The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Holla props to Ellen for mentioning the murder of that fifteen year old gay boy, Larry King, who asked another boy to be his valentine, and was murdered by that boy.  It’s so hard for me to talk about gay issues.  I can’t even go on to IMDb and post any sort of snappy retorts to the homophobes.  My mind just swoons and my heart palpitates. 

I can’t comprehend someone who is so astronomically wrong by thinking that my existence is wrong.  There’s no insult strong enough with which to attack these people.  There’s no point in arguing with them because I don’t even think they have the mental tools to argue intelligently or humanely.

"Think about how many times you hear being gay as a punchline in a monologues or hear the word gay as an insult," Ellen said.  Just *think*.  If people thought more and stopped acting like assholes, the world just might be a better fucking place.

Happy goddamn Leap Year’s.

Another freaky-ass dream last night, but thankfully, it was a two-parter, with the conclusion being a bit better.  It started off featuring some guy who had kidnapped two chipmunks and had planned to molest them, and was making out with a dog at the same time.

Grosss-ass fucking fowl.  I think this stemmed from this documentary I saw on IFC the other day called "Deliver Us From Evil" about this pedophile priest, but I dunno.

The second part was much better.  I was traversing this long, barren landscape towards this large black mountain along with this sister-like figure where we’d planned to do battle with some big, black demon thing.  But every so often, there would be this oasis that was a water park, and we’d stop and go down the slides and chill in the water a bit.  It was kind of cool.  Odd, but cool.

I sometimes wonder if my dreams are some sort of window into hell.

We were supposed to be viewing a webinar the other day, and everyone had dialed in and was on the website.  But a few minutes passed by, and all I heard was the waiting music.  I looked across the hall at my co-workers and assumed they also were waiting, and announced, "Is anyone else still not able to get in?  All I hear is this ’70s porn music!", and my counterpart, Drusilla, got this wide-eyed look of shock on her face, took off her headset and came over to my desk nodding that yes, she was in…and was on speakerphone.  I had apparently dialed in the wrong number, while everyone else had already been listening in.

Don’t people turn their shit to mute and close their doors when doing webinars anymore?

A classic day in office workplace history.

Ever have one of those days where you know if you’d just gotten 30, 45 minutes more of sleep, you’d be so much better off?

On Sunday, I went on a (drunken) whim back to (one of my old) stomping grounds, South City.  I lived in South City two separate times, in 2000 after I’d been booted from the room I rented from one evil Mrs. Swan (not a reference to "MadTV"–an actual evil old landlady), and again in 2001 after I fled from my crazed roommate on Treasure Island, Crazy Queen (an actual made up nickname). 

While there, I resided with Mr. Alterhausenn (then Allen) and J. Co (then Jen Co), holed up on their couch for longer than I should have in both instances.  South City, like many cities on the Peninsula, is quaint and assuming (read: boring), with a considerable Latino population.  I don’t know what I was attempting to achieve by making this sojourn, except to experience a spurt of nostalgia.  But all it did was make me thankful I no longer lived there.  Having to trek for some 800 blocks to the CalTrain station to get into the City.  And it’s just too suburban for my liking.

Friday marks my eighth year working at my current company.  And we’re moving offices next month.  The excitement never ends.

I have this awful problem where when I randomly look at people who are otherwise blase, I can’t help but think what it’s like when they have sex.  I irreparably revert to an image of them mid coitus.  And it ain’t always pretty.  Nor does it make it all that easy to walk down a crowded sidewalk.

Someone would make a fortune if they invented a breathalizer for cell phones.  For not only is the danger of drunk dialing right at your fingertips with cell phone in hand at the bar, but so too is drunk texting.  Ain’ no nigga like to wake up the next day with a Sent Items box full of effusive texts (guilty as charged).

If you had the power to know what other people were really thinking about you, would you really want to know?

This past three-day weekend was also a treat for Sugar, who enjoyed nearly full-time human company as I spent most of my time at home, lounging, cocktailing, and getting my reality TV in.  It even began early on Friday when we got out early at work, and was extended when I stayed home sick Tuesday from an insufferable stomachache.

So last night, her vengeance was enacted.  I got home, having not been home all day, and she kept batting at my heels, then darting away.  Like, three or four times, with her wicked hook claws.  All while I was trying to put groceries away, take out the trash, and wash the dishes.

Vindictive needy bitch.  I love that little pussy.

I’ve taken to ironing all of my work clothes for the week Sunday night.  It detracts from the rush of getting ready in the morning, which is so less than fun.  Although lately, I’ve been waking up with all sorts of varying songs playing quite clearly in my head.

For instance, this morning–I don’t know if there was some Time Life infomercial for disco hits that was on TV–but I head Andrea True Connection’s "More, More, More", Alicia Bridge’s "I Love The Nightlife", and Silver Connection’s "Fly, Robin, Fly".  Lovely disco montage.

I hate small talk and chit chat.  Don’t say shit unless it’s funny or meaningful.

Do you know that eventually plugs and outlets will be obsolete?

I was a bit floored yesterday when I received my evaluation, and my supervisor started it off by saying, "I promised myself I’d never do this, but I’m giving you a Consistently Meets and Exceeds Expectations."

That’s a Superior rating, kids.

They’re rarely doled out at my company, and it was a pleasant surprise. 

A somewhat unpleasant surprise came this morning when my director sent out an email to our department saying she’d received a copy of an old policy that states pets are not allowed on company premises.  To backtrack, we have two or three people in the office who bring their dogs to work once a week, on different days, and it really leads to a happier office environment.  Well, our director said she interpreted this as someone being unhappy with the dogs being around, so no more pets are allowed.   Super bummer.

And on that note, a list of nicknames we use for Sugar:

Sugarkitty
Monster Kitty
Shoogies

Scampers
Muffin
Muffin Basket
Bunny
Rabbit
Pooshus ("precious" in baby pronunciation)
Mouse

Enjoy your Monday off, whatever it’s for, if you get it off!

My federal tax return refund was just directly deposited into my account today.  Only about $100, but considering it was just two weeks ago that I sent it in, you can color me impressed.

I’ve actually trimmed my work inbox down to just one page.  That is, I don’t have to scroll up or down to view all of my emails.  This is a feat unimaginable, and one that probably won’t last too long, but it’s such a precious rarity I can’t help but pat my black ass on the back.

Let’s hope this trend of good fortune follows on through the rest of the day.  I’m getting my annual evaluation this afternoon, and I have a lump in my throat and clammy hands for it.  Everything should ostensibly be fine, but sometimes I feel like I never know.

Happy Valentine’s Day to me?

Last night, Tiff Tiff and I dined at the delish Asquew, then had cocktails at the Overlook, or the Oversight, or whatever the fuck the Metro is called now. Much fun catching up with her. Then I went home, fell asleep, and dreamt I was part of a co-op to which I didn’t contribute much, and for which I was much maligned by my cohabitants. It also somehow involved Christian Siriano from "Project Runway" for whatever reason. (P.S. I think he’ll win.)

Other than that, my workload has dramatically (and thankfully) decreased now that the training programs are over, and I can feel normal again; I submitted my annual bonus project goals four months in advance of their due date; and I’m starting to get ahold of my finances as I promised myself I would this year.

Ain’t it just motherfuckin’ cheery?