Jennie Smash

A friend of mine recently accused me of thinking that every guy I meet is in love with me, or at least wants to break off a piece, as they say, and there wasn’t much I could do to argue with her, because I do think that. This, despite the fact that I often feel morbidly obese and elderly, and pay so little attention to my personal appearance that I frequently waltz around my office with toilet paper sticking out of my pants. There’s no sense wasting time trying to figure out this problem of mine. Three shrinks couldn’t do it over the course of five years, so I don’t know why you think you’ll do in the space of thirty seconds whilst reading this post. Ahem.

Anyway, my point is that boys like me … but not the boys I want to like me. Specifically, very old or very young men, hoboes, married dudes and registered sex offenders think I’m just swell. I could make a calendar marketed to these folks, and it would make a killing. January: Reclining against a Dumpster, Hubley holds out a moldy pastrami sandwich and licks her lips seductively. February: In a variation on the Lolita theme, Hubley wears what she actually wore as a spritely young nymphet, namely OshKosh B’gosh overalls with toads in the pocket and a t-shirt that says “I LOVE HORSES” in sparkle script. HOT!

The love of perverts for me was confirmed once again yesterday. I was flying home from the holidays, and this dude kept following me around the airport. He sat down next to me when I was waiting out a flight delay at Logan and tried to talk to me about my book. I smelled crazy straight off and didn’t even acknowlege his hello. (Thank you, New York City! I needed those survival skills!) That didn’t stop him, though. Nope. He wasn’t sitting near me on the plane, but he found me in five minutes at baggage claim at JFK, and spent a fruitful half an hour making conversation with the back of my head about how much he’d like to get his luggage and how much he really wanted to go home, and was I from Boston, and so on.

This with no encouragement at all, mind you. In fact, at one point, I turned around and said, “Look, I don’t know where anyone’s luggage is, OK? I’m waiting just like you.” And he still kept talking to the back of my head.

Not that I blame him. The back of my head is super hot. I don’t even know what that means. I still have a cold and don’t know what I’m saying.