Atrophy Appropriate to Age

A couple weeks ago, Ma Smash got whacked in the head with an X-ray machine at work. She's a nurse, so this isn't as strange as it would be if, say, I were whacked in the head with an X-ray machine at work. Anyhoo, she got a concussion and had to have a head CT, among other tests. The result of the CT, while not at all bad, was a bit depressing to her.

"I need some cheering up," she said today on the phone. "When they showed me my CT? The doctor said..."

"WHAT?"

"Nothing bad. Ugh ... he said my brain showed atrophy appropriate to age."

"But that's not bad?"

"No, except that I'm old."

I thought a minute. "OK, here's what it's like. Oh! Here's what it's exactly like. It's like when I asked my gyno for Gardasil and she said I couldn't get it, because I'm a super-old whore."

"Jennifer Hubley. She did not say that."

"Well, no. But she thought it. And she laughed."

Mom paused. "Atrophy appropriate to age."

"I know what. This will cheer you up: We'll go find that doctor and kick him in the balls."

"Promise?"

"Sure. And you know you love to watch shows where people get kicked in the balls."

"I do!"

It's a very strange relationship that we have, but it works.

Other People's Phone Conversations

A guy outside on the street is saying, "I'm an asshole. I'm an asshole. No, I'm an asshole." Over and over again. Maybe he is. Who am I to say?

Can I Get a Witness?

My neighborhood is being overrun by Jesus freaks.

I don't even know what kind they are, because Jesus freaks are so terrifying to me that I can't even engage them in conversation. We used to have a lot of Jews for Jesus in my neighborhood (or Jesus for Jews, or Jesusy Jews Who Like Candy, or Secret Squirrel Christians or whatever) but they seem to be gone now. They would mostly stand on street corners with their literature, asking everyone if they were Jewish and smiling creepily. Way easy to dodge. My feet have little wheels on the bottom, so I can maneuver around that shit. These news folks, though ... they're another story.

They come to your door, for one thing. Today I was enjoying a much-needed nap, when my doorbell rang. Figuring it must be either a) presents for me or b) Drunken Mouse, lost and drunk and confused about his address, I got up and pressed the intercom button.

"Hello?"

"Hello, my friend and I were wondering if we could get your opinion on the Kingdom of Heaven ... hello? Hello?"

I just let them talk and got back on my couch. What a weird way to start that particular conversation, though. It seems like asking for trouble.

Good Help

Coworker Dennis: when is your date and where?
Coworker Dennis: I want to sit with a giant menu at the next booth
Coworker Dennis: even if it's at a bar. i will bring my own giant menu
Jennie Smash: please do
Jennie Smash: where's your date tonight?
Coworker Dennis: TBD
Coworker Dennis: if it happens
Jennie Smash: it'll happen
Jennie Smash: or you can just come on mine
Jennie Smash: "this is my chaperone, dennis"
Coworker Dennis: wouldn't that be funny?
Jennie Smash: we'd have to film it
Coworker Dennis: "he's going to sit between us"
Jennie Smash: "it's important that he likes you, so do what he says"
Coworker Dennis: and then he can ask questions like "where are you from originally" and i'd whisper to you not to answer it
Jennie Smash: ha ha ha
Jennie Smash: "NO PERSONAL QUESTIONS. WE TOLD YOU BEFORE THE INTERVIEW"
Coworker Dennis: then i can pull you away to all the different dates you have to go on while you apologize

My Horoscope Is Good, Though

A dog tried to bite me last night. I really hope this is not an omen for 2008, because I've been having such positive feelings about it.

Stacey and I were coming back from the Dresden Dolls show, which was amazing, BTW, and going back to her place so that she could write me a check for the ticket. (Five bucks says I lose it. I still can't find my Christmas check from my grandparents.)

As we walked up Union, a guy came by with a little chihuahua on a leash.

"Aw, how cute!" I said, and leaned forward. Whereupon, the little bastard lunged at me snarling, and tried to bite my hand. When I drew back too quickly for that, he snapped at my calf. I could actually feel his nasty little teeth bouncing off my tights. If his owner hadn't pulled him back, I'm pretty sure I would have spent the rest of the first hours of '08 in the ER getting my calf reattached.

What would Cesar do?

Boob Dress

I accidentally cleaned my whole apartment today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dogs and Their People

I'm crazy about dogs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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