Help a Reader Day

Loyal Smash reader Tracey wrote to me today to ask for my advice. This is always a mistake, as I'm sure you will all agree. My advice in any case is calculated to produce the maximum entertainment for your friends, rather than solving your actual problems.

For example, if you were a pal of mine, you might call me up and ask me whether or not you should break up with your girlfriend, the annoying one who calls all the time when we're trying to have a beer, for God's sake. I would advise you to so immediately. Further, I would suggest taking out a full-page ad in your local paper. It would say something along the lines of "Hey, Hookerpants*: Guess You're Going to Have to Find a New Sucker to Drive You to New Jersey on Sunday" and it would feature a picture of her with a phone glued to her ear, looking angry, as usual.

Anyway. Fortunately, Trace didn't have a question of this nature. Here's what Trace needs to know:

Jen,

Since you are a savvy NY woman who knows the city, I'm hoping you will be able to give me some advice.

My wife turns 40 in January. I think I'm going to surprise her by packing a bag and taking her on a train trip to NYC. I understand that there are plenty of things to do and places to stay within walking distance of Grand Central Station. Maybe you can provide me a list of "must sees" that my wife would really enjoy. Also, if you have any hotel suggestions, I would love to hear them.

Hope things are going well.

Trace

God, poor Tracey. I sure have him fooled, don't I?

Anyway, trouble is that my NYC knowledge is limited to about four neighborhoods in Brooklyn and a stretch of downtown Manhattan from Delancey Street to 17th. So I'm not much help with the whole Grand Central thing. Which is why I'm turning to you, dear readers, in the hopes that you will have some advice for our pal Tracey. He's being a nice guy and all. Anyone have any ideas?

* Tm AJ Daulerio.

This Sounds Dumb, But...

...this idea might also work. Basically, you're supposed to list three things you're grateful for each day, which will make you more aware of the good stuff in your life, which will make you happier. Makes sense. You're supposed to do this at the end of the day, but I like to get started right away on my self-improvement projects, so that I can get sick of them ahead of schedule. I'm a high-achiever, you see.

So here goes. Three things I'm thankful for, this morning:

1) I have 18 POINTS (tm) for the rest of the day. (More on the Weight Watchers thing later. Let's just say that Tubby had to do something.) This is fantastic, as yesterday I'd eaten all of my allowance by 5 pm, causing me to whine and complain so much that my family is probably pretty happy to see me go back to New York today.

2) I got up at 5:30 this morning, which means that I've already caught up on my email from vacation and gotten quite a few things done. Here at the Smash, we get more done by 8 am...

3) I have coffee. I really feel sorry for those of you who don't drink it. I know I only need it because I'm addicted and all, but the thing is, addiction presents you with an easily achieved goal. And isn't that all one can ask for?

Ma Smash Has a Dirty Mouth

Ladies and gentlemen, there is no hope for me. I am sitting in my parents' livingroom, listening to Ma Smash discuss the fact that most people are not as organized as she is. How does she express this? I'm so glad you asked.

"And she can't find the paperwork! I had the paperwork in that drawer, and now it's not there. She cleaned all my stuff out, and now it's all full of her pussy powder or whatever--"

"Excuse me. What? Her what?"

"Her pussy powder! Pussy powder!"

"OK. What the hell is pussy powder?"

"Ah! OK. See, when I was in college, there was this big thing where we were all convinced that we were smelly. So there was this huge market for powders and sprays and deodorants or whatever. I mean, I didn't use them, because I had a UTI for like 6 years when I was young and was on bactrim and wearing giant cotton undies like a sail. But everyone else was crazy about it. Particularly my roommate.

"So anyway, Barbara and I kept a bottle of raspberry schnapps in the room, for special occasions, like, if it was after exams, or if it was Tuesday. And one day, I had had a little social snort, and her boyfriend -- now her husband -- called while she was out. And he was all, 'Well, do you know where she went?' And I said, 'I have no idea. She was out like a shot. She just powdered her pussy and went out the door.'

"He loved it so much that years later, when your father and I went to visit them, he said, 'You know, Barbara was so excited that you were coming that she completely forgot to powder her pussy.'"

Whereupon, my sister asked, "There's raspberry schnapps?"

And Ma Smash said, "It's so delicious!"

Sometimes, the Mouse and I Shop Online...

...by which I mean, he shops, and I offer my opinions about things he might buy. The Mouse is much more fashionable than I, and also, not as cheap about clothes. When I am a rich person, I will hire him to be my personal shopper. I will look like a million bucks then: 10 pounds thinner, ever much more elegant. In the meantime, I subsist on Prince Street earrings and Old Navy t-shirts from 5 years ago. I do enjoy our conversations, though.

Mouse: Chinos? Who the hell wears chinos?

Me: I hate the word chinos. It sounds like a pejorative word for a Mexican person.

Mouse: It does sound a bit racist.

That's at least as interesting as talking about hems.

I'm Not Really on Hiatus

Via Googlism:

Googlism for: jen

jen is a badass
jen is 34"
jen is having fun with two men
jen is in the
jen is 11
jen is cool
jen is da man
jen is getting her backbone back?
jen is making me do this"
jen is dying because you
jen is the best
jen is an exceptional person who is to be worshipped and adored at all times
jen is something one learns rather than something one is born with
jen is 34 2000
jen is finishing up driver's ed
jen is in the background
jen is at it again
jen is the coolest person ever
jen is a loser
jen is the anit
jen is
jen is all smiles
jen is keen on stopping this
jen is an original glass artist working in and around melbourne
jen is a joe moreira black belt
jen is on hiatus
jen is connected to the following things

Rosy-Fingered Dawn, Etc.

So last night, after a long evening of enforced gaiety with work folk, I got on the F train, as I do, only to discover that the F train no longer went to my home. This was a problem, because:

1) It was 1 a.m.
2) I was sorta loaded.
3) I don't have a third reason.

Anyway, supposedly the G was going to take over for the F, so no problem. You'd think that anyway: In reality, something weird happened that I still can't quite figure out and I wound up going the wrong way on the G, which was still, alas, the G and not the F. When I realized my mistake -- which was quite quickly, thanks very much, as I am a clever drinker -- I got off and asked one of the lovely and helpful MTA employees for assistance. This, as near as I can tell, is what she said:

"RAR RAR RAR! RAR RAR RAR! F TRAIN! G TRAIN! RAR RAR RAR!"

It was terrifying. I half expected her to throw a cat at me and stalk away.

At this point, I realized that the train thing was not working out, so I left the subway and went out to the street to get a cab. Great idea, right?

Um, there were no cabs.

What there was, was a 12 year old cop in a squad car, who very nicely helped me find a cab, and probably had to file a report about the whole thing:

"1.25 am. Drunken redheaded person demands cab. Find cab. Put her in it. How many years again until I make detective?"

The cab, of course, got stuck behind a garbage truck for 20 minutes on my ride home. OK, maybe not 20 minutes. But it felt like it. In fact, as near as I can tell, I pretty much just got home.

I hope you're satisfied, people. I don't enjoy making a fool out of myself, you know. I only do it to keep you entertained.

I Give Up: How Crazy Are You?

Here's how crazy.

Every time I have a good date, I become convinced that one of us will meet with a terrible fate directly after we kiss goodbye. Because of this, I nearly gave myself a heart attack while waiting for the F last night -- first, because there was no one on the platform, and my heels were making creepy clacking sounds, and then because a random teenager entered the platform, which meant that he was obviously a serial killer, come to get me at last.

I told you: Cuckoo!

FYI

The comedian Emmett Furrow has no collar bones. I'm not really sure what you'd all do if I weren't here to tell you these things -- but fortunately, you don't have to worry about it.

Why I'm Doomed

Sometimes I like to play a little game called "Why I'm Doomed." This is similar to the game "What's Wrong With Me?" which is when I scan my body for tumors and palpitations and phantom pains. It's a hysterical displacement activity, meant to explain anxiety I'm already feeling because I'm cuckoo. Understanding these things doesn't change them, people. G.I. Joe lied!

Previous games of "Why I'm Doomed" have revolved around popular topics such as "Maybe I'll Never Write Again," or "Secretly, I'm Getting Very Fat," or "It's Possible That Everyone I Know Is Irritated With Me."

Today, however, I'm rocking "I Will Never Have a Boyfriend Again." This is an excellent version, and good for at least two weeks of solid boo-hooing, at which point, my friends will be sufficiently bored with my behavior that they'll stop returning my calls, and I can go back to "It's Possible That Everyone I Know Is Irritated With Me."

I'm quite resourceful about my insanity. For example, today I informed Ma Smash that every time I see a woman with unfortunate body or facial hair, I wonder if she knows that she has this unfortunate hair. And then I wonder if I have unfortunate hair, and nobody has had the heart to tell me.

"By the time I'm done, I'm pretty much convinced that my entire face is totally covered with hair, just like those Wolf Boys in the Mexican Circus. Do you know what I mean?"

Ma Smash paused. "I can honestly say I never thought of it. But I will now. Every time I look at someone with extra hair. So ... thanks."

Do you think she was being sarcastic?

That's Service!

Me: I love my salon.

Coworker Dennis: Because they spoil you?

Me: Yes. For example, a beautiful italian man just massaged my scalp.

Coworker Dennis: That happens to me in the shower every morning.

People Should Not Live Anywhere Near Other People

My upstairs neighbor appears to be pounding something into the floor this morning. Is she tenderizing a steak? Installing a boot scraper? Expressing her rage at the current political climate? I have no idea.

Prior to this, I'm pretty sure she was tap dancing. She's really lucky she lives on the third floor, is all I can say, because our landlord lives below me, and he claims he can hear my stocking-clad feet on the rug-covered floor.

I would love to know what she's doing up there.

I Might Have Been Punked

Alert commenter Taupey claims that my opera-singing pal from the F train the other day is actually part of some evil marketing conspiracy:

Hah, that was a viral live live "street" ad for the follow up to "Borat." You are now another marketing tool. Congrats.

--Taupey, the Cynical Kangaroo

Anyone know anything about this? I like a good joke on me as much as the next person.

Motherless Brooklyn ... the Musical!

A guy on the train tonight started peeping and beeping and then launched into "Fever" in a weird high operatic falsetto. Then he sang "If I Only Had a Brain." Then he started imitating Moe Howard: "Why, I oughta..."

It was completely awesome. At first, as usual, I was the only fool who looked up from my book. To be honest, I've been a little overtired, and I was afraid that maybe I was having auditory hallucinations. I kept just missing my chance to catch him singing. And he looked so normal, I really wasn't sure it was him until he finally sang a whole verse of "If I Only Had a Brain." By the time he got to "I would not be just a nuthin', with my head all fulla stuffin'," I had definitely determined that he was the dude.

He was about 50 years old, heavyset, with gray curly hair and a pleasant face. He was dressed like most everyone on the train, i.e., business casual, and didn't seem to be drunk or homeless.

I rode the F with him all the way from 14th Street in Chelsea to 7th Ave in Park Slope and he sang the whole way. By East Broadway, people -- including one bemused Hasidic guy, a skinny red-headed fashionista a la old Stephanie Klein, a smattering of hipsters and yours truly -- were exchanging glances with one another. By Jay Street, we were laughing. By 7th Ave, there was outright guffawing. I was afraid the Hasidic guy would drop his prayer book.

You can think us cruel, but I promise you: I was laughing with him, not at him, and I'm pretty sure everyone else was, too. It was a fantastic train ride. Also? Our Tourettic pal got off at 7th Ave, with me and all the other Park Slope-ians. Which means that Park Slope is now the home of yuppies, lesbians, a few random hipsters ... and one mentally ill guy who does a mean Peggy Lee.

So awesome.