Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Joke of the day
Question: How many Jennies does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Answer: Just one, but it takes her twenty minutes to do it, including finding a chair to stand on and a light bulb to screw into the socket and locating the screws that hold in the light fixture w/o a light to see by. Then, of course, we must factor in time to dig those screws out of the garbage can once she accidently throws them away with the lightbulb, and a couple more minutes to frantically scrub last night's dinner off her hands. So probably half an hour, by the time she's done. This while trying to get ready to leave for work, which is always a balletic display of clumsiness and dropping things.
Answer: Just one, but it takes her twenty minutes to do it, including finding a chair to stand on and a light bulb to screw into the socket and locating the screws that hold in the light fixture w/o a light to see by. Then, of course, we must factor in time to dig those screws out of the garbage can once she accidently throws them away with the lightbulb, and a couple more minutes to frantically scrub last night's dinner off her hands. So probably half an hour, by the time she's done. This while trying to get ready to leave for work, which is always a balletic display of clumsiness and dropping things.
Excerpt from an actual IM conversation
Jennie_Smash: rightwing christians frighten even the baby jesus
Banjo1: jesus doesn't like them, that's true
Jennie_Smash: that's what he told me
Jennie_Smash: jesus likes all the same people i like
Jennie_Smash: isn't that GREAT?
Banjo1: YES!
Jennie_Smash: it just proves that i'm right
Banjo1: if everyone else can tell me what jesus thinks, i feel i can pitch in my own two cents
Jennie_Smash: me too
Jennie_Smash: "jesus likes flake mashed potatoes. not the real kind."
Jennie_Smash: "jesus likes punk rock, but he hates your crappy pop rip off."
Banjo1: and grits. he likes grits.
Jennie_Smash: oh, man. he LOVES grits. i remember the last time jesus and i were down south...
Banjo1: see. now you're talking
Jennie_Smash: i was going to tell you about jesus and the strip club, but his people have asked me not to.
Banjo1: jesus doesn't like them, that's true
Jennie_Smash: that's what he told me
Jennie_Smash: jesus likes all the same people i like
Jennie_Smash: isn't that GREAT?
Banjo1: YES!
Jennie_Smash: it just proves that i'm right
Banjo1: if everyone else can tell me what jesus thinks, i feel i can pitch in my own two cents
Jennie_Smash: me too
Jennie_Smash: "jesus likes flake mashed potatoes. not the real kind."
Jennie_Smash: "jesus likes punk rock, but he hates your crappy pop rip off."
Banjo1: and grits. he likes grits.
Jennie_Smash: oh, man. he LOVES grits. i remember the last time jesus and i were down south...
Banjo1: see. now you're talking
Jennie_Smash: i was going to tell you about jesus and the strip club, but his people have asked me not to.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Baby boom
Christmas was full of babies. My cousin has one now, and so does one of my sister's best friends. I feel like I haven't seen a baby up close for awhile, having lived in this weird babyfree post-college zone for the past five years or so.
During that time, my older friends have been threatening me with the impending wind-up of my biological clock. "Just wait and see," they've said. "You'll hit age 26 or 27 and -- boom! -- you'll want one."
The thing is, I've never been much of a baby person. I've always been kind of embarrassed about it, the same way that I'm embarrassed about not really liking dogs or cats enough to deal with the annoyance of caring for a pet. It seems like a character flaw, somehow, like if I were a real woman, I'd just love cute little mammals so much that I'd have to get one for myself -- a puppy, at least, if not an actual pocket-size human.
This year, however, I have noticed a small change. Horowitz pointed out to me one day as we were walking through Back Bay that I look at babies now, whereas before, people would hold up their offspring proudly and my gaze would slip right off them, like eggs on teflon. "Nice," I'd say, nervously. "He looks just like you."
And the mother would frown. "He looks like his daddy, actually. Don't you look like your daddy, Ashton? Yes, you do! Here, wanna hold him?"
"Oh, dear God, no! I mean...I have a cold. Yeah. I'd hate to give it to him."
But now, in my maturity (har, har) I will actually hold a baby if he's handed to me. The thing is, though, the baby usually starts to cry right away. I think they know that I'm not totally in control of the situation. I mean, seriously, what's with the wiggling? They can't hold still? Babies are like teensy little crack addicts, or very old men. They've got the shimmy-shakes all the live-long day.
I still say it's progress, my newfound willingness to hold one of the little rugrats. If they can extend the female breeding age to 50 or so, I think I might just be able to have one someday.
During that time, my older friends have been threatening me with the impending wind-up of my biological clock. "Just wait and see," they've said. "You'll hit age 26 or 27 and -- boom! -- you'll want one."
The thing is, I've never been much of a baby person. I've always been kind of embarrassed about it, the same way that I'm embarrassed about not really liking dogs or cats enough to deal with the annoyance of caring for a pet. It seems like a character flaw, somehow, like if I were a real woman, I'd just love cute little mammals so much that I'd have to get one for myself -- a puppy, at least, if not an actual pocket-size human.
This year, however, I have noticed a small change. Horowitz pointed out to me one day as we were walking through Back Bay that I look at babies now, whereas before, people would hold up their offspring proudly and my gaze would slip right off them, like eggs on teflon. "Nice," I'd say, nervously. "He looks just like you."
And the mother would frown. "He looks like his daddy, actually. Don't you look like your daddy, Ashton? Yes, you do! Here, wanna hold him?"
"Oh, dear God, no! I mean...I have a cold. Yeah. I'd hate to give it to him."
But now, in my maturity (har, har) I will actually hold a baby if he's handed to me. The thing is, though, the baby usually starts to cry right away. I think they know that I'm not totally in control of the situation. I mean, seriously, what's with the wiggling? They can't hold still? Babies are like teensy little crack addicts, or very old men. They've got the shimmy-shakes all the live-long day.
I still say it's progress, my newfound willingness to hold one of the little rugrats. If they can extend the female breeding age to 50 or so, I think I might just be able to have one someday.
Thursday, January 01, 2004
Pretty good year
Actually, it sucked. But I couldn't resist the Tori Amos reference.
Onward and upward, however. This year, for the very first time, I was alone during the countdown to the New Year. I was in a bar, separated from my friends for the moment, getting myself another (yet another) beer, and I'd lost track of the time. All of a sudden, one of the numb nutses in the band announced that it was nearly 2004, and started the counting thing. The lights in the bar were warm and low, that mellow golden color you only see in basement bars late at night when you're really blotto, or else in furnishings and clothes from the 70s. The bartenders -- all goth, in this place, although it's not a goth nightclub -- smiled through their mascara tears and stopped serving for a moment. We all counted down together and no one harassed me or gave me a dirty look or bumped into me or tried to get me to do anything. I'd ridden the T over from JP by myself, and later, when I was tired of being social, I'd go home early the same way, in a cab operated by a friendly Haitian cab driver who hated G.W. Bush almost as much as I do. "He don't like poor people, man," he'd say, taking a nervous slug of his Redbull. "Shit -- he don't like PEOPLE."
If it's true that you spend the rest of the year doing what you did the night the calendar flips, I should have an interesting, drunken, friendly, political, independent, conversational year.
My best to you all. Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Happy New Year!
Onward and upward, however. This year, for the very first time, I was alone during the countdown to the New Year. I was in a bar, separated from my friends for the moment, getting myself another (yet another) beer, and I'd lost track of the time. All of a sudden, one of the numb nutses in the band announced that it was nearly 2004, and started the counting thing. The lights in the bar were warm and low, that mellow golden color you only see in basement bars late at night when you're really blotto, or else in furnishings and clothes from the 70s. The bartenders -- all goth, in this place, although it's not a goth nightclub -- smiled through their mascara tears and stopped serving for a moment. We all counted down together and no one harassed me or gave me a dirty look or bumped into me or tried to get me to do anything. I'd ridden the T over from JP by myself, and later, when I was tired of being social, I'd go home early the same way, in a cab operated by a friendly Haitian cab driver who hated G.W. Bush almost as much as I do. "He don't like poor people, man," he'd say, taking a nervous slug of his Redbull. "Shit -- he don't like PEOPLE."
If it's true that you spend the rest of the year doing what you did the night the calendar flips, I should have an interesting, drunken, friendly, political, independent, conversational year.
My best to you all. Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Happy New Year!
