Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? (11 page)

No.

It can’t be. With much trepidation, I tiptoe down the stairs and look over the half-wall railing.

I see pans.

I see pots.

I see trouble.

Slowly, I inquire, “Whatcha doing?”

Fletch grins. “I’m making meat loaf!”

“But on the grill, right?”
8
A long pause ensues. “Fletch?” Another pause while Fletch busies himself opening multiple shrink-wrapped packages of raw meat. “Fletcher! We had a deal! After the last fiasco, you promised the fire department you’d never cook indoors again.”

Sheepishly he admits, “The recipe was rated highly on FoodNetwork.com for being both delicious and easy.”

“Food Network? You mean home of Rachael Ray? Have you been watching her again? If you recall, you lost your viewing privileges after I was forced to consume Lucky Charms for seven consecutive dinners because you followed her weekly meal plan.”

“This isn’t her recipe.”

I begin to wonder if I don’t owe Rachael and her bodacious tatas an apology. The last few things he cooked/ruined weren’t her recipes, either. As an American male, Fletch is generally opposed to reading directions, so maybe his culinary abortions have just been user error? Then it dawns on me there’s a lot of meat on the counter and I begin to add package weights in my head.

“Fletch, do you realize you have nine pounds of meat here?”

“That’s what it calls for.”

“And that doesn’t seem excessive?”

“Nope.” He drinks a Coke and bobs his head in time to some awful Ministry song.

I read the grocery store receipt. “Forty-five dollars’ worth of meat? And that sounds normal to you? For one dinner?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let me see this.” I grab his recipe card. “‘Will make three five-pound loaves.’ Sweetie, we’re never going to eat fifteen pounds of meat loaf.”

“Hmm, I guess that
is
a lot. Maybe I’ll just make a third of the recipe.”

“Ya think?” I grab a seat because if there’s going to be carnage—and there will be—I may as well have a good view. I watch as he begins to work a heaping mound of ground turkey, beef, and Italian sausage. “Whoa, you’re getting it all over the counter! It’s slopping out the sides! Why don’t you use a bigger bowl?”

“This is the biggest one we have.”

“Good thing you’re not making three loaves. You’d have had to mix it in the bathtub.” I feel my lips begin to pucker in distaste as he tosses in a bunch of nontraditional meat loaf components. “What are the Doritos for?”

“It’s one of the ingredients.”

“And the uncooked bacon? And mustard seed? And molasses? And the bottle of old Rasputin beer, which, if I recall, made you throw up?”

“All part of the Loaf, baby.”

“I accidentally broke a juice glass earlier. Want me to go through the garbage and find some shards for you?”

“Respect the Loaf.”

“Stop calling it that—you’re making it sound all porno. Anyway, does it concern you that you have a counter full of raw meat and not one of the furry little carnivores who live here has even come near it?”

“Your taste buds will thank me.”

“You are adorably delusional.” I pat him on the cheek. He slaps a gigantic wad o’ meat
9
into the roasting pan and glances at the recipe.

“Huh. It says here to shape this into a tube so it cooks consistently. I never knew that. That’s probably why the ‘meat gator’
10
I tried to make didn’t turn out.”

“And you wonder why your presence in my kitchen causes me to want prescription drugs?”

“Pfft. I’d stake my reputation on tonight’s meat loaf.”

I grab my keys off the counter. “Yes, well, best of luck with that.”

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Where?”

“To the grocery store.”

“How come?”

“Because I don’t have enough money for pizza and nothing scares me more than the thought of running out of Lucky Charms.”

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
do you like me? circle y or n

Settle an argument here—

Yesterday at my temp job I met a woman from one of the company’s satellite offices because I’m going to assist her with a part-time project. I noticed she was wearing the exact same piece of jewelry as me.

Upon seeing her wrist, I may or may not have exclaimed, “Hey! We can be bracelet buddies!”

Fletch says no one over the age of eight would say something like this. (Like, ever.) However, I disagree. Who’s right?

(And do you think this woman is going to start speaking really slowly to me?)

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
lilly pulitzer saves the day

Hey, girls,

I can’t decide if I’m xenophobic and jerky or just superobservant and careful.

Observe:

A couple of Middle Eastern gentlemen got on the bus today about halfway between my office and my house. Normally I try to stay in my own little world on public transportation because eye contact only encourages the crazies. However, since they were standing right at eye level, I couldn’t help but notice them wearing big elaborate backpacks, army-surplus-type clothing, and both messing around with what looked like cell phones in their pockets. They appeared nervous and were holding one-day CTA passes.

Deciding they seemed hinky, I gave them both a big smile to gauge their reactions. Normally I’d expect grins in return, especially since I was wearing the
world’s cutest
pink-and-green-checked wrap skirt. (You can’t
not
smile when you see someone in a skirt like that, especially since it’s actually reversible and there’s a darling green floral print on the other side that flaps open and you can see it when I walk. Plus, I’ve lost a decent

amount of weight from Fletch’s cooking and I don’t look so much like a fat person anymore. Now I’m like an aging-but-still-kind-of-has-it-ex-sorority-girl-who-would-be-truly-lovely-if-onlyshe-could-lay-off-the-chocolate-croissants. And really? The skirt was bangin’, yo.) Anyway, I smiled at them and they looked back at me with cold, hard eyes. The only expression I saw was a flicker of contempt.

So, I immediately pulled the cord and got off the bus, even though I was a mile from my house. Obviously the bus went on its merry way without incident and I had to hoof it home in ninety-degree heat and kitten heels.

Point? Here’s what I’m struggling with—I hate the fact that my paranoia made me automatically assume those men were up to no good. It’s unfair that a whole lot of good people in this country are being scrutinized by assholes like me just because of their ethnicity. Most likely these guys were simply tourists and I should be thanking them for visiting my fair city.

On the other hand, a bus passenger in London had this exact same feeling two weeks ago and exiting the bus early saved his life.

And I’ll be damned if I was going to get exploded in that skirt.

Conflicted,

Jen

Jen Hollywood

I
f my life were a movie, in the scene where I finish writing my book you’d see a montage of fireworks and popping champagne corks, ticker-tape parades and indigenous people all over the world leaving their mud huts and dancing up and down while cheering.
1
As I lay down my pen and switch off my computer, the score crescendos with the “Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner” song.
2
The skies open up and God himself beams down a golden light to illuminate the mailbox where my bundled, precious manuscript is to be deposited. As I kiss the package, wish it luck, and insert it in the slot, the “Hallelujah Chorus” sounds.

Returning home, my loving mate
3
sweeps me into his arms to congratulate me and then whisks me off somewhere fabulous to celebrate properly. When we’re done dining and toasting, this would be an appropriate time for a gratuitous sex scene, unless we’re being directed by Quentin Tarantino, in which case we go shoot a bunch of vampires instead.

Unfortunately my life isn’t a Hollywood movie—the only thing my loving mate does upon learning of the book’s completion is ask if I’m going to start cleaning the house again because the bathroom is downright hairy. And when I e-mail my manuscript to my editor, instead of turning off the computer, I log on to Monster.com because I’m going to need to work for the next nine months before the book is published, what with my overwhelming passion for living both indoors
and
in the city.
4

Fletch reminds me if we want to move to the suburbs, we could survive nicely on his income while I attempt to get freelance writing jobs, but I’m just not ready. Someday I’d love a big rolling lawn and snappy riding mower and convenient access to strip malls with their giant parking spaces, but right now I much prefer being in the center of all the action…even if 99 percent of the time I’m lounging on the couch watching
Veronica Mars
.
5
Simply having the option to run off and do something urban and exotic at a moment’s notice is satisfaction enough. (Plus, the average home prices in the John Hughes–movie suburbs where I’d want to live start at $1,000,000—totally out of the question.)

Resolved: I need to earn some money to help support our current rent burden.

But what kind of job should I get? After declaring myself a writer, it seems like taking a sales job would be a big step backward. I’m experienced in a couple of other areas, like investor relations and corporate communications, but as evidenced by my almost two-year quest, not enough to land a good job doing them. Perhaps it’s time to reassess my skills? I decide to brainstorm and will write down anything that comes to mind. Then when I’m done, I’ll review the list and see if the perfect new career track doesn’t make itself evident.

Jen’s Areas of Expertise

Good at second-guessing better ways for others to do their jobs.
(Generally only employed when I’m stuck standing in line due to someone else’s inefficiency. I’ve been a cashier, so I know for a fact you don’t need to ring all twelve identical cans of cat food separately.)

Proficient at choosing flattering bathroom paint colors to best enhance own features.
(Asparagus green, yes. Flaming orange, no.)

Adequate written communicator.
(Although wholly inept at expressing false self-deprecation about said skill.)

Have made concerted effort to stop saying everything I think.
(Like when I ran into a fellow pit bull owner, I didn’t remark, “This morning my bully Maisy barfed up paper towels and cat poop all over the carpet on the second floor!” And last week when I met the petite brunette with the dimples and big smile, I kept myself from exclaiming, “Oh, my God, you look just like Laci Peterson! Except not dead!” And I’ve almost completely quit saying, “Shalom, motherfucker!” as my standard greeting when I enter a room anymore. Progress, I say!)

Unusually dedicated to steam-cleaning carpets.
(Please see above.)

Can pick out and name every constellation in the fall sky.
(Pleiades is my favorite.)

Mix a mean dirty martini and also can make delicious fruit dip using Coco Lopez and Cool Whip.
(Do not serve together, though.)

Can grow lovely container gardens.
(Except in the shade, where I seem to sprout more toadstools than anything.)

Would be excellent reality show contestant.
(Except if competition involved touching bugs, particularly with any part of my mouth. I mean, I can’t even go near a piece of chicken if I can see a vein—there’s no way I could consume something still writhing.)

Able to neatly give own self a pedicure.
(And the nice part is I don’t have to make awkward conversation about the weather with myself while I attack my problem cuticles.)
Smart.
(Except about geography. At Thanksgiving, I swore up and down that the Middle East was located partially in Africa and partially in Europe. When we got home, Fletch made me look at a map and I was proved wrong on both counts. But I don’t have any desire to be a cartographer, so who cares?) (I should probably avoid any health-related fields, too. When the nurse told me my high triglyceride count wasn’t that big a deal unless I had pancreatic problems, I realized I hadn’t a clue what the pancreas does—is it like a Liver, Jr., or is it one of those throw-away, make-it-into-hot-dog bits like the appendix, tailbone, and little piggy toe? Who knows? Certainly not me.)
Efficient at making copies.
(You’d be surprised at how complicated, expensive office machinery responds to a solid kick and mild stream of profanity.)

Anyway, it’s too bad my life isn’t a movie, because that’d mean I’d have a big Hollywood happy ending. I’d do my skills assessment and I’d figure out, and subsequently get, the very best non-geography-or-health-based job ever. But here in the real world the above skills will get me exactly what I deserve—another temp assignment.

One phone call to my temporary agency and I’ve already gotten a placement. I’m bummed that there’s nothing open in the adorable Mr. James’s office, but I helped him find a great permanent person when I had to quit to finish writing the book. Apparently he and his new assistant are thick as thieves, damn it.

Now I’m off to work in a nonprofit whose purpose is to help the service industry attract workers. When I hear the company description I wonder,
Is this organization really necessary? Aren’t, like, millions of people shimmying over the border each year in order to get these jobs? Seems like you don’t need a charitable foundation to attract them; you need some fence cutters.
Then again, I’m about to work for $11/hour, so what do I know?

I show up for my first day in a yellow twinset paired with a divine red plaid Ralph Lauren skirt, a $150 holdover from the days when my opinion used to matter. It’s one of the most perfect garments known to man—lightweight so I can wear it in the summer, richly colored so it’s appropriate for the fall, and it has a wrap closure to accommodate those ten
6
extra pounds. This outfit merits its own one-paragraph description not because even at five years old it’s still fabulous, but because by so wearing it, when I arrive everyone mistakes me for the brand-new vice president of fund-raising, who’s also scheduled to start today. The receptionist actually places me in the VP’s private office until she realizes her mistake.

As I follow the receptionist down the long, beige-carpeted corridor to my new workspace, I notice the people here take “business casual” to a whole new level. I’ve already seen an embroidered Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and I spied someone wearing flannel pajama bottoms. However, I’ve been advised the nonprofit world is very different from the for-profit world, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the dress code is relaxed. I try not to judge, but God, I do it so well.
7

I spend my first day wandering around the office asking if anyone has anything they’d like me to do and it’s painfully boring. I report to the EVP of Communications, but she’s away on a fund-raising trip. Until she returns, her twenty-two-year-old, St. Louis Cardinals–ball-cap-wearing staff member is in charge of me. He’s five feet four with freckles and childbearing hips and is a dead ringer for Jimmy Neutron. After my effusive greeting, I’m relatively sure I terrify him. Jimmy has exactly nothing for me to work on so I wile away the day Google-stalking old high school classmates.
8

In the movie version of this experience, I’d excel at my work so much I’d be placed in the fund-raising VP’s position. But the reality is I spend three more days doing exactly nothing and I really begin to question why I’m here. This place is a nonprofit and relies on corporate donations to keep going. So isn’t having me doing nothing but reading
Veronica Mars
recaps on TelevisionWithoutPity.com’s Web site a criminal waste of resources?

I keep encouraging Jimmy Neutron to take advantage of my writing experience. I offer my proofreading skills and try to sell myself, asking where else he could get his stuff professionally edited for $11/hour? Tired of having me hover over him with an anticipatory grin on my face, he finally finds me a project. Only instead of editing, I’m presented with a stack of paper six feet high and a home-office-grade shredder.
9

Anyway, Jimmy’s boss returns from her trip and pops into the office for a couple of minutes. The EVP is about to attend an off-site seminar for the day, but before she goes we have a chance to powwow. She’s delighted to know about my writing experience
10
and promises she’ll assign more challenging work upon her return. Until then, she gives me a stack of expenses to file and a pile of Jimmy’s work to edit. I finish both projects in less than an hour.

The next morning I’m at my cube with nothing to do, so I decide to keep an activity log to amuse myself, backtracking to cover all aspects of my day.

6:25 a.m.
—Out of bed. Would be nice if I could have one morning where I didn’t wake up and immediately step in a pile of something cold, wet, and having squirted out of one of the pets.

7:48 a.m.
—All out of heart-healthy canola oil margarine from Trader Joe’s, so I put triple cream Brie on my bagel instead. Consume, then have intermittent chest pains.

8:26 a.m.
—Get ride to work. No bus today—yay!

Me:
What does that magnetic ribbon say on that car over there?

Fletch:
(squinting)
Powered by Jesus.

Me:
Yeah? Not powerful enough in my opinion.
(rolls down window)
Hey, Jesus, learn to accelerate!
(screeches to halt)
Whoa! Jesus just turned that light from green to red with no yellow in between!

Fletch:
Maybe it wasn’t Jesus. Maybe it was Karma.

Me:
What? Is my name Earl or something? Karma’s punishing me for letting a dawdling Baptist know she needs to use her gas pedal?

Fletch:
Just sayin’.

Me:
What a great show that is—and I love Jason Lee. I just wish he weren’t a Scientologist.

Fletch:
I don’t fault Jason for his belief system. I bet he’s actually a closet Episcopalian and Scientology is just to advance his career. Besides, is their theory on Theatans so much more farfetched than the Christian belief that Jesus turned water to wine?

Me:
I’d say no, but if Jesus turns one more light red, I’m going to be late for work.

8:29 a.m.
—Arrive. Am best-dressed person here again. It is a sad state of affairs when my stupid poplin khakis make me appear “all fancy.”

8:37 a.m.
—Already booored. Jimmy says he has nothing for me to do.

8:38 a.m.
—Girl next to me needs to blow her nose.

8:46 a.m.
—Girl next to me really needs to blow her nose.

8:51 a.m.
—Girl next to me needs to blow her nose before something bad happens.

9:12 a.m.
—Asked to work on Very Important Project involving stapler. But at least I will be away from Sinus Queen.

10:00 a.m.
—Admire self in bathroom mirror. Wearing stupid, pointy shoes
11
today because oh, so cute! Glad Fletch dropped me off and will pick me up and I won’t have to do any walking.