Regarding Jealousy

Drunken Mouse: well. it's kinda like one time when [redacted] was all super chatty with Lady Mouse at last new years

Drunken Mouse: i was like time for my famous cockblock

Me: did you ask him how he was healing up?

Drunken Mouse: hahahaha

Me: "the sores almost gone? [redacted]?"

Drunken Mouse: well i was not worried but i know he just gravitates to pretty gals

Drunken Mouse: just, it can't be mines

Me: "did the doctor say it was OFFICIALLY micropenis?"

Me: "or is that just like, an expression?"

Drunken Mouse: HAHAHAHA!

Me: "so ... that means you're a lady, right?"

Me: "you're a lady?"

Drunken Mouse: that would totally fly over Lady Mouse's head

Drunken Mouse: that would be the funny part

Me: "you know, ruelala has this sale on thongs..."

Only One Shopping Day Left!

CD: There's an ad in Next magazine for someone called "Randy, the Butt Specialist."

Me: Shit! Now I'll have to get you something else for Christmas.

When You Least Expect It

My friend Gina says she likes telling me things because I'm a good listener. My theory is that this means that I'm overly interested in other people's business, and fully aware that I have no idea what anyone should do in any situation, so I don't offer much in the way of advice.

Another reason I don't offer advice: I don't think I've ever gotten any that I really wanted to hear, especially if it was right. For example, when I was single and blue, a lot of people told me that I would meet someone when I least expected it. And then I would roar like King Kong and pull their underpants over their head and tie a knot in the waistband. I mean, doy, right? Just try not thinking about that shit when you're lonely.

However, just because it sucked to hear it doesn't mean it wasn't true. Recent evidence of this: the Marine, aka Sgt Lucky. (BTW, the new nickname is a pun on his real-life last name, not an editorial comment on his good fortune in snagging yours truly.)

We met on the Match.com, as you do, and agreed to go get some coffee. I was in the midst of an "oh, fuck it" dating spree. I had told a friend, a few days before, that I was actually sort of enjoying dating, and didn't really feel like I even wanted a boyfriend.

Her response? "Ha, ha, ha! Now you'll fall in love."

Well.

Sgt Lucky showed up apologizing for being late, due to traffic and parking. I assured him that was fine, probably stammering. My very first thought was, "This guy is way too good looking to be after anything serious, and that is totally OK." I am not kidding when I tell you this was the single best-looking guy I had ever been on a date with, never mind one set up through Match.com. I figured he had to be out for ass, or possibly some sort of military-themed male prostitute hired by Coworker Dennis to cheer me up. Just in case, I started thinking about really nice presents to get Dennis for his upcoming birthday.

Lucky sat down and looked at my green tea, and then at the bar we were sitting at, and then at my green tea. "Do they ... serve alcohol here?"

"Oh. Yeah. They do."

"Do you want an actual drink?"

Did I. I needed it. The other option was to start blurting out, "You have a terribly dashing scar under your left eye, and also, I commend you on having just a touch of silver hair, which is quite distinguished. Incidentally, could you, say, bench press me, if you needed to? I know! Let's try that out right now and see."

So, actual drinks commenced, and actual conversation. I remembered that the reason I'd agreed to break my rule about dating younguns had to do with the charm of his emails, not his pretty pretty face, and started to relax. The emails had included wide-ranging subjects such as zombies and phrenology (of which my nephew is a skilled practitioner) and were so well-written and enthusiastic that I found it hard to believe he was even on Match to begin with.

Thanksgiving arrived just in time for my panic attacks. Several dates in, I was in that state where you're thinking that it might be a good idea to get on a bus and move to another state, and also wondering if he has decided he hates you, because it's been an hour since his last text.

"I need serious drugs," I told Gina. She lives in the same town as my folks, conveniently enough, and we hung out on the last day of my break, mostly to talk about boys and read tarot cards - which amounts to talking about boys, when you and your friend are both dating new people.

Gina flipped over a couple cards and smiled at me. She tapped one of them, a knight. "Dudes are usually kings, but I think maybe this is him, because he's younger than you are and because he's a soldier. And, oh, I like this guy."

"Yeah. Me too. That's why I really have to move."

"No, I don't think you have to. No, I don't think you do at all." She squinted at the cards again, touching each one in sequence. "I don't think this guy is going to want to own you."

Believe in this stuff or don't, it makes no difference to me, but I'll tell you, there's no denying the smartitudinousness of your friends who've seen you through several dating iterations.

"This is a very romantic guy," she went on. "Wow. Very romantic. And not bullshit, either. He's a gentleman, like gentlemen used to be."

"He is. He's a door opener and a flower bringer. It's so wonderful, I'm totally sure that he's a narc and doesn't know I can't smoke pot or I have to go the hospital."

"That's the real thing: It's all just fear. But no, this is a good guy. I like this guy. Maybe you can calm down and give this a chance." She looked dreamy for a minute. "What would it be like to date a guy who treats you like that? I think it would be the most wonderful thing."

Some weeks later, I can tell you that it is. For example, I just received the following text: "Re: Wednesday night, why don't I just prepare dinner while you see [your shrink]?"

If any of you hired him, don't tell me. Just let me live with my illusions.

Fair Warning

If we're friends, and you ask me if you've been a total ho lately because you've been unusually fortunate in the dating arena, and I say no ... I will still greet any and all future IMs with: "Hey, what's up, Sluttina Happypants?"

You wouldn't know me otherwise.

The Marine in Brief

My pal Smyres likes to say that if you want to know what I'm about to do, you should ask me what I'm never going to do again. In this case, it was date someone significantly younger than myself. And yet, here I am, some weeks later, googly-eyed over the Marine, who is, for those of you who are paying attention, a full seven years younger than your humble narrator.

This doesn't seem to matter, though, as he's significantly more grown up than the usual 25-year-old. For that matter, he's significantly more grown up that I am. (But let's not tell him. He's still impressed with me.)

I've dragged him to several outings with my friends so far and he's charmed the pants off of everyone. My favorite endorsement so far is from my friend Joe, who said: "Your beau seems like a nice guy. Nice, like, he could snap my neck if he wanted to, but he totally wouldn't do that."

Manners are important!

Chicken Little

About once a day, I decide that every single one of us is going to lose his or her job, and then I have to put my head between my knees and hyperventilate until I'm OK again. It takes about an hour, and I've been trying to schedule it for lunch, so that I don't lose productivity (unadvisable, when you're already freaking out about the economy.)

Part of the problem is that I never really recovered from being laid off in 2000. I worked at a startup that stopped after a glorious six month run. We had free breakfast every day, massage therapists once a week, drinks after work most nights ... and no business plan. Truly, it was bread and circus time in Dotcommia.

What's going on right now is a little different, although I don't love the idea of a panic caused by unregulated banking. It seems, you know, familiar somehow. Like when my grandfather used to tell me stories about living for a month on eggplants that his neighbor grew in the window box. You know, like that.

The other day I IMed Moss to ask him if everyone we know was going to get laid off, and he said no, we were not going to get laid off, and in fact we were all going to get laid. Moss is an optimist and a hedonist. Possibly the best combination of traits ever.

In completely unrelated news, tonight is stay in and be lazy night here in the Hubley household, and I'm watching possibly the crappiest ghost hunting reality TV show ever. It's called Ghost Adventures, I believe, and this one guy is no word of a lie begging ghosts to punch him in the head as he meanders around this old insane asylum. If I were the camera man, I would take advantage of being the only person with night vision and whack this nerdlinger with a walkie-talkie. However, I've been under a lot of stress, so please keep that in mind.

I'll Give You a Topic

It's too cold to go to work anymore. Discuss.

Oh Wow

I'm watching Gossip Girl, and I just realized that I'm closer to the parents' age than the kids. Yikes!

I Make the Rules, but Then I Break Them

My friend Rick claims that the secret to dating successfully is to decide what it is that you want, and then stick to it. Don't make exceptions. People get into trouble when they start second-guessing themselves.

With that in mind, I set an age limit for myself. 28 was absolutely the youngest guy I would allow myself to date. And then a 25-year-old marine wrote to me on Match.com, and I decided that rules were made to be broken.

I'm sure Rick is right, but I bet I'm having more fun.

What I've Learned From Online Dating

As you know, I'm doing the Match.com currently. This is not a terribly new or exciting thing, and is pretty much my go-to when I'm not already dating someone and am too busy to go out every night of the week. I'm having a lot more fun this time around, though, and I think it's because I've finally figured out how to think of this online dating thing. And for this, of course, I must thank teh gayz. Watching my dudes endlessly troll Manhunt has shown me that it's a numbers game, and you have to keep on going until you find what you're looking for. (Whatever that might be. Put it this way: My goals are lot less interesting and pornographic.)

In addition, I have learned:

1) Everyone is crazy, especially after dating in New York for a few years. I've had guys start out by asking me point-blank if I could see myself in a relationship with them. I've also had a dude tell me that he would have been a priest, if he didn't enjoy "keeessing and tooouching" so much. I held my tongue. I grew up in Boston. I know which jokes you're not allowed to make.

2) The less serious you are about the whole thing, the more fun you have. And when I say "serious," I mean "desperate." At the moment, my desperation levels are quite low (as opposed to, say, three months ago when they were at Defcon 1, but that's another story.) Therefore, I'm having more fun.

3) If someone says he only has eight fingers, it's not a joke. He only has eight fingers. You're also not allowed to stare at them while he lifts his pint.

4) Not everyone thinks I'm funny. I know! I couldn't believe it either.

5) Half of the people who say they don't smoke, smoke. All of the people who say they smoke occasionally smoke all the time. The people who are "trying to quit" have cut back to two packs a day.

I'm going to keep track of this stuff, I think. I sense that I could do the world some good here.

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

Or spa treatment.

Yesterday, a bunch of folks came to our office to give free mini-spa treatments and not incidentally, plug the full-length dealies at their salon. This is totally fine, and a kind of ingenious way to drum up business during a recession, except for one lady who totally did my least favorite upselling technique: the spa neg.

She was giving hand massages, something that I was particularly looking forward to, as my chubby little toddler paws are always bound up in knots, thanks to the whole typing all day thing. I sat down and picked out a super-smelly lotion, and then she rubbed my hands for a couple minutes, talking about the spa's other services all the while.

This was not totally relaxing. Less relaxing still?

"We also have facials," she said, at one point in her patter.

"Oh, those are nice," I said. In reality, I'm not a big fan. I feel like my face looks better with the gunk in it than with all that crap taken out. After the extractions, my pores look like moon craters and my skin usually has all the delightful texture of a boiled potato. I'll keep my dirt, thanks.

"Yes. Lovely facials."

"Mmm-hmm."

I must not have seemed receptive, because she just spelled it out for me: "YOU SHOULD COME AND GET A FACIAL."

Apparently, not everyone likes my pores the way they are.

At the Bar

This is the most accurate picture of me in years:




Artwork by J. Longo (aka X-eyed drunk on the left.)

Coworker Dennis Quote of the Day

"I can't talk to him! He's not wearing any socks."

When People Ask How I Became a Yoga Addict, This Is What I Will Tell Them

Short version: Because I was crazy. Long version: Because I was crazy and living in a city full of crazies. And all of us crazies think our drama is terribly important. Which only leads to more crazy.

I was thinking about this today, because I did yoga this morning and, as usual, had a mild panic attack during camel pose. This is apparently not uncommon. Camel pose opens up your chest in a way we're not used to, especially if the "we" in question types for a living. But also, it releases all kinds of weird stored up emotions.

Today, doing my poor man's version of camel pose (which probably looked to a casual observer like a normal person sitting up straight) I felt weirdly heart-broken and anxious, like I was about to lose my job or get broken up with or be forced to move out of my house. If you believe in this stuff, and of course I do, the emotions you feel during poses are emotions that your body has stored up.

So apparently, my body remembers all kinds of things my mind forgets. Maybe I should buy it some chocolates or something. Or keep doing camel pose until my body cries itself out.

Seinfeld-esque Post: "What's With the [Blank]?"

In this case, what is it with people and the phone? I've been doing Match.com lately and so far, so good. A few guys, though, are totally in love with their phones and insistent on talking to me over them before we hang out. No offense, my very new friend, but I don't know you well enough yet to know if I want you to be able to ring me up at all hours of the day and night. That's why the email system has a double-blind dealie: So that if one of us decides that the other is crazy, we don't have to talk to each other anymore.

The other day, I was supposed to hang out with a Match.com dude, but had to cancel to go to a coworker's housewarming. I apologized, of course - although no creepy card this time - and suggested we hang out this week.

His email said, OK, I'm free Wednesday. Call me Tuesday at such and such a number; I'll be home at 7.

I wrote back and said, hey, why don't we just meet somewhere Wednesday, since we're both free.

He wrote back and said, OK, call me Wednesday and we'll figure out a place.

Do you suppose that he's had extremely bad luck with dating women who secretly sound like Minnie Mouse? By the way, I'm totally sure that right this very moment he's complaining to his internet friends about the crazy girl who won't use the phone. But I'll cop to that. I am that girl.

PSA: It's a Full Moon, Yo

Everyone is completely crackers today. My landlord just called me up to tell me that my cleaning person left the cardboard boxes unsorted - UNSORTED! IN PARK SLOPE! - in the neighbor's yard, and then left the front door unlocked. All of which is totally anger-making and I get that, but:

1) He called when I was having possibly the finest nap I've had in years.
2) He told me each of the cleaning woman's crimes exactly twice, and would have told me three times, except that I cut him off by promising to monitor her closely in the future. Poor thing.

I am an adult, however, so I sent him a nice note apologizing for the inconvenience. The fact that I chose the blank card with the child's drawing of a differently-abled dj with ginormous headphones means nothing at all, and certainly isn't passive aggressive in the slightest. It could have been the clown. No one wants the clown.

And Take the Cat Away

Moss: I'm back!
me: hi hi hi!
how are you?
Moss: I'm good!
well, last night not so much
me: i was going to go do yoga, but instead i'm going to do noga
oh no
what happened?
Moss: my shoulder felt like it grew a 3rd head
NOGA!
me: WHY?
Moss: and then...
haven't been body tuning :(
and then...
me: oh crippety crap
Moss: i was doing bookkeeping - receipts / reimbursables for our big ass invoice
and L-1 visa paperwork for my boss
me: UGH
Moss: and my cat figured out a new spring board for the counter
so onto counter she spirits
followed by slide on the receipts
and into the glass of wine
me: OH NO
Moss: which tips over and crashes into a million pieces
which scares her
and she hightails it back off
knocking over bottle of wine onto my laptop
which i haven't yet returned to my old job
which then won't wortk
me: oh my god in heaven!
what is going ON?
Moss: which meant i couldn't do the next 3+ hours of work that i needed to do
me: christ in a bucket!
Moss: my roommate, who is obviously the smartest girl in the room...
excuses herself
goes to her room
and emerges with not one but TWO valium and pops them in my mouth
then cleans up
god bless her
me: HA
ok, i love her
LOVE
Moss: it was the most comic scene ever
right?
me: that's perfect
Moss: and Sam lived to see another day
me: that is exactly what was required
Moss: lucky kitty
me: yes
i notice when she's bad, she become THE CAT
not sam
THE CAT
Moss: LOL
yes
me: THE CAT has fucked things up!
i wish sam would come back
and take THE CAT away

My Ugly Love, You Are a Messy Chesnut

Jennie Smash: hey, park sloper
Jennie Smash: is it safe for me to walk from my apt to stonehome in ft greene tonight?
Jennie Smash: or do i need to get a car?
Drunken Mouse: it is pretty safe
Jennie Smash: that's what i thought
Jennie Smash: and it's a nice walk
Jennie Smash: i have a match.com date
Drunken Mouse: walk straight down flatbush to bam
Jennie Smash: and i just realized that he's not smiling with teeth in this picture
Jennie Smash: do we think he's toothless?
Jennie Smash: i bet you five dollars he's toothless
Drunken Mouse: HA!
Drunken Mouse: no
Drunken Mouse: i hate smiling full teeth
Drunken Mouse: so i avoid it
Jennie Smash: ok, then
Jennie Smash: (i am calling you if he has no teeth)

Bikram Yoga for the Already Sweaty

As I've mentioned previously on this here blog, I am a sweaty person. So probably the last thing I needed was to sign up for an exercise class that makes even normal people perspire freely. And yet, I decided to try the Bikram yoga that all the kids are doing, because I am a glutton for punishment.

Bikram, in case you don't know, is yoga for the criminally insane. You spend an hour and a half doing contortions in a 100-degree room, sweating and feeling like you're going to throw up. The room smells like balls, armpits, and feet. When you leave, you feel elated, mostly because you don't feel like you're going to vomit anymore, which is always nicer than feeling like you're going to vomit. (I think we can all agree to this.)

Today was my first class. I loved it, needless to say, and am going back tomorrow. My goal is to not have to spend 15 minutes of the class crouched on my mat, staring at my spread hands like an animal and trying not to barf.

Re: like an animal ... the instructor, who was very nice, let me sit and look green for as long as I needed to, but he did tell me to try to breathe through my nose. Apparently, if you breath through your mouth, your thoughts get scattered, like an animal, etc. and so on. No worries there. Thoughts already scattered, pal! Arf!

Rainy Saturday

I'm watching crime shows, because that is clearly the only thing to do on a day like today. The current program is about a woman who murdered her sister, stole her identity, and stuffed her body in a freezer.

It's times like this when I'm really grateful to live in a small apartment. There is absolutely no way anyone could fit my body into my freezer. I can barely get a pint of ice cream in there.

Looong Week

It's impossible to overstate how tired I am. Interesting stories tomorrow, when hopefully I will be able to think of more descriptive words than "interesting."

The Puppy Tax

Lazy blogging, I know, but I've never gotten 18 comments on a Facebook status, and I am nerdily proud of it:

Status: Jen's new favorite thing is to say, "I cannot wait til Obama fixes _____." It works for everything!

Jen Hubley at 4:32pm November 6
For example, "I cannot wait until Obama makes there be more Diet Coke in the machine." Or: "I cannot wait until Obama makes beer that works as a diet aid." Etc.

Shannon at 4:32pm November 6
Seriously?

Jen Hubley at 4:34pm November 6
Think of it as some gentle self-satire. ;-)

Shannon at 4:34pm November 6
You are too funny (;

Julia at 4:37pm November 6
I cannot wait until Obama makes rainbows happen ev-er-y day!

Jen Hubley at 4:38pm November 6
I cannot wait until Obama buys a puppy, not just for his own kids, but for EVERY. SINGLE. ONE OF US.

Julia at 4:40pm November 6
That's totally socialism, lady. Redistribution of puppies is not cool.

Jen Hubley at 4:41pm November 6
I cannot wait until Obama takes puppies from people who have TOO MANY puppies, and gives them to those of us who have TOO FEW.

Julia at 4:43pm November 6
I earned my puppies. My right to own all my puppies is in the constitution. You'll have to pry my puppies out of my cold, dead hands.

Jen Hubley at 4:45pm November 6
FINE. Then we will tax your puppies. Prepare to pay the Puppy Tax!

Dancing in the Streets

In the East Village, before the dude hopped on the roof of the East Harlem bus and started dancing, and after everyone showed up with pots and pans and started banging them together like happy toddlers.

Yes. WE DID!

We sent money. We made phone calls. We knocked on doors. We believed. We changed the world.

Tim Robbins Ain't the Only One Pissed off

Check it: Tom Robbins denied at the polls.

My voting machine was broken, and then it took 20 minutes to find a poll worker to man it once it was fixed. Also, the lady who was checking me off couldn't find the name "Hubley." She was looking in the K's.

"I think you'll find that it's in the H's," I told her.

She smiled at me. "You look so happy! Such a happy face!"

"Voting makes me smile. You're still, you see, in the K's."

"Can you spell that?"

"Yes. H-U-B ... 'B' as in 'boy'..."

Flip, flip, flip.

"See, you're still in the K section." Flip. Flip, flip. "Now we're in A's. I think you'll find it's after 'A,' but before 'K.' YES. There I am. Oh, great. HUBLOY. Close enough."

It does make you wonder. I mean, do they even have to steal an election? Seems to me it could just lose its way on its own.

Good News, Bad News

1) I don't have a cracked tooth.

2) I don't have a giant tumor behind my eye.

3) I do have a sinus infection.

Of the three, the last option is probably best, but hoo boy, am I in pain. I'm blaming, at least partially, the stress of the last few days before the election. I seriously, seriously might not make it. I have no idea how Obama and McCain are anything but completely shattered with nerves. Perhaps this is why nervous little characters like me don't run for office.

But seriously, seriously, and I've never been more serious: I need good news, people. The past few months have been a whirlwind of broken hearts and minor physical ailments, and while none of that equals brain tumors or Darfur, I could still use a boost.

I have this theory, actually, that my sinuses will clear up immediately if Obama wins. If this happens, I will naturally lobby to have it declared a miracle by some church or other - the Church of Bob, if necessary.

In Which I Post Every Day, Yes Every Day, for a Whole ENtire Month

I'm doing NaBloPoMo. This is in place of NaNoWriMo, which I did last year, but is too much work for my lazy ass this year.

In order to be fully in the spirit of the thing, I waited til Sunday to commit to this proposition, and am backdating this entry. After the James Frey thing, we have only ourselves to blame if writers will insist on telling us every time they spin the smallest fib.

I Should Be a Stylist

Long email string this morning with Pal Gina, who bemoans the fact that she has to get an outfit for a black and white party she's going to this weekend. Can she get away with jeans, she asks? I reply:

I think you should wear:

1) Black jeans, big-ass belt buckle of your choice
2) Black or white-t-shirt
3) Black blazer/suit coat/tuxedo jacket
4) Black and white chucks
5) Black eye (optional)

I cannot imagine why no one has hired me to be their personal stylist yet.

I Give up. Fine, I'm a Yuppie

There is a maid coming to my house RIGHT NOW.

When she gets here, she will clean my bathtub and do the vacuuming and also probably curse my name for being the kind of jerk who can't clean her own 400 square foot apartment. But I confess that I don't care, because I hate cleaning so much it practically qualifies as a disorder. Another thing I hate? Living in squalor. This, combined with the fact that I don't go out every single night anymore = spending that extra cash on a maid.

The only thing that makes me feel a little guilty is that I know, a hundred years ago, it would be my great-grandmother doing this job. (Irish washerwoman, etc.)

Afternoon update: I cannot find my salt. Is it possible the maid has wrought her revenge on me, by stealing my spices?

I'm a Scientist

I've figured out PMS, you guys. What happens is this: Something something something hormones something brain, something LETS OUT THE JOHN MCCAIN WHICH IS IN ALL OF US. And then he demands brownies.

You're welcome.

David Foster Wallace and the Infinite Footnote

One snippet struck me about all the obits I've recently read about David Foster Wallace, who took his life on September 12: "According to his father, James Donald Wallace, his son had suffered depression for more than 20 years which had become more severe in the months prior to his death."

Twenty years is a long damn time to feel like shit, people. Although, of course, the thing about depression is it comes and goes. (Usually. If you're lucky.) As a fellow sufferer, I can tell you that for me it's been more like having some kind of autoimmune disorder. You have remissions and acute periods, and when you're sick you just keep going to the doctor to see if they can come up with some combination of drugs, therapy, exercise, prayer, that will bring you back from the dark place.

Because I do believe it's a place. Sometimes I think that I, and all my fellow wounded, go away for awhile when we're sick. It's the land of three o'clock in the morning. It's the photo negative of reality. Try to read, and words - once your friend! the only person who speaks english and is happy to see you in your travels in foreign lands! - slip off the page. Try to eat, and food sticks in your gullet. You lose weight, and people tell you look great. Mysteriously, your skin clears up, and for awhile you do. But the whole time, the spectre hangs over you: What if this time, this time, I can't get back from the shadowlands?

Kurt Vonnegut once said for people who come from suicide-prone families, option D is always "maybe I'll kill myself." Vonnegut's mother died. I lost a cousin, way too young, under one of those circumstances where you think, if he's just been a year older or a BAC point less drunk, he wouldn't of done it. Still, his family lives with a raw wound that never stops smarting.

For myself, I've made a promise that I just won't ever do it. It sounds easy, but for someone from my background and curious brain chemistry, it's as big a commitment as getting married. So: I go to my doctors. I take what they prescribe. I get, as they said in The Meaning of Life, a little walking in. And I have friends, real ones that I can call at four in the morning, who are kinder to me than anyone on the planet could possibly deserve.

All this to say, that if you're thinking about following DFW, we've got people for you. Also, as a morbid aside, if you're really tempted, got to the Googles and look up what suicides actually wind up looking like. I'm here to tell you, that will totally ruin your last facial. Also? Somebody has to clean up. Don't let it be your favorite people on the planet. They love you.

I Like Nice Things

me: also, i don't want you to think i'm cracking up, but i'm throwing out alll my old navy underpants and replacing them with silk thongs

Ilisa: I don't think that's crazy at all. Although, I'd keep some of the old navy's for the occcassional day when you really will still want comfort over everything else. Otherwise, I'm all about the sexy underwear, though I'm a bigger fan of the sexy silk boyshort than the thong.

me: i've gotten used to thongs
at least i know they're in my crack
no need to wonder
that's where they are!

Hard to Believe I'm Single

me: roooooooosss
rooooo
kangaroossss
roooons
Ross: you out to get me?
invisibly?
hi there
me: rooooo
i had to go invisible
i'm being stalked. not in a fun way
not with the great charm with which i'm stalking you
Ross: oh damn. you got t o make the joke before i did.
he's still sticking to it huh?
me: he is indeed
Ross: sure is a go-getter that one
me: ps: if you can't make in on thursday, the first floral arrangement i send will be one of those giant rose horseshoes they give to the winners of the kentucky derby
Ross: you're a real pain in the ass you know htat?
lucky you're cute
me: i've been coasting on that shit for years
Ross: i'll bet
me: the next arrangement will be a discrete bunch of birds of paradise
a lovely flower, fluorescent in hue
only four feet tall
you can put them on your dining room table
Ross: lovely
lovely lovely
me: and then maybe a venus fly trap
Ross: will they give me more energy than i presently have?
me: i could pinch you
that might help
or maybe i could tickle you
but that might just make you pee
or you could come have red bulls and vodka with me TONIGHT and that would both wake you up and absolve you of thursday
Ross: i would, but lo, i've a meeting at 7. :(
and also, ummm...
vodka and Red Bull?
hanging out at fashion week to much if you ask mee...
;)
me: and THAT is why no one asked you
ok, thursday it is
don't push me
i'm on medication
i can find arrangements with teddy bears
ones that say I WUV YOU
those, of course, i'll send to your office

Fashion Week, Go!

O hai! I maded you a fashion week, but I eated it.

Go White Boy, It's Your Birthday

I'm glad to see that Barry took my advice and picked an old white guy to be his running mate.

Actually, he didn't totally do it up: Joe Biden is only 65 and what I wanted was an ossified old fuck from Georgia or something. And also not Tim Kaine, in case I need to have an abortion. (Before you flame me, yes, yes, I know that he claims his opposition is "faith-based" and that he would never overturn Roe v. Wade. I claim that he's a big fat liar and until NARAL tells me differently, he can suck it. Even then, maybe he can still suck it.)

Many of my friends were upset that he didn't pick a lady, or someone from a bigger state, but all I want, please baby Jesus, is not to have McCain as my next president. Please, I'm begging you. I can still remember watching the 2000 election in the Model Cafe in Allston, Massachusetts and thinking, "I will be 32 years old before there's another Democrat in office."

Of course, by then I assumed I would be dead by such an advanced age, or at least retired and living in Boca Raton. Now, of course, I know that such a think won't happen until I'm at least 50. (Using my magical powers, I can assure you that in 18 years time, I will have moved that number forward to 83.)

Being Dumped Is a Talent

Me: OK, listen: If that's the way you feel about it, I'm only going to ask you for one thing.

Him: Anything.

Me: A year from now, when you realize you've made the BIGGEST MISTAKE OF YOUR LIFE, promise me you'll call me. I'll put you on speaker. From my new boyfriend's bed.

This actually passes as maturity for me.

I Am a Sweaty Girl

It's hotter than Mercury here in NYC, which is a problem is you're a sweaty person like me.

Most people sweat in this weather: What I do is mutate into a human sprinkler. I seriously look like I've been hit with a hose. Like maybe one of those guys who's always spraying down the sidewalks in front of apartment buildings got me by mistake. (Note: They never do this. There's clearly a lot of training that must be gone through before one can become a Hose Guy.)

Today, I walked my usual eight blocks to the train, only to discover that I was completely covered in perspiration. I mean, but completely. Usually I'm a tad damp. It looked like I had neglected to dry off at all when I got out of the shower.

It was so bad that I couldn't even tell myself it wasn't that bad. This is because people were staring. I learned something today, though: I learned that if you're a sweaty girl, people will fuck right off out of your way on the train.

I owe this realization to the dried up ol' sourpuss who was standing next to me on the B train this morning. She had a lot of bright red hair, nine gold necklaces, actual stone-washed jeans, and a face full of puckers that weren't entirely the fault of the aging process and/or overexposure to the sun and Merit Ultralights.

She stared at me in disgust as I continued to water my little square foot of standing room, so I stared right back at her. After a moment, I began wiping my chest and making horrid sickly little groaning sounds, like maybe the TB was going to take me at last. Finally, she looked away.

Seriously, lady: Would I sweat this much if I could help it? Just because you haven't had a natural bodily function since 1983, is that any reason to take it out on me?

Did I Mention My Mom's a Nurse, and That I'm a Spinster Lady?

Ma Smash: I got here right in time to see him born.

Me: No way! He was waiting!

Ma Smash: Yup! Three pushes and he was out.

Me: Ew.

Ma Smash: Oh, look! Here comes the placenta!

Me: EW.

Ma Smash: That's so interesting. You know, it looks just like cube steak!

Welcome to planet earth, Baby Oz Piddlington. Your Mommy is brave and your Gramma is ridiculous.

I Can Pick 'em

Seats on the bus, that is. Today, on my way back from Bostonland, I picked out a lovely window seat about a third of the way from the back. I was near the bathroom, in full view of the TV screen and on my preferred side. (Right. I don't know why.)

Shortly after I sat down, the bus got FULL. I mean, like, nearly SRO full. So it wasn't a big shock when the seat next to me got snapped up, in this case by a very nice 30ish woman who appeared only to speak Mandarin. (OK, not quite true. She did ask me what time it was at one point, in pretty good English. Still, I'm deaf and stupid about accents, so I had to ask her to repeat herself four times.)

Anyway, she was a good seat mate for most of the trip. Her husband was sitting in front of her and she spent most of the time talking to him. Then we rolled into New York and she started making this gacking sound deep down in her throat, picked up a plastic bag, and started HORKING UP CHUNKS.

I immediately freaked out and started feeling for the escape panel. Fun fact about me: I can throw up at the drop of a hat. I'm like the Fly, for reals-for reals. Just the smell of puke makes me want to do my impression of a sea cucumber.

I didn't throw. But I did spend the rest of the ride training my nose into the crook of my wrist, which I had fortunately and for once remembered to perfume that morning.

Pukey Girl? Yeah, she didn't even bat an eye. She didn't get up to go to the bathroom and she didn't even pop a piece of gum. Now that's being used to vomiting, people.

I managed to maintain my cool until she tried to lean across me - still holding her bag of vomit- to point out the many glorious sights of 34th street. Then I had to say, "I'm sorry, but you REALLY NEED TO BACK UP."

Ugh.

I'm Actually Surprisingly Bad at Scrabble

Facebook has this excellent thing called Scrabulous, which lets you play Scrabble with all your internet friends. Most of my internet friends are writerly, so I spend a lot of my time getting my ass kicked. For example, I am currently losing four games.

Scrabble also has a message function, via which I just had the following conversation:

Jen H: everyone is raping me at scrabble today

Ross P: so many things in one sentence! aargh!

Of New York and Prepositions

If you're moving here from elsewhere, or visiting for the first time, here's something you need to know that no one else will tell you: New Yorkers (and indeed, citizens of the tristate area as a whole) have an entirely different relationship to prepositions than anyone else in the country.

For instance, one:

1) Stands on line, not stands in line, at the movie theater, etc. Yes, here in New York, there is an invisible line and woe betide those who fail to stand upon it. In no way are you forming a line with your bodies. You have neither that much power nor that close a relationship with your fellow man.

2) Calls out sick, never calls in sick, with the sniffles. It's less important, after all, where your call goes than where you, glorious you, happen to be at the moment. Which is out. If you see what I mean.

I hope this helps.

More Info Than You Requested

I'm too lazy to find it, but a couple months back, a commenter mentioned that I'll probably freak out when I reach menopause, because I love talking about my period so much. I'm hoping this isn't true. My Mom seems to have enjoyed being free of her lady time. She celebrated with buying all new underpants and going on a diet and appears to be happier and healthier than ever. However, I'm not sure she felt the same way about the whole menstruation business as I do.

I love my period. I love the excuse for being lazy and taking naps and eating large chunks of bloody cow. I love having a reason for being bitchy and paranoid and I love losing five pounds in the course of a day without doing a single sit-up or running a single solitary mile on the treadmill.

But most of all, I love embarrassing the hell out of people.

Someday, scientists will discover that embarrassment is genetic and I will get the embarrassment titer only to discover that I am missing that gene entirely. I think it's funny when people are squeamish about bodily functions and the language that describes them and God help you if I ever meet you in real life, dear reader, and I perceive that you are missish about teh Moon Time. I'm proud to have humiliated everyone from Duane Reade cashiers to bodega-haunting drug dealers in my time as a fertile female, and, assuming that I have another fifteen to twenty years of this left, I figure I can disturb many, many more folks before I stop bleeding.

The last time I was home my friend Kate mentioned that I told her most of what she knew about periods when we were kids, because I started early and was happy to talk about it. I expressed surprise.

"OK, I was early, but there were other fifth graders," I said. "Something to do with hormones in our chicken nuggets, I think."

"Yeah, but they were ashamed," Kate said. "You were happy to talk about it. Like, we couldn't get you to stop."

My sister claims that the bulk of my charm is in the fact that I never, ever change, and provided that you find any of these behaviors charming, I guess she's right.

Neighbor Joy

Someone in this building is cooking vegetables. Correction: Someone in this building is overcooking vegetables, and by the time they remember they were cooking Veg-All, it'll be multi-colored paste in the bottom on the pan. It does not smell good, is my point, nor does it make me crave veggies.

I'm assuming that whichever neighbor this is, it's the same neighbor that's been leaving my front door open lately. I have no scientific basis for this assumption, but I prefer to think that I have one dastardly, veggie-ruining, security-threatening neighbor instead of a bunch of neighbors with annoying traits.

Cut to my neighbors, who, I'm sure, would be happy to tell you about my charming habits, including clomping up and down the stairs in giant platforms at all hours of the day and night and leaving huge stacks of boxes outside when it isn't recycling day.

Virtual Cab Ride With Ma Smash

Ma Smash: Hi, honey!

Me: Hi, Mom. I'm in a cab and I have to tell you, I think I'm drunk.

Ma Smash: Oh, dear. Well, I guess it's a good thing you're not in the subway then.

Me: Dennis wouldn't let me.

Ma Smash: He's a good boy. You tell him I said that. Sweetheart?

Me: Hmmm?

Ma Smash: Sorry, I thought you made a sound.

Me: It stinks in here.

Ma Smash: Oh dear.

Me: It does. It smells like the backside of balls on a hot day.

Ma Smash: Excuse me, miss: And how would you know?

Me: Er.

Ma Smash: On second thought, I don't want to know.

Me: I heard it somewhere.

Ma Smash: Just take a shower when you get home. And wash your hair.

I weep for those who must subsist without the advice of their mothers.

The Cabbage Patch Nurse

NB: I did ask my pal if it was OK to post the following. So if you're a real-life friend of mine, it's safe to email me with your woes. I won't just put them RIGHT UP ON THE INTERWEBS. Ahem.

As most of you know, I love social networking. At any given time, I'm an active member of at least three different sites, by which I mean that I check them regularly and actually use them to stalk people, instead of just leaving them out there as dead internets-real estate. (Although I've got plenty of those accounts too.)

Anyway, right now I'm mostly on teh facebook, because that's that has scrabulous and because I like to see people's statuses change. It's so helpful to be informed that your friend "is going to kill her friend Jen" or "would like to buy a drink for a struggling writer" before contacting them. (Neither one of those statuses have happened yet, but there's always time.)

Recently, I check my facebook and discovered that a friend of mine from high school, we'll call her Jane, had logged in and changed her status to the following:

"Jane is horrified at the idea of having to date again. Ugh."

Well. Something you might not know about me is that I like to help. I like to help a lot. I immediately wrote to Jane:

Subject line: Dating

Message: Is disgusting. It's my least favorite. In my perfect world, it would go like this: I would go out and get drunk with fun people until love descended from above. This is called college, sadly, and is hard to recreate.

Anyway, sending well wishes your way.

Jane replied:

You're a sweetheart! Thanks for the well wishes. My college experience was more along the lines of getting drunk with fun people, then discovering them in my bed the next morning and desperately trying to remember what their names were while frantically searching for my bra amongst the sheets. Love descended from above far less frequently than hangovers. Ah, the good old days...

But dating, alas, is even less fun. At least in college, when I was still desperately trying to prove I was straight, I felt like I was accomplishing something, you know? "Tally one more proof of heterosexuality," while now my biggest dating accomplishment seems to be not chucking my drink in some lady's face out of sheer boredom.

Le sigh... what's your most recent bad date? I'll tell you about the Cabbage Patch Nurse if you tell me yours ;)

Cabbage Patch Nurse? Who could resist? I wrote back:

Oooh, girl. Let's see.

OK: One bad date. I met this social worker through Match.com. Sez I to myself, "Social worker! Surely he won't be a sociopath like most guys I meet." Sez my shrink to me, "Oh dear. You know, most of us are very odd. We couldn't afford professional degrees and the amount of therapy we actually needed."

Needless to say, the guy was creepy in a Green River Killer sort of way. He was very nervous, as if the drugs were taking hold, and spent A LOT of time talking about how he was a lapsed Catholic, and how hard it was, and how he would have become a priest, but he loved KEEES-ING and TOOOUCH-ING too much.

I swear it was all could do not to point out that his pervy mcpervs were not incompatible with the priesthood.

Anyway. Do tell me of the Cabbage Patch Nurse. Which should be the name of some artistic work or other, I tell you.

Jane replied:

I know, so hard to pick just one, isn't it? Though that does sound like a doosie- should've checked with me before dating a social worker. I could have told you, from bitter experience, that none of them are just the Hairclub president, so to speak. Good thing he was so, um, tactile...it bodes so well for his future professionally, either in the priesthood or in therapy.

And now, the one, the only.... Cabbage Patch Nurse.

So I worked up my nerve, and went on a date with a friend of a friend's friend. I met her for lunch, thinking it couldn't be a long nightmare that way, if she turned out to be a member of the Manson family or something. Nope, she wasn't: turns out she's a nurse. She turned up, and I shit you not, she looked like my Cabbage Patch Kid, Blythe Marie. Same weirdly squished-but-doe-eyed face, hair in two braids...I kept resisting the urge to drop my napkin, to peek under the table and check if she had those scary dimpled knees like the doll, you know?

Little did I know, she had fiberfill for brains, just like my old doll. She babbled happily along about her ex and her coming out process, and I quietly munched my food, trying not to think about how I finally succeeded in giving the other Blythe Marie an appendectomy on my parents' kitchen table, and tried not to wonder if that meant I was possibly the bigger loon at the table? Finally, just as I raised my cup of tea to my lips she says, flapping her eyelashes earnestly, "I don't really know if I should vote in the next election, you know?...when is it, anyway, January? Besides, I think people have been really hard on Bush, don't you? I mean, he's really likable, in a bland sort of way?" (yes, she ended every clause she uttered with a big fat question mark)

I concentrated on swallowing my tea, and thought peaceful, calming thoughts until the check finally arrived. I kept thinking how this caring, well-meaning woman is a nurse, and handles drug dosages for patients. Heaven protect all the little old ladies in the home where she works.

Now I ask you, with that to think back on as my first dive into the dating scene in 6 years, is this really something I want to get back into???? Horror, I tell you, pure unadulterated horror!

Now, that, pals, is a bad date.

Nice to Be on the Same Page

Me: Do you think it's possible to be a happy person who suffers from depression?

Ross: I don't like the word depression. Do you know which word I actually prefer?

Me: Melancholy?

Ross: ...yes.

Weather Report

Let me tell you how hot it is here. It's so hot, that I'm doing the dishes right after I eat, so that the Giant Roach of Sumatra doesn't wend his evil way from my old apartment on the Lower East Side and take up residence in my Park Slope kitchen.

If you're not in New York right now, all I can say is, eff you in the ay, pal. It is goddamn hot here. I'm about to go take my third shower of the day and I suspect I'll need another when I wake up. I have the AC going full blast and I had to buy a fan on my way home from the DMV.

Savor that, for a moment: On my way home from the DMV. Today, on the hottest day of the year, I had to walk a mile to the DMV, wait on line in a room full of screaming children and very scary men with actual grills in their mouths, without air conditioning, to get a very un-official looking piece of paper that the State of New York claims is a temporary license, but which I think is actually one of those fucking "stickers" they used to give you in Cracker Jack boxes - you know, the kind where the stickum is not included.

Other things I did today, which were not suited to the weather:

1) Carried a 20-pound bag of laundry down the street and up my stairs.
2) Hauled four bags of groceries from the store to my house.
3) Did I mention the DMV? Yes? Well, there wasn't air conditioning. Thought you should know.

My pal Bonnie, who is southern and very lovely, said it was "hot as Hades" today, and that about sums it up. Hades = New York w/o AC.

Although, as Ma Smash is fond of pointing out, we're not great about AC here. AC is a luxury "they" know you'll do without, so long as you're allowed to stay. Other luxuries of this kind include reasonable rent, produce that doesn't look like it's been hurled at bowling pins, drinks that cost less than a meal in most parts of the country, and 40-year-old men who don't dress like members of Fall Out Boy.

What Did You Do This Weekend?

It's Hot

My AC is going full-blast, and I'm still dripping with sweat.

Yesterday was my birthday party, and the hottest day of the year so far. I wisely decided to do the party outdoors, at a beer garden. Everyone melted into puddles and got mopped away by ladies wearing wench costumes.

Another thing that happened at the beer garden: Every single person I know left with their wife, husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, triad relationship or casual fling. Everyone, that is, except the birthday girl. I think you know what this means.

It means it's time to find new single friends. Coworker Dennis and I will be accepting applications. In order to qualify, you must be:

1) Doy, single.
2) Able to read. (You must also own books, particularly ones you'd like to lend me.)
3) Able to drink and fond of doing so.
4) Not totally insane.
5) Not totally sane either, because what would we talk about?

Females, males, and persons of all known genders and inclinations are welcome. Applications may be included in the comments.

Love

From pal Moss just now: "Jenlet! I miss you. It's your birthday this weekend, and I miss you. I miss you so much that I might have to run through the streets. Naked. Crying. Call me."

Now that's how you leave a phone message.

I Must Miss the Ol' Man

I had a dream this afternoon (during one of my many Saturday naps) that I was back in my parents' house in Needham and that we were under attack by a serial killer. The serial killer had managed to blow the hinges off the back door, and was about to come in and get us, and my father said, "Oh, don't worry, I'll just fix that right up." And then he pulled out a tackle box full of tools and repaired the hinge.

Take that, serial killer!

Consumerism

Today, as I was waiting on line at the Social Security Office for my replacement card, I saw a cute little baby with a big smile and thought, aw, I should buy one of those. Just like I think when I see a really cute dog.

So much is wrong with this, I really can't go into it.

Wisdom From teh Webernets

Me: I find it really annoying that women don't put their birth years down on their facebooks.

Coworker Dennis: Why?

Me: Because it's dumb, that's why. Also, I want to know if [redacted] looks good for her age.

Coworker Dennis: She's 27.

Me: How do you know?

Coworker Dennis: All women are 27. The entire world was born in 1981.

Now you know.

Today in Delusional D-baggery

I think it's safe to say that if this guy weren't married, he'd never be getting any ever again. He still might not. After all, the whole name of his article is The Affairs of Men: The Trouble With Sex and Marriage. I think it's totally possible that his wife is pretty grossed out by him, too.

My favorite part of this piece, also highlighted by Jennie Smash girl-crush Jezebel, follows:

Sitting in Schiller's, I ... suggested that we could change sexual norms to, say, encourage New York waitresses to look on being mistresses as a cool option.

Bear in mind that this dude is 52 years old. I admit to reading the whole thing with one hand over my eyes, as if looking at an eclipse through a piece of cardboard, but I'm pretty sure he never once mentions that these cute little hipster waitresses might not be on the lookout for married dudes who are the same age as their fathers. Ew. EW!

Even Ma Smash Has Her Limits

Ma Smash: (About a mutual acquaintance.) Girlfriend? Oh, that's right: She's bisexual, isn't she?

Me: She's not bisexual.

Ma Smash: I thought she was.

Me: She says she is.

Ma Smash: You don't think she is?

Me: If she's bisexual, I will go right out into the street and have sex with the first woman I see.

Ma Smash: Oh my. Oh no.

Me: In fact, I'll go over to the bodega and have sex with that one lady behind the counter who doesn't have any teeth at all. That's what I'll do.

Ma Smash: I'll give you five real American dollars if you don't.

Up Your Manifesto

I am ready for the Fourth Wave. Who's with me?

I Actually LOLed

Coworker Dennis has been looking at condos lately, and I've been going with him, because everyone should have a fake wife to alternately play good cop/demand to know what this maintenance is for, anyway.

The search has had a salutary effect on his self esteem, as evidenced by the following conversation:

Jennie Smash: are you lunching today?

Coworker Dennis: i have a meeting at 1

JennieSmash: oh poop

Coworker Dennis: so i might run to the post office and get a nasty burrito at qdoba

Coworker Dennis: because buying apartments makes me feel sexy

JennieSmash: oh good for you

Coworker Dennis: and i don't care as much

JennieSmash: HA

JennieSmash: isn't that great?

Coworker Dennis: it sort of is

Coworker Dennis: like, oh, you don't want to date me? well you live on 110th street and i'm buying in a big glass pool-filled orgasm palace on the river with the best view on earth

JennieSmash: HA HA HA

JennieSmash: you are actually killing me

Coworker Dennis: yay! mission accomplished

The Jen Hubley Secret Boyfriend Committee

I have recently decided that it's very important to be at least a little in love as much of the time as possible. Currently, I am in love with Henry Cavill. He plays Brandon on The Tudors and is obviously my future husband.

The cynical among you might point out that I don't know Henry Cavill, that he is a famous person, and that I'll probably never meet him. I would argue that this makes him an excellent candidate for induction into the Jen Hubley Secret Boyfriend Committee, a society I invented some years ago but have allowed to languish for reasons that escape me.

Henry Cavill is, of course, currently president of the Committee. It is, however, the weekend and I have parties scheduled, so he might be ousted by a real person, at least until Sunday, when the next episode airs.

Realization

I was dragging the trash out to the curb this evening, when a woman walked by and gave me a funny look. This, I realized, was due to the fact that I was wearing my Mom's old scrub pants, a bleach-stained t-shirt, and slippers. Also, my hair was standing up like Don King's.

I swear, some days the only difference between me and my neighborhood homeless guy is that I still have all my teeth.

In the Old Days, This Required Binoculars

I was making my rounds of former flames on all my usual stalking sites the other day (MySpace, Facebook, Google, the National Registry of Sex Offenders) when I discovered that one of my exes has recently entered into a relationship. This ex is basically two exes, because I dated him twice, during two totally separate periods of my life.

Anyway, the point is that I am really a lovely person because I was so happy to see that he was in a relationship. Seriously, I rule.

Oh, and also, yes, I do think it's normal to stalk exes on Facebook. Basically, if you date, sleep with, or even talk to me in a vaguely romantical fashion at any time in your life, I will stalk you on the internets until the end of time. You have been warned.

Zombies on the Subway. Again.

If you told me that every last person on the subway this morning was a zombie, I would believe you.

I am known for being gullible - although I prefer to think of myself as filled with childlike wonder - but I swear to you, these people were out for brains. Let's review the evidence:

1. Vacant stares. (Check.)

2. Ashen complexions. (Check.)

3. Odor of rotting flesh. (Check.)

4. Alternately jerky and swaying locomotion. (Check.)

5. Invading my personal space for no other reason that I could see except for BRAINS, BRAINS, OMFG BRAINS.

Check. Obviously.

What Does It Take ... to Get a Drink in This Place?

Me: This guy at the end of the bar is trying to get me to take him home with me.

Aaron: He's a good-looking guy.

Me: You know, the thing is ... it's depressingly easy. I'm not trying to be a jerk. I don't think it means anything.

Aaron: My uncle told me a story once. He was talking about how at a certain age, girls just started to look right through him. Not like, giving him dirty looks or whatever. Like, they just didn't notice.

Me: Yeah, I'm not looking forward to that day.

Aaron: So it's a compliment, right?

Me: Yeah. (Pause.) I'm just so tired.

How You Know It's a Good Party

Michaela: So, should we get a car?

Me: Yes. Finish this whiskey. I have car service numbers.

Josh: OK. I just have to find my pants. (Off our look, as we realize he is still wearing only gold lame hot-pants.) What? My phone is in the pocket.

Update From the Dating

I got a complaint the other day from one of my twelve loyal readers that I haven't said much about the ol' love life lately. I assume that this is because this guy is in a relationship and is longing for gossip from the dating world.

I don't do a lot of gossiping about dating, because I'd like to be able to continue dating, and also, less selfishly, because it seems kinda mean to reveal everyone's secrets on the Internets.

I will tell you though, without getting specific, that I've been very amused lately by the number of dudes who think it's appropriate to ask young ladies about their quote-unquote fantasies. I assume porn is to blame for this, although to be fair, I blame porn for a lot of stuff I don't like about the culture lately, like totally depilitated lady forests and hypersexualized twelve-year-olds.

Fortunately, I have an answer to this question now. When a guy asks me to tell him my fantasies, I will now reply, "I fantasize - all the time, like, night and day - about doing it in, you know, a regular way. And then - this is the hot part - we totally go to brunch and get eggs."

Come on. Who doesn't like brunch?

A Sign

Last night, I had a dream that my roommates were kicking me out of my apartment because I hadn't done the dishes in so long. I live alone.

Some Things Never Change

Me: My friend Claire brought her baby into the office the other day.

Ma Smash: Oh, Leo! How is he? He must be big.

Me: He is big. He is no longer a large baby. He is now a small man.

Ma Smash: They do that.

Me: And he's a flirt! He loves girls. It's hilarious. I forgot that babies are people. I remember when I was waitressing, little boys would always flirt with us. Probably because we were smiling ladies who were bringing them food. Who doesn't like that?

Ma Smash: No one! Everyone likes that.

Me: It was always boys, though. I never saw, like, girl babies flirting with the guy waiters. So I think it's just boys who do that.

Ma Smash: [Crickets.]

Me: Mum? Did I lose you?

Ma Smash: Oh, no! I'm here.

Me: So, what do you think? Is it just boys?

Ma Smash: You were the worst flirt I've ever seen.

Me: Me? No! Come on.

Ma Smash: You were terrible. A little hussy. You'd bat your eyelashes and everything.

Me: Ha ha ha. That's hilarious.

Ma Smash: I feared you'd be abducted.

Me: And the guy would stand up in court and say, Look at the onesie! It was the way she was dressed!

Frida Hublo

Reader Monty has a theory on why I might have 11 teeny little zits on my nose: "Spider eggs?" Yeesh, Monty. Like I'm not crazy enough already.

To make myself feel better, I thought I might get my eyebrows threaded at lunch. I go to this place a few blocks away from my office, and they're pretty nice there. One time, when I hadn't been going there long, they talked me into getting my mustache done as well. Bear in mine that I have about 12 teeny little golden hairs on my lip, but they way they talked about it, it could have been a handlebar mustache, complete with waxed tips. Shame-as-upsell. Vogue has nothing on these ladies.

Anyway, I fell for it once, and then spent a week with this freakish bare upper lip that was way more obvious than any 12 golden hairs could be, so I decided never to do that again. Sensing this, the ladies didn't suggest it.

Today, however, there was a new threader who hadn't gotten the memo. After she did my eyebrows, she said, "Anything else?"

And I said, "No thanks."

"No?"

"No. Thanks."

And then she - swear to God - ran her finger over my lip, as if stroking my long, luxurious mustache hairs and said: "NOT EVEN THIS?"

"No," I said. "Leave the mustache. I LIKE IT."

Take that, thready-lady.

Arrested Adolescence

I woke up this morning with about 11 teeny little zits on my nose. WTF?

31 Years of Being Pale...

...you'd think I'd learn. I have a sunburn from being outdoors yesterday. Keep in mind that I was wearing 50 SPF sunblock the whole time.

Non Fashion-Related

But possibly crazy-related. I had my first migraine in over a year on Friday.

For some reason, getting a migraine always makes me feel a little nutty. This is possibly because no one seems to understand entirely why people get them or how they work, or it's possibly because I have a bizarre neurosis in which I feel that illness is actually my body's way of telling me that I am WEAK, WEAK, WEAK.

The weirdest thing about my migraines is that they're always preceded by a day or two of smelling garbage. It's like Hallorann's harbinger in The Shining, except that instead of preceding awesome psychic insights that save the lives of women and children, mine precedes a headache, which is awesome only in the sense that it inspires awe, and also temporary paralysis due to pain, and occasionally vomiting.

Here's another problem: if you live in New York, and it's not the dead middle of winter, you're probably smelling garbage anyway. So it's not like I actually get a warning anymore.

Sightings

This probably won't matter all that much to people who don't give a crap about fashion and/or New York, but I'm reasonably sure I saw Simon Doonan walking his dog near Washington Square Park on Saturday night. Evidence supporting this:

1) He was only about an inch taller than me.
2) Simon Doonan has a dog.
3) He looked a little horrified when he heard me and two of main gays hollering about his possible Simon Doonan-ness from the confines of our taxicab.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. That dude over there? I think that's Simon Doonan."

JC, who was closest, craned his neck. "It totally is Simon Doonan. It is either Simon Doonan, or a Simon Doonan impersonator."

Me: "It totally is him. Look how annoyed he is! Simon Doonan! Moss, hold my ankles."

Moss: "Hrm?"

"Hold my ankles, I want to lean out the window. Oh, shit. Now we're moving. SIMON DOONAN, I LOVE YOU. PUT DONATELLA BEHIND GLASS AGAIN."

It's possible that I am not well.

Art at the Brooklyn Museum - Now With Handbags and Vaginas!

Today, I decided that I needed some culture. I woke up early, virtuous, and got coffee and dropped off dry cleaning and went to the post office. Then I walked across the park to the Brooklyn Museum, to see the Murakami exhibit.

Now, to be honest with you, I didn't know much about Murakami before I went, except that he is, doy, Japanese and makes stuff that looks like anime. And I didn't really do much research beforehand, because I am lazy, and also because I like to experience things and then research them.

Many of the families were were attending the exhibit had also failed to do their research, and thus spent most of the time either covering their children's eyes or pretending to be the kind of hep parents who don't care that their children are looking at art featuring GIANT PENISES WITH SWIRLING ARCS OF BOY JUICE SHOOTING OUT OF THEM.

There were also vaginas. Don't want you to think that Murakami is leaving out the ladies. One little boy kept ogling a series of statues depicting a girl turning into a jet plane. He was pointing right at her lady parts, which were extra-pink and directed conveniently at the viewer.

Also of interest, in my opinion: The display of Murakami Louis Vuitton handbags which were in the middle of the installation, and for sale. I can get down with the mingling of art and commerce, but shouldn't that be in the gift shop? Grumble. Anyway, the placement worked, because I can't say I usually crave LV bags, but I wanted the one with cherry blossoms all over it.

I spent an hour in the Murakami exhibit before going downstairs to look at the Egyptian art. It was more my speed. I like looking at the scarab jewelry and cuniform rolls and the jars that used to hold guts. Also, I saw a mummified crocodile, and also (as well) an Ibis, which is a bird. Apparently, the Egyptians would mummify anything they found lying around, any pet, or, say, house guest. Something to think about.

A successful trip on the whole.

10 Reasons Karl Lagerfeld Rules

I love Karl Lagerfeld. I don't care how crazy he is: I love him because he's crazy. I love his weird powdered-wig George Washington hair, I love his super-tight collars, I love his fucking fan. But most of all, I love him when he says things like this:

Do you ever wish you had a son to pass on your wisdom to, to continue the Chanel heritage?
That's the last thing I want. I hate all children. For other people, it's fine, but not for me. I was born not to be a family person.

And, later:

Also I cannot go on airlines because people stare at me, you have to be touched by people. I hate that...I hate bespoke because I hate to be touched by strangers. It bores me to death.

Go read the rest at Jezebel. You're welcome.

Why I Hate Exercise

I was in the locker room at the gym just now, putting away my clothes, when a woman came over and opened one of the lockers in the upper bank next to me. The door promptly fell off its hinge, nearly squashing her.

"See that?" I said. "Exercise is bad for you."

"Actually, if I hadn't been working out so much, it would have fallen on me," she said. And then she applied stupid little weight-lifting gloves to her stupid little paws and toodled out into the gym in a high odor of sanctity.

This is my problem with exercise, and it's the same one I have with the Grateful Dead and Jesus: I can't stand the fans.

How Much Hatemail?

Looks like they just pried the gun out of Charlton Heston's cold, dead hand.

The Hottness, Part 437

Jennie Smash: a weird thing is happening with my weight loss

Jennie Smash: i'm DEFLATING

Mads: what does that mean?

Mads: that sounds very scary

Jennie Smash: like, my butt has a dent in it

Mads: a dimple?

Jennie Smash: between the butt part and the leg part

Jennie Smash: where none was before

Jennie Smash: i think it's a muscle, but i can't be sure

Mads: ha

Jennie Smash: anything is possible

Surprise Inside!

This evening, my friend Joe randomly reached into his jacket and pulled out a book and handed it to me. This is my favorite thing in the world. Friends of mine, I don't need Easter candy. Just surprise books. Please and thank you. Love, Hubley.

OId Age Setting in

I woke up at 6:30 this morning for no apparent reason. Well, actually, that's not entirely true: I woke up at 6:30 this morning because I went to bed at 9:30 last night. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's enough sleep for anyone.

It's pretty amazing that I managed this, though, because my neighborhood has gone insane. Some neighbor of mine was playing really weird European techno most of the evening, like loud - that volume that says, "You don't know it yet, but you really NEED this music." Well. I didn't.

Opera Guy is also back. This is some random dude who roams my hood singing arias to himself. I'm not sure which mental illness would make a person do this. Maybe too much art school?

Anyway, in general lately, everyone has been very strange. I've taken a poll, and 9 out of 10 people who allow me to IM them agree that people are quite stare-y on the subway, unusually persistent in their pursuit of spare change, prone to fits of giggling in otherwise staid and serious meetings, unwilling to tell their partners what's wrong, and so on.

I myself have been quite strange. For example, the other day I thought to myself, "I'm just so mad. I don't even know why. I just hate everyone! And my boobs really hurt." It took me a full day to realize that this condition is called PMS, and that I have had it for TWENTY YEARS.

Be careful out there, is all I can say.

Success, I Suppose

Me: I just realized something.

Mads: What?

Me: My underpants are too big.

Mads: Woo! That's how you know you've lost weight.

Me: But ... in my underpants?

I'm confused.

Crazy Runs in the Family

So, Spitzer, yeah? I've got stuff to say about that, but it's kinda whiny, so let's put that aside for now and talk about how geedee crazy each and every member of my family is. In the most lovable way possible, of course.

This Saturday, I was out on a pub crawl when I got a text from my sister:

"ARE YOU OK?" It said.

I scratched my head for a minute. It's a pretty big philosophical question, if you think about it. I mean, I think I might have allergies or something, and I'd really like to lose about ten pounds. But I believe I'm a good person and people keep asking me to hang out, so I must enjoy some kind of esteem from my peers.

I was just about to text back, "I think so?" when I noticed that my little envelope thingie was lit up. This means that I had a message. (I am a technical wizard.)

I had two messages. One was confirming a hair appointment, and thank God, as I look like one of those potted plants you can't kill. The other was from Meg.

"Pooper?" (That's what she calls me. It's also what I call her. We're all about keeping it simple.) "I was watching the news and I saw that there was a crane collapse on the east side and I know you never go there and you're probably OK but can you call me as soon as you can because I'm so, so worried, and I love you."

By this time, she was crying. Still, it was a very level-headed message from a five-months-pregnant woman who lives 3000 miles away from the family of her childhood, so I thought she was doing well. I called her back and told her I was alive and well on my way to being drunk, and she was quite relieved that things were back to normal.

Later, I learned that, during the half hour or so between her phone call and my return call, she'd decided the following:

1) That I was dead, and no one knew it yet.
2) That her son, who is still in the process of growing lanugo, would never get to meet me and that she would spend the rest of her life telling him all about how much his Auntie Jennie loved him, even before he was born.
3) That I was dead. For real. As in, not alive. (It's really important to remember that I've never once, in three years of living in New York, been within ten blocks of the place where the crane collapsed.)

Apparently, she called my folks, got my Dad on the phone and scared the shit out of him. He wasn't afraid that I was dead. He was afraid that she was broken.

She claims he literally said: "Ah! Ah! Crying! Wait! Your mother!" And then woke my Mom up from a sound nap by shoving the phone in her face and saying, "Crying! It's crying! Fix it!"

This probably isn't an exaggeration.

Then she informed Mom that I was probably dead and started crying harder, while saying, "But she's dead and I don't love ANYONE LIKE I LOVE MY POOPER."

I'm certain that her husband was thrilled about this statement, but I have to say that it warmed my heart later when I heard it.

Hormones are a helluva drug, people.

Long story short, I'm fine, Meg's fine, the bebe is fine, John is fine, and even my Dad has recovered nicely. We are high-strung people, but affectionate. You can't have everything.

Even More Random Than Usual

My weekend, in bullet form:

• I did my taxes. I'm actually getting money back, which never happens. I'm not sure why. Everyone else I know takes their refunds and buys a small Caribbean island with them.
  
• I went to three birthday parties. I will definitely need that tax refund now. There were a lot of cabs. Also, last night I wound up in a gay go-go bar at four in the morning. You know it's time to go home when it doesn't even seem odd that the waiter is not wearing pants.
  
• I am exhausted today, predictably.
  
• Back to the cabs. Cab drivers love me. They want to marry and impregnate me. They want to move to Brooklyn with me and start a car service. Of the four cab rides I took this weekend, two drivers chatted me up in some fashion. This is a pretty consistent percentage.
  
• If you combine my magical cab driver seducing powers with my tendency to attract younger men, it becomes obvious that I will eventually marry a 23-year-old cabbie.
  
• I will make him give you free rides places, but only if you're very drunk.
  

That's it for now. Hope everyone else had a lovely weekend as well.

Uh, WOW

Me: (Over the phone) Can I have a #30 please? And a Diet Coke? I'm at-

Waitress: Is this Jen?

Me: Uh. Yeah.

Waitress: MISS JEN! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

Me: Oh, I was, uh, in California...

Waitress: For what? A couple of weeks?

Me: ...yes.

Waitress: Don't worry. The gentleman knows where you are. He'll be so excited!

Me: Great!

I need to start cooking.

Conversation From Lunch

Lauren: You're insane about that hand sanitizer.

Me: I know.

Lauren: Do you use that every time you touch money?

Me: Yup. Or ride the subway. Or touch a doorknob.

Lauren: That I get. But ... money? Really?

Me: Lauren, money is covered with poop and cocaine.

Sue: That's true, you know. I read that somewhere.

Reader Participation

What should the word "lurp" mean? This question has a purpose. I can't promise that my limited attention span will enable me to reveal that purpose, however.

I am recovering from my 47th cold of the winter, by the way. The first year I lived in New York, I was sick all the time just like this. That was because I wasn't used to riding in the mobile petri dish that is the subway, and because my office was a big open area where everyone sneezed on each other all day. (For fun.)

Now, however, I suspect I'm sick because I've been traveling, so I can't really complain. Traveling is fun! Honestly, having a cold isn't so bad either. I secretly (OK, openly) enjoy having a slight cold, because it gives me an excuse to lie around my house and relax. The rest of the time, I have to wait until I have a hangover.

Update

I have returned. In my absence, New York was snowed upon. Can it be a coincidence? I think not.

Because I love you, citizens of the New York area, I will agree to stay put. For now. However, if it snows again, I might begin to doubt my magical weather-related powers (if not, of course, my many other, well-documented, non-meteorological powers) and go on a weekend trip to Boston or similar. You've been warned.

Anyway, I'm back from a week in San Fran. I was there visiting my sister, who is, as I've previously stated on this here blog, right up the pole and now everyone knows what she's been up to. We find out whether the baby is a boy or a girl on Tuesday. I say it's a girl. She says it's a boy. She seems to think that being the child's mother gives her some sort of insight into all of this, to which I say, phooey. I say phooey while having a beer, BTW, because aunties are allowed.

I am glad she wasn't with me on the trip home, however. There was a monstrous child on the plane from SFO to JFK. He kept pounding on the door while I was trying to pee. I don't know if I'm told you about this before, but I have pee issues in public bathrooms. It takes a minute of humming and counting and sticking out my tongue to make my lady flower relax enough to free the pee. Pounding on the door? Not conducive to this process.

I nearly gave up. Then I thought, no way am I going to let some airplane-bathroom-door-pounder make me give myself a UTI. Also, my seatmate, who was on the aisle, seemed to have cancer. She wore a kerchief around her (apparently bald) head and kept nodding off with her mouth open in a really distressing fashion. I spent half the flight willing her chest to inflate. It was exhausting. I certainly wasn't going to ask the poor woman to get up so I could pee again, all because of a door pounder who hates cancer victims.

You see the issue.

Anyway, I was finally able to go. Afterward, I wiped the sweat from my brow, rearranged my air travel headband (easier than a pony-tail, less homeless looking than leaving my hair to frizz in reconditioned air) and flung the door open.

In front of me was a little boy, about three feet tall. He had big brown eyes and one of those haircuts that looks like it was accomplished by putting a soup bowl on the kid's head and cutting around it. He was adorable. I wanted to strangle him.

"Was that you?" I demanded.

"Yeth," he said, in a charming little lisp.

I squinted at him a moment, trying to determine his age. He looked to be about six. If he'd been seven or older, I would have gently suggested to him that he be euthanized. But it's important, after all, to have standards of behavior, and in the end, I'm just not the sort of person who goes around suggesting things like that to six-year-olds. I snorted and pushed past to my seat.

(But next year. Next year. He better stay off my flight.)

Lame, Lame, Know Your Name

Fashion Week is over and I had all kinds of fabulous plans this weekend, none of which came to fruition, because I am lazy. I have not budged from my apartment all weekend, unless you count a toilet paper run and a trip to 'bucks for overpriced coffee treats. Which I don't, cuz, come on. What kind of a weekend is that?

Oh, I also bought some books. I'm reading one about premature burial right now. It's called, as you might guess, Buried Alive and it is scaring the crap out of me. I never really thought to worry about being buried alive, but now I'm pretty sure the only sound burial plan is to be left atop a tower of silence to be picked clean by carrion birds. Either that, or decapitated. So that's mostly what I've been thinking of this weekend.

I've also been thinking about how I've inadvertently become bulimic. Some weeks ago, I got the Norovirus, and ever since, I do my sea cucumber imitation every time I have spicy food, more than one cup of coffee, or any alcohol at all. It sucks and is a little scary, so I emailed my doctor to ask for DRUGS.

"SEND ME DRUGS," I emailed her. I should just make a macro at this point. How long til she scrawls "drug-seeking behavior" at the top of my chart and tells me to fuck off? Are there other folks out there who spend this much time and energy trying to scoring Nexium?

Fashion Week Is Here Again

Hello, my pals. It's time once again for me to view the clothes you will be wearing months and months from now, and write about them on Ye Olde About.com: http://www.about.com/fashionweek.htm.

There should be a new picture going up soon that makes me look less like the Joker. That's the rumor, anyway.

Please enjoy. (The blog and the non-Joker photo.)

Lazy Sunday

The upstairs neighbors are vacuuming. I think they should come down here and scrub out my bathtub, since they're feeling so energetic. It's unlikely it will get done otherwise.

I am in the midst of the laziest weekend I've had for some time. The last few weekends, I was either away or I had house guests, and next weekend I'm at Fashion Week, so now's my chance to indulge in sloth. Here's how slothful: I took a shower, finally, an hour ago, put on fresh pjs and my red sleeping suit, which is basically a blanket with foot and hand holes cut out, and I am now back on my couch.

I plan to drink tea and watch Most Evil all afternoon. (Since we know that I don't watch anything that doesn't feature ghosts, serial killers, or Tim Gunn. Poor Tim Gunn. I'm not sure what he did to deserve such company.)

Like a Candle in the Wind

Coworker Dennis: Is it just me, or did Heath Ledger die completely the same way as Marilyn Monroe?

Me: Oh my God! You're right.

Coworker Dennis: "All they could say was ... Marilyn was found in the nude."

RIP, Heath Ledger

Me: OMG.

Anonymous Friend: I know. Heath Ledger is dead.

Me: No - dude, I found the apartment he died in.

A. Friend: What?

Me: Utilizing the power of the Internets. See?

A. Friend: WHOA.

Me: It must be right up there. Fifth floor. This is so freaky and sad.

A. Friend: I dare you to call up and ask if there are any apartments available.

Seinfeld didn't seem funny to me until I moved to New York, either. This kind of whistling past the graveyard only really works in a big mean city.

For reals, though, what a sad thing. The latest seems to be that the pills they found with the body were OTC sleep meds.

Shirts for the Fat

There's a Bowflex commercial playing now that wins my vote for the most hilariously offensive commercial since Subway promised me I'd lose my boyfriend if I ate fast food. The commercial features the usual steroid cases flexing and lifting and showing off their baby-oiled pecs. And then this guy tells us that, thanks to Bowflex, he's found a better use for his old clothes:

"I gave my old fat clothes to my fat friends!"

What a guy! One might rightfully wish bad things to happen to such a "friend." For example, a fixation with those diet supplements that make you poop oil slicks.

Totes Possible That I Am Going to Live

After sleeping much of the past two days, I am pleased to announce that I'm going to survive this cold. This is very exciting, because yesterday, when I couldn't even really haul my laundry down the stairs, I was not at all sure.

I would like to say that I think it's unfair that a person who spends as much money on vitamins and hand sanitizer as I do should ever get sick. It seems like all that crap should be Sick Insurance of a sort. But apparently no.

The Big News

I'm going to be an auntie!

Mrs. Piddlington is expecting a Pidlet sometime in July. We're hoping it's a Cancer and not a Leo, as she's a Scorpio and Mr. P is a Sagg and that's just a whole lot of people who aren't willing to listen to reason. I'm only a little bit kidding. She lives in San Francisco, but I have no excuse.

I am way ridiculously excited about this. I put her sonogram up over my computer at work. It's a very cute baby and I plan to fill it full of candy and shake it upside down at every opportunity. Then I will give it back and race off laughing.

Not an Original Observation, But...

...if birth control pills gave 80-year-old men erections, they would be distributed for free at every clinic, doctor's office, and pharmacy across this great nation of ours. Instead, I just had to pay fifty goddamn American dollars (or 11 Euros) for my baby-go-ways, because my health insurance hates vag.

Or something like that. There was some fine print and I wasn't feeling up to arguing. Which is how they get you.

OMG, So Sick

This weekend I went on a trip to Vermont, and because such a thing is apparently not allowed, I got the worst cold I have ever had. Really: It's the worst one.

Symptoms of said cold:

1) Exhaustion, such that I had to pause whilst walking up the one flight of stairs to my apartment.
2) Sinus pain, pressure, and swelling, such that my glasses seemed to be floating over my face a wee cushion of distended nose-bridge.
3) Nose-runniness, such that I might as well cram a whole dang box of Puffs Plus up there and have done with it.

But mostly, I just feel gross. I've spent most of the day sleeping and the rest of the day complaining. The worst part is that I fought this bastard off for about a week before caving, leading me to believe that an extra vitamin C tablet at the right time might have spared me this.

Erg, blerg, back to bed.

The New Hottness on Ice

I went ice skating tonight for the first time in ... uh, I dunno how long. I think the last time I went, I had to stick a pillow in the butt of my snowpants to protect my tailbone. In fact, I should still do that, but now I am vain. Anyway, it's been awhile.

I bought myself ice skates because I decided that I want to start getting some exercise outdoors. A day after they arrived, it became unseasonably warm in NYC, which seems like it would be a problem, but actually isn't: The ice only melts a little in the outdoor rinks, for whatever scary chemical reason, and you can skate in a sweater and feel very sportive indeed.

I skated for an hour at Bryant Park tonight and every muscle in my body hurts. That was unexpected. I remembered that my ankles would hurt. My shoulders were a surprise though. I think it's because I wave my arms around in a protective manner. Also, my voice is hoarse from yelling, "Watch out! Ahhh! Be careful!" Etc.

One thing that hasn't changed: Creepy dudes still hang out at the rink trying to pick up girls. One guy tried to talk to me THREE TIMES. The third time, he said, "I don't know what I'm doing right, but I've lapped you!"

Ew. I know. I can't even.

Anyway, here's a tip if you do go skating this winter: Steer clear of the people with wet asses. They have fallen down and will do so again, most likely once they're right in front of you.

You're welcome.