Mishmash of Me

by Jeanne Lee

  ALL:

  You’re a mean one

  Mr. Insurance,

  SINGER ONE:

  You’re the gum on the bottom of my shoe

  SINGER TWO:

  I try to scrape you off,

  SINGER THREE:

  But it’s worse that doggy doo

  ALL:

  Mr. Insurance!

  SINGER FOUR:

  You know when you pop a zit and

  that “stuff” comes out?

  Well …you’re that icky, sticky goo!

  SINGER ONE:

  You’re a monster

  Mr. Aetna,

  Your recording’s really rough

  You ask the same damn questions

  And your musAKS super tough

  Mr. Aetna,

  I wouldn’t touch you

  Even If I was drunk and

  You were very, very, very, very, very buff.

  SINGER TWO:

  You’re a vile one

  Mr. Premera,

  You just won’t let me thru

  I punch all the stupid numbers

  That you spew for me to do,

  Mr. Premera,

  Given the choice between

  Spending time with you or my ex-boyfriend

  (pause, considers)

  I’d probably HAVE to still pick YOU

  SINGER THREE:

  You’re a foul one,

  Mr. Cigna,

  You’re a nasty, blasting skunk

  If my patient needs to breast pump

  Explaining that is Bunk,

  Mr. Cigna,

  You see … SHE HAS A BABY

  And it needs MILK, you rotten roasted rump

  (Aside to each other: I mean, why else

  would she want one of those things?? I

  don’t get it. Me neither. Ridiculous.)

  SINGER FOUR:

  You’re a rotter,

  Mr. Medicaid,

  You’re the king of being on hold

  I’ve spent hours multi-tasking

  With the same 9 measures blasting

  Mr. Medicaid,

  I mean …that’s a really long time to wait

  I feel like I’m on a blind date

  Staring at my plate, wishing I were in Kuwait

  (Someone: Hey, here’s a joke … How is a

  hospital gown like insurance? How? You’re

  never covered as much as you think you are!)

  SHARED:

  You nauseate me,

  Mr. Regence,

  You have a deny, deny degree

  If I’m bleeding through my hooha

  Approve my

  Hysterectomy

  Mr. Regence,

  If you were bleeding through your pee-pee

  It would be covered IMMEDIATELY, in seconds,

  One,

  Two,

  Three …

  You’re a mean one,

  Mean one,

  Mean one . . .

  Mr. Insurance!!!!

  My background is that of a mutt. I am a true mix, Irish, Hungarian, French, German …but mostly Irish. My grandmother, Catherine Hickey, came through Ellis Island at 18 years of age, worked as a cleaning lady and brought many of her family members to the great U.S. of A. She was a tough cookie; my mother said she gave me her name as a middle name to pass on her strength and perseverance.

  I loved my Nana. When she found out that I had scoliosis and had to wear a back brace, she wanted to send me to Lourdes to be healed in the holy fountain, but my parents nixed that idea quickly. (Boo!) My mother squashed that offer by whispering, “Do you have any idea the bacteria and germs in that cesspool from all the sick people taking a dip?”

  Nana also had a little white poodle named Craig (nice Irish name). She taught Craig to grab his eating dish from the kitchen in his little mouth and bring it out to the dinner table at mealtimes—adorable. He also perched on his pillow and watched TV with my Nana. I thought they made such a perfect pair. Then, one cold, winter day while visiting one of her children, the snow made it virtually impossible for her to make it home to Craig. The roads were impassable, and this 85-year-old, sweet woman looked at my auntie and mumbled, “Well, better him than me.” WHAT? She was a survivor extraordinaire.

  I need to go to Ireland someday; I need to feel the air and get in touch with the places my aunties and uncles and cousins lived their lives. My dad actually spent many summers with one aunt in Ireland, and some of his stories are wonderful. He went horseback riding (I’m not the horsie girl, but this seemed quaint), and he experienced the lush landscapes and history. I love the little stuff too. For instance, when he was just a young man, a teen-ager I believe, he insisted that he be able to brush his teeth each night. Everyone on the farm laughed and teased him (and as my dad tells the story, they were laughing so he could see their brown, rotting teeth!). He also refused to drink the milk that was not pasteurized (straight from the cows). He was also ridiculed until a few people in town died from T.B. The few black and white pictures I’ve seen of my dad in Ireland show him walking through the landscape, among the trees and forests, in a very “Quiet Man-esque,” very “Far and Away-ish” Irish movie manner. Must go.

  I don’t really have a strong connection to my past or a sense of my ancestry, but pictures of Ireland, real and imagined, are calming, romantic, sweeping. I’m sure the reality would be much dustier and grimier (I’ll bring wipes and Purell), but I’m still excited about going there someday. ERIN GO BRAUGH!

  I was lucky on the Grandma front. I had my feisty, amazing New York Nana on my Dad’s side of the family, and I had my Grandma Mercedes on my Mom’s side of the family. Mercedes lived in Swissville, Pennsylvania and we got to visit her frequently when I was younger. She lived on Cannon Street and her neighborhood was very hilly and sparkly. What I mean by sparkly is, well, it was the sidewalks—they sparkled and glittered in the sunlight, which I loved as a child. Later I found out that the steel mills spewed out debris into the air and I guess I was enamored with pollution. That’s right. Silver dirt. All that glitters is not gold; sometimes it’s metal fragments floating through the air that you breathe into your lungs and that aren’t carcinogenic at all.

  Grandma’s house was on a block where the houses were so close together, you could reach out and touch your neighbor’s window. And inside her house! My Papap covered the walls and ceilings with a light tan patterned linoleum to hide the plaster. It was like the floor was freakin’ everywhere and if you happened to have some special magnets in your shoes you could walk up the wall and go tap dancing on the ceiling. Shuffle-ball-change! My brother and I would go up their not-up-to-code-at-all, super-steep, creaky stairs to the second floor, go into Grandma’s bedroom, open what looked like a closet door, and climb up even more creaky stairs into the attic where there were two twin beds. It was usually terrifyingly hot up there and fueled all my “secret attic” fantasies for years.

  Grandmother Mercedes, who most family called “Ced,” gave the best, softest hugs; she was soft all over and wore big flowered, drape-y housecoats, little glasses, and had cute pin curls on her head. I loved watching my mom and her in front of the vanity; mom would take out Mercedes’ pin curls and brush and poof them up while they talked and laughed. They had their own special flow and it was sweet. I remember that she called me “Jeanne-Beanie” and “cookie.” I also remember that Grandma had a beautiful crystal jar on top of her hutch full of colorful M&Ms; all we had to do was stand and point and down the jar would come and we would stick our little hands in for a scoop. Grandma and candy; life was good.

  When I was a bit older, in high school, I was offered a special trip. Do you want to spend a week at Grandma’s? Yes! A week of all the junk food and freedom I could muster? Sure. One morning in her little red kitchen with the red plastic, poofy chairs and the radio playing softly, she said, “Jeanne, could you please wash the dishes?”

  “Sure, Grandma!” I went to the sink and there was one lone juice glass. (You knew it w
as a juice glass because it had little oranges painted on it.)

  “Oh, and make sure you use an SOS pad.”

  I was going to argue. Why an SOS pad? Weird, but okay. I reached below and brought up a box of SOS pads and inside the box was a small velvet box. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Open it; it’s for you!”

  I lifted the lid and there was a pair of pearl and diamond earrings inside. Grandma Mercedes said, “I wanted to be the one to give you your first diamonds!”

  Grandma’s neighbors kept up with her for decades. Whenever we visited, neighbors would come up to the porch and chat for a while; they would come inside and sit a spell; they were always a part of her day. My mom called Grandma, “The Queen of Cannon Street,” and I suspect the neighbors did more for Grandma than I was able to understand at such a young age. When she was in her eighties, my mom brought her out to Seattle; she needed more help than the neighbors could handle. She got Mercedes an apartment about a block from her condominium and took care of her. I tried to visit often, and I remember being super pregnant and taking naps on her bed.

  Once I helped her get into a taxi for a doctor’s appointment and waited until she returned. She was giggling. “I fooled him!”

  “Who, who did you fool, Grandma?”

  “Well, the taxi driver; he was going on and on about Mount Rainier.”

  Huh? “I don’t get it, Grandma; what’s so funny?”

  “Well, I can’t see anything, but I told him it was so pretty today …and he bought it!” Little victories.

  Near the end, we had to get her in a home; she was getting lost going down the hall to get her mail and her stove was left on several times. She just couldn’t remember things. I think she only truly remembered my mom. She called her “Sis” and they were very close. I’d listen to them talk about the family and memories and it felt like a privilege.

  One of my favorite memories happened when I got married in 1987; Grandmother Mercedes flew out to Seattle from across the country; it was a big deal. After the wedding and the buffet, someone came up to me. “Hey, your Grandma said to find her before you leave; she has something she wants to tell you.” Of course, I was never going to leave without giving her a hug, but now I was curious.

  I found her and sat down next to her. “Hi, Grandma, we’re going to leave soon, but I’m so happy you could be here!” She just looked at me. “Was there something you needed? Is everything okay?”

  Very slowly and purposefully, she offered this sage advice: “Don’t. Take. Nothing.” After a bit of a pause, she smiled. “That was it; just don’t take nothing!”

  You know, she was one smart cookie.

  You know what I hate? I hate when people continuously throughout the work week say the following phrase, “I can’t wait until Friday.” Or any of the many variations, such as, “Man, Friday cannot come fast enough; is it ever gonna be Friday; I would watch an episode of Jersey Shores if it would magically be Friday.” Grrrr.

  Please don’t get me wrong; I understand the allure of the weekend; I do; the weekend rocks, rocks like a hurricane. Not fulfilling dreams is also a completely relatable concept and I totally get it; I am so not working in a place I ever pictured myself in any way, shape or form. Do I wish I were paid more? In a different position? Could get a nap? Vacation in the Bahamas? Vacation anywhere? Sure. Yes. Most definitely.

  Am I ever struck with “what the hell am I doing with my life?” All the time. Nevertheless, I don’t want to wish my days away. Not ever. I may be tired, bored, sad, mad, indifferent, struggling, but I still want to have fun, stay positive, and enjoy the moments. Maybe on Monday it’s sunny outside, or on Tuesday, someone I see in the elevator strikes up an interesting conversation, or a co-worker shares a joke on a Wednesday. I really can’t figure out why this “Friday-itis” bugs me so much, and I also can’t think of a great reply that doesn’t sound condescending or mean. “Well, this Thursday is pretty awesome to me, dip wad” or “Shut up and smile, freakoid, you’re not in Iraq.” Actually, I think these internal outbursts just showcase that I may have some other issues …

  I went outside today on my lunch hour and saw a mother walking hand-in-hand with her sweet, little girl who was all bundled up in a pretty pink parka, the kind with the fake fur around the hood and face. She was deliriously happy, smiling from ear to ear. DELIRIOUSLY. This little one was so stinking happy to be holding her mum’s hand and walking outside. Every step was pure delight. When do we lose that ability to have such complete joy? Pink Parka Joy. Pink-y, bubblegum-y, what-the-world-needs now, joy.

  I want it.

  (One of my doctors that I worked for was

  having her second little girl; so, I wrote

  a little poem for her baby shower.)

  Two little pumpkins—

  I wonder what you’ll call them …

  Thelma and Louise?

  Macaroni and Cheese?

  They’ll laugh and smile and dream;

  Your little duo—

  Strawberries and cream …

  Or like Yogi the Bear and his friend, Boo Boo

  The mischief they will probably Do Do—

  Best buddies every day

  Like Amy Poehler and Tina Fey!

  I’m so excited!

  Can’t you tell-y?

  To meet your

  Little Peanut Butter and Jelly!

  There was a time that I thought Oprah was freakin’ a-m-a-z-i-n-g. Then it was fashionable and pretty easy to make fun of her (new-age-y Oprah was just a hoot). Now, I guess I’m back to thinking she’s amazing but in a totally different way. She has so much power. It’s mind-boggling.

  The unauthorized biography by Kitty Kelly pretty much boils down to these four points: Oprah is driven, ambitious, shops a lot, and lies about her past. Well, ummm, duh … She wouldn’t be the goddess she thinks she is without a lot of energy and gumption. And, shopping? Let’s see … large, obscene amounts of money that most of us won’t see in a thousand lifetimes. If anyone had that amount of money, I believe that shopping would be occurring.

  Some of the stories Miz Kitty reported on, though, the opulence, the extravagance, are completely out of control. I mean, you worked hard for the money, but dear, dear Oprah, it’s super hard to take the “everywoman” status seriously when the amount you spend on your parties could feed third world countries for years. And, lies? Well, we all have skeletons in our closet; so, she did drugs … yep, check-a-rooney on that one; she had a baby at an early age that was conceived within her friends-and-family circle. Well, that one is just sad. After reading this book, my opinion is the same as it was before; Oprah is a shining dork to me. She spews “spiritualisms” that I was aware of and felt strongly about in my twenties, and she acts like she’s the only person who “gets it.” Honestly, what rational, adult person thinks that they know everything? Well, perhaps someone who’s been in the public eye for decades and has people telling her left and right that she walks on water. That’s who. Oprah doesn’t have a clue. She is full of herself because she doesn’t have anyone to tell her to cut the crap.

  But, I still admire her. She is a powerful, rich woman who shares her wealth with others, and is at least is striving for enlightenment along with all her dough …I am still a fan. Maybe a fan-wannabe at this point, but I am still a fan.

  (The pews are full … full front staging.)

  (One late comer-slips in and stands by his friend.)

  Friend1: Why are you so late?

  Friend2: Oh, man … it’s Barbara; we were arguing …man, she is such a …c-word.

  Friend1: (pause) c-word?

  Friend2: Yeah …the freaking c-word.

  (Pause)

  Congregation: And also with you. (Everyone sits)

  Friend1: You had an argument with Barb and she’s … a …cutie pie?

  Friend2: Wow. No. The “c-word” …

  Friend1: (thinking) Crazy?

  Friend2: What’s wrong with you?

  Congregat
ion: (Everyone genuflects) Amen.

  (Everyone stands again.)

  Friend1: Oooooh, I know …geez, of course, my bad …she’s a cun …ning gal, very cunning …you know, she IS very cunning …I bet that’s very hard to deal with dude.

  Congregation: Peace be with you, peace be with you …(everyone is shaking hands).

  Friend2: (whispers) You are such a b.

  Friend1: Heeeeey, we are in the house of the LORD.

  (Pause)

  Friend2: You don’t know the b-word either; do you?

  Friend1: Yes, I do.

  (Baskets are passed to collect “donations”)

  Friend1: Bossy?

  Friend2: No.

  Friend1: Bratty?

  Friend2: No.

  Friend1: Beguiling??

  Friend 2: Jesus! No …

  Friend1: (quietly) We are in the house of the Lord.

  Friend2: I hate you; why are we friends?

  Friend1: Cause I’m (pause) the n-word?

  Friend2: (Cautiously looks around) Say what?

  Friend1: You heard me! You like me ‘cause I am the n-word.

  Friend2: Wow. You mean nice, right?

  Friend1: Well …yeah … (of course)

  Friend2: Once again, why are we friends?

  Friend1: I’m getting so tired of you saying that over and over; you are such an ASSHOLE!

  (Everyone freezes; no movement.)

  Friend1: Oh, I am so sorry (turns around to others), sorry, sorry, really.

  (Pause)

  Friend2: I am gonna pray for you, son.

  Everyone: Amen.

  My oldest son (who is a young man now) has Asperger’s Syndrome (which is under the umbrella of autism). His name is Zach and he is a charming, funny, smart guy, but he didn’t really start talking until he was almost four years old. What he did do occasionally was to “plug in” things he heard on television or videos into everyday conversation. They didn’t always make a ton of sense. For instance, he memorized all the 1-800 numbers he saw and when someone spoke with him, he would respond with a psychic hotline number! My favorite substitution occurred when he came home from preschool one day. He exited the bus and walked around to the back of the bus, staring at it as it drove off. He was so agitated and upset. He kept saying, “Forty-one, forty-one, forty-one” over and over again. It dawned on me that Zach was saying the number on the bus. Then, I really got it. He kept coming home on a different bus each day, and when the numbers changed, it disturbed him.