Ma Smash: Are you cleaning again?
Me: Yup.
Ma Smash: It's me, isn't it? You clean when you're on the phone with me. You're nesting or something.
Me: Oh, shit.
Ma Smash: What?
Me: Uh, nothing.
Ma Smash: What?
Me: There's a small cockroach in my bathtub. Just a small one.
Ma Smash: OH MY GOD.
Me: Not a big one, though. Just one of the little ones. (Pause.) And it's dead.
Ma Smash: JESUS CHRIST. Call the super! You can't have those.
Me: Oh, it's not such a big deal. Everyone has them. I mean, sure, at first I was freaked out by them, but now I'm cool. They come up through the drains when you've been away for awhile. There's almost always one when I come home from a trip.
Ma Smash: I cannot believe you live under those conditions.
Me: It's OK! It's just a little one.
Ma Smash: Oh, lord.
Me: You should have seen the one on my coffee pot! It was HUGE!
Ma Smash: Well, I'm glad you're so happy there.
Me: It's good to be home.
Ma Smash: In your small apartment. With your pet roach.
Me: (Sighing contentedly.) Home, sweet home!
Ma Smash: Maybe we could get you a little leash, and you could walk it.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Monday, March 13, 2006
Comedy Jackpot: Friendster's Dating Tips for Men and Women
Dude. Nononono: Dude. Have you seen this section of Friendster?
Those of you who've read this blog once or twice before know that I am flat out obsessed with Friendster. I check it slightly less often than I check my email, and I spend significant amounts of personal time stalking old friends, boyfriends and Internet crushes on this site, despite the fact that no one has used it since 2003 and that all the cool kids are showing everyone their boobies over on MySpace.
Today, however, my obsessiveness paid off, because I noticed a cunning little feature just above the fold on the first page: Friendster Dating Advice. (Aren't you glad you have me? I'm reading this stuff so that you don't have to.)
First up: Article of the Week "How To Communicate With 'Emotionally Distant' Men."
I looked in vain for the real nugget of useful advice here, which is obviously not to communicate with emotionally distant men, unless if by communicate you mean tell them to take off their pants or go bore their mother with their issues. Featured in this article instead of my sage tips? Many instances of CAPITAL LETTERS telling you THINGS YOU'VE HEARD A THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE, such as:
(Wow. Thanks for that insight. Does NASA know you're moonlighting?)
And also vaguely creepy and definitely snicker-worthy statements like:
(You know, I pushed a man's secret button once, but he asked me to stop. Har har.)
Other headlines include:
"The 10 Most Dangerous Mistakes
YOU Probably Make With Men —
And What To Do About It..."
"Secrets To Fixing Relationships 'Gone Bad'"
"Why Men Withdraw ... And What To Do About It"
Incredible, isn't it? It's like the Cosmo Quiz on dumb juice. I'm almost impressed.
Those of you who've read this blog once or twice before know that I am flat out obsessed with Friendster. I check it slightly less often than I check my email, and I spend significant amounts of personal time stalking old friends, boyfriends and Internet crushes on this site, despite the fact that no one has used it since 2003 and that all the cool kids are showing everyone their boobies over on MySpace.
Today, however, my obsessiveness paid off, because I noticed a cunning little feature just above the fold on the first page: Friendster Dating Advice. (Aren't you glad you have me? I'm reading this stuff so that you don't have to.)
First up: Article of the Week "How To Communicate With 'Emotionally Distant' Men."
I looked in vain for the real nugget of useful advice here, which is obviously not to communicate with emotionally distant men, unless if by communicate you mean tell them to take off their pants or go bore their mother with their issues. Featured in this article instead of my sage tips? Many instances of CAPITAL LETTERS telling you THINGS YOU'VE HEARD A THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE, such as:
I realized something important this week about how men think and act.
It's that men who pay attention and think about the feelings they have, why they have them, what they mean and how to talk about them are RARE.
(Wow. Thanks for that insight. Does NASA know you're moonlighting?)
And also vaguely creepy and definitely snicker-worthy statements like:
Men have a "SECRET BUTTON" you can push that will make communicating with them almost effortless.
(You know, I pushed a man's secret button once, but he asked me to stop. Har har.)
Other headlines include:
YOU Probably Make With Men —
And What To Do About It..."
Incredible, isn't it? It's like the Cosmo Quiz on dumb juice. I'm almost impressed.
Thursday, March 9, 2006
The Cutest Dog in North America
Keep in mind that, like his Auntie Jennie, he does not photograph well. Also, he's in a dryer, because my sister is a sick person. However, below you will find a picture of a dog I love so much that I actually let him kiss me on the lips.
I love this damn dog. He's a Yorkie Poo, which is a cross between a Yorkie, a poodle, and an animatronic teddy bear, and he is an uncontrollable face kisser and horribly behaved. This is what his day is like:
8 a.m. Get up. Whine for Mommy. Go for walk. Poop.
8:15 - 8:17 a.m. Eat prescription dog food that costs more than sushi.
8:18 - 10:00 a.m. Crazy time. This involves running around the house like a maniac at least three full rotations, eating the rug, dragging shoes out of the closet, and sneaking up on anyone who might be on the rug trying to read in order to eat her hair, lick her nose, or jump on her shoulders and yelp.
10:00 - Noon. Nap.
Rest of day. Repeat as necessary.
When I first got there, Meg showed me his pen and crate and explained that if he nipped or pooped inside, he had to go in his pen. This seemed so cruel to me that I refused to report him when he chewed my hand, hair, nose, etc. If he maims a toddler, it is entirely my fault. Also? I love being an auntie. I totally have to convince her to have babies so that I can fill them full of candy and shake them upside down until they barf.
I love this damn dog. He's a Yorkie Poo, which is a cross between a Yorkie, a poodle, and an animatronic teddy bear, and he is an uncontrollable face kisser and horribly behaved. This is what his day is like:
8 a.m. Get up. Whine for Mommy. Go for walk. Poop.
8:15 - 8:17 a.m. Eat prescription dog food that costs more than sushi.
8:18 - 10:00 a.m. Crazy time. This involves running around the house like a maniac at least three full rotations, eating the rug, dragging shoes out of the closet, and sneaking up on anyone who might be on the rug trying to read in order to eat her hair, lick her nose, or jump on her shoulders and yelp.
10:00 - Noon. Nap.
Rest of day. Repeat as necessary.
When I first got there, Meg showed me his pen and crate and explained that if he nipped or pooped inside, he had to go in his pen. This seemed so cruel to me that I refused to report him when he chewed my hand, hair, nose, etc. If he maims a toddler, it is entirely my fault. Also? I love being an auntie. I totally have to convince her to have babies so that I can fill them full of candy and shake them upside down until they barf.
Dispatch from the Pacific Northwest
Hello, all. Here I am in lovely DuPont, Washington, enjoying the rain and the snow and hanging out with my sister. I have more stories for you, eventually. In the meantime, here is a short list of realizations I had this week:
1) I want a dog.
2) It's very rainy here.
3) Riding in cars makes me sleepy.
4) So does cloudy weather.
5) As well as any time changes.
I have taken 473 naps per day since I got out here. I've been thrilling company, let me tell you.
1) I want a dog.
2) It's very rainy here.
3) Riding in cars makes me sleepy.
4) So does cloudy weather.
5) As well as any time changes.
I have taken 473 naps per day since I got out here. I've been thrilling company, let me tell you.
Sunday, March 5, 2006
Search Terms
Two recent visitors to the Smash came here through search. One from the search string "new yorkers are rude" and the other from "unavailable sex film."
I'm not sure what kind of joint y'all think I'm running here.
In other news, I'm in Tacoma this week, visiting Mrs. Piddington and enjoying the fresh clean air. It's spring here. I saw flowers on the trees and everything. Also, there are stars. Amazing!
I have access to the Internets, though, so no worries: I'm sure you'll hear from me.
I'm not sure what kind of joint y'all think I'm running here.
In other news, I'm in Tacoma this week, visiting Mrs. Piddington and enjoying the fresh clean air. It's spring here. I saw flowers on the trees and everything. Also, there are stars. Amazing!
I have access to the Internets, though, so no worries: I'm sure you'll hear from me.
Friday, March 3, 2006
Flight 1018 Will Be Delayed, Pending Hubley's Nervous Breakdown
The woman sitting next to me at JFK is reading one of those loathsome self-help books. This particular one is called Your Best Life Now: 7 Steps to Living at Your Full Potential, and it's authored by some dude who looks like the minister at the Baptist church I went to when I was 10. She isn't reading it, though. She's just fondling it and jigging her knee up and down so that it knocks into my chair. She also sat on my coat. I hate her.
BTW, my flight is delayed. In case you couldn't tell by my charming attitude.
Here's the thing with the self-help books: They are a racket comparable only to pyramid and Ponzi schemes, it seems to me. I wish to write a self-help book called "Give Me All Your Money Because I'm Lazy and I Don't Want to Do Shit No Mo'." It will be 150 pages long. Each page will have approximately 25 words on it in 18-point type. On the cover, I will wear a tasteful suit and smile at you through huge shiny caps that look like dentures. You will give me all your cash, and then use the book as a $20 coaster, as God intended.
It's taking all my strength not to lean over to this woman and say, "You want some good advice? Don't be a damn fool your whole life. That'll be 10 bucks, babe. Bargain rates at Dr. Hubley's."
BTW, my flight is delayed. In case you couldn't tell by my charming attitude.
Here's the thing with the self-help books: They are a racket comparable only to pyramid and Ponzi schemes, it seems to me. I wish to write a self-help book called "Give Me All Your Money Because I'm Lazy and I Don't Want to Do Shit No Mo'." It will be 150 pages long. Each page will have approximately 25 words on it in 18-point type. On the cover, I will wear a tasteful suit and smile at you through huge shiny caps that look like dentures. You will give me all your cash, and then use the book as a $20 coaster, as God intended.
It's taking all my strength not to lean over to this woman and say, "You want some good advice? Don't be a damn fool your whole life. That'll be 10 bucks, babe. Bargain rates at Dr. Hubley's."
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
I Am a Grown-Up, I Don't Care What You Say
I passed up the chance to see Go-Go Boys in order to go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight. This means that I am a grown-up lady, and prefer men who think I'm pretty. The end.
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