Monday, January 29, 2007

Fun Follow-Up... this post. I clicked on this message again, and this dude? Is now adverstising himself as being fifteen years old. Dear God! I'm really lucky I wasn't interested. I'd be in jail now.

Watch out for MySpace, kids.

Oh, and Also

I'm not happy with the sequence of posts, but I don't make the news.

is dead. I'm quite sure it's Will Leitch's fault.

Upsetting Realization

I'm becoming one of those people who talks about politics all the time. I've never been this person before, and I blame Barack Obama. It's only because I love him and I'm afraid he'll be injured. We don't have a great track record in this country when it comes to charismatic leaders who challenge the status quo.

That's all.

Thank you for listening.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

20-Second Review of a Movie You Don't Care About

I watched Miami Vice today, because I'd seen every murder show at least twice and there was nothing on the Hitler Channel. Please understand that I've been popping NyQuil continuously all weekend long, so it's not all that strange that nothing made any sense to me about that movie. But really: Nothing made any sense. I kept sort of zoning out and we were back in a club again with three people who knew how to dance and forty people who danced like me, which is to say, as if electrotrodes were attached to their privates and they were really embarrassed about it.

Speaking of privates: I love Michael Mann, but it occurred to me that his films are exactly like a penis. They're hypermasculine, very sleek and they have absolutely no sense of humor.

Once I realized this, I enjoyed the movie immensely.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

Conversation Heart

Valentine's Day is coming up, which means that it's almost time for me to walk into a Hallmark store and light myself on fire.

Before you click back to your RSS reader and look for something less boring to read, let me assure you: I am not lamenting my single status. In fact, for once in my life, I am neither in a relationship and trying to get out of it, nor single and bummed out. I'm single and OK, which is weird, and probably healthy. (Well, all right, fine, when I had a really bad cold this week, I did sort of wish I had a boyfriend to bring me soup. That is, until Ma Smash reminded me that boys don't bring soup. Mostly, they come over and offer to give you a backrub, which then becomes a front-rub, which then becomes a fight because you want soup, not rubs of any kind. I might've added that last part myself. Anyway, she made a good point and it made me feel better.)

No, the problem is that Valentine's Day sucks, it sucks donkey balls, it sucks no matter who you are or what your relationship status is. It's pretty much an excuse to spend money and feel inadequate, and in this way, is the quintessential American holiday. Even complaining about it probably makes me a communist.

Fortunately, by the time Valentine's Day rolls around, I will have just finished Fashion Week and will be too tired to care.

PS: My favorite of these conversation hearts? "Fax me."

Thursday, January 25, 2007

More About the Cold

This is a weepy cold. How weepy? This afternoon, I called up my mother and left the following message on her answering machine:

"Mummmmy. Mummmmy. Mum-MAY. Mummy, Mummy, Mummy. Mum-MAY-"

Midway through, she picked up.



"Oh, my goodness. Do you have a terrible cold?"

"Just terrible."

"I could tell. Well, sort of. I mean, to be honest, I can't really understand what you're saying at that pitch."

This proves what I've always suspected: I could just call my Mom and whine incoherently into the phone, and she would still give me sympathy.

Flashback to Christmas

The Mouse came home with me for Christmas this year, because his family doesn't do Christmas and because he loves him some Hubleys, and, oh, because there would be pie. I'm not quite sure he knew what he was getting into, though, because shortly after my aunties and other relatives of the female variety determined that he was not, in fact, my boyfriend, they figured out that he was, in fact, the Drunken Mouse. And then there was a small scene worthy of a celebrity.

"Wait - YOU're the Drunken Mouse?" my cousin said.

"Um, yes."

"How'd I miss that?"

"Well," I offered. "He's shy."

"Shy! SHY! Oh, you'll have to forget about being shy. We'll fix that."

Next thing I knew, the Mouse was standing in the middle of the kitchen, clutching a bottle of beer like a liferaft, while a cat, a dog, and two toddlers ran around and around him in a blurry circle, just like in the old cartoons. Apparently, my cousin and several of my aunties had decided to make sure that he lived up to his name, and had been plying him with beer. And now that the under 3-feet-tall set were up to their usual antics, well, he was sort of stuck.

Anyway, fair warning: If you spend Christmas at my family's house, we will divine your secret identity, ply you with booze, stuff you with pie, and sic the toddlers on you.

Feel Better!

When you go into a bodega and buy nothing but Kleenex and Dayquil, it's pretty obvious that you're not feeling well. Still, I found it pretty charming that the proprietor bagged my stuff, gave me my change and said, "Oh! Hope you feel better!"

You can't keep a cold a secret.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Ma Smash Takes on the Syndicate

I am not dead - just busy, busy. Also, in keeping with my usual routine in January, I have gotten sick twice in one week. This is a new low (high?) even for me, and less than hilarious, as material goes.

Anyway, here's the short version of my weekend: Ma Smash and Mrs. Piddlington came to visit me in New York City, and all we managed to squeeze in was one trip to the Algonquin, three hair appointments in Chinatown, one ascent of the Empire State Building, and one size large fight with Keyspan.

The last was the best:

Ma Smash to Keyspan Employee, who is in the process of tearing up my street with a jackhammer at 3 a.m.: "Excuse me! Excuse me, sir? Hi. Excuse me! Did you know that it's 3:00 in the morning?"

Keyspan Employee to Ma Smash: "Yeah, well, there's a leak."

Ma Smash: "You know what I think you should do? I think you should shut down the line."

Keyspan Employee: "Oh?"

Ma Smash: "Yes! Because you see, my daughter is trying to sleep. She has to work very early in the morning and it's 3 a.m. and you're ... drilling. And it's very loud!"

Keyspan Employee: "Well, you know, ma'am, we have to fix these problems as they arise."


OK, that last part might not be straight reportage. Anyway, afterward, she came in, shook me awake and said, "I don't want you to worry about a thing. I think the drilling is going to stop now." After we called 311, it did.

My mother, ladies and gentlemen! You can't have her, she's all mine.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Super Steez and Zzzzz

I am in training to be an awesomely eccentric old lady, and here's step 1: I now have the most bizarre sleep pattern of anyone I know. It's 6:46 in the a.m., and I'm wide awake and about to go into work, not because I have to - people in New York don't roll in until 10 in some offices - but because I'm awake and why the hell not? Might as well get a jump on the day.

Yesterday, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. That was less fun. I woke up completely, like the alarm had gone off, except it hadn't, because it wasn't due to go off for another four hours. Criminy. Because of this, I had no choice but to dress up as an anime superhero for work, complete with large poofy boots, small skirt and pink camoflage shirt, just to keep myself alert. (The way this works is, you spend half the day pulling your skirt down, and the other half the day fielding compliments that might not actually be compliments, such as "you look good ... today" and "well, now that's an interesting outfit!")

Super steez or no, I was pizzausted when I got home. I went to bed at 9:30, and so of course I'm awake again, bright and early. Part of me wants to make this a new schedule. I am sure I am the only person awake in New York right now who does not have a brand new baby or a car service to run. It's kind of nice having the place to myself.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

I Have a Memory Like an Elephant. But Do Elephants Really Remember All That Well?

Ma Smash forgets things all the time, and then forgets that she forgets them. A few years ago, before my sister got married, we had what can only be described as a ghetto throw-down, in which she stole my shoes and I took a razor blade out of my mouth and threatened to cut her. OK, actually, there was just a lot of very careful hair-pulling and name-calling. Mrs. Piddlington said it was the saddest fight she'd ever seen, in fact, and that we had our hands in each other's hair, but weren't exactly pulling because we didn't want to hurt one another.

My point is that a few years later, she actually said to me, "My favorite part about Meg's wedding is how calm we all were. No one fought at all!"

And I had to say, "Yeah, except for that time when you and I danced around the kitchen for ten minutes, trying to figure out how to smack each other without leaving a mark, while Meg wept and tried to keep us away from the kitchen knives."

And Ma Smash said, "No! Did that happen?" And then, "You know, I sort of remember that." While Meg and I rolled our eyes.

A short of list of other things she's forgotten includes the following:

1) The sexual orientation and/or marital status of most of my friends, including people who have been coming over to her house for 20 years.
2) The dietary preferences of her children, including the fact that I find pot roast sort of scary. It looks like what is it: A big lump of gray muscle. And it skeeves me out.
3) Probably, at this point in this entry, why she ever taught me to read or write.

I almost didn't write this piece, because I was afraid she would take it the wrong way. I even talked to Mrs. P about it, just to get her opinion.

"I think she'll be OK with it," she said. "It wasn't like a real fight."

"Well, also, if she's mad, she'll just forget!"

Pause. "You should write that."

So I just did.

After This, We'll Talk About the Subway or Something

So, I have insomnia. My theory is that if I'm away from my computer for more than five hours, it trips some sort of inner alarm and I have to get up and check my email. Which is what I do, when I wake up at 4 a.m. and can't get back to sleep.

Checked my email just now and discovered that some kid in New Jersey wrote to me on MySpace last night, twice. Now, I don't write back to random MySpace solicitations, because I'm a girl. As a general rule, we internal Americans of the hetero persuasion* do not find online come-ons particularly attractive.

This was funny, though. The first message had the headline "hey" and read:

"i think your hot message back"

The writer? Was 19 years old. Dude, I didn't like dating (or even, you know, "dating") 19-year-olds when I was 19. Now that don't have to anymore, I don't think I will, etc.

Anyway, shortly after, when I failed to respond, he wrote back. The headline? "Hey," once again. The message:

"y dont u message back? do u like young dick?"

Secretly, I think he's a cop working out of the Sex Crimes unit in Jersey City. But maybe I watch too much SVU. Anyway, uh, no.

*TM Anne Lamott

Monday, January 15, 2007

When I Take Them Off, I Become Wonder Woman

All of sudden, every guy I meet is obsessed with my glasses and what they mean about my self-perception. In fact, they mean that I can't see, but that's too simple an explanation. (I totally sympathize with this. I prefer things to be as convoluted and dramatic as possible, involving multiple affairs, scandalous gossip and general bad behavior. "I can't see"? Feh.)

Last night, not one but two guys asked me about my glasses. The second guy? Was the only straight dude in a gay bar. The bar was so gay, it literally smelled like creatine. The dude was so straight, he was wearing a doorag with dollar bills stapled to it. I wish I could make this stuff up, but I'm merely reporting the facts.

"I like the gays, you know?" he said. "I used to run a gay club. My sister is a lesbian. I know lots of gay people."

This was a longer version of Some of My Best Friends Are Gay than I'm used to hearing, but I nodded politely.

"Now I gotta ask you to take off those glasses and let me see those pretty eyes."

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea."

"No? Aw, c'mon."

"No, no. I don't think it would be wise. I wouldn't want to be responsible."

Earlier in the evening, a guy came up to me at a party and announced, no word of a lie, that I was very attractive, but he didn't think that I knew it.

"Oh, don't worry," I told him. "I know. This doesn't happen by accident, you know."

I don't think he got the joke, because he kept on going.

"See, it's those glasses. That's how I can tell. They're thicker than they need to be, like they're saying 'don't look at me. I'm not pretty.'"

"Actually, they're for your protection," I said, slugging back half a glass of Bud. "Will you excuse me? I seem to be out of beer."

Now, don't get me wrong. Everyone likes to be told that they're pretty. (Except guys, maybe. I've gotten one or two guys ril pissed at me by calling them pretty. "Handsome" is cool. "Hot" is better. "Pretty" is the verbal equivalent of freezing cold water.)

Anyway, the sudden obsession with my eyewear is very odd.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Fruitcake Therapy

Mouse: What you're saying right now? Is what you told me six months ago.

Well, I meant it ... for you.

Mouse: Well, I'm regifting that shit right back to you. (Mimes placing a box on the bar.) Here you go!

Me: Wow. I never imagined it would fit.

Mouse: It's like fruitcake. You pass it along, it always fits.

Me: It's kinda gross.

Mouse: You want a fork?

Sunday, January 7, 2007

You Know You Love Hoboes

The Mouse and I went to a party in Astoria on Saturday. We both live in Park Slope, which is about an hour and fifteen minutes away. Also, the trains were screwy this weekend, big surprise, so the entire excursion was more difficult than it needed to be.

At around 34th Street, a hobo couple got on the train. The lady was Chinese, elderly or ill-used, and wearing an assortment of bright clothes. The guy was Jamaican, also worn looking, and wearing sweatpants and the requisite Velcro sneakers. (No one wears this but homeless people. Are they issued to them by the City?)

After a few stops, the hobo lady got up and leaned on the Mouse, who was guarding my virtue as usual by taking the outside seat in our bank of two. Before my eyes, she wriggled around until she had one brightly clad ass cheek on either side of poor Mouse's shoulder.

"Are you seeing this?" he asked.

"Indeed I am."

"I have hobo ass on my arm."

"You sure do!"

"Do you have your lighter?"


"When we get off this train, I want you to light this arm on fire."

I snorted.

"I'm serious. I'm going to cut it off and get a shiny new one. Made of metal. With attachments, like a Swiss Army knife."

"OK, that's awesome. Also? I really hope she farts on you."

"I hate you so much."


"I mean it. If she farts on me, I'm going to kill you."

She didn't. However, he claimed his arm was numb from hobo ass germs. Always a good sharer, he proceeded to chase me up and down the platform, screaming, "Hobo ass! Hobo ass!" and trying to rub his arm on me, to transfer the cooties.

No one looked at us at all.

Thursday, January 4, 2007

Brilliant Idea

I'm going to start a mafia and call it a Smartish Few.*

* "A smartish few," meaning in Worcestershire "a very good lot."

Tuesday, January 2, 2007

Perverts Love Me, This I Know

A friend of mine recently accused me of thinking that every guy I meet is in love with me, or at least wants to break off a piece, as they say, and there wasn't much I could do to argue with her, because I do think that. This, despite the fact that I often feel morbidly obese and elderly, and pay so little attention to my personal appearance that I frequently waltz around my office with toilet paper sticking out of my pants. There's no sense wasting time trying to figure out this problem of mine. Three shrinks couldn't do it over the course of five years, so I don't know why you think you'll do in the space of thirty seconds whilst reading this post. Ahem.

Anyway, my point is that boys like me ... but not the boys I want to like me. Specifically, very old or very young men, hoboes, married dudes and registered sex offenders think I'm just swell. I could make a calendar marketed to these folks, and it would make a killing. January: Reclining against a Dumpster, Hubley holds out a moldy pastrami sandwich and licks her lips seductively. February: In a variation on the Lolita theme, Hubley wears what she actually wore as a spritely young nymphet, namely OshKosh B'gosh overalls with toads in the pocket and a t-shirt that says "I LOVE HORSES" in sparkle script. HOT!

The love of perverts for me was confirmed once again yesterday. I was flying home from the holidays, and this dude kept following me around the airport. He sat down next to me when I was waiting out a flight delay at Logan and tried to talk to me about my book. I smelled crazy straight off and didn't even acknowlege his hello. (Thank you, New York City! I needed those survival skills!) That didn't stop him, though. Nope. He wasn't sitting near me on the plane, but he found me in five minutes at baggage claim at JFK, and spent a fruitful half an hour making conversation with the back of my head about how much he'd like to get his luggage and how much he really wanted to go home, and was I from Boston, and so on.

This with no encouragement at all, mind you. In fact, at one point, I turned around and said, "Look, I don't know where anyone's luggage is, OK? I'm waiting just like you." And he still kept talking to the back of my head.

Not that I blame him. The back of my head is super hot. I don't even know what that means. I still have a cold and don't know what I'm saying.