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

Big Bad Kyle from Jenna Tollerson on Vimeo.

I found this going through files from an old computer. It was the only video I took on my very first $100 digital camera, in about 2000, I think. There was no sound on this camera, and when I got home I realized that not only was the quality awful, but I had made the now-classic mistake of taking it with a portrait orientation, and didn't have the know-how to fix it.

This is Kyle, my friend Sam's little brother, who at the time was practically my little brother too, after a middle school play in which he played the Big Bad Wolf, doing his evil bow for me not once, but twice, while I struggle with some Blair-Witch-style camera work.

This video reminded me of how much time has gone by, because I now have a much steadier hand, and Kyle is now a father. That, and I can't remember exactly which story this Big Bad Wolf is from.

I walk into the room where my sister, Sarah, and my Mom and Dad are together talking.

“This is why I contend that demons roamed the earth before we were here.” says my father emphatically.

I assumed that I had simply come in during the wrong part of the conversation, by my mother and sister are just staring at him as well.

studying my cashflow forecast, looking for expenses to cut; planning my 401(k); planning to move; productivity system planning (with GTD); playing a lot of Sims 2; my diy hipster pda; Pac-man with sparklers; being begged for my attendance to a party; being forced to act my age (which is still quite young); a new hat; weighing much less (with clothes on and pockets filled) than I did a month ago (naked); my tried-and-true-til-the-end relationship with CB; being able to count on some friends even though you rarely even speak to them; being randomly checked up on by Neil; a good cry; the systematic purging of all the crap in my old room at my parent's; knowing that when I think that all hope is lost, I can count on my sisters

When I started my job at my current place of work, my part time position was called, no joke, ‘Junior Web Author’. I always resented the ‘Junior’ and routinely trimmed it out of conversations and correspondence. Eventually this title was changed to the more respectable ‘Associate Web Developer’, but by that time the connotation had stuck. Some kind of intern. However, I have made the most of it, pushing for more hours and more challenging work, innovating processes, and turning myself into an important asset.

This has paid off.

Last week one of my managers called me into his office to deliver some good news: my move up to the full time position that I had been fighting for was official, and would take effect on Monday, May 16th. The move is contingent on me continuing to go to school and eventually finishing, which means, starting in the fall, I'll be working a 40 hour work week (the late shift for West coast support, 11 AM to 8 PM) plus taking 2 to 3 classes in the morning (including 8 AMs, I'm sure). Because I have not taken school at all seriously for the last year and a half, it will take me another 3 to 4 years to graduate. The whole 12-hour day thing is going to kick my ass, and crazy me, I'm excited by the prospect! I think this is how it feels to have goals. And it feels really good.

Continuing the theme of ‘Bigness in the Life of Jenna’ I signed a new lease last week, for a studio apartment about half a block from where I live now. While the new place isn't a swank as the place I currently share with five others, it will be entirely mine. No longer sharing a bedroom with another person (even if that person is the fair red headed friend) is going to be a plus, even if it's just so I can set 4 different alarms without waking up anyone but myself.

For the first time in a long time, things are going really well. So well, in fact, that aside from the initial shock of nearly ending up in the hospital, the car accident I was in over the weekend presented itself as a minor inconvenience. This is preferable to allowing it to induce panic over how can I possibly deal with one more bad thing, which would have been my reaction just a short time ago. Read More »

On Friday my Dad invited me to dinner in Winder in honor of my grandfather's birthday. I walked to my downtown parking spot straight from work and hit The Loop™ on my way to 316. I was cruising along, jamming to a random shuffle on the iPod when the car jolted several times. Speed up, shudder, slow, speed up. Russo (my Honda) was throwing himself in and out of Sports Drive (or Super Drive, or Over drive, depending on your own car's make and model. There are probably half a dozen more names).

I can tell you than randomly accelerating and decelerating, jolting forward at haphazard intervals while all the time wondering if your brakes still work, is not my idea of a good time. Determined not to be stranded on the side of the road, I got off and parked at a gas station, taking great care to not hit anyone with my car that had a will of it's own.

I called Dad. He told me to check my transmission fluid. I had absolutely no idea how to do this. I pulled the Honda repair manual from my trunk and consulted it. It contained lots of words that are new to me like “transaxle”. It told me the dipstick for the “transaxle” fluid should be on the passenger side of the engine. I looked and looked but I was so not finding it. Dad volunteered to come rescue me, at which point, any pretense of getting to eat with my grandfather was given up.

While I waited for Dad to show, three young men parked near me and got out, asking if I needed any help.

Exasperated, I laid it down for them, “Well, actually, I'm having a really dumb problem. I'm trying to check my transmission fluid and I can't find where I'm supposed to check it.”

The three of them volunteered to take a look. I was sure I was about to be shown up by men and their useful vehicle knowledge.

They proceeded to spend the next ten minutes searching under my hood for the spot. They couldn't find it either. About seven minutes into it, I exclaimed, “I am so happy I'm not the only one who can't find this!”

They all gave me good natured looks-as-if-our-manhood-has-been-threatened nods and smiles. Then one of them had a eureka moment, reached down into the bowels of the engine and retrieved the dipstick, something I was not able to do later without burning my hand on the still-hot engine.

Even though they claimed to know nothing about cars, two of them accompanied me inside the store to search for transmission fluid. Finding nothing of any use, we all walked back outside, where the most attractive of the three advised me the his “daddy refuses to work on those sideways motors.”, indicating something about my car that I myself had just learned—the engine is set left to right instead of the standard and predictable front to back position. “He's all American.”

“That's pretty funny.”

“I don't know what to tell you.” He grinned. “Buy a Chevy.”

I laughed, and thanked them for their time.

Dad arrived, and after a brief diagnostic in which we discovered, among other things, that I was low on oil, he drove me over to Wal-mart where I purchased fuel injector cleaner, oil, and very expensive transmission treatment ($10!). We then drove back over and applied these various treatments.

I don't know exactly which fluid hit Russo's sweet spot, but in any case, where he was indecisive and uncooperative before, he was now a smooth operator. Fluids in every orifice brought back his stamina, and he was happy and sated. Through, after all that he did have a little trouble getting going again. Russo's pick-up hasn't been the same since. He now needs lots of extra encouragement, like he's self-conscious after being all probed and explored.

I will say that this experience has informed me that I am indeed the girl who doesn't take care of her car. I kept meaning to do all the check-up type things that would have prevented this whole episode, but I just let it slip my mind while I worried about make up and boys.

I course, had I done all the check-up type things, I wouldn't have had the more salacious experience of learning all about what Russo has under his hood.

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.

After everything that happened, I ran to Winder to basically hide out for the weekend. As much as I hate Winder, it still produces that coming home feeling, that comfort zone. Usually this is not a good thing, because comfort zones include sleeping late into the afternoon, drinking lots of beer, and eating too many Sara Lee Cheesecake Bites. I typically have a firm stance against comfort zones, I missed Athens and my roommates desperately, but it was really what I needed.

Now I can go back to being a hooligan, I suppose.

So, I'm sick of surveys. I never thought I would say that but I am. They all seem to have the same questions after a while, and I am forced to give the same answers that at first seemed clever but now have formed into a trite mutation of themselves, as well as an excuse to not really write anymore. So until I see another original one, I think I am easing myself out of them.

It should be noted that what follows is not a survey.

I was inspired by this girl to dig up my 100_facts_about_me list from this place, revise it and publish it for you here. Enjoy, and if you feel so inclined, publish a similar list in your own journal.

It's much harder than you think. Read More »

The boys who have just moved in across the hall are very loud in their comings-and-goings. Last night they kept me up til about 3:45 this morning talking loudly with slurred words, right on the other side of a door in mine and Abie's room. I think Abie was spared most of the yelling and running and doors opening and slamming shut because she falls asleep much faster than I do. Lucky. I need to bring some testosterone infused people over here to intimidate these drunken louts. Maybe I could get Kyle to unleash the fury on their asses. That would be very gratifying.

I have been feeling kinda down about some things lately (as some of you know or at least have guessed—and it's actually branching out a little into crazy moodswings). This is mostly irrelevant for the purposes of these pages, except that if you'd like to make me feel better, go fill out my application to date me. (if you haven't already). It in no way constitutes any obligation to actually date me. I just like to read to the answers.

If you are in Winder, and you come to 106 West, I'll see you tonight!

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy