The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

The incident with Gideon has certainly soured my disposition, but as before, whenever I’m a bit low, I just have to remember that I’m going to Disneyland in thirty six (36!) days, you guys!  There’s nothing like a vacation on the horizion to make even the most miserable and hungover of Monday mornings a little brighter.

As for Gideon, I’ve heard neither hide nor hair from his as expected.  He’s not an assertive sort.  I thought out an email I might send to him (I’m a visual person) explaining my confusion and displeasure, and also expressing the hope that we could still be friends.  I’ve also toyed with the idea of deleting his fucking number from my phone and snipping him off my Facebook list.  But I’ll let sleeping dogs lie for now and hope it will somehow resolve itself.

I was reminded of one of the best vacations I ever had this morning when I went to get ice from the ice tray and smelled a faint chlorine-y aroma.  It reminded me of when I was twelve, and my grandparents flew me and my sister Jo out to Alabama.  We stayed with them, while also daytripping to the hotel my uncle was staying at with his girlfriend.  The hotel had this amazing enclosed pool area with a video arcade, and I just remember swimming all day, then going to play video games, then hopping back in the pool, then going to play video games.  The smell of chlorine always reminds me of that great vacation.  In fact, that would still make for a great vacation now.  Sign me up!

Friday night saw the girls and I at Tres Agaves in SoMa, with scrumptious Mexican edibles and tequila drinks.  I’m not a fan of tequila, per se, but their mixed drinks–which have long names that are in Spanish, and are expensive–really did the trick in masking it, and working up a fiesta of a buzz. 

After we’d parked, Sarah and Roze got into a big old tiff because Sarah, who just announced to us that day that she’d married her boyfriend during her recent trip to the Dominican Republic, was reneging on attending a party later that night where Roze’s ex-boyfriend of one year who hasn’t spoken to her since their break up would be at, as well as their mutual friend Selena who was mortally pissed at Roze.  (My friends’ drama is virtually better than anything network TV could produce, and without the commercials.  Loves it.)  Sarah had to depart fairly early on, but it was coolness hanging with Roze, Dascha, and J So, all former co-workers with whom I still manage to keep in touch.  I like that.

We then packed it in, I went home, and who else, but Costella phoned up, and we hung out the whole rest of the night.  I was pretty much tanked for the rest of the weekend, and I have to say, I felt like I’d been beaten the hell up with a baseball bat from my workout.  I don’t know why it’s a three-day recovery process everytime, and I know it’s supposed to be that “good pain” where you know your muscles are rebuilding, but it fucking hurts like fuck.

I had Monday off, thankfully, and forced myself out of bed at the crack of noon to go to the post office, go grocery shopping, do laundry, and buy some household amenities before calling it a night.

I don’t know why I’d forgotten to mention it, but the weekend or so ago when Gideon and I had gone to see “Julie and Julia”, and then come back to his house for a nightcap, we were sitting out on his balcony, overlooking the bay as he smoked a cigarette, and we saw a shooting star.  I don’t mean to get all schmaltzy and corny, but fuck, it was a cute moment, for Chrissake.  And you can guess what I wished for.

P.S. What the fuck is Tim Gunn doing sporting dyed blond hair.  Go back to the silver, Timothy!

I hit the bottle a bit too hard Friday night, and ended up on the brighter side of crap Saturday.  Still, I had enough alcohol energy in me to do two loads of laundry and run several errands including going to the bank, buying some new work shirts, some under-eye cream, and some self-tanner.

Speaking of which, the gals at the Pure Beauty in downtown San Francisco rank right up there with some of the stupidest salespeople in America.  The one chick, this pretty little girl with widely-spaced eyes, was daydreaming, gazing out the window when I walked in, and didn’t greet me or offer to assist me.  Fine, no worries.  I usually hate it when salespeople assault you right off the bat anyways.  But then I go and ask her where the self-tanner is and she says to me, “Self-taaaneeeeeer?” in elongated, sorority girl syllables, as if she’s never heard the word in her life.  Nitwit.  Much like the girl I ordered an omelet from that morning, who said, “A veggie omelet??” as if she’d just returned from the marijuana moon.  Like seriously, the chick was baked.

But I rallied my defenses, and made it through the day, and finally BART-ed over to Berkeley to see Gideon.  He, his roommates, couple Jonah and Gina, Gina’s parents, and myself went to see “Julie and Julia”.  TOO adorable.  I had a smile plastered on myself the whole time, even though we were in, like, the sixth row.

Then I spent the night with Gideon and had the most wonderful night’s sleep on his thousand thread count bed.  And awoke the next morning feeling like someone had pummeled the shit out of me.  No, it wasn’t due to a night of rough sex, but my muscles finally recovering from the gym three days later.  I guess because I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep Thursday or Friday night, my body took the opportunity Saturday night to recover.  So, like an old man, I creaked out of bed, kissed my man goodbye, and hobbled on back home to catnap my Sunday away.

Bliss.

You know it’s going to be a rough day when you wake up and the first thing you look forward to is taking a nap at lunchtime.

Do the extras in sitcoms who have to, like sit and talk in restaurants and cafes in the background, actually have scripts that they’re reciting, or are they just having a silent, completely improvised conversation?

On now to a list of some of my favorite characters found on the Muni bus in the mornings:

Laotia: Laotia is a slim, non-descript woman who, I think, looks like she hails from Laos. I have no proof of this, nor know specifically what Laotians looks like. I just assume. When I see her waiting at the bus stop in the morning, I know I’ll be relatively on time to work.

The Dutch Tranny: The Dutch Tranny is a male-to-female transexual who just, well, looks like she’s of Dutch origin to me. She dresses very hippie librarian-ish, and could really use some moisturizer. I can’t tell you why, but when I see her, I feel like she looks like Hansel and Gretel’s babysitter.

Senorita Mujer: Senorita Mujer is a little Latina woman, probably somewhere in her late 20s, early 30s, who dresses to the 9’s (or to the nueves), with her hair in a Spanish senorita de la villa style, and full make-up, and always carries a faded designer bag with her lunch in it. She’s probably only a housekeeper, but I love the effort she puts into her look.

Monchichi Man: Remember the Monchichis? Those little animated monkey-like critters with the shirts that would say what their particular emotion was at the moment? There’s this little retarded man who bears a striking resemblance to them. In fact, I think he works at my company. There’s something kind of endearing and sad about seeing him board the bus with his little metallic lunchbox and bad clothes, on his way to work.

G’night, Jeanette Macdonald.

Last night’s nightmare did not feature rabid homeless cretins or demonic, menacing aliens, but instead took place in my hometown of San Diego, during Pride, in Hillcrest, the gay part of town.  I was there with Mr. Alterhausen, Pejorative, and some random chick who was with us. 

Everything was fun and exciting, and we stopped off at some corner store on the street to pick up some snacks.  There, some shady fellowe offered to sell me five tabs of E for $40–a bargain, as those in the know know.  I bought them.  The girl we were with expressed disappointment that I was into that sort of thing.

But I went ahead and took one before realizing that it was Sunday at 10:00 pm, and I would have to be at work the next day.  I panicked and thought, Oh fuck.

Then woke up.

That’s not the first time I’ve had a dream where I’ve partaken of party favors only to regret it–in the dream.  And while I’ve had my fair share of illicit fun (see the early 2000’s, reference my early 20s), I’m not quite so keen on such activities nowadays.  I hate wasting an entire weekend recovering, and getting nothing done like some irresponsible lout.  And worse than that, coming in to work Monday like the living dead.  You’ll certainly never see a Just Say No sticker on my bumper, but the side effects of drugs tend to outweigh their benefit to me nowadays.

And while we’re on the topic, I’ve usually always hated the smell of pot.  It’s the stench of laziness as far as I’m concerned.  But Gideon and his roommates have a bong in the kitchen, and the house is always faintly tinged with it.  And considering it’s a beautiful apartment where fun times have been had, and I now associate the smell with Gideon, I kind of like it now.  Sort of like cookies baking in the oven.  Don’t hold your breath, though–the day I do a drug that makes you eat *more* is the day George Bush can form a cogent sentence.