The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

I’m just being slammed at work today trying to catch up.  Plus, whenever you’re out, it’s always inevitable that those covering for you will fuck up somehow or another, as has happened. 

J. Co comes back on Monday, and while I will miss being able to walk from the bathroom to my room naked after showering instead of with a towel, I thank God another human presence will be present to distract the attention of Sugar, who has begun pissing me off so much by constantly being at my feet that I’ve taken to flicking water on her.  It does nothing to sway her.

I don’t support theme parties.  The only theme of any party should be drugs, drinking and/or sex.

My sister Marie came and stayed for six days, and we had a time.  We shopped at Union Square, trotted through the Haight, strolled through Botannical Gardens, brunched at the Beach Chalet, saw "Harry Potter", toured Alcatraz, hit up the Castro, the Marina, and Crissy Field, braved Berkeley, and took more pictures than you can shake a stick at.  I was sad to see her go, but happy to have some relief from the pain in my legs from all the walking we did. 

Now I’m back at work, and can barely think straight.  And I have to interview someone in an hour and a half.  And lead orientation tomorrow.  And catch up on 300 or so emails. 

Christ above.

We’re just a hop, skip, and a jump away from today ’til Marie gets here.  I’m probably even more excited than she is.  I have so much planned–Alcatraz, Coit Tower, the Beach Chalet for brunch, North Beach, Haight & Ashbury.  Now I just need to finish cleaning up my place, which I heartily loathe the thought of.

I hate when people say, "I have a question."  I don’t care what you have.  Just ask.

There comes a point when you reach a certain age, and should drastically limit the use of "lol"s in your texts, blogs, and all that you type.  It no longer because a laughing matter when you begin to look lame.

See you fucking motherfuckers next week!

When Steve Martin steps out of his trademark niche of comedy into the genre of drama, it never tends to fare all that well.  Such is the case with "Shopgirl".  There seemed to be such promise in the beginning with the story of the displaced but endearing Mirabelle, but I just kept waiting for something that didn’t come.  Instead, you get a lot of angsty shots of the three leads, sweeping views of Los Angeles, and great payola stills of Saks.  Martin’c cryptic and sporadic narration also does not help, attempting to fill the gaps of what could be quite interesting dialogue.  And the promise of Jason Schwartzman’s quirky character actually becoming loveable is muted by his alleged transformation via meditation as a newbie roadie.

It seems to summarize itself (with cherry blossoms inexplicably blowing in the wind, no less) by saying that all you need is to buckle down on a few yoga tapes, buy yourself an Armani suit, and you’ll get the girl in the end.

I just have to remember I only have three work days this week before my sister Marie’s visit.  I do hope the weather clears up.  And I need to buy a towel for her, and tidy things up.  I’m so excited!

I miss "Jem".

I remember how moving from pencils to pens was one of the coolest things about going from middle school to high school.

I need a cheese grater.  Desperately.

I’m feeling quite sub-par today.  My left foot hurts.  And it’s not because I sprained it or bumped it against something.  I think it’s because my kidneys, sick of the twin scourges of alcohol and diet pills, have declared war, and are diverting toxins to my foot.  Or its nearby ally, my stomach, may have split a seam, and begun depositing stomach acid down my leg into my foot.  Or maybe my spleen has caught aflame and plummeted to its death down into my foot.

Sound outlandish?  Stranger things have happened.  I think I need some serious detox time before I pass on.

Today is just the Day of Irritation.

Sugar took a raging dump this morning before I left for work, and I can still smell it, I swear.  She just looked at me all innocently in the hallway as I bent down to tie my shoes this morning, and could a full, firsthand whiff of it.

I’m getting calls from employees who have no idea why they just got a raise (hint: pay attention to the literature sent out by your union and the company, and just be happy about it).

Security is referring calls to me about people who have the wrong ID badge (hint: look at the number on their badge and the number in the system and make sure they match up).

Managers are sending in paperwork with the wrong dates on them (hint: check the payroll calendar).

And to top it off, I learned yesterday that Kathy Griffin has sold out her performance on my birthday, and two of my friends didn’t get tickets in time.  I’m severely bummed about that.  Plus, it’s assigned seating, so the two friends who did get tickets are sitting apart from me.  There are two tickets available on eBay, but the seller is a greedy bum asking for $450.  Out of desperation, I actually sent an email to Kathy via MySpace and her web site (which I’m sure she’ll receive…) saying it’s my birthday, and two of my friends couldn’t get tickets, and I’m one of her everloving gays, blah blah blah. 

I’m still hoping it will all work out.  Somehow.

When I was little, I had a babysitter who once made us pancakes for dinner.  It was the best dinner I’ve ever had.

I love it when black people say, "Tha’s some bullshit!".

If you haven’t already, you should see "Princess Caraboo".  It was the "Amelie" of the ’90s.

Sugar’s fur coat feels like felt.

My sister Marie will be here in one week!