I haven't posted about the tsunami yet, because I'm pretending that it never happened. This is fairly easy to do, because I'm excellent at denial and because, honestly, so many people died in it that I can't even fathom the severity of the situation. How many people died? I'm so glad you asked. Everyone but you and me and the guy who just sold you your Wednesday scratch ticket is now totally and completely dead.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
That's the sound of the Smash...
A short time ago I was dating a guy who informed me that in his opinion, I am a workaholic. This was far from his biggest complaint about me, but it was clearly an issue all the same, and when we broke up, it was one of the things I mentioned when I was complaining about him to my friends.
"And he said -- get this -- HE SAID I WAS A WORKAHOLIC."
My friends were sympathetic, because they love me and because they all work sixty hours a week themselves. So really, who are they to throw stones? But it does occur to me, in looking over the past week or so, that my ex-boyfriend might've had a point. I worked most of the weekend, and nearly every night once I got home, plus a full day at my office. This is the kind of craziness that caused the Japanese to jump out of office buildings in Tokyo in the eighties.
The real secret is that I like working. I like it so much, I don't even take lunch at my office. I'm happier when I have lots to do, and I need a great deal of structure, otherwise I feel insane. I like lists. I like notecards. I like highlighters. I have an office supply fetish. Staples is my adult entertainment center. It may be sad, but hey. I could argue that the secret of a happy life is figuring out who you are, exactly, and then behaving like yourself as much as possible, without hurting anyone. I am a neurotic workaholic freak. And so I will behave as such.
"And he said -- get this -- HE SAID I WAS A WORKAHOLIC."
My friends were sympathetic, because they love me and because they all work sixty hours a week themselves. So really, who are they to throw stones? But it does occur to me, in looking over the past week or so, that my ex-boyfriend might've had a point. I worked most of the weekend, and nearly every night once I got home, plus a full day at my office. This is the kind of craziness that caused the Japanese to jump out of office buildings in Tokyo in the eighties.
The real secret is that I like working. I like it so much, I don't even take lunch at my office. I'm happier when I have lots to do, and I need a great deal of structure, otherwise I feel insane. I like lists. I like notecards. I like highlighters. I have an office supply fetish. Staples is my adult entertainment center. It may be sad, but hey. I could argue that the secret of a happy life is figuring out who you are, exactly, and then behaving like yourself as much as possible, without hurting anyone. I am a neurotic workaholic freak. And so I will behave as such.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Fads I am opposed to: Pointy shoes
Winter is a bad time for me, sartorially speaking. I get really, really lazy. How lazy? I realized the other day that I haven't put my contacts in in at least two weeks, and also that I seem to have completely stopped wearing foundation (that's the glop girls put on their faces, fellas).
The funniest part of it is, I don't think I really look all that different than I do when I get gussied up. Maybe, you know, a little less sparkly. And the glasses are pretty obvious, I guess, because I favor the Large Dorky Frame of the Moderately Hip.
But even under the best of circumstances, there are some trends that I will not participate in. Chief among these: Pointy shoes.
Pointy shoes were put on this earth by Satan to torture the faithful. I believe this, just as I believe that George W. Bush watches Monday Night Football while wearing a tutu and Uggs and drinking wine coolers. I have many beliefs, some of them suspect. But I digress.
I don't like pointy shoes because my feet are not pointy. Do you see? And so wearing pointy shoes would hurt my little feet, and that would make me cry. No one wants that. So I'm doing everyone a favor.
I have friends who do the pointy shoes, and they tell me that the secret is to buy them larger, so that the shoes start narrowing after your toes stop, but I feel that this would make me look like Bozo the Clown, with my size 11 shoes hanging off my poor wee feet. Also, would they even fit? I'd look pretty sexy, clomping around in my stylish footwear. I just don't think it will work.
I want round toes to come back into fashion. I might hold my breath.
The funniest part of it is, I don't think I really look all that different than I do when I get gussied up. Maybe, you know, a little less sparkly. And the glasses are pretty obvious, I guess, because I favor the Large Dorky Frame of the Moderately Hip.
But even under the best of circumstances, there are some trends that I will not participate in. Chief among these: Pointy shoes.
Pointy shoes were put on this earth by Satan to torture the faithful. I believe this, just as I believe that George W. Bush watches Monday Night Football while wearing a tutu and Uggs and drinking wine coolers. I have many beliefs, some of them suspect. But I digress.
I don't like pointy shoes because my feet are not pointy. Do you see? And so wearing pointy shoes would hurt my little feet, and that would make me cry. No one wants that. So I'm doing everyone a favor.
I have friends who do the pointy shoes, and they tell me that the secret is to buy them larger, so that the shoes start narrowing after your toes stop, but I feel that this would make me look like Bozo the Clown, with my size 11 shoes hanging off my poor wee feet. Also, would they even fit? I'd look pretty sexy, clomping around in my stylish footwear. I just don't think it will work.
I want round toes to come back into fashion. I might hold my breath.
The week ahead with Jennie Smash
Hey, guys, I wrote this week's Incoming! column for the Black Table. Go check it out! (Don't make me beg.)
Wednesday, January 5, 2005
Ma Smash update
I know from talking to some of my twelve readers that my potty mouth is sometimes problematic, at least in terms of folks being able to read my musings at work. Well, I'm sorry about this, but honestly, I've cleaned up my act as much as I can in this regard. Also, I'm starting from a deficit. I have a genetic predisposition toward filth. Here's an example of what I'm talking about.
My sister and I were sitting around at my parents' house, talking about dogs, as you do. We were discussing specifically Meg's mother-in-law's dog, Bingo, and the fact that his little operation didn't seem to take.
"I mean honestly, I'm sitting there in the car, minding my own business, and Stephen says, hey, Meghan, look in the back seat, and I look and there's Bingo, grinning at me, with his huge red dick hanging out."
At this point, my Mom came into the room, looking puzzled, as anyone would having come into that conversation mid-sentence.
"What's going on?" She asked.
"Bingo had the snip, but it didn't work."
"Well, I know that!" She said brightly. "At your cousin's wedding, he tried to fuck my ankle!" Her face changed for a minute. "And I wouldn't mind, but I knitted that dog a sweater."
People, I ask you. Was there ever any hope for me? Clearly, there was not.
My sister and I were sitting around at my parents' house, talking about dogs, as you do. We were discussing specifically Meg's mother-in-law's dog, Bingo, and the fact that his little operation didn't seem to take.
"I mean honestly, I'm sitting there in the car, minding my own business, and Stephen says, hey, Meghan, look in the back seat, and I look and there's Bingo, grinning at me, with his huge red dick hanging out."
At this point, my Mom came into the room, looking puzzled, as anyone would having come into that conversation mid-sentence.
"What's going on?" She asked.
"Bingo had the snip, but it didn't work."
"Well, I know that!" She said brightly. "At your cousin's wedding, he tried to fuck my ankle!" Her face changed for a minute. "And I wouldn't mind, but I knitted that dog a sweater."
People, I ask you. Was there ever any hope for me? Clearly, there was not.
New Year's Eve 2004: Shrieking heteros, dancing homos and one very frightened marine biologist
This New Year's Eve, unlike most others in my memory, did not blow, nor did it suck, mostly because I made a couple very intelligent decisions about how to spend my night:
1) I went to a friend's house, for a small party, instead of shelling out for a Big Stupid Party at an overpriced bar downtown.
2) I reduced my expectations from "Greatest Party Night of the Year" to "We'll all get drunk and act like fools!"
3) I bought a beautiful pair of silver shoes that made me look adorable, just adorable I tell you. They had bows and everything. ADORABLE.
The party was at my friends Ashlee and Laura's house, and it was mostly full of lesbians, except for me, my friend Meredith, and a few straight couples like my pals Cathy and Isaac. This was fine with me. If I wanted to get assaulted by ageing frat boys, I would have gone into Boston proper. New Year's with the All Women Football League of Jamaica Plain was exactly what I was looking for.
Not everyone at the party felt the same way, however, as I discovered halfway through a conversation with Cathy's friend David, a very nice, somewhat quiet, and definitely attached marine biologist.
"We live in Florida," David said, referring to himself and his girlfriend. "But we're on different coasts. Megan works at..."
"HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND."
I turned to my right, where an obviously deranged and hopefully drunk straight girl was standing at my elbow. She was clutching a beer like it was the one dependable center of the universe and yelling right into my ear.
"Okay," I said. "Hi. And you are?"
"I am [Annoying Straight Girl]. That's David. HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND, YOU KNOW."
"Yes, I know. We were just talking about her. It's nice to meet you, [Annoying Straight Girl]."
"There are no single men here. NONE."
"Well, you know, it's kind of a lesbian party."
The annoying straight girl stomped off pretty soon after, but my conversation with David, the charming marine biologist, was spoiled. We both now felt that we were doing something wrong, just by having a conversation. I crossed my arms over my chest and he backed up a pace or two. After an awkward moment or two, I excused myself, and went into the other room to dance to bad R&B with the JP Football Team.
Just as we were all demonstrating the calling power of our milkshakes, the annoying straight girl ran into the livingroom and made an announcement.
"There are no men here," she said.
If we were in a movie, there would have been that sound effect where the needle scratches off the record.
"There are no men here, and the ones that are here are all MARRIED," she amended. "And I'm leaving, because I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE."
She slammed the door behind her, and we all went back to dancing.
"You know, if she's looking for straight men, there are about a hundred thousand guys in Downtown Crossing right now who are dying to slip her some roofies," my friend Meredith observed.
Later on, we made our New Year's Resolutions. In keeping with the low-key evening, I decided to make mine as non-self-improving as possible. So here they are:
1) Learn to operate a cotton gin. (This was inspired by my observation to one of the footballers that while I might not seem drunk, I certainly wouldn't operate a cotton gin just then. Apologies to Augusten Burroughs, whose line this is.)
2) See a zebra, in person.
3) Learn to change a tire.
1) I went to a friend's house, for a small party, instead of shelling out for a Big Stupid Party at an overpriced bar downtown.
2) I reduced my expectations from "Greatest Party Night of the Year" to "We'll all get drunk and act like fools!"
3) I bought a beautiful pair of silver shoes that made me look adorable, just adorable I tell you. They had bows and everything. ADORABLE.
The party was at my friends Ashlee and Laura's house, and it was mostly full of lesbians, except for me, my friend Meredith, and a few straight couples like my pals Cathy and Isaac. This was fine with me. If I wanted to get assaulted by ageing frat boys, I would have gone into Boston proper. New Year's with the All Women Football League of Jamaica Plain was exactly what I was looking for.
Not everyone at the party felt the same way, however, as I discovered halfway through a conversation with Cathy's friend David, a very nice, somewhat quiet, and definitely attached marine biologist.
"We live in Florida," David said, referring to himself and his girlfriend. "But we're on different coasts. Megan works at..."
"HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND."
I turned to my right, where an obviously deranged and hopefully drunk straight girl was standing at my elbow. She was clutching a beer like it was the one dependable center of the universe and yelling right into my ear.
"Okay," I said. "Hi. And you are?"
"I am [Annoying Straight Girl]. That's David. HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND, YOU KNOW."
"Yes, I know. We were just talking about her. It's nice to meet you, [Annoying Straight Girl]."
"There are no single men here. NONE."
"Well, you know, it's kind of a lesbian party."
The annoying straight girl stomped off pretty soon after, but my conversation with David, the charming marine biologist, was spoiled. We both now felt that we were doing something wrong, just by having a conversation. I crossed my arms over my chest and he backed up a pace or two. After an awkward moment or two, I excused myself, and went into the other room to dance to bad R&B with the JP Football Team.
Just as we were all demonstrating the calling power of our milkshakes, the annoying straight girl ran into the livingroom and made an announcement.
"There are no men here," she said.
If we were in a movie, there would have been that sound effect where the needle scratches off the record.
"There are no men here, and the ones that are here are all MARRIED," she amended. "And I'm leaving, because I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE."
She slammed the door behind her, and we all went back to dancing.
"You know, if she's looking for straight men, there are about a hundred thousand guys in Downtown Crossing right now who are dying to slip her some roofies," my friend Meredith observed.
Later on, we made our New Year's Resolutions. In keeping with the low-key evening, I decided to make mine as non-self-improving as possible. So here they are:
1) Learn to operate a cotton gin. (This was inspired by my observation to one of the footballers that while I might not seem drunk, I certainly wouldn't operate a cotton gin just then. Apologies to Augusten Burroughs, whose line this is.)
2) See a zebra, in person.
3) Learn to change a tire.
Sunday, January 2, 2005
Various news outlets: Blogging is cool
So, according to a number of news outlets that are important but too hard to look up when I have a sniffle, blogging is the thing of the year. You thought it was nipples, but no, it's blogging. Sorry.
I was shocked too, because the last time I checked, blogging had been around for like, a million years now. Or at least a million hours, which is the same thing in Internet time. Anyway, my point is that blogging is not new. The way you can tell this is that I'm doing it, which means that it could not possibly be cutting edge. I fear new technology. I just got a DVD player and I'm starting to think about maybe getting an iPod. But only if my sister uses hers for another three months without getting electrocuted.
In other, totally unrelated news, I'm very glad the holidays are over. I am now so fat that the outer edge of my thigh feels like it's about a hundred miles away from the part of my leg I am actually conscious of owning. It feels like I'm wearing inflatable pants. Fortunately, I have the evil cold that's going around, so I don't feel like eating anything. I know you've been dying to know how I've been feeling, both physically and emotionally, so I'm telling you.
Attention, various news outlets. This is what blogging is really all about: The state of my health and self esteem. I understand that some people use their blogs to discuss politics and current events, but I honestly don't know how anyone finds the time, in between worrying about what horrible diseases they might have, Googling boys they have crushes on, and monitoring their pants size. It's exhausting to think about, frankly. I might have to go lie down.
I was shocked too, because the last time I checked, blogging had been around for like, a million years now. Or at least a million hours, which is the same thing in Internet time. Anyway, my point is that blogging is not new. The way you can tell this is that I'm doing it, which means that it could not possibly be cutting edge. I fear new technology. I just got a DVD player and I'm starting to think about maybe getting an iPod. But only if my sister uses hers for another three months without getting electrocuted.
In other, totally unrelated news, I'm very glad the holidays are over. I am now so fat that the outer edge of my thigh feels like it's about a hundred miles away from the part of my leg I am actually conscious of owning. It feels like I'm wearing inflatable pants. Fortunately, I have the evil cold that's going around, so I don't feel like eating anything. I know you've been dying to know how I've been feeling, both physically and emotionally, so I'm telling you.
Attention, various news outlets. This is what blogging is really all about: The state of my health and self esteem. I understand that some people use their blogs to discuss politics and current events, but I honestly don't know how anyone finds the time, in between worrying about what horrible diseases they might have, Googling boys they have crushes on, and monitoring their pants size. It's exhausting to think about, frankly. I might have to go lie down.
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