A gentleman joins the mother and daughter and Fletch says, “I don’t know, but we’d better let Dad give it a whirl!” We laugh until we choke as the man begins to work the drawers again and again.
“Fletch, suddenly I feel like the smartest person in this store.”
“No kidding. Okay, let’s bus our trays and get busy. Fifty bucks and fifteen minutes—we can do it.” To confirm, we bump our fists together in Wondertwin solidarity.
Three hours and $400 later, we’re a whole lot less smug.
Trader Joe’s is the third prong in our shopping Trinity and definitely rivals Target for my affection. Such is my crush on Trader Joe’s, it’s all I can do to not ride by it/him ten times a day on my bike. I want to pass Trader Joe’s little origami notes in study hall asking, “Do U Like Me? Circle Y or N.” They have hundreds of house-branded groceries so they’re not only inexpensive but also really good. Plus a lot of their merchandise is organic so I actually feel like I’m doing something healthy for myself when wolfing down an entire box of their private-label imitation Oreos.
Even though Trader Joe’s draws from the same employment pool as the Target tattooed troglodytes, they must do some sort of special training because their staffers are chatty and enthusiastic. Like if you buy dog food, they start a conversation about what kind of pup you might own and are so damn happy to know yours are from a shelter. Or if you get a bunch of steaks, they inquire about your possible barbecue and how much fun you’ll have and isn’t the weather just great for it? What’s nice is when you buy a cart full of their fine, fine Charles Shaw wine,11 they’re also kind enough to not mention your raging alcoholism. They just smile and pretend they don’t notice your gin blossoms.
I love every Trader Joe’s I’ve visited, but my particular Trader Joe’s is special—I go to the one in Lincoln Park and it’s on the second floor of the shopping center. To get in, you have to drive up a ramp and then park inside. As a very, very lazy person this is extraordinarily appealing to me, as it’s but a step away from actually getting to drive down the aisles.
Alas, my Trader Joe’s is a harsh mistress12 because there’s something about him that brings the cell-phone users out in droves. Droves, I tell you! Most of the time Fletch and I are the only ones in there not on the phone; not surprising, because we only call each other.
I’m in the middle of a very important decision—Trader Joe’s delicious capellini or farfalle—when some stupid girl cuts in front of me and begins to rant about her problems with her sister on her Sidekick. No matter which way I try to maneuver around her, her blathering gets in my way. You know what? I don’t care if your sister hates the yellow bridesmaid dress and it’s throwing your big day into chaos. All I care about is getting some damn pasta. But it’s impossible because you are in my way and I can’t get around you and your fucking fantasy wedding.
Remember when the only people who had cell phones were doctors and Wall Street types? If they were in public and on their mobile, they were either saving lives or brokering the merger between Salomon and Smith Barney—serious stuff, right? Yet now I can’t get my shopping done because some woman I will never meet prefers buttercream-colored satin to lemon and is making her sister apoplectic.
When did the cell phone become a license to be rude? And why must I be subjected to your personal conversations?13 Five years ago, while at Cucina Bella on Diversey, a dot-com wunderkind was seated at the table next to me. During the course of our dinners, his phone rang twenty-three times. No shit, twenty-three times; I know this because I counted. And it was a loud ring, not just a beep. Better, he actually answered the phone and had conversations with every caller while still seated at his table. I knew that this kid ran a successful Web site, so I initially let it slide, thinking he might have been doing business. But as his conversations were peppered with the words “dude,” “bong hits,” and “Jaeger shots,” I realized he was simply yammering with his buddies and I wanted to dice him, deep-fry him, and serve him with a ramekin of cocktail sauce. (Instead, I cornered his date in the ladies’ room and convinced her to dump his inattentive ass.)
I know I’m fighting a losing battle to stop people from talking on their phones in public. For some reason, most people need that constant stimulation. God forbid anyone be quiet for a minute, because that’s when they begin to hear the voices in their heads. You know, those little voices that make them question their views on society, ethics, organized religion, etc.? And we can’t allow those thoughts, now can we?
My rule of thumb is this: if you’re going to be boorish and subject me to your cell-phone conversation while we are sharing a public space, it had at least better be out of the ordinary. Hearing you prattle on about your lousy boyfriend? Not remarkable. Listening to your discourse on your lousy boyfriend, Che Guevara, who had you running arms through Colombia? Start talking.
But until then, remember, you’re in my house of worship.
So kindly shut the fuck up.
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: casa chaos
Hey, girls,
Alternate e-mail title—why Fletch hates working from home.
Setting: Our living room, 7:58 a.m.
Fletch: Jen, I’m about to be on back-to-back conference calls. Can you please keep everyone quiet?
Me: Of course.
8:05 a.m.—I accidentally set off the security alarm when I open the front door.
8:18 a.m.—Cat knocks his feeding tower off the top of the refrigerator, showering the entire kitchen with cat food pellets.
8:29 a.m.—Dogs go monkey-shit crazy with barking when a leaf blows across the patio.
8:32 a.m.—Dogs go monkey-shit crazy when they see a bird on the patio.
8:39 a.m.—Dogs go monkey-shit crazy for no good reason.
8:47 a.m.—A different cat projectile vomits on the counter.
8:48 a.m.—Same cat takes out her anger about throwing up by attacking Maisy. Much howling and hissing ensue.
8:50 a.m.—Maisy is so upset she poops on the stairs and then hides in the corner, shaking.
8:51 a.m.—Feeling sympathy for Maisy, Loki begins to heave while I scream, “Not on the rug! Not on the rug!”
8:52 a.m.—Fletch hangs up the phone and bangs his head against the counter.
I told him the day he goes out for cigarettes and never comes back? No one will blame him.
Later,
Jen
* * *
The Butterfly Effect
Did you know The Butterfly Effect is more than a lousy Ashton Kutcher movie?1
As a principle of chaos theory, the butterfly effect can be demonstrated by how the change in air currents generated by a single butterfly flapping its wings in an Amazonian rain forest2 can create an Indonesian tsunami, the likes of which will leave world-renown supermodels clinging to palm trees.
My own butterfly effect occurs when one small idea inspires one minuscule decision, which ultimately throws my whole world off its axis.
The thought? Saving a couple of dollars.
The idea? Getting a library card so I could borrow books instead of buying them.
The decision? Putting a utility in my name so that I could prove Chicago residency in order to get said card.
The result? Getting an up-close-and-personal look at a stranger’s bunghole.
But instead of a butterfly, I blame Fletch for what happens next.
Anyone who’s ever been assigned an essay for class will tell you the best thing about writing is not writing. I’ve found when I’m on a deadline, the temptation is there to do anything but put down words. Personally, my favorite “avoid writing” activity is redecorating, because a blank page doesn’t look nearly so bad when you’ve filled a whole wall with rose-colored paint! Plus, I have it on good authority3 that electricity was discovered, television was invented, and the theory of relativity proved simply because those gu
ys didn’t want to face their English 101 term papers. (Ditto on the PlayStation and the knit beer can cap.)
I’m trying my hardest to treat writing like it’s a job. So, to combat my creative avoidance I force myself to sit in front of the monitor—much like my early professional days of doing data entry—until I run out the clock. My discipline about sitting down at the computer is admirable, but that still doesn’t mean I’m always productive once I get there. Again much like my data-entry job, except now I get to work in cutoff sweatpants and an old Lacoste shirt that may or may not be covered in barbecue stains.4
Today’s been a bad day in terms of creativity, as I’ve holed up in my two-tone pink5 plaid office for hours, trying unsuccessfully to coax words onto a blank screen. I feel a frisson of failure as the cursor blinks at me and I finally give up and play a few rounds of FreeCell before IM-ing all my little online buddies. I glance at the clock and see I have hours yet to kill, so I Google-stalk old coworkers, catch up on conservative news at DrudgeReport.com, and reread the entire GoFug Yourself.com archives, hoping to draw inspiration from Heather and Jessica’s biting wit…with no luck. At four o’clock—my prescribed stopping time—I finally stroll down the stairs to bother Fletch. If I’m not getting any work done, then no one else in this house should be allowed to, either.
Fletch is working at our breakfast bar, leaning over his laptop in deep concentration, his BlackBerry and cell phone stacked neatly on top of a bunch of folders.6
“Whatcha doin’?” I ask, drawing out the words while riffling through his paperwork.
“The usual.”
“Like what?” I begin to flip open his folders and accidentally spill the contents of one on the floor. I quickly scoop them up and attempt to reassemble them.
“Regular work stuff.7 Pretty much what I do every day.”
“I know that. Like, specifically what are you doing?”
He glances up from his computer with an exasperated expression. He grabs the papers I’ve haphazardly shoved in the folders, reorganizing and restacking everything I just pawed. “Specifically I’m trying to earn a merit badge by helping an old lady across the street. One more and I’ll get to lead the campfire sing-along at the jamboree.”
“Is being a smarty-pants really necessary? I asked a legitimate question.”
“Well, sorry, but I’m trying to concentrate and you’re making it hard by talking and moving my things out of order.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I sit down next to him, place my chin in my hands, and sigh deeply.
No response.
I sigh deeply again.
Nada.
I sigh deeply a third time and add a little moan at the end.
He presses his lips together and asks in a distinctly patronizing manner, “Jen, can I help you with something?”
“Yes, now that you’ve asked. I’m bored. Stop working and talk to me.” Seriously, writing is a lonely enterprise. Often I have words to keep me company, but an unproductive day highlights just how isolating this profession can be.
“For my job, working from home actually entails ‘working.’” He makes air quotes at me when he says this. “I’ve got to get this RFP out today and I’m sorry, but I don’t have time right now. I’ll give you my undivided attention over dinner, okay?”
“But I need some interaction now. I couldn’t write anything good and I’m so bored I might die,” I reply.
“Then I’ll miss you when you’re gone. Fortunately, my productivity may improve.” He toggles back and forth between making notes on graph paper with a sleek silver ball-point and inserting objects onto a Visio diagram.
“Hey, neat pen. Can I see it?”
“Okay, right now? You’re Homer Simpson and I’m Frank Grimes.8 I expect you to show me your mansion and your lobsters before you try to drink a beaker of sulfuric acid. Except unlike Grimey, I wouldn’t stop you.”
Well, that was uncalled for. “You—you’re a mean, mean meanie and I hope staring at your laptop gives you eye cancer.” I grab a pillow from the love seat and throw it at him to punctuate my sentiment.
“I see all that time with the thesaurus has really paid off.” Oh! Straight to the heart! He sees I look stricken and his voice softens. “Listen, I’ll make you a deal—I’ve got to get this crucial part done. But I’ll talk to you when I finish, okay?”
“I guess so.”
“See you in a while.”
I continue to hover next to him. He scoots down one barstool to get away from me. “For now, you have to find something else to do. Maybe talk to your imaginary online friends.”
I cross the room to lie upside down on the couch and begin to kick my feet against the wall. It is Time to Whine. “They aren’t make-belieeeeeve. Besides, I already did that. Now I’m booored. If you won’t talk to me—which I’m pretty sure is a violation of those marriage vows that guy in the casino made us repeat—then help me find stuff to doooo.”
Because we’re on a budget, I haven’t really left the house for a while. And since I’ve not been out in the world having new experiences, I’ve got almost nothing to say. I’m bored and uninspired. I feel like I did in grade school during our vocabulary tests when I forgot a definition—I could write the equivalent of “The girl could not think of a way to use ‘acrimonious’ in a sentence,” but I imagine that would please my editor as much as it did my fourth-grade teacher. Which is not at all.
“Watch some TV.”
“There’s nothing on but sports and soap operas. Blah.”
He throws his hands up and gestures at me in disgust. “You realize this”—he taps the counter with his pointer finger—“this right here is why we aren’t having children.” We plan to remain child-free not because we hate them but because we fear what our combined genetics may create. We think our kid would be some sort of supervillain, or at the very least have the kind of sarcastic mouth that would ensure he or she would never date and would thus live with us forever. (However, we reserve the right to adopt a kid from a foreign country if we ever have a big yard and no riding mower.)
I throw another pillow at him.
“Okay, okay, you obviously aren’t going to get out of my hair until you find something to do. Why don’t you go to the gym?”
I sit up straight. “I’ll never be that bored.”
“I don’t know then, um, how about…make dinner?”
“We don’t have any food.”
Fletch rests his face in his hands. “I don’t know, maybe read a book?”
“I read them all.” The problem is I go through books like tissues. I pretty much inhale them in one or two sittings because I read so fast. Generally this is good, except occasionally I end up missing important details, and thus, the entire point. For example, in The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, I glossed over the bit on the first page where it mentions Jake Barnes has a weird war injury and has been rendered impotent. So, instead of spending my time with the book marveling at everything that makes Hemingway an American treasure—the majesty of his phrasing, his ability to paint a complex picture with an economy of words, the way every tale turns both epic and tragic, yet ultimately uplifting—I interpreted his story as though it were a pink-jacketed, shoe-covered bit of chick lit. I scratched my head over why Jake and that Brett girl from the cool crowd didn’t just do it already and cheered him on from the sidelines with my helpful suggestions, like “Dude! She totally likes you!” and “You’re way funny and cute—you should so go for it.”
(As soon as you’re done calling me a philistine, I’ll continue.)
Anyway, now that I think about it, reading sounds like kind of a good idea. I mean, maybe the new Sedaris will inspire me? “Okay, yeah,” I tell Fletch, “yeah, I’ll do that. Thanks for the suggestion! But I’ll need to get some new books. Can I have two hundred dollars? I want to restock my bookshelves.”
“Sure. Of course, if I give you two hundred dollars, we can’t buy groceries. But going hungry would almost be worth it to get you out of
the house.”
“Then how am I supposed to get something to read?”
“You can either spend less than two hundred dollars or go to the library.”
“Those bastards at the Palatine Public Library confiscated my card after they found out I’d moved out of town almost a decade ago. Sucks, too, because it was a really good library. Didja ever see their mystery section? Stacks and stacks of books, far as the eye can see.”
He closes his laptop and begins to gather his folders. “And…this is why I drink. Do me a favor and go to one of the Chicago Public Libraries. Not only are there branches in every neighborhood, but the one downtown takes up two city blocks and is nine stories tall. Surely they will have something you like. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish this proposal so I, you know, don’t get fired.”
“Hmm, the Chicago library, you say? This intrigues me. But I don’t have a library card. What do I—hey, hey, hey! Where are you going?”
As I watch Fletch climb the stairs, I make a decision.
The library it is.
As soon as I figure out how to get a card.
Here’s an interesting lesson—when you call the library with an important question, talk to the librarian, not one of the little thugs who’s there doing community service.
Why?
Because the librarian will give you accurate information about obtaining a library card, and won’t just blithely agree when you ask if it’s necessary to bring in a utility bill with your name on it in order to prove residency.
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 4