Right: I cut the shit out of my hand this evening. Oh ho ho, you say. How bad could it be? Well, I just spent the past two hours at St. Vincent’s, getting stitches. I am such an asshole. Who picks up glass when it falls? The answer is: ME! I pick up glass! Shards of glass! With my bare hands! Because I am super smart!

Jeezy creezy.


OK, Here’s What I Forgot About Moving…

…You hurt yourself like 900 times while packing. My forearms are covered with pinchy little bruises and my thumbs are lacerated with cardboard paper cuts. I have also dumped several things on my head and barked my skull on a cabinet door at least twice. (It might be more. But I’m having trouble remembering things since the second time.)

Packing, Birthdays, and So On

I’m packing today, in preparation for Hop Across the Bridge 2006, and the following things have occurred to me:

1) Every box is either labeled “books,” “clothes” or “shoes.” Hardly any are labeled “cookware” or “knick-knacks.” Apparently, I do not cook and I decorate my home solely in reading material and cast-off shoes.

2) My apartment is hella dusty.

3) I’m really allergic to dust.

4) I hate moving.

5) I really hate moving in the summer, which is the only time I ever seem to move.

Today, it was so hot out, I actually had to install my air conditioner, even though I’ll be de-installing it in four days, which seems like a waste. The Donut called earlier and asked me what I was up to and I said, “Installing the air conditioner and whimpering.” Which is an accurate summation of my activities.

So: The move takes place on Friday. Next Saturday, a mere short week afterward, I will turn 30 and have a party at a bar in the LES. It’s a joint b-day, with my friend Angela, who is turning a spritely 29. If you know me at all, and I neglected to email you, please drop me a line and I’ll give you the details. If I currently have a restraining order against you, remember: Trying to figure out which bar and what time is, in fact, a violation.

We Refuse

Jennie SMASH!: btw, i will not buy the mom jeans that are currently coming back into fashion
MadCat: the tapered tight ones?
MadCat: cause i’m boycotting that
Jennie SMASH!: i refuse
Jennie SMASH!: no way
MadCat: and the knee length shorts that don’t look good on anyone who has hips or an ass
Jennie SMASH!: exactly
Jennie SMASH!: i’m like, thanks for making me look pearshaped
Jennie SMASH!: that’s what i needed
MadCat: yeah, it’s kind of unacceptable. i don’t think i’ll go along w/ the fashion industries scheme to de-hotify me
Jennie SMASH!: i know
MadCat: exactly. there’s like, maybe one person out there who is happy about this
Jennie SMASH!: they’re like, remember when people wanted to sleep with you? those were the days
MadCat: everyone else, is now i look even more pearish
MadCat: heh

Love Notes, Etc

Someone wrote to me at work the other day to ask if I was dating anyone in particular. This is because I write a daily newsletter, and there’s a reply feature. Also, my picture is on the newsletter, and although I sort of look like I’ve been hit in the head with a board, I am recognizably female, which means that some dude out there in the Land of the Internets wants to date me. Probably more than one.

So, totally unrelated: my friend Dave is an SEO consultant. I’m not really sure what that means either, but the short version appears to be that his paycheck comes from driving traffic to company’s websites using cunning, subterfuge, and scads and scads of Excel spreadsheets. The other day, Dave wrote to me to ask me to link to some of his companies, so that they’d get the full benefit of my twelve readers and the glory that is my Google ranking. But I’m mean and frosty, so I said no.

I don’t even have ads on my site, not because I particularly have a problem with ads, but because I’m lazy. (True story.) But if I did have ads, I’d put ’em outside the posts. Because I love you all and want you to trust me, so that we can build a beautiful relationship full of trust and mild cursing and the occasional thrown ashtray, but I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean it, you just make me so mad. Ahem.

So if Dave gets fired, I’ll owe him a beer or something, I guess.

Instant Karma

I’m know I’m not totally bitter, because I got my friends’ wedding invitation tonight, and it made me happy. OK, there’s an open bar, but that’s not why, I swear.

It’s been a good couple days for giving back. Smyres called me tonight and needed a Chicago Manual of Style for a freelancing gig. I have one, so I can help her out. And then we’ll get Mexican food. It’s not much, considering that I slept on her sofa for six months while I was moving to New York, but she was happy, and it was nice to feel like I’d stepped into the breech.

Last night, I met up with a friend of the family who just moved to New York. It hasn’t been that long since I did the same thing, and it’s really familiar territory: fear of failure, financial craziness, unfocused ambition, etc and so on. I almost felt bad. Basically, I’m gonna give this guy a couple of contacts and he’s going to make me feel like a big shot, which I’m clearly not. It’s not an even trade at all.

One of the reasons that this is my favorite city in the world is that the wheel never stops turning here. Less than a year after you arrive, you could be an elder statesman, full of wisdom to share. Or: You could be bankrupt. Either one. Maybe both.

Anyway, my year anniversary, figured by when I signed my first lease, is July 1. Not that far away. It feels like years and years. I have a job I love, and projects I’m interested in. Good friends, and all kinds of adventures. The next year could bring anything. I’ll let you know how it ends.

PS: One of the hundreds of suckers who came to look at my apartment today left his hippie energy drink on my counter. Fuck those people. I hope he takes the place. I’ll leave him a packet of poo.

Updates on the Living Situation

I woke up at the ungodly hour of 11 a.m. this morning, because a broker was letting himself into my apartment. Apparently, the Evil Management Company neglected to tell him that someone was living here. Thank God I have a chain on the door.

Anyhoodle, it’s official: I am hopping the bridge. (Or jumping the shark. Or screwing the pooch. Whatever.) I signed my lease on Tuesday and all necessary fundage has left my bank account and I’m moving to Park Slope. According to Gawker’s commenters, this means that I need to get an MBA immediately.