Mainly for the purposes of moving my picture down the page! Because I just went to look at my blog and realized that there are two -- not one, but two! -- ginormous pictures of me "above the fold!" And I don't want you to know how vain I really am! How horribly, horribly vain.
How vain am I? I'm so glad you asked. You know how everyone and their Aunt Louise has a digital camera now? (Except me, because I'm a lame-o and like to spend my money on travel and beer. Which is why I miss the Acela so much: It featured travel and beer. Anyway.) Everyone has one, and they snap pictures all the time. Anytime you go out, someone has a camera and they snap dozens and dozens of pictures. It's like boozing with parents of a newborn: "And there she is holding a glass. There she is dropping the glass. There she is, flirting with the man who has come to sweep away the shattered remnants of her drink. There she is, looking confused that it's not on." Etc.
Well, here's how vain I am: after each and every picture snapped, I'm that jackass that says, "Was that of me? Can I see?"
I didn't even realize that I did this, until one day my friend Cathy pointed it out to me. As in, "No, you cannot see it, and stop asking. It's only 9:00. We have three more hours at least of this, and I don't feel like showing you every ... single ... picture."
The best part is that I'm not even particularly photogenic.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Hubley and Hubley go see The Interpreter
My cousin and I went to see The Interpreter last night and ... eh. First of all, before I tell you what we thought of it, I should mention that you're reading a half-assed movie review by these people:
See what I'm saying? Clearly, our critical skills are not the best thing about us. The best thing about us is that we are more than usually attractive, and also fun at parties. Although, to be fair, Rolfe beats me in both categories.
Anyway, The Interpreter. Can I ask you this? Does anyone in the world really think that Sean Penn is hot? Because if so, please explain. He is a wee little man with the weirdest hair I've ever seen, and his face looks like it was assembled with Mr. Potato Head parts. I'm sorry to be cruel, but I just don't understand why anyone would want to have sex with Spicoli. Especially since we now know that he has no sense of humour at all.
The other half of the chemistry problem is Nicole Kidman, who is very pretty, but who cares? She never seems real to me. Although, I'm pleased to announce that it seems that's she's lightened up on the Botox. But now her lips look weird. I mentioned this to Rolfe at the very start of the movie.
"What's wrong with her lips? It's like there's a little fold in the bottom one. See that? That wasn't there before. What has she done?"
"It's a lip implant, making a break for it."
No wonder no one wants to sit near us in the theatre.
But leads aside, the major problem I had with the movie was that the music drove me nuts. Like, weird African flute music for no apparent reason, and then Paul Simon "Now we are in AF-RI-CA" yodeling and yelping at others. Meanwhile, for most of the movie, we're in New York. So what's up with the fluting and the yallering? Makes no sense to me.
Rolfe, who is much less shallow than I am, also pointed out that the parts that took place in Africa seemed offputting somehow -- like a white person's idea of Africa, rather than the place itself. "Here is a dusty road, with children on it. And they have guns! Also, there are bugs, because this is AF-RI-CA and they are poor here. Aren't you lucky you live in America?"
See what I'm saying? Clearly, our critical skills are not the best thing about us. The best thing about us is that we are more than usually attractive, and also fun at parties. Although, to be fair, Rolfe beats me in both categories.
Anyway, The Interpreter. Can I ask you this? Does anyone in the world really think that Sean Penn is hot? Because if so, please explain. He is a wee little man with the weirdest hair I've ever seen, and his face looks like it was assembled with Mr. Potato Head parts. I'm sorry to be cruel, but I just don't understand why anyone would want to have sex with Spicoli. Especially since we now know that he has no sense of humour at all.
The other half of the chemistry problem is Nicole Kidman, who is very pretty, but who cares? She never seems real to me. Although, I'm pleased to announce that it seems that's she's lightened up on the Botox. But now her lips look weird. I mentioned this to Rolfe at the very start of the movie.
"What's wrong with her lips? It's like there's a little fold in the bottom one. See that? That wasn't there before. What has she done?"
"It's a lip implant, making a break for it."
No wonder no one wants to sit near us in the theatre.
But leads aside, the major problem I had with the movie was that the music drove me nuts. Like, weird African flute music for no apparent reason, and then Paul Simon "Now we are in AF-RI-CA" yodeling and yelping at others. Meanwhile, for most of the movie, we're in New York. So what's up with the fluting and the yallering? Makes no sense to me.
Rolfe, who is much less shallow than I am, also pointed out that the parts that took place in Africa seemed offputting somehow -- like a white person's idea of Africa, rather than the place itself. "Here is a dusty road, with children on it. And they have guns! Also, there are bugs, because this is AF-RI-CA and they are poor here. Aren't you lucky you live in America?"
Weird things people are saying to me, part one
I've noticed this weird trend, since I started discussing the New York Plan openly with my pals, peers and colleagues: people keep asking me if I'm going by myself.
There are many variations on this question, but it amounts to same thing. People want to know if I'm running away because of some boy. This is all the more interesting because I was actually dating a boy in New York late last year, shortly after (after, please note I said "after") I started thinking about moving. It had nothing to do with him, but all the same, the few people I talked to about my plan didn't believe me. In fact, he didn't believe me, and he was less than pleased when I pointed out to him that my plan predated our relationship.
Which I thought was kinda odd, cuz who needs that kind of pressure, right? I mean, if a boy told me that he was moving to a city to be near me, I think I'd be freaked out. I'd be all like, okey-dokey, then. I'll just be moving, myself. And not leaving a forwarding address. Can you just step out to the market, and pick up these things? No, no. I'll totally be here when you get back, no worries.
Now that I think about it, maybe I'm the one who has issues. But if should come as no surprise to you all then that there's no boy in New York.
There are many variations on this question, but it amounts to same thing. People want to know if I'm running away because of some boy. This is all the more interesting because I was actually dating a boy in New York late last year, shortly after (after, please note I said "after") I started thinking about moving. It had nothing to do with him, but all the same, the few people I talked to about my plan didn't believe me. In fact, he didn't believe me, and he was less than pleased when I pointed out to him that my plan predated our relationship.
Which I thought was kinda odd, cuz who needs that kind of pressure, right? I mean, if a boy told me that he was moving to a city to be near me, I think I'd be freaked out. I'd be all like, okey-dokey, then. I'll just be moving, myself. And not leaving a forwarding address. Can you just step out to the market, and pick up these things? No, no. I'll totally be here when you get back, no worries.
Now that I think about it, maybe I'm the one who has issues. But if should come as no surprise to you all then that there's no boy in New York.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Let us now be positive
Let us now be positive, in all ways, except for those involving blood tests or peeing on sticks. Let us shed negativity, and embrace cheery things.
Let us think of kittens and beer and giant balls of string and roadtrips and new car smell and cotton candy and pony rides (except that ponies make us sneeze, and by "us," I mean "me," as I'm sure you're just fine with ponies, just fine, I mean, you'd have to be some kind of a nerd to be allergic to ponies) and large white clouds in large blue skies and well-worn jeans and clean smells and new places. Let us think of summer.
The winter is over. It's time for travels. If I can ever, ever sleep again, I will take a nap in a puddle of sunshine. It's time to make big changes and not look back. (Or, if you're a pony-allergic, fretful, anxiety-driven insomniac, to make big changes and look back constantly, insistently, as if to say, "Well! Look at that! You're still back there, other choice I could have made!" But let us look away from that. No pillars of salt here, please.)
Spring is here. Let's change everything. I'll race you!
Let us think of kittens and beer and giant balls of string and roadtrips and new car smell and cotton candy and pony rides (except that ponies make us sneeze, and by "us," I mean "me," as I'm sure you're just fine with ponies, just fine, I mean, you'd have to be some kind of a nerd to be allergic to ponies) and large white clouds in large blue skies and well-worn jeans and clean smells and new places. Let us think of summer.
The winter is over. It's time for travels. If I can ever, ever sleep again, I will take a nap in a puddle of sunshine. It's time to make big changes and not look back. (Or, if you're a pony-allergic, fretful, anxiety-driven insomniac, to make big changes and look back constantly, insistently, as if to say, "Well! Look at that! You're still back there, other choice I could have made!" But let us look away from that. No pillars of salt here, please.)
Spring is here. Let's change everything. I'll race you!
Mr. Knuckles
I just rented a storage space from a man named Jimmy Knuckles.
OK, that's not entirely accurate: I rented a storage space from the associate of a man named Jimmy Knuckles, but I saw Mr. Knuckles' card on the desk while I was filling out my paper work.
"Your colleague has an AWESOME name," I told friend of Knuckles.
He laughed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah. He's not, like, in the mob or anything, either. He's from Florida. Has a southern accent and everything."
And then? Mr. Knuckles' business associate pushed a little hockey-puck shaped thing across the table to me, and flipped it open to reveal a fingerprint pad.
"We need your left index finger, your right index finger, and your right thumb." He said, as though asking for the actual digits themselves, not the prints.
"Wow," I said, weakly. "You don't mess around."
And then, all of a sudden, I felt super sketchy. This happens to me a lot, and it's a primary reason why I'm generally not up to anything. I know I'd never get away with it. But the dude asked me for my fingerprints, as if I were a criminal, and then, all of a sudden, I started to feel like a criminal. I felt my eyes shift from side to side, as though searching for an excuse not to give him my criminal, shifty, outlaw fingerprints.
"This'll be fun to explain back at work!" I said brightly.
"It washes off." He said, staring at me as he pushed a box of tissues across the table. And no doubt feeling around on the floor for the silent alarm.
OK, that's not entirely accurate: I rented a storage space from the associate of a man named Jimmy Knuckles, but I saw Mr. Knuckles' card on the desk while I was filling out my paper work.
"Your colleague has an AWESOME name," I told friend of Knuckles.
He laughed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah. He's not, like, in the mob or anything, either. He's from Florida. Has a southern accent and everything."
And then? Mr. Knuckles' business associate pushed a little hockey-puck shaped thing across the table to me, and flipped it open to reveal a fingerprint pad.
"We need your left index finger, your right index finger, and your right thumb." He said, as though asking for the actual digits themselves, not the prints.
"Wow," I said, weakly. "You don't mess around."
And then, all of a sudden, I felt super sketchy. This happens to me a lot, and it's a primary reason why I'm generally not up to anything. I know I'd never get away with it. But the dude asked me for my fingerprints, as if I were a criminal, and then, all of a sudden, I started to feel like a criminal. I felt my eyes shift from side to side, as though searching for an excuse not to give him my criminal, shifty, outlaw fingerprints.
"This'll be fun to explain back at work!" I said brightly.
"It washes off." He said, staring at me as he pushed a box of tissues across the table. And no doubt feeling around on the floor for the silent alarm.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Hate letter: Sunday night
I can't sleep. Ahhhh. I can't sleep. This won't be a very good entry, because I can't sleep.
It's my own fault. I took a nap today. And I went to the gym. Going to the gym is good for you, eventually, because it works off anxiety, but when you start going again after a long absence, well, it just winds you up more.
It's Sunday night. Sunday night is the worst. I lie in my bed, covers sandy and bunched around my legs, thinking of the 9,000 things I have to do the next day. Also about major life plans. Also about every stupid thing I've ever said to anyone, ever. By the time I'm done, I've pretty much convinced myself that it's a miracle that I've managed to maintain any job or friendship for more than a month or so, ever.
This is lots of fun. I'm thinking of making it into a boardgame. I will call it, "You Lose!" It will be like "Sorry!", only about anxiety. Some of the square will read, "Did you really do the best job you could on that project last week?" and "You really shoulda called that guy before you left the office on Friday." Others will read, "Remember that one guy you broke up with over e-mail? It was seven years ago, but you're still an asshole." Or "Really worthwhile people would rather read about matters of political importance, instead of spending all day reading blogs and celebrity gossip."
I think that this game will be huge, at least among my friends.
It's my own fault. I took a nap today. And I went to the gym. Going to the gym is good for you, eventually, because it works off anxiety, but when you start going again after a long absence, well, it just winds you up more.
It's Sunday night. Sunday night is the worst. I lie in my bed, covers sandy and bunched around my legs, thinking of the 9,000 things I have to do the next day. Also about major life plans. Also about every stupid thing I've ever said to anyone, ever. By the time I'm done, I've pretty much convinced myself that it's a miracle that I've managed to maintain any job or friendship for more than a month or so, ever.
This is lots of fun. I'm thinking of making it into a boardgame. I will call it, "You Lose!" It will be like "Sorry!", only about anxiety. Some of the square will read, "Did you really do the best job you could on that project last week?" and "You really shoulda called that guy before you left the office on Friday." Others will read, "Remember that one guy you broke up with over e-mail? It was seven years ago, but you're still an asshole." Or "Really worthwhile people would rather read about matters of political importance, instead of spending all day reading blogs and celebrity gossip."
I think that this game will be huge, at least among my friends.
Friday, April 22, 2005
My poor brother-in-law had no sisters ... up til now.
stevo: Have you gotten any good pictures from your readers lately?
jenniesmash: No, not a single penis picture in ages.
jenniesmash: I must be getting fat.
stevo: Or your male reader base is turned off by your references to those things that girls do bad things with.
jenniesmash: TAMPONS?
jenniesmash: You mean, TAMPONS?
jenniesmash: For our COOCHIES?
jenniesmash: No, not a single penis picture in ages.
jenniesmash: I must be getting fat.
stevo: Or your male reader base is turned off by your references to those things that girls do bad things with.
jenniesmash: TAMPONS?
jenniesmash: You mean, TAMPONS?
jenniesmash: For our COOCHIES?
stevo is offline. (4/22/2005 4:30 PM)
jenniesmash: Ha ha ha!
jenniesmash: I made you go away.
jenniesmash: TAMPON.
stevo has signed back in. (4/22/2005 4:31 PM)
stevo: : STOPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!
jenniesmash: Ha ha ha! TAMPON.
stevo: : YOU'RE DRIVING ME INSANE!
jenniesmash: MENSTR-OO-ATION!
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