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.