JENNIE SMASH!

Coworker Dennis has been looking at condos lately, and I've been going with him, because everyone should have a fake wife to alternately play good cop/demand to know what this maintenance is for, anyway.

The search has had a salutary effect on his self esteem, as evidenced by the following conversation:

Jennie Smash: are you lunching today?

Coworker Dennis: i have a meeting at 1

JennieSmash: oh poop

Coworker Dennis: so i might run to the post office and get a nasty burrito at qdoba

Coworker Dennis: because buying apartments makes me feel sexy

JennieSmash: oh good for you

Coworker Dennis: and i don't care as much

JennieSmash: HA

JennieSmash: isn't that great?

Coworker Dennis: it sort of is

Coworker Dennis: like, oh, you don't want to date me? well you live on 110th street and i'm buying in a big glass pool-filled orgasm palace on the river with the best view on earth

JennieSmash: HA HA HA

JennieSmash: you are actually killing me

Coworker Dennis: yay! mission accomplished

Labels: coworker dennis, real estate

I have recently decided that it's very important to be at least a little in love as much of the time as possible. Currently, I am in love with Henry Cavill. He plays Brandon on The Tudors and is obviously my future husband.

The cynical among you might point out that I don't know Henry Cavill, that he is a famous person, and that I'll probably never meet him. I would argue that this makes him an excellent candidate for induction into the Jen Hubley Secret Boyfriend Committee, a society I invented some years ago but have allowed to languish for reasons that escape me.

Henry Cavill is, of course, currently president of the Committee. It is, however, the weekend and I have parties scheduled, so he might be ousted by a real person, at least until Sunday, when the next episode airs.

Labels: secret boyfriends, trashy TV

I was dragging the trash out to the curb this evening, when a woman walked by and gave me a funny look. This, I realized, was due to the fact that I was wearing my Mom's old scrub pants, a bleach-stained t-shirt, and slippers. Also, my hair was standing up like Don King's.

I swear, some days the only difference between me and my neighborhood homeless guy is that I still have all my teeth.

Labels: fun with the homeless

I was making my rounds of former flames on all my usual stalking sites the other day (MySpace, Facebook, Google, the National Registry of Sex Offenders) when I discovered that one of my exes has recently entered into a relationship. This ex is basically two exes, because I dated him twice, during two totally separate periods of my life.

Anyway, the point is that I am really a lovely person because I was so happy to see that he was in a relationship. Seriously, I rule.

Oh, and also, yes, I do think it's normal to stalk exes on Facebook. Basically, if you date, sleep with, or even talk to me in a vaguely romantical fashion at any time in your life, I will stalk you on the internets until the end of time. You have been warned.

Labels: i heart the internets

If you told me that every last person on the subway this morning was a zombie, I would believe you.

I am known for being gullible - although I prefer to think of myself as filled with childlike wonder - but I swear to you, these people were out for brains. Let's review the evidence:

1. Vacant stares. (Check.)

2. Ashen complexions. (Check.)

3. Odor of rotting flesh. (Check.)

4. Alternately jerky and swaying locomotion. (Check.)

5. Invading my personal space for no other reason that I could see except for BRAINS, BRAINS, OMFG BRAINS.

Check. Obviously.

Labels: fucking zombies

Me: This guy at the end of the bar is trying to get me to take him home with me.

Aaron: He's a good-looking guy.

Me: You know, the thing is ... it's depressingly easy. I'm not trying to be a jerk. I don't think it means anything.

Aaron: My uncle told me a story once. He was talking about how at a certain age, girls just started to look right through him. Not like, giving him dirty looks or whatever. Like, they just didn't notice.

Me: Yeah, I'm not looking forward to that day.

Aaron: So it's a compliment, right?

Me: Yeah. (Pause.) I'm just so tired.

Labels: wouldn't you like to know all about jennie's love life?

Michaela: So, should we get a car?

Me: Yes. Finish this whiskey. I have car service numbers.

Josh: OK. I just have to find my pants. (Off our look, as we realize he is still wearing only gold lame hot-pants.) What? My phone is in the pocket.

Labels: much more metal than you, party, spring

I got a complaint the other day from one of my twelve loyal readers that I haven't said much about the ol' love life lately. I assume that this is because this guy is in a relationship and is longing for gossip from the dating world.

I don't do a lot of gossiping about dating, because I'd like to be able to continue dating, and also, less selfishly, because it seems kinda mean to reveal everyone's secrets on the Internets.

I will tell you though, without getting specific, that I've been very amused lately by the number of dudes who think it's appropriate to ask young ladies about their quote-unquote fantasies. I assume porn is to blame for this, although to be fair, I blame porn for a lot of stuff I don't like about the culture lately, like totally depilitated lady forests and hypersexualized twelve-year-olds.

Fortunately, I have an answer to this question now. When a guy asks me to tell him my fantasies, I will now reply, "I fantasize - all the time, like, night and day - about doing it in, you know, a regular way. And then - this is the hot part - we totally go to brunch and get eggs."

Come on. Who doesn't like brunch?

Labels: wouldn't you like to know all about jennie's love life?

Last night, I had a dream that my roommates were kicking me out of my apartment because I hadn't done the dishes in so long. I live alone.

Labels: dream interpretation

Me: My friend Claire brought her baby into the office the other day.

Ma Smash: Oh, Leo! How is he? He must be big.

Me: He is big. He is no longer a large baby. He is now a small man.

Ma Smash: They do that.

Me: And he's a flirt! He loves girls. It's hilarious. I forgot that babies are people. I remember when I was waitressing, little boys would always flirt with us. Probably because we were smiling ladies who were bringing them food. Who doesn't like that?

Ma Smash: No one! Everyone likes that.

Me: It was always boys, though. I never saw, like, girl babies flirting with the guy waiters. So I think it's just boys who do that.

Ma Smash: [Crickets.]

Me: Mum? Did I lose you?

Ma Smash: Oh, no! I'm here.

Me: So, what do you think? Is it just boys?

Ma Smash: You were the worst flirt I've ever seen.

Me: Me? No! Come on.

Ma Smash: You were terrible. A little hussy. You'd bat your eyelashes and everything.

Me: Ha ha ha. That's hilarious.

Ma Smash: I feared you'd be abducted.

Me: And the guy would stand up in court and say, Look at the onesie! It was the way she was dressed!

Labels: wouldn't you like to know all about jennie's love life?

Reader Monty has a theory on why I might have 11 teeny little zits on my nose: "Spider eggs?" Yeesh, Monty. Like I'm not crazy enough already.

To make myself feel better, I thought I might get my eyebrows threaded at lunch. I go to this place a few blocks away from my office, and they're pretty nice there. One time, when I hadn't been going there long, they talked me into getting my mustache done as well. Bear in mine that I have about 12 teeny little golden hairs on my lip, but they way they talked about it, it could have been a handlebar mustache, complete with waxed tips. Shame-as-upsell. Vogue has nothing on these ladies.

Anyway, I fell for it once, and then spent a week with this freakish bare upper lip that was way more obvious than any 12 golden hairs could be, so I decided never to do that again. Sensing this, the ladies didn't suggest it.

Today, however, there was a new threader who hadn't gotten the memo. After she did my eyebrows, she said, "Anything else?"

And I said, "No thanks."

"No?"

"No. Thanks."

And then she - swear to God - ran her finger over my lip, as if stroking my long, luxurious mustache hairs and said: "NOT EVEN THIS?"

"No," I said. "Leave the mustache. I LIKE IT."

Take that, thready-lady.

Labels: beauty regimen, fries with that

I woke up this morning with about 11 teeny little zits on my nose. WTF?

Labels: adolescence

...you'd think I'd learn. I have a sunburn from being outdoors yesterday. Keep in mind that I was wearing 50 SPF sunblock the whole time.

Labels: spring

But possibly crazy-related. I had my first migraine in over a year on Friday.

For some reason, getting a migraine always makes me feel a little nutty. This is possibly because no one seems to understand entirely why people get them or how they work, or it's possibly because I have a bizarre neurosis in which I feel that illness is actually my body's way of telling me that I am WEAK, WEAK, WEAK.

The weirdest thing about my migraines is that they're always preceded by a day or two of smelling garbage. It's like Hallorann's harbinger in The Shining, except that instead of preceding awesome psychic insights that save the lives of women and children, mine precedes a headache, which is awesome only in the sense that it inspires awe, and also temporary paralysis due to pain, and occasionally vomiting.

Here's another problem: if you live in New York, and it's not the dead middle of winter, you're probably smelling garbage anyway. So it's not like I actually get a warning anymore.

Labels: sickly

This probably won't matter all that much to people who don't give a crap about fashion and/or New York, but I'm reasonably sure I saw Simon Doonan walking his dog near Washington Square Park on Saturday night. Evidence supporting this:

1) He was only about an inch taller than me.
2) Simon Doonan has a dog.
3) He looked a little horrified when he heard me and two of main gays hollering about his possible Simon Doonan-ness from the confines of our taxicab.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. That dude over there? I think that's Simon Doonan."

JC, who was closest, craned his neck. "It totally is Simon Doonan. It is either Simon Doonan, or a Simon Doonan impersonator."

Me: "It totally is him. Look how annoyed he is! Simon Doonan! Moss, hold my ankles."

Moss: "Hrm?"

"Hold my ankles, I want to lean out the window. Oh, shit. Now we're moving. SIMON DOONAN, I LOVE YOU. PUT DONATELLA BEHIND GLASS AGAIN."

It's possible that I am not well.

Labels: fashion, gay gay gay

Today, I decided that I needed some culture. I woke up early, virtuous, and got coffee and dropped off dry cleaning and went to the post office. Then I walked across the park to the Brooklyn Museum, to see the Murakami exhibit.

Now, to be honest with you, I didn't know much about Murakami before I went, except that he is, doy, Japanese and makes stuff that looks like anime. And I didn't really do much research beforehand, because I am lazy, and also because I like to experience things and then research them.

Many of the families were were attending the exhibit had also failed to do their research, and thus spent most of the time either covering their children's eyes or pretending to be the kind of hep parents who don't care that their children are looking at art featuring GIANT PENISES WITH SWIRLING ARCS OF BOY JUICE SHOOTING OUT OF THEM.

There were also vaginas. Don't want you to think that Murakami is leaving out the ladies. One little boy kept ogling a series of statues depicting a girl turning into a jet plane. He was pointing right at her lady parts, which were extra-pink and directed conveniently at the viewer.

Also of interest, in my opinion: The display of Murakami Louis Vuitton handbags which were in the middle of the installation, and for sale. I can get down with the mingling of art and commerce, but shouldn't that be in the gift shop? Grumble. Anyway, the placement worked, because I can't say I usually crave LV bags, but I wanted the one with cherry blossoms all over it.

I spent an hour in the Murakami exhibit before going downstairs to look at the Egyptian art. It was more my speed. I like looking at the scarab jewelry and cuniform rolls and the jars that used to hold guts. Also, I saw a mummified crocodile, and also (as well) an Ibis, which is a bird. Apparently, the Egyptians would mummify anything they found lying around, any pet, or, say, house guest. Something to think about.

A successful trip on the whole.

Labels: art, look it up

I love Karl Lagerfeld. I don't care how crazy he is: I love him because he's crazy. I love his weird powdered-wig George Washington hair, I love his super-tight collars, I love his fucking fan. But most of all, I love him when he says things like this:

Do you ever wish you had a son to pass on your wisdom to, to continue the Chanel heritage?
That's the last thing I want. I hate all children. For other people, it's fine, but not for me. I was born not to be a family person.

And, later:

Also I cannot go on airlines because people stare at me, you have to be touched by people. I hate that...I hate bespoke because I hate to be touched by strangers. It bores me to death.

Go read the rest at Jezebel. You're welcome.

Labels: fashion

I was in the locker room at the gym just now, putting away my clothes, when a woman came over and opened one of the lockers in the upper bank next to me. The door promptly fell off its hinge, nearly squashing her.

"See that?" I said. "Exercise is bad for you."

"Actually, if I hadn't been working out so much, it would have fallen on me," she said. And then she applied stupid little weight-lifting gloves to her stupid little paws and toodled out into the gym in a high odor of sanctity.

This is my problem with exercise, and it's the same one I have with the Grateful Dead and Jesus: I can't stand the fans.

Labels: stupid people, the new hottness

Looks like they just pried the gun out of Charlton Heston's cold, dead hand.

Labels: news

Jennie Smash: a weird thing is happening with my weight loss

Jennie Smash: i'm DEFLATING

Mads: what does that mean?

Mads: that sounds very scary

Jennie Smash: like, my butt has a dent in it

Mads: a dimple?

Jennie Smash: between the butt part and the leg part

Jennie Smash: where none was before

Jennie Smash: i think it's a muscle, but i can't be sure

Mads: ha

Jennie Smash: anything is possible

Labels: the new hottness

This evening, my friend Joe randomly reached into his jacket and pulled out a book and handed it to me. This is my favorite thing in the world. Friends of mine, I don't need Easter candy. Just surprise books. Please and thank you. Love, Hubley.

Labels: park slope, surprise books

I woke up at 6:30 this morning for no apparent reason. Well, actually, that's not entirely true: I woke up at 6:30 this morning because I went to bed at 9:30 last night. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's enough sleep for anyone.

It's pretty amazing that I managed this, though, because my neighborhood has gone insane. Some neighbor of mine was playing really weird European techno most of the evening, like loud - that volume that says, "You don't know it yet, but you really NEED this music." Well. I didn't.

Opera Guy is also back. This is some random dude who roams my hood singing arias to himself. I'm not sure which mental illness would make a person do this. Maybe too much art school?

Anyway, in general lately, everyone has been very strange. I've taken a poll, and 9 out of 10 people who allow me to IM them agree that people are quite stare-y on the subway, unusually persistent in their pursuit of spare change, prone to fits of giggling in otherwise staid and serious meetings, unwilling to tell their partners what's wrong, and so on.

I myself have been quite strange. For example, the other day I thought to myself, "I'm just so mad. I don't even know why. I just hate everyone! And my boobs really hurt." It took me a full day to realize that this condition is called PMS, and that I have had it for TWENTY YEARS.

Be careful out there, is all I can say.

Labels: crazy in my headbone, i still love you new york, PMS

Me: I just realized something.

Mads: What?

Me: My underpants are too big.

Mads: Woo! That's how you know you've lost weight.

Me: But ... in my underpants?

I'm confused.

Labels: the new hottness

So, Spitzer, yeah? I've got stuff to say about that, but it's kinda whiny, so let's put that aside for now and talk about how geedee crazy each and every member of my family is. In the most lovable way possible, of course.

This Saturday, I was out on a pub crawl when I got a text from my sister:

"ARE YOU OK?" It said.

I scratched my head for a minute. It's a pretty big philosophical question, if you think about it. I mean, I think I might have allergies or something, and I'd really like to lose about ten pounds. But I believe I'm a good person and people keep asking me to hang out, so I must enjoy some kind of esteem from my peers.

I was just about to text back, "I think so?" when I noticed that my little envelope thingie was lit up. This means that I had a message. (I am a technical wizard.)

I had two messages. One was confirming a hair appointment, and thank God, as I look like one of those potted plants you can't kill. The other was from Meg.

"Pooper?" (That's what she calls me. It's also what I call her. We're all about keeping it simple.) "I was watching the news and I saw that there was a crane collapse on the east side and I know you never go there and you're probably OK but can you call me as soon as you can because I'm so, so worried, and I love you."

By this time, she was crying. Still, it was a very level-headed message from a five-months-pregnant woman who lives 3000 miles away from the family of her childhood, so I thought she was doing well. I called her back and told her I was alive and well on my way to being drunk, and she was quite relieved that things were back to normal.

Later, I learned that, during the half hour or so between her phone call and my return call, she'd decided the following:

1) That I was dead, and no one knew it yet.
2) That her son, who is still in the process of growing lanugo, would never get to meet me and that she would spend the rest of her life telling him all about how much his Auntie Jennie loved him, even before he was born.
3) That I was dead. For real. As in, not alive. (It's really important to remember that I've never once, in three years of living in New York, been within ten blocks of the place where the crane collapsed.)

Apparently, she called my folks, got my Dad on the phone and scared the shit out of him. He wasn't afraid that I was dead. He was afraid that she was broken.

She claims he literally said: "Ah! Ah! Crying! Wait! Your mother!" And then woke my Mom up from a sound nap by shoving the phone in her face and saying, "Crying! It's crying! Fix it!"

This probably isn't an exaggeration.

Then she informed Mom that I was probably dead and started crying harder, while saying, "But she's dead and I don't love ANYONE LIKE I LOVE MY POOPER."

I'm certain that her husband was thrilled about this statement, but I have to say that it warmed my heart later when I heard it.

Hormones are a helluva drug, people.

Long story short, I'm fine, Meg's fine, the bebe is fine, John is fine, and even my Dad has recovered nicely. We are high-strung people, but affectionate. You can't have everything.

Labels: crazy in my headbone

My weekend, in bullet form:

• I did my taxes. I'm actually getting money back, which never happens. I'm not sure why. Everyone else I know takes their refunds and buys a small Caribbean island with them.
  
• I went to three birthday parties. I will definitely need that tax refund now. There were a lot of cabs. Also, last night I wound up in a gay go-go bar at four in the morning. You know it's time to go home when it doesn't even seem odd that the waiter is not wearing pants.
  
• I am exhausted today, predictably.
  
• Back to the cabs. Cab drivers love me. They want to marry and impregnate me. They want to move to Brooklyn with me and start a car service. Of the four cab rides I took this weekend, two drivers chatted me up in some fashion. This is a pretty consistent percentage.
  
• If you combine my magical cab driver seducing powers with my tendency to attract younger men, it becomes obvious that I will eventually marry a 23-year-old cabbie.
  
• I will make him give you free rides places, but only if you're very drunk.
  

That's it for now. Hope everyone else had a lovely weekend as well.

Labels: cab drivers, drankin, wouldn't you like to know all about jennie's love life?

Me: (Over the phone) Can I have a #30 please? And a Diet Coke? I'm at-

Waitress: Is this Jen?

Me: Uh. Yeah.

Waitress: MISS JEN! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

Me: Oh, I was, uh, in California...

Waitress: For what? A couple of weeks?

Me: ...yes.

Waitress: Don't worry. The gentleman knows where you are. He'll be so excited!

Me: Great!

I need to start cooking.

Labels: park slope, sloth

Lauren: You're insane about that hand sanitizer.

Me: I know.

Lauren: Do you use that every time you touch money?

Me: Yup. Or ride the subway. Or touch a doorknob.

Lauren: That I get. But ... money? Really?

Me: Lauren, money is covered with poop and cocaine.

Sue: That's true, you know. I read that somewhere.

Labels: crazy in my headbone

What should the word "lurp" mean? This question has a purpose. I can't promise that my limited attention span will enable me to reveal that purpose, however.

I am recovering from my 47th cold of the winter, by the way. The first year I lived in New York, I was sick all the time just like this. That was because I wasn't used to riding in the mobile petri dish that is the subway, and because my office was a big open area where everyone sneezed on each other all day. (For fun.)

Now, however, I suspect I'm sick because I've been traveling, so I can't really complain. Traveling is fun! Honestly, having a cold isn't so bad either. I secretly (OK, openly) enjoy having a slight cold, because it gives me an excuse to lie around my house and relax. The rest of the time, I have to wait until I have a hangover.

Labels: fun with words, sickly, sloth

I have returned. In my absence, New York was snowed upon. Can it be a coincidence? I think not.

Because I love you, citizens of the New York area, I will agree to stay put. For now. However, if it snows again, I might begin to doubt my magical weather-related powers (if not, of course, my many other, well-documented, non-meteorological powers) and go on a weekend trip to Boston or similar. You've been warned.

Anyway, I'm back from a week in San Fran. I was there visiting my sister, who is, as I've previously stated on this here blog, right up the pole and now everyone knows what she's been up to. We find out whether the baby is a boy or a girl on Tuesday. I say it's a girl. She says it's a boy. She seems to think that being the child's mother gives her some sort of insight into all of this, to which I say, phooey. I say phooey while having a beer, BTW, because aunties are allowed.

I am glad she wasn't with me on the trip home, however. There was a monstrous child on the plane from SFO to JFK. He kept pounding on the door while I was trying to pee. I don't know if I'm told you about this before, but I have pee issues in public bathrooms. It takes a minute of humming and counting and sticking out my tongue to make my lady flower relax enough to free the pee. Pounding on the door? Not conducive to this process.

I nearly gave up. Then I thought, no way am I going to let some airplane-bathroom-door-pounder make me give myself a UTI. Also, my seatmate, who was on the aisle, seemed to have cancer. She wore a kerchief around her (apparently bald) head and kept nodding off with her mouth open in a really distressing fashion. I spent half the flight willing her chest to inflate. It was exhausting. I certainly wasn't going to ask the poor woman to get up so I could pee again, all because of a door pounder who hates cancer victims.

You see the issue.

Anyway, I was finally able to go. Afterward, I wiped the sweat from my brow, rearranged my air travel headband (easier than a pony-tail, less homeless looking than leaving my hair to frizz in reconditioned air) and flung the door open.

In front of me was a little boy, about three feet tall. He had big brown eyes and one of those haircuts that looks like it was accomplished by putting a soup bowl on the kid's head and cutting around it. He was adorable. I wanted to strangle him.

"Was that you?" I demanded.

"Yeth," he said, in a charming little lisp.

I squinted at him a moment, trying to determine his age. He looked to be about six. If he'd been seven or older, I would have gently suggested to him that he be euthanized. But it's important, after all, to have standards of behavior, and in the end, I'm just not the sort of person who goes around suggesting things like that to six-year-olds. I snorted and pushed past to my seat.

(But next year. Next year. He better stay off my flight.)

Labels: air travel, hateful children

Fashion Week is over and I had all kinds of fabulous plans this weekend, none of which came to fruition, because I am lazy. I have not budged from my apartment all weekend, unless you count a toilet paper run and a trip to 'bucks for overpriced coffee treats. Which I don't, cuz, come on. What kind of a weekend is that?

Oh, I also bought some books. I'm reading one about premature burial right now. It's called, as you might guess, Buried Alive and it is scaring the crap out of me. I never really thought to worry about being buried alive, but now I'm pretty sure the only sound burial plan is to be left atop a tower of silence to be picked clean by carrion birds. Either that, or decapitated. So that's mostly what I've been thinking of this weekend.

I've also been thinking about how I've inadvertently become bulimic. Some weeks ago, I got the Norovirus, and ever since, I do my sea cucumber imitation every time I have spicy food, more than one cup of coffee, or any alcohol at all. It sucks and is a little scary, so I emailed my doctor to ask for DRUGS.

"SEND ME DRUGS," I emailed her. I should just make a macro at this point. How long til she scrawls "drug-seeking behavior" at the top of my chart and tells me to fuck off? Are there other folks out there who spend this much time and energy trying to scoring Nexium?

Labels: new york fashion week, sloth

Hello, my pals. It's time once again for me to view the clothes you will be wearing months and months from now, and write about them on Ye Olde About.com: http://www.about.com/fashionweek.htm.

There should be a new picture going up soon that makes me look less like the Joker. That's the rumor, anyway.

Please enjoy. (The blog and the non-Joker photo.)

Labels: new york fashion week

The upstairs neighbors are vacuuming. I think they should come down here and scrub out my bathtub, since they're feeling so energetic. It's unlikely it will get done otherwise.

I am in the midst of the laziest weekend I've had for some time. The last few weekends, I was either away or I had house guests, and next weekend I'm at Fashion Week, so now's my chance to indulge in sloth. Here's how slothful: I took a shower, finally, an hour ago, put on fresh pjs and my red sleeping suit, which is basically a blanket with foot and hand holes cut out, and I am now back on my couch.

I plan to drink tea and watch Most Evil all afternoon. (Since we know that I don't watch anything that doesn't feature ghosts, serial killers, or Tim Gunn. Poor Tim Gunn. I'm not sure what he did to deserve such company.)

Labels: sloth, watching the detectives

Coworker Dennis: Is it just me, or did Heath Ledger die completely the same way as Marilyn Monroe?

Me: Oh my God! You're right.

Coworker Dennis: "All they could say was ... Marilyn was found in the nude."

Labels: heath ledger

Me: OMG.

Anonymous Friend: I know. Heath Ledger is dead.

Me: No - dude, I found the apartment he died in.

A. Friend: What?

Me: Utilizing the power of the Internets. See?

A. Friend: WHOA.

Me: It must be right up there. Fifth floor. This is so freaky and sad.

A. Friend: I dare you to call up and ask if there are any apartments available.

Seinfeld didn't seem funny to me until I moved to New York, either. This kind of whistling past the graveyard only really works in a big mean city.

For reals, though, what a sad thing. The latest seems to be that the pills they found with the body were OTC sleep meds.

Labels: for reals very sad, heath ledger

There's a Bowflex commercial playing now that wins my vote for the most hilariously offensive commercial since Subway promised me I'd lose my boyfriend if I ate fast food. The commercial features the usual steroid cases flexing and lifting and showing off their baby-oiled pecs. And then this guy tells us that, thanks to Bowflex, he's found a better use for his old clothes:

"I gave my old fat clothes to my fat friends!"

What a guy! One might rightfully wish bad things to happen to such a "friend." For example, a fixation with those diet supplements that make you poop oil slicks.

Labels: fun with commercials

After sleeping much of the past two days, I am pleased to announce that I'm going to survive this cold. This is very exciting, because yesterday, when I couldn't even really haul my laundry down the stairs, I was not at all sure.

I would like to say that I think it's unfair that a person who spends as much money on vitamins and hand sanitizer as I do should ever get sick. It seems like all that crap should be Sick Insurance of a sort. But apparently no.

Labels: sickly

I'm going to be an auntie!

Mrs. Piddlington is expecting a Pidlet sometime in July. We're hoping it's a Cancer and not a Leo, as she's a Scorpio and Mr. P is a Sagg and that's just a whole lot of people who aren't willing to listen to reason. I'm only a little bit kidding. She lives in San Francisco, but I have no excuse.

I am way ridiculously excited about this. I put her sonogram up over my computer at work. It's a very cute baby and I plan to fill it full of candy and shake it upside down at every opportunity. Then I will give it back and race off laughing.

Labels: baby, mrs. piddlington, The Many Crackpot Theories to Which I Subscribe

...if birth control pills gave 80-year-old men erections, they would be distributed for free at every clinic, doctor's office, and pharmacy across this great nation of ours. Instead, I just had to pay fifty goddamn American dollars (or 11 Euros) for my baby-go-ways, because my health insurance hates vag.

Or something like that. There was some fine print and I wasn't feeling up to arguing. Which is how they get you.

Labels: not an original observation, PMS, the menstruation follies

This weekend I went on a trip to Vermont, and because such a thing is apparently not allowed, I got the worst cold I have ever had. Really: It's the worst one.

Symptoms of said cold:

1) Exhaustion, such that I had to pause whilst walking up the one flight of stairs to my apartment.
2) Sinus pain, pressure, and swelling, such that my glasses seemed to be floating over my face a wee cushion of distended nose-bridge.
3) Nose-runniness, such that I might as well cram a whole dang box of Puffs Plus up there and have done with it.

But mostly, I just feel gross. I've spent most of the day sleeping and the rest of the day complaining. The worst part is that I fought this bastard off for about a week before caving, leading me to believe that an extra vitamin C tablet at the right time might have spared me this.

Erg, blerg, back to bed.

Labels: sickly

I went ice skating tonight for the first time in ... uh, I dunno how long. I think the last time I went, I had to stick a pillow in the butt of my snowpants to protect my tailbone. In fact, I should still do that, but now I am vain. Anyway, it's been awhile.

I bought myself ice skates because I decided that I want to start getting some exercise outdoors. A day after they arrived, it became unseasonably warm in NYC, which seems like it would be a problem, but actually isn't: The ice only melts a little in the outdoor rinks, for whatever scary chemical reason, and you can skate in a sweater and feel very sportive indeed.

I skated for an hour at Bryant Park tonight and every muscle in my body hurts. That was unexpected. I remembered that my ankles would hurt. My shoulders were a surprise though. I think it's because I wave my arms around in a protective manner. Also, my voice is hoarse from yelling, "Watch out! Ahhh! Be careful!" Etc.

One thing that hasn't changed: Creepy dudes still hang out at the rink trying to pick up girls. One guy tried to talk to me THREE TIMES. The third time, he said, "I don't know what I'm doing right, but I've lapped you!"

Ew. I know. I can't even.

Anyway, here's a tip if you do go skating this winter: Steer clear of the people with wet asses. They have fallen down and will do so again, most likely once they're right in front of you.

You're welcome.

Labels: ice skates, the new hottness

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.

Labels: ma smash

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?

Labels: cell phone fun

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.

Labels: i still love you new york, jeezy creezy

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

Labels: coworker dennis

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?

Labels: dog whisperer, new year's, puppy puppy puppy, The Many Crackpot Theories to Which I Subscribe

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!

Labels: boobs, new year's

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.

Labels: puppy puppy puppy

Last night, I had a dream that I was driving around in an El Camino with Superman, and he was mad at me for being mean to Matthew, my ex.

"I just think you could have been more sensitive," he said. He seemed really pissed off.

Labels: dream interpretation

I'm the worst. And I'm on your side (both of you, at this point.) It's really irritating when bloggers disappear. Most of my faves are also in this weird sort of semi-retirement. Anyway! New Year's resolution: Write more for this.

In the meantime, here's how I know I am becoming a New Yorker: My only dream, on the bus from New York to Boston, is to be seated next to a person who doesn't talk to me. I got my wish yesterday, and it was lovely. She read, I read, no one talked. Bliss.

Someday, I'll publish a bus etiquette manual and let the rest of the world in on this.

Labels: I Am a Lousy Blogger

This is where you need to go to get all those last-minute gifts on your list. You're welcome.

In other news, I'm probably finally going to go to the cracker farm, because I've been cooped up in my apartment all weekend fighting with something that Ma Smash claims is the Norwalk virus. I thought that only happened to people on cruise ships. Anyway, it's been pretty ugly around here.

Although the Hanukkah mobile just went by my house, so that's cheerful. Have you seen this, fellow New Yorkers? It's pretty awesome. This white camper with a huge mural of a menorah on it drives around, blaring music from loudspeakers. I'm thinking of getting one of these myself, only instead of celebrating a holiday, it will just play whatever I'm listening to on my iPod right now.

Labels: servicey, sickly, the menstruation follies

I don't want to alarm anyone, but I feel I should mention that it is now getting darker at an earlier hour than ever before. This is not hyperbole, but actual fact, observed by me, and confirmed by all of my friends and coworkers who wish I would shut up and leave them alone.

I know it's December and all, but I'm pretty sure that last year at this time, it did not start to get dark at 3:30 in the afternoon. I'm near a window at work, and I could easily have turned my lamp on at that hour today. This is not OK at all, and clearly means that the planet has become loosened from its orbit and is now winging off into the deepest, coldest reaches of space.

Upside? I can stop wearing 45 SPF sunblock. It's important to be positive.

Labels: crazy in my headbone, SAD

My neighbor across the way doesn't believe in curtains, but she does believe in ginormous cotton underpants, and sitting in front of her window in the mostly-nude. So that's three things we have in common. My feeling about drapes has always been, well hell, if people are nice enough to do weird things in their window for my amusement, who am I to deny them similar?

I've seen a lot of naked people since I came to New York, and none of them probably shouldn't be naked. My favorite still is the guy who was sitting in his window, having a smoke at 6 a.m. when I was walking home from a party. I saw him and screamed; he saw me and waved. Ah, Crazy Naked Guy.

Speaking of neighborhood nuts, the Opera Guy is back. I heard him today while I was reclining upon my divan, recovering from NaNoWriMo and watching the murders on TV.

I finished that, by the way: NaNoWriMo, not the murders. I could now use about a month of sleep. Sadly, it's almost time to go back to work. Some day, I will figure out why Sunday night remains loathsome no matter how much you like your job. I suspect it's equal parts laziness and childhood trauma from having to go back to school Monday mornings.

There you go: All I need to do is figure out how to make that insight into a self-help book, and I'll never need to get up on Monday morning again.

Labels: get rich quick, nanowrimo