I like to spend as much of my free time as possible e-mailing my friends. This accomplishes two goals: it allows me to waste time gossiping instead of doing important things like work or cleaning my apartment, and it keeps me from getting too much exercise, which might make me develop an exaggerated view of my own attractiveness and start torturing people with my miniscule pants size and bad attitude.
So I was delight to receive an e-mail the other day from my good friend J. Edward Medina, which in addition to the usual gossip, chatter and drinks invitations (always good), contained the following very interesting question:
What do you find sexier:
- A man who can hold his liquor like a Spanish bull, or ...
- A man with a current library card who uses it?
Isn't that fun? Really hard, too! Here's what I replied:
Thank God you wrote, J. Edward Medina. I was almost
forced to do work. Just imagine.
As for your questions, first I must ask you a
question, to clarify: Do Spanish bulls hold liquor? If
so, where do they swill this liquor? At Schiller's? I
would like to see that very much, is why I ask.
In answer to your question, however, I would have to
say that the library card wins, although I myself do
not read library books, because I am too crazy, and
can't stand to see all those suspicious brown
fingerprints all over the pages when I'm reading.
Also, library books smell bad, like mildew and
halitosis. New books are the way to go, J. Ed. Yes,
the landfill problem is all due to people like me, but
whatever else I am, I'm a good consumer first and
foremost.
That being said, I have never been in love with a man
who did not have both the qualities you mention. My
current beau makes me look like a Quaker in the
drinking department, and can't shut the door to his
apartment anymore, for fear of knocking over a stack
of books. He's been robbed six times because of this,
but he's too drunk to notice. That's a joke.
All this aside, we should definitely get some
margaritas.
Best,
J. Hubley
Thursday, December 9, 2004
Wednesday, December 8, 2004
Ugly Americans
Everyone knows that in order to be a true high school nerd, you must either belong to the band or the chorus. Since I had no talent, I joined the chorus.
My best friend Sarah, who was not a nerd, joined the chorus, too, but not out of social desperation. She had, as it happened, a beautiful singing voice. And she also wanted to go on the chorus trip to England our junior year.
England was not at all what we'd expected. We thought it would be like America, only with more tweed and cool accents. Instead, we discovered that England was this whole separate country, with different weather and food and an entirely different sense of humor.
The vicar at the Anglican church where we were supposed to sing was a lovely, older man who looked like John Cleese and acted like the murderer in every BBC mystery we'd seen on PBS. He was very glad to have us there. He was delighted that we'd be singing. And oh, yes, if we felt we wanted to come up to the front for Communion during the service -- or a blessing, if Communion wasn't our thing -- we should feel free.
Communion wasn't either of our things. Sarah was Jewish; I was agnostic. However, we both liked the idea of being blessed by an English vicar, so we decided to go up. As it turned out, we would have felt funny staying in the pew. Everyone went up, including the people who cut CCD to smoke cigarettes at Friendly's.
We got in line with everyone else and began the slow shuffle to the front of the church. As the first batch of communicants dropped to their knees, Sarah clutched my arm in terror.
"I can't kneel," she whispered.
"What?"
"I can't kneel," she hissed. "I'm a Jew. We don't kneel. It's a rule. No golden calves, no kneeling."
"Well, look. Don't worry. I won't kneel either."
"You won't?"
"Nah. Who cares? I'm not Christian."
"Okay. You promise?"
"Promise. We'll look weird together."
Oh boy, did we look weird. Everyone else peered up at us curiously from their position on the floor, as Sarah and I stood awkwardly in front of the vicar. The vicar peered at us benignly, just a little puzzled, and held out the Host for us to take.
"Oh, no thanks!" Sarah squeaked. "No body of Christ for me! I'm a vegetarian!"
The vicar stopped smiling.
My best friend Sarah, who was not a nerd, joined the chorus, too, but not out of social desperation. She had, as it happened, a beautiful singing voice. And she also wanted to go on the chorus trip to England our junior year.
England was not at all what we'd expected. We thought it would be like America, only with more tweed and cool accents. Instead, we discovered that England was this whole separate country, with different weather and food and an entirely different sense of humor.
The vicar at the Anglican church where we were supposed to sing was a lovely, older man who looked like John Cleese and acted like the murderer in every BBC mystery we'd seen on PBS. He was very glad to have us there. He was delighted that we'd be singing. And oh, yes, if we felt we wanted to come up to the front for Communion during the service -- or a blessing, if Communion wasn't our thing -- we should feel free.
Communion wasn't either of our things. Sarah was Jewish; I was agnostic. However, we both liked the idea of being blessed by an English vicar, so we decided to go up. As it turned out, we would have felt funny staying in the pew. Everyone went up, including the people who cut CCD to smoke cigarettes at Friendly's.
We got in line with everyone else and began the slow shuffle to the front of the church. As the first batch of communicants dropped to their knees, Sarah clutched my arm in terror.
"I can't kneel," she whispered.
"What?"
"I can't kneel," she hissed. "I'm a Jew. We don't kneel. It's a rule. No golden calves, no kneeling."
"Well, look. Don't worry. I won't kneel either."
"You won't?"
"Nah. Who cares? I'm not Christian."
"Okay. You promise?"
"Promise. We'll look weird together."
Oh boy, did we look weird. Everyone else peered up at us curiously from their position on the floor, as Sarah and I stood awkwardly in front of the vicar. The vicar peered at us benignly, just a little puzzled, and held out the Host for us to take.
"Oh, no thanks!" Sarah squeaked. "No body of Christ for me! I'm a vegetarian!"
The vicar stopped smiling.
Tuesday, December 7, 2004
Mind of its own
I went to see a friend's open studios this weekend. I was a little nervous about it, for two reasons: number one, I get lost easily, and her studio is in a neighborhood I never go to; number two, her mother would be there, and her mother always hurts my feelings.
Let me be clear: my feelings are easily hurt. Now that I am an adult-type person, or at least wearing my adult-type clothes, I can pass this off as sensitivity and justify it by pointing to its usefulness in helping me craft scintillating observations about mankind. But until I started writing -- and telling people about it -- I was just kinda nutty and difficult to get along with.
Anyway. My friend's mother is very good at saying the kinds of things that make sensitive nuts like myself cringe, and then cower, and then drive home shouting clever comebacks into the rearview mirror, and then climb into the bathtub with a bottle of bourbon and weep.
To make matters worse, the day of the open studios, I woke up ugly. The last vestiges of my summer color (not really anything so grand as a tan, but a bit of natural blush and an amplification of my freckles) had totally faded, leaving me pale and washed out and, it seemed to me, possessed of new wrinkles I'd never noticed before. I also had an enormous zit, right in the middle of my check where you can't pop it for fear of getting a pock mark. And my hair was frizzy and dry, and I was at my Mom's house and didn't have my regular hair gunk.
I've always hated my hair. It's curly, for one thing, and very full, but fine, so it won't hold a hair style or do anything I tell it to do. My sister claims that in this, it expresses my personality perfectly. I have obstinate hair.
But this is what hair pins were made for, so that's what I did. I stole some of Mom's conditioner and made my hair flat, and twisted it back off my face where it couldn't bother me. A few little broken off strands stood up immediately and started waving around like I was holding one of those static electricity balls at the Museum of Science, but I tamped most of them down with conditioner and figured it was the best I could do.
My friend's mother, on the other hand, had perfect hair. She'd just had it cut into a cute little bob with bangs, the hair style I've always coveted and can never ever have. The first thing she said to me was, "Look at your hair!" I winced.
"It's so long!" She said.
I opened one eye cautiously. Long isn't bad. Not necessarily.
"Yeah," I said. "It's not as long as it looks, though. I've just got it back."
"Oh, that's right," she said. "You have that BUSHY HAIR."
Later, when I was driving home, screaming into my rearview mirror, I thought of a million things to say:
"I don't have BUSHY HAIR. I'm just not GOING BALD LIKE YOU."
Or:
"It just looks bushy because I'm young. Once I'm OLD LIKE YOU, it will lie flat."
Or:
"You're mean! You're a mean, mean lady! Poopy!"
That last one is probably what I would have said, if I'd said anything. Which was why I kept my mouth closed.
And then ran right home to write about it.
Let me be clear: my feelings are easily hurt. Now that I am an adult-type person, or at least wearing my adult-type clothes, I can pass this off as sensitivity and justify it by pointing to its usefulness in helping me craft scintillating observations about mankind. But until I started writing -- and telling people about it -- I was just kinda nutty and difficult to get along with.
Anyway. My friend's mother is very good at saying the kinds of things that make sensitive nuts like myself cringe, and then cower, and then drive home shouting clever comebacks into the rearview mirror, and then climb into the bathtub with a bottle of bourbon and weep.
To make matters worse, the day of the open studios, I woke up ugly. The last vestiges of my summer color (not really anything so grand as a tan, but a bit of natural blush and an amplification of my freckles) had totally faded, leaving me pale and washed out and, it seemed to me, possessed of new wrinkles I'd never noticed before. I also had an enormous zit, right in the middle of my check where you can't pop it for fear of getting a pock mark. And my hair was frizzy and dry, and I was at my Mom's house and didn't have my regular hair gunk.
I've always hated my hair. It's curly, for one thing, and very full, but fine, so it won't hold a hair style or do anything I tell it to do. My sister claims that in this, it expresses my personality perfectly. I have obstinate hair.
But this is what hair pins were made for, so that's what I did. I stole some of Mom's conditioner and made my hair flat, and twisted it back off my face where it couldn't bother me. A few little broken off strands stood up immediately and started waving around like I was holding one of those static electricity balls at the Museum of Science, but I tamped most of them down with conditioner and figured it was the best I could do.
My friend's mother, on the other hand, had perfect hair. She'd just had it cut into a cute little bob with bangs, the hair style I've always coveted and can never ever have. The first thing she said to me was, "Look at your hair!" I winced.
"It's so long!" She said.
I opened one eye cautiously. Long isn't bad. Not necessarily.
"Yeah," I said. "It's not as long as it looks, though. I've just got it back."
"Oh, that's right," she said. "You have that BUSHY HAIR."
Later, when I was driving home, screaming into my rearview mirror, I thought of a million things to say:
"I don't have BUSHY HAIR. I'm just not GOING BALD LIKE YOU."
Or:
"It just looks bushy because I'm young. Once I'm OLD LIKE YOU, it will lie flat."
Or:
"You're mean! You're a mean, mean lady! Poopy!"
That last one is probably what I would have said, if I'd said anything. Which was why I kept my mouth closed.
And then ran right home to write about it.
Monday, December 6, 2004
Monday Quiz 2: What is Jen sick and tired of? (AOL edition)
Hello, and welcome to the second installment of "What is Jen sick and fucking tired of?" This was supposed to be a weekly segment here on the Smash, but I got lazy. This is a blog, after all. "Lazy" is our middle name.
Today, I am sick and fucking tired of automatic software upgrades. I work at an Internet publishing company (yes, there are a few of us left), and I do about 85% of my work on the Internet. All of the applications that allow me to post stuff to our Web sites, for example, are Web-based. So when I can't use the Internet for some reason, I pretty much can't work.
Cue AOL Instant Messenger, and their oh-so-helpful automatic software upgrade. (We use IM for work purposes, by the way. Just in case you were going to advise me to solve all my problems by getting to work for real.) Every other week, it seems, I get another little pop-up window when I log on, telling me that my Instant Messenger is hopelessly out of date, but not to worry: with one click of my mouse, I can download the latest version and get the latest smileys and wallpaper and obnoxious little door shut!/door open! noises. This will presumably keep me from being ostracized at work by my peers who remain more current with their free applications.
But I don't care about that, because my coolness comes from within, or rather not at all. So if it were up to me, I'd never ever upgrade IM. I'd still be using the first version that came on the market, the one where a little woodpecker appears on your screen and taps out your messages on a slate tablet. (Similarly, I still use a cell phone with the magical power of making and receiving phone calls, and not much else in the way of features. It is the size of a sandwich and weighs five pounds. It might have a crank on the back.)
However, you can't let IM lie fallow on your machine, not the way they've got it set up, oh no. After skipping two or three upgrades, you will start to notice that your IM doesn't work as well as it did a few weeks ago. You won't be able to see people's icons at all anymore, or you won't see a flash when someone is messaging you. Also, that one guy who works at every company and does nothing all day but try out new features on free software will message you incessantly, asking you if you can hear the Star Spangled Banner play while he types.
So I keep having to upgrade. This last time, AOL thoughtfully installed a toolbar with a pop-up blocker that essentially cancelled out half our content management applications. Like a total boob, I sat there for half an hour, waiting for the pop-up window to appear telling me that my content was ready for preview. In vain, alas, in vain.
I can only hope that my new toolbar will cancel out AOL's next "free upgrade!" pop-up.
Today, I am sick and fucking tired of automatic software upgrades. I work at an Internet publishing company (yes, there are a few of us left), and I do about 85% of my work on the Internet. All of the applications that allow me to post stuff to our Web sites, for example, are Web-based. So when I can't use the Internet for some reason, I pretty much can't work.
Cue AOL Instant Messenger, and their oh-so-helpful automatic software upgrade. (We use IM for work purposes, by the way. Just in case you were going to advise me to solve all my problems by getting to work for real.) Every other week, it seems, I get another little pop-up window when I log on, telling me that my Instant Messenger is hopelessly out of date, but not to worry: with one click of my mouse, I can download the latest version and get the latest smileys and wallpaper and obnoxious little door shut!/door open! noises. This will presumably keep me from being ostracized at work by my peers who remain more current with their free applications.
But I don't care about that, because my coolness comes from within, or rather not at all. So if it were up to me, I'd never ever upgrade IM. I'd still be using the first version that came on the market, the one where a little woodpecker appears on your screen and taps out your messages on a slate tablet. (Similarly, I still use a cell phone with the magical power of making and receiving phone calls, and not much else in the way of features. It is the size of a sandwich and weighs five pounds. It might have a crank on the back.)
However, you can't let IM lie fallow on your machine, not the way they've got it set up, oh no. After skipping two or three upgrades, you will start to notice that your IM doesn't work as well as it did a few weeks ago. You won't be able to see people's icons at all anymore, or you won't see a flash when someone is messaging you. Also, that one guy who works at every company and does nothing all day but try out new features on free software will message you incessantly, asking you if you can hear the Star Spangled Banner play while he types.
So I keep having to upgrade. This last time, AOL thoughtfully installed a toolbar with a pop-up blocker that essentially cancelled out half our content management applications. Like a total boob, I sat there for half an hour, waiting for the pop-up window to appear telling me that my content was ready for preview. In vain, alas, in vain.
I can only hope that my new toolbar will cancel out AOL's next "free upgrade!" pop-up.
Friday, December 3, 2004
I am here to help
Hello, my friends, friends' friends, family members, ex-boyfriends and stalkers. I am starting a new feature here on the Smash, and I need your help. It's going to be called "Ask Jennie Smash", and it will be, as you might expect, an advice column. There's a twist, too, but I hate to spoil things for people.
So send me your troubles and cares: iscribblez AT yahoo.com. I am not a trained anything, and I often give very bad advice. How's that for a pitch?
So send me your troubles and cares: iscribblez AT yahoo.com. I am not a trained anything, and I often give very bad advice. How's that for a pitch?
Thursday, December 2, 2004
Pixies, yay! Yay, Pixies!
So, I went to see the Pixies last night in Lowell. It was a good show, despite the fact that I was tired and feeling sort of grumpy and old. Fortunately, the Pixies themselves are now grumpy and old, and so is most of their audience, so I didn't feel out of place.
Because I'm lazy, as well as being grumpy and old, here are my observations from the show, in no particular order:
1) Frank Black has a big, fat head. And it gets worse from there: his neck looks like it's trying to swallow his noggin. I've heard he's kind of a dick, and all I can say is that if my neck looked like a foreskin, I might be, too. That being said, he's still a completely awesome weirdo.
2) I still wish Kim Deal would be my friend.
3) Everyone has little pigtails now. It used to be just a few people and now it's everyone. Why can't I have little pigtails? Maybe I'll just cut all my hair off.
4) Here's how I know I'm old: I sat down at the show. Like, for almost all of it. And I thought it was too loud.
5) My imaginary baby, which some of you may remember from my livejournal, was in full force last night. Actually, it was more like an imaginary fetus. I was so hormonal with PMS that it was like I was pregnant. My premenstrual self wanted a lot of salt, so I got a big bag of popcorn and snarfled it down. And then I stole some of Isaac's M&Ms. He was a little confused when I told him that my imaginary baby thinks M&Ms are delicious.
6) Where do people find time to sew little skulls on the back of their vintage coats? I don't even have time to sew buttons on. I just wear the fucker until I'm down to, say, two buttons and then I throw that shit out.
7) I seem to have stopped recycling. I just left all my garbage on the floor. Also, at work, I'm not using my recycling bin for its intended purpose. What does that mean? Have I given up?
8) Crowds are always full of awesome freaks. This is true at concert venues, shopping malls and outdoor gun shows. Get more than ten strangers in a room and you're bound to have at least one mutterer with questionable hygiene.
9) I want robotic lights like the ones the Pixies had. They hung on trees and moved just like the spotlights in the future scenes of The Terminator. If I had these robotic lights, I would program them so that they would go on whenever I spoke in a meeting or told a joke when I was out with my friends. Just imagine how shocked you'd be if we were hanging out and I said something and then this huge purple spotlight shone on me.
10) People don't wave lighters anymore. They wave cell phones. DUMB. (I did it, too.)
Because I'm lazy, as well as being grumpy and old, here are my observations from the show, in no particular order:
1) Frank Black has a big, fat head. And it gets worse from there: his neck looks like it's trying to swallow his noggin. I've heard he's kind of a dick, and all I can say is that if my neck looked like a foreskin, I might be, too. That being said, he's still a completely awesome weirdo.
2) I still wish Kim Deal would be my friend.
3) Everyone has little pigtails now. It used to be just a few people and now it's everyone. Why can't I have little pigtails? Maybe I'll just cut all my hair off.
4) Here's how I know I'm old: I sat down at the show. Like, for almost all of it. And I thought it was too loud.
5) My imaginary baby, which some of you may remember from my livejournal, was in full force last night. Actually, it was more like an imaginary fetus. I was so hormonal with PMS that it was like I was pregnant. My premenstrual self wanted a lot of salt, so I got a big bag of popcorn and snarfled it down. And then I stole some of Isaac's M&Ms. He was a little confused when I told him that my imaginary baby thinks M&Ms are delicious.
6) Where do people find time to sew little skulls on the back of their vintage coats? I don't even have time to sew buttons on. I just wear the fucker until I'm down to, say, two buttons and then I throw that shit out.
7) I seem to have stopped recycling. I just left all my garbage on the floor. Also, at work, I'm not using my recycling bin for its intended purpose. What does that mean? Have I given up?
8) Crowds are always full of awesome freaks. This is true at concert venues, shopping malls and outdoor gun shows. Get more than ten strangers in a room and you're bound to have at least one mutterer with questionable hygiene.
9) I want robotic lights like the ones the Pixies had. They hung on trees and moved just like the spotlights in the future scenes of The Terminator. If I had these robotic lights, I would program them so that they would go on whenever I spoke in a meeting or told a joke when I was out with my friends. Just imagine how shocked you'd be if we were hanging out and I said something and then this huge purple spotlight shone on me.
10) People don't wave lighters anymore. They wave cell phones. DUMB. (I did it, too.)
Wednesday, December 1, 2004
A recent realization
This is just life: I'm stressed out and that's how it is.
I realized that today, because I was talking to my good friend and fellow stress-bunny Cathy, and one or the other of us (could have been either) said, "Well, it's just been a hard year." And then I realized that I've been saying "it's been a hard year" for oh ... the last five years or so at least. So basically, as long as I've been out in the world, working and paying rent and trying to figure out how to have normal relationships with other humans, it's been a hard year.
For my new year's resolution, I think I will start saying something else instead. Not necessarily something positive, mind you. I don't want to get dizzy and confuse myself. But instead of saying that it's been a hard year, maybe I'll just use a different adjective. Maybe I'll say it's been a fuzzy year, or it's been a purple year. Maybe I'll say, "this year does not quite match the other years, but the light is so dim in the bar that no one will notice."
I realized that today, because I was talking to my good friend and fellow stress-bunny Cathy, and one or the other of us (could have been either) said, "Well, it's just been a hard year." And then I realized that I've been saying "it's been a hard year" for oh ... the last five years or so at least. So basically, as long as I've been out in the world, working and paying rent and trying to figure out how to have normal relationships with other humans, it's been a hard year.
For my new year's resolution, I think I will start saying something else instead. Not necessarily something positive, mind you. I don't want to get dizzy and confuse myself. But instead of saying that it's been a hard year, maybe I'll just use a different adjective. Maybe I'll say it's been a fuzzy year, or it's been a purple year. Maybe I'll say, "this year does not quite match the other years, but the light is so dim in the bar that no one will notice."
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