Thursday, March 30, 2006

Fever Dream

I always have nightmares when I'm sick. Last night, I had a dream with zombies in it. They were wearing green pods around their heads, and couldn't be killed with a head shot, which as we know, is totally against the rules of zombiedom. Also, while I was trying to kill them, I remember thinking, "Geez, what terrible special effects."

I bring my critical acuity even to my dream life, ladies and gentlemen.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

So Much for Plans

I woke up in a good mood this morning, and tried like hell to get back into my funk, because I promised you some deep blue funkiness, and dammit, I like to deliver. Unfortunately, it was sunny outside, and the air smelled really clean and wonderful, and I was feeling better. Plus, I realized that although I've been stuck in my house for four days, I can have the nice man at the laundry bring me clean clothes. And so I did.

As soon as he got here, however, I realized that I was wearing pajama pants with pink kittens all over them and that my hair looked like a fright wig. Also, I'm pretty sure that I'm starting to get a crazed gleam in my eye from being isolated for so long.

"I swear I'm not a shut-in," I said, as he handed me the bag. "I've had the flu all week, is the thing. I'm totally employed and stuff. I have a job."

He nodded, like, surrre, you do, and took my money.

It's a good thing I'm going to work tomorrow. The next step is either to start writing unfortunate letters to my congressmen or the adoption of a nerdy new hobby. Building ships in bottles, say, or else collecting stamps.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Chronicles of Hypochondria, Part 1: Spiritual Malaise

For the past few months, I've been mostly happy. However, a few things happened that caused me to become briefly bummed out. I broke up with a boy. I had a hard week at work (either paid, or not paid). Perhaps an argument or two with friends and loved ones. (I don't remember, because I do my best to forget all fights with friends and loved ones as soon as they've happened.)

The ratio of good days to bad days was still pretty positive. I'd say I had maybe one really lousy day per month. That works out to a 29:1 good-to-crappy day ratio.

Anyway, I have the flu now, so I'm bummed out again. This is a particularly bad flu for the old psyche, according to Ma Smash, who had it last week. At one point, she reports, she decided that she was a terrible fraud and a bad person, and also likely to be fired. She is a nurse, and for a living, saves lives of extremely sick and, I might add, sometimes rather unpleasant people. She's done this job for almost 20 years now, at the same hospital, and everyone loves her. Clearly, someone who works in the media, saves no one's life, and keeps a blog can't be expected to withstand an emotion-crippling flu of this type.

So here's what I've decided to do. I hate doing things halfway, so I'm going to embark on an epic bout of blueness. This will last two days, and will be over with by the time my friend's metal band plays on Thursday night. (By which point, my flu better be over with, as well, or I'll know the reason why. She said menacingly.)

I'll let you know how it goes.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Message from the Mouse

I guess if you check MySpace earlier, and don't sign out, it registers you as still being online, because I just got the following message from the Mouse:

Stop goofing around on MySpace and go to bed. Gotham don't protect itself batgirl.


It took me all day Sunday to figure out that I'm not just tired -- I've got the flu. The first clue was when I woke up at 4 a.m., shivering and shaking and so thirsty you'd think I'd just crawled out of the heating ducts. I spent most of the day working and napping in alternating bursts. Now I'm looped on OTC meds and can't imagine sleeping.

I feel so cruddy, I don't even want to read. That's cruddy, pals. Generally, I'm one of those folks who reads shampoo bottles and cereal boxes when there's nothing else -- an addict.

To while away the time this evening while I recuperated and stared at the television, I thought about what I might have, instead of the flu, that was worse. I had it narrowed down to diphtheria or pernicious anemia, because I my neck was all swollen like the horrible pictures of diphtheria patients I found on the Internets, and because I was so damned weary, I couldn't believe I could still have blood.

By about 6 p.m., I felt so ill that I actually sat on my bed and whimpered for a minute: "Hoo, hoo, hoo. Hoo, hoo, hoo." Like a kid with a scraped knee.

Why I Love DJ Illux

For many reasons, I love my dear friend DJ Illux. There's the fact that I almost burned a kitchen down with her in home ec in seventh grade. There's the fact that she once cheered me up from a high school depression by bringing over an enormous earthernware pot full of soil and grass seeds (not that kind), proclaiming, "You can totally make a tea out of this stuff, and also, watching stuff grow makes you happy." She did not sound like a hippie saying this, and how that is possible is anyone's guess.

But no. The number one reason I love Illux is that the other night, on the phone with her, she made the following statement, in all seriousness:

"Dude, you know what? You should, like, totally get a male escort."

I paused for a moment. We had been talking about boys, it's true, but nothing I'd just said would seem to directly call for that particular suggestion. So I ventured that maybe that wasn't exactly my style.

"I am totally and completely serious. You should just get one. You're in New York! You can get anything there. If I were there, I would totally get an escort."

OK, sure, but maybe that's not for me?

"What about, like a massage? Do people get those?"

I think I know what to get Illux for her birthday.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

The Insult and Flatter Method

I went to a blogger party the other day, so I pretty much deserved what I got, but while I was there, I heard one of the weirdest pick-up lines ever. This sort of squirrelly looking dude with one of those faint, prepubescent moustaches that look like the wearer has just finished drinking Yoohoo and forgot to wipe his lip, came up to me and said:

"I see you're wearing those fingerless gloves, circa 2001 Seattle Rave Scene. But I like your glasses, so I guess you're at neutral."

I stared at him for a moment, while he smirked at me, and then I said, "Oh, wow! Two insults and I don't even know your name! How fantastic!"

(What I should have said was, "You have a moustache. And you're short. You are a short, moustachioed man, and I do not like you. Please go away." Don't you hate thinking of these things after the fact?)

Anyway, lest you think I'm totally vain, I didn't think he was actually hitting on me at first, because of, you know, the insults. I figured it out when he shook my hand, introduced himself, and sat down next to me. I don't deal with confrontation, and didn't really want to tell him to go away, so I tried ignoring him to see if he'd slink off on his own. That never works, BTW.

Before the Mouse and Madcat rescued me, he managed to alternately insult and flatter me at least two times: I was clearly a real writer, because of the way I constructed my sentences. But I looked like a friend of his, who apparently had a somewhat difficult personality, because he wasn't sure if we would love or hate each other.

"I look like someone everyone knows," I told him, which is true. I'd make an awesome spy, except for the part where I'd tell everyone everything.

When we left, he was hitting on one of the dating bloggers, who was regarding him with positive glee in her eye. Good material doesn't come swaggering over to your table every day of the week.


OK, I know I was a bad blogger last week, but I'm back now, I swear. Various and sundry work responsibilities kept me away. Funny how people think that just because they pay you, you should have to do stuff. The very idea.

In the meantime, if I'm less than coherent at the mo', please forgive. I'm so weary, I feel like my brain has hollowed itself out. I didn't even try to read a book or anything today. I just got up, took a shower, put on fresh pajamas and went back to bed. And then I rented some truly crappy movies in which there were explosions and pretty people making out with each other. And ate cheese. Good times.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

I Also Blame the Stupid Diet

Mrs. Piddlington: Poops! I just got your email.

Me: I had to call and make sure you were alive.

Mrs. Piddlington: That's awful.

Me: I'm never going to sleep watching SVU ever again.

Mrs. Piddlington: What happened?

Me: A shark ate you. And you were dead. But you didn't know you were dead. And you were haunting this beach. Anyway, John had been eaten, too, so at least you weren't lonely.

Mrs. Piddlington: Wait, did John know we were dead?

Me: (Pause.) Well, yes. We'd sort of agreed we weren't going to tell you. We were afraid you'd be upset.

Mrs. Piddlington: OK, I've got Mom on the other line, so I have to go, but listen: If I get eaten by a shark and I'm dead and I don't know I'm dead, tell me, OK?

Me: (Doubtfully.) OK...

Mrs. Piddlington: Promise.

Me: OK.

Mrs. Piddlington: OK. I'll call you later.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Tonight, The Bottle Let Me Down

Actually, I'm not drinking at all. That happens now and again, no matter what you've heard.

However, I am torturing my next door neighbor by playing "Hubley's Honky Tonk Hoedown" repeatedly right next to her wall. This is a mix CD, made for me by my dear friend Smyres and including such favorites as "A Little Bit Lonesome" (by Kasey Chambers) and "Feelin' Single, Seeing Double" (by Emmylou Harris, who might have a problem). Mostly, I'm just in the mood for that kind of music, but also, I am a terrible person.

Incidentally, how can people listen to mopey music when they're depressed? I can only deal with this stuff when I'm particularly chipper.

Career Paths You Never Considered

Deete: let's brainstorm on a new career path for me

JennieSmash:: rich lady?

JennieSmash:: wait, that's my new career path

Deete: it's always about you

JennieSmash:: ha

JennieSmash:: i want to be a rich lady

JennieSmash:: and i want to be carried around on a litter

JennieSmash:: and i want to carry golden pistols, which i will use to fire silver bullets at the feet of my slaves, whilst yelling "dance! dance!"

Deete: so how does that help me again?

JennieSmash:: i think you should do the same

Deete: oh i can be your lady in waiting

JennieSmash:: that's all

JennieSmash:: oh lord no

JennieSmash:: what an awful gig

JennieSmash:: be a rich lady

Deete: wait no

JennieSmash:: i'm telling you

JennieSmash:: it's the wave of the future

Deete: i'll be in charge of your ladies in waiting

JennieSmash:: oh yay!

JennieSmash:: then you can have a golden pistol, too!

Deete: beause you'll have what 5 or 6?

JennieSmash:: oh hundreds

JennieSmash:: but 5 or 6 to carry the litter

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Control-f the Future

I have spent this whole day sleeping. I'd like to think that I'm working off the rest of the jet lag from my trip to Tacoma, but in fact, I'm pretty sure I'm just lazy. If I hadn't run out of coffee, I doubt I would have left the house all day.

In other unrelated whatevers, my friend Ed asked me last night if I read tarot cards and I realized that I haven't for almost a year now. This is not because I've given up on the idea of divination. Not at all. It's because I've found other ways to figure out what will happen to me next. For example, Googling the phrase "what will happen to me next?" In case you're interested, this brings up one tarot site, one blog, an online library ... and no real definitive answers about what the future holds. Still, since I Google almost everything, I find it oddly soothing.

The other day I was reading a book and wanted to find a certain section and thought to myself, "Oh, I'll just hit control-f." That's how bad this computer addiction has gotten.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Problem Solved!

Thanks to all who wrote in or listened to my whining in person. I can now check my email while drinking in a bar. And isn't that all anyone can ask, really?

Wednesday, March 15, 2006


Seriously, if anyone can explain to me how to set up email on my new RAZR, I would be ever so grateful. It's shiny and all, but if I can't obsessively check my messages, I don't know what I'll do.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Just a Small One

Ma Smash: Are you cleaning again?

Me: Yup.

Ma Smash: It's me, isn't it? You clean when you're on the phone with me. You're nesting or something.

Me: Oh, shit.

Ma Smash: What?

Me: Uh, nothing.

Ma Smash: What?

Me: There's a small cockroach in my bathtub. Just a small one.

Ma Smash: OH MY GOD.

Me: Not a big one, though. Just one of the little ones. (Pause.) And it's dead.

Ma Smash:
JESUS CHRIST. Call the super! You can't have those.

Me: Oh, it's not such a big deal. Everyone has them. I mean, sure, at first I was freaked out by them, but now I'm cool. They come up through the drains when you've been away for awhile. There's almost always one when I come home from a trip.

Ma Smash: I cannot believe you live under those conditions.

Me: It's OK! It's just a little one.

Ma Smash: Oh, lord.

Me: You should have seen the one on my coffee pot! It was HUGE!

Ma Smash:
Well, I'm glad you're so happy there.

Me: It's good to be home.

Ma Smash: In your small apartment. With your pet roach.

(Sighing contentedly.) Home, sweet home!

Ma Smash: Maybe we could get you a little leash, and you could walk it.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Comedy Jackpot: Friendster's Dating Tips for Men and Women

Dude. Nononono: Dude. Have you seen this section of Friendster?

Those of you who've read this blog once or twice before know that I am flat out obsessed with Friendster. I check it slightly less often than I check my email, and I spend significant amounts of personal time stalking old friends, boyfriends and Internet crushes on this site, despite the fact that no one has used it since 2003 and that all the cool kids are showing everyone their boobies over on MySpace.

Today, however, my obsessiveness paid off, because I noticed a cunning little feature just above the fold on the first page: Friendster Dating Advice. (Aren't you glad you have me? I'm reading this stuff so that you don't have to.)

First up: Article of the Week "How To Communicate With 'Emotionally Distant' Men."

I looked in vain for the real nugget of useful advice here, which is obviously not to communicate with emotionally distant men, unless if by communicate you mean tell them to take off their pants or go bore their mother with their issues. Featured in this article instead of my sage tips? Many instances of CAPITAL LETTERS telling you THINGS YOU'VE HEARD A THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE, such as:

I realized something important this week about how men think and act.

It's that men who pay attention and think about the feelings they have, why they have them, what they mean and how to talk about them are RARE.

(Wow. Thanks for that insight. Does NASA know you're moonlighting?)

And also vaguely creepy and definitely snicker-worthy statements like:

Men have a "SECRET BUTTON" you can push that will make communicating with them almost effortless.

(You know, I pushed a man's secret button once, but he asked me to stop. Har har.)

Other headlines include:

  • "The 10 Most Dangerous Mistakes
    YOU Probably Make With Men —
    And What To Do About It..."
  • "Secrets To Fixing Relationships 'Gone Bad'"
  • "Why Men Withdraw ... And What To Do About It"

    Incredible, isn't it? It's like the Cosmo Quiz on dumb juice. I'm almost impressed.
  • Thursday, March 9, 2006

    The Cutest Dog in North America

    Keep in mind that, like his Auntie Jennie, he does not photograph well. Also, he's in a dryer, because my sister is a sick person. However, below you will find a picture of a dog I love so much that I actually let him kiss me on the lips.

    I love this damn dog. He's a Yorkie Poo, which is a cross between a Yorkie, a poodle, and an animatronic teddy bear, and he is an uncontrollable face kisser and horribly behaved. This is what his day is like:

    8 a.m. Get up. Whine for Mommy. Go for walk. Poop.

    8:15 - 8:17 a.m.
    Eat prescription dog food that costs more than sushi.

    8:18 - 10:00 a.m. Crazy time. This involves running around the house like a maniac at least three full rotations, eating the rug, dragging shoes out of the closet, and sneaking up on anyone who might be on the rug trying to read in order to eat her hair, lick her nose, or jump on her shoulders and yelp.

    10:00 - Noon. Nap.

    Rest of day. Repeat as necessary.

    When I first got there, Meg showed me his pen and crate and explained that if he nipped or pooped inside, he had to go in his pen. This seemed so cruel to me that I refused to report him when he chewed my hand, hair, nose, etc. If he maims a toddler, it is entirely my fault. Also? I love being an auntie. I totally have to convince her to have babies so that I can fill them full of candy and shake them upside down until they barf.

    Dispatch from the Pacific Northwest

    Hello, all. Here I am in lovely DuPont, Washington, enjoying the rain and the snow and hanging out with my sister. I have more stories for you, eventually. In the meantime, here is a short list of realizations I had this week:

    1) I want a dog.
    2) It's very rainy here.
    3) Riding in cars makes me sleepy.
    4) So does cloudy weather.
    5) As well as any time changes.

    I have taken 473 naps per day since I got out here. I've been thrilling company, let me tell you.

    Sunday, March 5, 2006

    Search Terms

    Two recent visitors to the Smash came here through search. One from the search string "new yorkers are rude" and the other from "unavailable sex film."

    I'm not sure what kind of joint y'all think I'm running here.

    In other news, I'm in Tacoma this week, visiting Mrs. Piddington and enjoying the fresh clean air. It's spring here. I saw flowers on the trees and everything. Also, there are stars. Amazing!

    I have access to the Internets, though, so no worries: I'm sure you'll hear from me.

    Friday, March 3, 2006

    Flight 1018 Will Be Delayed, Pending Hubley's Nervous Breakdown

    The woman sitting next to me at JFK is reading one of those loathsome self-help books. This particular one is called Your Best Life Now: 7 Steps to Living at Your Full Potential, and it's authored by some dude who looks like the minister at the Baptist church I went to when I was 10. She isn't reading it, though. She's just fondling it and jigging her knee up and down so that it knocks into my chair. She also sat on my coat. I hate her.

    BTW, my flight is delayed. In case you couldn't tell by my charming attitude.

    Here's the thing with the self-help books: They are a racket comparable only to pyramid and Ponzi schemes, it seems to me. I wish to write a self-help book called "Give Me All Your Money Because I'm Lazy and I Don't Want to Do Shit No Mo'." It will be 150 pages long. Each page will have approximately 25 words on it in 18-point type. On the cover, I will wear a tasteful suit and smile at you through huge shiny caps that look like dentures. You will give me all your cash, and then use the book as a $20 coaster, as God intended.

    It's taking all my strength not to lean over to this woman and say, "You want some good advice? Don't be a damn fool your whole life. That'll be 10 bucks, babe. Bargain rates at Dr. Hubley's."

    Wednesday, March 1, 2006

    I Am a Grown-Up, I Don't Care What You Say

    I passed up the chance to see Go-Go Boys in order to go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight. This means that I am a grown-up lady, and prefer men who think I'm pretty. The end.