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

Well, what can I say, Internet? It has been kind of a crazy few weeks. I have been so busy with normal, day-to-day living, as well as just mentally unpacking all that has gone on, that I haven't been checking in as much as I would like.

We'll start with the basics, because that seems like as good a place as any to start. There was the Boston trip. There was a great deal more family conflict than I really cared for. I didn't get to see much of the city, spending most of the time being shuffled from location to location or trapped in an apartment.

On the upside, I got to spend time with both my sisters, which was lovely. I got to meet a few of Sarah's dear friends, who were for the most part great people, and made me feel like my baby sister is being taken care of up there in the seemingly cold north. I walked a lot, which I feel could only be good for me. And while I loathe being away from home, for some reason I love the act of the roadtrip -- driving through a part of the country I had never seen before, stopping at random gas stations and restaurants, and that feeling of being on your way somewhere. That feeling that makes you temporarily forget every goal besides your destination. There is something kind of meditative about that part. When you can ignore the screaming and antagonism from the other passengers, that is.

Things I learned on the road to, and from, Boston: Read More »

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.

Jen (2:01:48 AM): hahaha you know what's funny?
Daddio (2:02:06 AM): what?
Jen (2:02:16 AM): you can see a generational difference in the way you approach IMing
Daddio (2:02:27 AM): how is that?
Jen (2:03:24 AM): you approach it as if someone were in the room talking to you and they have your full attention, there is a beginning and an end and you make sure to always say goodbye
Daddio (2:03:56 AM): oh... no, that's just you that has my full attention... I don't have a big buddy list yet
Jen (2:04:22 AM): people my age IM while they are doing all the other Internet stuff, they multitask, sometimes they talk to several people at once, and they don't say goodbye unless they are actually moving away from the computer
Jen (2:04:51 AM): even then it's acceptable if no one has said anything for about 5 minutes to not say anything when you leave
Jen (2:04:54 AM): it's just funny
Daddio (2:04:57 AM): ok I'll be lurking elsewhere... see you soon!
Jen (2:05:00 AM): later on lurker
Daddio (2:05:17 AM): hahaha

Note the small title homage to Miss Samantha Kirby.

Today, while studying over at College Square, I observed one of the indie hipster kids sitting outside Lunch Paper wearing one black and one white old-school high top Converse. I'm know I'm supposed to be moved to pass some sort of judgement in this case, either consisting of, “My! How unique, cool, and off-beat!” or “How lame. How contrived.” (the former getting me some “you're so cool” praise, the latter getting me chided for being sort of square and unforgiving, allowing the chider to bathe in his/her scenester superiority—in neither case would I really care).

But the only thing I could think about was—how does he decide which foot is white and which foot is black? Does it change daily? Weekly? Is he going to switch when this pairing wears out, or is the other combination ignored completely? Is the most important part that the left is white and the right is black, or simply that they mismatch?

Clearly, my brain was looking for something to do besides study 19th century European art history. Oy.

This is the hypothetical album cover for my fictional punk rock band. Its perfect!

If you don't recognize us, from left to right it's my kid sister Sarah, my mom sporting the Joan Jett/Mullet thing (that was in style at one time, or so she says), and me, on the tricycle, making like a demon child.

It would be called something lame like "Born Rebel" or "Raised Up Punk", and we would play loud and fast music with lots of distorted guitar, heavy bass, lackadaisical drumming and plenty of ill-timed rock screams, and it would be just ear-bleeding awful.

However, we would be revered by the hipsters in the Athens scene (if nowhere else) for our love of kitsch, keen sense of irony, and vast knowledge of bad pop art.

Plus, we'd make sure to always look great.

What we talked about in Religion today:

First, what does "I" mean? Is "I" the body? the soul? your individuality?

We all have a collection of things we would like "I" to be: your name, sex, religion, things you like (books, movies, music), people you like, the things you do each day.

But if any of these things are "I", what does it mean to say, "I am alive."?

"I will die."

Why are we afraid of death? It is suggested that because we each see ourselves as the center of existence, if you died, existence would end. "Confusing one's own ego for life is the root of the fear of death." says Sonam. Liberation from this fear comes when you stop thinking of yourself as the center of all existence. Until then the fear of death (and really, all fears, because they connect back to death, except, for maybe, public speaking) is really fearing the end of existence, of sat.

If you die, you cannot continue to experience the world. But maybe "I" is just a variable: the only thing that changes is the experience.

I am hungry. I am tired. I am happy.

Etcetera.

I could start on what it even means to be afraid, but we'll have to save it.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I've always thought that even though there is neither a big red "No Talking" sign, nor a stern librarian wearing her hair too tight, in the Reading Room of the library, it is understood that if you plan to have some sort of extended conversation you should leave the room. People are trying to study, dammit.

Well, at least I'm not having vivid confrontation fantasies anymore.

I've spent the better part of the last couple of hours trying to plan out my future. Writing e-mails, reading pages and pages of documentation, checking dates, sifting through things. The planning of college (and really, probably life in general) is almost more work than the actual execution, the act, of college.

Exhausting. Frightening. And a little exciting.

I'm at the library — I was just in the bathroom and I swear someone was talking on their cell phone while on the toilet. Apparently, that was not a conversation that could have waited til later.

Just thought I'd share.

Okay...

Did you ever get a cut and you can't remember how you got it? I have one on my left hand right now.

You know those oat clusters in cereals like Honey Bunches of Oats and Cranberry Almond Crunch? They should make a cereal out of just clusters.

Mmmm... Skippy peanut butter.

I feel like finals are already over. It's surreal. Maybe that's why I'm having such a hard time willing myself to study for my last final, which is tonight. I feel really really prepared and not prepared at all at the same time. How does that work?

Coming soon... A/V of the now even more famous Jenna Tollerson. Stay tuned.

And wish me luck.