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

The funny about this was the extremely matter-of-fact tone used by the young man, who I assume was taking care of his drunk friend:

“You need to find Brad and get him to take your ass home. Where is Brad?
“Why is Brad at Toppers? Brad is gay.”

Gay men like dancing, and boobs for that matter, so I myself am not entirely surprised that Brad was hanging out at a strip club.

“We've got to toughen you up.”

“Is that right?”

“Totally. I'll tell you what we'll do. When I get there, we'll go down to the bar, crack some bottles over people's heads, give some noogies.
“You'll be carrying an 12 inch — no 18 inch metal rod, and I'll carry a bucket of oil slick. When the cops come after us, you throw the rod in the front spokes—”

“—this sounds like an excellent way to get arrested.”

“God, grow some testicles, Jenna! I mean, not literal testicles. Not literal.”

“I know. Metaphorical. Cojones.”

“Exactly. I mean, you don't need anything hanging down there. You have a very nice shape as it is.”

“Well thank you.”

“Anyway, you throw the rod in the wheel, they go flying over the handlebars. Meanwhile, I throw the oil slick down and the rest of them slide all over the place.”

“This is like a bad cartoon!”

“Of course it is! What do you think I have access to? There should also be like, anvils dropping from the sky and people walking off of cliffs.”

“And we can paint a tunnel on the side of a building and they'll ride right into it.”

“Brilliant!”

Tell Me All Your Thoughts on God from Jenna Tollerson on Vimeo

There are few things more fun than capturing your drunk friends singing along with all of their might to a Top 40 Dishwalla song.

Dancing to the Bucket Guy on Vimeo

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 »

Good morning all! I am, in fact, still drunk from my escapades last night. I woke up about an hour ago on top of the covers on my bed, not being able to remember anything after Steph drove me home. Clearly, I got all the way inside my apartment (good) and spent the rest of the night alone (doubly good, considering). I woke up wearing just my bra, underwear and a camisole that I had been wearing under my clothes, makeup still on, across the width of my bed with my legs hanging off. And freezing.

I could, theoretically, have gotten into a little more trouble last night. It would have made a better story (assuming I could remember anything), but overall, I think I'm happy with the way things turned out. I think.

I didn't expect to wake up still drunk. I expected to wake up desiring to cut off my own head to stave off the pain. So that's good too.

If you don't mind, I'm going back to bed now.

Me with Martin and Blake, my new friends in the armed forces.

While making time with Sam and Jason at Washington Street Tavern last night, I met these young men, who are in the Navy protecting our asses.

They were some of the most hilarious drunks that I have ever met. I haven't been that entertained in quite a long time. In the words of Blake, “Do you feel safe, having met Martin?”

They are coming back to town in April and we are so going to hang.

Pictures from last night on flickr.

On my popularity:

(Wearily) “Yeah, so I'm going to get some food, and then I have to go to Barcode, because if I don't show up, I'll get all kinds of calls and text messages: ‘Where the hell are you?’, you know?”

“Wow, I wish my whole body could be as in demand as your pinky toe! I couldn't get the hot dog guy to pour hot grease on me if I was freezing!”

(Sheepishly) “I guess I'm complaining about a problem that isn't really a problem, huh?”

“Exactly.”

In which I lay bare my dizzying intellect:

“You keep asking me why you can't pick up girls downtown. I'll tell you why—because instead of actually talking to them, you've spent your whole time here with your phone open text messaging your ex-girlfriend.”

“No, no, that's not it.”

On being Thom Tollerson's daughter:

“I love drunk text messaging. Hey! I still have your dad's number. I should drunk text message your dad!”

“Do it.”

“Naw, naw, I won't.”

“Go ahead! It wouldn't be the first time he got a drunk dial from someone who has played at 106 West. One time—I can't remember his real name now for the life of me but everyone calls him Pepino—”

“Pepino?”

”—yeah, Pepino from Davisstreet was in here and he said he was going to tell on me; he was going to call up my father and tell him I was out drinking! At a bar! My dad's attitude was basically ‘Eh? What else is new?’”

In which I feel vindicated for my hard stance on drunk driving and refusing to let someone drive last weekend:

“Thank you so much. Seriously.
“You probably saved my life that night.”

In which I am touched, in a weird way:

“I'm a little too drunk.”

“I wish you could transfer some of your drunkedness to me; I'm still sober.”

“I could throw up in your mouth!”

“You know what, if I could manage to keep it down, that would probably be effective.”

“We'd be like birds!”

“Yes!”

“And you could be my baby!”

“I'll be your baby anytime, Jackie.”

“Yeah, but you'd be my bird baby.”

On the afterparty and my being in demand:

“So, are you coming with?”

(Reluctantly) “Um, sure. Why not.”

“Kick. Ass!” (With accompanying high five).

The first time I ever took some one's keys away, I was just a few weeks into my freshman year of college.

I know drunk driving must have been a issue when I was in high school, but it was on a different scale, because there wasn't the regular activity of pre-gaming and then going downtown. We went to parties, did shots in people's kitchens, drank Everclear mixed with coke because it was cheap and lasted twice as long. People would gather at one place and basically have a huge lock in. It was a caused by a couple of factors. In a small town where the cops don't have much to do, every one had a heightened paranoia about being pulled over and arrested. There was no where to enjoy your drunkenness except for the place where you were already drunk. If you went home, you went to your parent's home, so you might as well just sleep it off and face them sober.

I'm not a stickler for the rules, but I do feel pretty strongly about drunk driving. I've always been vehemently against it. And before I moved to Athens, I assumed this was an issue that my peers and I more or less universally agreed upon. However, just like realizing how much groceries actually cost, worrying about health insurance, and coming to terms with your parents being just human like the rest of us, part of growing up is understanding that everyone—even people you like, people you love, and people you truly admire—makes bad decisions on a regular basis. More often than learning from them they actually learn nothing from them. Especially when there are no immediate ill consequences.

However, when I was new freshman, I was still charmingly naïve. Years of PSAs and television dramas had actually convinced me that you could keep someone from driving drunk if you were determined enough, and had determined that no one would ever drive drunk on my watch.

My roommate at the time, Sonya, had a bunch of her friends visiting from her hometown, and staying with us in our tiny dorm room. They pre-gamed in our room and then it was time to head downtown.

The original plan was to walk, but standing in front of the building, facing the trek down the hill, the group, pretty drunk and unruly, decided to drive. Although I was pretty much sober, I don't remember how I managed to get the keys from the driver, but I clearly remember what happened next. Read More »

To Justin Timberlake,
I like your music. I really do! It's is not life-changing or anything, but it makes me shake my booty, and sometimes, a person needs nothing more than to shake her booty. So what possessed you to put not one, but two seven and a half minute songs on your new record? Even worse, what convinced you to order the tracks so these two songs are back-to-back? Pop songs, with few exceptions, and not meant to run longer than 4 minutes, 5 at most. After that, they just wear out their welcome. I beg you, do not make this mistake again. Hours of reckless, fool-hardy dancing are at stake.

To the mostly naked girl sending me friend invites on MySpace,
First of all, I am not a lesbian. While I'm flattered, I'll have to ask you to take your bicurious fantasies elsewhere. In addition, all of your pictures are taken with a grainy webcam in what looks like an office supply closet, next to a copy machine. In your underwear. It seems a bit avant garde, but I don't think that was your desired effect. If you ever want to boost your self-esteem in a way that does not involve a series of "wow, your hawt" comments next to your racy, yet low-quality photos, I would suggest you get away from the file cabinets and fluorescent lights and, you know, go meet some people. Of course, if you've tried this and it didn't work, it may have been because your potential new friends had to listen to you talk.

To Cingular,
Dialing 411 costs $1.79 now? You better watch out; at some point it will be not just cheaper but also easier for me to use my cell phone's internet connection to connect to Google Local and get the number I need for free. Where will you be then?
I guess, serving all the people who still don't have data plans. Sometimes, my geekiness shines through more than I expect.

To Fate/Destiny/The Universe/et al,
Is it some kind of extremely cruel joke that I have been chasing like a madman after work for months, and I suddenly have far more to do than I can handle? Or is this just your way of smacking me upside the head while yelling, “Be careful what you wish for”?

To the young men in my life,
I realize I get a little handsy when I'm drunk. If you have a problem with that, we can not hang out when I'm drunk. That gives us almost no opportunity to hang out though, so choose carefully!