Boob Dress

I accidentally cleaned my whole apartment today.

It started innocently enough. I was looking for my boob dress for New Year's. My boob dress is the most ta-ta displaying outfit in my collection, and I haul it out for special occasions involving alcohol consumption and inappropriate behavior. (Like New Year's, for example.) Unfortunately, I couldn't find it.

I knew I hadn't left it at my folks', because I'd just left there and hadn't had it with me the whole time. It had to be somewhere in my apartment, but that somewhere wasn't in my bureau or in the top three strata of laundry on the floor of my closet. In desperation, I took EVERYTHING out of my closet, something I haven't done for ... well, let's just say there were dinosaur bones at the bottom. No boob dress, though.

Next I moved all my furniture. I found 73 cents, enough dust to fill a shoebox, a pair of underpants, and five novels. No boob dress.

I took all my clothes out of my drawer. In addition to the stuff I knew I had, I found my eight grade softball t-shirt, one bright pink fishnet stocking, an old embroidered hankie of my Grammy's, and about nine orphaned socks. Still no boob dress.

As I was cleaning out my drawers, though, I noticed that the bottom one had jumped its track. This happens a lot, because my bureau is a cheap wicker dealie from Target. It's a pain in the ass, but that's what you get for 80 bucks. Anyhoo, while I was fighting with it, I took it out for a minute entirely and found my boob dress in a drift of dust bunnies, alongside more pocket change and two t-shirts I forgot I owned.

In summary: Hubley 1, boob dress 0. Happy New Year everyone!

Dogs and Their People

I'm crazy about dogs.

Five minutes after meeting yours, I'll most likely be under the coffee table with it, demanding that he or she hand over that bone. For this reason, dogs love me. Isaac, one of my favorite dog owners, claims that it's because dogs are good judges of character, but I think we all really know that dogs love a fool.

I went to visit Isaac and Cathy and their amiable mutt Molly yesterday. Molly and I had a tussle over a cloth donut - "Give me that donut! Give that to me right now!" - and then we curled up on the rug for a snooze. Cathy looked over from the computer, where she and Isaac were looking something up, and found me and her dog in a ying and yang shape on the floor.

One thing I love about dogs: They really appreciate naps.

I didn't always love dogs. Growing up, we had some bad experiences. A large black lab lived next door to us and attacked my sister once. She wasn't hurt, but I'm still not sure she forgives me for running like hell when the dog burst through the hedge.

My parents weren't dog people either. My Dad had spent much of his childhood scooping up poop from his sister's dogs, because girls in the '50s weren't allowed to touch crap, and my Mom is just plain afraid of them.

Then my sister got Luke. Luke is, for want of a better word, ridiculous. He's a yorkipoo, which is basically a designer mutt, and he spends much of his life looking for comfortable places to nap. Most of these places are on his people, either their laps or, if couch cushions are conveniently placed to prop him up, their shoulders.

He's also crazy about cheese and never does what he's told without a struggle. Also, once he gets ahold of something, he's liable to shake it til the stuffing comes out.

I love this dog, which might be terrible vanity: It's been pointed out to me that we have the exact same personality.

Dream Interpretation: When Superman Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy

Last night, I had a dream that I was driving around in an El Camino with Superman, and he was mad at me for being mean to Matthew, my ex.

"I just think you could have been more sensitive," he said. He seemed really pissed off.

Yes, I Know

I'm the worst. And I'm on your side (both of you, at this point.) It's really irritating when bloggers disappear. Most of my faves are also in this weird sort of semi-retirement. Anyway! New Year's resolution: Write more for this.

In the meantime, here's how I know I am becoming a New Yorker: My only dream, on the bus from New York to Boston, is to be seated next to a person who doesn't talk to me. I got my wish yesterday, and it was lovely. She read, I read, no one talked. Bliss.

Someday, I'll publish a bus etiquette manual and let the rest of the world in on this.

Service Journalism

This is where you need to go to get all those last-minute gifts on your list. You're welcome.

In other news, I'm probably finally going to go to the cracker farm, because I've been cooped up in my apartment all weekend fighting with something that Ma Smash claims is the Norwalk virus. I thought that only happened to people on cruise ships. Anyway, it's been pretty ugly around here.

Although the Hanukkah mobile just went by my house, so that's cheerful. Have you seen this, fellow New Yorkers? It's pretty awesome. This white camper with a huge mural of a menorah on it drives around, blaring music from loudspeakers. I'm thinking of getting one of these myself, only instead of celebrating a holiday, it will just play whatever I'm listening to on my iPod right now.

Chicken Little

I don't want to alarm anyone, but I feel I should mention that it is now getting darker at an earlier hour than ever before. This is not hyperbole, but actual fact, observed by me, and confirmed by all of my friends and coworkers who wish I would shut up and leave them alone.

I know it's December and all, but I'm pretty sure that last year at this time, it did not start to get dark at 3:30 in the afternoon. I'm near a window at work, and I could easily have turned my lamp on at that hour today. This is not OK at all, and clearly means that the planet has become loosened from its orbit and is now winging off into the deepest, coldest reaches of space.

Upside? I can stop wearing 45 SPF sunblock. It's important to be positive.

The Naked Neighbor

My neighbor across the way doesn't believe in curtains, but she does believe in ginormous cotton underpants, and sitting in front of her window in the mostly-nude. So that's three things we have in common. My feeling about drapes has always been, well hell, if people are nice enough to do weird things in their window for my amusement, who am I to deny them similar?

I've seen a lot of naked people since I came to New York, and none of them probably shouldn't be naked. My favorite still is the guy who was sitting in his window, having a smoke at 6 a.m. when I was walking home from a party. I saw him and screamed; he saw me and waved. Ah, Crazy Naked Guy.

Speaking of neighborhood nuts, the Opera Guy is back. I heard him today while I was reclining upon my divan, recovering from NaNoWriMo and watching the murders on TV.

I finished that, by the way: NaNoWriMo, not the murders. I could now use about a month of sleep. Sadly, it's almost time to go back to work. Some day, I will figure out why Sunday night remains loathsome no matter how much you like your job. I suspect it's equal parts laziness and childhood trauma from having to go back to school Monday mornings.

There you go: All I need to do is figure out how to make that insight into a self-help book, and I'll never need to get up on Monday morning again.

Human Behavior

One of the most interesting things about doing NaNoWriMo is that it's given me a rare view into how effing crazy we human types all are - crazy and jealous.

Here's the thing: Anything you write in a month's time probably won't be winning the National Book Award. At best, you'll wind up with a mess with potential, and that's all I'm hoping for. The most important thing is keep writing. I'm a little behind right now, but I've got more than 25,000 words, which is the most I've written on a single project since my senior thesis.

Anyhoo, I'm pretty proud of myself. This apparently is enraging to some people, because you would not believe some of the comments I've gotten so far.

Some of them are to be expected, given the context. My ex, for example, listened to my synopsis and said, "It sounds like it could be more than readable." When I said, jokingly, I'd choose to take that as a compliment, he said, "Yes, it is. A cautious, measured compliment." But hey, that's pretty good for an ex, right? Just you wait.

Friday night, a boy I've never dated informed me that my subject was one of the most written-about of its kind. He then asked me who I thought would play my main character in the movie, and laughed and laughed.

Last week, a friend of mine asked me if I was still writing the damn thing, when I'd be done with it, and whether I thought it was any good, anyway.

It's not just me, either: Members of my writing group are reporting similar pissiness from their near and dear. One guy says a friend of his asked him if all he did now was write in pretentious coffee shops, so that other people could see him.

I'm honestly a little flabbergasted at the hostility. It's not like any of us have book deals. For me, writing a book has long been something on my Big List of Things to Do Before I Kick Off. Because I'm reasonable, I never specified "write a good book" or "write a book that sells a gagillion copies and becomes a New York Times Best Seller."

My point is that my ambitions are somewhat humble, and therefore, anyone who wants to do what I'm doing, can. Anyone can write a book. All they have to do is commit to writing a couple thousand words on the same subject.

Mom Loves That Angelina Jolie

Ma Smash: Oh her. She's so homely, I just don't understand.

Me: She's gotten very thin, it's true.

Ma Smash: Terrible legs. They're like sticks. And she has those big, whorey lips for giving blow jobs, for more money.

Me: ???

Ma Smash: For anyone! Anyone! Boy, girl, she doesn't care. Anyone who wants one, gets one.

Hypochrondriac Has a Check-up

So, as you know, I'm a little crazy. This is part of my charm, and generally, I don't let it bother me. I sort of enjoy it, to be honest. Very rarely, these days, am I actually troubled over my hypochondria. It's more like a joke on me, and I'm in on it.

Sometimes, though, something happens and I have a bad moment. Take, for example, the phone call I received this evening:

"Jen, this is Dr. Blah-blah-blah. I got your lab results back, and I'd like to speak to you. Please call me back as soon as possible at 212-UR-SCRWD."

I was out at dinner with my friend Laura when this call came in, and I behaved very calmly and maturely.

"I'm obviously dying," I informed Laura.

"Oh dear," she said, taking a bite of jalapeno popper.

"That was the doctor. She was calling with my lab results. I'm pretty sure she wanted to let me know that I currently have more strains of HIV than they've seen in a single person since Patient Zero."

"I bet you're anemic," Laura said. "That's usually what it is when they call me about my labs. Why don't you call her back?"

So I did. By this time, the office was technically closed, but as I've previously stated, I'm insane, so I made the attending physician - you know, the one who's there for actual emergencies - check to see if my doc was still there.

"Is this for your child?" she asked mildly, prior to putting me on hold to search for my doctor. Clearly, this kind of hysteria is usually associated in the office with mothers of sickly children.

"Is it my what? What? No! No, it's me. It's me and SHE WANTS TO TALK TO ME ABOUT MY LABS."

"Oh. Um, hang on a moment."

My doctor came to the phone, because she's awesome, and because, I suspect, she's used to crazy people. She works at a practice that incorporates alternate healing with western medicine, and she's in New York, so I'm sure I'm not the only nut she sees.

"Ah, yes, OK, your labs," she said. "Cholesterol normal. Liver, kidney, thyroid function, all normal. Vitamin B-12, normal. Iron, good. This is strange, though: You are anemic."

Effing Laura. I should save my copay and just see her.

I'm Pretty Sure Mary Didn't Write the Note

This is, without a doubt, the best thank-you note I've ever received for a wedding present:

Auntie Jennie,

You like balls. Big, hairy balls. I put mine in our new bowl. Yum, yum, yum.

Love,

Chris + Mary

I Am a Terrible Person

Family Guy quote left for Coworker Dennis (a fellow WriMo):

"How you uh, how you comin' on that novel you're working on? Huh? Got a a big, uh, big stack of papers there? Got a, got a nice little story you're working on there? Your big novel you've been working on for three years? Huh? Got a, got a compelling protagonist? Yeah? Got a obstacle for him to overcome? Huh? Got a story brewing there? Working on, working on that for quite some time? Huh? Yeah, talking about that three years ago. Been working on that the whole time? Nice little narrative? Beginning, middle, and end? Some friends become enemies, some enemies become friends? At the end your main character is richer from the experience? Yeah? Yeah? No, no, you deserve some time off."

Pipe Dreams

Me: Well, you know, all these grandkids you're gonna have might be loud. Maybe when we get our palatial estate by the beach, we should have me and Mrs. P in one house and you and Dad in another.

Ma Smash: Oh, I'll be deaf as a haddock. It won't matter.

Me: A ... haddock?

Ma Smash: Yup.

Me: How deaf is a haddock exactly?

Ma Smash: Oh, totally deaf. They have no ears. Go take a peek. I'll wait.

Me: Yes, good idea. I'll go take a peek at the many haddock I have on hand.

Ma Smash: Go ask the neighbors. Norwegians love fish!

NaNoWriMo Is Turning Me Into a Crank

The neighbors are cooking something that smells for all the world like parakeet droppings. I'm starting to really hope that I'm having a stroke instead, because otherwise, those poor souls really shouldn't be allowed to cook for themselves.

I did see other humans today, you'll be happy to hear. (Do these posts seem at all like messages in a bottle to you? They seem that way to me.) Anyway, I went out to brunch with a few friends, and then, purely by accident, we wound up going to an open house.

Open houses are a neighborhood pastime, everything that can be condo-ized having been in the past five to ten years. This one was at the top of a rickety five-floor walk-up on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, which is where we keep the restaurants. The view was tremendous, and the place itself was quite nice, long walk up notwithstanding. The only thing that wigged me out was that there was what appeared to be a bricked up doorway in the living room.

"That is obviously the doorway to hell," I told the Mouse, while he was wincing at some supposedly offensive blond-wood cabinets.

"There was a fire years ago," he said. "In the '80s. Maybe they bricked it up then."

"How do you know?"

"On the other side of that wall exactly is my Mom's apartment. I grew up like five feet from where we're standing now."

"Oh my God! You should buy it! Wait - would she be freaked or psyched?"

"Psyched. She'd bust that door right on down and make it one big apartment."

The Mouse sounded less than thrilled about that, so I don't imagine he'll be buying the place.

Sad Times in Needham

I grew up in a smallish town called Needham, west of Boston and far, far away from anything resembling excitement or danger.

Then I left town and all hell broke loose.

I'm having a lot of trouble believing this happened. When I was a kid, my Mom used to freak out whenever we were two minutes late or out after dark with anything less than the National Guard for protection and I thought she was nuts. Needham was the safest. The worst trouble you could get into was stealing liquor from your parents or vandalizing the high school by "planting" a garden of sporks in the courtyard after hours. All this seems very 1950s to me now, like we used to pass the time by swallowing goldfish or cramming ourselves into a telephone booth, just to prove we could do it.

My folks are still in Needham. They're not elderly, but they certainly aren't expecting to have to fight off deranged intruders. My sister and I talked about it the other day and decided that they need an alarm system. And a big mean dog. And they need to move to New York City, where it's safe.

Spare a moment of your Sunday, if you would, to send good thoughts and well wishes to Nancy Moore, who is recuperating from her injuries. It's a sad story and scary as hell.

Boring-est

I have 3478 words of NaNoWriMo fun in my bank of wordy goodness. This might not sound like much to you, but my sore wrist says otherwise. Other things I have, besides 3478 words and a sore wrist:

1) Two candles that don't smell.
2) A statue of Ganesha.

This is because I went to the hippie-dippie store across the street looking for a candle that would make my house smell pleasant, and wound up getting rooked into buying crap I didn't need. This is because I'm terribly gullible, and the guy who runs the place is hilarious. I'll be honest, it was worth it for the sales pitch, which had everything to do with my root chakra. (Fun fact: If anyone touches your root chakra without your consent, you should tell a teacher or other trusted adult.)

Oh, also, I gave blood this morning, which is another reason I'm stupid and out of it. Laura just called and informed me that I sound like I'm high and should probably sit down and eat something.

I think I'll do that.

NaNoWriMo!

Hello, my neglected lovelies. I come bearing apologies and news. Also, possibly carpal tunnel syndrome, as you will soon see:

1) I am doing NaNoWriMo.
2) This means that I have to write about 1667 words per day for the next 30 days.
3) I broke up with my boyfriend.

See how I tucked that last one in at the end there? I bet you didn't even catch it.

Anyway, they say keeping busy is the best cure for heartache, so I'm diving right into this project. It will definitely be extremely poor, as any one-month draft must be. But hey, most of my favorite writers are big believers in the Shitty First Draft, so hopefully, this will be to my benefit. Anyway, I'll write a lot of words. I love words. They're like typographic sprinkles. Mmmmm.

Stomach Bug + The Blues = All-Day Sleeping

Laura: How are you?

Me: Oh, you know. I made myself take a shower today.

Laura: Good for you!

Everyone has this stomach thing, and it really blows. It's so bad, that people are calling me to do things later in the week, and I'm all, "Jeez, I don't know. I can't imagine ever being well again, so I'm guessing we should just pencil that in."

I slept for most of the day today, something I haven't done in quite awhile. It was pretty fantastic, except for the part where I'll probably be up all night now. Urg.

I TAKE IT ALL BACK.

Several Things

1) I have the stomach flu.
2) I thought it was just my inability to comprehend anything Terry Francona does, but no, I'm actually vomiting and not just nauseated with disbelief.
3) WTF, is it 2003?

The end.

I Am Domestic

Matthew: What are you doing?

Me: Reading the directions.

Matthew: It's soup.

Me: I know that.

Matthew: You put in a can of soup and a can of water.

Me: OK, fine, fancy. You can tell me when it's done.

Diets I Will Not Be Doing

So, have you heard of this Master Cleanse shiz? The "shiz" is literal, turns out, cuz if you do the Cleanse, your day starts out by drinking enough salt water to make poop come shooting out yer heinie like a geiser.

OK, maybe that's an exaggeration. Howsomever, you do a salt water "flush" thingie as part of this diet, and that just seems like a terrible idea to me. I mean, don't they tell sailors who are lost at sea to drink their own pee before they drink salt water? Would they do that just to be mean? I don't think so. Drinking salt water is bad for you, y'all.

I'm a bit chunky-trunks right now, but I'm thinking about just eating some fruit or something. And then, maybe I'll get crazy and go for a walk.

Update on the Subway

My week began on Tuesday with vomiting.

Not mine, I'm pleased to report. Someone else's. I got out of the subway and there she was, Ms. Honorary Monday Hangover Right-Now, puking elaborately into a trashcan just outside the 14th street F.

Now, if she'd looked distressed, I might've stopped and lent a hand. I don't, as my English friend Luke would say, mind doing a bit. Howsomever, this young lady was grinning maniacally whilst puking, which to me says crazy. If you're smiling and puking , you better be on peyote. And even then, I'm not a-gonna stick around to talk to you.

The rest of the week was less eventful, but a definite step up.

The Wrong Signals

Tonight, Coworker Dennis and I went out to a gay bar to be gay. At one point, I left him to guard our vodka-and-cranberries, and went out to take a phone call. On the smoking patio, I met the one straight dude in the place. Also? He was homeless. Also? He introduced himself to me by trying to kiss my neck.

Dubya. Tee. Eff. I could so clean up with the mentally unstable.

I Love Winning

Me: My uterus hurts.

Matthew: My face hurts.

Me: Is your face shedding giant chunks of coagulated blood?

Matthew: You win!

Why You Are Jealous of Me

I have new fall clothes. In the past few weeks, I have purchased:

1) One new pair of black boots with ridiculously high heels. Matthew, avowed feminist that he is, is confused by them. (Attracted. Repelled. Attracted. Repelled.)
2) One pair of brown slip-on Chuck Taylors.
3) One pair of the new wide pants. They make me look like a very small hobo. I may get a bindle and stick to go with them.
4) One pair of the old skinny jeans.
5) One pair of the ol' stand-by, brown corderoys.
6) Shirts, various, all black.
7) The entire stock of Kiehls.com. (It's going to be dry soon.)

Meanwhile, if anyone has any leads on a pick-up clothes donation service in Brooklyn, I would be so grateful. I have all these old pants lying around. Funny.

Coworker Dennis Puts It Succinctly

Me: So, how do we feel about the fact that a boy I went on one date with just wrote to me on MySpace to ask me to go to the Netherlands with him over Thanksgiving?

Coworker Dennis: Um.

Me: Yeah. Keep in mind that this one date? Was six months ago.

Coworker Dennis: 'No, I don't want to go to the Netherlands with you. I don't even want to go to another bar with you.'

The Plague

Everyone in my office is coughing.

Could be allergies. Could be a cold. All I know is that I spend half my day applying Hand Sanitizer to every visible surface and every exposed body part and the other half trying out the shivers to see if they catch and morph into a full-fledged cold.

The trouble with being a hypochondriac is that it makes you a giant jerk. Like, someone coughs and I think, "Oh my God. STOP. STOP. You MUST STOP ARRRRGGGHHH..." instead of, I don't know, getting them a tissue or whatever.

I've decided that the best thing to do is take a bunch of Benadryl and sleep until either allergy season ends or the plague moves on to the next village. Even though, as I explained to my pals at lunch today:

"Benadryl often makes me, you know..." I waved my hands in the air, to indicate jitters.

Everyone stared at me.

"Yes," I said. "It gives me jazz hands."

Mystery for the Ages

Why do all hairdressers want to cut your hair short?

I went to get my hairs trimmed on Thursday, and my lady sat me in a chair and fanned my hair out around my shoulders and then looked, sourfaced, into the mirror.

"Are you still trying to grow it?"

"Not exactly," I said. "I just want to keep it about the same length."

She blew her own bangs up. "I liked it short."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well," I said. "I like it long and so does my fella. So - no offense - I think you lose."

It's a good point, right? Anyway, my hair's still long.

Fashion Week Is Here Again

Once again, I am blogging my little heart out for Fashion Week. I am very tired. Here's how tired: Earlier today, I called Max Azria "Hank Azaria." Fortunately, not to his face. Get serious. I'm in Standing Room.

Anyway, here's the link for your enjoyment and mockery.

Two Conversations: Mostly-Shirt-Free Lady on the Train

Me: Oh my God.

Matthew: I know.

Me: Look at them.

Matthew: I am. OK, don't look at them.

Me: Sorry. They're just mesmerizing.

Matthew: Uh huh.

Me: Maybe we could draw little eyes on them.

Matthew: [Looking at me in alarm.]

Me: And stick a carrot between them!

Matthew: ...

Me: And then do you know what we'd have?

Matthew: ...no.

Me: SNOW BOOBS!

Matthew: You. Are. So. Weird.

Me: I know.

Matthew: WEIRD.

I mean, come on.

Two Conversations: The Wiley Ways of the TV Equipments

Me: How did you do that?

Matthew: Do what?

Me: Turn off the TV like that.

Matthew: I ... used the remote?

Me: But that's the wrong remote! That's the cable remote. You have to use the TV remote.

Matthew: It's a universal remote.

Me: No!

Matthew: Um.

Me: It's a miracle!

Matthew: [Crickets.]

BTW? I have had this set-up for over a year.

Actual Phone Message Left for Laura Just Now

"What is up, G. Money? It's ... me. It's, um, 6:40 and I'm calling you. I am primarily eating cookies and menstruating. Also watching Psychic Detectives. So ... if you call me, I'll most likely be here. OK ... bye!"

Maternal Instinct

I nearly struck a small child this afternoon on the train, because he was poking me repeatedly with an umbrella. Possibly the only thing that stopped me was the memory, trapped, no doubt, at the cellular level, of the look of horror on my sister's face some years ago when I recommended that a screaming child on the Acela be euthanized.

"It's very clearly broken," I explained. "Maybe we could get its people a lovely shar-pei."

Today's child wasn't a babe in arms, which makes his behavior much less excusable. In fact, he was old enough to walk, although not old enough to protest when his parents dressed him in a teeny set of overalls and weirdly girlie pink rainboots. So I'm guessing about four or five. He poked me in the side with his small-person-sized umbrella, and then - this was the worst part - he smiled.

"Oh, you think that's funny, do you?" I said.

He giggled. Poke, poke, poke.

"A little lower," I said. "See if you can get the kneecap."

His Dad, who seemed to only speak Mandarin, took no notice. The ladies across the train, however, thought the whole thing was hilarious. Which brings me to my next two points:

1) I have the least scary face in the world, even when I'm annoyed.
2) Kids, dogs and cats will insist on sitting on me, even though - maybe because - I'm slightly allergic to all of them.

In anticipation of your protests: There are many pets and people of small size near and dear to my heart. I love my sister's dog, and both of my cousin Shannie's little girls. But these are blood relatives (yes, even the dog) and therefore much easier to understand.

Formal Apologies

Of course I owe you, dear readers, an apology. It's been a bad few weeks for posting. I would like to tell you that I have an excuse, but I think we all know that I am just lazy. However, if it makes you feel any better, you are not the only ones deserving of an amends from me at the moment.

Due to an uncharacteristic bout of public canoodling, I have most likely offended a large portion of New York City in recent days. (Note: This includes only Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. If you're in the Bronx and Staten Island, you're probably safe. For now.)

Anyway, more posting soon. I have stories, I swear.

More Soon

But for now:

Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Artichoke Preparedness and You

My hummus wrap this afternoon had artichokes in it. Now, understand, I'm not against artichokes, but I do feel that one should be prepared for them. There is nothing worse than encountering an artichoke that you're not ready for.

With this in mind, I would like to offer, from the depths of my neuroses, several things that YOU can do TODAY to PREPARE FOR ARTICHOKE ENCOUNTERS:

1) Consider the nature of your meal. I am omnivorous, and proudly so, which means that my eating habits intersect with a number of different culinary lifestyles. I might, for example, have meatloaf. Or I might have the hummus wrap. The hummus is where I get into trouble. If vegans might eat it, you must BEWARE OF ARTICHOKES.

2) Examine the headgear of the person serving you. Is it properly intended as a hat? Or was it, at one time, a wrap, t-shirt or sock? If one of the latter is true, you should BEWARE OF ARTICHOKES.

3) If you encounter an artichoke, do not panic. Remind yourself that vegetables in all forms are our friends, here to sustain us until we can get to the next steak house. Many vitamins come from our vegetable friends. I haven't done anything approaching research on this, since otherwise I wouldn't qualify as a blogger, but I'm pretty sure artichokes have some sort of nutritional benefit. However, they are slimy, so you should still BEWARE OF THEM.

Admittedly lovely artichoke photo courtesy of Spychic on Flickr. Some rights reserved, etc.

Goodbye to Vegas

I read about it days ago, but only just saw it myself this evening: Vegas, a reliable dive on Smith Street, has closed in favor of a Lucky Jeans store (no link given, cuz give me a break).

"Right where that zebra-striped sweatshirt is hanging? That's where I first kissed my first New York boyfriend," I told Stacey.

"It sucks," she said. And started walking away. Moment passed.

It seems weird to think I've been here so long that a landmark could have disappeared. Then again, it doesn't take very long for that to happen in New York.

My friend Matthew is new to the city. Four months - not just off the bus, but close enough. Everywhere we go, I think, remember. I don't say it, because I don't want to be a dick.

I'm just getting my "new" apartment together. After a year. On Thursday, Matthew made dinner and we ate by candlelight, toasting over pork loin and couscous and other things that just don't exist in my fridge most of the time. If it weren't for the triangles of toilet paper standing in as napkins, you'd think I had my shit together.

Remember, remember, I want to say to him. You're having another youth. The New York you see when you first arrive is the city of your heart. It shines in memory like your childhood backyard.

Tonight, at Boat, down the street from the former Vegas, a man wearing a chain around his neck tries for my phone number. He lives in Hoboken, which is not a crime, as far as I know, but indicates, perhaps, a different view of the city.

It occurs to me that I don't want him to touch me. Not just because he's unsuitable, although he is. But because Matthew has said to me, "I see from your MySpace that you're in favor of the Oxford comma." And pauses. "So am I."

Outside, my friends say, "That guy at the bar is cute." And I agree, because he is. And feel nothing about it.

As the man with the chain around his neck leans in to try to kiss me, and I don't exactly rebuff him. But I can't quite go through with it. Kissing him is like getting my teeth cleaned, I realize. Something foreign in my mouth.

"I have to go home," I tell him.

He follows me for three blocks, trying to get me to let him come home with me, trying to get an explanation for the earliness of my leaving. At some point, maybe, we walk past the former Vegas, but I don't see it. I'm intent on my mission, which is getting the fuck out.

If he were a different sort of guy, he might ask me what the problem was, and then I could say to him, "Everything in this city has changed but me." And then I could explain to him that this is why I came here in the first place, to be the stable center of something wonderful.

Instead of explaining, I bid him goodbye and head toward the train. Matthew, I think. After a moment, I realize I'm not all that sorry that I never got to take him to Vegas.

Oh, Clerks of Duane Reade

Because I am a bad person, very few things amuse me more than making men uncomfortable when I have my period. A few moments ago, at Duane Reade, I got to do just that to a clerk who clearly has no women in his life whatsoever.

Granted, I was in line holding the following items:

1) Kotex
2) Tampons
3) Midol

Anyone might be afraid. This guy, though, turned beat red and said, "Uh, sorry, do you want to go in her line?" And pointed to the female cashier next to him.

"No, that's OK," I said. "I've been doing this for awhile. I'm fine."

"OK," he ran the items through quickly and then leaned forward a little and asked, in a low voice, "Do you want me to double-bag them?"

"Oh, God, yes," I said, trying to sound full of shame. "I don't want anyone to know."

Which is a lie, of course. Because I want EVERYONE to know.

And Now We Make Things Nice and Neat

A lifetime ago, I lived just outside Boston in an old triple-decker with new paint and a tidy little yard. The landlord and lady were Irish, and I highly suspect I got the place because of my red hair and freckles.

Once a month, Siobhan would take out a bucket and a ton of bleach and clean everything to a cinder.

"Cheers, Jennifer," she'd say. "I've got the PMS. If it isn't moving, it's going to get bleached."

At which point, I would head for the back deck where it was safe. I have sensitive skin, you know.

Anyway, I've done so much cleaning in the past two days that I'm just not sure that I'll ever get the smell of bleach out of my nostrils. Yesterday, I went over to the house of Funke and cleaned the shit out of her apartment. I started with the bathroom, which might not have been cleaned since she and her roomies arrived in December.

Halfway through, dripping with sweat and standing on a folding chair, the better to reach the top of the shower stall with my sponge, I felt someone watching me and realized that Sue's roommate Tom was staring at me. Important info: Tom probably has Asperger's Syndrome and is one of the more hilarious people I've ever met in my life. For example, he once claimed that he was going to make himself a business card that said: T.J. McG-----, Escaped Rapist. And pass it out to girls in bars.

Today, however, he contented himself with reaching over and turning on the shower while I was cleaning. Just a little.

I cleaned for about two or three hours and then came home and collapsed. Today, I got home from work and realized that my own place was a pit. The cobbler's wife goes barefoot, etc. Anyway, supposedly a boy is cooking me dinner on Thursday - I know! - so I thought I better make the place presentable.

Also, um, I was afraid my bathtub might be breeding clones, and I really do not want to wake up some morning to find a differently abled, one-eyed version of me sitting at my breakfast bar, drinking coffee and saying, "Steve! I wan' pizza. I wan' pizza, Steve."

FYI, I've never even seen that movie. My sister has, though. And we like to quote it to my brother-in-law, who is named Steve.

I am so high on bleach fumes right now. Send help.

Back in the Day, It Just Went Without Saying at All

Sometimes, New York knows I'm falling out of love, and then she pulls out all the stops.

Tonight, I went to a show, which I never do, and then I went out for drinks, which I do too often. A boy talked to me. He was much too young. I made him play a game. It's called, Guess My Age? I do this with every boy who admits to being in his early 20s.

"27!" he said.

"31."

Now, you can say - and you wouldn't be wrong - that it would behoove him to guess low. The point is, I could clean up if I wanted younguns. I am so not sure why that is, and don't care to speculate, as it's honestly somewhat disturbing.

At 4 a.m. plus, I got off the train to an empty neighborhood. I passed the lone guy outside the bodega, and walked toward Methodist and home, listening to the Dresden Dolls as I often do. My favorite song right now is "Sing," and because we're unofficially sponsoring way post-teen angst tonight, I'll give you a lyric or two:

There is this thing that's like fucking except you don't fuck
Back in the day it just went without saying at all
All the world's history gradually dying of shock
There is this thing it's like talking except you don't talk
You sing
You sing

All of a sudden, the street opened up for me. There were no cars moving through the lights. No one lingered on the corners. I passed Methodist, and saw a long tiled ramp through the doors, leading to chemical smells and sadness and efficiency. There was no one around at all. It felt like being the last living person, or maybe the first.

Sing for the bartender sing for the janitor sing
Sing for the cameras sing for the animals sing
Sing for the children shooting the children sing
Sing for the teachers who told you that you couldn't sing
Just sing

And then thing is, and this is good to know for background, things have lately been slow and blue. The kind of thing where you're disgusted with yourself for ignoring your blessings, but still can't get out of bed on time.

There is thing keeping everyone's lungs and lips locked
It is called fear and it's seeing a great renaissance
After the show you can not sing wherever you want
But for now let's just pretend we're all gonna get bombed
So sing

I thought about the signs I'd seen: Jewish Children's Museum. So-and-so is the Superintendent of this Station. I thought about how there are flowers here, even at four in the morning, spilling out of their containers in front of the bodegas, and how it feels like cheating to see the Purity Diner closed, with chairs upended on tables.

Sing cause its obvious sing for the astronauts sing
Sing for the president sing for the terrorists sing
Sing for the soccer team sing for the janjaweed sing
Sing for the kid with the phone who refuses to sing
Just sing

When I turned down my music, I could hear birds, but also a guy talking to his friend in a parked car. And up ahead, I saw a women walking in a brightly colored quilt, not fast, and realized of course that I'd never been alone all this time.

When I caught up with her, she said, "Excuse me. Do you have a cigarette. I ain't a mugger. I just got out the hospital." She held out her sad thin wrist with the bracelet.

"I know you're not," I said. "Here. You OK?"

"I'm just going home," she said. The quilt looked handmade and was very clean. She looked off her meds, but nice enough.

She went down the slope and I went across it, toward home.

Thanks, But I'll Just Keep Ruining My Underwear

This grosses me out more than I can say.

I love having my period. I love overeating and I love lying around and I love the excuse to use a heating pad. Most of all, though, I love complaining. And I love that no one can tell me not to complain, because they're all too terrified that I'll fly into some hormonally induced homicidal rage.

Oh, but Jennie, you say. If you love your period so much, whatever will you do when you reach menopause?

I'll throw a party and buy all new underpants. Because then it will be time for not having my period, y'see. It will be not-having-my-period time. Unlike now.

In the meantime, however, I'd appreciate it if science would leave me and Aunt Flo alone.

Via Jezebel, which you need to start reading immediately.

I've Been Coasting on This for Years

Coworker Dennis: i hate christopher hitchens
Jennie Smash: me too
Jennie Smash: but why do you hate him today?
Jennie Smash: because he's a self-hating homo?
Jennie Smash: because he gives drunks a bad name?
Jennie Smash: there are so many reasons
Coworker Dennis: because Slate is willing to publish an article all about why he doesn't like someone
Jennie Smash: ok, looking at this
Coworker Dennis: if i wrote an article about how i don't like my old boss, would someone publish it? prob not
Jennie Smash: i would, dennis
Jennie Smash: if it were up to me
Jennie Smash: i would publish ANYTHING you had to say
Coworker Dennis: haha, flattery will get you sexywhere!

Here Are Some Things That I'm Tired of:

1) Humidity.
2) Complaining (about humidity and in general.)
3) Having a million pens, but none with sufficient ink/cared for tips.
4) My soft suburban feet and their tendency to blister in anything other than sneakers or flip-flops.
5) Those little zits that form just at the edge of your lipline. Is there no gloss that will leave my pores clean and comedone-free?
6) Boys. (Come on. That's a gimme.)
7) Stories about boys, even my own, unless those boys are pirates or zombies or spacemen, and unless the story ends with all of us standing off against the pirate/zombie/space boys and eventually defeating them, but more importantly learning something about ourselves in the process.
8) The horrible hacking cough that is taking over my office, and its implications for my future respiratory health and mental stability.
9) Hypochondria. (See above.)
10) History Channel shows featuring Hittites. Seriously, fuck Hittites.

I'm Sorry. Our Time Is Up.

Dr. Headbone: So what are you doing this weekend?

Me: Oh, I dunno. I might go to Coney Island.

Dr. Headbone: Lovely. I hope you have fun.

Me: Where did the summer go?

Dr. Headbone: It's still summer.

You have to watch everything you say to therapists. Everything!

Maybe I Have Been Eating Just a Touch More...

I was just at the bodega across the street, buying some junkfood and I swear the woman behind the counter was judging me.

With Friends Like Me...

I like to help. Part of my life philosophy is that if you can help, you sorta should. So when my friends needed a place to stay for a few weeks, and I was gonna be out of the country anyway, I figured they should just crash at my place. That way, I wouldn't have to worry about my apartment standing empty and they wouldn't have to worry about some hobo stealing their things while they slept.

Anyway. Trouble is, I'm totally crazy, and come from a long line of folks who don't do at all well with sharing their space. The Hubleys do not entertain at home, because we are so OCD about things like guests wearing shoes and putting their bags on the kitchen counter. It makes us sniffy and passive-aggressive and prone to saying things like, "I don't mean to be, you know, but could you take your filthy germ-ridden handbag off my nice clean counter?" Oh, we're fun at parties I tell you.

The best part is, I'm not even tidy. So unlike my Mom, who legitimately keeps a spotless home, I can't even claim to maintaining any kind of standard. I'm just weird.

I tamped all this down, though, because the medication is working, and extended the invite. And I largely didn't think about it -- until the cab ride home from the airport.

On the cab ride home, I decided that my friends had probably burned both my apartment and the rest of the brownstone to the ground. They had obviously had orgies in my bed, involving St. Bernards and mustard, while wearing galoshes and smearing their underpants on the walls. In fact, I was sure, they were probably still there.

I seemed to recall that it's pretty hard to evict someone from an apartment in Brooklyn. This is because we are communists.

By the time the cab hit my neighborhood, I was quivering all over with rage at my imagined scenario. How dare they! They would just have to pack up and squat somewhere else! And they could damn well take the dog with them.

When I got home, of course, my apartment was absolutely spotless. In addition, there was food in the fridge, flowers in a vase on the table, and a fresh bottle of wine next to a lovely note thanking me for my hospitality. (There was no toilet paper when they arrived, I'm pretty sure. Maybe that passes for hospitality now, I don't know. What I do know is that my friends are much nicer people than me.)

In addition, when I logged onto my computer, I found a rather astonishing amount of pornography in my browser history. And not a single St. Bernard in sight! So as you can see, I'm inviting these friends to come stay with me any time they like.

Back

I have returned and I have a tan. True story! OK, so it mostly just looks like my freckles have grown together, but I'm still enjoying it. I also managed to avoid burning, except for a bit of pink on my stomach, but that's because it hadn't seen daylight since I collected unicorn stickers and wore a single ponytail above my right ear. (Last year, in other words.)

Tons of stuff to tell you, but in short, I think we should all move to Italy immediately. It's ridiculously beautiful in a way that I assumed had been added to films about Italy in post-production. But no: It's real.

Also, you should know that I returned to my home with a suitcase full of wine. Raise your hand if you think I have a problem.

Italy!

Hi, you have reached the blog of Jen Hubley. I can't get to the keyboard right now, because I am reclining by a pool in Tuscany. Leave a message and I'll get back to you. Provided I ever return to the States.

So! Birthday

It took me three days to feel human again after my birthday, which is, of course, a sign that things went well.

At least 30 people showed up. I think. At one point, I decided that everyone in the bar had obviously come for my birthday and my birthday only, and inflated the number whenever anyone asked.

Guest: Wow, what a turn out! How many people came?

Me: At least 50.

(An hour later.)

Different Guest: Man, a lotta people here. How many, d'you think?

Me: AT LEAST 200. TWO-HUNDRED, DO YOU HEAR? FOR I AM POPULAR, AND BELOVED.

The best part about your birthday is, you get to be obnoxious. For example, my friend JoJo was ahead of me in line for the ladies room. Just as she went in, her friend Dan swooped up and went in with her. Later I discovered that he had been doing that all night, and peeing in the sink, which is nasty. At the time, though, all I knew was that my peeing was going to be delayed.

So, what did I do? I banged on the door as loudly at possible, up high, so as to mimic a bouncer type. And then, when Dan opened the door, I grabbed him by his collar and threw him into the hall.

"That's the ladies room," I said. "Are you a lady?"

"That is so uncool!" Dan said. "You just lost so many coolness points!"

"Are you the arbiter of that?"

"I hope you never get laid again!" And then he stomped off in a huff.

I got to pee, though. And the other ladies on line became my new best friends!

One Photo From the B-Day

I'll have stories in a bit, but here's a photo of me pretending to know the tango:

Beat You to the Chase!

Hey pals: I've got a short short short thingie in SMITH Magazine this morn. Please to read.

BTW, I'm not sure why I thought it was OK to write "cut to the punch," but I haven't been thinking clearly due to, uh, working really hard. And my birthday! And yesterday my tummy hurt! I have a million excuses! Pick your favorite!

Sopranos and the Whatnot

I'll tell you, I don't care if the crazy theories are right, the last eppie of the Sopranos both sucked and blew. David Chase clearly hates all of us and would kill our puppies if he could.

Who Doesn't Love a Good Story About the Gym?

I am paralyzed. I am thisclose to typing this entry with a pen held in my teeth, because my arms are so sore. Today, I allowed some freakish person who probably wore spandex in his crib to yell at me like a drill sargent while I tried to convince my jello legs to rotate some pedals.

It is clear that I am not cut out for physical fitness.

However, summer is here and your pal has not been so diligent about the exercises, so I'm trying to play catch up. This, of course, never works. However, it will not stop me, because I am a good American, and I believe that I can always turn any problem around, given enough money.

A Good Question

Me: Do you think I'm going bald?

Mrs. Piddlington: How do you get anything done, when you're so crazy?

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

No, not City Stank, although that started up today, as well. (Park Slope smelled like dog shit this morning when I woke up at 6 to go to the gym. And it wasn't even hot out yet.)

No, my pals, it's my birthday. One week from tomorrow, your host will be 31 years old. I find this very hard to believe. I don't feel 31 in the least. I think it's because I've dated so many younger men. They're keeping me youthful! And immature!


Anyway, because I'm trying to be a better blogger, updating more frequently and all that, I'm enclosing the invite I sent out to about 40 of my closest friends. It's a cheap update, I know, but hey. (Also, because strange boys sometimes mail me pictures of their penises, I'm leaving out the precise location. Write me if you know me and didn't get it, and I will provide you with the exact location.)


Ahem:

It is time, once again, to gather at a local bar and help me drink myself stupid as I celebrate the passing of another year. That's right: It's MY BIRTHDAY.

Some of you might know that I love MY BIRTHDAY more than any other human on the planet. I love it because I am entirely self-obsessed, and because I love presents and cake and talking about myself, and because on MY BIRTHDAY you have to let me enjoy all these things. Ha ha ha!

MY BIRTHDAY will not be at the Magician this year, because that sucked, but it will be on the Lower East Side, because I'm very busy at work and have no creativity to spare for party planning. Therefore, please join me at the following time and location:

WHERE: XXXXXXX

WHEN: Saturday, June 9. I will be there at 9 PM. I will be drunk when you show up at 11.

WHY: Because it's MY BIRTHDAY.

WHO: Everyone. (A short FAQ follows this message.)

Hope to see you all there!

XO,

Hubs

FAQ:

Q. My significant other is not on this list. Why is that?

A. I am sleeping with your significant other. However, I like you more, so I'm inviting you instead. Oh, what the heck: Bring 'em along. MY BIRTHDAY comes but once a year.

Q. I know someone who isn't on this list, but I think you meant to invite him/her. Should I ask you about it?

A. No. You should just invite this person. I probably meant to leave him/her off the invite list, but won't that be funny?

Q. I live in a different city. Do I still have to go?

A. Don't you have a life to live after? Just send cash. (However, if you're in town, you can stay at the Mouse's house. I'm sure he won't mind.)

Q. I have a funny joke. Should I reply-all to this email?

A. No, you should not. The exposed email is just to let everyone know that I have a lot of friends.

Q. Do you like your birthday?

A. OH MY GOD, I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY. However did you guess?

Lucky

I found 20 dollars in a hidden fold of my wallety-thing yesterday, just before payday and just when I needed it most.

This isn't so very strange, because my wallety-thing is an old MAC pouch that used to contain lipgloss, and now contains: my cash, my bank card, my credit card, my healthcare card, 47 tattered bank receipts, various notes to myself and a mysterious piece of white lint.

Still, it doesn't take much to make me happy. When I found the twenty, I held it up to the people I was sitting with at the sidewalk cafe and said, "Twenty dollars! I feel like I won the lottery!"

Everyone just sort of shook their heads.

A Variety of Things

I would like to give you all an update, but I have very little to say. Or rather, I have a great deal to say, but none of it hangs together in any sort of a narrative way. This is why we have bullets. Say! Let's have some bullets:

• I am not the only one who is in love with House.
  
• I spent much of this evening either working or watching a show about the mythology of Star Wars. This means that I am officially a nerd.
  
• I require a haircut. I have required a haircut for so long now that I am beyond Crazy Homeless Lady Hair and well into Crazy Substitute Art Teacher Hair. Basically, I can either get a haircut or I can buy a lot of fimo jewelry.
  

Also, it was nice out today. I'm still sweating, though. This weekend, I had this conversation twelve times:

Me: Don't hug me. I'm super sweaty.
Person Who Isn't Me: Oh come here, you!
Me: I'm dead fuckin' serious, dude...
Person Who Isn't Me, and Me: (In unison.) Gaaaah!
Me: I told you!

Save Toby

I was at a party on Sunday night, when a particularly evil friend of mine told me about Save Toby, which I now believe to be the Best Website of All Time.

It's offline for various reasons, but you can still view it at the Internet Wayback Machine, and OMG, I need this person to be my friend.

A random quote, to help you understand the mission and thus, the awesomeness of this site:

"Toby is the cutest little bunny on the planet ... Unfortunately, on June 30th, 2005, Toby will die. I am going to eat him. I am going to take Toby to a butcher to have him slaughter this cute bunny. I will then prepare a midsummer feast ... I don't want to eat Toby, he is my friend, and he has always been the most loving, adorable pet. However, God as my witness, I will devour this little guy unless I receive 50,000$ USD into my account from donations or purchase of merchandise."

Really: You have to read the rest.

Note From Tom

I got an email this evening from my friend Tom. I'll share, because it's possible that you haven't had a good Rushmore reference recently:

Dear Max,
I am sorry to say that I have secretly found out that Mr. Blume is having an affair with Miss Cross. My first suspicions came when I saw them Frenching in front of our house. And then I knew for sure when they went skinny dipping in Mr. Blume's swimming pool, giving each other handjobs while you were taking a nap on the front porch.

PS: This is extra fun if you know about Tom's tendency to ask people who barely know each other if they've given each other handjobs.

With Much Love to the LOLCats

Happy long weekend, everybody!

Twue Wuv

My friend the Reverend and I hunkered down over beers this evening, as you do, and discussed true love. It is the Rev's feeling that one is not in love until one is loved back.

"Mutual trust," said the Rev. "Otherwise, is it even real?"

Now before you get all crazy, let me tell you: One of the two of us believes in Miracle Zombie Jesus, and it ain't the Rev. Of the two of us, I am way more Cosmica Rama Ding-dong. However:

"It seems to me that a person shouldn't lose credit, just because their feelings aren't reciprocated."

The Rev took a good swig of his beer. "Well, who said there was credit?"

I think we can agree that I need stupider and less spiritual friends.

Fair Warning

So, here's a thing about me: If you're my friend, at some point, you will receive a text from me that says, "You like big balls." This is regardless of gender or sexual preference. It's to keep me entertained, and I think we can all agree that that's safer.

Anyway: This weekend, my pal Cedric got his MBA, and the Mouse and I journeyed north to Lincoln Center for the ceremony. We stayed sober throughout and were rather quiet, but it was a long ceremony, and well, one gets bored.

About an hour in, I started texting the Mouse.

Me: You like big balls.

Mouse: Your mama likes big balls.

Pause.

Me: Your balls like big mamas.

Mouse: You are a bad person.

Return of the Mouse

The Mouse has a lady, so he's much better behaved these days. Still, you can't treat a drunken mouse sober tricks, or something, so it wasn't really a total surprise when we found ourselves out late on a school night, lurching toward a diner and singing while the Mouse kicked over trashcans.

"Hey," I said, after the fifth can or so. "Hey." I was having trouble focusing on the Mouse, who was cloning himself into many mice before my eyes, so I looked at the end of my finger instead. "You can' do that, y'know."

"Can too. Lookit." CRASH!

"Nuh, nuh, nuh, cuz listen. SHHHH. There are babies on this street."

"Oh!" He looked momentarily concerned.

"Yup."

"Babies! Shhh. Kay."

When we got to the next trashcan? He laid it gently on its side.

Tales From the Party

A boy bit my arm Saturday night. He staggered over to me at a party, slumped down in a chair, leaned over and bit my bare arm. And then he chewed it for a minute.

"Well, hello," I said. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he slurred, wiping off my arm. "I'm so drunk."

Rather obviously, wouldn't you agree? Still and all, I suppose I should try to take it as a compliment. Weight loss efforts have stalled at their usual point, rendering me able to fit into my pants but still sort of, uh, upholstered looking.

I'm thinking this is just my look. Cab drivers seem to like it. At least two of them in recent memory have thoughtfully pinched my thigh, as though testing a fruit. The last one pinched my thigh, and then announced, somewhat hilariously, "I am Egypt." Maybe that was the explanation? I don't know.

On the other hand, there have been some nice things lately. I'm reading a wonderful book by E.B. White, Here is New York. And here is a wonderful quote from the wonderful book:

On any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will bestow the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy ... No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.

Right?

Even better, the gentleman who lent me the book said, while recommending it over the phone, "I was just going to open it, and the spine started to make that great cracking sound, so I didn't. You can crack it."

I love flowers, but an untouched E.B. White book about New York is definitely the way to my heart.

Isn't It Obvious?

Me to boy: Wait, I just realized something: You, like, hate women, don't you?

Boy to me: Of course. Don't you hate men?

Me to boy: No, see, the trouble is I looove them.

Jen Louise Veronica Hubley

This Friday, I went to a bar. Just, you know, for a change.

The bar was filled with jerkfaced jerks from over various bridges and through sundry tunnels, but the beer was good, and my friend who got there early scouted a mostly douche-free corner for us.

Unfortunately, one of the douches came in with us. You know, like those horror movies where the killer is in the house.

Here's what happened:

I sat down at the table, greeted everyone I knew and then introduced myself to the only person I didn't know, a guy we'll call Dick. Dick was very friendly at first, which is always lovely, although he did have a small staring problem, which is less so.

After a few beverages, we all started telling stories, as you do, mostly about men and women, because only one of us at the table was gay. (Out-of-towners: This is somewhat rare in New York.) At this point, Dick informed us that he sometimes uses prostitutes, which I thought was fascinating. I don't know anybody else who will admit to using prostitutes, and I was very curious to hear about the process of acquiring the services of such a person, and how this was arranged, and was it weird, and so on. I also wanted to know, of course, why such a thing was necessary or desirable.

"The thing is," Dick said. "I'm very shy. So it's hard for me to make the first move with girls."

"Unless you're paying them."

"Exactly."

I thought about this for a moment: "Well, you're talking to a bunch of strangers right now, and you seem fine. Is it just that you've been drinking, or what? What's the difference?"

"The difference is," he said, leaning over the table. "You're a little sexpot."

"Oh. Uh."

"I was just telling them all-" (sweeping gesture with the glass of beer) "-that you're really kind of sexy. A sexpot. Like this girl I knew in college."

"Yeah. Ha ha. Everybody knows someone who looks like me. Girl in college. Neighbor. Redheaded best friend on a sitcom-"

At this point, I was frankly babbling. It's supposed to be nice to be sex-ay, but I was mainly concerned that I'd wind up in pieces in the Dumpster out back. When I recovered sufficiently, I managed to ask him if he'd heard about the Madonna-Whore Complex.

"Oh, yeah!" he said. "Exactly!"

"So in this scenario, I am...?"

"The whore!" he said triumphantly.

And frankly, I felt bad for him. "Dick," I said, as gently as possible. "You will find that very few women will sleep with you if you call them whores. And if they do ... well, they'll probably take your wallet."

Geminis: Not Known for Patience

It's not that I believe in astrology. It's just that I can't really plan my month until my horoscope goes up.

Fortunately, I have friends who share my looney fascination:

Me: 'Scopes!

Donut: Where? I see nothing.

Me: I know. I'm complaining. No 'scopes! What am I to do?

(Five hours later.)

Donut: That lazy whore.

Me: I know. It's tragic.

(Three hours later.)

Me: Susan Miller and I are breaking up.

Donut: BITCH BETTER POST SOON.

I'm glad I'm not a public person.

"Dick Will Make You Slap Somebody"

You're welcome.

Pale, Rested and Ready

I'm back from the wilds of San Francisco, where fleece is formal wear and it's perfectly OK - nay, encouraged! - to look strangers in the eye and say hello when you run into them in the street.

As is usually the case when I return from an extended trip anywhere, I am:

1) Suffering from insomnia. Check that timestamp!
2) Deluged with work.
3) Mysteriously on the rocks with the guy I'd been seeing before I left.

As for the last item, well, here's the best way to sum it up. Yesterday, when things became apparent that things were in the ol' shitter, I had the following conversation with a friend on IM.

Me: Will you come visit me when I'm in the convent?

Him: I will if there's booze!

Me: It'll be an Irish convent. There will be booze.

Him: OK, then. What's going on?

Me: Oh, my God. It's so boring. It's so boring I can't even go into it. I'm bored just thinking about it.

Him: I love boring!

Me: Boy stuff. The usual: "I love you, I love you, I love you ... I will get a restraining order."

Him: What happened?

Me: I dunno. Maybe I shouldn't have called him "daddy" and hit him with a roll of quarters. It's so hard to tell, though. I mean, how can any of us know what other people like?

Him: Hey, if he doesn't like that, he has larger problems than you can solve.

Me: Right?

Just Another Day in the Hubley Vacation

So here I am in sunny San Francisco, where it is not raining at all, I'm sorry to have to tell you, pals of mine on the Right Coast. To make you even more jealous, I'm with my very weird family. Also, my sister's dog Luke, who is quite charming, but very odd, if you didn't grow up with dogs. Which I didn't.

Luke has absolutely no concept of himself as an entity. He can walk past his reflection without noticing it. He has no modesty: He spends a good part of his day cleaning his personal area. Mrs. P thinks this is hilarious, and is wont to point out to him that "shake it once fine. Shake it twice, OK. Shake it three times, Luke, and you're playing with yourself."

His favorite thing to do, though, is to lie on the sofa on his back, exposing his gentleman parts, and stare at you. And when I say "you," I really mean "me."

Me: Meg! Can you make your dog stop showing me his penis?

Mrs. P: (Shaking his legs from side to side, to improve my view of her dog's bits.) Woo hoo hoo! Look at my penis, Auntie Jennie!

Me: Ew!

Mrs. P: I want you to see! Take a look!

Me: Mom!

Ma Smash: Oh take a look, honey. It will make her feel better.

You Goonie!

One of the many hilarious things about Match.com is that it asks you to describe your tattoos, if any. I have one, on my lower back, which can safely be described as "strategically placed," so that's what I picked.

My friend Mark, on the other hand, has sleeves, so he had to pick "visible tattoo."

"The thing is," he complained. "ALL my tattoos are strategically placed. It's not like I went in to my tattoo artist and had him randomly throw some tattoos on me."

Mark's best tattoo, by far? A banner that says "Never Say Die" on his forearm. Sounds pretty badass, right? Yeah, it's from The Goonies.

You Goonie!

Billy Pilgrim Has Become Unstuck in Time

Rest in peace, Mr. Vonnegut.

Can't Help You Get Over

It's boring to write about being bummed out, so I usually don't. There was a time when if I had a cold, or felt blue, I'd write several posts on it. These days, I'm too busy, and also, significantly less interested in myself. But I'll mention this because I think it's worth mentioning.

The other day I woke up happy.

There's been a long bad stretch in Smashland. It started with my cousin and continued through the winter and a billion other things of significantly less importance. I began to worry, as you always do, that I would never come out of it.

The good thing about getting older is that you remember having gone through bad stretches before. You know what is required: More sleep, more exercise, more books. A little bit of charity toward yourself. A lot of time. It feels like shit, but it goes away, eventually.

Then, a few weeks back, a friend of mine who was due to give birth, went early. Six weeks early. That's a real problem, not one you make up in your head, and it was sobering. All of sudden, there was something in the world that didn't relate to me directly, that I couldn't control, that was big and important and scary.

For a couple days, we were all in limbo. We waited for news. We heard about the birth, and my friend's trip to the ICU, and the french-fry lamps that warmed up her baby. Nothing to do but hunker down and wait, and know that nothing that's ever happened to you has ever been so important.

In a week or so, we got the email that he was all right: Eating and sleeping and gaining weight. He was out from under the lamps and his Mom was OK. I called everyone I know. I was elated, really up, for the first time in weeks.

Years ago, when I was in another Great Depression, I decided the only way to get out was to try to help my friends with whatever was going on in their lives. I brought coffee to a friend with back spasms. I made myself ask more questions than give answers to friends with personal drama. It was hard, but really good for me, like an exercise for the soul.

I'm at a point now where people's lives are dramatic enough on their own. I don't need to try to remember that their situation is more important than mine. That's good, I guess, as long as things keep working out.

At any rate: Welcome to planet Earth, little Leo. It's a beautiful place, full of weird and tricky things. You're gonna live here!

Your Hair Is So Round!

A couple months back, Mrs. Piddlington and Ma Smash came to visit me in New York. Because I am an excellent hostess, I took them to all the tourist spots. We went to the Empire State Building, the Algonquin for brunch and got our hair straightened in Chinatown. This last was the cheapest and definitely the most interesting.

I love getting my hair straightened. I have very, very, very curly hair. So curly that I can't brush it when it's dry, lest I bush out the curls. So curly that when I used to comb my hair, I used a pick, not a comb. Curly hair, my pals. When someone mentions how curly, I call them racist.

I have come to love my hair, after fighting against it for most of my life, but it's fun to have it all sleek and straight. It's like being in disguise. If you go to any salon on East Broadway in Chinatown, you can get a blow-out for ten bucks, and they massage your head like crazy into the bargain. They clean your ears. The first time I had this done, I was ashamed at how they dug in there, like there was definitely something wrong with my normal hygiene practices. Now I just lie back and let them at it.

Mom and Meg were amazed. At the price, at the lo-fi feel of the place (placards from the '80s, featuring girls with punk rock hair cuts and prices written on them in another language, piles of hair left to lie on the floor, and the staff doesn't speak English), at the way you can walk through a door in New York and be in another country. I picked up the tab and felt like a big spender for 30 bucks, and when we all walked out the door, we were movie stars with our freakishly straight hair blowing around us.

But! The best part was definitely when I was in the chair and the stylist's daughters descended. They were maybe six and eight, if I'm guessing, and dressed entirely in bubble-gum pink. The younger one was the talker, looked like a boy with her neat little soup-pan bob and upturned face, and wanted to talk to me about everything.

"You have a cut," she said, poking at a spot on my arm where I'd gotten grazed by my broken fridge door earlier in the day.

The stylist looked at me like, is this OK?

"I do," I said.

"I have a Band-Aid," she said, and reached into a tin in her Dad's station and produced one.

"Let me put that on," I said, too late. "OK, well, don't touch the cut, OK?"

She cocked her head. "Why not?"

"Other people's cuts are dirty."

"But mine aren't?"

"Not to you."

She stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth. "That doesn't make any sense. Hey! I have a Barbie!" She nudged her sister. "Show her my Barbie."

The sister, looking terrified, pulled a Barbie from behind her back. It was dressed in a bright green dress, very Christmasy, obviously homemade.

"We're going to change her outfit," she said. "Don't look!"

The stylist smiled at me and pulled out the flat-iron.

"Don't look!"

"I'm not," I said, and put my hand over my eyes.

"OK, now look."

The Barbie was now wearing another homemade outfit, this one blue and yellow.

"Pretty!"

"OK, we're going to change it again. Don't look!"

This went on for three or four more outfits. After awhile, she got bored, and climbed up on my lap.

"Oh, hi," I said.

She dug her hands into the side of my hair that wasn't straightened and fixed me with a very serious look, as though she was deciding whether or not to buy me. "Your hair is so round!" she said, pulling out a curl and letting it bounce back.

"It is."

"But it's so round! Is that your sister?"

Easy call: Mom and Meg and I were the only white ladies in the salon.

"She is."

"Her hair isn't round."

"No, it's not."

"Huh. Is that your mother?"

"It is."

"Her hair isn't round."

"Nope. I'm the only one with round hair."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I was born that way."

She nodded solemnly. She pointed at her sister, who now looked terrified completely. "Our hair is the same."

"Yes, it's very pretty."

She shook her head. "Your hair is very, very round."

What can you say? Mouths of babes, etc. It is round.

Coworker Dennis Has an Answer for Everything

JennieSmash: Meanwhile, since I've started working out again, I am gaining weight. I'm sure it's muscle, but it's annoying.

CoworkerDennis: You are just becoming She-Ra. It's a natural part of growing up.

JennieSmash: Ha ha ha.
JennieSmash: Oh, awesome.

CoworkerDennis: That's you on the right.

JennieSmash: Oh my God, there I am.
JennieSmash: With my FACE WINGS.

Last Name Freely, First Initials I.P.

Someone has seriously dropped most of my friends on their heads, because a significant portion of them claim to be engaged to people they've known for under six months. This is, as a saner pal of mine recently put it, "faster than movie stars" and just generally out of control.

It does however, give me a perfect opportunity to prank people.

TEXT FROM JEN HUBLEY, 4/1/2007, 2:35 PM:

Guess what?

TEXT FROM CATHY C-, 4/1/2007, 3:43 PM:

What?

TEXT FROM JEN HUBLEY, 4/1/2007, 3:45 PM:

I'm getting married!!!

TEXT FROM CATHY C-, 4/1/2007 3:46 PM:

WTF?

TEXT FROM JEN HUBLEY, 4/1/2007 3:50 PM:

APRIL FOOLS

TEXT FROM CATHY C-, 4/1/2007 3:53 PM:

ha ha ha

Help This

I went to Sephora at lunch today, to buy many things that I don't need. This often happens at the tail end of winter, when I'm feeling as pasty and vitamin deficient as I will all year. I wind up buying a hundred dollars worth of sugar scrubs and sparkle lotions, trying to wake up my face.

So OK. All well and good. Here's the real problem: The women at Sephora, the salespeople, will not leave you alone.

In my 20 minute trip through the store, no fewer than SIX different women asked me if I needed anything. One of them asked me three times. Through an effort of will, I managed to keep repeating, through gritted teeth, "I'm fine, thanks."

What I really wanted to say was: "Look, I'm trying to figure out if I need a $70 microdermabrasion kit. So can you just fuck off?"

Gawd.

OK, But OW

Because I know you live for updates on my menstrual cycle, I need to tell you that my boobs hurt right now, possibly more than boobs have ever hurt.

This is at least partially because I wore a low-cut dress to the Mouse's housewarming party last weekend, causing several people to grab my bosom as they walked by, as though it were a party favor. I seriously had thumb-prints on my nipples the next day. People were raised in a barn, apparently.

In any event: Ow.

The Pope Is Such a Cheerful Guy

Hell is a place where sinners burn in an eternal fire, and not just a religious symbol designed to galvanise the faithful, the Pope has said.

The pontiff further declared: "Jen Hubley is going there immediately, both for making fun of me and for preferring the African dude."

Remember him? I can't find his name anywhere, but he was in the running for Popehood and he was all pro-condom and stuff. He pretty much never had a chance. This Pope looks like he might be one of those creepy people who never ever blink. There's something reptilian about him, and because I am the queen of denial, I can never remember his name. It's Benedict the Something-Something, but I'll be darned if I can get the numeral straight.

Anyway, in my mind JP the Deuce is still Pope. He's riding around in his little Popemobile, with just his feet sticking out from underneath his gigantic hat.

News of the Obvious

I just received the following text from a friend:

"Just got called a fag on 17th steet and 8th ave."

For those of you who don't live in New York, this is one of the gayest streets in America, for sure. Storefronts all along the street are filled with pictures of naked oiled men holding lubricants. Seriously, the local deli has a poster up of a dude in tightie whities. It appears to be advertising sandwiches. There's a connection somewhere, but I couldn't tell you what it is.

I feel that the only appropriate response in my friend's position would be to say, "Doy."

Oh. My. God.

I will obviously not be wearing pants of any kind until this trend is over.

Chocolate vs. Snow

It's going to snow again tonight and I'm seriously not going to make it. The bodega across the road is making a mint off me in daffodils and chocolate. I've got to cheer up somehow.

I do wonder what they think about people's regular purchases over at the bodega. I usually buy cheese or chocolate and flowers. There's another dude who buys a whole bunch of hardware-type stuff and condoms. I stand back when he orders: "I'll take the duct tape, a glue-stick and ... uh ... some Trojans." Ew!

Late-night, the drug dealers are always there. These guys are pros. They're not like the dudes who brush by you in Union Square hissing "smoke." They only ask if you're interested. I suspect that most people who buy cheese, chocolate and daffodils are bad business. We've already got our synapses sorted. Perhaps at the expense of our thighs, but what can you do. Anyway, they never ask me.

The only reason I know they're drug dealers is that there's no other reason for a 16-year-old white kid to be there.

One More Photo from the Bidnez Trip

Me 'n Solly in our complimentary robes:

Stay Classy, San Diego

I couldn't resist. Sorry.

Anyway, part of the reason I've been scarce around these parts is that I've been working a ton. Last weekend, work included an all expenses paid trip to San Diego. Now you don't feel so sorry for me anymore, do you?

The one problem with this is that I am a pale, pale lady, and San Diego is sunny all the time. All. The. Time. So I spent much of the trip hiding under umbrellas and awnings and in one case, my jacket, while my colleagues pointed and laughed:



But I've missed you and I have stories. Thank you for your patience during this service interruption.

I'm the Worst

Been busy at work, kids, but that doesn't mean I don't love you. (Both of you, at this point.)

Because I love you, I leave you with the following quote. It's from the blog portion of Obsessed with Julie and Jackie, which is a comedic experience you must, er, experience if you're in New York. Basically, these hilarious ladies put on a show once a month in which they allow maniacs to talk about things they're obsessed with. This could be anything from hummus to the parrot population of Brooklyn to Morton Downey, Jr. (No, I'm not kidding.)

Anyway, I leave you with this quote from the estimable Julie Klausner:

"I am no longer afraid that men will kill me. I am just scared that they will bore me."

Doesn't that really say everything about dating these days? Goshdarnit?

Am I a New Yorker Yet?

Lady Sitting Near Me on the 2/3: Your bag keeps bumping into me!

Me: Shhh, no one cares.

Furniture Tetris

My bedroom is only 120 square feet, which is big enough for a bed and alarm clock and three large stacks of books, and that's it. That's fine, because I like a smallish room. I grew up sleeping in a loft and have spent most of my adult life in cities where space was at a premium. Still, it takes awhile to figure out what to do with a space that small. This time, it took eight months for me to realize that my bed was facing the wrong way.

Actually, to be honest, I didn't figure it out. Friends came to visit me, and I insisted, since they were a couple, that they take my bed. (I'm also very used to sleeping on couches, having done that for extended periods of time at various points in my life. In fact, I still sleep on my couch when I'm having insomnia.)

The next morning, the guy got up and announced, "I have figured it out. If you switch your bed the other way around, you'll have 30% more space in your bedroom."

He's been in construction for awhile now, so I figured he knew what he was talking about. Also, my bed squeaks, which is neither restful nor romantic, so I'd pretty much decided to put my mattress on the floor anyway, and this was just the inspiration I needed to make the switch.

Changing things around in a small space is a challenge. First I had to haul out approximately 30 books which had managed to fling themselves all over my bedroom floor. There were at least twice as many of them as I ever could have put there, proving once again that my books breed while I'm at work. I wouldn't mind, but I still never have enough to read.

Then I had to take out the lamp, which has a heavy base, and the fan, which I don't need right now, because it's 12 degrees out, but has to be out because I have no place to store it. I stacked those up by my kitchen nook, and tackled the mattress.

The mattress threatened to squash me twice before it hit my kitchen cart and knocked over a candle, which was lit, of course, because I like to light things on fire before I clean with dangerous chemicals or move the furniture. It's actually amazing I lived to be an adult and let's all thank God I rarely drive a car anymore.

I blew out the candle, kicked the mattress into place, found my drill and went back into the bedroom to attack the frame. I tried the drill, found it was out of juice, went back into the kitchen to grab the power supply from under the sink, plugged it in, tried the drill again, then remembered that I like my eyes, went back into my kitchen, grabbed my safety goggles, realized that they were hopelessly scratched, and sat down and sighed. Took them off. Put them back on. How well do you need to see to do this anyway?

At this point, I realized it was definitely time for a snack, so I took off my googles, made myself a creepy diet microwave meal and ate it while the drill powered up. Creepy diet microwave meals are a staple of the Hubley diet plan since I decided not to be a great big fat person, and I probably eat about 8 of them a week.

When the drill was done juicing, I started attacking the frame. It's really a good thing I put my goggles back on, because honestly, I feel like the screws were magnetically attracted to my eyeballs. They kept flying out all of the place, zinging off across the room and getting lost and so on.

After the frame was disassembled, I vaccuumed the place and wiped down the floor and the woodwork with Murphy's Oil Soap. Then I hauled the mattress back in, nearly squashing myself against the door frame in the process, and put the bed in the opposite position, so that my feet were pointing at the door and the floor-to-ceiling window was at my right. I lay down on it and stared up at the ceiling for a minute, resting and trying out the new position.

"Feels better," I informed myself. I lay there for another minute until it occurred to me that my shoulders were threatening to lock up, and then I got up to take a shower.

Later in the evening, still sore from wrestling with the furniture, I stumbled down the street to meet the Mouse and his girl Stella for a burger. I told them all about the new arrangement, and how relieved I was that I hadn't had to call for help in order to get something out of my room, or call 911 to have the EMTs pull a screw out of my head.

Stella thought for a moment and said, "I wonder if the new bed position will have better feng shui. Maybe you'll stop meeting all these crazy guys."

"I don't know about that. But I found a good book under my bed frame. I don't remember buying it, and actually, now that I think about it, I think a boy left it there."

Either that, or the books actually are breeding while I'm at work.

Lazy Saturday

I have to wonder what the people at the Mexican place think when I order food for delivery. The restaurant is literally 50 feet from my house, and I generally answer the door in my pajamas. Should I become a serial killer, I'm pretty sure that they would be the people who buck the trend and tell the TV crew that they always knew I was up to something in there.

"The other day, she ordered tacos for delivery at 3 pm and then came to the door wearing her 8th grade softball t-shirt and fuzzy pants with cats on them."

I mean, right? That's a clear sign of a crazy person, right there.

Speaking of which, I was talking to Ma Smash today, as I do, and I mentioned that my hypochondria was spiraling out of control.

"I can't decide whether I'm, like, totally riddled with tumors or whether my liver is going to fall out," I told her.

"You are not totally riddled with tumors. Your liver is fine, despite all that is just. However: You are crazy in your headbone."

"Oh dear."

"Yes. In fact, your only problem is that your ginormous brain pan is folding over on itself, trying to think up things to do to stay amused."

Perhaps I could teach it to knit.

No Man's Woman

Scene: Pete's Candy Store, Williamsburg, BK. I'm waiting for my friends' band to go on. I've walked what feels like 6 miles through an industrial area. I'm a little nervous, glad to see my friends, in need of a beer. A girl I don't know sits down across from me and starts fondling the arm of the boy next to her.

"I'm ----," she says. She has those big shiny eyes that make you think the person looking at you is stupid or stoned.

"Jen." I shake her hand.

"Are you Dave's girl?"

"Nope."

"Matt's?"

"Nope."

Blink, blink. "Well, whose girl are you?"

I lean over the table. "Baby, I'm my own girl."

At least I didn't have to man the merch table.

How to Catch a Mouse

Mouse: I'm tired. Tired. I need to go home.

Me: One more bar.

Mouse: No! Sleep!

Suze: Are we going to the Library?

Me: No, sadly. The Mouse has to go home and fall asleep on his pink sheets.

Mouse: (Knocking over a glass.) Fuck you! Get your hat! We're going!

Big Plans for the Weekend

Coworker Dennis: Ugh, I'm still at work. Tell me about your plans, so that I can live through you.

Me: Actually, I think I'm staying in.

Coworker Dennis: I don't believe you.

Me: Believe! My friend Adrian just called and was all "come to this party and that party," but I seriously feel like I need some B-12 and a nap.

Coworker Dennis: Be that as it may, I predict that by 10:00, you will be fully rested and ready to go to this party or that party.

Me: Or I'll already be running down the street with my pants around my ankles while someone's girlfriend chases me with a frying pan.

Coworker Dennis: As you are still frenching this poor girl's boyfriend.

Me: Man, I wish real me was as cool as our version.

Coworker Dennis: Right?

Me: Also, bonus points for "frenching."