“Obviously, Jen, space is at a premium there.”
“And I hate that. I hate that the only time I was comfortable was when I was in my hotel room or walking down the street. I felt so claustrophobic and, like, even if I wanted to hold my arms out at my shoulders, I couldn’t. Much as I enjoy veal, I can’t abide a veal pen. I just don’t remember everything being so small back when I used to do so much business there.”
Stacey stretches, probably subconsciously glad for all the space we’re afforded here in Chicago. “How’s Fletch doing?”
“Bah, Fletch. He’s another issue. I’m away three days, and when I get home, I find that he’s gone completely feral.”
“He’s normally so tidy and put together.”
“I know! That’s what made it worse. On the plane, I read my friend Annabelle’s 91 book, and she writes about how men have this ‘learned helplessness.’ I felt slightly superior at having a husband who has never once left the seat up, doesn’t watch professional sports, and grudgingly, but fully, participates in all the household chores. Fletch is a whiz at laundry, scrubs a mean toilet, and can always be counted on to whip up something for dinner. Sure, it’s usually inedible, but the effort is there, and that’s what counts.”
“All I ever ask is for effort. Success is a bonus.”
“Exactly!” I pause to take a sip of water. After all the drinking and shouting I’ve done in the past few days, my voice is almost shot. “I’ve gone away before, and each time I’ve returned to a clean, orderly house, regardless of how messy it was when I left. Fletch is always neatly shaved and dressed nicely, and there’s often something bubbling away on the stove. Granted, it may be purple and gelatinous and not fit for human consumption, but again, it’s effort. Big snaps for effort,” I croak.
“Do you need some tea with honey? Your voice sounds like hell.” When I grow up, I want to be the kind of gracious hostess Stacey is.
“Nah, I’m OK. I’m almost done and we can start the show. I get back on Saturday, and he must have worked from home while I was gone because he’s got three days of growth on his face, he’s dressed in a filthy Blackhawks jersey, and there are empty pizza boxes and sticky soda and beer cans everywhere. The house wasn’t exactly clean when I left because I figured if I died in the air or somehow crash-landed on an uncharted island between here and New York—”
“Excuse me?”
“Not important. But if I didn’t come back for some reason, I figured he’d look around at the squalor, and cleaning would take his mind off the fact I didn’t make it.”
“Except for the island bit, I actually get that.”
I smile. “I knew you would.”
“Why did he go feral? What was different from your last trip out there? Is this New York’s fault?”
“No, he discovered some stupid Chuck Norris Web site, and ever since I got back, he’s been strutting around saying stuff like, ‘After a night of drinking, I don’t throw up—I throw down.’ ”
“Lucky you! But you can’t blame New York.”
“Fair enough. However, this was the first time I didn’t come home wanting to move there afterward. Loving New York has been such a constant in my life that the trip was weird. It’s like I’ve had a crush on New York for years, and we finally hook up and I find out he still reads comic books, has skid-marked undies, and smells like summer sausage.”
“That makes sense.” Stacey aims the remote at the TV. “You ready for Bravo?”
“I am,” I say. “One more thing, though. I was the only person I saw in three whole days wearing anything pastel. Even though it’s spring, New Yorkers don’t wear pink. And that’s just fucked up.”
from the desk of the logan square- bucktown neighborhood association
Dear Resident at 2337 North x——Street,
Our office has received numerous calls about your vociferous canine. Some of our residents work from home and find it difficult to complete their tasks when your dog barks all day. Please rectify the situation or fines will be assessed and authorities will be notified.
Best,
Jen Cognito, Association President
CHAPTER TWELVE
Less Talk-y, More Drive-y
"I am fucking losing it.”
It’s spring, my windows are open, and Little Dog is up to his old tricks.
“Have you called the city?” Angie asks. “A barking dog is a nuisance, and it’s illegal. Slightly different situation, but once I had a neighbor with a bite-y dog who kept getting out through a hole in their fence and snapping at my kids. I called the mayor’s office, and the city took care of it.”
“I’ve dialed the Chicago city services line so many times, they answer, ‘Hey Jen, who’s bothering you now?’ I’ve filed a stack of complaints and have no doubt the operators at 31192make talky-talky hand-puppet gestures and roll their eyes every time they get me on the line. What’s ironic is, I look back at what I wrote about my neighbors a year ago, and I have to laugh. I was worried about people who didn’t mow and had rats thriving in their backyard jungle? Really? That was my problem? At least rodents and rag-weed are quiet. I haven’t written anything in weeks because of the noise.”
“Nothing? Are you worried you won’t meet your weight-loss goal?”
“Nah, I’ve got plenty of time. I still have almost five months to lose the weight and write about it. I could probably even do it in three months if I had to. I’m just annoyed by all the yapping.”
“You wonder if you might be overreacting out of hunger? ”
“More likely I’m cranky because I’m not drinking. I’ve been on the wagon ever since I got back from New York.”
“You mentioned you were considering it, but I figured it was like my fasting. Good for you!”
“I miss wine. A lot.”
“Alcohol doesn’t have that many calories. You could have a glass of wine if you wanted.”
“I can’t. Two glasses of wine isn’t what gets me. What’s made me fat is the loaf of sourdough and pint of spinach dip I’ll inhale after drinking the wine. Cold turkey’s been the only way to go. I’m not allowing myself any liquor until I see you guys this weekend.”
“You haven’t cheated at all? Doesn’t sound like the Jen I know.”
“I did kind of snap a couple of weeks ago. We were watching movies all night, and Fletch had a few beers. I could smell them and practically feel the effervescence on my tongue. Torture. He went up to bed, and before I knew what I was doing, I ran to the fridge, stole a beer, and guzzled an entire Miller High Life in one fell swoop while standing in the dark in the living room. Don’t know why I felt like I had to sneak it or why I didn’t just sip it slowly and enjoy it. We didn’t have any temperance-type bet, and he’d probably be happier if I were drinking. He keeps telling me I’m being a pill, which is true.”
“How was it?”
"It was the most delicious beer I’ve ever tasted.”93
The guest room is getting hot, so I lean over the bed and open the window. Of course the neighbor’s dog is outside again. Yap! Yap! Yap!
“What is that noise? Is that the dog? Whoa, that is loud.”
"Welcome to my world.” While we chat, I’ve got MySpace up, and I’m approving friend requests. One requester has a Leave It to Beaver family picture up as her member photo, and seeing it makes a little bell go off in my head. “Wait a sec; your neighbors’ dog didn’t stop escaping through the broken fence because you made a call. Your neighbors fixed the hole because you went over to their house all decked out in June Cleaver’s gardening togs. You told his owners you were going to beat their dog with a shovel if he ever bared his teeth at your children again.”
She giggles. “Heh. I know, but if I told you to do the same, you’d probably get shot, and then I’d have no place to stay when I come to visit. I’m dying to go thrifting with the girls, so I lied.”
In my best DeNiro impersonation I say, “You, you’re a giver.” I slam the window shut again, deciding I’d rathe
r be hot than annoyed. “Speaking of, am I going to like going to thrift shops? It sounds creepy. Do I really need a bunch of people’s old shit?”
“Wendy has a bead on where all the nice ones are in the western ’burbs, so that’s where we’re going. Last time we went, she got a brand-new pair of Dansko clogs for a dollar. One dollar. She picked up some awesome fifties tablecloths and Wedgewood plates for fifty cents, and she got an Ellen Tracy skirt with tags still on it.”
“Huh . . . would I be able to get Baccarat crystal pieces for next to nothing?”94
“If they’ve got ’em, sure. You’ll die when you see what people give away.”
“I’m withholding judgment until we get there. If these places smell like feet—which is my fear—I reserve the right to bitch.”
“Deal.”
Am suffocating again. This room heats up faster than my microwave. I crack the window to a chorus of Yap! Yap! Yap! “Great,” I say. “Sounds like it’s going to be another wasted afternoon.”
“Lucky you. Listen, I’ve got to get James at school—I guess I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Bring your shovel.”
“Ang, it’s nine a.m. on the dot. We’ve got one hour to pick up Carol and get out to the suburbs. Chop-chop; let’s go.” I bang on the bathroom door.
“Almost ready, I promise! Just finishing up my makeup,” Angie replies.
“If we’re late, we’re not getting coffee and I’m telling Wendy it was your fault.”
“Shit! No!” Angie practically explodes out of the bathroom, tossing her cosmetic case in her purse. “I’ll finish in the car!”
Normally neither of us would care about being on time, but Wendy is waiting, and I have every confidence she’ll do us all great bodily harm if we’re not there exactly when we’re supposed to be. It’s not that Wendy is rigid or mean; rather, she’s in charge of our shopping expedition today, and everything will have been orchestrated to the minute, and if we’re late, there will be consequences. And I’m not anxious to find out what they might be. Wendy learned to be strict when she taught high school LD classes. Had she shown any weakness, the students would have eaten her alive. She stopped teaching when she had kids, but the toughness stuck.95
Wendy’s a marvel of organization, so much so that she has a gift-wrap closet in which every scrap of paper and bit of ribbon hangs in color-coordinated ruler-straight little rows. Going to her home is like visiting an efficiency museum. She’s not a self-righteous jackass about it, though; she even volunteers to come to friends’ houses to help them. This fall she’s driving up to Angie’s place to help make over her basement with paint and pretty vintage fabric. When I told Fletch about this, he asked if Wendy would paint our basement, but I explained that there’s a difference between sewing pillows and slapping a darker coat of beige on paneled walls and fixing up what looks like Saddam Hussein’s spider hole.
“Hustle, hustle; down the stairs; let’s go!” We dash out the back door and into the garage. I make us both get in the car with the windows up, locks engaged, before I open the automatic garage door. I’ve forced Angie to participate in my elaborate garage security ritual every time we’ve gone anywhere in the past few days.
“I thought we were in a hurry,” she says.
“We are.”
“Then why do we have to go through this ridiculous exercise? ”
“Because you never get a second chance for safety first. There’s danger everywhere.”
“Oh. Danger. All right, then.” She nods slowly and hands me my purse. “Want me to have 911 cued up on your cell phone, just in case?”
“Yes, not being robbed and murdered in my garage is simply hilarious,” I reply, backing out into the alley. There is nothing wrong with employing a bit of caution. “Won’t it be a shame when a bad guy doesn’t stab you in the pancreas and you get to go home whole and healthy on Sunday?”
Angie peers out the windows. “Well . . . I don’t see any potential robbers or murderers, but there are two boys playing kickball in their side yard. Sure, they’re only five years old but they could be packing heat; you never know. Good thing we’ve got our doors locked.”
“Shut it.”
“What about that little blond woman over there and her purse-dog? That miniature poodle could totally be rabid. Shall we get a series of inoculations as a preventative measure? ”
I press my lips together, saying nothing as I navigate backward and then forward.
“I also see a couple of shifty-looking alley cats. You think they’re more likely to rob or murder us? Or maybe just rub up against our ankles?”
“You know who’s not funny?” I ask. “You.” Angie smiles serenely and flips down the visor so she can finish putting on her mascara. “Keep smirking and I will make you listen to Rush Limbaugh all the way to Wendy’s.”
She slicks on lipstick. “And I’ll tell you exactly why he’s wrong.”
Check and mate.
“Um . . . are we going to pass any coffee places? I could use some,” Angie says. She’s been here for less than forty-eight hours and we’ve stopped to get some variety of coffee-based beverage seven times. She’s also pointed out each Starbucks we’ve passed. Because there’s one on every block, the number of times she’s shouted, “Look! There’s a Starbucks! ” has not been insubstantial.
“Jesus, Angie, we’ll be at Jen’s place to pick up Carol in about five minutes. You can wait, right? This way Carol can get something to drink and we won’t have to make two stops, so we’ll be on time and Wendy won’t fillet us.”
“Look! There’s one right there! We could run in if we wanted to.”
I glance away from the road and notice she’s practically trembling with anticipation. “Five minutes? You can’t wait five minutes?”
“Come on,” she cajoles. “It’s right there! And there’s an open spot—pull in! Pull in now, damn it! ”
“Honey,” I say gently, patting her on the knee. “Take it down a notch. I think you may have a small caffeine addiction. ”
“Yeah, Jim says that, too. I wonder why.”
“Hmm . . . maybe because everyone at the new Starbucks in your town already knows your name and they begin to prepare your drink when they see you pull in?” I ask.
“Maybe. Did I tell you about the ass who works the drive-thru there? His name is Dustin, and I hate him. He needs to learn to keep his piehole closed. Shut up! I don’t want to have a conversation; I want to place an order. Every time he welcomes me, I get a monologue about the day and the weather, and when he’s finally done and gets around to asking me how I am, I tell him, I’m venti skim vanilla latte, thanks. My kids are mortified. They think I’m rude.”
“Aren’t you? Sounds like he’s trying to be friendly. I’d kill for a cashier who wasn’t openly hostile. Really? I don’t know what a cheeseburger served without loogies even tastes like.”
“No! He’s rude because he’s wasting my time. I’m in the drive-thru because I’m in a hurry. If I wanted to chat, I’d go inside. The last time I pulled up, he had his big, thick head completely sticking out the window, resting his chin in his hands like he was all smitten with me.”
“Maybe he was. You look way younger than you are, your hair is pretty, and you’re got nice skin. You’re a bit of a MILF. Better yet, you’re like Stacy’s mom in that song! You’ve got it goin’ on!”
As a mom, Angie’s more used to giving out compliments than receiving them. “Whatever. Anyway, I picked up my Altoids tin and pretended I was talking into it, and I waved him off when he greeted me. Oh, remind me—Wendy said she’d paint little buttons on my tin to make it look more like a cell phone.”96
Before I can respond, we arrive at Jen’s place. “Can you run up and buzz to let them know we’re here?”
“Sure! And then we’ll get coffee, right? You won’t forget? ” Fueled by her suddenly remembered need for no less than four sho
ts of espresso, Angie hurls herself out of the car and begins to mash the buzzer repeatedly.
Carol comes out about a minute later dressed casually and comfortably for a day of thrifting. Angie forbade me to wear Crocs, so I’m stuck in a pair of loafers with zero arch support. I fear I will regret this decision later.
They greet each other, and then Carol hops in the front seat because she’s been to Wendy’s place more often than I have and she’s got the directions. “Good morning! So happy to see you!” After we hug, she jerks a thumb in Angie’s direction. “Why aren’t you letting her have coffee?”
I suck air in between my gritted teeth. “I didn’t forbid her; I even offered to make it at home, but she insisted on Starbucks and I thought stopping on the way would be excessive. ” I lower my voice and lean in. “I think she has a problem,” I say.
Carol replies, “That’s what I’ve been telling her.”
“You’re both full of shit,” Angie shouts from the backseat.
I mouth the word “problem” to Carol and she nods.
Carol asks, “Jen, how’s the diet going? You look—”
I stop her. “I look exactly the fucking same. I’ve only taken off six pounds and I’m really trying; I swear I am. I’m going to the gym,97I’m eating right,98I’m not drinking alcohol . . .” I throw my hands up. “I’m starting to worry it’s not going to happen.”
“What about a diet center? I did Weight Watchers after each of my pregnancies and the flab came off. Takes a while to do it their way, but it’s not hard,” Carol says. At forty, Carol looks more like Rene Russo now than she did in high school. Bitch.
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 14
