Joselyn Hughes: Blog

ding dong!

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 06:55:00 GMT

A while ago, I saw something on television.

I guess on the heels of “To Catch a Predator,” NBC decided to air a show where they tested kids that were home alone to see if they’d open the door for strangers. The parents sat in a van watching their kids on camera monitors down the street while saying things like, “Oh they’ll never, ever open the door.” “Nope, not my kids.”
So NBC first sent the reporter as a electric company worker and a cable guy, then something else and none of it was working. That was the point when they decided to get real creative and they sent a puppy delivery man to the door. A man delivering a puppy.

A
puppy
delivery
man.

Not only does that job not exist; it’s just unfair conduct by NBC.

Everyone loves a puppy, and everyone loves a special delivery.
“A package for ME” I see a delivery truck outside my window and bound down the stairs as fast as possible- usually taking a hard fall near the second to last step- and whip open the door. I quickly sign, grab the box from the person’s hands, and begin to shred the packaging like a ravenous weirdo to reveal the item I one hundred percent ordered myself (therefore, knowing exactly what’s inside) only to show it off to the deliveryman like a nine year old unwrapping presents on Christmas would.

“HP Printer cartridges! Yeay!!! I got FOUR!”

And puppies? Are you kidding me? Ultimate distraction. If you’ve seen me around any animal, let alone a dog, I am certifiably insane. Crazytown. And it’s out of my control. My voice changes, my demeanor changes, and I hate myself for the annoying fool I become when I see a dog. It’s pathetic. I could be trapped in a house fire but holding a puppy and therefore remain perfectly calm and happy while I slowly burn to death. Puppies are the ultimate.

So if the grim reaper himself was on my doorstep with his red, glowing eyes, giant black robe, and scythe in one hand- if he had a puppy in the other, I’m going to open the door. “Oh my god! A puppy? For ME!? PUPPY!!!”

And I’m 27.

Let’s be honest. The parents watching from the van shouldn’t be disappointed in their kids for opening the door, they should be disappointed that NBC is giving child predators really good ideas for tricking their kids.

Hey Predators! NBC here, you remember us? Candy and a van just not cutting it anymore for your predating needs? …try puppy delivery! Gets em everytime, see? We’ll show you the clips.

Thanks, NBC. Their next expose is probably going to be on how to detect if the child you’re talking to online is actually a child or a cop. Good investigation. You’re a bunch of a-holes.

Click on the link to see these idiots in action. It’s the first video on the page; the others are also pretty stupid. This reporter is a moron:

Puppy Delivery Idiot.

thank god.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 06:40:00 GMT

I have an “I love Jesus” pendant on my keychain. Someone at work asked to borrow my keys, and after using them, awkwardly inquired if they were in fact, my keys.

I sensed she had seen the pendant. Yes, I said. Don’t worry, I’m not going to invite you to some creepy youth group who goes out for ice cream and talks about their love for God’s miracles. It’s ironic.

Not in a “23 year old with a mullet” or “young lady wearing an power suit to a dive bar” ironic way. And although that is the way in which many New Yorkers proclaim their surprisingly common fashion “ingenuity” on the streets of Brooklyn, my pendant comes from a real life experience based irony that stems from my earliest beginnings.

I was forced to go to Sunday school for the first fifteen years of my human life. And when I say forced, I mean that my mother absolutely used physical force if necessary to get us to church. We HAD to go. No option. Seven am Sundays. Wake up and get moving. Church time.

Sunday school took two solid hours from start to finish, and as I grew older I hated it with an exponentially increasing intensity. I actually never remember liking it. Cool kids from my school either never went, or only went on the special holidays when cookies and punch followed service. Even semi-cool kids weren’t Sunday school regulars. I was forced to be a regular along with my dorky, smiling, excitable, “let’s have a bible race,” Jesus loving classmates. Every week.

“God will fix you right up,” my mother would say if she were to encounter one of her children who felt under the weather on a Sunday morning. “Get up, let’s go. You can pray you feel better when you get there.”

“If you guys can’t go to church, then I guess I can’t pay for your ballet lessons. Do you know how much those cost? And you can’t even go to church once a week? Unbelievable, my children.”

“No church today?” She’d ask my whining 8 year old self. “Then we won’t have Christmas. Okay, guys, Joselyn’s not getting any Christmas presents this year. I’ll call up Santa, since he won’t have to make a stop for the Hughes kids this year. Real nice.”

My mother was hellbent on getting us to Sunday school and I never figured out why, I just knew she wasn’t messing around. My father somehow managed to drop out of his church duty at some point, and as we were ushered out to the car in our Sunday best, I would stare enviously at his freedom from Jesus and wish that I too, was a grown up who didn’t need Mom to pay for ballet lessons.

When I was 15, I went through a confirmation year that included more church than anyone should ever have to attend. The Sunday morning they announced our names, presented us with gold crosses and bibles, and welcomed us into the church as members was one of the last times I’ve set foot in that place.

While I’m not a devil worshipper and I don’t have beef with Christianity itself, I as sure as hell will never be attending church in the near future or force my children to, for that matter.

And I’ll get an ironic keychain to remind myself that I don’t have to, dammit.

Worst part about the whole thing- it’s not even Jesus’ fault. Turns out he was a pretty good guy.

she never wanted it. ever.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 18:42:00 GMT

I was out with my friend Chris and we ran into one of his friends on the street. They began talking about the previous evening, the party they attended, and the girl their mutual friend had taken home with him. All was pleasant until Chris’ friend uttered the sentence, “Well, good for him. That girl wanted it.”

“That girl wanted it.”

I’m pretty sure the minute you say that, there is good reason to investigate the possibility of you being a rapist or soon becoming a rapist. You can’t say a girl “wanted it.” You can’t say that, ever. It’s just bad and wrong.

Chris and I talked about this. When is it okay to use that phrase? When?

NEVER.

Even if you were at a restaurant, the man is ordering, and he says, “Oh, and an extra order of fries. She wanted it,” as he points to his girlfriend- it’s still awkward. It doesn’t work. Guy goes over to friend’s house, criticizes his choice of wall paint, and his friend shrugs his shoulders and says, “Well, she wanted it!” Nope. Still weird. Even if a woman came up to you at a bar and said, “I want it.” You take her home, and you say to your roommate, “She wanted it. She said she wanted it!” Nope. Still bad. Still rape-y.

Try it. Try thinking of a conversation where that phrase is okay. It doesn’t work. Ever. Was it ever okay? Probably not. And it never will be.

So in case you’re reading this, and that is something you’ve said, knock it off. Or everyone will just assume you’re a rapist. She didn’t want it. She never wanted it. Gross.

*PS. This blog motivated by total frustration with misogynist d-bags, like friend of friend above.

best nightmare.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 16:42:00 GMT

This guy^ I dated for three whole days came up with this hilarious concept of “best nightmare.”

“Am I your best nightmare?” he’d ask, and I would laugh. He kind of was.

Best nightmares, of course, being the opposite of worst ones. Best nightmares being scary, yet fun. You wake up from one and first feel frightened, but then you laugh it off because, after all, it wasn’t that bad. It is the best type of nightmare.

Recently I’ve begun to actually have a reoccurring nightmare, and I’m starting to think that it is, in fact, my best nightmare to date.

I am in Times Square, and everyone is foreign and taking pictures. I can’t find the subway. Out of nowhere, the pregnant man from Oprah and People magazine starts chasing me, screaming, “You’re next! You’re next!” and pointing to his man-baby belly while shoving handfuls of raw ground round into his face. He desperately wants to hug me and continues to chase me. He chases me into the suburbs and the only way I can escape is to hop into a waiting minivan full of screaming children and drive to a church where they are first marrying, then forcing the couples sing karaoke in front of the congregation. The couple in front of me is my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, and she turns to see me and pulls out a knife. The pregnant man then catches up and before the new girlfriend can stab me, she stabs the pregnant man right in his miracle man-baby.

Then I wake up in Brooklyn, by my awesome dog who is adorable, and breathe a big sigh of relief. Except I still may be worried about the new girlfriend stabbing me; that is kind of a real fear. She hates me pretty bad, as I am to understand.

I would rate that best for nightmares; I don’t know about you. But that’s pretty jam packed with subconscious meaning that’s both frightening AND hilarious. You’re welcome.

I kind of miss my 3 day boyfriend and his silly concepts. But I guess I don’t miss our silly “early indicators that this relationship isn’t going to work” either.

Too bad. He was one of the funniest.

(^concept by “Zach” who I no longer talk to, but credit given where it is due. Which really isn’t credit because I’m calling him Zach, but he should have been named Zach because it fit him better than his real name. So I’m actually doing him a favor.

death by apartment.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 07:04:00 GMT

I thought my roommate was dead today.
He left his door closed; he never does that.

But he did today and as the hours passed, and I walked by his room for the 4th, 8th and 13th time, I was pretty certain he had died in his sleep.

My first approach to dealing with this was to text him since I could not bring myself to simply knock on the door and check firsthand.
No, no, that was much too scary.
I sent a text.
“Are you at work?”

No response. About an hour passed.

Now my fear expanded. No way was I going to check his room. No way. I wondered if it would anger people that I texted him and didn’t check right away. I began to panic. I texted again.

“Are you dead? Your door is closed. Let me know.”

No response.

I began to really panic. I mean, it really set in. Oh my god, my roommate is dead and I’m working out in the next room like a weirdo slash total dick.

Multiple scenes flashed before me. His mother coming to gather his personal belongings, casting a cold stare my way… the way of the irresponsible roommate who should have known her son was dead and alone in that room. The funeral, where hundreds of friends and family see me, shake their head in disgust, and ignore my attempts at conversation… shun me… my other roommates, grossed and weirded out by the events, never acting the same way towards me again… his room just sitting there, empty and filled with death…. ugh. Just awful.

Imagined, but so real.

I am not a person who is afraid of death. To be honest, I rarely ever think of it. But when I do, it’s usually because I think someone I know is dead.

I’ve woken people up from all too quiet slumber to make sure they are still living. I’ve begged friends to contact me when they get home after a late night out. I have put drunk friends to bed and stayed up making sure they don’t turn on their backs or suddenly stop breathing. I’m terrified of it.

It’s my one of my worst fears that people around me die.

One of my other roommates came home around 9pm and I told him the other one never came out of his room all day.

“He never closes his door!” I said.
“So go in there.” He said.
“No you have to; you’re a man.” I said, trying to justify it.

I held my breath and anxiety swept over me, flushing out any other feeling than pure, horrible, crippling fear that my roommate was dead and it was all my fault.

He went in and our roommate wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t even there.

Two hours later I got a text: “I’m in CO. Left in morning. Don’t u remember that I told you that last nite!?”

I instantly remembered him telling me the night before and felt pretty stupid. Pretty stupid but relieved. I let the weird fear of people dying dominate my whole day and erase any reason or sensibility about the whole thing.

But I’m really glad he’s not dead, because MAN would that funeral had been rough. Cold stares? No thanks.

I’ve got to find something else to be terrify me. Maybe I’ll pick bats. Clowns? That’s funnier. I pick them.

Poverty.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 21:07:00 GMT

3:47pm, June 27th.

Washington Mutual bank; 5th Ave and 14th St. Brooklyn, New York.

I place a grocery bag worth of collected loose change on the counter.

Me: “I have cash to deposit too, but I’m sure you have to count this first.”

Cashier person: “We don’t count this.”

Me: “What? You’re a bank.”

Cashier person: “You have to put it in rolls.”

Me: “What!? That’s ludicrous.”

Cashier person: “We don’t count it.”

Me: “Where the hell am I supposed to get rolls?”

Cashier person: “You buy them here.”

Me: “So I am supposed to pay to give you money?” (pause) “You are a bank, right?”

Cashier person: (growing sick of my attitude) “Yes, we are a bank.”

Me: “But I am supposed to BUY rolls from you, and put fifteen pounds of loose change into them? You don’t just have a machine that counts it? That seems odd.”

Cashier person: “We do, but it’s not for customers.”

Me: “That’s unbelievable. That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. I’ll be writing a letter about this.”

*awkward moment

Cashier person: (to line of people watching this) “Next.”

Being poor is awful.

The Winner.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Sat, 14 Jun 2008 03:46:00 GMT

This is my favorite thing I’ve ever seen. Absolutely. It’s incredible on so many levels, and I just want to share it with you. Note: it starts off a little slow, but just wait it out. The. Best. Thing. Ever.

Watch it again. I just can’t help myself.

I don’t know what it is that makes me so happy.
...it’s not because it’s a midget in a horrible special effects costume… it’s not because the guy is more effeminate in four minutes than I’ll ever be in my lifetime… it’s not because of the ridiculous “baby fetus” prop… it’s not because it’s actually a cruel, cruel show… it’s not because he said he saw “a demon” and believed it… it’s not because that’s a version of everyone’s worst nightmare…it’s not because of the “bad energy” he felt or because he suggested they bring back “guns and mace”...it’s not because the sound effects- like the extra shots- are so perfectly melodramatic and added much later to the clip in order to drag the viewer in… it’s not because at the end, he says, “I really do work for PETA” as the midget slaps the dust off his hands… and it’s not because even though he acted like he had fun and it was a cool prank, you know he NEVER talked to that friend ever again.

It’s because, as a package, it’s the most incredibly funny thing that I may have ever seen. I think.

Now watch the runner up:

I would have sooo known about this already if I had cable. Damn you, poverty!

Hell or something like it.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 13:44:00 GMT

It’s 8:31 in the morning, and it’s 85 degrees outside.

Here’s something you may not know about New York: there is no spring here. The city of New York jumps from what is one of the most long, miserable winters to one of the most long, miserable summers you’ve ever experienced. Except it’s not summer, it’s hell. Hot, flaming hell.

People find out I’m from Chicago and ninety percent of the time respond with, “Isn’t it just freezing there?” Sure, buddy. It’s “freezing.” I nod my head to avoid the argument I am more than willing to start because the truth is much different. Chicago is not much colder than New York, and it lacks that extra NY humidity that chills you to your bones. The humidity that exists because NY is next to an ocean and it pours rain here like some kind of urban rainforest that unfortunately isn’t being threatened to be cut down by any logging industry any time soon. The same humidity that kicks my natural instincts to fight for survival in when the subway platform reaches a stifling 102 degrees, the trains become mysteriously more sluggish, and some baby is making a sound that cannot be described other than it is the devil’s spawn itself. It’s as if my furious gaze has begun some kind of transformation for the ruler of hell to turn into its true form in its nine hundred dollar, four wheeling space stroller. I am ready to fight the demon seed baby in this urine coated, mini version of hell; I am.
So no, it’s not better than Chicago’s weather in New York. I’m driven to talk about fighting babies for chrissake.

This is a city that gets so hot, you have to plan to plant yourself in front of your window AC unit, take part in this country’s disgusting overuse of energy, and just enjoy, enjoy, enjoy that cold air in order to get through some days. A summer where you are forced to relinquish any hope of looking attractive; as sweat soaks through your lightest clothing, pours down your face and pools at your feet, victorious in its destruction of your ego. A place where conversation is dominated- no, fully comprised- of people discussing its heat until its bitter cold returns and takes over its nasty conversational throne. And we are left to endure its reign just as we pay its costly rent, wait in its overrated lines, and surrender to its domination of the masses. Because after all, this is New York City. If you can’t make it here, you can’t make it anywhere. Except for hell, which is quite similar in more than just its climate.

It’s now 8:43 am, and it’s 87 degrees.

I’ll be in front of my air conditioner.

MILK '08!

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 04:28:00 GMT

Hello friends!

BOY, have I got a special treat for you!

…By means of a person who is more than horrified to have been sent to this site (for reasons I cannot explain at this very moment,) I give you Cleveland’s KISS FM’s latest and greatest contest: MILK 2008!

For those of you uninformed, that’s Cleveland’s “Mother’s I’d Like to Kiss” contest. Let me repeat.

That’s Cleveland’s “Mother’s I’d Like to Kiss” contest.

Cleveland’s.
“Mother’s I’d Like to Kiss.”
Cleveland’s.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Cleveland’s a great town, and I love some people very dearly that came from it’s beer bellied bosom. Hell, I love anything Midwestern!

But I’m not sure I love what I witnessed on above said site upon browsing their “MILK” contestants last evening.

Just go, and enjoy.

And if you want a preview, please, please, take a deep breath and soak up some of Cleveland’s best below.

DRUMROLL PLEASE…..
And the winner is (by my standards)...

I don’t even know what to say. If you need me, I’ll be rocking in a corner talking to myself, praying to God my mother never, ever, ever, ever does something like this.

Ever.
Ever.

...ever.

Open Letter...

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Fri, 30 May 2008 08:20:00 GMT

Open letter to the Douchebag Hipster wearing an American Apparel skin tight v-neck, ball hugging black skinny jeans, and o-so-stylish checkered vans who poke/stabbed me in my right eye Friday night at an overpacked, overpriced Lower East Side establishment and upon my initial retraction in pain and surprise, replied, “whoa” like Joey on Blossom and giggled instead of offering an apology like any decent human person would do upon injuring another being, especially one he saw icing my injury at the bar with a tecate can only moments later:

Dear Asshole,

You’re the reason I hate Manhattan.

Love,

The girl giving you ONE evil eye.

Shitstorm!

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Wed, 28 May 2008 05:24:00 GMT

I woke up his morning thinking that today was going to be like every other day.

I got out of bed, brushed my teethies, and then took the dog downstairs for a walk. Before we headed out, I realized I forgot a turd bag and popped inside real quick to grab one.

In the time it took to get back outside, a 15 foot tree branch had broken off the tree in front of my building smashing a car, setting off all kinds of car alarms and landing in the middle of the street where it blocked all traffic. A line of cars quickly backed up and began honking their horns. After hazily staring at the hot mess in front of me for a couple minutes, I began walking the dog towards the little coffee shop in my neighborhood for my morning coffee and bagel. I tied up Jones right outside the shop, as per usual, and headed inside to order.

In the three minutes it took to complete this transaction, I returned outside to find a man, outside of his car, screaming at another man who had hit him with the school bus he was driving full of disabled children. I sucked down some caffeine in a vain attempt to awake myself from this odd dream, but to no avail. It was real. And as I slowly ambled away from the second hot mess I had witnessed in twenty minutes, I prepared myself for a day full of mishaps and utter disaster.

Because, obviously, one observes two events like this in a row and naturally- logically- prepares for more. I was the actor in the movie, and some cosmic director was watching me from above, cueing repeated bizarre events like clockwork. Movie’s a hit, director’s a genius, and the actor a comedic goldmine. I was ready for it.

But that was all I got. Just those two things. One, two, nothing.

I spent my day looking like a batty batty coo coo; looking around for things to fall, explode, start on fire… and got nothing. And what, may I ask, is that for a day? When my day starts out shitty, I want a real shitstorm of a day. I don’t want things to get better, I want things to get worse. Much worse. Because then, when the passing bus on the corner of Broadway and Houston splashes you after the bottoms of your grocery bags fall out, your boyfriend dumps you, and you lose your job, it’s hilarious. Ha ha, look at me, Silly McGoeswrong. It’s just “one of those days.”

I was ready for “one of those days,” and I barely got anything. I even shrugged at Jones at one point. He understood, and he was also disappointed in the rest of the day.

Ah well, at least I had a hell of a twenty minutes.
I guess you can’t really beat a bus-full of disabled children. (They are all unharmed by the way. Because if they were, and THEN nothing happened afterwards, I would really be upset.)

Work it out.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 03:31:00 GMT

Hey dudes!
New site is being “worked out.” Hope you like it, and like THESE people working it out.

Question.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 04:37:00 GMT

have you ever been waiting for a bus or attempting to hail a cab on a corner and thought to yourself, “man, i must really look like a hooker right now.”

but not because you’re standing on a corner;

but because you’re wearing a hot pink minidress, five inch white patent knee high boots, fishnet stockings, and a bright red curly haired wig?

good. me neither.

just wanted to check.

love,
your mother.

Who said money couldn't...

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 04:35:00 GMT

i’ll take 4 friendships, please.

I'm very Busey.

joselyn@joselynhughes.com (Joselyn Hughes) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 04:25:00 GMT

have you guys seen this wacko? have you seen it?! you should. get ready:

and after that, it gets even better. enjoy!

if you’ve ever seen my favorite movie- willy wonka and the chocolate factory (2005 version)- throughout it, johnny depp keeps telling mike teavee that he’s mumbling and that he can’t understand a thing mike says. every time mike teavee tries to say something; even though mike is speaking perfectly fine.

and it is one of my favorite parts or lines uttered of any movie, ever. hilarious.

that girl interviewing gary busey is around twelve or thirteen years old.

so it’s like gary busey is willy wonka and has completely lost his mind. (even his and willy wonka’s teeth are similar!)

except willy wonka is not a real person, and gary busey is.

LOVE it.