Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 9.0 // Critical Darling, Commercial Flop

Overall, I had a really good birthday. I got literarily dozens of calls, text messages, and emails wishing me well. I got several “Happy Birthday” posts on my Facebook wall, even though I don't publish my birthday on Facebook. I couldn't get any work done, but at least I felt loved.

I put in my contacts, put on makeup and a nice shirt, and went to a birthday dinner with Emily, Melissa and Greg. Then we slowly made our way to Barcode.

And lo, this is where the trouble started.

Thanks to my generous friends, I consumed five drinks, including several shots, within the hour. By eleven o'clock the number was at about ten. After that I stopped keeping count.

The thing is, I wasn't trashed. I was drunk, I'll admit, making me more chatty, more bouncey, and a little dumber than usual, but I wasn't falling over. I remember most of the evening pretty clearly. Until about half past one am.

Then, in my memory, there is nothing. Nothing at all until Stephanie grabbed me and pulled me over to her car, which was parked across the street. (That was about half past two. I think).I remember getting out of the car, waving goodbye, and walking into my building. I don't even remember making it to my apartment door.

Next thing I know, it's mid-morning, and I'm naked, cold, and still drunk.

Yesterday I got the idea that I should take a picture of myself everytime I went to the ladies room at Barcode. Sort of like a drunken diary of progression. I thought it would be funny, and would give me something to write about.

But then, one thing lead to another, and between schmoozing with everybody that showed up and slamming down shot after shot, I mostly forgot about it, and only managed to get one picture, at about 11:30:

Well, that's what I thought, anyway. Read More »

This was only ten days ago, but it feels like years have gone by.

My former roommate Emily works as an intelligence executive (i.e. librarian), and a few days a week she sends out a “Title of the Day” e-mail, the content of which is culled from reading only the covers of the books she handles each day. Her commentary in this e-mail, however, is especially priceless:

Ladies and Gents,
The title of the day is “Pornified: How pornography is transforming our lives, our relationships, and our families.”

Consequently, the word of the day shall be “pornified.” Say it out loud. PORNIFIED. so satisfying. Use it in a sentence — “Bobby Joe went down to the adult video store over yonder, and done got himself pornified.”

There is something very dooce-like about Emster's writing style, don't cha think?

a marriage proposal, yelled from a block away by a sober person in midday downtown Athens; drunk dial from a hot friend; “what a sweet tart”; accidentally demonstrating on a night out that I am, in fact, scarily popular (or famous); “He's your boyfriend!” — “He is not my boyfriend!”; hate mail from HGB; Emily’s “title of the day” emails

Yesterday, in celebration of former-roommate-Melissa's birthday, we sat on her and former-roommate-Emily's living room floor (there is no couch there yet), eating chocolate cake, listening to vintage polka music on vinyl. The air conditioning was broken, it was 85 degrees, and for long spans of time no one talked. It was like a avant guarde European short film made to illustrate the futility of life. But it was definitely the most relaxed party I've been to in a long time.

...

One of the interesting things about living downtown is the fact that laundry day involves going to into the bars that share your building, asking bartenders to change dollars for quarters.

...

Work is not great right now. I myself follow the “don't get dooced” rule, so I won't say much other that I've become very disillusioned with the entire ordeal.

...

The new apartment still rules.

...

It is so surreal to me that while it was not my intention for it to be so, a post to my website somehow passes for a real apology. It doesn't feel real.

...

Classes start again for me on Friday. I was seriously motivated about a month ago, but lately I feel like I'm slipping. I can't organize my thoughts, I can't seem to move on certain things. I feel frozen, locked in place, or maybe even held down by some physic weight.

Of course, this is every August, like clockwork. And hopefully, like clockwork, it'll pass.

I just wish I could remember to watch for it, before I lose what little control I seem to exercise over my own wild psychosis.

The first step is to stop being such a drama queen. Stop feeding it. Stop looking for sympathy, stop trying to be so tragic. It's not romantic, it's sad and desperate.

So stop.

On Wednesday night, my roommates called me into the living room to receive the previously mentioned special backordered gift. Wondering what it was had been driving me crazy for three days, but even more so, I was worried that after all the build up I wouldn't look excited enough. I'm not a great gift receiver, and never know how to properly show my gratitude.

In this case, I needn't have worried.

They had hastily wrapped it up in the cover of this weeks Flagpole Magazine. It was a small box, and I had no idea what it could be, until I cleared away the newsprint and saw the brand name on the top of the gift box.

I must have turned pale at that point. There is no way they actually bought that for me.

I opened the box, and they had, in fact, bought me the locket I had daydreamed about receiving for Valentine's Day.

Catie asked, “Jenna Tollerson, will you be our Valentine?”

It took just about everything I had in me not to cry.

Dear Apartment 6:

I don't know if I tell you enough, but living at Apartment 6 with you, my great friends, is the happiest I have ever been in all my 22 years. Not just the happiest, even, but the first time in my life I have ever been truly happy. The work and thought everyone put into my birthday is just one more reason I feel that moving into that apartment was the best decision I ever made. I love you.

I'm wearing that locket even now, as I sit in my sister's home office in Redmond, Washington. I've only been here 24 hours, and at some point there will be much to tell, but there has been so much airport-havoc-people-watching-meeting-people-and-dogs-talking-til-dawn that my head is spinning as I attempt to process all the details.

So I've been writing in a notebook for the past couple of days. Paper and pen, the old-fashioned way, and trying to jot things down, from my head, no self editing and none of the weaving into what would normally make it into the public domain. I'm doing this so I don't miss anything.

Details are, of course, what turns a series of events into a story. I continute to be, more than anything, in the business of Jenna Tollerson mythopoeia.

We at the House are not giving up cyberspace. You can trust that the stories will indeed follow. Soon.

I'll tell you a secret: I've woken up crying for the past three days. Woken up and just sobbed for 10 or 15 minutes.

This is strange behavior under any circumstances, but especially strange because today—the third day I've woken up wondering why I bother to ever get out of bed—is my birthday. I am 22 years old today. And I've been having one of the worst weeks I've had in awhile.

If it wasn't the crippling low, it was an equally crippling bout of anxiety that lasted for my entire workday on Wednesday—nearly 8 hours of tense muscles, rapid heartbeat and difficulty breathing—that only slightly let up after I got home and incoherently babbled to Abie about nothing that I can remember now. It's been not wanting to ever get out of bed, preferring to hide in the dark and not face the world.

Here's where I need to point out that trying to hide from the world and having a birthday at the same time are totally incompatible. Even though I didn't even think they knew about my birthday at the time, Crystal and Amanda showed up at my house on Saturday night (from out of state, no less) and forced me to go a show with them, even though I had no other goals for the night than to curl up into a ball on the couch and try to disappear.

I got out of my pajamas, took a shower, and put on a show of my own: the one where I am happy and normal and not incredibly depressed.

We went to Flicker. My roommates Emily and Melissa were already there. Michael Flynn played lots of mushy love songs. He's actually fantastic, but felt distracted and in a daze.

Between sets Abie showed up, and then Bill Carson played. He's equally fantastic, and writes really sexy music, and the whole time I was thinking about how I needed to get the hell outta there into the open air, away from the crowds. I did not want to be around people at that moment.

After the set I got up and dashed out, and Abie came and found me. I related to her nearly everything, how I felt like shit, smothered by my life, that things, at 22, where not going at all the way I wanted.

Saying it aloud did help, just a little.

Just after midnight we gathered roommates and house guests and all ten of us went to the Grill.

We were all being goofy, taking pictures of each other, generally making too much of a ruckus, when spontaneously all nine people seated with me sang me Happy Birthday. It was simultaneously special, embarrassing, and the exact opposite of imperative-be-ye-not-social.

I probably needed it.

I woke up late today. My Dad called me while I was still in bed, contemplating the work ahead of me, and invited me to Winder to have dinner. I told him I had too much studying to do. He said he would come to Athens and feed me on a study break.

I got in the shower, further putting off studying, and realized there was no way I was going to pass the test on Tuesday. I got out of the shower, got online, and dropped the class.

I called my Dad. “I don't have to study anymore. I dropped it.”

“You sound ten times better than you did when I talked to you before.”

My sister and I went to Winder to eat Zaxby's with Dad. Choices in Winder are slim, see. Being in Winder made me feel kind of relaxed for some reason. Sarah and Dad talked a lot about music theory. Dad made his usual quota of bad jokes, and Sarah talked about her recent admission to a fancy music school. It was good to not be talking about myself for awhile.

When I came home at least 3 roommates blocked me from the kitchen and told me I needed to get in my room. This is a customary Apartment 6 birthday greeting.

A few minutes later, they called me into the living room. You will never guess what my cake looked like. It was the Best Thing Ever.

After I blew out the candles Abie asked me to sit down.

“We have to tell you something about your present. We all went in on something for you but it's on backorder, so you'll have to wait.”

“You guys did that for me?”

It's really awesome to find out your roommates were planning something behind your back, as long as it's not your demise.

Allison: “If you want something to unwrap I can wrap something for you—like the Prince of Weasels.”

Catie: “The Prince of Weasels is not for giving away.”

Allison: “Oh.”

I love both my families. Not because they buy me things or make me iPod cakes or pick beautiful pink flowers out for me, but because I've got people pulling for me even when things seem dark and inescapable. They love me even if I am a grump for a whole week, and they think about me even when I'm not standing there in front of them. I've been up in my own head a lot lately and forgot that I'm in a lot of other people's heads too.

I had not intended to go out last night. I was going out, but the plan was not to “go out”—I was going to run down to Lunch Paper and see the Outfit play at about 9:30, then get some real food (as my body was reeling from eating cheesecake for breakfast and a small bowl of mashed potatoes for lunch), bring it home to eat and watch a movie. I was going to take it easy, maybe having a glass of Bailey's for dessert.

I don't know why I bother to construct plans for myself. I don't follow through with my own resolve.

Melissa called to ask me if I was bringing anyone with me (to gauge how big of a table we might need) and named off the existing members of the party thus far. One member was particulary of interest to me, and I decided I would not be returning home right after the show. So I made myself a small, quick sandwich, chomped it down while getting ready, brushed my teeth and was out the door.

[An aside: I somehow got out of paying the $3 cover at Lunch Paper. I'm not certain how; I just walked up the doorguy, said “Hey.” and he said “Hey.” and smiled and gestured for me to go inside, no id check or cover necessary. I have my suspicions why, however, and it bolstered my self esteem. Thankfully, it would be deflated again in a matter of minutes.]

I ordered my first Long Island and sat down with my group. We couldn't see the band (the set up of Lunch Paper is such that if people are standing in front of the “stage”, there is no way you are going to see the performance from any other part of the bar) but we grooved anyway. Emily, Greg and Danny threw Reese's Pieces at one another while Melissa and I watched. I protected my Long Island from target practice, but others were not so lucky with thier beverages, and soon there was candy in beer, which I imagine, doesn't actually taste that good.

“It's like babysitting children!” Melissa mused.

“Three drunk children.” I pointed out.

“Aw, my three drunk children.”

“You're such a great mom.”

After the set the four of us walked outside to meet Abie, and then the whole group walked back up Washington Street discussing what we should do now. No one had any good ideas, and we ended up standing at the corner of College and Washington, in front of the smoke shop, talking about how cold we all were and watching Emily, Danny, and Greg try to do handstands. Emily actually does a decent handstand, even after a Long Island Iced Tea.

Finally, I made a decision. We headed to Washington Street Tavern. We went in, and I went to use the restroom while everyone else went downstairs where it was (presumably) less crowded. I headed down there, hit the last step, was greeted with a definitely less-than-pleasant smell, and my whole group came towards me, declaring that they can't stay here. I concurred, and we walked back outside, way back to the other end of town to Flicker. At Flicker, I got a terribly made $7 Long Island, and we sat outside chatting it up. I stood against the railing, smoking. I finished my drink quickly and began (unconsciously, I swear) leaning towards the gentleman I'm interested in. He began (consciously, I'm sure) leaning away. This did not make me happy. You see, I was trying to re-enact some previous events involving this gentleman, and he was having none of it.

I foolishly held out hope as we headed to Room 13. I started a tab, bought myself my third Long Island, and then waltzed over to where my group was playing foosball, and attempted to buy the gentleman a drink. He declined. If it was obvious that nothing was going to happen before, it was definitive now. So I did as I've been conditioned to, and attempted to drown my sorrows. I bought another Long Island. I had barely started it when my group decided they we were leaving, so despite insistence that there was no need to finish it, I gulped the whole drink as my roommates watched in horror.

That is how Abie came to be sitting on the bathroom floor with me at 3:00 am. I wasn't so sick that my stomach was compelled to get the contents out, rather, I was compelled to get the contents out of my stomach, and did so by mostly by sheer will, but with the aid of a functioning gag reflex. Abie, further proving her qualification for sainthood, fed me water and crackers, brought me my pajamas, put up with my terrific moaning and talked to me for a long time until she was sure I was fit for bed. I continuously apologized for needing to be cared for and she pointed out that this was only the second time since we had been living together that I have been so sick I couldn't care for myself. This made me feel better, but not less rejected.

I'm going to be avoiding booze for at least a little while. This morning I woke up still feeling residual effects of three days of heavy drinking. I quiped to Abie in frustration, “My legs say, ‘I don't work!’ and I say ‘Yeah you do! I'm sober now, hello?!?’ My head's not drunk but my body refuses to accept it.”

It is 10 til 8:00 on Friday morning. Dehydrated, head pounding, I stumble into the kitchen to get water. As I pour a glass, Emily, who is about to head off to work, looks at me with concern, tilts her head and asks, “How do you feel?”

The first word I utter this morning comes out as a choked, low sound as I squint at her.

“Drunk.”

...

Thursday night I was invited out by coworkers (mainly, Neil) for drinks at Copper Creek. I arrived a little after 8:00, with Abie and the Indian in tow, and ordered something they brew in-house at Copper Creek, an Abbey Ale. Abbey Ales are fruity, dark and deliciously deceptive: even though it is printed clearly on the sign touting house beers, one soon forgets that it contains 7.9% alcohol. By the time our party had moved out to the patio area, I had consumed three, plus the half of Abie's she had been unable to finish (“I'm just not a big beer drinker!” she had proclaimed).

Hilarity ensued.

I remember:

• Neil, Abie and Tyler trying to get me to sing. When I displayed reluctance, they tried to get me to rap.
  “C'mon Jenna! Bust out some Southern Hospitality!”
  I declined.
• It somehow coming out among my coworkers that I'm a ‘nympho’, if only by my inability to deny it.
• Insulting people, having it repeated back to me 10 seconds later and truly not remembering 10 seconds later calling anyone a “cunt”.
  
  “I didn't just say that, did I?”
  “Yes, you did.”
  “Wow.”
• I was asked to and sang along with the cheesy jazz covers record they had been playing in the bar on a loop for the last three hours. I was too drunk to be accurately singing, and kept exclaiming in my defense that the singer was in a really weird key.
• Repeating expertly accented Japanese phrases back to Abie, under the pretense that I actually might remember some of it, which of course I don't. She was delighted by my skillful pronunciation, however. I got mad skillz.

After I finished my fourth (and ½) Abbey Ale, at about 11:30 the group split, with Neil and Tyler off to the 40 Watt and myself and my crüe off to Tastyworld for Bain Mattox. Sam Deeds was there, as were my roommates Alli and Catie, my sister Sarah, and Heather and Rob (who are delightful, but officially belong to Abie I think).

The Indian buys me more beer. I protest that I don't need anymore. He pulls the “I'm not asking, I'm telling!” form of best friend manipulation. I cave. I have a lot more to drink, but am never so drunk that I fail to get served at the bar.

The Indian forces me to waltz with him during one number, and I step on his feet a lot as we bump into everyone around us. This did not make us popular, I think.

At the end of the show, I spend long amounts of time praising Bain and his bandmates on their most excellent performance, and then have the audacity to quiz him on my name. Very confidently he blurts out “Abie.” I smile and correct him. He feels bad, and then I feel bad for making him feel bad. I tell both Bain and Brian at separate times that they are the cute one in the band, both while they are standing right there. I monopolize their time.

It's amazing what some people will put up with when it comes to their fans.

After saying goodbyes I make it home, drink a couple glasses of water, and decide that I'll be okay for class and work at 9 am. Obviously, I was wrong.

...

dude (6:31:37 PM): you have a rough morning?
me (6:32:04 PM): yes. yes I did.
me (6:32:33 PM): still drunk this morning actually
dude (6:32:41 PM): lovely
dude (6:32:46 PM): yeah you were pretty plowed
me (6:33:40 PM): I wasn't that bad, was I?
dude (6:34:28 PM): hahahahaha
dude (6:35:04 PM): :) you were tolerable :)
me (6:35:14 PM): tolerable
me (6:35:29 PM): what every girl wants to hear, that she is tolerable :)
dude (6:35:34 PM): hahaha
me (6:36:28 PM): well I meant all that stuff about being glad to see you, even if I did say it 45 times
dude (6:36:56 PM): hahaha
dude (6:37:32 PM): i wonder
dude (6:37:51 PM): if we as humans have a drunk memory section in our brains
dude (6:38:08 PM): you know how sometimes when you're drunk you don't remember what happened
dude (6:38:25 PM): well what if you got drunk again and then made an effort to think about it again
dude (6:38:28 PM): would you remember?
me (6:38:33 PM): hmmmm
me (6:38:49 PM): I don't know
me (6:39:02 PM): I usually don't have memory problems when I'm drunk

So I lied, but I didn't know I was lying at the time, I swear.

Jenna (12:39:57 AM): how was your day?
Emily (12:40:19 AM): ok. non-eventful.
Jenna (12:41:10 AM): mine was also non-eventful, except I went to get my tires balanced and rotated and they told me what I really need is new tires
Jenna (12:41:16 AM): which is mucho $$$
Jenna (12:41:20 AM): so I am not happy
Jenna (12:41:23 AM): haha
Jenna (12:41:46 AM): they were like... "I guess we can balance them, but it won't do you any good..."
Emily (12:42:18 AM): :-(
Emily (12:42:21 AM): i'm quite sorry
Jenna (12:42:29 AM): it's not your fault, but I appreciate the sympathy
Emily (12:42:38 AM): be careful on your not good enough tires
Jenna (12:42:40 AM): I shall
Jenna (12:42:56 AM): the trips will have to be cut down until I raise the money somehow
Jenna (12:43:02 AM): no idea how
Jenna (12:43:11 AM): maybe I should start selling drugs
Jenna (12:43:20 AM): that has a good profit margin
Jenna (12:43:25 AM): right?
Emily (12:43:30 AM): and you're a bad ass..and you can do it
Emily (12:43:33 AM): do it!
Jenna (12:43:38 AM): hahahaha
Jenna (12:44:08 AM): well thank you for the vote of confidence
Emily (12:44:38 AM): no prob, dude