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You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am a web developer and consultant living in downtown Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
I do this every year, (or, at least, every year since 2003) and it is absolutely compulsory.
As in years past, I must preface this with a warning to not proceed if you have delicate sensibilities. I would say, though, that overall, I've been especially good this year. Read More »
So, Internet, it's been a pretty okay summer. I've been working hard, in more ways than one, and it is starting to pay off in small, incremental ways, although it is a hard road to hoe, not to mention slow going.
The business is coming up, even if it is at a sluggish pace. I finally feel fully confident in my skills, and my ability to sell those skills to just about anybody. I haven't gotten any aghast reactions to my rates in a while, which means I'm selling to the correct market, at last. Now I just have to find the time to seek out more of that market.
I joined a gym a few months ago. I pour lots of time into walking briskly on a treadmill, and once a week I see a personal trainer who kicks my ass. My first week, I had personal training sessions on both Monday and Wednesday, and on Friday morning I was slowly waking up when I asked my half-awake self, Was I in a car accident?
Nope, I realized. I'm just that sore. Read More »
Each year, we at the house take an intimate look at the last 12 months, in a frighteningly frank way. This is to keep things honest, despite anything else that may have been written. This year it seems more important that ever, because we haven't been checking in as much.
As always, if you think you may be offended by cursing, graphic sexuality, talk about death, destructive relationships, or substance abuse, among other topics, turn away now. Have some kittens.
In addition, if you feel that such talk might ruin your holiday, save the read until after the new year.
And now, on with the show. Read More »
We do this every year. Frank, R-rated discussion of friends, drinking, sex, music, money, illness, politics, and many other subjects follow. If you are a sensitive, delicate flower, I suggest you go elsewhere. Particularly if you are over 50 (if you baby boomers proceed anyway, I'll bear no responsibility for possible heart attacks). 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!
My dear, dear friends; CB insisting that I go see Beck with him, and that it's his treat; fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; quality time with Zach at the beginning of happy hour; getting plenty of sleep; owning up to the fact that I was horribly unhappy at my old job, and even though I have no money now, I somehow still feel like the luckiest girl in the world
Due to a boring series of events that lead to the misplacement of my debit card, followed by one of my perfectly good credit cards getting inexplicably declined the very next day, I have felt very devalued the last few days. It's not that my self-worth is tied up in money (which would be sad), it's that my sense of power and freedom is tied up in money (which is just as sad, but not unfounded).
In an attempt to have something in hand (greenbacks) in order to give me a greater sense of security in my monetary worth (cash never gets declined), I went to the bank today to obtain a temporary ATM card, which is something Bank of America offers while you wait for your new check card to come in. It doesn't give you debit access but does give you access to cash via ATM machines. I usually never carry cash, but I figure it's better than credit cards or (gasp!) writing checks for the next however many days/weeks it takes for my new card to get to me.
I went inside the the bank for maybe the third time ever in more than four years of living here; I spent 15 minutes with a teller and made away with my temporary card, no sweat.
Then came the gawd-awful touch screen ATM. Only fellow BoA customers know my pain; 90% of the time, the touchscreens don't work as expected or don't work at all. In this case, because I had a brand new card, it wanted me to choose my “ATM customizations“, beginning with my language. I pressed English.
Nothing. I pressed it again and again. After a period of time in which the machine felt there was no response from me, it asked me if I would like more time. the only way I could get it to respond for my request for more time was to press enter on the actual goddamn keypad.
I went through this song and dance with my Automatic Teller four times before leaving the building and walking around to the red-headed stepchild ATM in the back, which, while ghetto fantastic in only two colors and no “customizations“, at least has real buttons that fucking work. I mean really.
The machine being a little out of date, I had some slight trouble getting it to take my card at first, but eventually I got it going and we were well on our way. No selecting languages, no looking at mortgage advertisements while they “process my transaction” just PIN, Fast Cash, and Amount. Get the the cash(! yey!) and grab the card... which seemed to be stuck in the machine.
“Thank you for visiting. Please enter your card to continue.” The black screen mocked me with it's lime green 16-bit illustrations of a chubby hand feeding a card into a hungry, devouring ATM. My card was no where to be found. Frustrated, I threw my hands into the air and screamed “FUCK IT!”. I turned to walk to work, gesticulating and speaking to no one in particular as I strode angrily down the sidewalk. “I GIVE UP!”
This is really one of those stories that works better out loud; one can amplify the importance and entertainment of otherwise mundane details with tone, sarcasm, and general merriment. I told this story to coworkers or sets of coworkers at different times throughout my day and was met with great empathy, and laughter. I actually got all the frustration about my ever-increasingly ridiculous plastic situation out in the course of the conversations, and I would normally not even write out a “better-out-loud” story, the exception being made tonight to expose one significant, potentially narrative-altering detail: in the course of balancing my checkbook this evening, what I found, in my wallet and in perfectly plain sight in a clear vinyl pocket—that damn temporary ATM card that was “eaten” by the ghetto machine.
Remember, I was standing at the ATM when I decided I had been taken. This was probably only a moment after I took the card from the machine with my own hands and placed it back in my wallet. The thing is, I have absolutely no recollection of this happening. If I were to believe my own memory instead of the clear physical evidence in front of me, I would still swear that my card was eaten, as I clearly remember being enraged and frustrated by the whole course of events. It doesn't feel fuzzy at all; it feels completely lucid and true. A lucid and true event where I apparently blacked out for 10 seconds at 10:15 in the morning.
What can we conclude from this? I don't know if it's a mark of stress or just plain lunacy, but the fact is, Jenna Tollerson is loosing it.
guests holed up with us during the ice “storm”, being told with alarming frequency that I look like I've lost weight, talking to Abie (because she makes me feel important), being able to drive again (got the busted window fixed finally), remembering once again what it's like to be broke and not minding as much as I should, finally any music I want to hear at any given time, all the time
You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am a web developer and consultant living in downtown Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
