Sunday, October 21, 2012

Lemon Juice - Part One in a Trilogy of Uncomfortable Comedy


“...Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic.”  Carl Sagan



I have three stories that I'm itching to tell. The problem is, each has the potential to portray me in an unflattering light. They involve the following topics:

Lemon Juice 
Jazz
Hospital Beds 

They all involve men.
One involves three men.
One is embarrassing.
One is reckless.
The other is down right ridiculous.

Come to think of it, they are all embarrassing, reckless and ridiculous.

I have listed them in chronological order.

Lemon Juice took place during my late 20's.
Jazz took place last summer.
And Hospital Bed took place two weeks ago.

Before I can write a story, I tell it. Typically, I tell it more than once. My husband has heard them all a dozen or more times and, like Pavlov's dog, has learned to respond accordingly.

It's helpful to get an raw reaction. If the response is repulsive, I tone it down. If the story insights laughter at me, instead of with me, I turn it around. And if the story fails to hold the listeners attention, I let it go.

I want to tell these three stories without focusing on what you'll think of me. To accomplish this, I'm going to pretend that I'm writing fiction.




LEMON JUICE 

Part One in a Trilogy of Uncomfortable Comedy
By, Morah Murphy


To say I was insecure as a young woman is an understatement. My misconstrued mirror image confirmed that my thighs were fat. My hair was flat. I was cute, not pretty. I was witty, not smart. I had a tainted past, lacked a formal education, was not well traveled, and had no accolades I could boast about.

To counteract the compulsion of feeding my self loathing, I journaled. After purging my flaws and vowing to repent, I wrote poetry about lost love and short stories about the idiosyncrasies of a mundane existence. Writing was something I wanted to be good at and yet I lacked the desire to read or be taught. 

As a young child my mother bought the complete collection of Dr. Seuss books and I was not amused. In grade school, the only book I remember reading was Charlotte's Web. In 9th grade, we read Diary of Ann Frank, out loud, and in high school, my only required reading was Catcher in the Rye, which I never completed.  

When I moved into my first apartment I had a bookshelf in my living room and no books. Thanks to a classic novel offer from my fathers borrowed Mobil credit card, I ordered a collection of the classics that included Yeats, Faulkner, Hawthorne, Tolstoy and Twain. I never read more than a page or two, instead, I bent the binders back and forth, fanned through the chapters, and earmarked the tips of every 100 or so pages.

The books were more than decorative, I was convinced that by surround myself with the works of literary geniuses I could channel their talent. 

By the time I hit my late twenty's, my plan was to become a stay at home wife and a romance novelist. My journals revealed a deeper truth. What I wanted was to feel worthy of being loved.

I dated a lot and I wasn't picky. Everyone deserved a second glance. I had a rating system that I'd tally up on my fingers, sometimes being so bold as to jot it down on a bar napkin, in clear sight. Anyone still in a plus category after two drinks would be given my home phone number.

I was fraternizing with my best friend and coworker at our favorite haunt - the Georgetown Salon in Ridgefield, Connecticut, when a stout (-2) mousey looking man (-2) offered to buy me a drink (+1). And I accepted.

After 15 minutes, I discovered that he was British (-1), with terrible teeth (-5). He was well educated (+2) and gainfully employed (+2) as an advertising executive for J. Walter Thompson, in New York City (+4). His claim to fame was being the campaign director for French's mustard (+2). This included the wildly famous, Grey Poupon commercials (+6).

(a quick pause to watch this classic commercial is STRONGLY recommended)



"Perhaps you'd like to accompany me on a date," he asked. 
"But of course," I answered. 
And so our relationship began.

After a romantic dinner, we returned to his home - a renovated former grist mill nestled alongside the Connecticut river. After a tour of his well appointed abode, which included an extensive collection of water lily paintings and photographs, we retired to the living room where he lit a fire and poured from a bottle of what I was told was a rich, rare vintage, Russian River red that he had been saving for a special occasion.

With the fire now roaring and the bottle half empty, he clumsily steered me into his bedroom. As we rounded the corner of his four poster bed, my sweater caught the tip of a heart rimmed, rough-iron, closet door latch and it creaked open - revealing a well organized collection of women's clothing.

Cross-dresser I wondered?

The dresses were veiled in clear, dry cleaning plastic and the shoes, although primarily red, were somewhat sensible and looks two sizes too small for his burly feet.

In needed more proof. I turned towards a double wide dresser and, without asking, pulled opened the top drawer. It was filled with fine laced panties and padded bra's.

"Cross-dresser?" I questioned. This time, out loud.

"No, No, NO!" he defended.

He went on to explain the untimely death of his beloved wife. How she suffered. How he missed her. How he deliberately kept this from me in fear that I would pity him.

"How long has it been?" I asked.
"Two years," he sighed.

Quickly, I gathered my things and left vowing never to see him again.

In truth I was jealous. Sure she was dead, but I wanted a man to love me this way. To love me so much that even after two years, he couldn't bare to get rid of my things. That the mere mention of my name brought tears to his eyes. Still, always.

But he was persistent, professing that he was desperate to start over - to build a new life with a lovely, vibrant woman such as I.

To prove this to me, he would put his house on the market, and spend his time at a flat that he recently rented on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

After hearing this, I agreed to meet him for dinner, this time in the city. Afterwards I asked to see his "flat" and he was eager to show that.

It was your typical bachelor pad - sparse, disheveled, and colorless. The closet was filled with suits, ties and starched shirts. The drawers were packed with wrinkled undershirts, shorts, sweatpants and boxers.

Because I wanted love, not sex, and was convinced that, (based on his elfin sized fingers) his paunchy appearance was linked with a petite, gherkin sized penis, I declined his advances. And because I needed to be at work by 9:00 am, and my office was an 45 minute train ride away, I declined his offer to spend the night.

This became our pattern. His advances were met with resistance and like cinderella, I'd leave before the stroke of midnight.

Eventually, my curiosity got the best of me, and after an evening that included flaming shots of tequila and a dimly lit room, I agreed to share his bed.

He was clumsy and his charms were not captivating or climactic. From above, his strained face and passion swept hair reminded me of a troll. Once, in the middle of his hog huffing, I yawned.

I sought refuge in his shower before his buttocks hit the bed sheets. Twenty minutes later I was gone.

The following morning, tucked safely in my bed, I slept through the alarm and after a forty minute shower, two cups of coffee, and four Advil, I arrived at work an hour late and was greeted by a bright yellow note on my desk.

It was an urgent message from the Troll.  I balled up the note and tossed it into the waste paper basket. Less than 10 minutes later, he called again. I declined his call. Five minutes later, he called again, this time, demanding I speak to him.

Reluctantly, I took the call.

He was angry.

"What did you give me!" he spouted.
"Give you?" I asked.
"For Christ's sake women, what did you give me!" he screamed.

I was confused and he was panicked.

"My penis is covered in spots - RED SPOTS!" he roared.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I mumbled, trying my best not to laugh.

"I'm going to the emergency room, tell me what disease you gave me so they can treat me accordingly," he pleaded.

This troll had me seeing red.

"Gave you? Gave YOU! How dare YOU!" I screamed and hung up the phone.

My office consisted of twelve women, most of whom were married longer then I had been born. After hanging up the phone I turned to find all of them huddled behind me, eager to hear the catastrophe of a twenty something single.

They did their best to hide their disapproval behind palm covered, open mouthed gasps. All of them agreed that a trip to the gynecologist was in order and that I should waste no time getting there.

"I'll drive you," offered my coworker and confident, whom I was with the night I met the troll.

Instead of going to the gyno, we went to a local pub for a greasy cheeseburger and a beer or two. We returned tipsy about three hours later.

"He called again!" yelped a coworker.
"What did your doctor say?" asked another.
"It's too early to tell," I lied.

On their insistence, I returned his call. This time he was calm and down right sheepish.

"Oh my," he confessed, "I'm so sorry to have troubled you. This whole mess is rather embarrassing."

He went on to explain how he had grown accustom to my dismissal of his sexual advances. And because of this, he had taken the matter into his own hands - literally.

To get himself in the mood, he fixed himself a bloody mary, topped it off with a limp stalk of celery, three olives and a freshly squeezed lemon. Unfortunately, he forgot to wash his hands after squeezing his lemon and before stroking his gherkin and that, coupled with a lack of lubrication, caused an irritation.

"I truly am sorry," he professed.
Without speaking a word, I hung up the phone.

The following weekend, with the sting of the troll still weighing heavily on my mind, I returned to the Georgetown Salon with my coworker and confident - intent on line dancing my cares away.

There, at a corner table, beside a roaring fire, sat a refined looking redhead and... the troll.

"He wasted no time," said my friend.

Quickly, grabbed the hostesses attention, and quizzed her on the cozy couple.

"Oh that's Mr and Mrs. Turpin," she boasted. "They're regulars here."

"Turpin?" I questioned, "Not Thompson?" I asked.
"Yes, Turpin, I'm certain" she insisted.

I marched up to the bartender and demanded clarification.

"Do you know who that is sitting with Bill?" I asked.
"Bill who?" asked the bartender.
"Bill, Bill Thompson. The man I met here. The man in the corner, with that raunchy looking redhead."

The bartender stretched his head up high, opened his eyes wide, and question, "Do you mean Bob?"

"Bob?" I asked.
"Yes, Bob. Bob Turpin"
"His names not Bill Thompson?"
"No silly," laughed the bartender.

"Who's the women with him?"
"That's his wife."
"His wi-wife!" I stammered.

"Didn't he tell you he was married," roared the bartender.

All the information I needed about the troll could have easily been uncovered, and my embarrassment could have been averted, had I taken the time to quiz the friendly, open-eared, bartender.

Turns out the trolls wife wasn't dead, she was a public relations executive for Aerosmith and often accompanied them while on tour. She had just returned from a 6 month European tour with the band and they were celebrating their reunion with a romantic dinner.

I did what any foolish, scorned woman would do - sent them over two bloody mary's, rimmed in cayenne pepper and lemon, and called it a night.






Silly Morah. A monkey would never fall for a tale as convoluted as that!


or would she???


XO,MonkeyME



 All rights reserved by Shannon E. Kennedy 2012 

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

ME and Bobby V





This is NOT a post about baseball.
This is NOT a post about the Boston Red Sox.
This is a post about Bobby Valentine, 
the recently FIRED coach of the Boston Red Sox.


I am NOT a big Red Sox fan.
I am NOT a big baseball fan.

What I am is, NOT a Bobby Valentine fan.

It has NOTHING to do with his career as a baseball player, assistant coach, or his tumultuous first year as the Red Sox coach. It has nothing to do with his bravado, his inability to earn the respect of his players and assistant coaches, his lack of critical thinking skills, or his inability to multitask (cycle and text). This is STRICTLY personal. 

 photo courtesy of Getty

Monkeys are many things - mischievous, gregarious, entertaining, engaging, but what you may not know, is that monkeys have a memory far greater than that of an elephant. Especially, when it's a monkey scorned.

Back in the early 80's, I was hired by "Bobby V" to work at his sports bar in Stamford, Connecticut. I was, as I remember it, the first east coast female bartender. I didn't just tend bar, I made it an art form.  Mind you, this was way before the movie Cocktail. This was before it was acceptable or fashionable for a women to work behind the bar. Hell, women were barely allowed to stand at a bar, unattended by a man. That's how old I am.

As a bartender, I was fast. I was funny. I was strong. I was accurate. I could hold my own against obnoxious drunks.

My style was flamboyant. I exaggerated the grace of the pour. I didn't turn to get a bottle, I twirled towards it. I did a Charo, shoulder shimmy, shimmy, martini shake. I didn't do a lot of glass and bottle tossing (ask any bartender, the last thing you want is broken glass in an ice bin) but I did whip my hair back and forth A LOT. My performance was well received and applause was not uncommon. I did all this with small, unpadded breasts, and without being provocatively dressed.

Bobby sat at the far back corner of the bar for most of my shift. I could feel him watching me. Not in a creepy way, it was more like he was scouting for talent and I knew my skills stood out. I wasn't cocky, but I was confident.

I didn't have the luxury of a bar-back, so I lugged the cases of beer by myself. I lifted 35 (?) gallon tubs of ice to fill the bins. Once, my pristine white tretorn sneakers caught the tip of an uneven rubber floor mat and down I went. Quickly I rolled to my right side, grabbed the closest thing I could find - a freshly laundered stack of bar rags - and jumped back onto my feet. It was the only time I saw Bobby smile.

At the end of my shift he called me into his office.

"You were okay kid," he said, "but your shorts need to be shorter."

It's funny. I remember exactly what I wore that day, even the way I styled my hair. I remember the hush of the crowd when I fell. I remember snacking on onion rings, getting lime juice in my eye, as I quartered them. But I don't remember what was said after ..."your shorts need to be shorter."

Was I fired?
Did I quit?
All I know for certain is that this was my first and last day working for Bobby Valentine.

Due to my limited knowledge of his professional baseball career, I cannot, in all fairness, comment on his ability to lead his team. But what I can say is that as a boss, off the field, what Bobby lacked was depth, class and respect. And that is something I will never forget.


"He who wants a rose must respect the thorn." Persian Proverb


xoMonkeyME


photo courtesy of Getty







Monday, October 8, 2012

THANK YOU!



Photo courtesy of funnymonkeysite.com 

THANK YOU to everyone who emailed, Facebook messaged, and mailed letters to Dr. Andrew Salzberg, the plastic surgeon who had sliding scale prices for breast consultations.  

Breast Augmentation consultation.... $75.00 
Breast Reduction consultation.......... $75.00 
Cancer Patients in need of Breast Reconstruction........$739.00

Today I received an apology along with a statement saying I now have a zero balance.

YOU, you who reads, loves, accepts, applauds, hugs, and emotionally supports me, EMPOWERS ME!  Again and again, and again.

I would be a wee little wimp backed monkey if it were not for YOU.

We accept the love we believe we deserve. We all deserve pure, honest, unconditional love.

Big, Happy, Monkey LOVE and Gratitude to you! 
xoxoME










Wednesday, October 3, 2012

HOW TO SUPPORT AN INSECURE, CANCER SURVIVOR, WRITER



Now, you KNOW, I know the rules. And you KNOW, I don't want to get tossed out AGAIN. And yet, I'm on a PINK crusade.

So, on this first Wednesday in the month of October - otherwise known as BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH -  let me PINK out my fellow Insecure Writer's and ask for your support in my cause.

To begin with, anyone who is familiar with my writing knows I write non-fiction. Writing non-fiction leaves me, at times, feeling vulnerable especially when it comes to writing about my breast cancer.

I want to write about the realism of cancer without representing myself as a victim. I do not want breast cancer to define me.

My cancer diagnosis was coupled with the loss of my husbands job, and with it went our insurance, and the death of my father, whom I was very close too. Three big challenges, all in less than a months time.

I was hysterical. I was irrational. I would bounce between an acute state of fight-or-flight and denial.

I kept reminding myself that NOTHING, not even this, was a difficult as losing a child. I survived the loss of my son in 2002 and his loss taught me many things, mainly that I am strong.

I am also a firm believer that we sign up for our challenges before we set foot on this planet. That doesn't mean that I didn't scream, what the FUCK was I thinking, over and over again.  

To me obstacles, whether large or small, are opportunities for personal growth. With my cancer I have chosen to embrace the process and listen for the message. What can I learn from this? Where will this journey take me?

Typically, my challenges lead towards helping others but I have to remind myself that I have to heal myself first and fully before I step outside myself. Sometimes I leap outward to avoid looking at the darkest parts of me.

I also know that a well fought, good intentioned battle, fuels me. My current battle requires your help.




To those of you who would like to help me on a personal level, in a way that does NOT require a donation, only a small amount of your time and the licking of a stamp, please consider sending a letter to Dr. Andrew Salzberg.

Dr. Salzberg is guilty of charging BREAST CANCER PATIENTS $739.00 for a reconstruction consultation, and $75.00 to healthy patients who wish to consult him for breast augmentation or breast reduction.

According to New York Group for Plastic Surgery, an LLP that Dr. Salzberg works under; a consultation, whether it's for breast reconstruction, augmentation, or reduction, lasts 45 to 60 minutes, includes a review of the procedure by a member of their staff, a physical exam by Dr. Salzberg (mine lasted less than 10 minutes) and photographs which they keep.

I was recommended to Dr. Salzberg by Dr. Andrew Ashikari, a respected breast surgeon in Dobbs Ferry, New York. Dr. Ashikari accepts my insurance, and when I questioned Dr. Salzberg's office regarding insurance coverage I was told that their staff works directly with insurance companies and that typically they will approve out of network coverage because Dr. Salzberg is one of only a few doctors in my area that does direct to implants with alloderm.

This subjective rate for consultation services is wrong on many levels. To begin with, why is this not insurance fraud? Doctors will charge higher rates to reach an insurance pay out number that they deem acceptable. Because Dr. Salzberg is considered out of network by my insurance company, he charged me $739.00 for a consultation, my insurance paid him $148.00, I paid him $75.00, and he's still expecting $516.20.

Well, I'm not paying it. Not only am I not paying it, I'm going to fight it and I need your help.

Please consider sending a letter directly to Dr. Salzberg. Below is a monkey generated letter that you can copy or word in any way that you see fit.

Example of what a MONKEY POWER letter might say....


Dr. Andrew Salzberg
New York Group for Plastic Surgery, LLP
155 White Plains Road, Suite 109
Tarrytown, NY 10591
Phone: (914) 366-6139

Dear Dr. Salzberg, 
I am writing on behalf of a Shannon Kennedy regarding a bill from your office dated 6/29/2012 in the amount of $591.20. The statement shows that your office charged $739.00 for a 60 minute new patient consultation. The statement also shows that her insurance paid $147.80, and that the balance due is $591.20.

A previous statement, dated 4/30/2012, with the same account number, shows a consultation charge of $739.00, an insurance payment in the amount of $147.80, an additional insurance payment in the amount of $0.20, and a PATIENT ACCOUNT BALANCE DUE of $75.00.

Bank statements prove that the patients ACCOUNT BALANCE of $75.00 was paid in full and yet, Ms. Kennedy continues to receive letters and phone calls from the COLLECTION BUREAU OF HUDSON VALLEY, INC. stating that she owes $516.20.

My question is two part.  First, how do you justify a change in the balance due from $75.00 to $591.20? And even more importantly, how do you justify charging a BREAST CANCER PATIENT $739.00 for a consultation when a healthy patient, who receives a consultation for breast enlargement or reduction is charged $75.00? 

I look forward to your timely reply. 

Sincerely, 

Mary Monkey

Please include your name and mailing address so that they know you are real. Although, isn't Mary Monkey a lovely name!

If you are a blogger, please consider posting this to your page. The more responses he gets, the stronger we get.  

If you saw Dr. Salzberg for breast reconstruction, augmentation, or reduction, please let me know if you had a negative or positive experience and what your fee was for your initial consultation.

There is power in numbers and I believe the power behind people joined in a common cause, outweighs the power of the all mighty dollar. Help prove me right. 

xo, MonkeyME 



Tuesday, October 2, 2012

MONKEY'S MAD AS HELL


AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!



What happens when you google "mad monkey"
(and he's GREEN, and I'm diggin' the tail!)


October is, yep, you guessed it, BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH. I sort of forgot about it until I saw pink cleats on the Monday night football players feet.

Personally, I'm not a fan of PINKING. I am less annoyed when I hear "100% of the proceeds will go to a Breast Cancer charity of your choice."

This year, I've decided to jump on the PINK band wagon and make a direct appeal.

To those of you who would like to help me on a personal level, in a way that does NOT require a donation, only a small amount of your time and the licking of a stamp, please consider sending a letter to Dr. Andrew Salzberg.

Dr. Salzberg is guilty of charging BREAST CANCER PATIENTS $739.00 for a reconstruction consultation, and $75.00 to healthy patients who wish to consult him for breast augmentation or breast reduction.

According to New York Group for Plastic Surgery, an LLP that Dr. Salzberg works under; a consultation, whether it's for breast reconstruction, augmentation, or reduction, lasts 45 to 60 minutes, includes a review of the procedure by a non-medical member of their staff, a physical exam by Dr. Salzberg (mine lasted less than 10 minutes) and photographs which they keep.

I was recommended to Dr. Salzberg by Dr. Andrew Ashikari, a respected breast surgeon in Dobbs Ferry, New York. Dr. Ashikari accepts my insurance, and when I questioned Dr. Salzberg's office regarding insurance coverage I was told that their staff works directly with insurance companies and that typically they will approve out of network coverage because Dr. Salzberg is one of only a few doctors in my area that does direct to implants with alloderm.

This subjective rate for consultation services is wrong on many levels. To begin with, why is this not insurance fraud? Doctors will charge higher rates to reach an insurance pay out number that they deem acceptable. Because Dr. Salzberg was considered out of network by my insurance company, he charged me $739.00 for a consultation, my insurance paid him $148.00, I paid him $75.00, and he's still expecting $516.20.

Well, I'm not paying it. Not only am I not paying it, I'm going to fight it and I need your help.

Please consider sending a letter directly to Dr. Salzberg. Below is a monkey generated letter that you can copy or word in any way that you see fit.

Example of what a MAD AS HELL MONKEY letter might say....


Dr. Andrew Salzberg
New York Group for Plastic Surgery, LLP
155 White Plains Road, Suite 109
Tarrytown, NY 10591
Phone: (914) 366-6139


Dear Dr. Salzberg, 
I am writing on behalf of a Shannon Kennedy regarding a bill from your office dated 6/29/2012 in the amount of $591.20. The statement shows that your office charged $739.00 for a 60 minute new patient consultation. The statement also shows that her insurance paid $147.80, and that the balance due is $591.20.

A previous statement, dated 4/30/2012, with the same account number, shows a consultation charge of $739.00, an insurance payment in the amount of $147.80, an additional insurance payment in the amount of $0.20, and a PATIENT ACCOUNT BALANCE DUE of $75.00.

Bank statements prove that the patients ACCOUNT BALANCE of $75.00 was paid in full and yet, Ms. Kennedy continues to receive letters and phone calls from the COLLECTION BUREAU OF HUDSON VALLEY, INC. stating that she owes $516.20.

My question is two part.  First, how do you justify a change in the balance due from $75.00 to $591.20? And even more importantly, how do you justify charging a BREAST CANCER PATIENT $739.00 for a consultation when a healthy patient, who receives a consultation for breast enlargement or reduction is charged $75.00? 

I look forward to your timely reply. 

Sincerely, 

Mary Monkey

Please include your name and mailing address so that they know you are real. 

I have also contacted the following organizations: 

BREASTCANCER.ORG
THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION
SUSAN G. KOMEN FOR THE CURE
BREAST CANCER AWARENESS

NATIONAL BREAST CANCER COALITION

If you have any suggestions, any additional ways to get the word, out please let me know.


If you are a blogger, please consider posting this to your page. The more responses he gets, the stronger we get.  

If you saw Dr. Salzberg for breast reconstruction, augmentation, or reduction, please let me know if you had a negative or positive experience and what your fee was for your initial consultation.

There is power in numbers and I believe the power behind people joined in a common cause, outweighs the power of the all mighty dollar. Help prove me right. 



 photo found on pinkmonkeyfarm.com


For proof of documentation showing bills from Dr. Salzberg's office, bills from the collection agency, and payments made by me, please email me directly at runshanrun@msn.com


xoxo, MadAsHellMonkeyME








Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing

Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing
greenmonkeytales@live.com

Shannon E. Kennedy

***

Photo by Joan Harrison