Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

It's summer here in The South, which means that it is ridiculously hot even in the middle of the night. I keep the temperature in my tiny apartment quite low, but since I work from home, I also get to spend an ungodly amount of time lounging around in my underwear.

I've gotten so used to almost immediately stripping off my clothes nearly every time I walk through the door, that I actually just had a moment where I saw myself in the mirror and said out loud, “Whoa, how did I end up naked?!?”

This may turn into a problem the next time I have company. Need to be mindful.

Singing the Beatles' “Blackbird” to myself softly in the Sam Deeds arranged style; going through old parts of my flickr for no reason and remembering things I had forgotten; Sarah Tollerson's solo performance giving me goosebumps; hanging out with Maggs, who comes to my bar just to see me; Happy Hour with Matt and Chris, who throw things a lot; Happy Hour with Ripley, who can pop it with the best of em, and who queued up my song without me asking; hanging out with Zach, who I've missed dearly; making a Happy Birthday video to send to Abie; all of Brett's damn enthusiasm; Stephanie adjusting my shirt to show more of my breasts, despite my insistence that maybe that button should stay buttoned; finding out I can go a damn long time without eating a thing as long as I keep drinking and smoking (breakfast of champions!)

1. I choose my own projects.
2. Chasing down leads is half the fun.
3. I get to talk directly to clients, and build relationships with them.
4. I'm building a name and a reputation for myself, and adding value to my brand.
5. I get to say “I've never been happier” and mean it.
6. I set my own hourly rate, based on my actual value instead of my value as a cog in the corporate machine.
7. When I start to burn out, I just leave my desk for a few hours, and get to come back fresh.
8. I almost never set an alarm. I sleep until I'm rested, and I remember my dreams.
9. Now that I don't have to get up in the morning, I get up early all the time, and tango around my apartment just so excited to be alive.
10. I never, ever wear pants to the office.

Due to some uncharacteristic nervousness about making my flight, about being on time, I arrived at my gate more than 2 hours early, with nothing but time to kill. I sat and played Lemonade Tycoon on my cell phone and did some people watching.

There's a metrosexual young man seated on the other side of my duffle bag, talking on his cell phone. He has gelled hair that has been professionally colored and highlighted, shined shoes and and outfit that is entirely black—black tailored pants, black button-down shirt, black footwear. His streamlined outfit bothers me, like he's making the rest of us—the people with outfits for traveling in comfort rather than style—look mussed and ragged by comparison. He's wearing a ring that is a king's crown wrapped around one finger, and he uses his other hand to thump an empty Dansani bottle against his knee as he talks. I feel the tinge of class warfare come over me as I watch him, resentful.

I shouldn't be so judgemental, I think. I'm the one drinking Perrier.

His ease, treating air travel as such a non-event, is a sharp contrast to the young woman seated across from me with her mother. Her dress and manner could easily make her a native of Winder or a similar town. She wears an oversized sweatshirt, tight leggings and sneakers. The whole getup makes her like a shapeless blob perched atop two legs. I conjecture she's actually much thinner under her sweatshirt tent, even if she is carrying one of Dr. Phil's weight loss books in her purse. She dresses, sits and speaks as if she doesn't travel into the city often, as if she simply doesn't notice how outlandish she seems against the backdrop of business travelers and suburban parents.

Being from such a small town myself, it's a quality I've come to recognize easily, largely so I may fight such characteristics from coming out in my own behavior and appearance.

The young woman keeps proclaiming loudly to someone on her cell phone that she's never flow before. She stresses over and over how nervous she is. I can see the cold sweat across her forehead. Her mother keeps chanting to her, like a mantra: “You're going to have fun. You're going to have fun. You're going to have fun.”

The woman takes deep breaths and complains that the Dramamine she took is making her drowsy. As high strung as she is, however, I think it may be best if she can sleep through her first venture into air travel.

The metrosexual and the young woman and her mother board the flight before mine and depart for Pheonix. The chairs around me empty and suddenly, I'm all alone. The air is cooler and I worry less about the metrosexual glancing over and somehow reading the less than flattering description I've scrawled in my notebook.

I mean, he's probably just a person like everyone else.

I sit and play more cell phone games, and then get up and go to the rest room. When I come out, I realize I've been here for quite a while. I check the time.

6:20. I'm scheduled to depart at 6:40, but there is no significant number of people sitting at my gate, and more importantly, no one at the counter. Looking in that direction I realize the information above the counter says that the next flight is going to San Francisco at 7:20.

What. The. Fuck.

I recheck my boarding pass, put it away, and then take it out and check it again. Everytime I check it, it still reads gate A21. I'm at A21. Something has been switched up on me, and I have 20 minutes to figure out where I'm actually supposed to be.

I haven't panicked, but it's going in that direction for sure. I look up at the various, essentially useless “information screens” mounted above the fray in the terminal. Nothing. I decide I need help. Needing help irritates me, as I like being self-reliant, but I decide I have no choice. No matter, I was made to feel like a fool no matter how self-reliant I wished to be.

I walk across to A19, where there are Delta employees at the counter who do not look extremely busy but somehow still manage to look extremely put out when I politely ask them for their help.

“Could you please help me figure out where I'm supposed to be?”

“Where are you going?”

“Seattle.”

“What does your boarding pass say?”

“My boarding pass says A21,” I counter, “but A21 is not going to Seattle. I am going to Seattle.”

He asks for the flight number and I provide it for him without looking at the pass, as I have closely examined all text on the pass over and over in near panic.

He types briefly and reading off the screen he says, “197 is now boarding at A25.”

“A25?”

He looks up at me like I'm being completely unreasonable, like needing one additional verbal confirmation after the mixup makes me into some kind of detail-obsessed savant, and he is amazed I was able to get this close to my flight by myself. “Yes, A25.”

I say my thanks and rush off, arriving at my gate just as they are boarding my “zone”. I settle in to my seat, and when we are up in the air, I spike my ginger ale with Jack Daniels. I've earned it.

“I'm amazed that individuals 4 years younger than me drive Lexuses but will scramble for a piece of candy.”, extisp.icio.us, buying episodes of This American Life from iTunes, making a “Next Action” list to keep myself on track and from freaking out (thanks cb), crossing things off that list, remembering how truly wonderful my friends are (yes, I mean you!), Chet Baker, clean T-shirts, the upcoming weekend, You Are A oversexed sexybitch who loves to stroke hot bitches

You may remember the viking stencil I spent nearly an hour an a half cutting out the other day.

I have subsequently destroyed it with paint by putting it on a shirt.

Fun!

“Jenna, that hat makes you look so pimp.”

Laughing. “That's actually not the first time someone has said that to me.”

“It just looks like you are saying, ‘You don't want none of this. Back the eff up.’ Except you probably don't say ‘eff’, you probably say the real thing.”

“Yeah, ‘eff’ just doesn't have the same kind of oomph.”

Today has been excellent. I think it is largely due to this hat.

Went to Tastyworld on Friday with the Ab and Richard and saw my good friends in the Outfit, who pretty much always rock my ass off.

Saturday went over to Maggs' house for a par-tay. Maggie and Leigh are very gracious hostesses and I had a fabulous time, although I think I've given up Southern Comfort for good. It's just far too sweet. Also, it conjures up bad memories for my stomach.

Came home Sunday morning, took a shower, and made myself a sizable breakfast. Sat down in front of the tv and ate, then I rested my poor head which was unhappy about having slept on the floor of Maggie's house, and accidentally fell asleep. For six hours. What are you gonna do, really?

Got up, made dinner, then brownies, then hung out with my peeps, drank a beer and went to bed. Couldn't really sleep so I was mostly there symbolically so that was something.

Next thing I know, Maggie's calling me because it's time to go shopping, and off to the mall we went, where thanks to some lucrative coupons I got $200 worth of clothes for $100. And an awesome purse. And some pimp-tastic sunglasses with pink rhinestones on them.

Abie-inspired “pimpin' ain't easy” series

Time with Maggs + Pink sunglasses = a fabulous way to start your week.

You know it's not going to be a good day when you are about to leave the house and you think, Now what am I forgetting?

You see yourself in the mirror and realize,

I have to be wearing a shirt to go to work.

Whoa.