The Noise sucks all the air out of the arena.
The Noise causes dogs three states away to bark.
The Noise could simultaneously cure and cause cancer.
The Noise refers to the collective gasp coming from twenty thousand twelve-year-old girls and gay men, jointly sucking in their breath at the same time before screaming themselves apeshit, ratfuck, banana-sandwich crazy over cute little Chris Colfer.
I’m probably going to need a second beer.
Two songs into the performance, I’ve lost a large portion of my patience as well as most of my hearing to the screaming. So when the small, tidy, peevish Asian man in knife-creased khakis taps me on the shoulder to say something, I’m in the mood to rumble. I can’t make out his words the first time, so Joanna leans in to listen when he repeats himself.
“Listen, ma’am, I paid a lot of money for my seats and your little girls are blocking my view. It’s not fair for me to have paid all this money and then all I see is the back of their posters.”
Seriously, dude? You’re what, fifty? And you’re surprised that there are kids here ruining the performance for you? What is this, Ravinia? Tanglewood? A night at the opera? Give me a break, pal.
When I was the girls’ age, we were vaulting over dividers and shoving security guards out of the way to get closer to Mr. Springfield. If we had to, we’d have slit people’s throats and ridden their bodies like toboggans down from the balcony if it got us six inches closer to the stage. Plus, you’re sitting down, asshole. Of course you can’t see over the signs. You don’t sit down at a concert! What the fuck is wrong with you?
As I’m drawing a breath to explain to the gentleman that he need just bend over and I will find a new home for those posters immediately, Joanna jumps in. “Girls, put the signs down. Sorry, sir!” Then she smiles and he returns to his seat.
Oh.
I guess that’s another way to play it.
Good to know.
As it turns out, the kids don’t bother me at the show, but the adults are making me nutty. There’s a woman across the narrow aisle from me whom I would very much enjoy punching, as much for the ear-piercing screams that erupt from her piehole every ten seconds as for her “dancing,” which is really more of a full-body contact sport. Even though we’re six feet apart, she’s nailed me in the back three times with all her flailing.
She’s been pantomiming the words to most of the lyrics, e.g., raising her glass during the Pink song, putting an L on her head during “Loser Like Me,” and waving her naked ring finger around for “Single Ladies.” She’s doing the kind of emoting that makes me want to kick my television during Idol auditions. Also, she’s my size, yet did not get the Very Important Big Girl Memo about bras never being “optional.”
Having already been deafened, I swear if I’m robbed of my vision by one of her free-range ta-tas, I’m going to wear her skin as a coat.
“I’m going to shove the bitch down the stairs,” I tell Joanna. The only reason I haven’t is because I don’t want to make a bad impression on Anna.
“Oh, come on, she’s just really happy.”
“No, she’s obnoxious. That’s a subtle but crucial difference. I hate her. Everyone sitting around her hates her. The world hates her.”
Always the optimist, Joanna replies, “The guy with her doesn’t hate her. He must be her boyfriend.”
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend; she has a cat.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the guy started crying when Chris Colfer sang ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’”
Joanna’s face arranges into the kind of wry expression that speaks of an entire afternoon of dealing with “Hey, Mom! Hey, Mom!”
Okay, okay, message received.
I’m on my best behavior for the rest of the show. I experience a surreal moment when Finn performs his version of “Jessie’s Girl” and every twelve-year-old in the joint loses her fucking marbles. With the wailing and crying and rending of garments happening all around me, I can’t help but recall that similar night thirty years ago when another young rock star filled a similar arena. I’m simultaneously shocked and thrilled at how every girl in the joint knows every word.
Maybe someday they’ll be grown-ups, singing in their own kitchens, making their own Bolognese sauces, and recalling what was, to that point, the greatest night in their own lives.
Yet I can’t help but comment to Joanna, “Rick Springfield is currently performing at Indian casinos. How mad is he right about now?”
I slip out after the first encore. Though I’d like to see the much-hyped production number when Artie finally stands up from his wheelchair and safety-dances, my desire to exit the parking lot expediently is stronger.
When I get home, I tell Fletch all about the show and he’s the one who insists we raise a glass to my friend’s dad Mr. Moon.
Even though it’s thirty years later, he’s still earned it.
A month later, I find out one day too late that Rick Springfield himself played my little town’s fireworks celebration on the Fourth of July.
Part of me kicked myself for not reading the local paper sooner, and part of me was glad to have missed it.
I wonder, would I have still swooned at the sight of him, willing to commit a very public homicide just to stand closer to him? Or would I have just felt so damn old seeing him after all this time?
Ultimately, the idea of my first rock god performing for a pittance on a small festival stage breaks my heart.
Yet knowing that his songs—or at least the most important one—can still bring an entire arena to its feet, makes me feel better.
Still crazy for you, Dr. Noah Drake.
Rock on.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Speak with an investment advisor about planning for your retirement, because, really? You never know what the future holds.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R S·I·X·T·E·E·N
Ring of Fire
“I’ve got it!”
I dash down the stairs to the door, shoving pushy, barky dogs out of the way before grabbing money off the bookshelf.
I slip out the door to trade the cash for a brown paper bag from which exotic spices emanate. The restaurant must be busy tonight; the owner usually delivers the order himself, largely because his young daughter is in love with Libby and she likes to ride along. But that’s no surprise; every little girl loves Libby.
Physically, there’s not much difference between Maisy and Libby—they both have strong, stocky bodies and big, square heads. Maisy with her super-smiley face and tan and white coloring actually looks less foreboding than Libby, but Maisy isn’t nearly as popular with the Elmo set. Being around Maisy is like strolling a Moroccan souk—one second, you’re minding your own business, innocently perusing a lovely display of woven wicker baskets, and the next, BAM! A cobra pops out ninja-style and attaches to your face.
Granted Maisy’s a kisser, never a biter, but it’s really hard to explain the difference to a wailing kindergartner. [We give families an extensive briefing before they’re even allowed to meet the dogs. Regardless of warnings, the kids are always, “I love doggie kisses!” but they fail to anticipate the French part.]
Libby’s equally enthusiastic, yet more gentle. Earlier this summer my friend Becca was over with her family. We kept the dogs inside for a while because we knew her little girl was terrified of them. Flash forward an hour and an introduction—instead of swimming, her daughter spent the afternoon leading Libby around with her finger looped through her collar, while Libby obeyed every command given to her.
What can I say? Libby’s a charmer.
Of course, later that night, Libby counter-surfed herself a packet of lightbulbs, chewing everything to shards on the kitchen rug. [She was fine. The only one who ended up bleeding was me when I cleaned up the mess.]
The next day I received a thank-you note from Becca reading, “My daughter wants a dog. Your dog. Beware a preschooler in princess sho
es scaling the fence to dognap.” So it’s no surprise that the daughter of the Thai restaurateur always wants to see the puppy. Libby has that kind of effect on kids.
The Thai place also knows us because it’s pretty much the only delivery we order. When we lived in the city, we could get every possible variety of ethnic foods, from Afghan to Vietnamese. But the unfortunate trade-off for safe streets and an outstanding public school system is that there are almost no decent restaurants. We tried ten different, disgusting delivery joints [Although it’s difficult to ruin a pizza, it can be done.] until we found the Thai/Japanese place and now we’re frequent fliers.
I bring the bag upstairs because we’re allowed to eat in the TV room only on delivery nights. Granted, the worst that can happen is a small soy sauce spill, yet we’ve created an elaborate system of carpet-saving checks and balances, largely because Libby’s wreaked such havoc on them. When we first adopted her, we called her Whizzy Libby and The Bladder o’ Doom.
With a lot of training—A LOT—she’s better about holding it. However, the more she learns to control her elimination, the more she acts out in other carpet-hating ways. Like eating pens. And magic markers. And bottles of Lincoln Park After Dark nail polish.
I settle in and queue up the DVR. “Burn Notice okay?” [If you haven’t already figured it out, Michael Westen is so the new Jack Bauer.]
“Definitely,” Fletch replies, systematically unloading the bag. He first lays out packets of soy sauce, napkins, and chopsticks before opening containers and inspecting their contents. “What’d we get? Tempura—mmm, Pad Thai with chicken, that’s me, some jasmine rice, and… no. Jen, what is wrong with you?”
He’s referring to the Panang Thai Curry, otherwise known as my kryptonite.
The thing is with Superman?
He knew he couldn’t handle kryptonite.
He hated kryptonite.
He actively avoided kryptonite.
He would never willingly order kryptonite because he was smart enough to know that kryptonite would cause him to spend the entire night crying on the toilet, cursing the state of his bunghole. Week after week after week.
That’s when Libby dashes into the room, proudly carrying a plastic toilet brush in her mouth.
“It is truly impossible for you to learn, isn’t it?” he asks. Whether he’s directing this comment to me or the dog is yet to be determined.
I don’t reply. Instead, I take the brush back to the bathroom while Libby trots along beside me. Then I point to the brush and tell her, “Leave it!”
What I don’t mention is that Mama’s probably going to need this later.
Panang Thai Curry seems innocuous enough because it’s mostly coconut milk and there’s barely any chili powder in it. Plus, it’s indescribably delicious because of the basil and red pepper, with a hint of lime. The addition of fish sauce sounds grotesque, but that’s what gives it such depth of flavor.
The first time I ate it I tried to use a fork and I dripped it all over the place, which is one of the reasons we [Read: Fletch.] instituted the We Eat Upstairs Only on Delivery Night rule. Also, when I finished I was covered in broth. Fletch said I looked liked I’d been through a curry car wash.
I ordered the dish because it sounded like a little adventure for my mouth. Plus I could secretly congratulate myself for moving so far away from the cheeseburger-and-orange-soda comfort zone of my youth. Through college and my early professional years, I didn’t have the budget to improve my palate and enjoyed many, many presweetened-cereal-based meals. But after almost passing out in Target after yet another blood sugar spike, I had to accept that there’s more to life than empty carbs.
Also, I’ve talked enough smack about the employees at the Elston Target and it’s not in my best interest to be unconscious around them.
Almost as soon as I discovered a deep and abiding love for Panang Thai Curry, I discovered that I can’t digest it. Maybe I don’t have a tolerance for so much spice or it may be that I ruined my colon from years and years of running Artificial Red Dye #7 through it. Regardless, I need to cease and desist with the Panang Thai Curry because I’m murdering myself from the inside out.
And yet I can’t stop myself from stuffing it in my mouth, much like Libby can’t help but chew up my cordless mouse every time I accidentally leave my office door open.
It’s a problem.
For both of us.
Panang Thai Curry chooses you last for kickball.
Panang Thai Curry asks you to sit with her at the cool table at lunch specifically so she can mock your Flashdance sweatshirt.
Panang Thai Curry snaps your bra straps.
Panang Thai Curry won’t stop you when you’ve tucked your prairie skirt into your panty hose.
Panang Thai Curry tells the boys on the bus you have your period.
Panang Thai Curry invites you to the Huey Lewis concert but never shows up with the tickets.
Panang Thai Curry “accidentally” mentions you smoke to your mom.
Panang Thai Curry has sex with your ex.
Panang Thai Curry thinks you’re fat.
Panang Thai Curry lets your inside cat out.
Panang Thai Curry “forgets” to pay you back.
Panang Thai Curry cancels out your vote.
Panang Thai Curry uses a metal utensil on your Teflon pans.
Panang Thai Curry tapes over your unwatched Bachelor season finale.
Panang Thai Curry sticks you in an orange bridesmaid dress.
Panang Thai Curry ate the last piece of pie.
Panang Thai Curry steals your status update.
Panang Thai Curry doesn’t put the cap back on.
Panang Thai Curry finishes all the milk and doesn’t leave a note.
Panang Thai Curry swipes your top-secret baby name.
Panang Thai Curry shows your puppy exactly where you keep your gel pens.
Even though you’ll probably never get it through your thick skull (or sensitive colon) PANANG THAI CURRY IS NOT YOUR FRIEND.
But your husband is.
So when he instructs the restaurant owner to never deliver Panang Thai Curry ever again, you are not allowed to divorce him because he’s only trying to save your dumb ass.
Literally.
Now if he could keep the dog from pulling up the carpet in the family room, you’ll all be in excellent shape.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Being a grown-up means not staying in an abusive relationship… even if it’s just with your colon.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R S·E·V·E·N·T·E·E·N
Bond, Jen Bond
When I thought about adult life when I was a kid, I imagined cool stuff, like gambling in the casinos of Monte Carlo, zipping around winding mountain roads in my Aston Martin convertible, and taking top secret meetings in underground lairs.
Basically I thought all grown-ups were James Bond.
At no point did I realize the pinnacle of my own personal quest for maturity would entail this: sitting across a real dining room table in an actual dining room, debating the merits of whole versus term life insurance.
Talk to me five years ago and I’d have laughed at the thought not only of voluntarily inviting in the insurance agent but sitting in a room with him where—by design—it’s impossible to eat dinner and watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills at the same time.
The agent explains, “They used to call it ‘death insurance’ but that bummed everyone out.” Yeah, I could see that. Yet that’s exactly what this is. As Fletch and I debate payout amounts, we eye one another warily, having come to the mutually horrific realization that we’re both more valuable dead than alive.
I tell the agent, “Of course Fletch should be taken care of if I kick it first, but I’m not sure I want my legacy to include a boat that sleeps twelve.” Fletch’s stipulation for me is that I can pay off the mortgage, but not have enough cash left over for the Jocelyn Wildenstein–level of plastic surgery I’d need to rope in a new mate. [
Granted, I’m mostly fine the way I am, but if I lose Fletch, I plan on going full-on cougar, so I’ll need a number of nips/tucks to attract Taylor Lautner.]
There’s nothing like putting a price on your own mortality to make you reflect on your life. Yeah, I’m only in my early forties now, so it’s not like I’m just sitting on a plastic-covered couch by the front door with my purse in my lap, waiting for the clock to run out. However, the window for, say, auditioning for the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders has firmly closed. Unless of course I lose Fletch and go for the full Montag. Then I’d also have to learn to dance and embrace the pairing of boots with hot pants, so this may all be a nonissue.
Anyway, after our meeting where the core message is YOU ARE GOING TO DIE, I begin to wonder if I’m living life to the fullest. Sure, I’m happy, but I was a whole lot happier before I realized I’m putting a bounty on my own damn head.
Am I accomplishing everything I want? Maybe? My books have hit the bestseller lists [Thank you for reading!! And did I tell you how pretty you look today?] and I’ve sipped wine with Hoda and Kathie Lee on the Today show. (Try and guess which one I’m more proud of.) But in terms of milestones, I can’t come up with any and my old goal of starting a Twitter war with a Kardashian seems a little juvenile now.
I wonder, do I need to create a bucket list? Do I need to spell out what I’d like to experience before I check out?
As I research other people’s bucket lists, I see that “Go on an African safari” is pretty popular. Sounds exotic, yes? I’d be fascinated to experience the cradle of civilization from atop an elephant. The minute Africa rids itself of all their venomous spiders, black mambas and puff adders, and automatic weapon–toting warlords, I’m sure my insurance company will be delighted to extend coverage while I visit.
Some bucket lists reflect a desire to be more active. I see entries about swimming the English Channel, [Too cold.] running a marathon, [Too hard. And too many annoying marathon runners.] or climbing Mount Everest. [Too much carrying stuff and too much possibility for an avalanche and you just know I’m going to be the one everyone wants to eat.] While I congratulate others for setting such lofty goals, I’m someone who will drive the fifty feet between Costco and Ulta rather than park somewhere in the middle so I can’t imagine I’d like to add anything particularly sweaty to my list.
Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development Page 14
