The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

When my mom worked for Bank of America, they used to do these walk-a-thon things for charity.  One of them was held near the beach and surrounding areas, one of which was Fiesta Island.  As we went along on the walk, my mom would run into friends and start chatting with them, and when the subject of the walk-a-thon itself would come up, she would leap into black woman vox and announce, “But I ain’t goin’ on Fiesta Island!” 

That’s what I remember most about this particular walk-a-thon.  Her code-switching into Ebonics and continuously proclaiming, “But I ain’t goin’ on Fiesta Island!  I ain’t goin’ on Fiesta Island!”

Then we went home–in our car–and had to actually drive through Fiesta Island to get back to the freeway.  And it took, like, 30 minutes.  Just driving.  By which I understood just why we wasn’t fittin’ ta walk ’round no Fiesta Island, and was grateful we hadn’t.

I think it’s amazing that we’re born with baby teeth.  It of course makes sense, ’cause you’d probably chomp your tongue right off if you were a toddler with big ole ass adult teeth.

Whenever I’m in public and see a phone number advertised, I am briefly startled because I feel like I’m watching a movie and the prefix should begin with 555.  Then I remember I’m actually in reality.

Despite the drizzly weather, LG and I strolled on up to North Beach for lunchies.  We had a delicious Italian meal served by a delicious Latino waiter, and I ordered some delicious fruity cocktails, including one called a Screw Love that did me in.

Does anyone else feel a sense of dread on Sunday nights?  I don’t know what it is, perhaps some leftover emotion from when I was a kid and dreaded having to start another week in school where I would be harassed and called names.  But I always get this icky feeling Sunday nights knowing that I’ll have to get up and start the whole week over again on Monday morning.

I’m so glad I have Friday off.  God bless St. Cesar Chavez.

I’ve never made out in a car before, and can’t imagine how you would.  Not to mention a car has windows, and I don’t care for others to catch me in the act.

In fifth grade, my best friend Chris and I used to take the bus home together, and it was always hot, loud, and packed.  You remember those ’80s big yellow buses with the big, green rubbery seats.  No tinted windows.  No air conditioners.  And a rusted back “emergency” door.  And we used to call it the Hell Hole Bus.  We even had a whole song about it, that sounded like some chipper TV jingle.

I was watching “The Real Housewives of New York City” the other night at around 11:00 pm, and Bethenny-the hot, witty chef–was getting dating advice from all the other woman, and then the camera went to a snippet of her going, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.  It’s not like I’ve never been on a date before.  I have dated men, here.  I mean, what am I?  Shrek?”  I laughed so hard I had to cover my face with the pillow.

Today I had an employee show up, and in one breath complain:

1. That he was at the penultimate step on the payscale instead of the top one
2. That employees with less experience were making as much as he was (which I explained was possible based on the union contract)
3. That as a unionized employee he shouldn’t have to be subject to such unfairness
4. Pointed to our mission statement on the wall which he said he reminds people of everyday
5. Attacked me for not inviting him into my office (I didn’t think he would take so long.  Plus I have confidential documentation all over my office)
6. Said that he was not here for the staff, the management or anyone else, but for “this” he said, holding up the payscale
7. Lambasted HR for being in what he believed was an undisclosed location (We were booted from our old office for a department with more priority.  They basically put us wherever they can.  Plus, there are near about 100 offices for our company in various sites in the city.  All of the addresses are on the online directory.)
8. Bemoaned the lack of communication to employees, saying that he never received anything confirming his new rate (which was my fault.  I found out I forgot to send the payrate roster to his particular manager.  Oops-y.  Even I make mistakes.)

Consider the following:
• You make $118,000 a year.
• You pay about $200 a month for benefits
• You have 15 days of vacation, and 12 days of sick leave a year
• You just received retroactive check in the amount of $4,800
• You just received a union contract-negotiated 7% increase, and are guaranteed a further 8% increase next year

Would you be
a) grateful; or
b) angry

You’d be surprised at what option some people in this very scenario choose.

My mom has a picture of me up on the wall in third grade on my way to a talent show looking quite sullen.  I remember it distinctly because as we all got out of the car, she said, “Now get in front of the car so I can take a picture of you!”  And there’s me, the little blond smurf in my white dress shirt and tie, all irritated ’cause she’s holding me up.

This was not an uncommon scenario.  My family loves–nay, thrives on taking pictures, like it’s life blood. 

My grandmother, one on visit when I was in high school, demanded we all go out into the driveway one morning so she could take a picture of all of us before she left.  And there we are, looking like shit in the glaring sun.  But she got her picture.

She tried that stunt recently a few years ago, and I stopped her old ass short, insisting that I put my make up on and dress in something decent first.  My sister, and then even my mom followed suit.  It was an enjoyable coup.

I am not photogenic, but that doesn’t mean I’m ugly.  Some photogenic people are a fright up front.  I know.  I’ve seen them.  I myself am just too shiny and white to come off well in pictures.  So I tend to hate taking them.

Flash forward to the present, where I keep getting these emails from Facebook saying people have tagged my photos.  Fearing vandalism to my Facebook profile, I logged on and discovered all of my “Friends” have a bunch of albums they’ve put in my photos tab.  For me to view, apparently.  And which can be categorized under one of the following:
1. Drunken, Fun Event with Friends to Which You Were Not Invited

2. My Pets/Relatives/Co-workers in Some Banal, Sterile Setting

3. Vacation to Exotic Locale Which You Lack the Means to Visit

4. Nature, and Other Crap Which I Find Beautiful and Moving

5. Costume-themed Shots Intended To Showcase My “Crazy” Side

6. Shameless Booty Pics

7. My Significant Other and I in Our Relationship, Of Which You Are Not A Part

So, my thank you to everyone for sharing.  Rest assured, I will take as much time as you think I will in perusing these lovely, lovely picture albums.

I had a fantastique work out yesterday, so much so that I nearly threw up afterwards.  I still don’t understand why you feel like throwing up after working out hard, and the internet didn’t provide much help, but there you are.

One thing I’ll remember for next time is to bring a book onto the gym floor.  Waiting for people to get off the machines, even if it’s for a minute or two, is brain-breakingly boring, and I have the attention span of a hummingbird.

My least favorite machine is the elliptical, or as I call it, the Crackhead Nazi Torture Device.  Of course, I happen to get on next to some skinny bitch who’s just racin’ away, and I barely know how to use the machine.  And being a bad ass, I thought I’d set the resistance fairly high, and could barely get through two minutes before I felt like passing on.  It doesn’t help that I take long walks during lunch and wear out muh knees ‘n’ legs, but we’ll work on that, won’t we?

I like Taylor Swift, but cautiously so.  She’s a pretty girl, and she sings like she’s an old soul.  It’s distinctive, but not what I would call sweet like Leann Rimes.  Thing is, if the US government ever decided to put gay peope in concentration camps or some shit like that, I can totally see her doing a PSA supporting it.  And for that reason, I just don’t know about her.

No, not me.  Not yet, anyway.  I can’t help but have a knot of worry in my stomach with the economy just going into the toilet and seeing random storefronts all closed up or with signs saying they’re going out of business. 

All the articles on MSN recommend that you have at least a month in savings, but I don’t.  And it makes me wonder if I should hold off on these trips I’m planning to Miami and Disneyland, and err on the side of caution.  They’re planning labor reduction initiatives in my company, and while I’m likely on solid footing, mama didn’t raise no fool and I know I could go.

And speaking of, I really do worry about my family.  None of them work for well-established companies like myself.  But they report that things are fine. 

Wouldn’t it have been nice if all of those people who contributed to Prop 8 might’ve instead directed their monies into an anti-homelessness initiative or some sort of free healthcare for the poor fund for those in their municipality?

I had the_most_awesome_dream last night!  Always a welcome change to have a good dream as opposed to the terrifying ones I usually have. 

But in this dream (which was a two-parter), I started off back in college.  The halls of UCSB were gilded gold and there were beautiful fountains in courtyards and the like.  And you could fly to class.  In fact, I was in a caravan of people flying from one class to the next and it was so much fun.

Most of my dreams that take place in college revolve around my not having passed a class or something and not actually having my degree.  (Speaking of which, my original degree was lost in the mail way back in 1999.  I really do have to send in the form to get a duplicate.  Maybe that’ll silence the lambs.)

Then the second part was an extended version of the Rainbow Brite movie, in which I was part of this army she’d raised to fight the big bad guy.  She used her Color Belt to give us magical weapons, and we fought him in this big castle in the sky and one.  I think I even got to ride on Starlite!  It rocked it like you can’t believe.