Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner (4 page)

BOOK: Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner
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11:14
P.M.
—But what if I put in a brighter bulb?

11:15
P.M.
—IS FURRY BEAST! KILL IT! KIIIIIIIIL IT!

11:16
P.M.
—“What do you think I’m doing? I’m looking at my skin in this mirror. And I’ve either got to wax this mustache or start giving rides on it, ha ha!”

11:16
P.M.
—“What do you mean, ‘
I don’t think that expression means what you think it means’
?”

11:17
P.M.
—Oh. Then that man at Target with the
FREE MUSTACHE RIDES
logo was wearing a very dirty shirt.

11:18
P.M.
—“I would like to amend my previous statement. I need to wax this mustache or learn to twirl it, ha ha!”

11:19
P.M.
—I should tweeze this thing.

11:20
P.M.
—I should find my tweezers.

11:21
P.M.
—Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

11:22
P.M.
—Screw this. I need a professional waxing. Must make an appointment.

11:25
P.M.
—Can’t. Stop. Fondling. Mustache.

11:30
P.M.
—Fine, I’ll do the goddamned thing myself.

11:40
P.M.
—Can’t find new tub of wax I purchased for just this very occasion, so locate old container. Is very old. Is possibly the exact same tub that Moses’ wife used to remove her unwanted facial hair. (Desert light is unforgiving.)

11:41
P.M.
—But it’s wax. It’s not like it could go bad, right?

11:42
P.M.
—“I’m not
‘banging around and keeping you awake.’
I’m doing something important.”

11:43
P.M.
—Microwaving.

11:44
P.M.
—Microwaving.

11:45
P.M.
—Microwaving.

11:46
P.M.
—Microwaving.

11:47
P.M.
—I think my microwave may be broken.

11:48
P.M.
—Ah, there we go.

11:49
P.M.
—I don’t have a stick, so I’ll just use my finger to stir this hot, molten lava.

11:50
P.M.
—“Well, what do you expect? I just seared off my own fingerprint!”

11:51
P.M.
—Blow and cool. Use damaged digit to spread wax liberally on my Tom Selleck.

11:52
P.M.
—Wait for wax to harden so can pull off unsightly hairs in one (briefly painful) fell swoop.

11:53
P.M.
—Is not hardening.

11:54
P.M.
—Is not hardening.

11:55
P.M.
—Is not hardening. Is sitting on upper lip in a big, sticky blob.

11:56
P.M.
—Begin to tentatively peel off wax millimeter by millimeter. (Hate metric system.)

11:57
P.M.
—Is like removing chewing gum from underneath cafeteria table, only ouchy.

11:57
P.M.
—Hurty.

11:58
P.M.
—Hurty.

11:59
P.M.
—So very hurty.

12:00
A.M.
—Use sticky bits of already-peeled wax to slowly pry off other gummy bits.

12:01
A.M.
—Oh, yeah, this is WAY better than waiting nine hours and paying a professional ten dollars to handle this in five seconds.

12:02
A.M.
—The good news is the hair is coming off.

12:03
A.M.
—The bad news is, so is my skin.

12:04
A.M.
—How mad will he be if I wake him up to help me?

12:05
A.M.
—On second thought, he’d be mad for a second, but the mocking would last a lifetime. Must cowboy-up and finish job myself.

12:06
A.M.
—… And it’s finally off!

12:07
A.M.
—Except for those small, tacky bits with the Kleenex stuck to them.

12:08
A.M.
—I know, I’ll use baby oil. That gets rid of sticky stuff.

12:09
A.M.
—Hmm, I don’t have baby oil. Instead opt for canola oil. (Is heart-healthy.)

12:10
A.M.
—Wax is off, now to remove oil. Need toner.

12:11
A.M.
—But tossed out toner after that whole “who thought it was a good idea to make this stuff the exact same shade of blue as the nail polish remover?” incident.

12:12
A.M.
—Will use Fletch’s toner. Quietly.

12:13
A.M.
—!!!

12:14
A.M.
—“WELL MAYBE THEY SHOULD HAVE WRITTEN ‘GLYCOLIC ACID’ IN BIGGER PRINT ON THE BOTTLE!”

12:15
A.M.
—Probably should plan to make an “I’m sorry I got shouty after midnight” mousse tomorrow.

12:16
A.M.
—Inspect skin in magnifying mirror by light of new bulb. Hair is gone, but lip is swollen in manner of Simpsons character.

12:17
A.M.
—So this is what I’d look like if I had the ability to grow a big, red Fu Manchu mustache. Noted.

12:18
A.M.
—In retrospect, perhaps “learn to twirl it” wasn’t such a bad idea.

12:19
A.M.
—Is really late. Must get ready for bed.

12:20
A.M.
—I wonder if anyone else on the Internet is wrong?

Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:

Philosophy makes a moisturizer that states on the label that you won’t find so many imperfections if you don’t go looking for them.
The manufacturers of Philosophy products are a bunch of baby-booming hippies.

My philosophy is you won’t find so many imperfections if you simply have that shit lasered.

C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·H·R·E·E

Flipping the Script

“W
hat are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Ignoring it.”

“Ha. Right.”

When I don’t respond, Stacey cuts her eyes away from the road to glance over at me. “No, seriously, what are your plans?” [
A shorter “fictionalized” version of this story is available in Stacey’s fabulous book
Off the Menu
, in stores July 2012. Even though
Jeneration X
comes out first, Stacey wrote hers before I did. I felt that should be noted.
]

I reply, “I’m being serious. We plan on pretending that Thanksgiving isn’t happening.”

Stacey and I are on our weekly pilgrimage to the Kingsbury Street Whole Foods Market. Stacey was out of the country when the place opened this May, so it was me who took her here for the first time when she returned in June. And now? It’s our special
place; it’s kind of like our church, if churches specialized in locally sourced, grass-fed beef.

I’ve always loved going to the grocery store, long before I learned to cook. There’s something about the cool, crisp, refrigerated air, the pyramids of glossy, precisely stacked fruits and vegetables, and aisle after aisle of neatly faced cans and boxes that deeply appeals to my inner need for order. [
Or my inner need to “control things” as per Fletch.
] My favorite time to shop is early afternoon, before the after-work rush, because that’s when everything is at its calmest and tidiest. (Before you ask,
of course
I’m the shopper who rearranges the jars of tomato sauce after I select one to keep the shelf pristine and symmetrical.)

So if grocery shopping in an orderly, well-stocked store is good, then imagine doing so in the third-largest WFM in the world. Situated on the river, the Kingsbury store boasts an entire promenade where shoppers can stroll and dine and watch boats pass. In fact, the best view of the Chicago skyline can be seen from the top of the three-story parking garage. And that’s just the outside!

The inside of the store is nothing short of monolithic. The fresh produce area alone is the size of a football field and it’s bordered by a coffee bar. The fact that they’re all about being “organic” and I can’t get a damn Splenda for my latte is an annoyingly first-world problem for sure, but that’s why I always carry extras in my purse. [
You never know when you’ll have to sweeten on the go.
]

Did I mention the coffee bar serves beer and wine, too, and always has sports on the flat screen? For me, this isn’t as much of a selling point as you’d think because certain members of the WFM
customer base are cluelessly aggravating enough without adding public intoxication to the mix. [
Although to the person who always parks his Range Rover in the
ALTERNATIVE FUELS ONLY
parking spot? I like your style.
]

Beyond the produce section is the fresh seafood area where the mongers wear those big rubber boots-pants you see on the fish-tossers at Pike’s Market in Seattle. Even though I’m pretty sure the staff members just got off the El and not a Bering Sea crabbing vessel, I appreciate the nod to authenticity.

There are places to sit and have a cocktail or meal throughout the store. Between the dairy and wine sections is a big wine-and-cheese bar, and past that you’ll find an upscale food court area, with everything from barbecue and hand-tossed woodfire pizza to fresh sushi.

And the bars—don’t start me on the bars. There’s a make-your-own trail mix bar, a choose-your-own seafood bar, a decant-your-own honey bar, a mix-and-match cookie bar, and a hot food bar with enough variety to satisfy everyone from the most humorless vegan to the world’s biggest carnivore. [
Which is the Southern Elephant Seal. (I looked it up.)
] One day I stopped by early after a dentist appointment and I stumbled across the breakfast bar, complete with biscuits and gravy. So magnificent was the sight that I wept a little.

When other grocery stores dream of an afterlife, this is what they picture, with twenty kinds of fresh gelato and sorbet made daily and cheese sellers who say, “Hmm, I haven’t tasted that particular
tomme de chèvre
, either—let’s open it up and sample it together!”

Through the confluence of unbelievably fresh product, a little
training, and finally owning some decent equipment, I’ve come to love cooking. Turns out I’m fearless in the kitchen and Fletch is constantly delighted by the dishes I make. Yeah, there’s an occasional misstep—candy apple pork chops, I’m looking at you—but I’ve found real Zen at the bottom of my enamel cast-iron pot.

In fact, last year Fletch and I tackled our first fully blown, fancy-set-table, official Thanksgiving dinner as our attempt to create a new holiday tradition. In the past we’d gotten together with family, but as our relationship became increasingly strained, [
Read: certain members became bat-shittier.
] we thought we’d be a lot happier on our own and this was our first go of it.

Our menu was outstanding and I’m not sure what the best part was. The prosciutto-wrapped asparagus was the perfect blend of crisp and salty and the creamed pearl onions made me want to bury my face in the chafing dish and go at them feeding-trough-style.

But as Fletch and I sat there at our grown-up table in our first real dining room—with a chandelier and everything!—eating a wonderful meal and drinking out of proper wineglasses, the venture into new traditions felt like a waste of time. I spent two days in the kitchen and we finished stuffing ourselves in about twenty minutes. The end result, although delicious, wasn’t worth the effort and felt like a huge letdown.

Our other Thanksgiving option, going out to dinner alone, feels equally depressing, so we decided that our
new
new tradition is full-on denial.

I tell Stacey, “We’re just going to be all,
‘Thanksgiving? Sorry, I think you dialed the wrong number.’

Stacey keeps stealing confused glances at me while she drives. “Let me get this straight—you plan to ignore Thanksgiving?”

“Exactly.”

“Honey, denial is not a strategy.”

“Pfft. Denial is
absolutely
a strategy, particularly for the kind of holidays that depress you. For example, how did you celebrate Valentine’s Day last year?”

Stacey’s lips get all scrunchy, and her voice is clipped. “I don’t remember.”

“See? Denial. Works like a charm. [
Please don’t worry about Stacey. When this happened, she was about four days away from meeting the man of her dreams. They got married in May 2011, and he gives her the best Valentine’s Days anyone could possibly imagine. I’m talking diamonds, champagne, and poetry. He treats her like the (bossy) goddess she is
] Can you blame me for not wanting to recognize the day because it bums me out? All holidays do. Always have. I’ve hated the time period between my birthday in November and January second since I was a kid because, without fail, every single holiday devolved into big-time family chaos.”

“How so?” Stacey gets distressed when I bring up familial insanity, likely because she comes from a functional family where everyone not only loves each other, but actually likes one another, too. No one tells anyone else they’re fat and no one gets into a screaming match over using too much hot water, nor does anyone continue to hold a grudge about shit that happened in 1976.

It’s so weird.

“Give me a specific,” she prompts.

“Let’s see… well, every year like clockwork my mother would try to punish my father because he liked being home for the holiday instead of driving seventeen hours in the snow each way over a
weekend so she could be with her extended family, none of whom he liked, so that was fun.”

“That’s it?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. We’d spend the week leading up to the holiday dealing with her sulking and pouting and I’d be all,
‘What are you, fifty?’
Then the actual day of Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter would roll around and she’d freak out because she spent so much time pouting and sulking that she’d be entirely off schedule in creating the meal. And despite having help from me, my dad, and later my sister-in-law, dinner wouldn’t be ready until ten p.m. and she’d be mad at us for complaining that we were hungry. Of course, she’d sabotage a situation already made super-tense due to starvation by unilaterally deciding madness like,
‘I’m going to make this a fat-free Thanksgiving!’

BOOK: Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner
3.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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