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? (30 page)

“But—”

“Listen, I’ve gotta scoot. Lindsay Lohan is
not
going to dress herself in desert camouflage capri pants, okay?”

Spirit broken, Some Guy gives it one halfhearted, last-ditch effort. “If your husband decides differently, he can call me at 800—”

“I’ve got your number fifteen times on my caller ID already. Thanks and have a lovely day!”

I take the phone off the hook and stick it in a drawer. Then I return to my computer to look for a site where I can dress up paper-doll Superheroes. Superman’s Fortress of Solitude’s got to be cold and I bet the guy could use a toasty-warm pair of sock-monkey pajamas.

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
good news!

Hey, all,

Excellent news—my mother has retired from her job so she can come with me on book tour, which as of yet my publisher has no plans to send me on.

However, if they do ship me off, she and my father are totally coming, thus assuring I will be policing up wet towels and glasses full of partial dentures in hotel rooms across the continent. (I may have mentioned that traveling with my parents is like herding cats. Cats who drink scotch.)

Yay, me!

Jen

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
smashed

Greetings from the couch,

If the past week is any indication of the coming month, my liver will be gone entirely by New Year’s Day. As is now, it’s already shriveled to the size, shape, and consistency of a lump of coal due to my heroic intake of liquor so far this holiday drinking season. The worst of it was Saturday at the open-bar birthday party when I told the waitress to bring me “anything pink” and thus discovered cherry margaritas.

Cherry margaritas
.

I’d expostulate about how good they were, but apparently I imbibed so much that I’ve completely lost the ability to put coherent thoughts on a page.

(Think I’m kidding? It’s taken me an
hour
to write four tiny paragraphs.)

(And then I didn’t even use the word “expostulate” correctly.)

(Of course, Fletch drank so much he can no longer recognize the letter
W
, but that’s a story for another day.)

Speaking of writing, way before the book ever sold I envisioned the following scene:

Setting: Me, standing on the
New York Times’
book reviewer’s lawn, newspaper and pile of empty beer bottles at my side. I commence hurling.

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I think
you’re
pedantic and magniloquent, too!”

*smash*

“And as soon as I look up those words, you’re
really
in trouble!”

*smash*

“Complete disregard for the traditional rules of grammar and excessive use of profanity?”

*smash*

“Oh, I will show you!”

*smash*

“A complete disregard!”

*smash*

“For traditional rules!”

*smash*

“Of grammar!”

*smash*

“Motherfucker!”

*smashity-smash*

Anyway, I just learned the first review of
Bitter
comes out December 15. I’ve heard the publication is brutal, so I’m already terrified, particularly because it’s a memoir. That’s
my life
detailed in those pages, so if they hate the book, that translates to them hating
me
.

Fortunately, I’ve got a
lot
of empty bottles around here.

And now there’s some Alka-Seltzer with my name on it,

Jen

The Holiday Drinking Season

F
or me the best day of the year and the kickoff to the whole holiday season is November 5. Known as Guy Fawkes Day
1
in the United Kingdom, it’s marked by villages building bonfires to burn Guy Fawkes in effigy and everyone eating a variety of toffee-based treats and watching fireworks displays. It’s a huge annual celebration, second only to the
other
celebration that occurs simultaneously across the pond—my birthday. Unfortunately, today’s October 31, which means not only do I have to wait five more days before I can start rejoicing again about my own birth, but I also have to get through my least favorite holiday first.

Fletch and I are on our way into the house from the garage when our neighbor Dan walks out his back door, dressed in a stethoscope and surgical scrubs, complete with bloodstains.

Since he works in information technology, I assume it’s a costume or else
someone
at IBM had a terrible afternoon.

“Jen, Fletch, hello!” Dan calls. “Big night, huh? You guys ready for it?”

“Yeah,” I halfheartedly reply.

“What do you think?” He points at himself and does a little twirl. “Got the blood from my friend who’s a butcher so I’d look realistic. Nice, huh?”

“I admire your authenticity,” says Fletch.

Dan adjusts his surgical mask. “So, what are you guys going to dress as for Halloween?”

I field this one. “We’re going to be dressed as two fat people hiding inside a dark house not giving out candy.”

“Ha! You guys are a riot—have fun tonight!” He loads a case of beer into his Jeep and pulls away, blissfully unaware that I’m totally serious. As a matter of fact, the bag I’m carrying contains a box of garbage bags and thick masking tape that I plan to use to cover all the windows as soon as we get inside. If we had any money, we’d do what other grown-ups do—go out to dinner during trick-or-treat hours. Unfortunately, we’re low on cash; Fletch doesn’t get paid until the fifth, and what money he has had
better
be earmarked for something pretty.

To say I hate Halloween would be an understatement, although I’ll admit I loved it as a child. Thirty years after the fact, I can still recall who gave out the full-sized candy bars
2
and who passed out apples, which were subsequently thrown back at their houses the second they shut their doors. Yes, I admit that was bratty, but have you
any idea
how long it takes to do Ace Frehley’s makeup properly? And then find a way to make your boots silver without spray paint because your mom says you can probably wear them another winter?
3
And rat your hair so much that even Johnson’s No More Tangles can’t get all the knots out and you have to use scissors? Surely that deserves a Milky Way! I’d have preferred if people had simply gone to the movies than waste my time with a stupid piece of fruit. The kid universe does not continue to spin on its axis in anticipation of being given the kind of “treat” that can already be found in a big wooden bowl in the middle of the kitchen table, and—

Ahem.

Anyway, enjoy Halloween as an adult? Not so much. It’s a holiday that serves no purpose in my opinion. Personally, I like my pumpkins uncarved and my doorbell unrung. And if I’m lucky enough to have a big bag of candy? The last thing I want to do is share it. The whole concept annoys me and smacks of extortion and general thuggery—“Trick or Treat. Give me something good to eat,
or I will mess your shit up
.” Is this a lesson we want to teach our children? Plus, I was hurling apples thirty years ago and I was a sweet little girl from the suburbs. So opening the door for those scary city kids today? Who would
so
cut me given the chance? Nope, not happening.

Most of all, I would rather quaff a cat litter colada than have to wear a costume. I despise seeing adults duded up for Halloween, especially when they’re supposed to be working professional jobs; regardless of what you might think, I assure you, it is not cute, charming, or kitschy. For example, every year I seem to have to do banking on October 31. And every freaking year I wind up conducting my transaction with a teller in a gorilla suit.

And really?

Nothing builds confidence in one’s financial institution more than handing over one’s paycheck to a creature not wearing pants, especially at my crappy bank, which is not only located in a grocery store but is entirely staffed by gang-bangers.

I envision going into my bank after I get my first book royalty check, and I expect to have this conversation…

“Hi. I have a sizable
4
check here and I’m not sure what to do with it. Since you’re my banker, I’m hoping you can advise me on how to utilize these funds to the best advantage,” I’ll say.

“Chure, man,” he’ll reply.

“Should I invest in a money-market fund? Pay off debts? Use it as a down payment on a home to build equity? Do a bit of each?”

“Dunno. Lemme see da check first.” He’ll hold out a giant, furry paw and will walk my check over to the manager, who apparently chose not to wear a costume. Although, when your neck is covered in gang tats, who needs additional adornment?

“Well, what do you think?” I’ll ask them both.

In unison, “Man, we think you should buy some rims!”

Fletch unlocks our back door and the dogs rocket off their respective ends of the couch and hurtle in to greet us. They station themselves in the front window and bark each time a blade of grass waves or a leaf falls off a tree. The activity exhausts them, their looming presence in the windows scares off would-be intruders, and our walls are thick and no one can hear them, so we’ve yet to come up with a compelling reason to discourage this behavior because tired dogs equal dogs less likely to eat delicious shoes. I go to the front door and get the mail, shrieking and dropping to my belly to army-crawl back to the kitchen, when I spot a little girl in a Princess Jasmine costume walk by with her mother.

Fletch, by the way, does not share my fear and hatred of Halloween. He rolls his eyes and sorts through the envelopes I’ve just delivered. He asks, “So you were scared by a registered trademark of the Walt Disney Corporation?”

“How was I supposed to know they were getting into a car? They could have been coming here. And then what, huh?”

“Then you would have answered the door, told her you liked her costume, and given her one of the mini Snickers bars we bought specifically for those kids who show up here before we finish ‘securing the perimeter.’”

As a graduate of the School of Snappy Retorts and Clever Rejoinders, I respond by telling him, “Shut up.”

“If being home without the protection of our garbage-bag shutters is going to elevate your base level of crazy, why don’t you run to the bank and deposit this while I put them up?” He hands me a rebate check from a recent hardware purchase.

“Thank you. I will do just that.” I grab my raincoat and keys and drive over to the grocery store–bank, bumping into no fewer than three Napoleon Dynamites
5
on my way from the parking lot. I stand in line behind someone in disco clothing with an enormous Afro and platform shoes, and can’t for the life of me tell if it’s a costume.
6
I shuffle through the line, and when a normal girl in regular clothes calls me to her window, I let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God,” I say. “It’s always my luck that—” But before I can finish, the girl is called away by another employee. A moment later, a different banker comes up to my window.

Of course
he’s dressed in a gorilla suit.

I tell him I have a deposit and he holds out a giant, furry paw.

Happy fucking Halloween.

We’ve managed to avoid the deluge of trick-or-treaters, Fletch by working on his laptop in the back of the house, and me by watching TV with lights off and headphones on in the front. At eleven p.m., I think it’s probably safe to tear down the plastic, so I tackle the first floor and Fletch takes care of the second. When we’re done we get ready for bed. After I’ve washed my face and put on my nightgown, I move the dogs off my side of the bed and lie down. When I look up I notice one of our ornate, very heavy, and exceptionally stabby-looking curtain rods has come loose.

“Fletch? Fletch! Come here!” He strolls out of the bathroom holding a book, walking at a pace that makes me glad I wasn’t choking.

“You rang, madam?”

“Yes! Look at that—the curtain rod is barely hanging on by a screw. It’s about to come out of the wall.”

“How about that.” He gets into bed and opens his book.

“I bet it came loose when we were either hanging or removing those plastic bags.”

“Probably.”

I watch him as his eyes travel down the page, making no movement to get up. “Well?” I ask.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to fix it?”

“No, I’m not going to fix it. It’s midnight. I’ll get to it tomorrow.”

“But it looks like it will fall
right now
.”

He flips a page. “It’ll be fine.”

“No, I don’t think it will. Look how loose it is.” I demonstrate by yanking on it so that the sharply curlicued end dips even more precariously down toward my pillow.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“
Of course
I’m going to worry about it. That’s how I roll. I worry. About everything. Do I need to remind you of my head-in-the-toilet phobia?”