The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

My great-grandmother, Nyleen, just passed away.  She was 92.  It was expected, as her health was failing and she had hip problems, but of course it’s sad.

She actually had a twin sister, my Aunt Nadine (Nadine and Nyleen–don’t you just love old people names?  I totally think they should be brought back) who used to coddle me like no one’s bidness, and protect me from my mom’s evil cousins who would repeatedly call me “Elmer” to which I screamed and cried was not my name.  I was, like, 7.

When she died, I remember asking to go to her funeral, but wasn’t allowed.  Still, Gram (Nyleen) was still around, and she would always have the grandkids over to the mobile home park in which she lived for sleep overs and make us non-caffeinated coffee in the mornings, which was tres exiting back then.  We got to swim in the big pool they had (which I don’t know why they had since old people aren’t keen on doing early morning laps ’round the pool) and watch movies.

Once, my sister and I were having a sleep over at her house, and watching “Biloxi Blues”.  When Matthew Broderick’s character said he was “impotent” and couldn’t have sex with the prostitute character played by “Designing Women”’s Dixie Carter, I asked my grandmother what that meant, and she casually said, “Oh, it’s when a man can’t perform sex.”

She had this very sweet clip from a “Reader’s Digest” on her refrigerator titled, “What’s Wrong With Teenagers”, and while I don’t remember exactly what it was about, the jist of it was that teenagers were treated like teenagers instead of real people.  Very sweet.

Gram would always insist on helping make the Thanksgiving dinner which, I know not why, we would always have in her cramped little mobile home.  And everyone would tell her to just sit and let the rest of them do it.  That’s the kind of person that she was.  Always wanting to be of utilitarian value.  I remember once pointing out this (fake) bejeweled box she had that held tissues and saying how pretty it was when I was little.  She wrote on the back, “This goes to Josh” so I would get it when she died.  Then she just gave it to me figuring it best to cut out the middle man.

She was the matriarch to a huge, huge family, with dozens of last names among us.  And she could remember every single freakin’ person and what they were up to, even as she was well into her 80s.  I’m sure it helped that she had collages and pictures of every last one of us in her house.  Everytime I would go back to San Diego to visit, she would always give me this little farewell speech like it would be the last time I’d see her, telling me how proud she was of me and how much she loved me. 

I just had to take a little walk around the block and have a brief cry, but I’m alright.  It’s good to have so many memories of such a sweet person.

Last night was just another bad dream that would make a great, bizarre indie short to heap on to the rest of them.  I suppose it didn’t help terribly that I just laid about all day watching “Viva La Bam” DVDs and catnapping.  Nor that my new bamboo blinds completely block out any natural sunlight, which is great for mornings, but a mite depressing for daytimes.

In the dream, I was going to some sort of prom or New Year’s Eve event with one male friend and one female friend.  The place was packed, and I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

How, I know not why, but I somewhere along the way I ran into Missy Elliot, who looked thin and fantastic.  I for some reason took it upon myself to give her some financial advice, and she she looked at me like I was some crazy person.

After making my way through this hideous gym bathroom (note: most of my nightmares include this same, labyrinth-like “Hostel”-inspired bathroom.  Must be because public bathrooms gross me out like no one’s bidness, so why wouldn’t they be in my nightmares), I went back to the dance to find my two friends.  Most of the attendees had gone, and the few remaining people were these emo, crackhead wasteheads doing odd things.  My friends were making fun of them when suddenly this one girl busted out with a machine gun and began gunning people down.  It was fairly horrific.

About which time, I decided I didn’t want to be at the dance, and magically flew out of the gym, out through the doors (which, coincidentally, were made of the same bamboo as my new blinds…), and up into the sky.  Then I woke up and felt heavy as lead.

So, um, yeah, I’ll be smudging my room tonight.

As the jiggerish year comes to a close, I like to reflect back and think of how it went. 

First and foremost was my trip to NYC for the first time ever.  It was amazing, and I can’t wait to go back. 

We moved offices, and went from working in a converted old 1950’s doctor’s office to a real office with cubicles and the lot.

LG returned to SF, and I once again have a gay friend in the vicinity.

We elected our first black president.  Even for the most cynical person, the act in and of itself is amazing.  Just remember, you can say you were alive when the United States voted its first black president.

My mom celebrated her 50th birthday, and I went back to SD to commemorate the half-century event.

And perhaps most striking, coming as it did at the end of the year, was my promotion.  I can say with no trace of arrogance that it’s deserving and I fit the bill for the job.  It’s going to be a challenge (why, just yesterday, my day extended into evening contending with Excel, which is going to be a major program in my new position), but I’m up to it.  And the new paycheck is going to put a serious dent into my debt and make for some amazing new changes in my life.

So as much as you may want to disregard the holiday season and the new year as hackneyed consumerist traditions, any opportunity to be thankful and have renewed hope is a motherfucking opportunity I’ll take.

With the HannuKwanzaChristmas season upon us bringing with it the brisk chill air, the blinking Christmas lights bedecking each house and building, children skating in the ice rink, happy couples Christmas shopping, and my ass all alone, I vacillate between a whimsical sense of tranquility and mildly suicidal thoughts. But I did get all of my Christmas shopping done. And one of my credit cards issued a $500 credit increase to assist me. So that’s of note.

This time of year also brings the treats. Not the trick or treats, but the food–by the vat. People bringing in food to work, catering for meetings, cakes, cookies, and the lot. And God save you if you don’t have a full-portion plate of it at your desk because eeeeeeeveryone will walk by and tell you, “Hey! Didn’t cha know there’s food in the kitchen!?!” and insist upon high that you get some. Like constantly.

Thankfully, I was out sick with the cold from hell last week, and I have since not had much of an appetite. Perfect timing, I’d say. Not to mention the fact that I need to lose a few (a lot of) pounds. Thank Jesus Claus.

Whenever I see a woman on the bus doing her make-up, I have to fight the urge to walk by and go, “It’s hopeless.”

My middle school created this cartoon-worthy rulebook my seventh grade year which they handed out to all of the students at the beginning of the year.  As if we were in some sort of gang zone.  I mean, this was rural San Diego county, which is stuck in some ’70s midwestern time warp.  And it brought me great joy, always, to break out said rule book whenever one of my friends would commit a transgression and recite to them their crime and potential punishment.

Fast forward to 2008 where my department created guidelines for appropriate office behavior.  I made several photocopies for myself, and whenever someone makes a hint of an offense contained therein, I copy the page, highlight the crime, and leave it for them on their chair, desk, inbox, or all of the above.  Way fun.

Do you too see something wrong with the family-sized pack of Vivarin?