Bright Lights, Big Ass

by Jen Lancaster

  She wags harder when she sees our neighbor Dan get into his Jeep. He’s the only person we’ve met here so far, and we’ve talked to him maybe a handful of times since he gave us a bottle of wine over the fence on our first day here. We’ve waved at a few of the other neighbors on the rare occasion we’re out front, but that’s about it. Funny how much less you know about people—good, bad, or indifferent—when you don’t live in a big, glass, U-shaped fishbowl. I scratch Maisy’s head and she stretches, giving me a big whiff of corn chip. She sighs contentedly.

  So she hates her yard.

  But she loves her house.

  And that’s good enough for me.

  * * *

  To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

  From: jen@jenlancaster.com

  Subject: deep thoughts with jen handy

  Today I realized something while researching a flight for my boss—

  www.aa.com is the Web site for American Airlines.

  www.aa.org is the Web site for Alcoholics Anonymous.

  I wonder how many people out there seeking salvation just said “fuck it” and booked a trip to Vegas instead?

  * * *

  * * *

  To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

  From: jen@jenlancaster.com

  Subject: more paid overtime, that’s for sure

  Hola,

  I woke up this morning and the first thing to pop into my head wasn’t my usual, “Coffee?” or “Who needs to go outside?” or “How many more trees can I get chopped down today?”

  Instead, I thought, “I bet the Old Testament would have turned out a lot differently if they had OSHA back then.”

  Ciao, bellas,

  Jen

  * * *

  No Molestar—The Attack of the Sock-Monkey Pajamas

  I’m busy in the Fortress of Solitude creating an antidote for kryptonite when the phone rings.

  Well, that’s not entirely true—I’m busy in the Fortress of Solitude writing the Great American Novel when the phone rings.

  Okay, when the phone rings I’m actually in the Fortress of Solitude crafting virtual celebrity paper-doll makeovers at Stardoll.com.

  All right, fine. If I’m being completely honest, I’m not in the Fortress of Solitude at all. I’m in my mint green office/ guest room/general garbage-I-can’t-yet-throw-away-catchall room. However, I totally would be in the Fortress of Solitude if I could just find an apartment carved into the rock face of an Arctic mountain, but there seems to be a dearth of them here in Chicago.

  Still, my home’s an ad hoc Fortress of Solitude if you think about it. Casa Jen serves the exact same purpose as Superman’s pad—it’s where I get away from the noise and chaos of urban life and it’s the only real place I can relax and work on special projects. Granted, it’s not quite a secret sanctum far from civilization, what with it being around the corner from Burger King, and instead of glacial ice the floors are a nice glossy maple.1 Also, our place has a garage and I’m guessing Superman’s fortress doesn’t, because who needs a car when you can fly? This is likely for the best because his X-ray vision would screw up his depth perception and he’d always be accidentally ramming his SUV into the garage wall until Lois Lane had a mini-meltdown and finally had to hang a tennis ball on a string from the rafters to stop him. Then they’d have an argument about his garage-ramming being genetic, because Superman’s mom always used to hit their attached garage’s wall when he was a kid back before his planet exploded. And since the family room’s sofa shared a wall with the garage, the impact would knock pictures off the wall and throw Superman’s brother Todd ass-over-teakettle from his prone position on the cushions every time she pulled in, while Superman’s smarty-pantsed father would look up from his Wall Street Journal and dryly remark, “I think your mother’s home,” and—

  Ahem.

  The point is my home is a virtual Fortress of Solitude and that means I don’t like to be disturbed by unwanted calls. I ignore the phone and get back to the very important business of clothing Kirsten Dunst in punk-rock garb.2 I glance at the phone’s message light, see that it’s not flashing, and return to my task.

  Ten minutes later as I’m painting Kirsten’s lips Goth black and rimming her eyes in red liner, the phone rings again. I continue to ignore it. I’ve never been the kind of girl to hurdle over dogs and ottomans to answer a ringing phone—if it’s important, they’ll leave a message. Plus, having recently recovered from a nasty bout with poverty, I’m still scarred from too many conversations with bill collectors. So that phone? Can ring away. Minutes later, I glance at the light to confirm its message-free status.

  Far as I’m concerned, I’d rather not even own a phone. I prefer the opportunity to expostulate uninterrupted via e-mail. However, I occasionally do need to order a pizza and have since learned one must occasionally allow her friends to get a word in edgewise, so the phone’s a necessary evil.

  I’ve moved on to suit-up Scarlett Johansson in homelesschic when the phone rings again. Concerned that Fletch may be having another one of his “I can’t remember what I like to eat for lunch” dilemmas, I wander over to check the caller ID log. Skimming through the listings, I notice fifteen of the last twenty incoming calls have been from someplace called “Rodale, Inc.” I’m annoyed that Rodale, Inc., hasn’t left a message, but heartened to know that my beloved isn’t standing in a food court somewhere clutching his empty tummy. I return to the computer.3

  I’m at a critical juncture outfitting Katie Holmes in Harajuku garb when the phone rings yet again. Arrgh. How exactly am I supposed to concentrate mixing plaid skirts and striped tights with these constant interruptions? I look at the caller ID and realize there’s only one way I can nip this noise in the bud. Resigned, I lift the receiver.

  “Yeah, hello?” I snarl.4

  “Hello, is Mr. Fletcher in?” asks some guy I don’t know.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, well then, is this Mrs. Fletcher?” God, I hate that. I am not Mrs. Fletcher even though I’m married to Mr. Fletcher. However, I’m anxious to get back to Katie, so I don’t read Some Guy the riot act about how many women choose to keep their last names because we aren’t chattel, for Christ’s sake, and thus do not need to be branded with someone else’s moniker like so many heads of cattle. (Although Fletch really isn’t like this and totally didn’t care what I did with my last name. The truth is that I was way too lazy to deal with the DMV and Social Security. Also, I particularly like how my given last name looks in calligraphy—pretty! Swirly!5)

  I sigh. “Yes.”

  Some Guy begins reading from a script. “I’m calling from Men’s Health. Your husband is a subscriber and I wanted to know if he’s enjoying the magazine.”

  Because I can’t not mess with a telemarketer,6 I reply, “Yes, absolutely. After Jesus and America, it’s the most important thing in his life right now.”

  Temporarily thrown off script, he remarks, “Wow, really?”

  “Um, no. But he does read it on the mug (Fletch’s own version of the Fortress of Solitude), so he commits a good half hour to it each day. I guess that’s something, right?”

  I hear the rustle of paper as Some Guy tries to get back on message. “The reason I’m calling you today, Mrs. Fletcher, is to tell your husband about a free gift. Before we go any further, though, I have to ask you if you mind if I record this call.”

  “Why? Are we going to have an entire conversation about him enjoying the magazine in the bathroom? Because I’ve already shared with you the extent of my knowledge of his feelings toward said magazine. His washroom habits are not something to which I’m privy. We believe in boundaries around here, so I’m not sure what else we have to discuss. Also, he made a roast from a recipe in your stupid magazine and ended up ruining eleven dollars’ worth of pork loin. Are you calling to offer me eleven dollars? Or maybe more pork?”

  Some Guy stammers and I can hear him thumbing through pages. While he hem
s and haws on the other end, I try to imagine what Superman would do if he were me. Seems like he was only a jerk when the situation merited, so I wonder if I shouldn’t cut the telemarketer a break. He’s just trying to do his job, after all.

  “Oh, Jesus, it’s fine, all right? Record away. Add streaming video if you like, but I must warn you I’m wearing flannel sock-monkey pajamas. They’re super-cute, though. The sock monkeys are driving little maroon convertibles, baking apple pies, and going bowling. Funny, though, they’re not wearing bowling shoes. I wonder why that is? Since their feet are made out of socks, you’d think they’d slip all over the polished wood. That’s a bowling alley begging for a lawsuit. Then there’s one little guy who’s in a hammock drinking a piña colada out of a coconut, which seems weird because you’d think he’d be more into banana daiquiris.”7

  After ten seconds of stunned silence, Some Guy continues, “Mrs. Fletcher, your husband is one of our best customers and—”

  I interrupt him with a snort. “Sir, I know for a fact the Men’s Health invoice sat unpaid in Fletch’s in-box for almost four months, so if he’s one of your best customers, I’d hate to know what your worst are like.”

  Admirably, Some Guy stays on point. “Yes, he is one of our best customers and because of this we’d like to send him a healthy eating book as a free gift.”

  A long awkward pause follows.

  “And?” I finally ask.

  “And I wanted to tell him he’s receiving it.”

  More pausing.

  “And?”

  “Because he’s one of our best customers.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that. And?”

  “Well, he gets to read the book free for twenty-one days, and if he likes it, he can keep this and we’ll bill his credit card. Shall I go ahead and send it?”

  See? This is why I’m allowed to be a little rude, particularly because we’re on the federal Do Not Call list. I knew the “give me your credit card number” part was coming. So I reply, “Absolutely not.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t think you understand. The book is free and I’ll—”

  “Wrong. No charge for three weeks does not equal free. Plus, you’re already well aware of our track record of not returning things in a timely fashion. I guarantee that if you send this to us, we’ll forget to get it back in time and then we’ll be stuck with a book we didn’t want in the first place. Then we’ll likely ignore the invoice, it will go to collections, and suddenly this stupid ‘free’ fifteen-dollar book will be a $276 ding on our credit record, my phone will ring all day with more unwanted calls, and then poor Lindsay Lohan will have to go naked!8 Sorry, not interested, but thanks for calling.”

  I hear fingers flying across pages. He bleats, “Wait! I will include a postage-paid envelope and he’ll simply have to—”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  “—drop it in the mail before the twenty-one days and—”

  “I said no, but thanks again.”

  Three strikes and you’re out, pal. Push me again and even Superman would agree it’s time to fight.

  “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, maybe you should let your husband decide, so I’ll just go ahead and—”

  Oh. No. He. Didn’t.

  “Listen, you, Mr. Script-Reading, Non-Flannel-Sock-Monkey-Pajama-Acknowledging Guy, let me be as clear as possible here. Do. Not. Send. The. Book. Okay? Testing, testing, one, two, three, do not send the book. Were you able to get that bit on tape? If so, play it back and get to the part where I tell you not to send the book. Ooh, play it right now and I can tell you ‘no’ in stereo! Better yet, how ’bout I ’splain in pidgin Spanish? Book-o no send-o because pork-chop-o ruin-o. Sí? Sí, book-o no send.”

  “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: jen@jenlancaster.com

  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: jen@jenlancaster.com

  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

  * * *