The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Mr. Alterhausen concluded his Pride week stay and departed for San Diego yesterday.  And J Co and KFC packed up and departed last night, and Brandon moved in.  In one fell swoop, the bustling buzz of Casa Fiesta decrescendoed into a gentle quiet.

I hadn’t realized it, but most of the wall decorations and mirrors belonged to J Co, so the house is a bit barren except for my room.  But I don’t entirely mind.  Gives it a nice clean sheen, a new palate upon which to decorate.

Brandon seems very personable and chill.  I had hoped to take him out to a welcome dinner, but was feeling slightly sickly.  I swear I musta had an ulcer from all this grief with the landlord. 

Gideon invited me to a 4th of July barbecue at his place in the Berkeley Hills.  The unbelievably beautiful view from his place is the wall paper on his cell phone, and I’m a sucker for beautiful views, so should be fun.  I’m a sucker for Gideon, too, but who knows where that will take us.  I will be celebrating our freedom from the British, even though I would have probably been happier growing up in Britain than here, by toasting to the fireworks while getting toasted.

Cheers, uryone.

What was supposed to kick off my Pride Week Extravaganza–which, while it didn’t end up being an extravaganza, was a more subdued affair among friends that was plenty fun–was immediately marred by a a voicemail from the vice president of my property management company.  With no information.  Whatsoever.

My mind ran wild with possibilities…Were they going to evict me?  Had my roommate choice, Brandon, been rejected, meaning I would have to cover the rent myself for the month while I looked for a replacement?  Had I had too many sub-tenants under my lease to allow another person in?  What, what, what?

So the panic set in, and I pretty much lost my appetite all weekend–not an entirely bad thing for my fat ass.  Still, I managed to make it to Steps of Rome with Mr. Alterhausen and a charming Berkeley alum.  Then we had to backtrack to the Haight, where he’d left a credit card at a bar, and from there met up with Pejorative, watching YouTube videos, singing along, and chatting up a ruckus until well nigh 4:00 am.

Saturday, the trio of us met up again for a brunch, drinks, and a showing of the new TV series “Glee”.  Mr. Altherhausen and Pejorative passed out late midday, so I slipped home myself for an Absynthe or two before falling over onto bed.  And I pretty much stayed in bed all Sunday, useless as the day is long.

So I pretty much missed everything, but it’s not like I haven’t seen it all and done it all before.  And it’s not like there won’t be another Pride next year.

Preferably with less drama attached to it.

I got a call from my regular property manager on Monday, and apparently the crisis was over the quote I given Brandon for the rent.  Which had never been a problem before.  It’s more because it’s the larger room for Chrissake.  And the previous property manager had already confirmed it was okay to quote the other roommate whatever I wanted, and I forwarded her email from 2006.

So it’s resolved, the sub-tenancy agreement is signed, and Brandon moves in tomorrow night.  I still have significant cleaning to do, but I’ve given him fair warning, and have Friday off.  And it’s of course madness at work.  But it has been delightful having Mr. Alterhausen here to visit, and he’ll be returning in August before defecting to Taiwan. 

I need a spa treatment, a massage, a cocktail that will soothe my mind, and enough medication to make me forget the trauma of this ridiculous little triviality so I can sleep restfully again at night.

Sometimes I’m so happy to be alive, I could just start singing on the streets like I’m in my very own Broadway musical. Other times, I just wish I had that potion that Romeo and Juliet swallowed so I could die instantly and painlessly.

Sometimes I want to be in love so badly it hurts. Other times, I lift my hands to the sky and thank God that I am on my own, and don’t have anyone else to deal with.

Sometimes I’m on a bus full of people, and I’ll think to myself, life is so wonderful that people have come together and can be together yet lead such varied lives. Other times, I’m on a bus full of people, and they all seem like ants scattering about, and I just want to squash them soundly.

Friday night kicked off with a Mr. Alterhausen reunion happy hour at Martuni’s, where I met up with old high school chum Mason.  Mr. Altherhausen and I then segued to the Castro proper and hit up a variety of establishments, including Trigger, the new bar/club that (happily) replaced Detour.  It’s like Lime with a clubby atmosphere, and although there wasn’t a proper dancefloor, Mr. Alterhausen and I made like there was, and soon others were dancing along with us.  Fun times.

Saturday, I went with a handful of co-workers to Drusilla’s new place in Emeryville, where we had delicious edibles and watched “Bolt”.

And Sunday, after braving the gym in the morning, I did a mite bit of shopping before falling on the floor dead tired.

As an additional excitement factor to the weekend, the girl I’d chosen for the room called Friday night just as my buzz was taking off to let me know she wouldn’t be able to make the deposit, so would have to decline the room.  A bummer.  I called my back up, Gay Guy #2, and didn’t hear back from him.  So I’ve decided to go with Brandon, a perfectly chill guy.  I wasn’t able to get him by phone, but we just emailed this morning, and he said he was excited about the offer.  I guess that means he’ll take it, and I certainly hope so.  This stuff stresses me out, and we’re at the end of the month and it’s freakin’ Pride.  I want to spend all my money on club and booze, for Chrissake.  Not covering the rent!

My company just announced that we will be having salary reductions/furloughs.  Well, it is “under discussion”, but that’s what they said about layoffs, and those came and went in not one, but two waves.  I suppose I should be happy I still have a job and all.  And I did just get a promotion, so the reduction won’t kill me.

But…I did JUST get a promotion.  And I’ve been enjoying the extra money, not just to spend, but to cut down my debt.  I was even hoping to take my sister and niece to Disneyland later this year.  I feel a bit ungrateful for complaining since it’s only an 8% cut, but, I mean, I’ll still be doing the same amount of work.

It makes me question what I’m doing at all.  I enjoy working in HR, for a company that does good things, with cool people.  My job is engaging, but it is not my passion.  And I like the people with whom I work, but I’m sort of a black sheep.  I’m a creative person, into music and writing, and I’m working alongside people with business backgrounds.  I’m intelligent, so I’m able to succeed at what I do, but it does not fill my heart with passion and enrich my soul or anything.

I’m reminded of a time at one staff meeting where, based on a questionnaire we’d answered, we were broken up into four groups by color.  The red group was people who were compassionate, the blue group was people who were logical, the green group was organized, and the yellow group was the more metaphorical or creative-thinking group. 

There were a lot of blues and greens.  A number of reds.  And four yellows, myself included.  One of the yellows has since resigned, and went off to become a Buddhist monk.

Whenever I take a gander at what my friends from college are doing, it’s something artistic and interesting.  One is an editor, one works in comic books, several are in bands.  My freshman year college roommate–who was actually in the band The Aquabats–is still a musician, and in fact, has his own Wikipedia entry. 

And I can’t help but think, if I’m going to be paid less to do the same amount of work–possibly more–why not at least look into some other avenue.  I used to love to write, and wanted to work for a magazine.  It sounds sort of youthfully naive now, but it’s something for which I have a talent.  Now my writing abilities are at most capitalized on when I need to draft an important official letter or review the grammar and punctuation of something on our intranet. 

And I always wanted to be a DJ and write and produce my own music, but as time has gone on, that’s seemed more and more like a ridiculous pipe dream.  I contacted a local label asking about an internship as a way to get my foot in the door, they responded, but I never followed up.

These things may not be as fiscally rewarding, but I already pay next to nothing in rent, and am more conscientious of my finances nowadays than ever before.  I’m not saying I’m ready to quit–yet–but this whole thing makes me question why I never bothered to pursue something that would fill my life with passion and joy rather than settle for something that will keep my wallet (mildly) full.

My eventful weekend began Friday night barhopping in the ‘Stro with Gideon.  We started off at the Overlook or the LookOut–the place that used to be Metro (I can never get the name right)–which was more happenin’ than usual due to the night being hosted by 92.7.  Then we segued to the Mix, and finally to Badlands where we danced away to the endless pop music before closing the place down.

Outside, we met a drag queen named Holly Bibble and her hunky companion.  Said hunky companion–who was taller than I am, which is, like, a bonus 20 points–expressed interest in me, but I was interested in Gideon.  Still, I hadn’t quite had the chutzpah to extend an invite.  Then we made our way back out of the ‘Stro, when who did we come upon, but LG celebrating his birthday.  He offered us some party favors, but it was 3:00 am, and I wasn’t interested in staying awake any longer, so ushered Gideon on.

By the time we were on the main drag, any romantic bravery I’d had previously had been replaced by a sense of wary decorum as my buzz had well nigh worn off.  A fleet of cabs were before me as Gideon mentioned his car was just up the street, so we parted ways.

I sent a text not ten minutes into the cab ride inviting him over.  Didn’t get a response after five minutes, so sent another one apologizing if I’d made things uncomfortable and wishing him a safe return drive.

Another fifteen minutes after I’d returned home basically with my head hung low, I got a text back saying he’d just gotten home and gotten my messages.  “Wow!” he texted back, going on to say it wasn’t what he expected, but that a drunken night together would probably not be the best thing, but that we should hang out again and see.

I responded saying a drunken tryst could be fun, but okay.

He replied agreeing, but saying he was a “prude”, and then concluded with “Muah!”

As he’s no stranger to the bathhouse, I doubt a bit the “prude” claim.  But we’d spent quite a bit of time at the Mix where he bemoaned how he seems to have this six-month span with relationships.  And he did just end one.  So it could be that he wants to play it safe, for which I do not blame him.

On the other hand, mama didn’t raise no fool.  It’s very possible he’s just not that into me, like the book says.  I guess we’ll have to see.  And I’d almost like to terminate any future endeavors in this vein since I’m interested in keeping him as a friend, and don’t want things to get uncomfortable.  But since my past practice has always been to cut things off before I’ve give them a second chance, I figure I should try a different route this go round.

In better news, I’ve selected a new roommate candidate!  We will hope that the credit check, etc. go okay.  She is gabalicious and sweet, and will make a great addition if all goes well.

Yesterday I was migraine-ing my way through this glitch in a major project I have to do this month at work.  Then Gay Guy #2, who was supposed to interview for the room, canceled on me.  And although I was too tired and distressed to go to the gym after work, I got up off my duff after “Judge Judy” and made myself go.  Then when I went to catch the bus on my way back home, I saw a text from Gideon on my phone.  Inviting me for drinks on Friday.  Hope springs eternal.

I’ve taken to eating out of Tupperware.  Not the big, massive containers, but the tapas-sized ones.  I like things that can contain your food (unlikes plates that slide it all around) and control your portions.  Mock me if you will.  Deride if you must.  But I feel neat and clean when I eat.

I’ve become mildly obsessed with the Ms. Pac Man game on my cell phone.  And I’ve gotten good at it.  I am reminded of a time back in 1986 when some friends of the family got the original Pac Man game on the Atari.  We went over to their house, and I played it until my thumb was blistered.

Now when I play it, I get so insanely into it, that I start to question the motives of the ghosts.  Why are they attacking me?  What is their motivation?  How is it fair to expect that one slow moving yellow mouth with a mole and a pink ribbon can outrun a gang of four?  And then I think about Ms. Pac Man.  It’s like she’s a prisoner in this fucked up world where she just has to keep eating to stay alive.  But with each stage I pass, another piece of her life is revealed: she meets Pac Man, they court each other, they have a baby.  It’s a mystery unfolding at every turn.

Truly, I need to be on medication.

After hightailing it to the gym late Friday night and coming home exhausted, I awoke at the crack of the crack Saturday morning to scrub the place down in preparation for the three roommate interviews I was to have this weekend with Straight Chick, Gay Guy #1, and Nob Hill Girl.  I scrubbed, washed, and sprayed down as best I could, sweating away all the while, with just about a half hour before Straight Chick was to come at noon.

When she arrived, a mousey, albeit pretty girl who looked like a young Jennifer Connolly, the first question she asked before I’d even closed the door was, “How much is the room again?”  I feel like roommate interviews should be akin to job interviews, but less formal.  You need to have read the room posting and description before you show up.  And my room posting was very detailed, and certainly included the rent.

In any case, she deemed the kitchen a five out of ten (!), even after I’d slaved away, but I don’t entirely blame her.  And when I told her the PG&E came out to about $40, she asked, “Per person?”.  Regardless, she just wasn’t to make the cut.

Secondly was Gay Gay #1, a Chicago transplant who is into music and writing, and wanting to settle down in SF.  I kind of get the feeling that he won’t be joining me for any End Up trips, but he seemed personable, if not a bit full of trepidation, but then I suppose roommate interviews can be a little stressful.  He did say that the place was the best one he’d checked out, especially for the price (word), so he is definitely in the lead.

The Sunday, I again rushed about in preparation for Nob Hill Girl, who lived in my neighborhood, Nob Hill, and who seemed very responsive to the ad…and she didn’t show.  I didn’t have her number, but emailed from my cell phone, and just tried her again today.  Whatevs.

Gay Guy #2 will be coming Tuesday evening, and that’s about all I can take.  I told myself that the next time I was looking for roommates, I’d take the time to really find someone I like.  But I’ll settle for someone relatively cool who can be clean and responsible.  It’s too draining dealing with these interviews, and it would be a fatiguing struggle keeping the place as clean as I’d like it through next weekend.

God grant me the strength, you guys ‘n’ dolls.

I have two folks coming tomorrow, one on Sunday, and one Tuesday evening. That makes four potential roommate candidates. I have this image in my head of my ideal roommate, who would be this fun, carefree spirit, but also immaculately organized. I basically want to live with Parker Posey from “Party Girl”.

Barring that, someone who is clean and respectful and pays bills on time will do. Even if they aren’t the mostest fun.

I had this new director who emailed me last yesterday asking what my availability today was for a meeting. This is over these union-mandated increases for his employees that I manage, and I’m just thinking, Are you out of your ever-loving gourd, ya bleak nutjob?

I have this fantasy that everyone in the world dies and I’m all that’s left. And I would go and spend the night at a different person’s house each day. I would love to see the insides of other peoples’ homes. I find it all so fascinating.

There are some people who are parents who, when I see them, I can’t believe they ever had the sex that created their child. 

For example, there was this very PTA fussbudget woman on the bus this morning with her son who, when she got on, asked, “Do you want to put the coins in the slot?”  Of course, everyone rolls their eyes because we know it’s going to take an extra five seconds for the kid to grasp this concept, thus delaying the rest of us.  Then she’s guiding him around on the bus, and saying, “Around and around!” when they got off through the rear door.

I just can’t ever imagine these types of people ever got down and dirty with another person.  Or maybe it was a syringe filled with semen. 

In any case, I get that people have different sides to their personalities, but having that preschool teacher mindset seems miles and miles away from any sort of sexual emotion. 

Blech.