Mishmash of Me

by Jeanne Lee

  In other words, he did it; my dad planted the seed. He never really took me to anything; honestly, he barely participated in my growing up. He worked, played handball and slept. But he was ultimately my introduction to live theatre. Oh, and, while growing up, he would also listen relentlessly to the musical, West Side Story, on our record player. (My introduction to Stephen Sondheim …come on!!)

  I didn’t stand a chance.

  I will be showing my age, but when I was in school, I remember that in sixth grade, the boys were led to one room and the girls were sequestered into our gymnasium where we were shown “the movie” … about boys and girl’s bodies and respective reproductive systems. Why we were not allowed to have this blockbuster shown with mixed genders is beyond me, but I’m sure it was a very well thought out, very repressed decision. So, being somewhat of a goody-goody, amazing student, I knew all that business; it was all in textbooks. Slam, I got it down.

  However, I did have a lingering question that bothered me, and I was too embarrassed to ask my parents (God forbid …and of course, they did not talk to me regarding these matters). I couldn’t ask my best friend, Mary Jo, either, because she was cool. She had boyfriends and drank and I was so not trading whatever hipness factor I had banked, which was probably none, by going and asking the wrong question. So, I choose my platform; I choose to ask my mortifying question to my sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Smith resembled the actor Tom Selleck, with the prerequisite tallness and furry moustache (okay, fine, he was probably lankier, tall versus muscle-y, with lighter, sandy brown hair and—well, it’s possible he didn’t really look like Tom Selleck at all, but that’s who we thought was his doppelganger and who I had a mad, mad adolescent, for realsie crush on). When he announced to the class that he was getting married that summer, I, along with most of the sixth-grade population of girls and, I’m sure, a few boys, died just a little bit. He invited our class to the back of the room one day, for a candid chat about sex. In the back of the room a space was set up with four mismatched couches and some beanbag chairs, and we all made a mad rush to sit. Then, we all just stared at each other and Mr. Smith.

  Finally, I did what any straight A, dorkedy-dork would do. I raised my hand. I then eeked out, “So, I understand that the sperm fertilizes the egg, and the boy has the sperm and the girl has the eggs … but …ummmm … how exactly does the sperm GET to the egg?” Dead silence. Peers with averted eyes. Red faces. And, then, Mr. Smith, being the epitome of awesomeness, very frankly …told me.

  Wow. Really. Well, that makes sense. I guess. Okay.

  I suppose we all have these moments. One gentleman friend confessed that when he was around the same age, he wondered how many “holes” girls had. WHAT?

  Nowadays, kids have access to way too much information. There is nothing that cannot be Googled, and all questions can be answered with a few clicks of the keyboard. No mystery whatsoever.

  I spent one summer during college working at a toothbrush factory in Aurora.

  If you’re young, full of vim and vigor, feeling like the world is yours for the taking …working at a factory is a huge slap in the face. The poor women who worked there were so freaking …done. They’d given up many, many years before I took a gander at them. The factory was brimming with college kids and these women who were my grandmother’s age, complete with hairnets, smocks and no hope.

  My first station was on a line (a la “I Love Lucy” when Lucy and Ethel were trying to package chocolate candies and ended up eating and hiding them in their hats and bras when the line started going too fast). Three women and I were positioned in front of a moving belt full of empty displays. We each had four brushes to place in their proper positions. Since I was the newbie, I was placed at the end of the line near the magic switch (or as I dubbed it, “the button of shame”). So, if for whatever reason, lack of dexterity, daydreaming, hangover issues, you were unable to fulfill your duties and get those stupid, horrifying brushes in the display in the allotted time, you could push the public humiliation button to stop the line. The social implications of buzzing in the wrong answer included, but were not limited to, severe groans, dirty looks, and deep, condescending sighs. Oh, and I did push that button, “Bam, Bam, Bam!” and everything came to a stop. Giggling probably didn’t help much.

  I was quickly and unceremoniously transferred to a new position. I was alone and surrounded on all sides by huge towers of paper boxes …a virtual cardboard fortress. Yes, they put Baby in the corner. I was alone for hours, taking brushes out of boxes, putting them in new boxes, over and over again. (Oh, and by the by, these summers were before iPods were around.) I went a little stir crazy. Before very long, I started singing. Then, I started singing LOUDLY. At one point, I was doing a rousing rendition of “Bicycle Built for Two” in a proper English accent. “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do; I’m half crazy, all for the love of you …” It was then I became painfully aware that someone was in my area. I turned around, and there was my supervisor …staring.

  I was transferred again …that day. My supervisor sent me to a machine that attached little plastic heads on tooth-flossing instruments. I was seated next to Danny, another college student. He was a football player for the University of Illinois …a giant, really. If I remember correctly, he looked like what I imagined Paul Bunyan would look like …minus Babe, the big blue ox.

  We would chat; it was pleasant enough, and then it happened. I apologized. Let me explain, if I can. I don’t know exactly why, but I apologize at the drop of a hat; I’ve always done it. Perhaps it’s the “good girl” disease or maybe Catholic guilt or I’m just a big weirdo, but I’ve been told that if I’m walking and trip over a rock, I will say “sorry” to the rock. Whatever. I’m getting better with age. I think. Anyway, every time I said, “I’m sorry,” Danny wouldn’t look left or right, he wouldn’t pause, he just socked me in the shoulder … very hard …time after time …all day long. It hurt. (I’m pretty sure he took steroids).

  I stopped apologizing that summer.

  Working at the toothbrush emporium did give me a peek into the window of life. I didn’t like what I saw, but I walked away a tiny bit wiser from the experience. Oh, and by the way, another factory incident shaped my thinking as well. A bird was once trapped in the factory, and it was quite the sight to see these octogenarians throwing and whipping toothbrushes at this poor little thing to try to get it out of the warehouse. Then, once the bird was free, they picked up the brushes, off the ground, and put the germ-filled brushes back on the line.

  So, always, always, sterilize a new toothbrush.

  You heard it here.

  I’m serious; do it.

  While in graduate school in Lincoln, Nebraska (to study acting because that made sense), I signed up to be a “stand-in” for a TV movie about the end of the world. They made a few of those in the late 80’s, but this one starred Jason Robards, Robert Urich, Cindy Pickett (Ferris Bueller’s Mom) and a then 16-year-old Lara Flynn Boyle. I wasn’t even sure what a stand-in did, but I naively hopped on a bus at 5 a.m. and got driven to the middle of nowhere (which is saying a lot in Nebraska) to a lone farmhouse surrounded by fields. We got off and the stand-ins, well, started standing. No talking, no interactions, just standing various places in the house while the cameras and lighting were adjusted. Then, the actors took their places and proceeded to do the same damn scene for hours. Poor young Lara could not remember her lines. By lunch hour, everyone in the whole barn/house could say all the lines for every actor, ad nauseam. It was tedious to the millionth degree.

  Then, Robert Urich (Spenser: For Hire!) was called to the set. Before he arrived, an assistant director went around the house with a bullhorn. “Okay, everyone, Robert is about to arrive. Please do not call him BOB; he says BOB is for apples.” Okay, then. Actually, he couldn’t have been nicer. He and Cindy were my favorites. I was too in awe of Mr. Robards to speak audible words or sounds and Lara had a hovering mother or assistant-person who was constant
ly whisking her away from the scene of the crime.

  It wasn’t until I had babies and got a bit pudgy that the realization hit me. I was a stand-in for Lara Flynn Boyle, the 98-pound weakling. Lara Flynn Boyle. At the time, she seemed a normal, healthy size. I think stress, Hollywood, and of course, Jack (drugs—allegedly!), helped her become the poster child for anorexia. I wonder what ever happened to her. Maybe I should Google her, but I’m scared it’s probably not good.

  Oh, Ms. Lara, I’m just going to hope that wherever you are, you are happy and eating a burger with the bun. WITH THE BUN, I SAY!

  Group: Senator, Senator …question for the Senator …

  Senator’s aide: The Senator has a prepared statement and will then take a few questions.

  (A few camera flashes)

  Senator: As many of you now know, and as it has been reported in the last few days, well, I have a lot to respond to … there have been accusations, 2nd hand reporting, fabrications …

  (Wife nods)

  Someone in Group: People want to know, Senator …is it true?

  Senator: Yes.

  Group: (Murmurs) …good God, I knew it, this is great… (flashes go off) … (writing stuff down) …

  Senator’s aide: Please, people …

  Group: (gets quiet …)

  Senator: It’s all true …I have …come under budget; I have … raised employment; and I have eaten five servings of vegetables and fruits each day for the last 4 years…

  Group: (collective gasp) (the group is not happy)

  GMember: Geez

  GMember: I voted for him.

  Senator: This is good news people. We have smooth roadways, secure jobs …AND I can poop!

  GMember: I think I’m going to throw up.

  Wife: I have to live with him.

  Senator: My future plans include sweeping innovations for public schools, increasing our police forces and, and …

  GMember: Are the rumors about your addiction true?

  Senator (covers microphone—to aide): Is this public knowledge?

  Aide: Yes, Senator.

  Senator: Fine …yes, it’s true.

  Group: (erupts again in flashes, writing, and “Senator”/the group is happy)

  Senator: This is something I’m currently seeking help for … I would appreciate any and all support during this time.

  GMember: Wait …Senator …what’s your addiction again?

  Senator: (mumbles gibberish)

  GMember: Uh, can you speak into the microphone, sir?

  Senator: (Leans forward and whispers, mumbles gibberish)

  Gmember: Louder, please.

  Senator: My addiction is blowing …

  Group: “Blow! Heroin! Oh my god, are you in rehab? This is awesome!”

  Wife: Glass! GLASS! The man blows glass …morning, noon and night!!

  Group: (Awwww, for the love of—is he serious?)

  Senator: I also plant shrubbery.

  Group: What?

  GMember: So, you’re saying you plant bushes?

  Another GMember: Is that a euphemism?

  GMember: I don’t think so …

  Someone interrupts … “Hey, it’s all over the interweb … Senator Matty Purray in trouble …she has a sex tape!”

  Everyone rushes out …

  (Silence)

  Senator and wife look at each other.

  Wife (smacks Senator on his shoulder): God, you’re such a nerd.

  I believe that everyone carries a “list” in his or her heart, and it changes all the time. This list consists of the important things in our lives—our family, friends, children, career, hobbies, and other passions top the list. One day, you’re thinking of a family member who’s having surgery; they are number one. The next day, you find out they’re fine and now you’re changing number one to a piece of music you want to hear or a hot fudge sundae. Again, the list is fluid and changes moment-to-moment.

  Near the end of my marriage, my ex and I were going out on a “date.” I remember getting dolled up and being very excited because we really needed to just enjoy each other’s company, have some fun. Then, I got the phone call. “Hey, Jeanne, I’m going to be late; my friend’s dog died, and I need to help them move it.”

  Ummm, what?! “Why, can’t they call someone else?”

  “They’re really upset, and the dog is huge, and I just really need to go and help them.”

  That was the exact moment I truly knew my marriage was over. Not really. It still took me quite some time to understand and accept it, but I believe that was a pivotal moment. Because on the “list,” I was now under a “friend’s” big, dead dog.

  After my divorce, I needed a job. I have a Master’s of Fine Arts degree in theatre; soooo, my first foray back into the work force was … (ta-dah) …Target Department Store. They hired me as a “Management Trainee” which sounded okay to me. I imagined myself organizing and keeping a department like, say, housewares stocked; it would be neat and cute with coordinating towels, dishes and blankets; maybe I would order products, help my team get to their respective breaks, just one happy little family … NOT!!

  Reality check …I was placed in the front of the store or as I liked to call it, “Hell’s Exit.” Let’s take stock (so to speak). There were normally 15-20 cashiers comprised of either teenagers with low riders and muffin tops, retired women who shouldn’t have had to be on their feet for 8 hours at a time, or my lovely ladies who did not speak English as their first language, but who were unnecessarily and eternally grateful when I insisted that they please, please not ask me if they had to go to the bathroom, but just shut off their station light and go. (They loved me because I did not have them ask for permission to pee? Well, that was just wrong.)

  Hell’s Exit had hundreds and hundreds of customers in a hurry to get out, including lots of tired moms trying to keep track of too many babies. Oh, and the occasional sad human being who was buying way too much Sudafed. Before I started working there, I had absolutely no idea that this decongestant was an ingredient for making meth; I was getting quite the education. If someone had more than two boxes of Sudafed on the conveyor belt, my ladies were to pick up a phone, dial one of the security dudes and say the clever code, “I need my break now!” This usually resulted in Mr. or Mrs. “I Don’t Really Have a Sinus Problem” bolting from the store. To top off the tension-filled atmosphere, my manager’s main focus was pimping Target Visa Cards that at the time topped out at a 23% interest rate (such a deal).

  It was my job to motivate my cashiers, my “team members,” to ask every single person who went through their line, every single time, if they would like to save a whopping’ 10% on their purchases for the day by applying for a Target Visa card. It didn’t matter if they were too young, too old, didn’t understand the terms, or were stinking-ass drunk; they needed a Target visa. My “tools” for motivation were mostly begging like a demented cheerleader, or offering some cheap candy or soda pop. The goal was usually 18-25 visas per every 8-hour shift! That is a lot of crappy Visas to push. My cashiers were awesome, but the pressure was too much for me. I felt like a horrible human being. These customers were going to ruin their credit histories, not be able to buy a home, or swirl into a spiral of blinding debt, all because they were enticed to save a few dollars on towels and diapers. Not right.

  So, I got another job, said good-bye to my dear little cashiers, even that one guy who never, ever spoke to anyone …ever. (I often wondered how this young man was hired; most of the managers swore the guy had never spoken with them; he had major muscles, tattoos everywhere, and one of those nose rings that made him look like a roasted pig at a luau.) If I were a bettin’ girl, I’d have to gamble that this young man was either an extremely deep thinker or a budding serial killer. I said good-bye to my pals, Mario and James, the security gentlemen who made me laugh all day and into the wee of the night, and to my manager, Ed, who was always very encouraging. Said good-bye to all the men and women, my comrades at “Hell’s Exit” who had t
o work until 1 a.m. “zoning” toilet paper, deodorant, towels and Dora the Explorer toys, and good-bye to that very strange chapter in my life, the Target chapter …and even though I used to love shopping there, I have not stepped in that store since. I may never go back.

  Side note: If my current job ever starts pimpin’ Visa cards …I am SO outta there.

  (Sung to “Carol of the Bells”)

  (A few more Gynecological Holiday Songs)

  Hark how the ladies

  Sweet Prego ladies

  All seem to ask

  Wanting the facts

  Can I eat cheese?

  Honey from bees?

  How ‘bout some fish?

  It’s so delish.

  Ding Dong

  Ding Dong

  Asking all day long

  With joyful ring

  All questioning

  One seems to hear

  Don’t drink a beer

  Even a sip

  Can’t pass my lip?

  Oh, how about flicks?

  With scary chicks?

  I love getting my fill

  Of watching KILL BILL

  Eat meat that’s horse?

  Have intercourse?

  Color my doo?

  Wax my hoo-hoo?

  If it ta-a-ay-stes good, you probably shouldn’t eat it

  If it fe-e-e-els good, you probably shouldn’t do it

  On on they ask

  On without end

  Same list they drone

  Here or the phone

  (SLOWLY)

  Ding Dong Ding . . .

  DONG!

  (Sung to “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch”)

  For my job, I’ve spent many, many hours speaking to multiple insurance representatives. My frustration gave birth to this song. I and two office mates sang this little ditty at one of our Christmas parties.