It was a long slow process, with much eyerubbing and stretching, and by the time he was upright, Mizza was half-asleep. So I made sure to listen in closely, just in case I was the only witness to the conversation.

"Yeah, 'lo?" He mumbled into his phone. "Listen, hi. Here's what I need you to do. I need you to go the bank machine and take out ... forty-five dollars. My friend Klara will come get the ... forty-five dollars. Klara. K-l-a-r-a. Klara. What did I say? Spell it back. K-l-a-r-a. OK. She's short. Yup."

At this point, Mizza opened one eye and mouthed: "Forty-five dollars." I attempted not to pee.

"Oh, yeah, something else. I need this girl's phone number. Can you go into my Facebook account. My email address is JUNIPERJOHNSON@NYU.EDU. [D'oh! -JH] And my password is WEED! With an exclamation point. That's W-E-E..."

Mizza hit me in the side, and whispered, "When I was in school? It was James Brown. We'd call each other up and be like, hey man, can I borrow that JAMES BROWN CD, for like FORTY-FIVE MINUTES?"

"It cost FORTY-FIVE MINUTES when you were in school? Man, you're twelve and I always forget. When I was in school, you could get some James Brown for THIRTY MINUTES."

"Nah, see, this was the REALLY GOOD JAMES BROWN CD. You know that one? The REALLY, REALLY GOOD JAMES BROWN. It's usually about FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LONG."

"Yeah, I went to UMass. You could get SHITTY JAMES BROWN for TWENTY BUCKS."

And ... We're Back!

Hello, Pals of the Internets. Did you have a lovely Thanksgiving? Did you eat deep-fried bird? Did you burn your houses down? I hope not.

I am refreshed and revivified after my own holiday, which consisted of reading true crime novels and stuffing my face. Really, there's nothing better than that.

I also discovered the cure for situational depression this weekend. It is simply this: Read a book about the Green River Killer, and then, when people ask you how you are, say things like, "Well, it could be worse. My body could be lying at the bottom of a ravine, garrotted with its own underpants." Actually, don't say that. You'll upset people.

I'm sure I'll come up with a better answer than this. Previously, I'd been cheering up my friends by saying things like, "Well, at least you have a pancreas." Or: "Know what sucks? Dialysis." It worked, too! People totally forgot all about their problems, whilst trying to figure out exactly what had gone wrong inside my pointed head.*

* Note: My head is not pointed. It is actually completely round and quite handsome, with or without hair, as I discovered in college during my punk rock phase. Thank you.

Gobble, Gobble

Ma Smash: Are you looking forward to a little break?

Me: God, yes. I'm exhausted. Definitely time for a vacation.

Ma Smash: Well, you just come home. You won't have to do a thing! I made a pie the other day, and I went to the store today and bought all the trimmings and I've been talking to old Thomas, who is in the fridge as we speak.

Me: Oh, man! I forgot you did that. Your theory is that it helps with cooking, right? Sort of like playing Mozart for plants?

Ma Smash: Yes, but right now I'm concentrating on putting old Thomas at ease. Don't tell him what Thursday is. Y'see, I've told him that he's a pet.

Sporadic Posting Ahead

Hello, make-believe friends of the electronic variety.

The Thanksgiving holidays are nearly upon us. This is a delightful thing, because it means that I get to go home for almost a full week and sit on my mother's sofa and shovel food in my face and not have one single solitary thought the whole time. I am looking forward to this immensely, as you might imagine.

In the meantime, I must warn you that I might not be so great about the whole blog updating thing over the next few days. I still like you, though. I just don't like you, like you.

I'm totally kidding. I think you're hot.

Waxing Off Goodness

Hello, my pals.

Please click on over to the ol' BT to check out my latest encounters with the homeless.

The Attitude of Fattitude

Yesterday, I went to the doctor, as I do, and discovered that I had lost four pounds. Four pounds! This is entirely because I just broke up with someone, you know. I always gain weight in relationships, even if it seems like I'm eating just the same and exercising and all that. I blame hormones.

My friend Derek once said that he thinks that this pattern has a lot to do with the on-off nature of many relationships among young (he's 24) people these days. When couples are together, they pack on the pounds. The girl might be fine with this, but the guy, being a guy, gets all grossed out at her fattitude and breaks up with her. She then cries and cries and loses like 37 pounds, and then she's all hot and emaciated again and the dude's like, whoa! My mistake. Let's get back together.

It strikes me upon looking at that paragraph that Derek might actually be a very angry person, and I'd never realized that before.

I Have To Get a Camera Phone

Thanks Jen C., via Smyres:

Ma Smash Update

Me: "I've had an epiphany."

Ma Smash: "That's wonderful! Epiphanies don't come every day of the week, you know. If they did, they'd be called 'the newspaper.'"

Me: "-"

Ma Smash: "Hello? Are you still there?"

I Will Not Be Going To See Either Of Those Films

I am looking at the movie listings right now, and "Saw 2" has the following enticement below: "See a freaky clip of the serial killer mentally torturing his captives." Um? Haven't we had enough torture stories? Are we actually going to pay money to see more? What's next? "Abu Ghraib 3"?

George!

I am on the Internets in a variety of made-up electronic locations, so I am quite easy to find, if one wants to find me. Sometimes one does, which usually means that one is a dangerous maniac, an ex-boyfriend, or some combination of the two.

My last Internet person pop-up was a former coworker whom we will call George, because no one is named George in my generation, and therefore, no one will be offended. I never dated George, nor do I feel that he is a dangerous maniac. However, he did once decide that my friend Lisa was going to date him, and it took a lot of persuading to convince him that this was not the case.

George wrote to me a short time ago to say hello and tell me about his blog. I did not write back, because I remembered how hard it was to convince him that Lisa would not date him, and because I find his self-confidence disturbing, given that I and many excellent people I know seem to have so little. Perhaps they dole out self-confidence in inverse proportion to its deservedness? I don't know. Anyway, good old George is steeped in the stuff, which I realized when I went to his blog and discovered that it contained the following elements:

1) A bio page, referring to his many books, of which there is one. Referred to in the plural however! "Go here for my books. And when I say books, I mean, just the one."

2) A changing quotes section featuring a variety of witty aphorisms, by such sages as Picasso, Isaac Asimov, and George.

3) A brief history of George's world travels, which include: the town he was born in, the town next door, the nearest city, which is where he went to school, and then, another town right next to the town he was born in.

4) His wish list. Of course. Because when gas costs as much as $37 per gallon on any given week, sane persons should of course buy presents for strangers.

5) A list of sponsors. (!) (?)

Friends of mine: This ol' blog might vary widely in quality. It might bore you. It is certainly self-indulgent. But at least I don't make you pay for it.

More Parental Cuteness

Ramon from the mailroom thinks I'm crazy, because of all the packages I get. Here, as on this morning, are all the things my father has mailed me at work:

1) Money.

2) A carbon monoxide detector.

3) The Trouble with Tom: The Strange Afterlife and Times of Thomas Paine.

The latter arrived just this morning and had a note with it, plus a cartoon of my Dad grinning through his beard.

Funny from Funny

Sometimes people ask me, "Oh, Jen, in the face of such terrible adversity -- hair that won't lie flat no matter what you do, probable liver failure, general psychosis -- how to maintain such a lovely and healthy attitude? How, how can you be so funny?" The answer, my friends is simple. I have the funniest mother on the planet, and I steal all her material.

My mother is funny in two ways: on purpose, and accidentally. I'm not sure which I prefer to be honest, although you do need to be careful about laughing at the second type of funny, as this will sometimes cause her to look confused, and a little hurt.

For example, this weekend, my parents came to visit me. We did a number of touristy things, which was great, because I've lived here long enough now that I feel weird about doing that stuff without an excuse. Also, some of the touristy stuff is disturbing. Like, we went to look at Ground Zero. That should not be a tourist attraction. But it is. I suppose the people who lived around Gettysburg were pretty horrified by all the foot traffic there directly afterward, as well.

Anyway, while we were there, we ran into a coworker of mine, who was showing a friend of hers around the city. Her friend was from France. This delighted my mother, who is a Francophile and goes to Paris as much as possible. So they chattered in French, and then, in English, my mother said, "Well, you must come see Boston some time. Have you ever been?"

No, he hadn't been.

"It's the best city in the world, next to Paris. You'll have to come visit, and when you do, you can stay with us!"

The French guy looked bewildered. "I can stay with you?"

"Yes!"

He looked at me. "Americans are so friendly!" he said. "This would never happen in Paris! We would never ask a stranger to stay with us!"

I thought there were plenty of strangers in Paris who would have liked me to stay with them, but I decided to keep that to myself.

"That's not Americans," I said. "That's my mother."

And she beamed. See? Funny on accident.

Funny on purpose? As we were walking away, we saw one of those dogs with obvious and disturbingly exposed genitalia, and my mother whispered, "Jennie, that dog doesn't have any underpants."

It's a Bad Neighborhood in Hubley's Head

Oh my God, you guys, I feel elderly. Everyone must stop having shows and things immediately. Also, they must provide me with a vacation home in which to recuperate. Or perhaps -- this is my favorite idea -- I will be hospitalized for "exhaustion." Do you think those hospitals issue you silk nighties in which to lounge? It seems like they should.

Meanwhile, because I know you're all fascinated with my menstrual cycle and cannot rest until you get the update -- "Where is she? Is it Aunt Flo time? Mid-month? How crazy is crazy? How seriously should we take any of her bullshit anyway?" -- I have the worst case of PMS and am now so looney that I've decided that I am probably going to die of liver failure before the week is out. This is because I pulled a muscle doing sit-ups, and now I have a twinge in my side. It might be the side my liver is on. I don't know anatomy.

I was explaining about my liver to a couple friends the other night, appropriately enough over drinks and one of them said, as if just at the moment having the realization, "Oh my God. You actually are crazy, aren't you?"

Duh.

We Understood That There Would Be No Math

The Donut: I have a lot less $ than I should.

The Donut: Which means that one of two things is happening.

JennieSmash: ?

The Donut: a) Embezzlement.

The Donut: b) I'm spending too much...again.

JennieSmash:: Oh no!

The Donut: Obviously, it's a. My bank is stealing from me.

Check it!

INCOMING! NOVEMBER 7, 2005.

I wrote it, and stuff.

Very Busy and Important

Man, I need a weekend to recover from this weekend. Generally speaking, New York weekends are actually less interesting than the regular week. So I go out on week-nights, mostly, when I won't have to fight with a million people from Staten Island just to get a drink, and then, on the weekend, I go on long walks, and go to the movies and hang out at people's houses. It's all very civilized and it's probably the only thing keeping me from going totally broke. It also lets me catch up on my sleep.

This weekend, however, I was a little a busy. Here's what I did:

1) Hung out with my parents, who were in from Boston. We went on a cruise around Liberty and Ellis Islands, and saw "Good Night, and Good Luck" and ate at every restaurant in Lower Manhattan. We also went to my favorite bar, which they liked a lot, although my Mom informed me gravely that I should take good care of my liver, because I clearly need it.

2) Broke up with my boyfriend.

3) Wrote an Incoming! for the Black Table. (Link tomorrow.)

So as you can see, I am a master of multi-tasking. And I need a nap. And possibly a new liver.

Curse You, Friendster!

OK, now Friendster is totally fuckin' with me. They've changed their "See Who's Viewed Me" feature so that I can't see who's viewed me ... unless I turn off my "View Profiles Anonymously" button. Which means that everyone could see if I was stalking them. And we can't have that.

I have defended you Friendster, against those who said that your time was over. I have defended you against those who said that you were always lame. However, if you continue to sell my ass out, I will take my business to MySpace. It's worth being propositioned for threesomes, if I get to stalk people as God intended.

Big, Big Love

Anger is Good For You

I have been saying this FOREVER.

A Nice Subway Story, For a Change

The other day, I gave up my seat on the subway. This doesn't happen very often, because I am hideously lazy, and also a girl, and therefore, unless I spot a pregnant woman, a handicapped person or Methusela, I feel that I should get to keep my seat. This may be sexist. I don't know. However, it helps me justify my sloth, so there you are.

Anyway, on this particular day, an elderly woman and her grandson got on the F-train. Something about the way they were talking to each other made it obvious that they were on some sort of special outing. The boy was wearing new shoes, I think, or holding her hand particularly tightly. He was definitely looking around at the other passengers as if observing zoo animals, so he didn't ride the train every day, safe to say.

"Excuse me," I said. "Would you like my seat?"

She said yes, and smiled, and tucked her grandson into the seat, and kept standing.

He stared at me a moment, and then crooked his finger at his gramma. She bent forward to hear him.

"Gramma, why did she give me her seat?"

At this point, the man next to the little boy got up and gave his seat to the grandmother. She thanked him, and leaned over to her grandson, "Because some people are very nice," she said.

Joe, Joe, He Don't Know

I was hanging out with Joseph M. Paws the other day. We played the Biting Game, which consists of him flipping over on his back and sticking out his chest until I scratch it, and then biting me, and then looking at me like, "What? Scratch my chest" and so on. And as this was going on, I looked into Joe's eyes, and I realized that he has not one single thought in his head.

Joe, you see, is kinda dumb. Brainwise, he has more in common with a golden retriever than a normal cat. For example, not too long ago I was over at Sean's, and Sean left the apartment to take out the garbage. I was then treated to some insight into Joe's love for Sean: As soon as Alpha Man left, Joe ran over to the door and stared at it. He looked fully prepared to do this all day if necessary, and I can only assume he does just that whenever Sean goes to work.

Cute, right? It gets better. After a minute or two of staring, Joe's wee eyes sort of fuzzed. He lost his focus on the door, and then he looked around, like, "Dang, I was waiting for something. What was I waiting for? Hmmm. Hmmm. Wait! There's a door here. Maybe I'll stare at it and see what happens. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Wait. What am I doing by this ... thingie. What's called? A dooo...dooorrrr..."

And then Sean came in and it was like Christmas all of sudden, with the yowling and the prancing around.



Joe: Pretty, but not real bright.

Scalito!

Here's a trivia fact for you: Alito is actually composed of several interlocking parts, a la Voltron. He is, in no particular order, the assembled components of Antonin Scalia, Hermann Goering, Bill Frist, a pitbull and Phyllis Schafly.

PS: I know the Photoshop is horrible. But one only has so long on one's lunch break.

Today in Medical Oddities

British woman gives birth to twins from two wombs

Money quote: "Now I have two miracles. I am full of every possible emotion. Life isn't about my two wombs now -- it's about my two babies."

God, if only life could stop being about my two wombs, I feel I'd really be fulfilled at long last. (Also: "My Two Wombs" is an excellent name for a sitcom.)

"Rar, rar, rar! I'ma git you! Rar, rar, rar!"

Here's another good reason to turn on the heat: It block out the sound of the dude who is currently tripping over things, singing and cursing in the empty nightclub patio right under my window. Dude, seriously: It is 8 p.m. on a Sunday night. You should not be this drunk. Seek help.

In other news, I saw "Shopgirl" today. Not as good as the book. It sort of made me feel like I should mail Steve Martin some SSRIs immediately. Perhaps with a small note: "Dear Steve: You need these more than I do. I love your writing. But dang, cheer up, guy. Love, Jen." Do you think that would help?

Also, if Claire Danes is 26, then so am I.

How Do You Know When the Evening Has Gotten Out of Hand?

You're in a karaoke bar full of Japanese people, clutching a Sapporo in one hand and a mic in the other, and belting out your best rendition of "Manic Monday" while a waitress in a geisha headdress mocks you openly in Japanese. The end.

Negatory!

Before she got all skeeny again, and stopped being quite so funny, I really really liked Margaret Cho. I don't dislike her now, but she used to be funnier. That's how it goes, I guess.

Anyway, one of my favorite Margaret Cho lines was her explanation of why she's friends with so many gay people: "I? Am heterophobic."

Me, too! So when it came time to get a new doctor, it's only natural that I would pick the All-Gay-All-the-Time healthcare center around the corner from my office. (Which is in Chelsea, BTW. Otherwise known as The Single Gayest Neighborhood on the East Coast.)

I went to get a checkup, as you do, and while I was there, I decided that I would be a responsible girl and get an HIV test. I hadn't had one in years, but I wasn't particularly worried about the results. That is, until the counselor, who was a very attractive 20-something latino gay man whose moisturizer I would like to use, told me that he would have my results in 20 minutes.

"TWENTY MINUTES?" I said. "How? Why? What do you mean?"

"It only ever took 20 minutes," he explained. "It's just that we used to send them out to the lab, and then you'd have to wait for the courier to bring the blood over, and then we had to wait for Shaniqua at the lab to process the sample, and then we had to wait to hear from the lab, and so on."

He looked at me meaningfully. "You're freaked out, aren't you?"

"No! No, not at all." Pause. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Well, let's have your history," he said.

I gave it to him. Because he is a professional, he did not laugh.

"I'm not really supposed to say this," he said. "But, uh, there's really not a very big chance that you have to worry."

"Oh, I know."

"OK. So you're OK?"

"Yes. Yes! Absolutely." Pause. "No. No, I'm not."

He nodded. "So let's talk about what you would do if the news was bad."

"Honestly? I would be very mature. I would freak the fuck out, and then I would call my Mommy."

He laughed. "That is an excellent plan. Well, listen. Let's wait a minute, until you calm down. And then, if you want, you can sit in my office while we wait."

"Really?"

"Really."

I felt a little teary. "I have to tell you that I really love this office. You're all so nice here."

He smiled. "Can I ask you something? How did you ... ah, find us?"

"Someone at work recommended you."

He nodded encouragingly.

"She's not gay either."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I just feel more comfortable with gay people. It's a whole thing."

Because he was a professional, he registered no surprise at all.

In the end, I wound up waiting in the outer office, in part so that I could be closer to the elevator in case I couldn't take it and had to run away. I'm glad I did. There were some very interesting people in the waiting room, of all apparent orientations and gender identities, and I had an excellent time playing "Guess That Persuasion" and "X or Y?" -- two games I thought I'd given up forever when I stopped hanging out with drag queens in college.

The counselor came out of his office in 20 minutes, as promised, all smiles. "Negative," he said, winking. "Told you."

My Dad is the Cutest Man in North America

My heater is giving off a funny smell in my apartment. It's a wall-heater, only 400 years old, and I'd sort of like it to work, so that I don't either asphixiate or freeze this winter.

I've contacted the management company, but, in the meantime, I thought I'd write to my Dad and see what he had to say about the matter. He's pretty handy, and also works for an architecture firm. Anyway, he's smart.

He wrote back:

Try to put the heat up for a day with the window open and bathroom fan going ... There is a carbon monoxide detector on the way to your office address. Should be there by Friday AM.

Underpants from Mom; carbon monoxide detector from Dad. It occurs to me that not much has changed since college.

Amazon.com Is Stalking Me

The creepiest thing just happened: I Googled Vendela Vida, because I was trying to figure out if she and Dave Eggers had indeed had a baby, and named the unfortunate creature "October", blerg, and then, not two minutes later, I received an email from Amazon.com, asking me if I was interested in buying anything by Vendela Vida.

This is extremely creepy and wrong, and probably a coincidence. Although, maybe not. I used to cover customer relationship management technologies (just as exciting as you've heard, FYI), and this kind of shit happens all the time, apparently. Soon, I won't even have to get out of bed. I'll just think my lazy thoughts and a giant block of cheddar cheese and 14 DVDs of stupid comic book movies that I should be way too smart to like will appear at my door. Maybe they'll be cheese slices and DVDs. That way, the delivery person can just slide them right under the door.

Ahhh! This is such a bad idea:

Machines show signs of human intelligence

We Also Have Pay-What-You-Weigh Falafel, But Only When Chickpea Delivers

I spent most of this afternoon trying to get my apartment into some sort of presentable shape. I've been living like a Joad for these past few months, with boxes and piles of clothing around, and stacks of mail peeking out from various points in the piles. I've managed to pay my bills and do my dishes, but that's about it. For one thing, my apartment is super small. No, smaller than than that. Smaller. For another, well, I'm lazy, and when I'm feeling energetic, I'd rather go out than build shelves.

But no more! I finally assembled the top of my desk today. It's this shelving unit that I got from Ikea, which is where all of my furniture comes from, unless my Dad built it. (This means that my furniture is either made of paper, and ready to disintegrate if sneezed upon, or made of ancient redwoods, and built to withstand the Rapture.) Anyway, I finished building my paper desk, and then I hung a few things on the walls, including this little paratrooper dude I bought in Normandy, who is now dangling from the corner of the little bump-out that separates my kitchen from the rest of the apartment. I also put out my cows, which are purple and orange, and also relics of the trip to France. (These cows got me held up in Customs for half an hour while various officials tried to figure out what the hell they were, and then for twenty minutes beyond that, while they laughed at me in French.)

I also put out my maracas, and a couple vases, and tin picture of Jeebus (not to be confused with Jesus, who is very dignified, and never ever appears on tin), and a couple of ladybug candles and my cuckoo clock. All this, together with vacuuming and dusting and rearranging books and CDs, took about four hours, and when I was done, I was pretty satisfied with myself. I am so not lazy! I am productive! Even on a Sunday! Also, my home is lovely, and well-appointed.

Then I realized: What with all the crap hanging from the walls and such, I've basically decorated my apartment as the Ground Round, by way of Hot Topic.

I need my sister to come visit me and put her Art degree to good use, before I get out of control.

All the Girls from There to Austin

Austin, Texas is not Texas at all. Anyone will tell you this. Austin is a made-up bullshit place that's just too good to be true. A hippie cab driver drove me to the hotel, screaming about Bush and tugging his beard the whole way, and the bouncer at the bar we went to (his name: Tank) hugged me goodbye, and then made his pecs dance, as a friendly gesture. I ate the best BBQ of my whole entire life, drank a ton of beer and bought a cowboy hat.

Austin fuckin' rules.

I was nervous about Austin, because I've never spent much time away from the East Coast, and when I did, it was to visit my sister in San Francisco or Washington State. I had some misconceptions about Texas, I'll freely admit that. These misconceptions cleared up as soon as I met the hippie cab driver at the airport. However, I had a bad moment there with a flight attendant in Houston, before my fears could be allayed.

They have terrifying smiles, some of the flight attendants, don't they? I recognize them from when I was waiting tables. It's the strain of having to be nice to assholes. I imagine it's worse when said assholes might be armed. Howsomever, this woman had a particularly creepy form of the Frozen Smile, plus a ton of makeup, and she scared me.

"Are y'all home?" She asked me, as I made my way off the plane.

"No, I live in New York," I told her. "Just changing planes."

She stretched her grin wider. I thought I saw madness glinting in her eyes, but I might have just been dazzled by all the eye shadow. "Aw, that's too bad," She said brightly. "Go, Astros!"

I was too flabbergasted to tell her that I'm not a Yankees fan.

POM What?

In the interests of recovering from this plague, I ordered a bunch of juice from MaxDelivery. One of the various juices I ordered was this POM Wonderful Pomegranate stuff that I kept seeing in the health store around the corner from my office. (I work in Chelsea, so I'll never have any trouble getting juice, or Ripped Fuel, or men's underpants.)

This POM stuff is supposed to contain about elevendy-million different antioxidants and fix everything from a cold to congestive heart failure. Because of this, it costs about the same as a barrel of oil.

But I spare no expense when it comes to my health, so I bought some, and guzzled it down. It was quite tasty, and I was thinking about how it would make a delicious margarita mixer, when I happened to spy the nutritional information on the back.

Total Fat ....... 0g (So far, so good.)
Cholest. ....... 0 mg (Ditto.)
Sodium ......... 30 mg (Good? Bad? I dunno. I'm Irish, so salt is the only spice I use.)
Potassium ..... 430mg (Oooh! That's gotta be good.)
Total Carb ..... 35g (Um. That seems high.)
Fiber ........... 0g
Sugars ......... 34g (OUCH.)
Protein ......... 1g

Vitamin A ........ 0%
Vitamin C ........ 0%
Calcium .......... 4%
Iron ............. 2%

So basically? There's nothing IN this magical drink. Nothing except sugar, that is. I'm less than confident in plain old sugar's ability to cure my cold, even if it is purple.

Still, I probably will try this in a margarita, when I'm mended.

Achooooo!

I have more stories for all y'all about Austin, but I'm suffering from some kind of horrific cold. It might be a flu. I don't know. All I know is that I haven't wanted to eat anything all day, which probably means that the world is ending. Also, I am sweaty and all I want to do is sleep.

Stay tuned.

Studies Show Average Cat Has 6.87 Lives

Ian Grey Steele:* I realized that my cat is like 12.
JennieSmash: Oh NO.
Ian Grey Steele: Which means he's not long for this world.
JennieSmash: I thought cats lived to be like 25.
Ian Grey Steele: Whoa.
Ian Grey Steele: No.
Ian Grey Steele: 18 is super old.
JennieSmash: I've told you, I don't know these things.
Ian Grey Steele: I mean 20 possibly.
JennieSmash: The hubleys hate all living creatures.
Ian Grey Steele: 25 I guess is theoretically possible but that's probably one in 100.
JennieSmash: These are really the first cats I've had any interaction with.
JennieSmash: It's like I just discovered cats.
Ian Grey Steele: You're how old?
JennieSmash: 29
JennieSmash: But it's cool, cuz I'm a human. So I have some time yet.

* Not his real name. Also? Friends of mine? When I ask you for a pseudonym, I'm not kidding around. So choose wisely.

Very Busy and Important

I had a brief conversation with my friend Megadeth tonight on the phone, about how boring we both are at the moment.

"This week," I told her. "I went to bed at 10:00 every night. Plus? Fatty has started going to the gym again. And so she is sore."

"This week," Megadeth told me. "I worked and worked and worked until my head fell off, and then I worked some more. Also, I will be doing nothing but travel for the next three weeks."

"I'm going to Austin on a business trip tomorrow."

"I'm going to have to give my cat away, because I'm never going to be home again."

"I haven't opened my mail in three days."

"I just ate ice cream for dinner, because it was all I could do to open the carton."

Pause.

"So I'll see you next week, when you're in New York?"

"Yes. You better take me out."

"It's next week, right? Let me check my book."

"I'm not fucking kidding. You better not be busy. It's my birthday."

"OK. Looks like I can squeeze you in after work and before my real plans start."

"I hate you."

Wax On! Wax Off!

It's that time of the month again, and I don't mean that Aunt Flo has come to visit. Please enjoy my latest contribution to Waxing Off on the venerable Black Table.

Bullshit Is My Kiai

So, waaay back in college, when the earth was green, I decided to take a self-defense course. These were very popular at the time. They were a weird mixture of karate and judo and cosmica rama ding-dong female empowerment, and they were typically taught in massive gyms to hordes of terrified nineteen year old girls who had been told for years that every man they met wanted one thing, and one thing only: their tender young pootie. In our minds, these men were pirates, or cartoon hobos. They'd start off offering you candy, we figured, and then: out would come the cutlass.

The most important thing about the class was that it was all-women: attended by women, taught by women, conceived by women, for women. In fact, it was generally billed as a "safe space for women," which was a totally OK thing to say in the mid-90's.

I hated my class. In fact, I hated all exercise classes. They reminded me of high school gym, plus, I had a tendency to fall down a lot. Yoga class? Fell down during tree pose. Step aerobics? Fell off my step. In my Womyn-Friendly Self Defense course, I made it through two weeks before I lunged at an opponent, missed and went right down like a plank of wood. The fugging jammies probably didn't help with the whole traction issue.

But things didn't get really bad until about a month in. That's when I came to class, and found a huge hairy man standing in front of the class, arms crossed like a bouncer. He was all decked out in his white kick-ass suit, and had a gleam in his eye that suggested he wanted nothing more than to school us, in a variety of ways.

I immediately went straight to my instructor, a very nice if painfully earnest grad student named Amy.

"Amy," I said, in a stage whisper, looking at Hairy Jammies Man, "Um, I'm really not comfortable sparring with, er--"

"Greg. He's an old friend of mine. We go way back!"

I looked at Greg again. He cocked an eyebrow and stood up straighter.

"Yeah. OK. See, the thing is, this is supposed to be a Safe Space, and I don't really feel like sparring with him. Is that OK? I mean, I'm still having trouble with the yelling--"

"Kiai."

"Yeah, that. Anyway. I'm a Lutheran? And we don't yell. We also don't hit men. Or women. Or anyone. If that's OK. Mostly, we just fight about the Keys of Confession. But there's absolutely no yelling or hitting of any kind, I can tell you that. I think you need Baptists for that. Anyway, they're better at loud."

Amy held up her hand. "Listen, you don't have to spar with Greg."

"I don't."

"No."

"Oh, thank God."

"You just have to hit him in the stomach."

"Ha ha ha. Wait. I just have to hit him in the stomach? Like, 'hit him in the stomach as hard as I can?'"

If there was a joke there, Amy missed it. "Yes! Exactly!" She grabbed me by the shoulders, and steered me toward the line. "And don't forget your Kiai."

"But I don't have one of those yet."

"Just yell."

The girl in front of me in line raised her eyebrows at me.

"I don't have a Kiai," I told her. "I tried yelled 'AIIIIEEEE!', but it just sounded like I'd seen a mouse."

She turned around.

It was a long wait to punch Greg. During that time, I thought long and hard about my problem. I'd joined this class, hoping to overcome a certain amount of physical awkwardness, as well as my paralyzing fear of men. (The latter was less of a problem, since I'd developed a convenient crush on an emotionally unavailable man who lived on the floor above me.) But here I was, a month into the class, still unsure what to do with my hands, still falling up the stairs at least twice a semester, no Kiai in sight, and I was getting frustrated. I would punch him, I decided. I would punch him solidly.

The girl behind me tapped me on the shoulder. She was not someone I wanted to talk to. She'd transferred to UMass last year, after fucking her way out of art school in New York.

She smiled at me coquettishly. "I'm going to punch him like he's never been punched before," she said. I thought about a mutual friend of ours, who said that this girl had hopped into her bed one night, cuddled up with her, and then said in seductive whisper, "I know you want to have sex with me, but I'm really not attracted to you."

I wished she hadn't touched my shoulder.

"Do you mind?" I said. "I'm working on my Kiai."

The line dwindled. Most girls didn't even make a proper fist. They dropped their shoulders, and giggled, and shuffled their feet, did everything but bite him under the chin or bring him a dead bird, to indicate that they were the betas. Seeing this, finally, finally made me mad.

When it was my turn, I stood solidly on my feet, and forgot Kiai for a second. Mostly, I wanted to make sure that I didn't make any statements that sounded like questions. Mostly, I didn't want to flinch.

"Hi, there," Greg said, uncrossing his arms. "Are you ready to hit me as hard as you can?"

"You know, Greg, I was ready to hit you," I said, smiling sweetly. "I really was. But then I realized something."

He gestured for me to continue. It was the same gesture he made to each girl in the line: Hit me with your best shot! He'd slap guys on the back instead of hugging them, I thought.

"I realized, Greg, that you want me to hit you." The grin faded a bit. "I mean, really want me to. And so I'm not going to. Because I think you like it when girls hit you. I think you think it's cute. And more than that..." I dropped my voice to a whisper. "...I think you think it's hot. And Greg? That's disgusting."

I'd love to tell you that Greg broke down weeping at this juncture, but I'm sure he just thought I was a crazy bitch. "Have it your way," he said, and shrugged it off. But I went to the back of the line feeling much, much better.

Hi-yah!

Someone Left a Smash Out in the Rain, Oh NO!

I'm working at home today, for several reasons: 1) I'm feeling a little meh, not sick exactly, just in serious need of vitamins, echinacea, and repose; 2) it's gross out; 3) I have a business trip later this week, and I need to get ready for it; and 4) I can.

However, here's what you should not do, when feeling meh: Walk seven blocks to Starbucks, in the rain, to get your morning coffee -- without an umbrella. Yeah, I'm a genius.

Part of the problem is that I have lost every single one of my umbrellas. When I moved here, I had four, at least. Now I have none. This is because I leave them places. Like bars. The other part of the problem is that I'm a genius, as previously stated, above.

About three blocks into my walk, I realized that I was extremely damp, like hair-running in rivulets, clothes hanging off me like 400-lb. weights, kinda damp. So I sought refuge under an awning. (This after checking two convenience stores to see if they sold umbrellas, but no go. C'mon people. You're missing a big opportunity here! I totally would have spent ten bucks for an umbrella this morning, without even complaining about it.)

While I was standing there, dripping and miserable, a boy sidled up to me, still holding his umbrella, which I should have stolen, and smiling hopefully.

"You sure are wet!" He said, voice cracking. I looked at him from under a snarl of hair. He was about 20 years old, probably a college student, and maybe he was just trying to be nice. Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling especially nice.

"Erg," I said. And ran back into the rain, where at least I wouldn't have to participate in a Sex Ed class.

Later, back at my apartment, I IMed Sean to tell him that, a) much like a turkey, I am too stupid to come in out of the rain, and b) this dude tried to pick me up, maybe, when I was at my very least attractive and most cranky, and what is the matter with people?

"Twenty years old?" Sean said. "Please. He couldn't pick up a shoe. He's just trying shit out. Actually, now that I know how old he was? I have a lot more respect for him. Good for him!"

An Actual Note from Ma Smash

I just received a package at my place of business. It was a padded manilla mailer, with my name, my title, and my work address on the front. I recognized the handwriting immediately, because so few people write perfect Palmer Method script these days, and my mother is one of them.

I opened the package, to find the following items:

1) Two packages of cotton underpants.

2) A short note.

The note said:

Hi Sweetie,

Here are some lovely underpants just for you!

Love you,

Mom

My coworker Madeleine has posited that my mother was bored of the blog and thought I needed some new material.

A Real Doll

I'm not sure what it says about me, but when I read this article, all I could think was: "Who has $6,500 lying around?" I mean, can you get a loan for this? Or what?

OK, so this creeped me out: "I realized not long after I got [my doll] that I don't really need anybody ... I don't have a lot of human friends and only 2 of them have seen Ginger and Kelly, and none of them or anyone else have or will ever lay a hand on them while I am living."

I have a few ex-boyfriends that should probably make an investment in one of these.

Happy Birthday, Oldie Oldenson...

One of the many excellent questions that have come up in my comments section (unrelated to politics or my general worth as a person) is how I've managed to go so long without writing a totally drunken, incoherent post. Well, I still don't have an answer for you. However, I am rectifying the situation right now. Because if blogging involved heavy equipment, well, this would not be advisable.

Anyway, my point is that it's my friend Will Leitch's birthday on Monday (Saturday night, observed), and that you should all raise a glass in his honor. He is much, much older than I am, and he's a Cardinals fan, but he's a good person, for all of that.

(However, honestly compels to me to admit that he was perhaps a little gleeful about the tragedies that befell the Red Sox this past week. And I think we can all agree that this is not pretty, and beneath him. Also, Midwesterners are supposed to be nice. I gave him a pass because it was his birthday, but I'll get even. Oh, yes. Yes, I will.)

The End-All Be-All of Terror Alerts

A great idea from Ricedream McGee:

"What Bloomberg should do is go on TV and say, 'Look, if you enter this city on any day, you're taking your life in your fucking hands. Pretty much from the time you wake up to the time you go to sleep. We're done with the warnings. Take it easy.'"

We're All Gonna Die!

So, apparently someone might try to blow up the subway today. I am against this, by the way. Very strongly against.

There are rumors flying all over the office about how this alleged bombing might take place. One person heard that they would be hiding bombs in baby carriages. This will make subway terrorist SOP -- shooting "suspicious" persons -- somewhat difficult.

The only upside to all of this is that it gives me something new to worry about, which is a good thing. I mean, I've already got my health, the state of the world, and getting fat to worry about. But my brother-in-law came home from Iraq last week, so that means I'm one worry down. Terrorist attacks on the subway will do nicely as a replacement obsession.

Karl Rove's Blog

You know what they say: Pimpin' ain't easy. But it's necessary!

With that in mind, please enjoy my contribution to the recently launched Cracked.com.

A Very Special Episode of 'Jennie Smash and Fennec Fox'

If I had one of these, I would dress it up in a little coat and parade it around the East Village. We would go on adventures together, and meet people, and discover the true meaning of life. At the end of every episode, I would tell it what I've learned. It would all be very moving. The end.

Something Had To Be Done

It is 8:25 and I am setting off for work, on foot, because Fatty is once again trying to take over my body. (Fatty is one of my many alternate personalities, the others being Party Jen, Jennie Smash and Wolfgirl. You'll note that they all seem to be Id-based.)

It's two miles, more or less, from my home in the Lower East Side to Chelsea, where my office is. If you don't hear from me by, say 9:15 or so, call someone.

Why do I say that? Because I will be wearing my Red Sox cap on this particular jaunt.

Mind you, last year I wore my Sox cap in New York at this time of year, and had no problems. But there's been a particularly nasty shift since then, and well, let's just say I might be taking my life into my own hands.

A couple days ago, I had a particularly tense discussion with a friend of mine over IM, who wondered why I wasn't wearing my cap, to which I responded, "Well, we don't so much wear hats in New York. It's not like Boston that way." This did not go over well. (Note: If you're from Boston, and speaking to a Bostonian who still lives in Boston, do not say "we" when discussing New Yorkers. You will be flayed alive over the Internets.)

And it's true: People in New York do not wear caps, especially to work. However, after last night? I'm desperate. If looking like a fool will help my boys, well, it seems like the least I can do. And since I firmly believe in magical thinking, you'll have to excuse me while I go adjust my cap.


ETA: I love New York. No one said a word to me -- except for one dude in a Sox cap who yelled, "YAH, Boston!"

Facts You Probably Didn't Know ... Til Now

Everyone's last name is actually McGee, unless they've had a haircut, in which case, their name is O'Reilly, as in "Haircut O'Reilly." This is true no matter what the nationality of the person in question, or ethnicity, or what-have-you.

The first name is optional, but it should have something to do with their personality or habits, or refer to recent events in their life. This morning, for example, I was talking to a friend of mine who is a vegetarian, and I informed him that his name was "Ricedream McGee." Shortly after that, we began discussing the fact that he is a godless communist (like most of my friends), and so we changed his name to "Ricedream 'Che' McGee."

I am alternately:

Freckles "Fist of Fury" McGee
Complainy Complainerson McGee
Keep-On-Makin'-That-Face-It'll-Freeze-That-Way McGee
Get-Out-of-My-Goddamn-Fridge-Right-Now McGee (thanks, Ricedream)
Yawny McNeedsaNap McGee
Fatty McStufferson McGee
Mrs. Maximillian M. "Mac" McGee

...and, after next weekend, hopefully...

Haircut O'Reilly

Feel free to add your own. We're all McGees here.

Friendster Sucks, Long Live Friendster

I cannot believe Friendster sold my ass out. All this time, I've been stalking exboyfriends and former college roommates and unsuspecting coworkers, thinking my secrets were safe. And now, yes now, they have revealed my secrets. I feel so betrayed.

My feelings of betrayal are nothing compared to my pal J, though, who maybe had the smallest nervous breakdown on Friday.

"Huh," One of our coworkers said. "Looks like you can see who has viewed your account on Friendster."

"Wait," J said. "What do you mean?"

"If you go to Friendster? And click on this link? You can see who viewed you."

J spun around in her chair. "For how long?"

"Um, I dunno, it looks like I can see the last fifty people who viewed me, so..."

"No. For how long? HOW FAR BACK DOES IT GO? OH MY GOD. I'm going to need surgery. I'm going to have to change my name. I'm going to have to take off my fingerprints with acid. How could they do this to me? I'm going to delete my profile."

"That might not help," I offered. "I mean, it takes a couple minutes for it to disappear and--"

"SHUT UP! IT WILL HELP. OH MY GOD." She started clicking frantically. "There. I'm gone."

"Except that it might take a couple minutes--"

"WAHHHH!" She put her head down on her keyboard. "I'm going to have to join the Witness Protection Program."

Meanwhile, if you've been looking at Friendster lately, and you've seen my profile under your stalker button, well, I think you're kind of cute. Is that OK? Also, that totally wasn't me waiting behind the garbage can outside your apartment building.

Things to Do When You Can't Drink

Recently, I was forced to take a few days off from lounging around my favorite bars. I was busy, broke and sick. (A triumvirate of ills that has fortunately plagued most of my friends as well, so, bonus! Also no one to play with.)

While I was recuperating and letting my bank card rest, I came up with the following things to do when you can't drink:

1) Return phone calls to friends. I am terrible at this. For one thing, my cell phone is actually a prototype built in 1987 and it's the size of my desk and I have to have a dude run behind me with a generator in a suitcase just to make it work, which means that I can't skip messages, and who wants to listen to all of that. So I sometimes don't even get messages for days and days. For another thing, I am a bad person.

2) Consider organizing paperwork. Decide to shove it back in a drawer instead.

3) Do laundry. Realize that skeevy dude who hangs outside the laundromat asking people for cigarettes is always there whenever you do laundry. Wonder if he's there when you're not doing laundry. Decide that he is stalking you. Realize that you are paranoid.

4) Call mother and ask if, in her clincial opinion, you have a personality disorder. Act surprised when she laughs loudly and long, and then says, "Yup! You're fucking crazy!"

5) Contemplate starting fight with mother, then friends, then fella, then coworkers. Realize that this will result in guilt, friendlessness, broken relationship, poverty. Decide to read a book instead. Realize that you are a grownup. Fuck.

Anyway. It's been a valuable experience, my week of rest. And now ... right back to it!

34th Street? Might As Well Be Russia

It's happened already. I have become one of those New Yorkers who never, ever leaves her neighborhood.

This morning I have a doctor's appointment on 34th street. (I have to go get my eyes examined. My head, I will save for a separate visit.) 34th street, mind you, is really no all that far from my home, which is in the LES. However, I never, ever go up there. It's a good thing the city is on a grid and all.

Reset

OK, you guys: You know it's been a bad day when it's 7:22 PM and you think to yourself: Maybe I should just go to bed now.

Whelp, I'm in my jammies, and it's lookin' like a good idea. Today was one of those days when nothing was terribly wrong ... it's just that things sort of didn't work out.

It started off OK. I woke up early and couldn't go back to sleep, so I decided to walk to work. I live less than 2 miles from work, anyway, and I always feel kinda dumb about riding the subway four stops, so I thought: Eh, it's a sign. I'll walk.

Unfortunately, I had also decided that I wanted to look cute today, and so I had put on a pair of jeans which, three wearings out of the dryer, fit just fine. Even more unfortunately, they had just come out of the dryer, and so I now have a friction burn on the inside of my left thigh from walking in them. Sexy!

The work day was OK, except that I started feeling ill halfway through work, which isn't weird, since we're all hacking and wheezing these days like a TB ward. (Or what I imagine a TB ward would sound like. I'm pleased to report that I've never been in one.) So at about 4:30, I packed up my laptop and announced that I'd be working at home for the rest of the afternoon.

Home on the subway, doodlededoo, feeling more and more like crap every minute. I waddled upstairs, removed the Evil Jeans of Thigh Suffocation, and settled in to finish up a few things, wearing loose pants as God intended.

When I was through, I decided that I would finish up my book club book. This would be the book that I chose, by the way. The one that no one, not even me, could find, until like last week. And I left it? At the office.

So my chub rub and I will be waddling into work rather early tomorrow morning, to finish my book before my book club decides to stuff it down my throat.

Song for Jayman

Saturday night, I was out with a bunch of friends, eating Mexican food and drinking fruity bitch drinks, and as we were leaving, one of my pals said, with a contented sigh, "Man. I sure could go for a big ol' bowl of marijuana right now." As though discussing a pipe full of tobacky, or a nice cup of coffee. And this cracked me up.

Those of you who know me in real life know that I can't smoke the reefer, because I am insane. High strung folks should stay away from substances that make people paranoid, especially if those substances are illegal. The last few times I got high, I actually thought at certain points, "This is illegal. I am doing illegal things." And then I looked around me for cops to appear, Keystone-style, with tall hats like English bobbies and rubber night-sticks with which to beat me about the head and shoulders.

However, I would like to say for the record that I feel that it's really stupid that I can drink myself into a coma with my beverage of choice, which is beer and not skim milk, in case you were confused, and yet my pot toking buddies can't enjoy a joint without fear of arrest. Not that they have any fear of arrest. People who continue to smoke into their late '20s and early '30s are mellow sorts, generally. But I worry, on their behalf. So it should be legal, is my point, if for no other reason than that I've got enough to obsess about, thanks, without worrying about scraping up bail money for my pals.

Cats Are Freaks, Part 2

Cuica attacked my head today.

I was sitting on the couch, putting on my shoes, as you do, when she jumped up on the arm and started doing her Kitten Porn routine. This involves her slinking around in a variety of charming and coquettish kitty poses, and meowling winsomely, until the person she's fixated on refills her food or pets her or does whatever it is she's looking for. Because there's something on her mind, that's for sure. You don't get the Kitten Porn routine if she's just being social. Then, you get the Kitten Dance, which consists of her spinning around in a circle, as though chasing an invisible string.

"Meowl," she said, batting her eyelashes. Or something.

"What's up, Cuicks?" I reached for her head to pet her, and she jumped up on the back of the couch, out of reach. So not petting then. Maybe food? "Are you hungry?"

"Meowl." She wound around my shoulders for a minute, and then, no word of a lie, started to chew on my hair.

"Oh my God, you freak. What are you doing?"

Chew, chew, chew.

"Sean, Cuica is chewing my hair."

He came into the living room. "Yes. Yes, she is."

"OK, but why is Cuica chewing my hair?" He shrugged. I craned my neck to look at Chewy Chews. "Cuica? Why are you so crazy?"

As if in response, she jumped on head and sank her claws into my scalp.

"JESUS!" I grabbed my head. Cuica bolted.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine! But she just, like, tore a hole in my scalp."

"She gets carried away. It's like the closest she'll ever get to having sex."

This, by the way? Is where I draw the line. I like Cuica and all, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let her have sex with my head. She'll just have to go back to the telescope. I'm sure they can work it out.

It's Been Nice Knowing You

My allergies are so bad, that I'm sure they're not allergies, but actually some horrible, rare, fatal virus that is in the process of seroconverting right at this very moment inside my sinuses, where it will take root and rot my head from the inside out. And think of how much less pretty I'll be with no head! So much less pretty. It will be a shame, I tell you.

Also, in other hypochondrical news, I need to find an all new set of doctors in the New York area, so that I can call them on an hourly basis and make them tell me that I'm really OK, that everyone gets colds now and again and its probably not the heeeev, and that actually, unlike everyone else, I'm never ever going to die, and isn't that amazing? (Also awful, were it true. Actually, what I want is a speedy and painless heart attack when I'm 112 years old.)

You might think it's easy being this crazy, but it's not. For example, yesterday, I updated my to-do list. Here's what it said:

1) Change credit card to 0% card.
2) Make appointment for yearly physical.
3) Groceries: Buy cheese, sour cream, etc.
4) Refill Xanax.
5) Organize bills, statements, and so on.
6) Get shrink. Ask about shock treatments.
7) Hang pictures.

I have this weird feeling that this isn't what most people's to-do lists look like.

Feline Insanity

I don't know if you know this, but cats are freaks.

I wasn't aware of this, myself, until just recently, because the Hubleys hate all living things, and so I was not raised with animals. Also, and more to the point, I'm allergic to everything. However, my friend Sean has two cats, and I seem to tolerate them pretty well, so as a result, I've gotten to know these critters much better than I usually would.

There are two of them, as I've said, and both are crazy in very different ways:

Joe: Does not like strangers. When I first came over, he would bolt from the room, and then regard me very quietly, stalk me, almost, in the manner of a jungle cat. Now we're pals, so he comes right over and stands at my feet and looks up at me and yowls. I mean yowls. Like it's his job, or something. Sample conversation.

Joe: (Plaintively.) "Yowl yowl yowl! YOWWWWL! ROOOORWWWL!"

Me: "Jesus. What do you want?"

Joe: "ROWLLLLL! Yowl."

Me: (Checking.) "You have food. You have water. What is the matter with you?"

Joe: (Argumentatively.) "Row-row-roooooowl. Yowl. Yowlyowlyowl."

Me: "Well, if you say so. But I guess we're going to just have to agree to disagree."

Sean: "You know that he's not actually speaking, right? Because, guess what? He's a cat. His brain is the size of a walnut."

Joe: "Yowl, yowl, yowl!"

Me: "I agree, Joe. Sean is a very bad person."

Also, I don't know if he's a Himalyan or what, but Joe is so furry that he grows dreadlocks, unless he is shaved. He hates being shaved, because he hates traveling, and takes awhile to warm up to strangers, but Sean claims that he's terribly vain about himself after the process, and prances about the apartment light and free and a kitten. I happen to know that he is headed for the Kitten Stylist this weekend. Because I am a person, and so I find out things before cats. Ha ha ha! I win.

Cuica: Cuica was my initial favorite, and I still love her, but she's crazy. How crazy is she? I'm so glad you asked. She thinks the telescope in Sean's room is her long lost boyfriend, and spends long hours lovingly making out with its base. Sean does not allow the cats in his room at night, because they shed like furry little mutherfuckers and he prefers not to wake up under a blanket of hair. However, first thing in the morning, when he opens the door, Cuica bolts into the room and attacks the telescope again. According to Sean, she does this every day. And has been, for about a year.

People say that cats are smart, but I'm just not sure.

THIS JUST IN FROM SEAN:

"Cuica, I'll have you know, has more brain power than a 2 year old: she understands object transference, which is abstract thinking. Most dogs are able to do this, most cats are not. However, she is not most cats. She is Cuica! Man, you don't get it! She's a genius cat."

OK, Last One This Week, I Swear

So, I have a new contribution up at the Black Table. But before you click on over there, ask yourself these questions:

1) Am I related to Jen Hubley? (If so, do not read this piece.)
2) AJ Daulerio thinks he's pretty goddamn funny, doesn't he? (That's a rhetorical question. Of course he does.)

OK! Now that we've settled that: Enjoy.

Fashion Alert: Be the First on Your Block to Exploit the Latest Tragedy!

I saw a guy wearing a New Orleans Saints t-shirt at the gym yesterday. Maybe he was from New Orleans, but I somehow doubt it. I bet he'd taken his FDNY baseball cap off, so that it wouldn't get stuck in a weight stack. Douche.

More Love for the BT

Hello, my friends. Please to check out the ol' Black List, as I wrote an item for it and need constant reassurance.

The New Campaign of Health and Fitness, and Its Effects on My Life

I am on a regimen once again, because I gained three pounds last week, and it has occurred to me that perhaps grown persons should not subsist on beer and cheese. The regimen has consisted of my going to the gym and walking more, and also trying to add more vegetables to my diet (meaning that now I eat some, whereas before, I ate fewer naturally occurring vitamins than the average orphan in Dickensian England.)

All of this has had the following effects on my life, for good and for ill:

1) Because lifting weights has made me sore, and perhaps the merest bit less flexible, I now walk like Mia Hamm. This is not a good thing. Also, I may have to stop wearing soccer shirts, which is a shame, because I love them.

2) My skin is clearing up. I sort of wish this had happened a few years ago, because it would have been nice to have a six month period of time in which I had neither wrinkles nor zits, but apparently that was not to be.

3) I am so thirsty. Is that a beer you're having? Oh my, it looks like heaven.

4) Also, is that a chocolate bar? Please give it to me.

5) Fuck you and your cheese.

6) Maybe I'll just buy bigger pants.

7) Wasn't this supposed to be a list of salutary effects? Well, screw that. I'm starving.

Better Living Through Chemistry

Maybe you're not a fan of taking pills for things, and that's OK. I certainly know plenty of people who feel the way you do. Hippie people, who wear burlap and don't shave their pits. But that's fine. Myself, I am a big fan of better living through chemistry, and here's why: I am totally fucking nuts.

Without some form of medication, the following things would be impossible for me:

1) Flying (Xanax).
2) Exercising (Antihistimine, Ibuprofen).
3) Visiting friends with cats (Antihistimine).
4) Not driving myself and everyone around me nuts (Celexa).
5) Sleeping (Melatonin, Sominex).

There are many more. But those are the big ones.

I was thinking about the medication issue this morning, because I had to take a Sominex last night in order to sleep, and this morning when I woke up I discovered that I had become profoundly mentally disabled and physically inept. In the space of about fifteen minutes I dropped six things and bent my right thumbnail back, so that a charming crescent of blood formed right under the nail. Cute!

Still, the nine hours of sleep were worth it.

Erratum: Creature Double Feature

Hello, Boston area people of my childhood:

I now know that I made a slight error in my Black Table piece, regarding the Creature Double Feature. It was not on TV-38, but rather on TV-56. Now, if someone can tell me which channel featured the Movie Loft, I should be all set with my 70's era New England trivia for the moment.*

* Big thanks to Alexander C. for pointing out the error in the first place!

BT + JS 4-eva

Good morning, Internet pals! I have a new thingie up on the Black Table. Check it:

Incoming! September 19, 2005

That Girl? Is a Good Eater

I'm probably going to have to have one wall of my apartment removed, so that Jerry Springer can come rescue me and ship me off to the fat farm, because I cannot stop eating. This phenomenon started about a month after I moved to New York. I blame it on the following things:

1) I walk everywhere. My car still lives in Massachusetts, and obviously no one drives in New York anyway. I've also stopped taking the subway whenever I can walk, because when the train is even five minutes late, or God forbid, delayed in a tunnel, I go completely insane and start rocking and muttering to myself. Now we know where all the homeless people come from.

2) I stay up too late, even when I am not out at a free happy hour, which is where I was last night, and aren't you jealous? You should be. Mama got crunk, babies, and then she started talking like this. I blame alcohol poisoning. P.S.: Ma Smash called me twice, and the second time I decided I better pick up the phone. Meanwhile? She's totally going to send me to rehab. You better hope they have Internet access there.

3) No, I am not pregnant, Rolfe. Jeez.

Federlines vs. Massholes: Fight!

So, it looks like Britney finally pooped out her little Federline.

This was, of course, a big topic of conversation at the end of the work day today, because everyone who works for any sort of media company in New York is obsessed with gossip, and if they tell you they're not, well, then, ask them something sports-related, and they'll do their Rainman routine for you. And also? It's the same goddamn thing, sports and gossip. All stats and gawking. Speaking of which, you should also read this blog. Now. Thank you.

OK, but here's my point, other than that it's too late for me to be blogging, as evidenced by my inability to construct a sentence. And that's that my pal Eric is going to go head to head with the Federline family, baby for baby, just to save the species from devolution.

He will be able to do this, because he and his girlfriend are getting married in the next year or so, and because they are 12. My point being that even if I were inclined to start having puppies, I could maybe give the world like five before my ovaries dry up. But of course, I am hideously vain and miserable hypochondriac, so the combined fear of stretch marks and gestational diabetes are probably enough to keep me childless, at least until they develop better SSRIs that don't give babies webbed feet and ADHD.

Eric volunteered for this, by the way. We were all sitting around in the Pit, which is what they call the area where they keep the totally awesome people at my job, and I mentioned that people like Kevin Federline always have at least three babies by the time they're, oh, 28, and that this is why the median IQ is dropping sharply. People like me, I said, have maybe one baby. How can my one genius baby hope to keep its wee head above the teeming crowds of Federlines congesting the world? (And picture them! Eating Easy Cheese and wiping their paws on their wifebeaters. And then beating their wives with their Easy Cheese.)

"That's OK," Eric said. "Because I'm going to have dozens of babies."

I laughed. "Oh. You are?"

"Yes. I am. I am going to have an army of babies and they are going to take on the Federline babies, and they are going to win." (Eric keeps a sports blog. He's very competitive.)

I must tell you that I am quite taken with this idea. Also? My money is on Eric's kids. I mean, he's from Boston, so he's got that going for him.

Edited to add: Please enjoy Eric's own account of his plans for world domination.

Belated Shout-Out to the Sisters Goldstein

If you're not already reading this blog, you must.

The background here is that it's a parody of Stephanie Klein's stupid blog, which doesn't get a link, because it's stupid. Also? The parody is perfect. So smart, so dead-on, and yet so much better written than the original that stupid, stupid Stephanie Klein should have to give these girls her book money.

The rest of the background is that Ms. Stupid-Stupid somehow stumbled across this blog, one assumes in between Googling herself and trolling eBay for pointed shoes, and was so incensed that she threatened to sue them -- for being mean, I guess, since parody is pretty clearly protected under copyright law.

Horrifying

I now have two looong white hairs, one in each eyebrow. They are the thickness of CAT-5 cable and defy the powers of ordinary tweezers. For reals, I thought I was going to have to get a pair of plyers from the Ms. Fix-it Kit my father prepared for me before my move. Which would be fitting, since I believe these hairs are part of my inheritance from him (together with a tendency to be a babblepuss, an affection for most types of music, and an allegedly yi-normous IQ, if you believe in that sort of thing.)

I can just picture him packing the kit: "Poor little lamb, she doesn't know these plyers are for the preternaturally long white EYEBROW HAIRS she's about to grow ANY SECOND NOW."

Maybe We Should Get Him a Puppy

Is it just me, or does John Roberts look kind of like a painting by Walter Keane?

I'm watching the confirmation hearings on CNN, and dude guy totally looks like he's about to cry.