About
You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am a web developer and consultant living in and around Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
I am stressed out and don't really feel like narrative.
Suffice it to say, I've had a very long week.
J (2:28:16 AM): since I'm kinda half tipsy I'm gonna say that up until this time last week I was convinced you didn't like me because I'm not cool enough
S (2:28:47 AM): not cool enough!?!? that's rubbish
As with most of my weekends, I went out and spent too much money and had more fun than I deserve.
Friday, Sarah played a GMIA Open Mic at Washingston Street Tavern. Sarah swept away the competition, of course, but that is no surprise. What was surprising was how damn cool Washington Street Tavern is. I bonded with one of the bartenders, Zack, and ended up going back Saturday night, taking the Indian with me. Zack made me a drink of his own creation, a Grape Juice, which while tasting exactly like grape juice does not contain any grape juice but does contain a shitload of tequila.
This drink is awesome.
We called up various peoples trying to get a group together, and while many people shut us down (turns out it was a low key night for everyone?) we did manage to rope in Abie and Sabrina, who demanded to actually be mentioned by name in these pages next time.
Are you happy? You are totally in now.
Suffice it to say, the Indian did not come home with me that night.
I stayed late, talking to Zack, who is seriously hilarious, and then I walked my drunk ass home. After changing into my pajamas I made a sandwich and a large glass of water and sat at our new kitchen table forcing Melissa to listen to stories of my night. Melissa always, always claims to be amused. I say she is just infinitely patient.
I slammed five huge glasses of water before climbing into bed, and had some very off dreams about boys I have made out with/would like to make out with. I don't remember the details, so I guess in that respect it was very much like real life.
Zing!
Sunday was slow. I tried to study for my art history test on Monday, but without Abie as my study partner I mostly stared at the slides and went, “Huh?”
When she finally got home from work we went over to Blue Sky and Abie proceeded to carefully lecture me on Bystantine Art History, like so:
“Anyway, we are not talking about masturbation, we're talking about God.”
...
“Abie, he was nine when he was presented to the temple. I know this because—” I break out in uncontrollable laughter as I finish, “—because I am a very devout Christian.”
“Me too!”
Now neither of us can stop laughing. “I am the epitome of a good Christian.” Hysterical laughter follows. “Man, we are so about to be struck down by lightening.”
“Hasn't happened yet!”
...
“In this one, Jesus doesn't have a cock, because, you know, is he a man or a God?”
...
“Okay Jenna, why is the Virgin decorating all the altar apse post-iconoclasm?”
“Because she proves his humanity—that it's okay to depict Jesus because he was on earth, he was once a man.”
Abie gestures emphatically. “That's right! Mary popped Jesus out of her coochamarang!”
We both break out in disorderly hysterics. “I can't believe you just said that about Holy Mary Mother of God.”
“Well it's true!”
Giacometti was once run down by a car, and he recalled falling into a lucid faint, a sudden exhilaration as he realized that at last, something was happening to him.
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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
Although of late I have become the queen of drunken anecdotes, this weekend has gone by almost entirely without event. It was fun, to be sure, but it was not funny, or novel. I even slammed two Long Island Ice Teas in the space of about 15 minutes, and all it resulted in was Abie laughing at me being “slow on the uptake”.
After we returned home, I did spend a long time talking to Abie's friend Kevin on the phone about classic shareware games, but that conversation was ended when I called his friend Lane a motherfucker for not knowing the proper gangsta name for Atlanta.
“It's the A-T-L! No one cool has called it Hotlanta in like 7 years! Who are you to be telling me what the A-T-L is called, motherfucker?”
Lane responded by calling me a dyke. I kid you not.
Oh, the times.
“So... what base, then?”
“I don't know, I'm really not familar with which bases are what.”
[Hollywood then defines the bases for me.]
“Probably... somewhere between second and third? What would that—”
“—Shortstop.” Hollywood grins.
I smile. “Or stop short, as the case may be.”
He laughs, “Yeah, I suppose so.”
Saturday I'm sitting on the couch, biding my time, trying to think of something to do, when I receive a text message on my cell phone from Abie:
“We are bringing the party to you!”
Shortly thereafter Abie and Emily (my roommates) showed up at the apartment with Greg (whom I had met before) and Danny (whom I had not met before). They all proceeded to get drunk and draw on each other and take pictures while wearing hats. I mostly did a few shots and observed the drawing, which involved covering every inch of everyones arms and legs in sharpie. They wanted to draw on me but I politely declined, meaning that I threatened anyone who tried to draw on me with a smack down. Quite effective, actually.
Emily spent some time on the phone trying to track down Blake, who works at one of the downtown bars and should have been getting off of work soon. “Let's just go find him!” I needed a walk just to get out of the house for a few minutes, so we head down there. We are all still wearing hats, me in my newsgirl and many people sporting fedoras. I briefly became the handler in this group and I cannot tell you how helpful pink, white, and black fedoras were in keeping a visual on everyone.
We are navigating through the crowd on Clayton with the help of a drunk-and-less-than-genteel Abie pushing her way through the crowd, yelling.
“Excuse me, pardon me, coming through, outta my way people!”
Danny, myself, Emily and Greg follow in her wake in that order. She pushes aside one dude, and I see him rock back on his heels and turn to his friend to grin and say, “I guess fat chicks get to do whatever they want.”
I was standing right there, trying to catch up with Abie. I looked him right in the eyes I said, quite loud and proud, “Fuck you!” He gave me a surprised look and I kept walking.
I get to the other side of the crowd where Abie and Danny are waiting and tell Abie about this jackass and my imperative to beat him down. Beat him down figuratively, of course.
Abie goes wild. “Who said that!? Who said that!? I wanna talk to that bastard!”
The bastard and his friend had, I suppose, been following in my wake and emerged from the crowd. But while the friend continued to walk in our direction, when the bastard saw me pointing, he walked past the parked cars and into the street just to avoid coming near us. He looked quite frightened. Abie started yelling at his friend, who looked at me and asked me to confirm for Abie, “I didn't say anything, did I?”
“Abie, abie!” I pointed out to the bastard walking on the street and she followed my gaze. “It was that motherfucker over there.”
That was when Abie started yelling loud enough for the entire city to turn and watch.
“Bitch, you wish you could have some of this! Fats chicks fucking rule! You wish you could have me! You're just jealous, bitch!”
She continued this way for 15 to 30 seconds, with the bastard (who had obviously learned his lesson) speedwalking away with all his might. His friend stood where we stopped him, laughing.
We found Blake at his bar and sat outside chatting it up with friends and strangers. We were sitting there making friends and having a good time when the hardass doorguy came and kicked us out because one member of our party “appeared too intoxicated”. Before you sympathize with us and get ready to cuss out the doorguy, I have to say, I concur, she indeed seem too intoxicated. So we moved back to the apartment with Blake in tow.
This is where it begins to get hazy, not for your narrator, because I remember all that went on, but the narrative has cause to break down some at this point. I can say that we went through a lot of liquor, and that I was up quite late. There was not much that was life-altering, but I did have a very good time.
I would love to do that again sometime.
Friday, my plan was to quietly eat my dinner, and wait around until someone else found me something to do. This is how I begin many Friday nights. Sooner than expected, the Indian rang up me up, inviting me to come hang with him at the rockstar's birthday, at an establishment offering two things: pizza, but more importantly, beer. Afterwards, I went home to change (or, as the Indian would put it, to “pimp out”), and on returning to what was left of the party, got roped into a scheme that involved sneaking alcohol into the dorms and making fun of 18 year olds for not being able to take shots. It reminded me of being 18, when the Indian and I were usually sneaking alcohol into the dorms and making fun of people for not being able to take shots. It was the same except I felt a lot older.
After the Indian spent some time recounting some stories of when I was less aware of my own tolerance (“So we're in Helen, and Jenna here proceeds to drink a whole huge bottle of—”) we headed back downtown, ending up at Half Moon Pub, practically underneathe my house. It was mostly uneventful, though tons of fun. We closed the place down, and headed out to the street. The Indian decided to do a good deed and escort one particularly drunk girl to her home and promised to be back at my place within the hour.
I headed upstairs, washed my face, took off my pimp clothes, and put on my pajamas. I conversed with my roommate Emily and her guests for a few minutes, and then sat down on the couch to watch a DVD while I waited for the Indian to turn back up. I had not been sitting on the couch for more than two minutes when my cell phone rang.
“Jenna, it's Gumby. We're in deep shit, we need your help.”
I won't go into the gory details, but Gumby needed me to take himself and M to the jail to bail out a friend. I called the Indian, told him I was going to have to leave him in town, because I had to go. “NO! Don't leave without me!” he commanded. “I'm running. I'll be right there.” He proceeded to run many, many blocks to get back to my apartment, and the four of us headed to my car and out to the jail. It was about 3:30 AM.
We won't talk about the passenger who almost got sick in my car, or how sloppy I looked having thrown on a wrinkled dress shirt over my pajamas, or the maneuver I pulled in the middle of Lexington Road to get us back to our turn. These are all things you will have to ask my passengers about.
I will say the Indian and I spent a better part of the next hour waiting in the parking lot while Gumby went and dealt with the justice system of ACC, coaxing our sickly drunk friend M into standing, walking around, and at one point we even convinced her to do jumping jacks. Jumping. Freaking. Jacks. Much later Gumby's father showed up, and Gumby dismissed us, asking us to take M home and thanking us for our help.
I nearly forgot the way to M's house (this was no so good, because she had completely passed out at that point) but relying on my gut, I got us there. When attempting to get her out of the car, she repeated told us to “fuck off” and that she “wasn't fucking moving”, but with much more pronounced sluriness. We spent a long time making her eat bread and drink water, and then got her into bed. It was just after 5:30 AM.
“Waffle House. We need some Waffle House.”
Starving and exhausted, the Indian and I gobble down way to much fat and salt at the Epps Bridge Road Waffle House, and I drive us home. Gumby calls to let us know that his friend is finally bailed out, and that he owes me 1 thousand, 1 million.
“Well, I'll keep that in mind, I'll hit you up.”
“Even if you need me to pose nude for a sketch, I would do that, just for you.”
“Um, thanks dude.”
I was supposed to go with my roommate Melissa the next day to a show in South Carolina, but before I finally went to sleep I totally wrote her a note punking out. After the night I had, I explained, I was totally not up to it. She was very understanding about the whole thing, but I feel terrible because I did something that is a huge sore spot with me (punking out at the last minute) to someone else.
I slept til 3:00 PM while the Indian watched almost every Disney movie we have in the house. Finally he forced me out of bed, and after running a few errands and sitting around the house awhile, we went to a movie—The Forgotten. I do not recommend it. Only the first half of it is any good, and once you see the end coming about halfway through, you spend a lot of time waiting for it to be over. It did have one small redeeming factor—the utter hotness of Dominic West as the rough but charming alcoholic.
Later, after dissecting the movie to bits, going home, eating some dinner, and dressing to the nines, the Indian and I joined Chris Brown, Neil, and their respective crües at All Good, and quickly moved to Copper Creek.
At Copper Creek we easily had one of the weirdest nights of drinking ever. I believe this was partially facilitated by the $1 shots being offered from midnight to 1 AM. It began simply enough, people at tables, socializing. I ran into Matty P, who has moved to Boone and was randomly in town visiting, in the same bar I was in. I kissed Chris Brown's girlfriend. Another woman tried to undress me. I got insanely jealous of a unnamed party, which got me down for awhile. An extended while. Then we all walked back to (Chris Brown's girlfriend) Lindsey's apartment.
The Indian, my official bodyguard, was taken in a bit by the wiles of one young woman, and that is basically how I came to be walking home by myself from Chris's girlfriend's house at 5:30 in the morning.
I'm not broken up about it. It's bound to happen every once in a while.
I'm climbing up the hill that is Lexington Road, sipping water, just a little drunk and heading to the Grill for some pre-bed breakfast. A random young man pulls into the drive ahead of me in a little red car, and actually attempts to speak to me.
“Hey girl, come'ere.”
As you can imagine, I was charmed.
“No!”
“Come'ere, just for a second.”
“No! Go home!”
Now, as we all know, I am prone to make light of even serious situations. While I was firing back with my pimptastic attitude, internally I could not make light of this. I didn't panic, but I could see that me on the street and this guy sitting 10 feet away in his car with not another soul in sight was not a definitely not a good thing. I started booking it into downtown proper, with him calling after me.
After I was well within sight (and earshot) of the city workers clearing sidewalks of evidence of post-game partying, I looked behind me. I wasn't being followed. I begin walking double time in the direction of the Grill, happy to avoid having been kidnapped, and there was the potential serial killer again, ahead sitting at the intersection next to Tastyworld, watching me. I walked past the headlights with my head held high, maintaining a holier-than-thou strut, which actually just came naturally in that situation. The bastard actually calls out to me again.
“Hey girl, come'ere.”
“No!”
“Just for a second, please?”
I don't even turn around as I declare over my shoulder, “You need to go home. It ain't happenin'.” I wave my hand dimissively and keep walking.
A little tip for any young men who may be wondering: cruising around for a date at 5:30 in the morning doesn't exactly exemplify outstanding character, so don't be offended when the ladies turn you down.
I made it to the Grill, unharmed and unafraid, ordered some food and chatted with Matt, who manages most of the night shifts. He looked tired, closing out the register for the shift, a long strip of register tape moving through his hand. They had obviously done a copious amount of business that night.
“Hey Matt, how're you?”
“I'm beat, how about yourself? Did you hafta work tonight?”
“Nope, I just got caught up in a lot of drama.”
“Oh man, that's the worst. Do I ever feel for you.”
Sheila Nicholls, Fallen for You Read More »
You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am a web developer and consultant living in and around Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
