Instead, I find a pack of losers. And yes, this time I mean in the pejorative sense. Granted, a few of the people are there to exchange information, such as “What time should I show up for the open call?” and “How long is the audition process—should I take a whole day off of work?” but the majority of the posts can be divided into a couple of categories.
First, the It’s Not Fair folks:
“I’m fourteen and I really need to be on the show because I weigh four hundred pounds. It’s not fair you have to be a legal adult to participate.” (And not to be insensitive, but this is what happens when school districts decide gym class is unnecessary.)
“I’m Canadian and it’s not fair you have to be a U.S. citizen to be on the show.” Likely this has more to do with work visas than discrimination.
More insidious are the I’ve Done Nothing and I’m All Out of Ideas people:
“I want to be on the show but I don’t own a video recorder to make an audition tape. Please make an exception for me.”
“I have to work late and I can’t make the casting call. I know I’d be good on the show,14 so please make an exception for me.”
“I’m overweight, unhappy, and unhealthy. But the show lasts ten weeks and I’d miss my dog. Please make an exception for us and allow me to bring him.”
These people really make me sad. Getting on this show is an opportunity of a lifetime. I can’t even guess how much ten weeks of room and board at a luxury spa with round-the-clock personal trainers would cost. And not only is the stay free, but NBC pays the participants a stipend while they do nothing but take care of themselves. Best of all, they have a chance to win fabulous prizes and the big winner takes home a cool quarter of a mil. Yet the people on the message boards are letting relatively tiny obstacles stand between them and the promise of a fit future and I find it so frustrating. I know how easy it is to make excuses rather than changes, and I feel for them.
I want to shake all of them and convince them fighting for themselves is worth it. I want to say, listen, I understand procuring a video camera might be difficult. And maybe it’s embarrassing to have to borrow one and explain why you need it. Driving ten hours to a casting call is probably no one’s idea of a good time. And personally, imagining my sweet little Maisy dog sitting by the front door for ten weeks while I’m gone makes me want to cry, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. Just being able to take her for a proper run down the street would make the experience worth it for both of us. I want them to understand if they want something badly enough, they have to find a way to fight for it.
Unfortunately, from what I’m reading on the boards, the majority of posters have decided to simply half-ass the application, sending in no tape and a passel of excuses, while spouting the platitude “I’ll be selected if it’s meant to be.” They honestly believe NBC is going to cast them and spend millions to produce and publicize a show about people who aren’t even willing to put forth the bare minimum for participation. And when they aren’t selected, they’ll be overwhelmed by self-loathing at failing another of life’s little tests and will be resigned to the fact that they’re meant to be fat.
And this completely breaks my heart.
The requisite week passes, as does the next, and it’s becoming abundantly clear I’ve not been selected to move on to the next round of casting.
Regardless, the experience helps me find my real X-factor and I’m inspired not only to join a gym but to actually go. I know if I finally commit myself, the weight will come off regardless of the presence of nutritionists, Beta cams, and gaffers.
So even if I’m not The Biggest Loser?
I can still be a loser.
Which is just fine with me.
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: hurricane season
WTF, ladies?
Is this making any of the rest of you sensible gals crazy? I just saw yet another interview with the parents of a couple honeymooning in Cancun. I empathize with the families’ concern; not knowing if their kids are safe has to be devastating. However, this empathy is overshadowed by annoyance.
Um, hello, people? This is hurricane season.
Which means conditions are favorable for hurricanes.
Which are bad.
So people might want to reconsider heading directly to the places they are most likely to hit during the time they are most likely to occur.
A $25 Cancun hotel room is not a bargain if you have to spend the week hunkered down in the basement of a third-world city government building with six hundred other people precisely as stupid as you. (If you want a cheap room, why not head to Vegas off-season? It’s supa-fun in any weather.)
And if your dumb ass accidentally gets killed because you’re down there voluntarily vacationing during hurricane season? That’s not bad luck; it’s social Darwinism.
The kicker is that these particular honeymooners are from Alabama. Not Urbana, Illinois, or Fargo, North Dakota, or Las Vegas, Nevada, or anyplace else where hurricanes are nothing but exciting weekend television viewing. They come directly from Storm Country, USA. Um, aren’t they probably still bailing out their basements from Katrina and Rita? What the fuck were they thinking going to Cancun in October? How do they live in this world and still make the decision to go down there? Do they not have access to television? Or a newspaper? Or the Internet? Or a Farmer’s Almanac?
If the couple was cognizant of the risk but decided to roll the dice anyway, why didn’t they just go to Vegas? They could see the Chihuly glass display in the Bellagio and venture over to the Liberace museum. They could go from Paris to Venice to the Middle East to the Orient without ever crossing the street! They could dance in trendy clubs, watch shows, and attend concerts, each event more exciting than the last. Plus they could drink all the tap water they want and never get sick! In addition, the weather’s totally perfect at least nine months out of the year, the dining and shopping are second to none, the accommodations are world-class, and everyone speaks English. Plus, if you gamble and lose there, you’d still get free shrimp cocktails.
Call me callous, but I just don’t get it.
This e-mail brought to you by the Las Vegas tourism board.
* * *
I Love the Smell of Cardboard in the Morning
“Yo? Fletch?” I call up the stairs to where he’s installing my new antivirus program.1 “It’s raining again.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s been sprinkling off and on all day.”
Normally this would be an innocuous conversation, except for the fact that the rain is coming down on our breakfast bar from a gaping hole in the ceiling.
About a month ago something happened to the wax seal on our second-floor toilet and it began leaking sewage into our kitchen.2 After a few days of frantic phone calls, our landlord finally sent someone to cut a hole in the Sheetrock and remove the most offensive bits. Since then, neither the toilet nor ceiling have been touched. I’d worry our landlord was hurt or perhaps trapped under something heavy, but apparently he’s been well enough to cash our rent checks. (Our landlord is Fletch’s colleague and friend, but ever since Operation Brown Rain, not so much on the friend part.)
The worst part isn’t the very real possibility of catching cholera in my own damn home; it’s going up to the third floor to use the bathroom. Even though I’ve been religiously working out at the gym and doing up to eighty minutes of cardio at a time, there’s something about navigating our stairs that just knocks me on my ass. (And no, Fletch won’t let me pee in the second-floor bathtub, and, yes, I asked.)
Disconnecting the toilet has stopped about 90 percent of the water but our kitchen ceiling still leaks intermittently. I say this is God’s way of telling us we should stop cooking and start eating more McDonald’s, but Fletch disagrees. He says it’s God’s way of telling us we need a new grill. Regardless, we both agree if something doesn’t change and
soon, we’re not renewing our lease.
We’re outside cooking the most gorgeous dill and butter-brushed tuna steaks on our rickety old grill when our next-door neighbor Holly comes home. She’s one of two friends we’ve made in this sixteen-unit complex. Tommy is the other, and he lives two doors down in the extravagant corner unit with the $50,000 kitchen upgrade and hot tub, although I can’t imagine why he likes us after I kind of accidentally reported him to Homeland Security. (What? He dresses like a thug, acts shifty, has no discernible source of income, and is always rolling into the parking lot in a variety of luxury cars—Ferraris, Mercedeses, Lamborghinis, etc. What was I supposed to think? Big time X dealer? Club promoter? Polish mafia? Terrorist, perhaps? Eventually, I found out that if you actually talk to your neighbor instead of just spying on him you’ll learn all sorts of interesting stuff…like real estate developers often wear casual clothes and keep strange hours…and parents who own luxury car dealerships often let their adult children borrow various vehicles…and sometimes “aloof” is another word for “shy.” The kicker is he actually went to the same college as Fletch and I. Tommy’s a Boilermaker, not a terrorist.3)
Anyway, Holly’s struggling to unload her groceries and manage her giant Rottweiler, so I run over to help. Yeah, yeah, I know—since when am I helpful? But Fletch and I have both gotten tight with Holly over the past couple of months. She’s always so upbeat and silly and she reminds us of our friend Suz4 from college. If I ever want an adventure—taking the dogs to the lake, climbing over the side of the rail on the expressway to get an unobstructed photo of the harvest moon, breaking into the construction site across the street to see if the new condos are really worth their $600,0005 asking price—Holly’s up for it.
“Hey, baby, what’s happening?” she calls by way of greeting. Her swingy black bob shines in the sunlight. (Note to self: Ask what kind of conditioner she uses.)
I grab Vaughn’s leash. “You look like you’re struggling. Thought I’d lend a hand.” Vaughn couldn’t be happier to see me and practically lunges at me. His enormous tongue reaches me a good fifteen seconds before the rest of him. Holly claims he’s in love with me, and a lot of times he’ll sit in the corner of her yard and stare wistfully in at me through our giant glass wall of windows, wagging his stub of a tail the whole time. When he stands on his hind legs he can reach my face, so I let him give me a couple of sloppy kisses and a big doggie hug before I pull on his leash. He immediately collapses at my feet and shows me his downy belly.
After I wipe off my face with my shirttail, I notice ten Trader Joe’s bags in the trunk of Holly’s tiny car. She’s single, fit, and lives alone, so this seems like an awful lot of food. “Wow, are you having a party or are you developing an eating disorder?”
She replies, “None of the above. I have a girlfriend coming to stay with me for a while.”
Fletch covers the grill and comes over to join us on the sidewalk that runs in front of our apartments. “That sounds like fun. Maybe you guys want to join us tomorrow? We’re going to be grilling out again. We’re having Coronas and margaritas and I’m cooking carne asada. Come over—we can make some noise and piss off all the assholes on the condo board.” Behind Fletch’s back, I’m shaking my head, mouthing “No!” and “Run!” while pantomiming vomiting, gagging, and jogging. He sees me reflected in our windows and swats me with a fishy set of tongs.
Holly sucks air in through her teeth. “Oh, you’re sweet to offer, but no.”
“You probably want to get your shots before you eat Fletch’s cooking again?” I nod knowingly.
“Oh, give me a break, little Miss Fry a Pork Chop within an Inch of Its Life and then Cover It with Sweet Baby Ray’s Barbecue Sauce to Make them ‘Exotic.’6 At least I try new stuff.”
“Mmm, yes. New stuff. Last week he made some Ethiopian dish with spinach and peanut butter. You know what? There’s a reason they’re all so skinny over there.” BTW, there is not enough chocolate cake in the world to wash the taste of that culinary abomination out of your mouth. “Anyway, do you have other plans? With boys, perhaps?” I ask, my voice tinged with excitement.
Holly is not only vivacious and lovely but also at the top of her game professionally. However, she’s just turned forty-two, which apparently in this city means social suicide. Why is that? There are plenty of unattached men here in their forties, but they seem to go for the twenty-something girls and I have no idea why. I mean, wouldn’t they get tired of having to explain cultural references over and over? It scares me to think that there are whole generations of people who have no idea The Love Boat ever existed. Excuse me, middle-aged single gentlemen of Chicago? Yes, you there, with the Porsche and the hair plugs, hanging out in the Viagra Triangle in Diesels when you should be in Dockers. Listen up—I don’t care how young, hot, or untouched by gravity your current plaything is—at some point, you’re going to grow really weary of having to explain your joke about Adrienne Barbeau. The little girl you’re with has no idea that Paul Newman isn’t just “the salad dressing guy,” and when you and your grown-up friends argue about whether David Hasselhoff was the talking-car guy or the monkey in the truck and the Two Dads dude, or they bring up the age-old Ginger or Mary Ann debate, she’ll be of no help. Anyway, even if the men in Chicago don’t appreciate Holly, we certainly do. But if there’s a possibility of a date, we’re going to be psyched for her.
“Nope, no hot new romances, nothing like that. The woman that’s coming, she’s an old buddy from college. We were best friends twenty years ago, but she was still such a huge partier after graduation that we eventually lost touch. I couldn’t take her drunken four a.m. calls when I had to be up a couple of hours later.”
“So, how’d she end up coming here?” Fletch asks. I notice the grill is getting particularly smoky, but I assume7 Fletch knows what he’s doing.
“You see, my friend Tracy’s had kind of a rough time of it and she’s coming here to dry out. She’s been in and out of rehab facilities for years and her family’s had it with her. I guess I was her last hope. When she called, I probably hadn’t spoken to her in five years—I’ve no idea how she got my new number. Anyway, we have such a long, shared history that I couldn’t say no. So, she’s going to stay with me until she can transition back into a normal life. She’ll be here later today.”
“Oh, my God. You’re, like, the best friend in the world.” Shoot, I think, you can’t even count on me for a ride to the airport.
She looks out at the horizon and sighs. “Yeah, well, I try. Listen, I’ve got to put this stuff away before it melts, so I’ll see you later, okay?”
I lead Vaughn up to her yard, giving him one last scratch behind the ears. “Hey, good luck. Let us know if we can help.” Holly enters her house and through her giant wall of glass I can see her loading groceries into the fridge. I turn to Fletch and tell him, “I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to end well. There’s a reason people rehab in actual facilities.”
Fletch nods. “Maybe, but I thought after the Tommy Terrorist foolishness you were going to start minding your own business.”
“I will, I will. My bad. I’m just saying Holly’s really nice and I hope her friend isn’t here to take advantage of her.”
“As do I.” He turns his attention to the fish-shaped lumps of carbon on the grill. “So, who likes tuna?”
Tracy has arrived and I’m doing my best not to be annoyed. She has a tendency to glom onto us and spew copious amounts of highly inappropriate self-disclosure whenever we cross paths. I mean, when did saying Hi, how are you? become an invitation to tell me about your daddy issues?8
Tracy must have the hearing of a bat because every time we try to sit on our patio or second-floor balcony, she’s out within seconds to join us. She hangs over the iron gate or wooden lattice and starts spilling all her problems. We’re trying to be kind because we figure the poor thing is probably just talking to keep the spiders from crawling all over her. So, we smile, nod, and grudgingly listen until
we can escape back indoors without seeming rude. As charter members of the Jerk Club, neither of us is used to being terribly tolerant. However, Holly seems so strained that I want to do something to ease her burden. I’d never seen her without a smile until this week. She normally looks like she’s about twenty-five, but lately every line on her face is showing. Even poor, laid-back Vaughn is stressed, evidenced by the giant bald patch he’s licked on his leg. But I realize sobering up is the kind of struggle I can’t fathom,9 so I put on my polite face any time Tracy wants to chat.
I try not to be skeeved out when she gives me a bouquet of dead flowers she’s picked, nor do Fletch and I make disparaging remarks to each other when she asks if we’d like her to wash our car. And we don’t close our blinds when she takes Vaughn’s spot, positioning her lawn chair so it faces directly into our living room.10 Instead, we give her mad props for trying.
That is, until today.
I’m opening the blinds in the living room when I see Holly pulling a suitcase down our walkway. I pop out to say hello and learn that she’s got a cab waiting. She’s off to San Francisco for business and Tracy’s going to dog-sit. I tell her to have a good time and watch her leave through the gate. “Hey, Fletch?” I call up the stairs.
“Yeah?”
“Holly’s leaving Tracy alone. Ten bucks says the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 19
