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? (3 page)

“That sounds kinda nice.”

I agree. “Actually, it was, at least until the day the chief corporate counsel came back from his vacation. Prior to my arrival and his horrifically hairy-backed, Speedo-clad holiday in the south of France—by the way, I saw the photos and
I’m blind now
—”

Skip snorts a bit of coffee onto his French cuff. Without thinking, I grab a Starbucks napkin from his desk, dip it in my water glass, and hand it back to him.

“Start blotting. You don’t want the stain to set. Anyway, the chief counsel had shipped four hundred thirty-page contracts to a client. Although he’d overnighted these documents, his client never received them. I suggested I call the client to confirm his correct address before reshipping them. However, he thought we—meaning me—would be better off simply faxing them on the office’s miniature Playskool’s My First Fax Machine. Now, let me see your cuff.”

Skip holds out his wrist and the stain’s noticeably smaller.

“See? Keep it up and it will be completely gone in a couple of minutes. Anyway, let’s do the math, shall we? Four hundred contracts times thirty pages each on a piece of equipment practically covered in duckies and moo-cows.
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\As the attorney outlined the parameters of my assignment, I offered up a small prayer.
‘Dear God, please allow me to walk the earth long enough to fax all twelve thousand frigging pages. Thank you. Amen.’
Unfortunately, the fax machine was not also blessed with such longevity and gave out around page 657. So, we went with my original plan, which was to ship the contracts.”

Skip interjects, “It’s all gone!” He turns his wrist over again and again, marveling at my mad stain-fighting skillz, yo. “But I’m sorry—you were sayin’?”

“While I prepared the mailing labels, I quickly assessed why the documents had never arrived. I popped into his office to explain the situation.
‘Excuse me, sir?’
I asked, standing in his doorway.
‘Um, I figured out why those documents you sent never arrived.’
Normally I’m not afraid of anyone, but there was something about this guy’s steel gray eyes that really threw me. All flat and dead. Ick. Anyway, he was enraptured with his computer screen and he said,
‘Uh-huh. And?’ ‘Well,’
I told him,
‘although I haven’t been able to get the client on the phone to confirm this, I’m pretty sure you used the wrong address.’ ‘Impossible,’
he replied with a gesture. I recall thinking,
Oh, hold the phone, did he just make
shoo-be-gone
motions at me?

“I continued,
‘But, sir, you sent them to the—’
He snapped,
‘It’s right. Ship it again.’
And yes, there was distinct shooing. Then he rolled his scary eyes and turned his back to me.
‘But, this address was where the Wor—’
Before I could finish my statement, he rose and walked to the door.
‘And that will be all, thank you,’
he said, shutting it in my face. So I dutifully completed the labels and sent the boxes off to Two WTC, NY, NY, which is better known as?” I ask.

Skip replies, “Ground Zero?”

I nod gravely. “The south tower.”

“Wow. So, what’d you do then?” They-inn.

“Here’s the thing—after 689 days of being unemployed (but who’s counting?),
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I totally appreciate the opportunity to work. But once in a while when I run into someone who’s a bigger asshat than I could ever have been when I was a VP, I feel it’s my duty to give them a gentle karmic reminder.

“On my last day with the legal department, I took it upon myself to do just that. I walked into his office and said,
‘Excuse me, sir—hi, I’m Jen, you know, the temp who’s been covering for Mary Ann? Anyway, I notice you shut your door a lot for privacy. And, I’m not really quite sure how to say this, but when you shut the door? It’s not like a
magic
door or anything, so you don’t actually become invisible when you close it. And you may not realize it, but anyone walking by can see in through your giant glass wall next to the closed door. And, the thing is, I was just thinking since you’re chiefcounsel and all? It might be better if, um, the other employees didn’t see you surfing teenaged-girl porn sites.’
”

“No, y’all didn’t!” He shrieks with laughter.

“Yes, I all did,” I reply. While we giggle and wipe our eyes, the receptionist buzzes to inform Skip his next appointment has arrived and is waiting in the lobby.

“Well, Jen”—Jay-unn—“I think I got a purty good idea of what it would be like working together. Anything else I ought to know before y’all go?” Skip asks.

Minding my potentially dangerous buttons, I take a deep breath before delivering my final pitch. “Skip, I have to level with you. Working temp jobs is more than just a way to supplement my writing career and pay my cable bill. I mean, I used to be wealthy and obnoxious, spouting ridiculous sentiments like how I wouldn’t ride the bus because ‘the thing about mass transportation is it transports the masses.’ But a while back I got a real wake-up call when my luxurious dot-com world came crashing down and I lost my executive position. However, as our financial situation improves, I sometimes forget those hard times. Given my propensity for raging narcissism, I occasionally need a coffee-carrying gig for reasons other than financial. Being someone’s assistant, even temporarily, keeps me grounded. That’s why I really want this job.”

Skip tents his hands and hides most of his face behind it. “Jen, I’ve got to know one thang and it’s important.”

“What’s that, sir, I mean, Skip?”

“If I look at teenaged-girl porn, are y’all gonna squeal on me?”

“Depends,” I reply. “Are you planning on looking at any teenaged-girl porn?”

“I can’t imagine I ever will.” Wee-ill.

“Hmm, then I’d say we’re good.”

He extends his hand and reveals a huge smile. “All right, I guess I’ll see y’all on Monday, maybe ’round nine a.m.?”

Wait, does that mean I got the job?

I got the job!

Knowing my suit can’t possibly withstand a victory dance, instead I shake his proffered hand and reply, “I guess y’all wee-ill.”

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]
Subject:
the shit list

Haven’t sent you one for a while, so please enjoy today’s shit list:

My Tanning Salon
—When your cheap door handle breaks and traps me inside the booth for ten fucking minutes, I expect you not to
laugh
at me when you’re finally able to release me from my ultraviolet prison cell.

Coworkers at the Temp Job
—Yes, I know you need an envelope and you’re welcome to take as many as you want. But it might be nice if you
fucking said hello or something
before barging into my cube and riffling through all my drawers.

The Condo Association
—We pay $2K/month to live here. Some of that money goes to condo assessments. This means someone is being paid to remove the one inch of solid ice on the sidewalk. Can you please make this happen before I break my fucking hip?

US Weekly
’s Cover Story
—How can you be shocked Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards are getting divorced? It’s
Charlie Fucking Sheen
. Your cover story
should
have read “Can You Believe It Lasted This Long?”

The Squirrel
—You almost gave Fletch a fucking heart attack when you popped out of the garbage can and lunged at him à la
Christmas Vacation.
Excuse me, but he has
far
too much cholesterol in his arteries to sustain that kind of shock. (And I’m too young to be a widow.)

Also?

I don’t appreciate laughing myself into a pant-wetting asthma attack upon witnessing my 6'2", 215-pound spouse screaming like a little girl while being chased across an icy parking lot by five pounds of furry rabid fury.

Off to go kick something,

Jen

P.S. Yes, I realize I dropped five f-bombs in this note. (Fuck you for counting.)

Church of the Magnificent Mile

A
few years ago I used to take shopping so seriously it was less of a habit and more of a religion. Every chance I got, I’d steal away between appointments or at lunch in order to maintain my daily communicate status, worshipping at the Church of the Magnificent Mile. I’d make my way down Michigan Ave, stopping to pay my respects at the lesser deities: Sephora for their Fresh soy skin-care line and giant perfume selection,
1
the Body Shop for products with a conscience, Lord & Taylor for Jockey for Her underwear,
2
Marshall Field’s for scarves and hair accessories, Pottery Barn for casual home décor except for glassware, which was Crate & Barrel’s domain, Burberry if I felt like a little something plaid and pretty, and Les Vosges because carrying heavy shopping bags made me hungry for $30-a-pound chocolate-coated toffee. I’d tithe portions of my salary at each of these stores until I got to any one of the members of the Holy Trinity—Bloomingdale’s, Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus—and the real purchasing commenced.

Bloomingdale’s was my preferred spot for staples, such as fur-trimmed coats, bathing suits, and cashmere sweaters, while Nordstrom was the best place for multiple shoe purchases. (Really, those poor salespeople worked on commission—it would have been a sin to make them run into the back for only one pair!) Neiman Marcus was my absolute favorite place for ridiculous designer splurge items—jewelry, purses, and sunglasses. Plus Neiman’s made it so damn difficult to buy anything—they wouldn’t take Visa or MasterCard; basically they’d only accept cash, Krugerrand, and black diamond truffles—walking out of there with my shiny silver carrier bag always felt like a bit of a victory.

My shopping habit was so all-encompassing that I had to construct a list of rules so friends could better understand the process. But rather than sending them down on a couple of heavy tablets from Mount Sinai,
3
I simply e-mailed them.

The Jen Commandments of Shopping

Thou shall not buy on sale.
Because sale? Is another word for shit not good enough to be purchased full price.

There’s no such thing as too many twinsets.
And you shall not rest until you have them in Every. Single. Color. (Except orange, because, you know, ick.)

Remember the three most important things when buying shoes:
Italian, Italian, and Italian.

Life is too short to wear synthetic.
Our Heavenly Father would not have placed all those goats in the hills of Kashmir
4
if He wanted you to put on something fashioned from a recycled Mountain Dew bottle.

Salespeople are there to carry the heavy stuff for you.
So let them. See also:
Cold Beverages, Running to fetch
.

Coupons are for amateurs.
What good is a $400 sweater if you can’t tell people you paid $400 for it? See also:
Commandment, First
.

“Outlets” are for plugs and creative expression, not malls.
Is style so trivial to you that you’re willing to purchase your clothes at a store situated between the place where they sell the deformed Goldfish crackers and designer impostor perfumes? I think not.

Only shop in stores that have a philosophy.
Hell, yes, you should pay 10 percent more for a store with a philosophy. (Even if that philosophy is, “Let’s sucker our customers into paying 10 percent more.”)

The harder to pay, the better it is.
Self-explanatory. See also:
Marcus, Neiman.

People who say “less is more” are simply jealous. More is
always
more.
This is precisely the reason people go gaga over twins and litters of puppies and why a matched set of Kate Spade luggage is so much better than a single piece.

Even though I treasured almost every item sold in each of the Holy Trinity’s bountiful departments, the merchandise wasn’t the only draw. I loved the service and the personal attention. Nothing made me happier than when my girl Basha at Nordstrom’s Dior counter called me to tell me about a new line of body shimmer. It made me feel like she had ESP; how did she know
that very morning
I’d looked at myself in the mirror and thought,
Yes, you glow, but are you luminous enough?

No matter how chaotic Michigan Ave was, I knew I could enter the pricey enclaves of my favorite places and it would be calm, cool, and quiet. Clerks would speak in hushed tones—almost reverent—and would wrap my pair of capri pants and Lacoste shirt with the same care they would use to package Waterford crystal for shipping. There would be few other shoppers around, and we’d rarely interact because we were all too involved with our own expeditions.

My little boy-friend who worked the David Yurman counter would squeal whenever he saw me pass, sibilantly exclaiming, “Ooh! What are we treating ourssselvesss with today?” and before I could say, “Nothing, thanks,” he’d be waving a black velvet-covered platter full of sssparkly thingsss at me. And it would have been rude not to try—and purchassse—at leassst one of them, right?

Obviously, I don’t live my life like this anymore (a) because I can’t, and (b) because I like to think I have some small capacity for “learning.” I’ll be honest—I still dig buying stuff, but that’s mostly because at the nadir of our unemployment, purchasing anything other than dog food and toilet paper was a luxury. I still believe in the Holy Trinity, except now it’s Target, Trader Joe’s, and IKEA.

After selling off the bulk of our nice stuff while out of work, we began to replenish our household at Target when things turned around. I don’t exactly know what happened to Target in the twenty years since I was a cashier there, but hot damn, have they changed! In 1985 I was mortified to get my off-to-college supplies at that stupid discount store. I remember grudgingly shoving a boring tan-and-brown comforter—the nicest-looking one they had—into my cart and then wanting to die a thousand deaths a week later when my adorable freshman roommate arrived with an equally adorable pastel tulip-sprigged Marimekko quilt.

There were no coordinated goods when I worked at Target and Cynthia Rowley for damn sure had nothing to do with my ugly-ass bedding. Yet now when I stroll Target’s home department, there’s nothing but gorgeous, high-quality, low-priced styles as far as the eye can see. What’s your pleasure? The faded florals of shabby chic? Rich, shimmering jewel tones of the Far East? Nubby wools and flannels inspired by the North Woods? Any designer you’d prefer? Isaac Mizrahi? Michael Graves? Thomas O’Brien? Then step right up! Stripes? Plaids? Geometrics? Yeah, they’ve got it, and in every color, too. And don’t forget the matching rugs and bathroom accessories, like toothbrush holders, shower curtains, and towels.

And can we please discuss their clothing? Twenty years ago I’d have rather stayed in and studied than gone to a party in anything with a Target label. And yet recently when shopping for a new mop I passed by their women’s section and saw a tan tapestry coat with a detachable fur collar. I tried the coat on and it fit as though I’d had it custom-made. As I had never seen outerwear this cute in my life, I forgot about the mop, threw the tapestry masterpiece in my basket, and made a mad dash for the checkout line, assuming the minute the rest of the female shoppers saw it, I’d have to fight them for it. None of the outerwear I bought at Bloomingdale’s ever garnered the compliments I’ve gotten on my $60 Target coat.
5

Recently my Target added a Starbucks
and
started selling wine, pretty much cementing it as my favorite store on the face of this earth, and if ever asked what the one thing is I’d take with me to a desert island, I’d say Target, of course.

That is, if I didn’t have to take their current staff with me.

First, I have been a Target cashier, so I know that of which I speak. Although the merchandise has changed over the years, the basic exchange of goods for currency has not. Back when I worked there, we had no scanners. We had to key in every single bar code in order to check people out and we weren’t supposed to look at the cash register when we did it.
6
If you bought it, we bagged it, and God help us if we put your cookies anywhere near your motor oil. The managers who stood at the end of the conveyor helped us speed things along not by bagging but by loudly providing constructive criticism about every single one of our stupid mistakes.

The managers in my store were particularly sadistic and would run time and motion studies on each of us cashiers, making wagers on who could process the most customers per hour. Then they’d place our scores up on the break room wall with our names on them and helpful motivational phrases, like “Ring faster, you loser!” Also, we had to dress professionally under our smocks with earrings no larger than a dime, clear nail polish, no facial hair,
7
and panty hose, managers reserving the right to yell at us like drill sergeants were we to be remiss in any of the above areas. One day I forgot to put on knee-highs and flashed an inch of bare ankle; from the reprimanding I received, you’d have thought I’d kicked each and every customer in the big box.

Let me just say this—my old managers do not work at the Target where I shop. There’s one kid there who sits on a stool to ring people up, and he wears a towel around his neck to mop up where he sweats from all the not-standing. He won’t even lift your purchases, making you scoot them across the scanner yourself. Yet I’ve seen him literally run out the door to smoke, and am pretty sure I once saw him hoist a case of beer onto his shoulder at my grocery store, so I don’t know why he merits a stool. And does he bring his own towel? Or just rotate the sweaty one back into stock? I kind of don’t want to think about it.

As for the rest of the staff, they don’t quite adhere to the rules of yore, either. Neck tattoos? Check. Hickeys
and
neck tattoos? Check. Giant gold nameplate necklaces that spell out M-u-t-h-a-f-u-c-k-a? Muthafuckin’ check! I imagine if these cashiers manage to show up wearing pants not tenuously clinging to their kneecaps, their bosses are probably happy.

In my day,
8
we got in big trouble if we didn’t say, “Welcome and thank you for shopping at Target,” to every customer as they approached our lane. Apparently these rules no longer apply, as usually my cashier will look at me with dead shark eyes, ring up my wonderful new items without a word, and then stare at me once the total appears on the register while the bagger carefully mixes my bleach, ammonia, and Pringles in the same bag. I’m at the point where I now say, “Hi, thanks for ringing me up here at Target. How much is my total?”

In all fairness, I’ve read mine is the busiest Target in the world per square foot, so maybe everyone is just really jaded and tired of the crowds? Plus, I’ve heard their cashiers speaking ten different languages, so I, Miss Whitey McXenophobe, should perhaps cut them some terry-cloth-covered, stool-seated slack.

The downside of the Target experience, at least at the urban Targets, is that something ridiculous happens every time we visit. Sometimes we get to see shoplifters get busted; occasionally it’s a bit of domestic violence with a dash of stock-boy bitch-slapping when a rain check is offered in lieu of the sold-out sale Pampers. (Fortunately, there’s never less than one of Chicago’s Finest shopping there, squad car perched right on the curb, so it’s totally safe.)

Not long ago, I’m on my daily pilgrimage to Target and have just finished paying for an
Us Weekly
and some mini Hershey’s bars when I see another customer’s child do something troubling. “Excuse me, ma’am?” I say to the woman behind me. “Your son just ate a piece of gum stuck to the construction barrier in front of the new Starbucks.”

With zero clue as to what I’ve said, she asks,
“¿Qué?”

“I said your child is chewing someone else’s gum. He picked it off the wall and put it in his mouth. I thought you might want to know.”

She frowns at me.
“¿Qué?”

Damn it, how do I make her understand? “The baby?” I point at the little boy in the shirt with the rooster on it. “Over there? He’s yours, right? He’s chewing old gum and—ugh—right now, look, he’s peeling more off the wall and stuffing it in his mouth.”

“¿Qué?”

I raise my voice. Fletch says everyone understands English if you speak loudly enough. Or maybe he says everyone speaks English at gunpoint? I forget. “Your boy. Your, um, damn it, what’s the word? I know how to say it in Italian. Um, niño? Bambino?” I point at Little Rooster Boy. “Ate gum.” I point at the wall and the Wrigley display behind us. “That had been in someone else’s mouth.” I point at my own mouth and Fletch’s, making chewing motions. “He’s going to get worms!” I hold my hands up to my face and make little squiggly motions with my fingers.

“¿Qué?”
She turns to the cashier and asks,
“¿Qué dijo la ramera loca?”
and the cashier then rattles something back at her in rapid-fire Spanish and they both shrug. The woman yells some gibberish to the Little Rooster Boy, who toddles back over to be picked up and placed in the front of her cart.

Aha! Now we’re getting somewhere! “Yes, yes, exactly! No more stinky danger gum! You’re welcome!” We walk out of the store and I’m delighted to have been a Good Samaritan. “See, Fletch? You always tell me not to get involved, but I did and it paid off. They were glad that I stepped in. People really appreciate it when you try to help.”