Mimi is In the Hospital

A Vintage Post, retrieved from Scrubbed Innocence

Mimi is in the hospital. My grandma. The tartiest tart to ever eat Almond Roca or Ferraro Rocher (you can roll up the wrappers into ‘golden nuggets and string ‘em on a necklace… did you ever think o’ that, kid?!).

Mimi can be a real bitch at times. She has an unwavering sense of entitlement, yet she isn’t a woman of any great social status. She has never been rich—in fact, she’s been through 4 husbands and managed to end up with only government pennies. I can only imagine that the source of her snobbish attitude is her beauty—as a younger woman, Mildred was ssssssssmokin’ hot. So I’m sure most people, men especially, treated her in a certain worshipful way, which she became accustomed to. Her sex was her power. But now that she’s old and falling apart, and looks pretty much like everyone else, she ain’t so special anymore. If you don’t know her, that is.

Even some of us who do know her get red in the face over her demands and criticisms. She is a perfectionist, and highly creative, always seeking new, better, and more interesting ways of doing things. And when she discovers these ways, she freely suggests to everyone that they SHOULD do it this way, too. Her way. And with her brightly lipsticked mouth, she is constantly telling everyone what’s wrong with everything. Unfortunately for Mimi, almost no one is interested in hearing this. Not the manager at every single store or restaurant we’ve ever been in. Not the pharmacist. Not the head nurse in the ICU. Not her doctor. Not her neighbor. Not her daughters. Not the Bingo announcer at the Senior Center. Not interested.

I’m a little bit interested in her commentary, not because I plan to do anything about it, but because it’s funny. I empathize because I’m a perfectionist, too. A few years ago, I took a psychological assessment as part of a class project, and I learned that I am an SOP and OOP: Self-Oriented Perfectionist and Other-Oriented Perfectionist. In recent years, I think I’ve made progress in diminishing the OOP. That’s what Mimi is, certainly. A big, brazen OOP. I’m glad I know Mimi. If I didn’t, I would probably turn out like her.

She really is one of the funniest people I know. She is a master of the cynical quip and the familial jab. For example, one night we all gathered at my mother’s house for dinner. My sister and Mimi and I were in the living room, relaxing and chatting a bit. My sister was massaging her hand, as if injured.

“My knuckles hurt so bad,” she complained.

Without a beat, Mimi replied, “Well maybe you should stop draggin’ ‘em when you walk.”

So she’s in the hospital, first because she had a pacemaker installed, and still because she will have her gall bladder removed, after they figure out what to do with the aneurysm in her stomach.

Considering her age (86, we’re pretty sure, although she says 80-ish), Mimi is remarkably alert. Her quips and jabs have become no less sharp with age. She listens and communicates more clearly than almost everyone I know. And I love talking with her. She also has a knack for “gussying up.” You know, adding glitter and glamour to things. Everything. Hats. Furniture. Her shower curtain. Her trash can. Pencils. Earrings. Checkbook covers. And so on. Her whole existence sparkles with rhinestones. She IS the Bedazzler. I strive to resemble her in this way, but I hope I remain significantly less indulgent (in all things).

Mimi LOVES desserts and fine candies. Especially Ferraro Rocher and Almond Roca. Any bearer of a lovely box of candies will instantly earn her favor. And so we do this for her, in spite of her abuse. But when Mimi isn’t around, there is talk of making “Cat-Roca” out of cat turds and litter dust. Would she notice the difference before she took the first bite? We wonder.