The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

I was researching online about that new diet pill Alli, and was dismayed to find that it only helps a smidge in weight loss when combined with a healthy diet and exercise.  Like, if you’re trying to lose ten pounds, it’ll help you lose fifteen.  You might as well spend the fifty five bucks it costs on healthier foods, yes?  Hard enough during the holiday season.  Plus, it causes you to shit out excess fat.  They actually call it an Alli-oops! in the packaging.  Grody.  But something must be done.  I got my driver’s license in the mail, and I look like Jabba the Hut, Jr.  Blech.  I also need to switch to a lighter foundation.  I’m not East Indian.

Odd how Hyde is the name of the dirtiest street in San Francisco, and the trendiest club in LA.

I only cut my nails at night right before I go to bed, because the underneaths of them are so sensitive that I have to let them grow out that teensy tiny bit overnight before I feel comfortable using my hands again.

It’s already started.  You’ve heard it, too.  Everywhere you go, any place you go into–the goddamn Christmas music.  I mean, aside from the fact that the suicide rate peaks around the holidays, I’m just plumb tired of hearing all those holiday songs.  You know, I used to be in band, and we rehearsed and performed the whole battery of X-mas tunes, so they’ve been battered into my eternal memory, and I needs me a break.

The ending of "Titanic" gets me every time.  Not because it’s so touching, but because it’s so stupid.  The dumb old broad kept that priceless Heart of the Ocean stone until she turned 98, and then chucked it into the sea?  I mean, wouldn’t she have been sort of poor after she was rescued since she basically disowned Billy Zane (sooo hot.  I so wouldn’t mind being his trophy wife) and her mother, so why not start afresh with some big bucks?

Movies are retarded.

I had a rather dizzying, somewhat sleepless Indigenous People’s Day four-day weekend.  Then we had a staff "retreat" yesterday.  I say "retreat" because we actually went over a projected vision of how our department should be by 2008.  Yes, one of those.  I had a headache by the end of the day.  And have another one again today trying to catch up.  Oy.

Sometimes it’s gross to think that your teeth are bones.

Badminton rocks.

I had a dream about Sean Penn the other night.  A good one.  Have you seen those guns?

The smell of vinegar always reminds me of Easter.

What is the point of decaf coffee?

What a difference a full night of sober sleep makes.  I’m feeling much better today.  And I get to leave early.  To go to the DMV and get a new driver’s license, but still, I get to leave early.

I’ve been playing phone tag with this cleaning service, but hopefully they will be able to come tomorrow.  And our place couldn’t use it any sooner. 

The thing that bugs about the holidays is that everyone asks what you’re doing for them, and if you’re not going somewhere to visit your family, then it’s like you’re a sad, sad thing.  So I’ve just taken to telling people I’ll be on a holiday drinking binge, and not to disturb.

Katie Holmes creeps me out.

I’m tapped out.  The light has gone out of my eye.  The spring from my step.  That inner light?  Snuffed out.  The sheen of everything?  Scrubbed clean.  I suppose this is what those who experience suicidal tendencies must feel.  But I’m too tired to feel suicidal. 

Chalk it up to old age.  Chalk it up to my uncomfortable bed and the sleep it deprives me of.  Or maybe even to the monotony of the day.  All are culprits in my book.  It was a four-day week this week, and I can’t even believe I have to come in to work tomorrow.

I should just pop a Xanax this weekend, get a full, undisturbed day’s worth of sleep, and see if I can’t find the joy in life again.  Later.

I usually have a really good dream or a really bad dream at night.  Mostly the latter.  Last night, it was a sort of sad bummer of a dream, followed by a short, sweet one.

I had a ticket to Hawaii (where my sister’s boyfriend lives, and where I hope we can all visit when she has the baby next year) at 4:00 on Friday, but I was working at the dining commons I worked at in college, and my clothes were still in the wash, so I ended up missing the flight, and couldn’t wait on standby because my clothes were still in the wash.

Luckily, the lady at the ticket counter, who resembled my feisty boss at the company I first temped at when I moved to SF except with an odd sunburn scar on her nose, said it was my right to get a flight–clearly something someone from an airline would only ever, ever say in a dream, I know.  But because Monday was a holiday, the next flight I could get was on Tuesday, which would shorten my trip, but still get me there nonetheless.

Then I woke up briefly as usual, drank some water, fell back asleep, and dreamed I was recording a smooth R n B song with Jill Scott.  Whom I rather love.  Yes, I can sing like a black person in my dreams.

Word.

I’d been wondering why I, the alcoholic savant, had been unable to throw ‘em back like I used to without falling flat asleep after two or three cocktails.  Then I realized, it was because I’d been foolishly going the healthy route, and using diet soda- and sugar free mixers. 

How gauche.

So I switched it up, and used cranberry juice, Orangina, and what have you, and was rewarded with an extra five pounds.  But I did have a rather euphoric buzz for what it was worth.

Why is it easier to walk up a hill backwards than it is forwards?

Whenever I go through the Mission, I see a half dozen hotties that blow my mind.  Why, why, why?

I got a look at what my paycheck with my new raise will be like, and in calculating it, I’d forgotten what a great, godforsaken bite Uncle Sam takes out in taxes.  It looks like I’ve been unjustly launched into a new tax bracket, because my estimates in doing my budget had me a bit higher than I netted.  Still, it’s better than nothing, so I really shouldn’t complain.  Nonetheless, I’m pissed.

You would have thought the end of Daylight Savings would’ve made a difference for at least the first few days, but all that happens is I’m awake at the old time, try to get back to sleep, fail, and still end up getting to work at around the same time.  What gives, Martha?

I wish I could be more positive, but I’m just not feeling it right now.  And btw, could they have picked a more painfully typical chicky bitch to replace Chavon on "The Real World"?

I love dance music. But not before 8:00 am. Some fucktard in our apartment complex, or the one adjacent, insists on flipping on eurotrance in the early hours while I am still trying to eek out the last few minutes of sleep. I want to find this person, and stab them soundly in the eye. And watch as they bleed and scream to death. I would enjoy this muchly.

J. Co and I are all about Safeway.com now. I don’t know why we never got into it before. But neither of us have the time nor desire to schlep a bunch of heavy-ass groceries on the eternally-packed 1 California bus, so we are taking advantage and going with it.