Wait for train again.
Freeze.
Stay on Orange Line and pray for it to wind up at Harold
Washington Library.
Yay! Am here!
Exit train.
Almost die when giant icicle hurtles to earth mere six inches from head.
Enter library. Which smells like feet.
Conduct exhaustive search.
Seek help from surly library employees, who try to give me
Candace Bushnell’s 4 Blondes.9
Finally find book.
Wait in line for fourteen minutes. Vow to hurt Sykes if isn’t
Bridget Jones–l evel good.
Pay $21.90 in overdue fines because online renewal system apparently doesn’t work.
Head back to train entrance.
Dodge yet another giant ice projectile.
Decide “screw it” and hail taxi. Spend another $9 to get home. Husband spots self exiting taxi and mocks mercilessly.
Total cost of the library excursion?
$40.90,10 two hours, and a portion of my sanity.
So taking the train to my temp job is pretty much out of the question. I’d love to drive but spending $24 on parking downtown is three times more wrong than taking a cab, so the bus it is.
I’m at the stop waiting to go to said temp assignment when the number 56 arrives exactly when it’s supposed to be here. Not only does the bus get here on time and without incident, I actually find an open seat. Huzzah! The heavens are shining down upon me! For today I shall be the one who thrusts my head into someone else’s crotch accidentally when the driver brakes hard for no reason! It will be me who curls my lip in disgust when the embarrassed straphanger makes a joke about tucking dollar bills! I claim this twelve-inch-wide carpeted-plastic throne in the name of Jen!
Delighting in the luxury, I open my canvas tote and root around in it, digging past my lunch, purse, extra panty hose, hand lotion, four shades of pink-brown lipstick, and umbrella until I find my book. I feel the familiar glossy cover and I whip out Slander by Ann Coulter.
I know, I know…few authors incite the kind of passion11 she does, but I enjoy her writing even though her politics can be too hard-core for…well…anyone. (When I gave my friends Angie, Jen, Carol, and Wendy a tour of my apartment, they made one collective gasp when they saw the book on Fletch’s nightstand. To their credit, they had lunch with me anyway.) But with hair that good I figure Ann’s got to be doing something right.12 Anyway, as I am all about the fair and balanced, I plan to pick up Al Franken’s newest soon, because I honestly believe the truth is somewhere in the middle of all the polarizing viewpoints.
I read contentedly for about five minutes until I sense someone’s eyes on me. I glance up to meet the gaze of another passenger. A small, wiry woman sits across from me in some sort of yoga pose that I’m sure has a lyrical name but I only know as “Indian-style.” The cut of her short, dark hair shows off jug ears and pale skin. Her natural-hewn brown sweater is bristly and appears to be in need of a shave. Big, googly sunglasses complete her ensemble, and her visage is disturbingly simian. This bothers me because it means even chimpanzees are more capable of riding the bus than I am.
I notice her long, skinny limbs are all tucked inside of themselves and the overall effect is that of a monkey in a straitjacket. I continue to read and snicker to myself. Oh, Ann, you’re just evil sometimes. With your mean streak, I don’t see why we aren’t already best friends. We should have a slumber party—we could crank call Hillary Clinton and send a bunch of pizzas to Dianne Feinstein! Then we could TP Ted Kennedy’s house and egg John Kerry’s car before braiding each other’s hair while we watch America’s Next Top Model. I smile and nod at Ann’s acerbic commentary.
The Monkey Woman clears her throat.
I continue to read and punctuate the silence of the bus with an occasional guffaw. Me-ow, Miss Thing! I am so sitting next to you if I’m ever invited to a big Republican fund-raiser.
The Monkey Woman clears her throat again, louder this time.
This? Right here? Is another reason I loathe the bus. I hate having to speak to perfect strangers in such close confines. I mean, no one on the bus ever wants to discuss interesting stuff, like the best way to get your pit bull to stop peeing on the rug in the hallway, or my hair. Either they’re compelled to sell you something you don’t want or to chat about your one-way ticket to hell because even though you’ve been baptized, you’re still doomed because you weren’t baptized in the Holy Name of the Evangelical Church of the Crazy Bus Zealots.
I look up and give her a quick half smile, which I hope communicates, “I’m grinning because I’d like to look friendly so you don’t grab a knife with the prehensile tail I’m sure is hidden under your shaggy shirt and stab me in the neck. But if neck-stabbing is not your intention, my countenance isn’t so welcoming it leads you to believe I want to buy your fund-raiser M&Ms or gab about your intense personal relationship with your lord Xenu, alien ruler of the Galactic Confederacy.13 But, um, hey, thanks for thinking about me and how ’bout I just return to my book now?”
No dice. Monkey Woman doesn’t break eye contact. When she removes her sunglasses I note her small, dark, hooded eyes and sloping brow. She gestures toward the tome in my hand, declaring, “She’s a fascist.”
I focus on my book, replying only, “Mmmm.” I don’t think Ann’s a fascist as much as she’s someone who uses a lot of hyperbole to make a point. Yes, she’s at the far end of the Michael Moore–Joe Lieberman–Pat Buchanan political-leaning continuum, but I bet a lot of the incendiary stuff she writes is just to sell books. I’m sure when we have our slumber party she’ll be totally cool. Gosh, I hope she brings Mystery Date with her! We’ll set up our matching Snoopy sleeping bags by the fireplace and talk about fun stuff like potential boyfriends,14 makeup, reality TV, whether or not our uptight old moms will ever let us shave our legs, and the ramifications of a flat tax. Then we’ll stuff ourselves silly with Cheetos and RingDings, freeze each other’s bras, and dance to my Jackson Five records until my daddy comes downstairs to tell us to stop squealing like Democrats and go to bed already.
“Everything she says is a lie.”
I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you. “Uh-huh,” I grunt, not lifting my gaze to meet hers.
“All she does is spread filthy lies and hate.”
Now I know for a fact this isn’t entirely true. It would be physically impossible for her to only spread lies and hate. Occasionally she’s got to hit the salon to get her roots done, and at least once a week she’s interviewed on Fox News because someone hurled a pie at her while she was giving a speech.15 However, I don’t feel like arguing right now so I say, “Mmph.”
Monkey Woman grows agitated and begins to point at me with the kind of slender, tapered fingers that are perfect for picking nits out of those hard-to-reach places. “She lies! It’s all lies! Lies and hate! Why are you reading stupid lies?”
This. Is. Getting. Old. Normally I’m all about a rousing political discussion, but only with people who I’m entirely sure won’t fling poo at me. So, I simply shrug disinterestedly.
Wrong move.
Monkey Woman begins to squawk, shriek, and gesture wildly. “When you read stupid lies, you turn into a stupid liar! A dumb, unintelligent liar with no brain cells!! You are stupid, stupid, stupid.” With bated breath, she leans forward on her haunches and waits for my reply.
One nice thing about being on a bus with a bunch of city dwellers is her shouting attracts the attention of no one. We’re so jaded that if we ran across a severed arm on the floor of this bus, we’d all simply step over it and debark. I look around and all I see are Yuppies enraptured by the Red Eye commuter newspaper or listening to music on tiny headphones. No one’s even batted an eye.
Note to self: Get iPod, like, immediately.
“You don’t say.” I close the book, carefully marking my place with my bus pass. There’s nothing I can do
to convince her otherwise and the only way to win this bizarre little game is not to play.
Frustrated that I didn’t pitch my book out the window in a gesture of primate solidarity, she throws her paws up in disgust and turns away from me, and…crisis averted.
I hate to admit the Monkey Woman rattled me, but it’s true. I’m bothered greatly when people question my intelligence. I pride myself on my cognitive skills, yet when I fail at simple tasks like taking public transportation, I often wonder if my pride’s based more on false bravado than actual merit.
Come to think of it, I do a lot of dumb stuff, like this morning when I tried to put on my pants without unzipping them first and Fletch had to get me unstuck. And then there’s the second-degree burns on my right hand from last week when I forgot that pan in the oven equals hot. Or like when I fake threw the ball to the dog, only I accidentally let it go and the damn thing flew straight into the window, which then smashed into a zillion tiny shards?16
I sit on my plastic throne and stew. Maybe I’m not as clever as I like to tell myself? What if she’s right that I’m far dumber for having read Ann Coulter? I inspect my own charred paw and ruminate.
As my stop approaches, I stand and get ready to exit. Just as the brakes bring our mobile sardine can to a halt, I notice something different from my new vantage point. It’s but a tiny detail, yet it gives me a shiny new perspective on my rightful place in the universe. I lean in toward Monkey Woman.
“Pardon me,” I say.
Angry, dark eyes cut in my direction. “What?” she hisses.
Clutching my book to my breast so it looks like Ann’s standing next to me as my “second,” I whisper, “Your sweater’s on inside out.”
Then I gather my things and exit as Monkey Woman throws a banana at me.
Okay, the banana part’s not true, but how awesome would it have been if she had?
Anyway, it probably doesn’t matter; tomorrow I shall be reading Ann Coulter in a cab.
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: happy belated 4th of july
In response to Carol’s query of our respective holiday weekends…
Setting: The driveway of my parents’ house. My sister-in-law and niece are in one car and I am in another.
Me: Where am I meeting you guys for lunch?
Mom: Well, I was thinking—why don’t we go to that little Italian place by the mall?
(a beat)
(another beat while I process what my mother has just said)
(because, really, she can’t possibly…)
Me: Do…do…do you mean the Olive Garden?
And…that pretty much sums up the past three days at my parents’ house.
Please tell me your holidays were better than this.
Lie if you must.
Jen
* * *
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: adventures in gastroenterology
Good morning,
Yet another scene from my oh-so-glamorous life.
Setting: Check-in desk for GI lab work at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. An adoring Yuppie wife with perfectly coiffed hair has her elbow linked with that of her adoring Yuppie husband. They appear to have walked right out of an Eddie Bauer ad. Fletch and I are in line behind them. I am holding part of my shirt out in front of me, trying to determine the origin of the grease stain. Bacon? Salad dressing? Not sure.
Yuppie Wife: (to Nurse, hands clasped in earnest concern) I know an endoscopy is a routine procedure, but I’d really like to be in the recovery room to hold his hand while he comes out of the anesthesia. Can I be there? Would that be all right? Please?
Nurse: I think it would be okay.
Yuppie Wife: Thanks so much.
Nurse: (to Fletch) You’re also here for an endoscopy—would you like your wife to join you in the recovery room?
Me: Pfft. I’m heading to the oatmeal bar at Au Bon Pain.
Good luck and see you in an hour.
Ha!
Jen
P.S. The doctor determined that Fletch is completely fine.
P.P.S. And I had grits!
P.P.P.S. What? I brought him back a muffin.
* * *
The Only Thing We Have to Fear Is Rachael Ray
Although plagued by a number of irrational fears, I have a few that are legitimate. I’ve been in a couple of serious auto accidents, so the sound of squealing brakes never ceases to send chills down my spine. Whenever I hear that noise, even from the safety of my living room, I stiffen in dreaded anticipation of impact and the sickening crunch of metal on metal.
Home invasions also terrify me, since we were actually the victims of one when we lived in the supposedly-safe Yuppie enclave of Lincoln Park. Okay, so technically we were one floor up behind a locked door, the police arrived in thirty seconds, and the criminal pleaded no contest and went directly to prison.1 Plus, our perpetrator’s alias was James Taylor. And really, does anything say “bad to the bone” more than Mr. “Sweet Baby James” Taylor? (Didn’t Carly Simon even kick his ass at one point?)
To this day, we snicker about the guy “Going to Carolina State Penitentiary in My Mind,” “Walking Down a Country Road to Jail,” and discuss whether or not he’s “Showering the People” he loves with love in his cell block.
Still, you’d think the crash of breaking glass and scraping metal in the dead of the night would be the scariest noise I’d ever heard, right? Well it’s not. It’s the clanging of pans coming from my kitchen because that means Fletcher is about to cook something.
“Shalom, bitches!” I shout and dump my bookbag full of temping essentials—Kleenex, pens, notebook paper, spare panty hose, and enough candy to anesthetize myself—on the table next to the front door and kick off my incredibly painful shoes. Back when I used to do business there, I realized none of the chic New Yorkers sported the obnoxious sneakers-anda-business-suit look so prevalent with the dowdy, sensible Chicago commuters, and ever since then I’ve sacrificed comfort for style.2
The dogs react to my arrival by lunging at me, the cats tacitly ignore me, and Fletch waves distractedly from the couch. I ask him, “What are you looking at so intently?” Normally in this house it’s me engrossed in television, not Fletch. And at the moment, he is giving the TV an American Idol–worthy level of focus.
“Show. Busy. Cooking. Watching show,” he mumbles, nodding and hastily scratching notes on a pad.
“Huh?” I sit next to him to see what’s drawing him in so much. An annoyingly perky brunette is whizzing around a kitchen set in a painted-on shirt, grabbing random things from cabinets while blathering something about “Evieohoh.” Fletch nods, mesmerized.
“Who’s Evieohoh?” I ask. Fletch continues to stare, his jaw ever so slightly slack. I poke him in the shoulder. “Hey! I’m asking you a question.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s E.V.O.O.—extra-virgin olive oil,” he mutters, concentration unbroken.
“That’s dumb. Why doesn’t she just use the whole name? It’s only four extra syllables.”3
We watch for a couple of minutes, not because I care what she’s making but because I never see Fletch this engrossed in anything. The host continues to blather on in a language that may or may not be English.
“She said to put the scraps in a Geebee, which is a what?”
“Garbage bowl.”
“Huh. Well, yay, her for not going all traditional and throwing junk away in a trash can,” I snort. She’s cooking some sort of soup, but it’s kind of thick like a stew so she calls it “stoup,” and she’s giggling the whole time at her own cornball jokes and it’s incredibly annoying. “Why’s she so goddamned giddy? She whipping up hash brownies or something? Or did they pump the studio full of nitrous oxide? I hate when—”
“Ssshhh!”
&nb
sp; So it’s going to be like that today, is it?
I huff on the couch for another minute, which is just enough time to vow that the TV cooking chick is now my sworn enemy. You, missy! Yes, you with the EVOO and GB and LMNOP and the rest of the stupid abbreviations. Enough with your toothy Joker smile and all the giggling. You’re on television and you’re teaching people to prepare a meal. Show some decorum. Also, cooking—especially when dealing with food chemistry—is one of those areas where it’s nice to be specific. If you’re going to chop, dice, or practically puree something, use one of those descriptive words and not “gonna run my knife through it,” because that doesn’t tell me anything. And how about a specific unit of measure and not just “eyeball it.” Do not make me come on your set and take you to school with my world-famous crusted chicken, little lady. And please either turn up the heat in the studio or wear a looser shirt. ’Cause I ordered the arugula, not areola, thanks.
Still steaming from my shushing, I stomp upstairs to change out of my work clothes. When I return, the perky brunette is gone and Fletch seems to be back to normal.
“Exactly what were you watching that led you to believe it was okay to shush your wife?”
“It’s a new show called 30 Minute Meals. The host, Rachael Ray, shows how to make a whole dinner in a half hour.”
“Interesting.” Not. “But what’s her deal? She’s so enthusiastic that I kind of want to whack her with a board full of nails.”
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 9