Also, as an Aside

One great thing about being evil and proud of it is that you can pretty much do whatever you want. For example, Michael Malice, formerly of Overheard in New York and now featured in a comic book at a store near you, among other ventures, decided to ring in the New Year by blogging about the baby without a face. I did this awhile back and got hate comments from 18 year olds. I bet no one will do that to Malice. Know why? Because Malice does not care. He's friends with people who have chopped up people in bathtubs. Do you want to mess that? No, you do not.

Also, he doesn't allow comments on his blog. Clever!

Mrs. P Has a Vivid Imagination

"What time is it? I have to walk my dog. (Sigh.) I have to walk my dog, and then the conehead guy from Silent Hill is going to kill me. He's going to kill me and he's going to rip off my skin just like he did to that little girl who threw the rocks. Don't laugh! We'll see if you're laughing when I don't have any skin."

Luke vs. the Cable Guys

I now have a cold, my period and a bad attitude, but the good news is that my sister's dog is home with us in sunny Needham, Mass., and he is quite amusing.

His name is Luke, and I actually let him kiss me on the lips, which means that I am either very lonely or that he's an unusually charming dog. Until today, I would have said the latter. Now, I'm leaning toward joining Match.com.

I worked a half day today from Mom's sofa and then collapsed into a sniffly fog, only to be awakened by the cable guys, who'd come to upgrad Ma and Pa Smash's TV setup. There were two of them, and they were very friendly. Unfortunately, their very presence was seen as a clear act of aggression by Mr. Luke. (Full name: Luke Lucius Rufus Optimus Prime Beauregard Bourque.)

He barked. He growled. He snapped at their feet. After a couple seconds of this, Meg swooped him up and put him in this crate, where he mostly settled down. Sometimes, you'd hear a little "Rrrrr ... ORRRF!" But mostly, he was good.

The cable guys were here for hours. At one point, long after the sun had set, Ma Smash came over to my sick bed and hissed, "I swear to God I hear one of them showering up there. What the fuck are they doing?"

Mrs. Piddlington (full name: Meghan Hubley Bourque) concerned that he was unhappy in the crate, would try to let him out. She did this three times, and each time, he started tracking the Evil Cable Guys, sniffing out their location in the house and then barking uproariously as they cowered in the basement or upstairs or in a corner of the living room.

After the third time, she said, "Well, this was to be expected. He hasn't had a bad day yet."

"I think it's hilarious," I offered from my couch.

"He's just a sweet boy!" said Mom.

"Oh yeah? You think so?" Mrs. P leaned over the back of the couch and called into the dining room, where Luke's crate was. "I'm going to sell you, Luke!"

"Oh no! Don't say that."

"Mommy doesn't love you any more!"

"What if he can understand you? You'll hurt his feelings!"

I raised my head for a minute. "He thought the cable guys were going to murder us. I don't think he gets it."

"Yeah, it doesn't matter what you say," Meg said. "It's how you say it." In a sweet voice, she said: "Mummy's going to give you away!"

"No!"

"Who wants a puppy? Free with crate and toys!"

"Oh, Luke, don't listen to Mummy. You stay here with Gramma. Gramma loves you best!"

"I'm going to put of those little cords down outside the house, aren't I, Luke? Yes! Just like at the gas station. The first time it goes DING! I'm going to run out and give you to that person! Doesn't matter who!"

"OH MY GOD. YOU STOP SAYING THAT TO THAT DOG RIGHT NOW."

I got up and ran into the bathroom.

"Sweetheart? What's the matter?"

"I believe it's called 'giggle incontinence.'"

I am not the funniest person in my family. I just need the most attention.

My Annual New Year's Cold

One of the writers I work with from time to time sent me an email not so long ago to say that she'd been reading my blog and that it occurred to her that I get sick a lot. She's a qualified aromatherapist, so she suggested a few things I might use to make myself less susceptible to every damn thing that comes around. This was last year, when I got sick constantly. I was new to the City, and I think the combination of an unfamiliar gene pool and staying out all night far too often did me in.

This year, I've been much healthier. (Side note: My friends who are native New Yorkers hardly ever get sick, and when they do, they shake it off pretty easily.) However, I still got my Annual New Year's Cold.

Yesterday, I thought I was dying, but today, I feel much better and sound much worse. I'm still staying in my pajamas, though, which will be entertaining later this afternoon when I go out to meet my former roommate for coffee.

Roommate: "Do your pants say 'ho ho ho'?"

Me: "Maybe."

Anyway, it was a really spectacular Christmas, the best ever, maybe. You can read select quotes from SMASHmas over at Legend of the Drunken Mouse. When my head clears its cold medicine fug, I'll fill in the gaps.

Quote of Christmas Eve

From my cousin:

"I don't gamble at all. I'm like a Mormon, except for the whole gay, caffeine, alcohol thing."

Merry Christmas!

From all of us here at the Smash (meaning me, my Mom and five regular commenters), I wish you a very merry Christmas and happy New Year. I'd leave you a YouTube video or a yearly wrap-up piece or something, but honestly, it's 10:35 am and I've already eaten 10 sugar cookies and a slice of pie, so I'm having trouble seeing my screen.

More when the sugar coma wears off. Ho ho ho!

Merry Unbirthday to Me

I just realized something. I'm 30 and a half. I am totally so much older than you and should get all of your toys. Ha!

Laters for Your "Fresh Air"

I've been on a few dates lately with an outdoorsy sort of fellow. What he sees in me is anyone's guess.

Sample conversation:

Him: I really like camping.

Me: Like, outside?

Him: Yes.

Me: Where the animals are?

Him: Well ... yes. But they don't really bother you, you know. It's a cliche, but they really are more afraid of you than you are of them.

Me: I'm frightened of squirrels.

Him: ...

Me: Seriously. I had lunch in Madison Square Park the other day, and a squirrel jumped in front of me on the path and did, like, this little back-flip in the air. And then he stared at me, you know? So I screamed and my friends all looked at me like I was crazy. But he could have been rabid! Anyway, he was definitely mean-spirited. He was a vicious attack squirrel!

Him: So ... what about hiking?

Me: I live a pretty long way from the train!

And so on. I'm an indoor cat, is my point. My favorite things - reading, writing, drinking beer, worrying, talking about people behind their backs - are all best done in an indoor setting.

Does anyone know of any outdoor-themed bars?

All Hubley Things Are Weird

Me: Did your ribs hurt when you were losing weight? Mine are killing me.

Ma Smash: No, but yours did that before, remember.

Me: Yeah, that's right, they did. I forgot about that.

Ma Smash: And your sister's did this time, too.

Me: Right. And I think Dad said something about that, as well.

Ma Smash: But not me. Nope. Must be your weird Hubley ribs.

Me: They are pretty weird. I have an extra one, you know. And an extra vertebra.

Ma Smash: (Cheerfully.) Yup. You're a mutant!

This Ain't My First Time at the Rodeo

I just cleaned my apartment for the gayest* reason ever. I was watching Mommie Dearest on Oxygen, and when Joan Crawford is torturing her daughter Christina by throwing Ajax at her and insisting that she scrub the already clean floor, I actually thought: "Jeez, I wish she'd send Christina over to clean my floor."

SCRUB, Christina! SCRUB!


* No, I'm not using "gay" as a pejorative. Cleaning because of Joan Crawford is gay, all right? It's gay. And therefore, great.

A Tip From Your Barista: I Hate You

I had maybe the worst day with members of the service industry ever, today. I got berated by a barista and hit on by a Fresh Direct delivery person. My friend Jude pointed out not too long ago that I don't do anything for myself anymore: not my laundry, not my grocery shopping, not even making my own coffee. Surely this is some kind of karmic comeuppance.

I'm working at home right now, so it's worse than usual. I generally roll out of bed around 8:00 and go across the street to Starbucks to get my iced venti americano. (Yes, even in cold weather.) If they're lucky, sometimes I'll do something with my hair or brush my teeth first. Usually not, though.

Anyway, today I also decided to get an egg sandwich, which they have now. Thing is, I'm on a diet, and the "reduced fat" sandwich ... well, reduced from what, I'd like to know. 100 grams of fat? I decided to ask.

Because I have waited on the public, and am not a dick, no matter what Jude tells you, I asked thusly: "Excuse me. I'm wondering if you have any nutrional information on the egg sandwiches?"

Barista: "Nutrional information?"

Me: "Yes, like fat and so on. I got the 'reduced fat' but you know how that is. If you don't have it, don't worry. Don't like, look or anything. I just thought you might have a card or something."

At this point, the manager came over.

Manager to barista: "What does she want?"

Barista to manager: "She wants to know the nutrional information on the sandwiches."

Me: "It's cool. Don't worry about it."

Manager (looking disgusted): "There's fat in it, OK? Like a lot of fat. A LOT OF FAT."

Me: "OK, that's fine, whatever. Thanks!"

Manager: "It's an EGG SANDWICH, you know? It's not good for you."

Me: "Fine. Great. Thanks."

Barista to manager: "She ordered the reduced fat, though."

Manager: "Well, there's still a lot of fat."

Me: "OK! Thanks again!"

Then I headed over to the bar to wait for my drink. Manager guy? Followed me. Now he had a wrapper from the reduced fat turkey bacon sandwich and was reading it to me.

Manager: "There's 11 grams of fat, OK? And 4 of that is saturated. But there's no trans fats in here, no siree."

Me: "You know? That's OK. I'm really all set."

Manager: "You sure? Cuz I could read the calories."

Me: "Yeah, that's fine."

Barista: "Iced venti americano on the bar!"

Me: "Thanks."

I walked back over to the registers to wait for my sandwich. The manager followed. The microwave dinged, he took out the sandwich and wrapped it up, and then held it out.

"That's mine," I said.

"All sandwiches get picked up at the bar," he said. And walked over to end and put it down.

I hope he gets second-hand arterial sclerosis from breathing in all that "reduced" bacon fat.

So, after all that, home I went to await the Fresh Direct guy. Who was early for a change. I met him at the door and let him in, extra careful to be nice to him, since my service person karma was so out of joint for the day. I opened the outer door. I opened the inner door. I opened my door, and signed the sheet with a smile and gave him a tip. As I was bending down to get my purse, he said:

"Is that a tattoo?"

I grabbed my lower back, where I do indeed have a tattoo. If you are a female and you were born in the U.S. in the late 1970s, you now have:

1) A blog.
2) A tattoo on your lower back.
3) A pierced belly button, and perhaps a nosering.

I don't make the rules.

Anyway, still concerned about my karma, I replied: "Yes, yes it is a tattoo."

"What's it of?"

"Um, it's just like a flower thing," I said. Usually, I say, "It's an arrow, pointing to my ass, in case anyone gets lost." But this didn't seem wise, given the circumstances.

"I like it."

"Thanks," I said, all but shoving him in the face to get him out the door. Which I then locked immediately and blocked with my physical person, whilst sliding to the floor in a sigh.

You're Really Weird!

At at drinks thing on Saturday night, I wound up sitting at a table with a guy named JP, whom I'd met before, and a stranger in a knit cap. Knit Cap had a sort of interesting nervous energy about him. He seemed like he might be a writer, or an academic, or some other professional neurotic. Just as I was in the middle of writing my own story about his background, he reached into his bag and hauled out a thermos.

"Which one is my pint?" he asked JP.

"That one."

"Thanks." He poured a little of something coffee-colored into the thermos top, as if measuring it, and then poured it into the glass.

"What is that?" I asked him. I figured he'd brought his own booze or something.

He furrowed his brow in concentration and produced two or three packets of something, which he tour open and dropped into the glass. "It's chai," he said. "And some other herbs."

I picked up the empty thermos top and sniffed it. "Ginger?"

"Among other things. I realized, when I left the house today, that I hadn't had my chai today." The look on his face said clearly that a health disaster of major proportions had been averted.

I stared at him. JP stared at him. Then -- I blame the beer -- I grinned hugely and proclaimed, "You're really WEIRD!"

Knit Cap, to his credit, smiled back.

"No, I mean it!" I said. (Sometimes, when I get started, it's really hard to stop.) "That is so, so weird. You know that right? To bring a non-alcoholic health beverage to a bar and drink it out of a pint glass?"

"Yes," he said, still smiling. "I guess I do know that."

"That's awesome. You are totally and completely weird." I paused. "I really like you!"

Now we were all sitting there beaming at each other, like converts at the pivotal cult meeting, the one where we all decided to change our names and start wearing the same outfits.

"It is weird," JP said. "I was totally thinking that, but I never would have said it."

Every party needs a blabber, that's why they invited me.

Preeeverts of the Internets, Thinmozation, Etc.

Someone got here today by Googling "jenny 12 year old p*ssy." This person lives in Finland, and is a pervert. Nice job, Finnish pervert person. I've really never been more grossed out by a search term. (BTW, in case you're wondering why I got all prudish all of a sudden, well, let's just say I don't need to encourage the preeeverts of the Internets in their quest for kiddie porn. Yech.)

In other news, I'm on a diet. I know that listening to someone else talk about their diet is about as much fun as watching your Auntie's slideshow of her trip to the Yucatan, but listen: I'm starving over here and if you think I'm going to suffer alone, well, you obviously don't me very well. I am starving, people. My brother-in-law, who went to Ranger School and thus actually knows something about starving, likes to remind people who say that they're actually just hungry. Other than that, though, he's a really great guy.

Anyway. Ramble. Ah! Yes. I'm on a diet because I put on 20 damn pounds this year, via beer-guzzling, cheese-eating, and sitting, and I no longer fit in my pants. Therefore, I am beginning the Great Thinmozation of 2007 -- one month early, cuz I hate starting anything on New Years. So far, I've lost 4.5 pounds by doing Weight Watchers and weeping. You can be sure that I'll keep you informed of my progress, whether you're interested or not.