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

Mammy-Gram

This afternoon I had my annual mammogram. Is this too much information? No? Then I shall continue.

For me, annual exams—both *pap and mammography—can evoke a sense of fear and trepidation, as the possibility for anomalous, irregular results can seem imminent, given an individual’s family history, coping style and/or current situation, or in my case, given the fundamental equilibrium and overall cohesive performance of the various synaptic connections throughout The Ol’ Noodle, which have been known to spontaneously challenge jenji’s ability to navigate about the particulars of reality, rationale and/or status quo with any definitive eloquence at any given moment. (see: dread)

*Frankly, the former—pap trepidation—initially has more to do with jenji minor’s anticipation and inability to brace for, so to speak, the advance of the stone-cold speculum—also known as The Cervical Iceberg, which has an undeniable ability to hastily freeze and lower my core temperature from the inside out within seconds of impact—more so to do with that than it does with my family’s significant history for irregularity in this particular arena. I’m just sayin, would it kill The Man to get a toaster oven? (The Man: My highly reputable gynecologist).

Conversely, one can choose to embrace and dare I say, be thankful for, the existence of such early detection devices so as to allow for early intervention should the results of any given test come back irregular and/or suspicious. I’m happy to report that given my current state of polarity—middle of the road, vanilla, hopeful, even—I didn’t lend any energy to the formidable worry front, as I currently posses the previously mentioned definitive eloquence, which allows one to successfully rationalize energies away from approaching murky squalls. (see: dread, opposite)

Also, given the virulence of various inefficient processes and programs associated with health care as whole, this particular Group—THE INSERT RADIOLOGY GROUP HERE—which prides itself on being progressive, cutting edge etc. truly is what it purports to be.

Wait. That can’t possibly be right. No, no, it truly is. They truly are.

Prove it.

Item #1: Intro

They welcome client feedback and in fact, actually make adjustments accordingly.

My last visit was in late 2008 and while the physicians, technicians and staff were entirely courteous, competent and expeditious, the waiting area (stage 1) was somewhat jarring in that their ability to work efficiently as a cohesive unit—to funnel individuals through 1, 2, 3—although still commendable, the staging area of the well-oiled machine could easily leave one feeling as if one ought to have a floppy red tag hanging from one's ear, a graphic match to the shiny red mark branded upon one's ass, both indicative of one's arrival and position within the voluminous herd.

Okay, perhaps that’s a bit exaggerated or melodramatic, however, the waiting area was so congested with clients that each one was referred to by a given number so as to protect and preserve privacy; in fact, one was initially given a pager to check in with admin and therein a plastic garment tag—a call number—to proceed back for the actual scan. Truly, it was reminiscent of a classic delicatessen, as the temperature of the anxious crowd--best described as feverish--was a crowd riddled with individuals constantly peering down at their pager and/or tag in an effort to validate that they hadn’t been skipped or passed over by another muttering mass of nerves. And so yes, 2008 was a bit disconcerting and overwhelming, especially for an artistic temperament (example: mine), which tends to implore one (example: me) to imagine the back-story and particulars—from title cards to credits—of any and/or all individuals I may stumble upon and/or interact with throughout any given day.

And so upon request I made a suggestion on the comment card provided at last visit:

Less factory, more intimacy. Yours truly, jenji

Item #1: Conclusion

The INSERT RADIOLOGY ESTABLISHMENT takes into consideration client feedback, as the entire establishment has been renovated and refurbished since my last visit wherein the artistic temperament (example: mine) will find itself (example: me) inquiring about the particulars whilst mid-squash, mid-mammo, mid-tug-- the particulars regarding the catalyst for said renovations so as to avoid inaccurate speculation and thus unnecessary title cards later.

The Verdict: “Client feedback indicated that the waiting areas were too crowded and impersonal, which caused unnecessary anxiety for many people.”

(gasp)

You don’t say.

And so the well-oiled machine, while still entirely lubed, has been broken down into “several different waiting areas,” each complete with its own flat screen television (Cable: The Food Network), fireplace (electric), comfortable décor, tranquil tones (sage, taupe), complimentary beverages (water, tea, coffee, juice) and finally, a heaping dish of chocolates. Shall I repeat the last part: a heaping dish of chocolates. Expensive, individually wrapped, gluten-free chocolate, I might add. No need to worry about smattered fingers in the candy bowl, as the candy in the bowl, or dish as it were, could easily be unwrapped and popped down one’s gullet sans contamination.

Item #2: Intro

Mammogram: 2010—

There was a phenomenon, a very post-9/11 phenomenon, which took place whilst waiting for my scan (stage 2): people—women, from all walks of life—spoke to one another in lieu of the formidable at one another or even worse, not at all. My city isn’t particularly known for neither friendly banter, nor routine pleasantries even whilst sharing a 4-foot by 5-foot space in an elevator, let alone sitting in a waiting room. Ingredients for jenjiworld surroundings: eyes down, grimace affixed, audible grumbling about this, that and the other. Such is my frustration, as the artistic temperament (example: mine) does not allow one (example: me) to coexist well amongst the detachment of the many who surround me. I’m too inquisitive; too chatty; perhaps even too polite. Far too often I find myself saying “nevermind, it was a joke” or “I asked, how’s it going?”

And so, these women you speak of jenji, as if they even exist at all; you say all walks of life? How do you know that? How could you possibly know that?

Because they spoke to me and they spoke to one another, while I naturally, said very little, to nothing. Such is my right as the nodding, prodding, albeit entirely engaged observer who cannot hardly get a word in, as she is busily cramming her face with goodies from the heaping dish of sanitarily sound chocolate. Chocolate trumps conversation, period.

It has been my experience that people interact and make considerably more eye contact throughout two different scenarios: whilst entirely comfortable and at ease or whilst incredibly anxious and nervous.

The particulars vary depending upon the audience. A man will interact differently with a woman than a woman will interact with another woman or in this case, amongst other women. Groups interact differently than individuals and I suppose one could assert that our group of 7—in this case all women—had a smattering of both scenarios (comfort and anxiety), however our surroundings were so comforting—fireplace, lighting, aromatherapy—that women seemed compelled to exchange particulars—not pleasantries, this was not mindless, polite banter—particulars, such as recipes (two women were caterers) and background (one woman was an elderly cancer survivor from India). This was interesting, fulfilling banter, which is not something I run into very often. Usually I witness either defiant mutes, complete with the what-are-you-wearing judgmental sneers (yes, I have a few holes in my jeans and yes I’m wearing fingerless arm warmers: deal with it), vapid inquiries/responses, narcissism and/or abject gossip.

And so we--7 strangers, picked to have scans and see who stops being polite and starts getting real; apologies--we all waited throughout stage 2 and into stage 3 together. With one another. (cue Phillip Glass)

At THIS ESTABLISHMENT one can choose to wait for a doctor to read their scans before they go home; this is stage 3 (my label, not their label I assure you); it takes a bit longer, however one doesn’t have to wonder about the possibilities and can set oneself up with an opportunity to more than likely go home with good news. In all, I encountered three different waiting rooms: reception, scanning and results. Women wish one another luck before going into their scan (stage two: “good luck”), while they congratulate one another once they get results (stage three: "congratulations"). I witnessed three women emerge from the doctor’s office with what could only be described as a posture of relief and a slap-happy grin on their faces. And as each one exited from the office they said some derivative of the same thing to all of us: all clear, negative or clean! When I emerged from the doctor’s quarters all of my comrades had gone, while a new group of women were busy respectively chatting with one another, however, caterer #2 was just leaving the changing room next to mine as I approached and she asked: “is everything okay with your results?”

My point: I suspect that this establishment's ability to truly care for us allowed us to truly care for one another. The university doesn’t give a shit about us and therefore, we don’t give a shit about one another, even within the confines of a 4 foot x 5 foot elevator, or so I've come to convince myself so as to avoid embarrassment, discouragement or homicidal rage. (see: fundamental equilibrium)

Note: I had a lovely conversation with a set of identical twins in the elevator--Donna and Diana (honestly, gleaned, not inquired)--however, while I can claim to have given a shit, I cannot elaborate further, as both were relegated to different staging areas once we reached our floor.

**Item #3: Intro

Existence

While a mammogram isn’t in and of itself a box full of kittens, it’s not nearly the most painful procedure on the planet (see: retrograde cystography for kidney stones) and so I will once again refer to, focus upon and embrace the existence of mammography as a diagnostic tool/device to be thankful for. In fact, I shall focus upon my results.

Item #3: Conclusion

Results:

Normal/Negative. No evidence of cancer.

**While Item #3—my result—isn’t in and of itself evidence of this establishment’s extraordinary expansion, sincere care nor purported pride, it certainly didn’t hurt neither my experience nor this review; then again, neither did the heaping dish of chocolate. Did I mention the heaping dish of chocolate?

jenji

Disclaimer For Insensitivity: jenji is keenly aware that many women may receive less than desirable news from the doctor regarding their mammography, however for the purposes of this entry she has consciously excluded such discussion; except for this part-- which is meant to deter anyone from pointing out what an absolute ignoramus jenji is for having overlooked the gravity and prevalence of breast cancer. For this entry is not about breast cancer, it's about chocolate.

Blown

And so this past weekend I ventured out and finally bought myself a new hairdryer, as my hairdryer present (currently past) was as my mother might say: not cutting the mustard.

I bought the CONAIR ion shine Ionic Ceramic Styler (1875 watt) in case you were wondering. Sale price: $20.99

It came with a performance manual and under WARNING I read on about keeping the cord away from this, and to avoid submerging it in that, wherein number 7 on the WARNING was most amusing and not at all obvious and so I appreciate the advisement:

7. Never use while sleeping.

In fact, a clinical warning I've heard on more than one occasion, however never in relation to an appliance.

jenji

An Urgent Request

For the sake of those with Asperger's and Autism.
For the sake of those animals who rely upon echolocation.
For the sake of mankind's reliance upon mechanosensation.
For the sake of all that is sensate.
For the sake of my sanity, I implore you Billy, please stop shouting, as the pitch of your voice makes me want to hit myself in the face with a frying pan.

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 a 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 admission.
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?

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.

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.

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 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.

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

Escalation.
Ringing.

Not now.

Life. Live. Living.

Baskets. Piled they begin to fray; the fruit begins to 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 our emotional depletion 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.

Illustration: Gustave Doré Charon from The Divine Comedy

Arachnid Inn

Current condition










Puzzled, as I don't recall extending an invitation for visitors of the eight-legged kind.

I suppose he/she just wants out of the tundra and into a warm environment, yet I hesitate to admit that it's still so chilly inside that even I tend to wear a ski hat around the house.

Surely if I exterminated her/him there would be a puddle of vanilla puddin' on the floor, yeah?

I invite you all to pick a name for my new friend.

And by friend I mean, that hairy, eight-legged, 400 eyed monster that is undeniably planning a ritualistic esanguination as I sleep.

Wait jenji, don't you have a ferocious cat whose basic instinct would incline him to snap that thing into a million pieces?

Why yes, yes I do.

In fact, here is Harold's official response to the situation:









...I know.

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

He asked...

What do you think about January 3rd?

For me, January 3rd has always been a wolf in sheep’s clothing; it is deceptive and deceitful, in that it may allow one to perceive the 3rd as the start of all that is new—of resolution, renewal and revival—when in fact it is meant to leave a person in a hesitant and perpetual state of “Wait, what? Wait a second, what?”

That is, the 3rd has a puzzling ability to leave me annually disoriented, disjointed and ultimately disorganized, as I become critically incapable of correctly recognizing the actual day of the week on which the 3rd may fall. You see January 3, 2008 is not a Tuesday, as it has deviously disguised itself as a Thursday in an attempt to muck up my schedule, routine and thereby, the start of any New Year’s resolution.

What follows is a day riddled with incessant inner chatter and a frenetic, sub cranial bickering between three Freudian cellmates that would leave a family of 10 living in a two bedroom apartment to ask, “why can’t they all just get along?”

So, no it's not Tuesday, it's Thursday, which of course means that the following day will be Friday, or what me and the three amigos will surely come to call Wednesday.

And so it goes...
chase yer tail, round and round...
Circadian confetti
barefoot, primal
follow, follow
sniff, sigh
rinse, repeat

jenji

Sometimes one should assume...

If I inform you that within the eyes of others, your behavior portrays you as the Prime Minister of Jackass --an individual who hasn't an ounce of pride in oneself-- and you still act like said jackass, well, then... I'll just assume you want to be a jackass.

if you're okay with that, I'm okay with that.

as long as we're clear.

...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