Mishmash of Me

by Jeanne Lee

  I think the next time I want to break up with someone, I’ll just bring out one of those vials, hold it in front of me and calmly say, “Look, it’s been great, but it’s time for you to leave; we’re done.” Then I will look at the miniscule stink bomb, go to open it, and he’ll run for the hills.

  Either that or I could sell it as a crow deterrent and make a million dollars.

  I love America.

  Okay, I got that out of the way. While I’m proud to be an American, I’ve always sort of hated the Fourth of July holiday. Please don’t get me wrong; I’m a fan of barbeques, family, picnics, even little sparklers … but the fireworks. Fuggetaboutit. Even when I was young and flexible and way more social, my idea of fun was not to get in the middle of a huge, drunk crowd, sit in the wet grass and listen to super loud bangs and crashes. Or the more terrifying premise—get on top of someone’s roof, hold on for dear life, and pray to the God of gravity to please let me stay put and not topple to my rocket-man death.

  The visual of the displays are nice. Kind of nice. Boring nice. Sometimes there’s some artistry, but mostly I know what’s happening, what’s going to happen, appreciate the builds, know that it took some thinkin’ to set the whole thing to “Louie, Louie” and “God Bless America.” I really can appreciate it all on a theatrical level (I guess) …but when did THAT presentation become synonymous with patriotism? Maybe fireworks do equal bravery, because I grew up in the Midwest in the 70’s and singed arms and blasted off fingers were part of the deal.

  Also, now that I’m older, the sheer costs of a city fireworks’ budget boggles my mind; I think that Seattle’s fireworks land somewhere in the half a million mark. A $500,000 dollar one-day event?! I really, really love that fireworks bring people together, but half a million dollars could go a long way to feeding some hungry people or helping the homeless shelters or giving some medical care to people in need. I think this makes me officially old and I need to start screaming “Get off my lawn” to the neighborhood kids, pronto.

  I’ve never found my way with the Fourth of July. This year, my kids will be with their dad. Maybe this year, I’ll try to do something brave. I’ve been thinking of putting on a swimsuit for the first time in a decade and swimming some laps at the public pool. Either that or watch Netflix all day, take a nap and NOT do housework … freedom baby.

  America rocks.

  A friend of mine worked on a Sylvester Stallone movie once; when I asked if he had met or talked with the actor, he responded, “Oh, no, no, no … Mr. Stallone walked through us as if we didn’t exist, as if he had horse blinders on and could only see a tiny tunnel in front of him where he made his escapes.”

  I think this is why my boys don’t pick up after themselves; I think they just don’t see it. The mess is invisible; they have some blinders that help them not see the soda can on the computer table, the shoes in the middle of the floor or the hoodies that are strewn everywhere.

  Either that or they don’t care.

  My mom asked my dad how long it would take before he would notice and start cleaning more. His response was, “I think if things started smelling, I would notice.”

  Okay then.

  1.  There is an endless supply of ibuprofen and chocolate.

  2.  You get to overhear things like “No, no, sir, sir … your wife has to pee on the stick,” and, “If I watch scary movies, will it scare my unborn child?”

  3.  Seeing six-week-old babies at their mommies’ check-ups—babies give me hope.

  4.  Most of our patients are pretty excited and happy.

  5.  It’s actually a privilege to be involved in such an exciting time for people.

  6.  Working with women is fantastic.

  7.  I occasionally find ways to write, sing, plan, create—and I’m grateful.

  8.  I just saw a little 2-year-old (almost 3) red-headed girl in the lobby with flames on her rubber boots who told me that her birthday was going to “have lots.” She then smiled, stuck her thumb in her mouth and started twirling her hair.

  9.  A few times a day, I am lucky to have people in my office stop by, pull up a chair and share a story or two—which is all kinds of awesome.

  10. I work in downtown Seattle, and it makes me feel more involved in life (even though I make a beeline for my heating pad and chair most nights).

  (For 2 Co-workers leaving, 1 to another OB/GYN

  clinic and another to start a dog-sitting service)

  Saying Good-Bye is hard to do

  Its fills us with angst; we feel like poo

  We wish you well ‘cause that’s what grown-ups do

  But inside, again, we feel like poo

  Sorry for the weird image

  But honestly though

  With babies and dogs

  Where was this supposed to go?

  Okay, let’s try this again

  Try a new flow

  Unicorns, glitter

  And beautiful rainbows

  Oh, and this is perfect

  ‘Cause unicorns don’t poo

  Well …

  I guess they do

  But it still kind of fits

  They’re lovely, sparkl-ee, unicorn gifts.

  Why do all these marriages and even long-term relationships go awry? Well, the grass is always greener, isn’t it? Not. Every relationship, every friendship, every acquaintanceship comes with all levels of weirdness and compromise. When you “pick” someone, will there be others that will enter your life where you will feel an attraction, a pull, a sparkle? YES, yes, a thousand times yes … but specifically when you’re married, you already picked, for goodness sake. You picked knowing that throughout the years you would run across people in your life that you would find awesome because there are billions of people in the world and the chances are about 1000% that it will happen.

  However, marriage is about picking a partner to go through life with; someone that is beyond the attraction. You picked someone you enjoy spending loads of time with, day-in-and-day-out, someone whose faults are workable, whose sense of humor gels with yours, someone you can talk to about anything, and that you picked, for the love of Pete. There really are a kabillion people to be attracted to and very few people that you—beyond the attraction—can stomach for the rest of your life. Choose carefully. The decision is mighty. And if you simply can’t pick, don’t. Don’t get married. Just don’t do it. It’s okay.

  Nobody says you have to get married, and if statistics are an indicator, about 50% shouldn’t get married anyway. The problem is the fairy tale. In books, in movies, in plays, the prince and princess get together and live happily ever after. Bella and Edward choose each other for eternity … ETERNITY. That is hella long. And, we’re supposed to believe it was meant to be, in the stars, bigger than both of them. Please. We buy it hook, line and sinker because we really, really want to buy it. I want the brownies, the ice cream, the chocolate sauce, whipped cream and the sprinkles please. No, I don’t care if it’s bad for me; it’s what I want.

  I’d like to see the play or movie after the Prince and Cinderella have been married for about 10 years …the insane in-laws, kids screaming and moaning and rolling their eyes, the Prince spending too many hours at work in the castle, Cinders trying to get her singing career off the ground … but, maybe those two crazy kids make it. The chances are about 50/50.

  Buzzy Lil Bee: Bzzz, bzzz …

  Me: Hey, Bumble … get outta my car, little dude.

  BB: Bzzz, bzzz …

  Me: Really? All the windows are open; go for it!

  BB: Bzzz, bzzz … (throwing himself against the back window and plopping down on the backrest).

  Me: Hey, I’m okay to wait, but seriously, if my boy comes out and you’re still in here, I can not guarantee your safety.

  BB: (continues whacking his whole being against the back window and stunning himself, over and over again) Bzzz …ow, ow … bzzzzz … …ow, ow …

  Me: Okay, just FYI, you have ab
out 15 minutes and the Terminator is coming out; he tends to freak out and smash bugs … it’s his “thing” … much like Arnold, he is hard to stop …” Come with me if you want to liiivvveee” …

  BB: (takes an abrupt right and flies out the open window and up, up, up into the sky).

  Me: Well, done, Buzzy …well done. “Hasta la vista, BB!”

  So, a few years ago, I had a new toilet put in my bathroom in the basement and the young man who put it in was very excited about my choice. It was a TOTO toilet, and he went on and on about how wonderful, innovative, something-something about flushing and capacities, but it was kind of weird how into it he was. He had a passion for this toilet. I could only think of Dorothy’s dog.

  Cut to last week, and I’m explaining how insurance works to one of our patients at my job. The patient got confused (because insurance is baffling), and she very sweetly asked me to explain deductibles and coinsurances to her. I felt myself get excited. “Oh, sure, I’m HAPPY to explain this to you …” Wait, what? WHAT? I felt myself get all revved up to share my knowledge … of how insurance works. Insurance. Me. OH, MY GAWD, I’ve become the toilet man. Insurance is my TOTO toilet and I am the toilet man.

  There’s no place like home; there’s no place like home.

  I like and appreciate my job tremendously, but I decided I needed a creative project, stat.

  Between the heat over the last few days and the neighborhood crows outside my bedroom window (who get up every morning at the crack of dawn and start going batsh@t crazypants—to the point where this morning I thought, “For the love of Pete, is there a dead body out there?”), I am not functioning well. Today I got out of the shower without rinsing the shampoo off my head. I was drying my hair off with a towel and thinking, “Why is my hair so slimy?” when I realized what was happening. I am dubbing it “Crow Hair.” Crow Hair is a middle-aged “doo” that is sweeping the nation.

  Have you seen those movies portraying the New York Stock Exchange? Men in starched white shirts, narrow ties and horn-rimmed glasses, all screaming into phones and at each other, arms flailing, spit flying and that one vein pulsing in their temples, ready to burst …yes, well, that’s my brain. Except I would probably add that the overhead lighting is on a dimmer switch and dialed down so everything is just a tiny bit shadow-y and we may be on a boat that’s rocking back and forth, so nausea is imminent.

  This is not my brain all the time, but enough that I must be a prime candidate for therapy. Or meditation. Or medication. My need for control over things in my life that I can not control is immense. How do normal people cope? If someone wrote down how to do it, I would buy that book. And by “it,” I guess I mean life. I tend to feel constantly behind or like I’ve missed an important task. My reoccurring dreams used to be about flying (and they were freakin’ awesome), but nowadays I’m running up and down stairs trying to find the room I’m supposed to be in, and the rooms and subjects move and change all the time. I’m not naked, but I’m nervous, unsure, and out-of-breath.

  How does one quiet the brain’s thoughts and relax? Well, I was immersed in the acting world for a sizable chunk of my life, so, I can “check in” to my body, do breathing exercises, do visualizations about pouring warm, healing white light that goes from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I’ve balanced my chakras, aligned my crystals, smelled my aromatherapy, but my brain is still like a hamster endlessly running on one of those wheelie things.

  It’s more of an intention thing. My intentions are strong. It’s that trap of being a “good girl.” I want everybody to be happy, and for everything to move forward correctly. Whenever I had a group task in school, I would do almost everything. (I was very popular in group work.) Theatre blew my mind, or at least it did when it was good. The collaborative nature of a director, producer, fellow actors, costumers, make-up artists, scenery and lighting, all giving and taking with ideas in a positive nature, all feeding a vision … well, that really is my nirvana.

  Maybe that’s the new approach. I am the director of my brain (life). I will collaborate, try new things, tweak, and take some meetings. It’s really the relaxing part that’s hard; it’s the letting go of some of the control part that’s devastatingly difficult. Maybe it’s time to call in the experts, my creative team. Massage, change the diet, read a book, take a walk …and breathe. I’m going to loosen my tie, take off those horn-rimmed babies and attempt the impossible. I’m gonna let some of this shit go.

  I’m an adult …

  No longer a pup.

  I’m an adult.

  (slight chin nod)

  S’up?

  I got people counting on me,

  Paying my bills and shit …

  Might need to buy a house …

  My job, I can never quit.

  It’s a tornado of responsibility

  Swirling around my head.

  Emergency warning system …

  “EH, EH, EH, EH …”

  It’s on—you heard what I said.

  Daily aches and pains

  Throw me for a loop.

  I’m surrounded by

  My lovely spouse

  And constant baby poop.

  No one told me that once you hop on

  This treadmill we call life

  The incline just keeps ramping up

  Just keep going (sigh).

  Sure, there’s good things,

  Wisdom …

  WHAT.EVER.

  Partying all night …

  Ummmm, NEVER.

  But you get to know YOU

  In a kinder, deeper way

  Less Barbie doll aspirations

  More like Tina Fey.

  You appreciate the moments

  Your family and your peeps.

  The love is getting clearer

  You feel gratitude in heaps.

  Except for the creaks and the pops

  And less giddyap in your hitch

  A few more doctor visits

  And gravity is a bitch.

  The road you didn’t take

  May Haunt you, Haunt you, HAUNT YOU

  But this is where you are

  … Eat some fondue.

  Enjoy the occasional respect

  That sometimes feels deserved.

  You’re not getting older

  You’re just, ummm … well-preserved.

  You’re an adult

  No longer a pup

  You’re an adult

  S’up.

  How does one go about dealing with “it”? Loneliness, the big, zitty, gi-normous pink elephant in the room. Well, one could get a hobby, join a club, take a class. I always felt good when I was working on a theatre piece. It’s a community of people all working towards a goal. I think theatre saved me as a young person and I suspect it would save me again if I could muster up the energy to get involved again.

  I’m stalling because of back pain and knee issues, but it might go beyond those excuses. It might be because I no longer feel viable, which is ridiculous on so many levels. Sure, I’m no spring chicken, but the theatre supposedly caters to all shapes, sizes, ages, and on and on …and it’s certainly still well within my wheelhouse.

  IT catches you by surprise though. You get busy with your life, your kids, your parents. Then your kids leave, your parents pass away, and work is work is work …and there you are.

  Loneliness feels like someone is having a proper vacuum—in your heart.

  It surrounds you like a dirty blanket.

  Stinky and gross.

  For a short time (about a year) after my divorce, I took meds. I love that the PA who helped me made sure I understood that they were not happy pills. Wow, he was not kidding. I would call them numbing pills. I just didn’t care too much—about anything. Sure, it made some things easier, and I stopped sleeping so much, but my emotional life was gone, girl, gone. Finally, as I mentioned before, my sweet neighbor of 20 years, Helen, died. Helen was 80 plus years old, spunky, arty and amazing). When she died, I didn
’t even cry. I went to her funeral and it barely registered. I got off the pills right after that business. I figured I’d rather feel all the emotions than none of them. This decision has worked out okay.

  I just get lonely sometimes, but that’s different. I no longer feel like I’m immersed in quicksand, trapped in an overcrowded elevator, dipped in a vat of pudding. I can breathe. I can move. I can think. And, I know that there is NO SHAME in getting help. Medication is not evil; I mean, we’re lucky if we don’t have to rely on it, but if you need it, it’s there and that’s such a wonderful thing.

  Working for years at an OB/GYN office is note-worthy.

  First of all, we are a mighty tribe of women. Oh, sure, occasionally a male employee has been sprinkled in the bowl like a pinch of sugar or salt in a recipe that is supposed to be good for you … like a zucchini muffin. They just didn’t fit in the list of ingredients. The staff appreciated their male energy, but the patients were torn. I sat next to a young man for a while and he would turn to me and say things like, “Can you talk to this gal? She’s having some kind of colored discharge and does NOT want to talk to a dude.”

  Most of the time, ibuprofen and chocolate are readily available. This just seems like a good way to live. We are all hard working and want what’s best for our patients, but some of them are kooky-pants and chocolate helps. I’ve heard from other people that an office full of women sounds like a disaster, that we are all probably gossiping, backstabbing, and being generally catty with each other. Not true. Naivety is my middle name. So, I’m sure a little of that goes on, but overall, these women are stellar. Oh, sure, there was that one gal who laughed maniacally when I fell down on my face one day, full splat, and I was convinced that she might actually be clinically insane … but she didn’t last too long. Let’s be honest, there’s always at least one person in any office who needs a padded room and a straightjacket.