Mishmash of Me

by Jeanne Lee

  So, I sat him down, and calmly spoke. “So, sometimes the number changes; sometimes it’s a 41; sometimes it’s not; sometimes it’s an 89; sometimes it’s not; sometimes it’s a 23, sometimes it’s not. Do you understand?” Well, he looked at me with his big, soulful eyes, thought about it and said, “Sometimes you feel like a nut; sometimes you don’t?”

  Perfect.

  I am a card-carrying member of Dork-ville. Seriously, my guffaws and social ineptness still surprise me at this point in life, but it’s probably just genetic—like brown hair or an innie or outie belly button. Anyhoo, I decided that in the middle of the week, I was going to see a movie (I am a rebel). Before the movie started, I took a little side trip to the bathroom, and proceeded to get locked in. Really? REALLY?!! Damn it. Yep, I was trapped.

  So, gently but firmly, I started banging different parts of the door, and then …I started freaking out in my banging. It was at this point when I suddenly realized that someone else was in this small room. Oops. What must that be like? It seems like the perfect horror movie set-up. “Bang, bang, CRASH!!” and some horrifying alien creature exits the stall, screams and drools profusely, spits, and gnashes its teeth while the townsfolk (or bathroom ladies) run in terror.

  So, I tentatively called out, “Ummm, don’t worry about all the banging. I just, uh, well, kind of locked myself in somehow, and I’m just gonna keep banging on this lovely door until it works itself loose.” Well, this very kind woman (and a small child) ignored my directions and set about trying to help me. The whole thing probably lasted a single moment, but it felt like a very looooong time. The door finally flew open, and this sweet little girl (maybe 3 or 4 years old), looked up at me and gasped, “You’re beautiful.” (Dramatic pause.) “Mom, she looks like such a lady!”

  Well, go figure. This sweet little pumpkin changed my whole night …shoot, my week. Compliments are a smooth, warm, satisfying elixir, and free. That’s right; they cost n-o-t-h-i-n-g. So, belly up to the bar, the next round is on me. YOU ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL.

  (I really am a dork. You may bow or curtsy, kiss my ring and tremble. I will trip on my robe, try to catch my crown as it falls off, and then pretend like everything’s fine. Your majesty, the Queen …)

  About two months after my ex-husband left, and with some gentle nudging from my dear mom, I went to see my doctor regarding depression. I didn’t want to go, but I was spending a little too much time in my pajamas, napping (on the weekends), and I was blue quite often, crying and feeling badly. I know I’m blessed, no question, and going to the doctor felt shameful and wrong. However, I was losing some days and feeling like I was wading through Jell-O. It was very strange.

  So, under some duress, I saw the doctor. Of course, I didn’t get to see my actual doctor. I saw a new nurse practitioner, and I am not kidding, his name was … drum roll, please …Mr. Goodbody. He was one of the most amazing-looking men I’d seen in years. All I could think was “Don’t cry in front of the Adonis; don’t cry in front of the Adonis.” Goodbody said, in an incredibly sincere and kind voice, “So, you’ve been having some depression issues; what’s going on?”

  Cue the floodgates. I started crying, and not attractively. No, I was crying ugly, big tears, snot, heaves; it was b-a-d. Poor Mr. Goodbody, he looked a little shell-shocked. This was a deer-in-the-headlights kind of moment. He reached for the Kleenex box and immediately scrawled out a prescription. His parting words were “These are not happy pills, but they’ll help.”

  Actually, they did help, pretty quickly too, but I hated taking them. My dear, 88-year-old neighbor of almost 20 years, Helen, died soon after I got the prescription and I couldn’t cry. We were friends, talked every week, visited. She was a huge supporter of artists all over the Northwest region. She used to work at the University of Washington bookstore. Visual artists would come in without enough money to buy their tools, and Helen would trade. She would buy them their materials and they would give her a piece of art. She had amazing pictures all over her house …pictures that, after she died, went to a local museum. I can still see her in bed with her Jackie O glasses, smiling and refusing any help. She’d say, “No, I can’t accept your help, Jeanne. The second I do, they’re (her family) going to move me to a home, and I want to stay here.” I told her it would be our secret, but she was very independent and proud.

  Eventually, I decided that I would rather feel things. I could handle the grief and sadness and I would feel joy and triumph as well. God bless drugs because they got me over the hump of despair. We live in a culture where you are often judged for hopping to medications. However, I was in deep water, losing days, cheering up when the kids were around, but unable to focus and be productive when they weren’t present, and I needed help. So, God bless my mom for speaking up and getting me to a doctor because I know that not everyone has someone in their life to push them towards help. I am blessed and hope I can be here for my kiddos as well. Or anyone who needs me.

  Depression is not easy to identify. The guilt, shame and weirdness of the whole thing is overwhelming. How can could I be so unable to function when I know how lucky I am? Why can’t my intellect match my heart? Why does everything seem like it’s in slow motion? How can the room seem like it’s filled with water and I have to swim slowly to get to the other side? I was told I had “situational” depression and that some people feel like this all the time. All the time. I really can’t fathom it.

  It has made me more sensitive in dealing with the public. We can’t ever, ever know what people are going through or how they are dealing with their challenges. Mental health issues plus all the other garbage that life can throw at you deeply affects how you move through the world. Throw in depression or mania or other inexplicable maladies and nobody gets out unscathed.

  (At my OB/GYN Clinic)

  ‘Twas the night before Christmas,

  and all through the office

  Not a creature was stirring, not even Dr. Wafuss

  The pee cups were stacked in

  the bathrooms with care

  In the hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

  The office mates were nestled all snug in their beds,

  While visions of raises danced in their heads;

  And Dr. Mitt in her scrubs and

  Dr. Ridges in her OR cap

  Had just settled down …to do …

  one or two last minute paps

  When out on Anderson Street

  there arose such a clatter,

  They sprang from their speculums

  to see what was the matter.

  Away to the windows, they flew to the front lobby

  Tore open the really weird, vertical

  blinds …no prob-ee

  When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,

  But a miniature sleigh, and eight

  tiny female reindeer

  (Don’t ask me how I know, I just do),

  With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

  They knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

  More rapid than sugar-induced

  toddlers his coursers they came,

  And he whistled, and shouted,

  and called them by name;

  “Now, PELVIS! Now, CERVIX! Now,

  UTERUS and OVULATION!

  On, PLACENTA, on GLUCOLA! On

  VAGINA and MENSTRATION!

  To the top of the tower! To the sixteenth floor!

  Now hurry it up girls! All ashore

  who’s going ashore!”

  He was chubby and plump (needed

  to lay off the bread)

  But they laughed when they saw

  him (he was soo overfed),

  He spoke not a word, but went

  straight to a computer

  And gave everyone raises; enough for

  each to buy a new scooter …

  Then laying his finger aside of his nose

  And giving a nod, up the stairwell he goes

  He sprang to his sleigh, and they
all flew away

  Dr. Mitt and Dr. Ridges did not know what to say.

  But they heard him exclaim, as clear as a bell,

  HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL …

  AND DON’T FORGET TO PURELL!”

  One of my co-workers had a sad, sad story. To protect her identity, I need to change her name; let’s call her “Lovely” because, well, she was. Lovely, unfortunately, got herself caught up in a web of addiction the likes of which I hope never to witness again.

  Her pusher was a former co-worker, a medical assistant who should have known better. The two would meet in a parking lot at Safeway to make their exchanges. (I’ve since heard that this is a popular practice …to meet in grocery store parking lots to handle “business.” Really? Families buy food there; I don’t really want to see something illegal going down as I scurry in to buy my Lean Cuisines.) Anyway, it was all very shameful for Lovely and, of course, she got caught.

  Her boyfriend confronted her. Let’s call him, oh, “Fed Up.” Fed Up asked her the hard question; “Uhh, what do you need another $200 dollars for?”

  Lovely wanted to lie, but she told the truth. “I NEED my …COACH BAGS!”

  Fed Up: “Say, what?”

  Lovely shot back: “You heard me; I need my Coach bags …I need the blue one!”

  Fed Up: “Exactly how many bags do you have?”

  Lovely: “Well, I have 2 white bags, a brown one, a black one, a really cute, red one …and well, I don’t know …I need to have the blue one.”

  (Pause)

  Fed Up: “Get help.”

  Fed Up didn’t talk to Lovely for days, but she admitted to me, she still really, really wanted that blue bag.

  I am happy to report that Lovely did get that purse-itis monkey off her back …with a little help from her friends. Every time the pusher called for Lovely, our response was always the same. “Oh, yeah, she’s in the bathroom; we’ll tell her to call you back.” She was in the bathroom a lot. If her pusher really cared about Lovely, she would have suggested that she get some antibiotics for her obvious urinary tract infection, but she never did. Eventually, Miss Pushy-McPusher moved along to a new fashionista with confidence issues.

  Moral of the story: Purses are just receipt holders that we stick in drawers at work or throw on the floor at bars. Let’s save our money for the important things like retirement; those cabana boys like to be treated well.

  What is art? I know about The Art of Seduction, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, The Art Institute of Seattle—but what IS art? Defining it seems an impossible task. You can find “art” in every day, mundane things—the way someone has put together an outfit can strike me as artful. I saw a young man yesterday on a bicycle who was wearing a tight, dark military-ish coat, stark white pants, and an old-fashioned police cap; his bicycle had a multicolor frame, turquoise, orange and yellow; and, he was lost in his music, rhythmically bopping his head up and down like a metronome. It was artful. Maybe art is the clear expression from one person (or people) that is somehow shared with the world; sharing part of you—whether it’s tangible or non-tangible.

  I’ve always loved the theatre; from the moment I saw my first play, I was hooked. Then, being somewhat shy (yes, really), theatre reeled me in further as a way to connect with friends and the community. I always felt like the art of acting was an amazing way to tell stories, to tap into different parts of myself, to collaborate and serve the play and my director’s vision and to put my stamp on the whole shebang as well. Theatre equals magic to me and maybe that’s what art ultimately is …it may be different for each person on the planet, but the bottom line is—it’s magical.

  I like this quote, “Without art, the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable.” Thanks, Mr. George Bernard Shaw, because without a little magic, what exactly is the point?

  I can talk to my dad, no problem.

  All I have to do is feed him his cues like “Wow, my dentist bill was so expensive,” or “What’s your take on the campaign?” I could even throw in a “I’m not sure my doctor is listening to me.” It’s like flipping a “rant” switch. My pop (and I say this with a ton of love) is an extremely negative human being. Everything is pretty sucky according to him. Sure, he’s a true New Yorker, born and raised in da Bronx. Sure, he’s out of his comfort zone in the Great Northwest, but it’s more than that, I think. I think we’re wired to see the glass half-full or half-empty. Can we change it? I don’t know, but I lean towards no. It’s just part of who we are.

  My mom is the polar opposite of her Eeyore counterpart. She sees the good in just about everything. In my darker moments, I hear her soft voice saying, “It’ll all be fine; everything works out.” That’s her mantra, really. She’s comforted me with those words since I was a toddler.

  Other humans are harder for me. I’ve occasionally thought I must suffer from social anxiety, but how can that be? I actually like a lot of people; I think the world is endlessly fascinating, and I don’t like long periods of aloneness. But, I’ve always needed a structure for social time. Clubs, the theatre, jobs –all can work—sort of. However, invite me to a party or a bar for a drink and my tummy hurts. It feels, finally, okay to just know this about myself, and accept it. I did from time-to-time beat myself up for it when I was younger. The thing is though, as I get older, my energy and my mobility have dropped, which has led me to opt out of more and more structured stuff. This inertia has been kind of lonely. It must be a choice because at some point in life you get tired of being abandoned, which, as I type the words, sounds very pathetic, I know. Or at least I recognize that it’s definitely the path of least resistance and that’s just plain lazy.

  So, this is my yearly pep talk to myself. Time to channel my positive mum, step into some orthotic shoes and join a club.

  Oh, there are reasons (excuses) and valid ones (I guess), but the bottom line is dragging me down to a level in Dante’s Inferno that is full of brownies, cookies and Ben and Jerry’s. Or as I like to call them, my weekend buddies. This is not really true, but what is true is that with a half a thyroid, menopause kicking on my lady door and a sedentary lifestyle due to pain issues from two back surgeries, and an office job where I can literally feel my caboose expanding across my ergonomic chair, I find myself in a danger zone. Can’t move, can’t focus, wishing for a Milky Way bar …

  So, even though I know that diets don’t work, that I’m probably doomed to lose a bunch of weight and then gain it all back again—I still believe. I want to believe that if I commit for a few months, I’ll eat little meals throughout the day, have better portion control, and not want to eat a pie. If I do this for a few months, I’ll look sugar in the face and laugh … LAUGH , I SAY.

  So, I went on Marie Osmond’s Mid-Life Crisis Website and started picking food. Most of it seems edible, but sort of how I imagine army food to look. It’s only for a while; I can do anything for a while. But, somehow, when I got to the end, I couldn’t quite push the “go” button. My finger wouldn’t do it. So okay, I decided I would think about it and consider it and come back and try again. However, in the next few days, I received multiple emails, an actual phone call and even a “Nutrisystem Newsletter” regarding metabolism. That kind of hard sell freaks me out. If it works so well, you wouldn’t have to try so hard. Or maybe they just really cared.

  Yeah, I know. I’m still considering it. (excuses)

  Okay …all men are PIGS. Well, maybe that’s not completely fair. Okay, some of them are cute, little piglets, and some are great big, fat sows, but they are all pigs.

  Even my 14-year-old son is not immune. He said to me the other day, “Mom, I really like pretty girls!” So, I tried to be a good mom and I said, “Well, that’s great, honey, but it’s nice if they’re pretty on the inside as well as the outside.” He thought for a moment, then blurted out, “I just really like them pretty on the outside.” Yikes, stripes.

  I got divorced a while ago so I’m sure you could just dismiss me as a bitter gal, but I
’m not. Really. Getting divorced was the bestest, bestest thing that ever happened to me; I tend to be a non-confrontational, passive-aggressive, grow-tumors-rather-than-speak-my-mind sort of person, which doesn’t really work in relationships. I can see my follies. But, wow, I’ve lost my faith in men. If you make a commitment for life to partner and work through things, but then drop someone like a hot potato when something “better” comes along, what’s the point of marriage?

  My mom could tell I was down on men, so she suggested that I sit down and write a list of men I respect. They could be family members, friends, from history, from literature, even movie stars … any man. So, I got a pen and paper, sat down and thought. (Deep pondering.) Huh? Oh, come on! Hmmmm … damn it! I really couldn’t think of anyone …not one man. I just kept thinking that they had nefarious thoughts, probably treated the women in their lives like crap and kicked puppies. Well, this is stupid; I need one man, just one guy. And, then, it hit me. I knew a man I respected. MR. ROGERS, MR. FREAKIN’ FRED ROGERS. God bless America, I did think well of him. He had a commitment to children and his wife; he was kind and soft-spoken and wise.

  So, everything’s going to be okay. All men were not pigs or even piglets. There had to be some good ones in the world because Mr. Rogers existed and he was a true gentleman.

  Thanks, Fred.

  I was a fairly bright student, but only because I studied hard and worked at it. Thanks to the time I put into my schoolwork, I ended up in the National Honor Society for a few years, was an Illinois State scholar, and in the top 3% of my class upon graduation. I do not write this to brag. I write it because I understand why my parents would only let me go to college (and pay for it) if I went as a computer science major. Say what? Had they met me? I think they hoped I wanted to be a doctor or lawyer, but when that didn’t happen, they picked computers. This was a time before monitors and personal computers. In my classes that I ended up taking, we wrote and ran programs on punch cards, hundreds and hundreds of punch cards.