Freedom (revisited)

I never post the same entry twice, but I am making an exception for a friend of mine who I hope will keep the following in mind whilst navigating about temperamental relatives throughout the holidays.

You know who you are.
Please, be wise with your precious energy.
You matter more than any tedious, dysfunctional drama.

Freedom













There is a moat.
It surrounds me.
They cannot cross.
All runnels leading have been dammed.
I am safe.

It is a boundary. It is mine.
They shall not pass.
The bridge shall only draw upon my judgment, upon my command.

I no longer have an obligation to engage within the inherent presentiments of dysfunction, derision and delusion.

They ring the bell, but the bridge does not lower.
I control the counterweight.

Impatient, they ring for the ferry.
Blinking. The boat of Charon does not appear.

Universal: them and us.

And so, upon these banks they are inclined to leave us handmade baskets brimming with fresh fruit—messages—: persuasion. Anemic at first, and so we are inclined to pick through them at our leisure.

Hours. Days. Slumber.

They ring two, three times more and beckon for attention.

No.

They ring repeatedly and begin to leave patronizing messages, ripe with urgency and concern, as their arrogance will not allow them to consider that our silence has a greater meaning: not now: no.

No.

They give up quickly.
Time intervenes.

Everyday. Progression. The New Normal.

They Reform, restructure and begin to ring again.

The hypervigilant moat begins to leak; rust begins to form around our recollection. A formidable fog of nostalgic memory rolls in: a photograph-- Tribe surrounded and smiling.

An olive branch is extended and we contemplate acceptance.
Subtle. Pavlovian.

No.

Weakness. We assess the caller's identity and wager: perhaps I have overreacted. Perhaps I am part of the problem. Perhaps I am able—this time.

No. 
No?  But...

And so we gamble.

Hello…

We abandon our hypervigilant, detail-oriented condition for real-time interaction. There is no need for conditional division; for boundary, for there is no harm: we are of the same tribe.

Yes.

And so I would argue with the fine doctor.

* * * 


They are Traitors.


Traitors who are literally teeming with derision, negativity, disconnected outrage and delusions of grandeur.

Traitors who commiserate and conspire.

Exponentiation. Virulence.

How have you been?
This is not a question: it is a code for contempt.

They emerge from their histrionic dens not to listen: no.

Vapid inquires, for they are vampires whose self-centered mission remains: to suck and to spew: to suck our spirit and to spew their sanctimonious rhetoric.

Blathering on and on.
Sucking. Exsanguination.

What have we done? They are vampires and we have knowingly invited them in.

Echoes.
Ringing.

Repeat.

Awareness.
NO.

Recollection returns.

A fleeting specter where time has stood still.

The formidable fog of nostalgic memory lifts: a photograph—tribe surrounded and smiling. It is propaganda. I see it. We see it.

Present.


No.


We did not respond, the bridge is still intact and our feet remain dry.

Escalation.
Ringing.

Not now.

Live.  Life.  Living.

Baskets. Piled, they begin to fray; the fruit begins to seep and rot but still, they sow the seeds.

Sunshine. Friends. Contentment.

A heaping, putrid landfill forms along the bank, the soil tinged with their pestilence.

It is a plague. They are a plague.

Persistence. Insistence.
More messages.

They ornament their disdain and hunger for this emotional ambush with concern for our well-being. It is circuitous. It is a lie. It is a trap.

It becomes about the why are you, the where are you and the what's going on? 


It becomes about their graciousness and our silence.

It builds.
It becomes about our immaturity and our capricious temperament.

Our silence simmers within them.
It becomes about our self-absorption, our audacity and our impassivity; our inability for functional communication within the company of pure righteousness.

We are a predicament: their predicament.

The silence begins to boil.
It becomes about our disrespect, our disobedience, our ungratefulness, and three baskets later, our more than obvious defiance.

Yes, it is a Defiance. It is a Precedent.
It is our Recollection that they are vampires and we must not knowingly invite them in.

No.

* * * I would argue that when one makes a concerted effort to negotiate with one’s detail-oriented condition, one risks the unrestricted access of one’s own foolish, Pollyanna judgment and the consequential invasion to be dawned upon by the traitors in our tribe.




Illustration: Gustave Doré Charon from The Divine Comedy

Instigator

Dr. Mehmet Oz

Fear mongering instigator. Helpful messages can be lost when you're under pressure to create and (over)produce a riveting one-hour show every day of the week. His expertise is better utilized on a guest basis.

I'm Just Sayin.

jenji

*I guess I called that one. See: arsenic in apple juice 2011

I Say Tomato

I'm frequently approached by loquacious individuals--specifically, gentlemen-- in the grocery store, as well as senior citizens, however the latter is a tale for another time. I'm not entirely sure why men--particularly middle-aged men--find the need to speak to me. Actually I have my suspicions--a gut instinct-- and they range from the very benign and friendly to the dangerously sociopathic; today the gentlemen registered somewhere in the middle.

The Particulars:

I needed two vine ripe tomatoes and so I began to do what I always do: fondle the produce. Produce needs to be handled so as to ascertain its quality and shelf life. And so I aggressively handled the tomatoes. I tried to do so generically, as I was already aware of his eyes upon me and I could feel--I could tell--that he was being more than an impartial spectator to my handling. Suddenly I was a general practitioner there to conduct a physical; I could feel it: I could hear him thinking it. He was ogling me as I went about my business and he made me extremely uncomfortable; it's a female instinct that just cannot be explained unless you've experienced it; and some women don't even have this instinct to rely upon. Some argue that to be ogled should be flattering, however it's not flattering, it's disgusting. There's a definitive difference between admiring and ogling and you know it when you feel it.

Now I'm a chatty individual and I have no problem with making eye contact and idle chit-chat in a grocery store; in fact, it can be rather pleasant to embrace the camaraderie a grocery store may have to offer. And so it would be a rarity for me to act a snob, however my gut instinct has always served me well and so when it goes into Defcon 5 I tend to listen to it and thus appear arrogant and snobbish. It's self-preservation.

And then he said it:

-What does one look for in a tomato?

Ugh. Really? Where's your wife (there's always a wife or significant other looming about, electively ignorant) and why are you just standing guard next to the tomatoes like a creep in the bushes? And what's with the salmon colored golf pants? Seriously, isn't there an online porn account that needs tending?

Now my answer is firmness- I look for firmness in a tomato, but there was no way in Hell I was going to respond with that little nugget of information given the guy was already visually and now audibly breaching my personal boundaries. And so I answered: color, I look for color.

Lie.

What I wanted to say was: piss off, freak. But I didn't. Instead, I collected my fruit, which had barely been inspected properly and quickly made my way over to the bananas. Yes, the bananas.

Thankfully he didn't follow me, as I managed to shoot him just enough stink-eye so as to say: piss off, freak.

jenji

Lost In Translation

(electrostatic feedback)

Welcome- can I take your order?

--Yes, I'd like a small fry and a cheeseburger with no mustard (pause for attendant processing) double cheese, double pickles, please.

Extra mustard?

--No, no. No mustard, double cheese, double pickles, please.

Oh, okay.

jenji consults the drive-thru LCD so as to confirm the order wherein she sees the following:

-1 small fry

-1 cheeseburger

-NO mustard

-NO cheese

-EXTRA pickles

Will that complete your order?

--No, no...I'd like no mustard and double the cheese and double the pickles.

Oh, okay.

jenji refers to the LCD one more time:

-small fry

-cheeseburger

-NO mustard

-EXTRA CHEESE

-EXTRA PICKLES

Would you like to guess what I found once I returned home and unwrapped my burger?

Why Marvin, why? The plane would have crashed is all I'm sayin.

jenji

Double Standard

Scenario #1:

And so imagine that you see a rather portly man or woman standing in line at the gas station waiting to pay for gas or various other items. For the purposes of this example let's say this individual is 5' 4" and weighs about 350 pounds; let's say this person is very clearly obese. There are a few other folks in line, as well as the gas station attendant. Now, how many people do you think would find it socially acceptable and/or appropriate to say out loud to this person--a complete stranger-- the following:

"You need to cut back on the nachos and lose a few pounds, Fatty."

I have yet to hear anyone utter anything even remotely similar to an overweight individual in this fashion; okay, maybe a few times in junior high school I can recall some bullies picking on heavier kids, but not since then have I ever heard it again. I'm not talking about a friend who may comment upon an individual's weight to you sotto voce, I'm talking about a direct confrontation, one stranger to another. I've never seen it happen. And yet, I find that complete strangers seem to feel no sense of social structure when they comment upon my weight to my face. In fact, I find that it happens at least once a week.

For example, imagine a woman (ie: me) is 5' 4" and weighs approximately 100 pounds and she is standing in line at the local gas station waiting to pay for her gas and particulars (ie: my gas and particulars) when this man begins to eyeball her up and down (ie: eyeball me up and down) and then scoffs at her (ie: me):

"you need to eat something, Skinny."

OR

A woman (ie: me) walks into a hair salon and another woman--a complete stranger--says to her (ie: me):

"Ugh, why are you so thin? Are you anorexic or something? I wish I could be so thin."

My response: "systemic illness, Asshole."

I've also found that heavier women find it socially acceptable to call me a "skinny Bitch," a passive-aggressive jab wrapped in a generous heap of "I'm just kidding" also known as the indisputable self-loathing. Whatever.

Scenario #2:

Imagine you are at work and the boss' daughter comes in to visit. You haven't seen her in quite a few years and she's really tan, as in at-the-tanning-bed-twice-a-week tan, so the first thing you say to her is:

"You need to stop sitting in the sun, you look like a saddle bag!"

Again, I've never heard it happen and I've seen a lot of saddle bags in my day.

And yet, the boss' daughter (ie: me) wanders into the building to visit and stumbles upon an employee she hasn't seen in a couple of years and he seems to think it's socially acceptable to say:

"Good God, you need to get some sun. Take a vacation, you look like a ghost!"

My response: "Um, first of all, I'm fair-skinned, I've always been that way and the reason I'm so fair is because of my British heritage and overall genetics, not to mention (again) systemic illness and the need to avoid ultraviolet exacerbations, but nice to see you too, Asshole!" Okay, that was my inner response, my real response was: "*uh-huh" as I was taken off-guard by this individual's seamless ability to open with such an fantastic one-liner (see: offensive observation).

*also known as, "oh right, this is why I never visit...I'm outta here, Asshole."

I won't even go into the individuals who refer to me as pale and/or peaked. I've been hearing that since I was a little kid. Okay, maybe one example.

I'm 9 years old and the woman at the ice cream shop greets me:

"Oh darlin, you're so peaked and thin!"

My response: "I don't know what that word means, do you have any double chocolate today?"

I guess my point is that people are insensitive assholes who seem to have no problem with indiscriminately spewing whatever flutters into the vast abyss they call a mind... oh wait, that's my point, it does seem to be discriminating and I find it utterly annoying, as I tend to run into one of these comments, as I mentioned, at least once a week. After a while one can begin to become self-conscious about what is completely natural and might I add significantly out of one's control.

It's bad enough I have to drink mass quantities of Boost to keep myself within triple digits, do you have to point it out as if it's deliberate and I've done something wrong? You can all see the picture of that woman in the right column, does she look like she's asking for an insult? I realize she's adorable, but that's not our topic today, so do your best to answer the question.

I'm just sayin, zip it and mind your own business... Assholes.

jenji

It's Thimble, really it is...

Wednesday Evening:

jenji spent a full minute watching a frenzied contestant on a television show make a desperate attempt to bounce six separate marbles into six separate thimbles.

The suspense gave me a stomach ache. Truly. Or was it the production value itself? I feel as though I've been injected with synthetic adrenaline via the remote. I feel violated. Yuck.

That's 60 seconds I'll never get back.

jenji

And Now A Message From Our Sponsor

Rick Sanchez

Disclaimer:

It is nothing new to learn that I have serious and considerable criticisms regarding 24-hour news. However, the following message is not related to the political/social agenda of a particular network and/or their psychosocial effect/affect on society per se. Instead it is about a specific personality and while I understand and agree that the current strain and overall majority of cable "news" personalities--those who present "the news" throughout various networks--are generally problematic and troubling as a whole, for some reason in the wake of the current catastrophe in Haiti, this particular individual's need to punctuate horrific imagery through gratuitous commentary (as if such imagery cannot speak for itself) really stood out and rubbed me the wrong way.

And so, take note of the photo above:

News flash: You're neither a journalist, a news anchor nor a correspondent. You Sir, are a sensationalistic putz; a transparent talking head whose insincerity for truth is surpassed only by your insincerity for humanity and you should be ashamed of yourself.

jenji

The Consummate Gentleman

And here we have yet another example that explains my visceral aversion to alcohol, as well as to the individual who will wholeheartedly embrace the inherent properties and components of alcohol that in excess will undeniably allow said individual to make a conscious decision to engage in imbecilic behaviors that more often than not precipitate copious consumption of alcohol, as the effects will more often than not allow and encourage one to believe that their drunken behavior is somehow appropriate for any given moment, as if their presence, behavior and opinions for that particular moment are somehow concentric to the universe at large. In other words, I find drunken people and their self-indulgent behaviors to be highly irritating and more often than not offensive.

The particulars:

Upon my first introduction to the gaggle of people that I'll be playing on a summer volleyball league with, I found myself *fascinated (*see antonym: repulsed) by the amount of *premium ale (*see: piss-warm beer) that this one individual in particular could consume all the while butchering the English language into a fragmentary, bloody pulp. Example: “that ain't true yous guys, that's a fuckin wad, man!”

It was only upon game number two—match number one—that I was further *delighted (*see: disgusted) by not only his unwavering ability to butcher basic sentence structure, but by his effortless ability to do so whilst engaged in formidable and entirely competitive co-ed volleyball with at least 3-4 beers coursing throughout his system, and might I add that I was genuinely *impressed (*see: under whelmed) and dare I say *sexually aroused (*see: sexually repelled) by his casual and astoundingly cavalier decision to suddenly take a leak in between side out points just along court side west. That is, after the side out, I pushed myself up off of the sand and spun around to see a grown man taking a piss a foot away from the service area. A piss straight into the wind I might add.

Truly remarkable. I can only hope that he's single. I say he, as I find myself unable to actually recall his name, as the presence of his piss in the wind created an offensive miasmic mist that surely caused my short-term memory to temporarily shutdown. And rightly so.

And so, I don't presume to fully understand the particulars and/or protocol regarding the male plumbing system, however despite its mechanical convenience I cannot think of any other male friend, relative and/or acquaintance who would pull such a gauche move in anything other than an emergency situation, while I'm quite sure that I’d find myself hard-pressed to piss whilst in the presence of some very dear friends, let alone in front of a stranger, in an open lot, surrounded by four other courts in a state of play, which translates into roughly 48 other individuals on the premises at the time.

The question is: would he have still done so sans booze? Maybe, maybe not. What I do know is that alcohol serves as the great magnifier, as it evokes behavior and attitudes that one might ordinarily stifle, as they could be construed as less than attractive or acceptable; rude even. And so, I'm sure that while it would have certainly occurred to The Sober Consummate Gentleman to take a leak court side west, his better judgment would have allowed him to use the restroom like any other human being, child or trained cat.

I'm just sayin.

jenji

Matt. she IS what she IS...

Okay, I must say that I find Ann Coulter to be an alarmist: a bickering fundamentalist in a perpetual state of political and social malcontent and humanistic denial. And yes, I find corporeal irony in the fact that she is arguably an anoretic ectomorph whose caustic, corybantic disposition literally transforms her into a most misanthropic, manipulative endomorph whose gauche social commentary, theatrical hair flipping and disaffected chuckling strives to exploit, promote and peddle division, derision, hatred, intolerance and fear into the guts of those of a more shall we say, bilious temperament; and sure she criticizes the underdog with a less than egalitarian view, in fact I find her utterly repulsive as a human being, but dammit I also find her incredibly entertaining.

Whenever I hear that she’s going to be interviewed and/or featured on a program I cannot help but find myself delighted to be setting the DVR to record whatever uncomfortable, foot-in-mouth encounter she is about to provide. Rush Limbaugh wishes he were this controversial, as he fails to proffer his version of hate and propaganda in an educated (albeit misdirected) fashion.

Here's the thing: Ann's insults are creative.

Rush’s arguments are entirely transpicuous and vapid, in that his cholesterol gargling falsetto screams of tyrannical desperation, in that he needs you—implores you—to buy his big bag of bullshit, for further proliferation of the white Anglo-Saxon elite literally depends upon it and further, he must maintain subliminal control over what Rush’s team surely calls the subservient riff-raff; that is, the white Anglo-Saxon middle/lower class who are too foolish to know when they are being indirectly insulted by their great leader.

Rush in fact feeds upon such compliance and conformity to his opinions, in that his ego requires that you kneel before the megalomaniacal, $33 million per year General Zod, if you know what I’m saying, as it will validate, fulfill and justify his sense of righteousness and power in the world. However, there is a pathetic urgency in his broadcasts; a sense of -I’m not right unless you believe I’m right- in his voice, wherein Ann Coulter doesn’t give a polemic shit whether you believe she’s right or not; she knows she right and that's all that matters. She doesn’t need your loyalty, submission, validation and/or ratings; she already has legions of conservatives from puberty to propecia jerking off to her 8x10 glossy head shot. I mean honestly, what more could she need?

Here is a clip of Ann’s latest appearance on The Today Show with Matt Lauer, although if you're going to take the time to watch a video clip, I would highly suggest that you hold out until the end of this entry, which was added as an update, wherein Coulter goes blonde head, to blonde head, to blonde head, to redhead, to wig, to dreads with the ladies on The View.

Anyway, I always look forward to Ann and Matt in an NBC, righteous indignation cage match. I usually find Matt’s moral outrage to be a bit exaggerated, wherein it seems as though the majority of his frustration lies in the fact that he just can’t seem to get her to see how morally reprehensible and insulting she is as a human being. Ann in turn ruffles Matt’s journalistic style in that he soon resorts to focusing upon absolutes and trivialities, a tactic which usually comes back to bite him in the ass, wherein she’ll whip out words like extemporaneously and refer to him as Matt Lauer et al.; somehow Matt manages to look like the lunatic in that he’s pleading with her to see that for which she has no interest in seeing: that she is a nasty human being: that she is caustic, controversial and morally repugnant.

Yes, that's true. But how is it relevant to the interview?

I say, let her bark, that’s who she is and always has been. I’ve never seen a journalist so ardently challenge Rush Limbaugh to his face as to why he’s such an egotistical bigot. Why does Ann Coulter have to play nice? Lauer is consistently condescending in his interviews with her in that he is dead set on challenging her as to why she’s so divisive, as opposed to why it is she thinks that way. He rarely lets her finish an answer, as he is obsessed with getting her to admit that the malicious content of her books are simply fabricated and included to garner attention and sensationalism.

Um, Matt? She’s written six wing-nut books, I’m quite certain that she believes what she’s saying and is in fact a nasty, malicious human being; let her ramble, the ratings will write themselves.

He needs to let go of the fact that a—what some may consider--attractive, leggy blond woman is sitting before him spewing hate and intolerance because there’s something very -Daddy’s-little-girl, very -pretty can’t be ugly- in his voice and inferences that just make me want to vomit and again, while I’m in no a way supporter of Ann Coulter’s hateful rhetoric, I take absolute offense to his patronizing -pretty can't be ugly- style.

MATT:
-Why won’t you just be nice, Ann? Why? Why can’t you just play nice?

ANN:
Well, because I’m a hateful, repugnant, right-wing ‘round the bend, conservative bigot, Daddy. I don’t want to play nice.

MATT:
-But you're too pretty to be ugly, you don’t really feel that way, Ann.

ANN:
Yes, I do.

MATT:
-But how do you know Ann? How do you know that liberals should all be burned at the stake? How do you know that Jews are imperfect and that 9/11 widows are greedy Jersey Girls? You don’t make $33 million/year on a radio show; you don’t have people kneeling before you, validating your cause, so how do you know that you’re right? How can you be certain and truly know that you’re a hateful, repugnant, right-wing, ‘round the bend, conservative bigot?

And like The Keymaker in The Matrix it’s simple:
Ann knows because she was meant to know.

Let it go Lauer. This is who she is.

jenji
UPDATE:
Ann appeared on The View this past Tuesday: need I say more?
Experience the hysterical contagion: the petulant, wing-nut, trichototillomanical hissy fit to the 6th power here.
It.Is.A.Freakin.Mess. And so very worth it.

Or So I'm Told

Poppies will make her sleep. Sleep...










An unruly, paradoxical sleep fervently disagrees.

jenji

The Punctuality of Correspondence

I would like to briefly address yet another item indicative of both the disintegration and degradation of the self-respect, efficiency, common sense and overall decency on the part of the federal faculties of the US Postal Service, as well as the all encompassing current state or might I say, disorderly State of Our Union.

I just received my friend's invitation to her out of town art installation, running February 16th to March 29th, today. Yeah, so I think I won't be making that show. I mean, as an artist, fashionably late can be the norm, but this would just be ridiculous.

Hey postal service? ...late much? I realize many of you have taken to delivering mail in civilian clothes and that's fine, as long as you deliver my mail within oh I dunno, 2-3 weeks of the postmark.

So, what could possibly be the hold-up?

As you might expect I have a theory and you should be informed that the following is a true story.

I would submit that a certain pathologically obsessed mail worker who had previously stalked me and who can only be described as a nonsensical, contradictory cross between a gigantic eunuch and an emboldened hermaphrodite, has in fact resurfaced.

To be more precise, said mail worker is a walking, talking progeny of a genetic misfire involving a kinky, drunken threesome between Hellboy, Alice the Goon and Jabba the Hutt, who was indeed forced into retirement, through a deal she struck with the federal government to avoid confinement for her felonious, federal offenses against me, which only commenced after HellGoonHutt had taken the bait (literally) of a decoy envelope addressed to me, which secretly had a federal tracking device in it, wherein she was ultimately followed, run-down, cornered and surrounded by 3 undercover vehicles packed with federal agents in the middle of an intersection and consequently arrested for possession of said decoy, where upon opening the trunk they found almost 2 years worth of my mail, while another heaping pile spilled from the glove compartment into the street—

Yes, I would not only submit that this disturbed freak of nature has somehow been reinstated as said mail worker despite her earlier, court-enforced retirement, but in fact bet that she has once again started to glean, hoard and jam both my relevant and irrelevant mail down her size XXX, polyester, federally issued postal trousers (for real, stuffed them down her pants), in an effort to silence, threaten, intimidate, and control me (as if).

Yet, two and a half Presidential terms ago it would have been utter nonsense to realistically consider that such a reinstatement could ever come into logical fruition and therefore, I would like to posit that it is entirely possible in our country’s current, illogical state of oh-no-you-didn't, it-can’t–possibly-be- existence. You know I'm saying?

I mean, this is just a theory, but the back story is true just the same.

In the end I'm just sayin'...US Postal Service....slow much?

jenji

Five Minutes of Free Association

Things that trouble annoy and/or infuriate me:

when I misplace my Blistex
when someone else asks to use my Blistex
germs
when Ellen Degeneres does a straddle dance over her set table
those who use the term baby bump to describe pregnancy
those who change that term to belly bump
tabloid television
24-hour cable news
people who look over your shoulder while you’re trying to speak to them
those who talk to others while you’re on the phone with them
those who habitually answer a question with another question
smug people
those with an elitist attitude
Crocs
clicks
when Bill O’Reilly calls someone a pinhead
Bill O’Reilly
the word pig as an insult
those who use malicious comments and/or judgments in an effort to level another
getting up before 11 a.m.
fatigue and exhaustion
arrogance
Andy Rooney
bullies
hypocrisy
malls
shopping
judgmental people
racists without a valid, or what could be perceived as valid, argument
homophobes without personal interaction and/or experience with gay people
Ann Coulter
addiction
children with bubbly boogers
dental visits
sunburn
blisters
relatives who steal from one another
the ringer on my home phone
most reality television
people who change their first name without explanation
friends who constantly bicker in my presence
spouses who constantly bicker in my presence
bickering
cold weather
hot weather
most perfume or cologne
loud noise, sound and/or talking
bright light
hot showers
mayonnaise
those who generalize and/or equate Muslim to terrorist
YouTube (for the most part)
middle-aged white men that “little lady” me
scallions
menstrual cramps
skim milk
overweight women who call me a “skinny bitch” and assume that’s politically acceptable
the fluid that collects on top of cottage cheese
insincerity
distracted and/or disinterested sales clerks
sales clerks who call me sweetie, honey or love
close-minded individuals
miserable people who blame everyone else
those who refuse to look inward in an effort to evolve, understand and better co-exist
no-win situations
stinky, flip-flop feet
people who talk, text or heckle during a film in the movie theater
people who leave their shopping cart in the middle of an aisle
people who don’t say please and thank you
receptionists on a power trip who make it difficult to speak and/or see an actual doctor
condescending people
Barbara Walters
those who assume or make assumptions about what other people are thinking
technical mumbo-jumbo
materialistic people
dishonesty
disloyalty
true narcissists
pop radio djs
dismissive attitudes
when my DVR fails to record
Deal or No Deal
my stamina
soggy floor mats
American Idol
potato bugs
insomnia


Things you may not know about me:

I'm a narcoleptic. (Yes, the insomnia is an ironic paradox)
I’m infamous for my periodic food jags
I’ve been known to cry during musical theater and/or big theatrical productions
I’m detail-oriented
I’m probably not thinking what you think I am
I don’t respect those who don’t respect others
I wore a bedazzled glove to a Michael Jackson concert in the ‘80’s
I love disco music
I often speak to my cat in Spanish (me gusta me gato)
I would love to travel around Europe
I have a cockatiel named Little Man who is in fact a female
Throughout winter I’m usually wearing long underwear beneath my clothes
I’m extraordinarily sensitive
I once administered CPR
The very thought, sight or mention of mayonnaise evokes a physical reaction (gaggin)
I become carsick easily
I posed nude for a Spencer Tunick shoot
I find mowing the lawn therapeuticIf possible, I brush my teeth and floss after every meal and before bed
My grandmother was a dead-ringer for Queen Elizabeth
I find Brits comforting, calming and familiar
I often consider myself ignorant
I'm a team player and enjoy collaboration
I have a soft spot for the elderly
I love ketchup, but cannot tolerate tomatoes
I can be reticent
Sirens and clocks make me nervous
I've always found New Year’s Eve depressing
I keep a pen, journal and flashlight next to my bed for middle of the night reflections
I still watch and enjoy ER
At some point I intend to live on/in Manhattan
I look up and attempt to learn several words/day in the dictionary
I used to go entire weekends without using the bathroom during Girl Scout camp excursions
I still have the stuffed dog (DogDye) I received at the age of 1
I love riding dirtbikes
I’m horrible at remembering names
I’m freakishly accurate with time

time is up.

jenji

Stop Sneezing on the Strawberries

Current Condition

Currently I am plagued, encased and encrusted in a Sarcophagus of fermented and fermenting, Antediluvian viral scum; far from ephemeral, it is resilient, restless and resistant to...

Echinasea, Zinc, Ester-C, B-Complex...

...still









...sinus medicine, cold medicine, cough medicine, flu medicine, herbal supplements, cough drops, saltwater, hot tea, hot baths, heated sheets, orange juice and roll upon roll of the poor man's Kleenex...

...still




*actual color of mucous unavailable



There are far worse ailments from which one may suffer...








...incurable and insidious...








...but still
stop sneezing on the strawberries.

jenji

Lactose Intolerance

In the spring and summertime, Mister Softee will often meander down Any Street USA, beckoning neighborhood children to indulge upon a tasty frozen treat and experience what is known as the all encompassing, Mister Softee experience. Religiously, children will chase Mister Softee down (INSERT STREET NAME HERE) with either a barefoot parent in tow—or more likely, a flock of barefoot kids will ebb and flow, to and fro about the street as they frantically backtrack for rogue quarters and dimes that disobediently drop from their tiny little hands and begin to roll curbside. Seriously, forget about checking the sofa cushions for change—in the spring and summertime, check the curb. I’m just sayin’.

For the most part my encounters with Mr. Softee have been amicable in that I can tolerate his jinglistic presence by simply channeling my childhood nostalgia, as I clearly remember the excitement of Mister Softee. As a squirt, I faithfully chose the ice cream sandwich even though I wasn’t a huge fan of ice cream per se; or should I say, my digestive system wasn’t the fan. No matter, as it was only two minutes until the blistering sun melted my treat into a structurally unsound heap of cookies and cream anyway—it was all about the experience for me; the chase.

You see, that’s what a phenomenon Mister Softee is, even the lactose intolerant can enjoy the experience. As an adult I can certainly appreciate the sight of children chirping for sugar like hungry little finches. One might recall that as Mister Softee trolls the neighborhood for children—homeostatic and neuroglycopenic alike—his truck plays the contagious jingle known as “Mister Softee.” Or, as the children like to call it—ICCCCEEEE CCRRREEEEAAMM!!

Here is a little something you may or may not know about the “Mister Softee” jingle:

The jingle transmitted via the Mister Softee trucks was created in 1960 by an advertising agency. No way! Way.

The lyrics include the following: (please, hum along)

The CREAM-i-est DREAM-i-est SOFT ice CREAM
you GET from MIS-ter SOF-tee.

FOR a re-FRESH-ing de-LIGHT su-PREME
LOOK for MIS-ter SOF-tee....

This time of year, the Mister Softee jingle evokes a northeastern, weather repressed association to spring and then to summer; to fresh cut grass, vacation, and chlorine-tinged hair; to happiness and contentment. I don’t have a problem with that. I mean, for the most part Mister Softee is speedy about his business, thus making this trademark jingle tolerable. After all, he only swings by our neighborhood 1-2 times per week, which is far more bearable than the ritualistic pace of the pimped out, subwoofing El Caminos that rattle and bombard my friend Chet’s neighborhood on INSERT Avenue with their driving DOOOMMM THHHUUMMP DOOOOOMM riffs 24/7. In fact, up until the summer of 2007 Mister Softee rarely came by at all, as my neighborhood doesn’t have many children who typically respond to his presence; in fact, they are somewhat indifferent. It’s nothing personal.

Yet this year, spring arrived and it suddenly became more than clear that Mister Softee had changed. I say this because he now circles our neighborhood 4-5 times per day and I would testify under oath that his virulent jingle been upgraded in the amplification department; MTV has clearly pimped Mr. Softee’s ride. But why this sudden change in behavior, Mr. Softee?

I believe that Mister Softee is misinterpreting the indifference in my neighborhood as rejection, taking it personally and therefore, he has reassessed his routine, for we have become a challenge, we have crossed him and we will pay. In retaliation he has deliberately cranked the jinglistic audio needle deep into the red, while he has quadrupled his visits to our disrespectful, indifferent neighborhood. However, Mister Softee ought to consider that our indifference is not even about him. Perhaps he would realize the true source of our indifference if he merely paid attention to the smattering of signs, which adorn and bookend our street.


In fact, I think he may be under the delusional impression that we—children and adults—sit in our homes poker-faced and defiant; mocking his cries for attention, when in fact a majority of the children are probably busy reading a closed captioned episode of “Sponge Bob Square Pants.” What a pickle: Mr. Softee is oblivious to their disability and the children are oblivious to his presence.

Sometimes I will scream from inside the house, THEY CAN’T HEAR YOU MISTER SOFTEE!, yet he still circles the block like a hawk hunting for prey. He is relentless; he is committed; he is Glenn Close from “Fatal Attraction” and trust me, he “will not be ignored,” as he is determined to provoke us by blasting his musical gibberish—ironically, at deafening decibels—while in response he will receive only the aggravated reverberation of windows slamming shut. Did I mention how freakin' hard it is to get that motherhumping jingle out of your head? I’m just sayin’, it’s a subliminal attack on your short-term memory; you can’t help but rehearse it and unknowingly consolidate it into your long-term memory. What a kick in the pants.

Look, I’m a napper; I enjoy and rely upon my catnaps for leisure, as well as medicinal purposes and I have to say that it’s as if the lyrics to his jingle have undergone a most misanthropic metamorphosis—‘The CREAM-i-est DREAM-i-est SOFT ice CREAM- You-can FOR-get AB-out NAPP-ing, I-am MIS-ter-SOF-tee!’ Truly, I have tried to be tolerant of his harassment and misdirected frustration, but his daily presence has finally breached the confines of my patience.

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m at war with Mister Softee. Sadly, his erratic behavior has created a self-fulfilling prophecy; that is, his perceived notion of our rejection has indeed created a rejection within us via his obsessive, if-I-can’t-have-you-no one-will mission and it’s only a matter of time before I go running outside wild-eyed and disheveled with a fist full of marbles in one hand and a carton of Ben and Jerry’s in the other screaming, “WE DON’T WANT YOUR ICE CREAM MISTER SOFTEE!! BUGGER OFF, YA MUG!” Yes, I am of British descent.

Oh, come on now, jenji…Marbles? Must you be so aggressive?

What!? He started it with his fanatical use of that bedazzled, jingle-jangling, diesel chugging, subwoofing, smoke spewing, whippy-dipped sugar mobile as an abusive device designed to disrupt my catnaps and punish our neighborhood.

If Al Gore wants someone to blame for frivolous fuel consumption, Mister Softee’s the man. I’m just sayin’.

jenji

Grammar 101

Participle present
A verb form ending in -ing. Although a present participle may usually function as a main verb, it may also be used as an adjective.

Although this grammatical definition remains undeniably confusing and difficult for some, one can overcome the challenges of using this form through dedicated practice (say, throughout grades 1-12) and visual repetition (say, through the use of official Air Force One Grammatical flashcards). However, some of us still fail to implement this form properly and thereby continue to hack the English language into a puddle of bloody pulp. For example, "the Iraqi people are askin' and hopin' we'll remain" or "you saw 'em votin'," or "we're runnin', comin' and gettin' close to success" doesn't quite fulfill or fully commit to the use of the present participle. You know what I'm sayin'? Oh, see now it's contagious.

If you can't commit to grammar what can you commit to?
jenji

For the love of God woman!

Stop injecting your ass into your lips!
It's beginning to muddy your breath...
jenji

Pfieffer me!

...there are no lines...no creases...no furrows...
the ebola strain just seems to paralyze this aging trifecta...
sure, it activates a predisposition for some random, ghastly disease to be sure,
but you'll look young and happy about it at your weekly dialysis treatment...

jenji

...this is what I'm sayin...

a day in my life of jammie pants....that's all i'm sayin!

New Rule:

The outside world is not your house.

Is it me, or will people wear just about anything to the supermarket or INSERT UNIVERSITY HERE? When you hear that announcement over the P.A., "Clean up in Aisle 7," they're talking to you!

I mean, it's heartwarming that you held onto those comfy gym shorts from high school, but

...I can see your balls. Which reminds me, I'm out of kiwi.

Bill Maher