JENNIE SMASH!

It's hotter than Mercury here in NYC, which is a problem is you're a sweaty person like me.

Most people sweat in this weather: What I do is mutate into a human sprinkler. I seriously look like I've been hit with a hose. Like maybe one of those guys who's always spraying down the sidewalks in front of apartment buildings got me by mistake. (Note: They never do this. There's clearly a lot of training that must be gone through before one can become a Hose Guy.)

Today, I walked my usual eight blocks to the train, only to discover that I was completely covered in perspiration. I mean, but completely. Usually I'm a tad damp. It looked like I had neglected to dry off at all when I got out of the shower.

It was so bad that I couldn't even tell myself it wasn't that bad. This is because people were staring. I learned something today, though: I learned that if you're a sweaty girl, people will fuck right off out of your way on the train.

I owe this realization to the dried up ol' sourpuss who was standing next to me on the B train this morning. She had a lot of bright red hair, nine gold necklaces, actual stone-washed jeans, and a face full of puckers that weren't entirely the fault of the aging process and/or overexposure to the sun and Merit Ultralights.

She stared at me in disgust as I continued to water my little square foot of standing room, so I stared right back at her. After a moment, I began wiping my chest and making horrid sickly little groaning sounds, like maybe the TB was going to take me at last. Finally, she looked away.

Seriously, lady: Would I sweat this much if I could help it? Just because you haven't had a natural bodily function since 1983, is that any reason to take it out on me?

Labels: city stank, gross, Subway

Ma Smash: I got here right in time to see him born.

Me: No way! He was waiting!

Ma Smash: Yup! Three pushes and he was out.

Me: Ew.

Ma Smash: Oh, look! Here comes the placenta!

Me: EW.

Ma Smash: That's so interesting. You know, it looks just like cube steak!

Welcome to planet earth, Baby Oz Piddlington. Your Mommy is brave and your Gramma is ridiculous.

Labels: baby, ma smash, mrs. piddlington

Seats on the bus, that is. Today, on my way back from Bostonland, I picked out a lovely window seat about a third of the way from the back. I was near the bathroom, in full view of the TV screen and on my preferred side. (Right. I don't know why.)

Shortly after I sat down, the bus got FULL. I mean, like, nearly SRO full. So it wasn't a big shock when the seat next to me got snapped up, in this case by a very nice 30ish woman who appeared only to speak Mandarin. (OK, not quite true. She did ask me what time it was at one point, in pretty good English. Still, I'm deaf and stupid about accents, so I had to ask her to repeat herself four times.)

Anyway, she was a good seat mate for most of the trip. Her husband was sitting in front of her and she spent most of the time talking to him. Then we rolled into New York and she started making this gacking sound deep down in her throat, picked up a plastic bag, and started HORKING UP CHUNKS.

I immediately freaked out and started feeling for the escape panel. Fun fact about me: I can throw up at the drop of a hat. I'm like the Fly, for reals-for reals. Just the smell of puke makes me want to do my impression of a sea cucumber.

I didn't throw. But I did spend the rest of the ride training my nose into the crook of my wrist, which I had fortunately and for once remembered to perfume that morning.

Pukey Girl? Yeah, she didn't even bat an eye. She didn't get up to go to the bathroom and she didn't even pop a piece of gum. Now that's being used to vomiting, people.

I managed to maintain my cool until she tried to lean across me - still holding her bag of vomit- to point out the many glorious sights of 34th street. Then I had to say, "I'm sorry, but you REALLY NEED TO BACK UP."

Ugh.

Labels: tourists

Facebook has this excellent thing called Scrabulous, which lets you play Scrabble with all your internet friends. Most of my internet friends are writerly, so I spend a lot of my time getting my ass kicked. For example, I am currently losing four games.

Scrabble also has a message function, via which I just had the following conversation:

Jen H: everyone is raping me at scrabble today

Ross P: so many things in one sentence! aargh!

Labels: teh facebooks

If you're moving here from elsewhere, or visiting for the first time, here's something you need to know that no one else will tell you: New Yorkers (and indeed, citizens of the tristate area as a whole) have an entirely different relationship to prepositions than anyone else in the country.

For instance, one:

1) Stands on line, not stands in line, at the movie theater, etc. Yes, here in New York, there is an invisible line and woe betide those who fail to stand upon it. In no way are you forming a line with your bodies. You have neither that much power nor that close a relationship with your fellow man.

2) Calls out sick, never calls in sick, with the sniffles. It's less important, after all, where your call goes than where you, glorious you, happen to be at the moment. Which is out. If you see what I mean.

I hope this helps.

Labels: i am a nerd

I'm too lazy to find it, but a couple months back, a commenter mentioned that I'll probably freak out when I reach menopause, because I love talking about my period so much. I'm hoping this isn't true. My Mom seems to have enjoyed being free of her lady time. She celebrated with buying all new underpants and going on a diet and appears to be happier and healthier than ever. However, I'm not sure she felt the same way about the whole menstruation business as I do.

I love my period. I love the excuse for being lazy and taking naps and eating large chunks of bloody cow. I love having a reason for being bitchy and paranoid and I love losing five pounds in the course of a day without doing a single sit-up or running a single solitary mile on the treadmill.

But most of all, I love embarrassing the hell out of people.

Someday, scientists will discover that embarrassment is genetic and I will get the embarrassment titer only to discover that I am missing that gene entirely. I think it's funny when people are squeamish about bodily functions and the language that describes them and God help you if I ever meet you in real life, dear reader, and I perceive that you are missish about teh Moon Time. I'm proud to have humiliated everyone from Duane Reade cashiers to bodega-haunting drug dealers in my time as a fertile female, and, assuming that I have another fifteen to twenty years of this left, I figure I can disturb many, many more folks before I stop bleeding.

The last time I was home my friend Kate mentioned that I told her most of what she knew about periods when we were kids, because I started early and was happy to talk about it. I expressed surprise.

"OK, I was early, but there were other fifth graders," I said. "Something to do with hormones in our chicken nuggets, I think."

"Yeah, but they were ashamed," Kate said. "You were happy to talk about it. Like, we couldn't get you to stop."

My sister claims that the bulk of my charm is in the fact that I never, ever change, and provided that you find any of these behaviors charming, I guess she's right.

Labels: PMS, the menstruation follies

Someone in this building is cooking vegetables. Correction: Someone in this building is overcooking vegetables, and by the time they remember they were cooking Veg-All, it'll be multi-colored paste in the bottom on the pan. It does not smell good, is my point, nor does it make me crave veggies.

I'm assuming that whichever neighbor this is, it's the same neighbor that's been leaving my front door open lately. I have no scientific basis for this assumption, but I prefer to think that I have one dastardly, veggie-ruining, security-threatening neighbor instead of a bunch of neighbors with annoying traits.

Cut to my neighbors, who, I'm sure, would be happy to tell you about my charming habits, including clomping up and down the stairs in giant platforms at all hours of the day and night and leaving huge stacks of boxes outside when it isn't recycling day.

Labels: neighbors

Ma Smash: Hi, honey!

Me: Hi, Mom. I'm in a cab and I have to tell you, I think I'm drunk.

Ma Smash: Oh, dear. Well, I guess it's a good thing you're not in the subway then.

Me: Dennis wouldn't let me.

Ma Smash: He's a good boy. You tell him I said that. Sweetheart?

Me: Hmmm?

Ma Smash: Sorry, I thought you made a sound.

Me: It stinks in here.

Ma Smash: Oh dear.

Me: It does. It smells like the backside of balls on a hot day.

Ma Smash: Excuse me, miss: And how would you know?

Me: Er.

Ma Smash: On second thought, I don't want to know.

Me: I heard it somewhere.

Ma Smash: Just take a shower when you get home. And wash your hair.

I weep for those who must subsist without the advice of their mothers.

Labels: cab drivers, ma smash

NB: I did ask my pal if it was OK to post the following. So if you're a real-life friend of mine, it's safe to email me with your woes. I won't just put them RIGHT UP ON THE INTERWEBS. Ahem.

As most of you know, I love social networking. At any given time, I'm an active member of at least three different sites, by which I mean that I check them regularly and actually use them to stalk people, instead of just leaving them out there as dead internets-real estate. (Although I've got plenty of those accounts too.)

Anyway, right now I'm mostly on teh facebook, because that's that has scrabulous and because I like to see people's statuses change. It's so helpful to be informed that your friend "is going to kill her friend Jen" or "would like to buy a drink for a struggling writer" before contacting them. (Neither one of those statuses have happened yet, but there's always time.)

Recently, I check my facebook and discovered that a friend of mine from high school, we'll call her Jane, had logged in and changed her status to the following:

"Jane is horrified at the idea of having to date again. Ugh."

Well. Something you might not know about me is that I like to help. I like to help a lot. I immediately wrote to Jane:

Subject line: Dating

Message: Is disgusting. It's my least favorite. In my perfect world, it would go like this: I would go out and get drunk with fun people until love descended from above. This is called college, sadly, and is hard to recreate.

Anyway, sending well wishes your way.

Jane replied:

You're a sweetheart! Thanks for the well wishes. My college experience was more along the lines of getting drunk with fun people, then discovering them in my bed the next morning and desperately trying to remember what their names were while frantically searching for my bra amongst the sheets. Love descended from above far less frequently than hangovers. Ah, the good old days...

But dating, alas, is even less fun. At least in college, when I was still desperately trying to prove I was straight, I felt like I was accomplishing something, you know? "Tally one more proof of heterosexuality," while now my biggest dating accomplishment seems to be not chucking my drink in some lady's face out of sheer boredom.

Le sigh... what's your most recent bad date? I'll tell you about the Cabbage Patch Nurse if you tell me yours ;)

Cabbage Patch Nurse? Who could resist? I wrote back:

Oooh, girl. Let's see.

OK: One bad date. I met this social worker through Match.com. Sez I to myself, "Social worker! Surely he won't be a sociopath like most guys I meet." Sez my shrink to me, "Oh dear. You know, most of us are very odd. We couldn't afford professional degrees and the amount of therapy we actually needed."

Needless to say, the guy was creepy in a Green River Killer sort of way. He was very nervous, as if the drugs were taking hold, and spent A LOT of time talking about how he was a lapsed Catholic, and how hard it was, and how he would have become a priest, but he loved KEEES-ING and TOOOUCH-ING too much.

I swear it was all could do not to point out that his pervy mcpervs were not incompatible with the priesthood.

Anyway. Do tell me of the Cabbage Patch Nurse. Which should be the name of some artistic work or other, I tell you.

Jane replied:

I know, so hard to pick just one, isn't it? Though that does sound like a doosie- should've checked with me before dating a social worker. I could have told you, from bitter experience, that none of them are just the Hairclub president, so to speak. Good thing he was so, um, tactile...it bodes so well for his future professionally, either in the priesthood or in therapy.

And now, the one, the only.... Cabbage Patch Nurse.

So I worked up my nerve, and went on a date with a friend of a friend's friend. I met her for lunch, thinking it couldn't be a long nightmare that way, if she turned out to be a member of the Manson family or something. Nope, she wasn't: turns out she's a nurse. She turned up, and I shit you not, she looked like my Cabbage Patch Kid, Blythe Marie. Same weirdly squished-but-doe-eyed face, hair in two braids...I kept resisting the urge to drop my napkin, to peek under the table and check if she had those scary dimpled knees like the doll, you know?

Little did I know, she had fiberfill for brains, just like my old doll. She babbled happily along about her ex and her coming out process, and I quietly munched my food, trying not to think about how I finally succeeded in giving the other Blythe Marie an appendectomy on my parents' kitchen table, and tried not to wonder if that meant I was possibly the bigger loon at the table? Finally, just as I raised my cup of tea to my lips she says, flapping her eyelashes earnestly, "I don't really know if I should vote in the next election, you know?...when is it, anyway, January? Besides, I think people have been really hard on Bush, don't you? I mean, he's really likable, in a bland sort of way?" (yes, she ended every clause she uttered with a big fat question mark)

I concentrated on swallowing my tea, and thought peaceful, calming thoughts until the check finally arrived. I kept thinking how this caring, well-meaning woman is a nurse, and handles drug dosages for patients. Heaven protect all the little old ladies in the home where she works.

Now I ask you, with that to think back on as my first dive into the dating scene in 6 years, is this really something I want to get back into???? Horror, I tell you, pure unadulterated horror!

Now, that, pals, is a bad date.

Labels: match.com, teh facebooks

Me: Do you think it's possible to be a happy person who suffers from depression?

Ross: I don't like the word depression. Do you know which word I actually prefer?

Me: Melancholy?

Ross: ...yes.

Labels: darkness visible

Let me tell you how hot it is here. It's so hot, that I'm doing the dishes right after I eat, so that the Giant Roach of Sumatra doesn't wend his evil way from my old apartment on the Lower East Side and take up residence in my Park Slope kitchen.

If you're not in New York right now, all I can say is, eff you in the ay, pal. It is goddamn hot here. I'm about to go take my third shower of the day and I suspect I'll need another when I wake up. I have the AC going full blast and I had to buy a fan on my way home from the DMV.

Savor that, for a moment: On my way home from the DMV. Today, on the hottest day of the year, I had to walk a mile to the DMV, wait on line in a room full of screaming children and very scary men with actual grills in their mouths, without air conditioning, to get a very un-official looking piece of paper that the State of New York claims is a temporary license, but which I think is actually one of those fucking "stickers" they used to give you in Cracker Jack boxes - you know, the kind where the stickum is not included.

Other things I did today, which were not suited to the weather:

1) Carried a 20-pound bag of laundry down the street and up my stairs.
2) Hauled four bags of groceries from the store to my house.
3) Did I mention the DMV? Yes? Well, there wasn't air conditioning. Thought you should know.

My pal Bonnie, who is southern and very lovely, said it was "hot as Hades" today, and that about sums it up. Hades = New York w/o AC.

Although, as Ma Smash is fond of pointing out, we're not great about AC here. AC is a luxury "they" know you'll do without, so long as you're allowed to stay. Other luxuries of this kind include reasonable rent, produce that doesn't look like it's been hurled at bowling pins, drinks that cost less than a meal in most parts of the country, and 40-year-old men who don't dress like members of Fall Out Boy.

Labels: weather

Labels: my birthday

My AC is going full-blast, and I'm still dripping with sweat.

Yesterday was my birthday party, and the hottest day of the year so far. I wisely decided to do the party outdoors, at a beer garden. Everyone melted into puddles and got mopped away by ladies wearing wench costumes.

Another thing that happened at the beer garden: Every single person I know left with their wife, husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, triad relationship or casual fling. Everyone, that is, except the birthday girl. I think you know what this means.

It means it's time to find new single friends. Coworker Dennis and I will be accepting applications. In order to qualify, you must be:

1) Doy, single.
2) Able to read. (You must also own books, particularly ones you'd like to lend me.)
3) Able to drink and fond of doing so.
4) Not totally insane.
5) Not totally sane either, because what would we talk about?

Females, males, and persons of all known genders and inclinations are welcome. Applications may be included in the comments.

Labels: coupley people, my birthday, weather

From pal Moss just now: "Jenlet! I miss you. It's your birthday this weekend, and I miss you. I miss you so much that I might have to run through the streets. Naked. Crying. Call me."

Now that's how you leave a phone message.

Labels: cell phone fun

I had a dream this afternoon (during one of my many Saturday naps) that I was back in my parents' house in Needham and that we were under attack by a serial killer. The serial killer had managed to blow the hinges off the back door, and was about to come in and get us, and my father said, "Oh, don't worry, I'll just fix that right up." And then he pulled out a tackle box full of tools and repaired the hinge.

Take that, serial killer!

Labels: dad, dream interpretation

Today, as I was waiting on line at the Social Security Office for my replacement card, I saw a cute little baby with a big smile and thought, aw, I should buy one of those. Just like I think when I see a really cute dog.

So much is wrong with this, I really can't go into it.

Labels: angelina jolie

Me: I find it really annoying that women don't put their birth years down on their facebooks.

Coworker Dennis: Why?

Me: Because it's dumb, that's why. Also, I want to know if [redacted] looks good for her age.

Coworker Dennis: She's 27.

Me: How do you know?

Coworker Dennis: All women are 27. The entire world was born in 1981.

Now you know.

Labels: coworker dennis, teh facebooks

I think it's safe to say that if this guy weren't married, he'd never be getting any ever again. He still might not. After all, the whole name of his article is The Affairs of Men: The Trouble With Sex and Marriage. I think it's totally possible that his wife is pretty grossed out by him, too.

My favorite part of this piece, also highlighted by Jennie Smash girl-crush Jezebel, follows:

Sitting in Schiller's, I ... suggested that we could change sexual norms to, say, encourage New York waitresses to look on being mistresses as a cool option.

Bear in mind that this dude is 52 years old. I admit to reading the whole thing with one hand over my eyes, as if looking at an eclipse through a piece of cardboard, but I'm pretty sure he never once mentions that these cute little hipster waitresses might not be on the lookout for married dudes who are the same age as their fathers. Ew. EW!

Labels: gross

Ma Smash: (About a mutual acquaintance.) Girlfriend? Oh, that's right: She's bisexual, isn't she?

Me: She's not bisexual.

Ma Smash: I thought she was.

Me: She says she is.

Ma Smash: You don't think she is?

Me: If she's bisexual, I will go right out into the street and have sex with the first woman I see.

Ma Smash: Oh my. Oh no.

Me: In fact, I'll go over to the bodega and have sex with that one lady behind the counter who doesn't have any teeth at all. That's what I'll do.

Ma Smash: I'll give you five real American dollars if you don't.

Labels: ma smash

I am ready for the Fourth Wave. Who's with me?

Labels: feminism

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 jus