Bright Lights, Big Ass

by Jen Lancaster

  “Oh, sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, we had a good run, but he’s suddenly become unhinged so it’s over. A shame, really. Now I’m going to have to lose a ton of weight if I ever want to talk to anyone about Fantasy Island again.”

  “Hmm, I guess you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. But might I ask what happened? He seemed sane earlier when he was watering your plants. I’d hate for you to spend all that time on the StairMaster if he’s not really lost his mind.”

  “He thinks he’s out here, um, this is insane, um, chasing a coyote.” I burst into nervous, husband-committing laughter.

  I expect Holly to concur with my diagnosis and help me find a nice institution and a sensible but satisfying diet plan that includes chocolate at least a couple days a week. And real butter—not that yellow cardboard-paste stuff. Instead, she replies, “I saw one earlier, too. There’s a couple of them over by where they’re tearing down the factory next to the north branch of the river.”

  “No way.” Surely she can’t be telling me the truth. (But if so, I have a whole trash can full of cupcakes to rescue.)

  “Seriously, Jen, the coyotes follow the path of the water and they come down here looking for food.”

  “But why would they come to Chicago? The shows? The shopping? I’ve got to tell you, I’ve yet to see one at Bloomingdale’s,” I respond knowingly. I imagine if the coyotes did hit Bloomie’s, they’d go for the sheepskin stuff first.

  “As we encroach on the wilderness, wild animals are forced into increasingly urban areas. It’s really sad.”

  Oh.

  So the coyotes leave their habitat because they’re hungry. Having gone to the Cub Foods in the ’hood more than once at twelve thirty a.m. simply to buy their house-brand big, yummy muffins, I totally get it. Yet I suddenly feel sorry these wild creatures have been driven from their woods and meadows in search of nourishment, only to be stalked down Racine Avenue by a porky phone-company executive in a bright orange fleece pullover.

  The good news is Fletch isn’t crazy.

  I’m still increasing his meds, though, because I really hate doing sit-ups and I haven’t the strength to school a new guy on the genius of Don Knotts.

  * * *

  To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

  From: jen@jenlancaster.com

  Subject: pieces of me

  Four hours and $256.00 later, I now have Ashlee Simpson’s exact hairstyle.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  * * *

  To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

  From: jen@jenlancaster.com

  Subject: trout pout

  Shalom, ladies!

  So, I never quite understood the allure of injecting collagen in one’s lips…

  …until I went to Sephora.

  While Fletch perused the men’s section for upscale shaving gel, I amused myself at the “lip plumping station.” (I know, it totally sounds dirty.) I brushed a variety of potions with clever names like Pout and Plump and Lipscription on my hand…and nothing happened.

  I wasn’t surprised because I didn’t believe for one minute they’d actually do anything. If I’ve learned anything about cosmetics, it’s that manufacturers lie. Nothing will eliminate your wrinkles or eradicate your pores, yet the industry thrives on these beauty myths. The best you can hope for is decent camouflage. So I knew the lip stuff was a farce.

  Bored with the display, I worked my way through the shampoos and on to the perfume wall. While examining an incredibly phallic-looking bottle of Jessica Simpson’s Dessert Treats fragrance, I realized my left hand hurt. Had I bumped into something? Glancing down to see my distended digits, I briefly wondered when I’d shut my hand in a car door.

  And then it hit me—that’s where I’d applied the Too Faced Lip Injection.

  Oh, my God, this shit actually works!

  I pushed through a pack of tourists from Cleveland while rushing to the register to purchase my prize. Out of the way, you slack-jawed yokels…Baby needs a new beak!

  Promising Fletch I’d meet him at Nordstrom in fifteen minutes, I dashed off to the ladies’ room to apply my miracle potion. I smoothed on the glossy substance with care and gazed at my reflection, waiting for magic to happen.

  Waiting…

  …waiting…

  …and waiting…for nothing.

  Perhaps the capsicum in Lip Injection only worked on the skin of my hand? Damn it, that meant I’d just wasted $16.50. I waited a bit more and finally trudged defeated to Nordstrom’s entrance.

  A couple of minutes later, Fletch appeared. As he approached, I

  noticed an odd look on his face. He peered intensely at the area right above my chin. My hand flew to my mouth, where a change had magically taken place at some point between the bathroom mirror and the shoe department.

  With a tentative touch, I prodded my newly lush lips…

  …and they were glorious! Thick, pouty, and gorgeous! I felt like a movie star! Move over, Lara Flynn Boyle, there’s a new sheriff in town! Step aside, Meg Ryan, for I laugh at your shriveled little pucker!

  Grinning madly with my newly magnificent smile, I waited for Fletch to tell me how much prettier I’d become. As he inched nearer to me, I twitched with anticipation, anxious to receive my oh-so-deserved kudos.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he finally stood before me. And leaning in to the point where we were almost touching, I could feel his soft breath on my face as he whispered those magical words…

  “Did somebody just punch you in the mouth?”

  Nice.

  Jen

  P.S. Sephora has a liberal return policy.

  * * *

  My So-Called (Superficial) Life

  Fifteen years ago, I had an epiphany that deeply disturbed me. Really? It rocked me to my very core. However, because I was twenty-one years old, I had just enough self-awareness to understand that possibly every idea I had wasn’t “epiphany” grade. I mean, did I really believe it was the Hand of the Divine that inspired me to combine cranberry juice and Southern Comfort? Or that the same Being who created our universe also led me to look on the sale rack where I discovered those low-waisted, boy-cut Forenza jeans that gave me tiny hips, a flat stomach, and the kind of exquisitely rounded butt that inspired a thousand rap songs?1

  As I wasn’t fully confident in my own callow thought process, I decided to query the most responsible, respected, impartial source I could find—my own spiritual leader, if you will.

  Heidi, my sorority’s president, seemed to best fit this bill.

  Heidi was helping me carry sorority rush materials from my car because I was on crutches at the time. (In an effort to show the entire Sigma Phi Epsilon house exactly how good my Forenza-clad booty looked walking away, I made my grand exit, thus forgetting to actually watch where I was going, and fell down a bunch of stairs, twisting my ankle—not really the impression with which I wanted to leave them.2)

  As we made our way to the Pi Phi common room, Heidi hauling our super-secret sorority rush tools—poster board and spools of burgundy and blue ribbon—I approached her with my dilemma.

  “Heidi, do you think—oh, this is so silly, and I just know you’re going to disagree—but, do think that I might be…” I paused to allow the gravity of my question to sink in, “…vapid? I know I talk a lot about my Forenza jeans and Beverly Hills, 90210 and how I want a job creating names for nail polish colors, but that doesn’t make me shallow, right?”

  It took Heidi a moment to stop choking on a Diet Coke before she could answer. “Um, well, Jen, let’s just say talking to you doesn’t exactly require hip waders.”

  Ouch.

  What made this opinion particularly painful was that Heidi once insisted our chapter vote on which shade of red she should dye her hair.

  Anyway, ever since I had the epiphany of being shallow, I’ve fought against my natural propensity for the puerile and superficial. I changed my majo
r from interior design to political science. I subscribed to the New Yorker. I actually talked to the grad students I met in campus bars instead of just laughing at their earnestness and flannel shirts.3 I dipped into classics by Dostoyevsky, Steinbeck, and Hemingway for personal edification and not just class assignments. (And I actually read my class assignments and not just the CliffsNotes.) I actively sought out Ibsen’s plays and Verdi’s operas. In short, I tried to smarten up my life, and since then I have been more or less successful. So it was at the height of my de-stupid-ification that I met Fletch, and his first impression was that I was kind of deep because we had a profoundly philosophical talk the night of our first date. (In truth, I was so hungover I simply nodded at most of his complex notions because I was trying not to barf.)

  Fifteen years later, there are days when I wake up, watch the Sunday morning political shows, read three newspapers, and discuss Kierkegaard with Fletch over steamy demitasses of espresso at a smart European coffeehouse.

  But today is not one of those days.

  With a mouth crammed full of Froot Loops, I try to engage Fletch in casual conversation about the new issue of Star magazine I’m reading while he’s engrossed in a documentary about the history of unconventional warfare.

  “I’m concerned about Nick and Jessica,” I begin.

  “Hmm?” he asks.

  “I said I’m worried about Nick and Jessica. They have everything going for them but I’m concerned her father’s constant interference in her marriage is going to bite them all in the ass. And what’s the deal with Daddy Joe being so proud of the size of her cans? I read that he’s always mentioning her cup size to reporters. Gross. Five bucks says my dad doesn’t even remember my middle name. Also, having cameras follow them around nonstop isn’t going to help them either. No one stays that cute together forever.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He turns up the volume and moves farther away from me on the couch.

  “And you know her little sister Ashlee? With the overbite and the bad haircut? I don’t trust her. I bet she’s brewing up some stunt to gain Daddy’s attention.4 I don’t care how close you claim to be to your sister, sibling rivalry’s a bitch.”

  He sets down his coffee cup and turns to look at me. “You mean she’s come up with yet another evil new plan after all those you so neatly detailed for me last night when we discussed the topic?”

  “We already talked about this?”

  “Yes. Twice. And you drew me a chart. This conversation makes it three times.”

  “What are you saying? That you’d probably like to watch your little show in peace?”

  “Hey, that’s a novel idea—why don’t we give it a whirl to see if it works.”

  The quiet lasts about five minutes, even though I’m dying to discuss Brad and Jen and how Christina Aguilera is suddenly super glam. I don’t know if she changed stylists or colorists but now she’s a modern-day Marilyn Monroe and it totally works for her. Regardless, out of respect I keep my piehole closed until the show’s host describes how the Mongols perpetrated the first biological weapon attack back in the twelfth century by catapulting plague-ridden bodies into villages, causing me to share my most erudite thoughts.

  “Dude! That’s fucked up!” I squeal.

  “I think you might be happier reading your magazine upstairs, Jen.”

  “Nah, I’m cool.” Then I notice the expression on his face. “You mean you might be happier. I just turned into my mom for a second with the running commentary, didn’t I?” No one likes watching TV with my mother because of her urge to narrate the whole program, as though you’re blind and require blow-by-blow descriptions. Plus, since she’s busy telling you what she sees, she isn’t paying attention to what’s said and then you have to explain what just happened.

  Every. Thirty. Seconds.

  On the annoyance scale, this is on par with gum snapping and driving thirty-five miles per hour in the fast lane.5 He nods. “Okay, okay, I’m going.” Banished from our TV room, I head upstairs, chastened for having lapsed into the Vapid Zone yet again.

  When I said I’d been more or less successful in fighting my shallow nature, I guess I meant less. But I fully intend to rectify the situation by picking up my well-thumbed copy of Thomas Friedman’s From Beirut to Jerusalem.6 I plan to read quietly and contemplate how thoroughly Israel’s victory in the Six-Day War humiliated the Jordanians, Egyptians, and Syrians. Before I do that, I want to go online and order one of those cerebrally badass T-shirts with the Israeli flag and SIX DAYS, BITCH logo on it like I’ve been meaning to do for so long. Because you know who would appreciate that shirt? Smart people like Fletcher.

  Inexplicably, my fingers have a mind of their own, and suddenly I find them typing in the URL for TelevisionWithoutPity, and pulling up the Amish in the City message boards.

  As I log my deeply trenchant and thought-provoking opinions about the house,7 the city kids,8 and the Amish,9 I’m filled with self-loathing for yet again getting sucked into the candy-coated, skin-deep programming otherwise known as reality TV.

  Post-epiphany, one of the tactics I employed was to eschew television. Granted, I was busy out drinking, but still, I was most certainly not planted in front of the tube. I watched almost nothing from 1991 to 1996 except for glancing at the TV while at the Wabash Yacht Club bar when the Blackhawks were playing. (And that’s only because I had a crush on player Chris Chelios.)

  However, I did make an exception for the show The Real World. The concept was groundbreaking—take seven diverse strangers, stick them in a loft, and watch how their lives unfold. What did happen when people stopped being polite and started getting real? I, for one, wanted to know. Would Heather B. make it as a rapper? And what of Norman and his art career? I was hooked from the very first second sweet, naïve Julie from Alabama drawled her way into my voyeuristic little heart. But other than that, TV’s sole purpose was to tell me the weather and to display the numbers to dial psychic hotlines when I came home drunk.

  However, when I moved to the Chicago suburbs with Fletch after graduation, we made very little money in proportion to our expenses and found ourselves broke and planted in front of the television more often than not. He had a penchant for the highbrow, so we watched a lot of educational programming together, although I found myself switching over to Friends whenever he wasn’t around. When our lease expired, we both moved to the city proper—I got a one-bedroom by myself and Fletch took an apartment with friends.10 I started leaving the television on to drown out the street noise and to keep me company. I learned something about myself back then—if the TV’s on, I’m going to watch.

  At the time I was a contract negotiator for an HMO and was under a lot of pressure, as my job entailed convincing some of the best physicians in the country to accept less money for their services. When I wasn’t on appointments, I worked out of my home, and having trashy daytime talk shows on in the background helped alleviate my stress. Sure, doctors still called and screamed at me, but watching toothless people wrestle in a tub of chocolate pudding over a paternity test result somehow gave me perspective. Of course, Doctor, I’d think, yell all you want. But until you throw a chair at me, we don’t have a problem we can’t resolve.

  The higher I rose up the corporate food chain, the less I watched, but once I lost my job, I was right back on the box full-time. Between frantically sending out resumes and calling employers, I took breaks to view TLC’s daytime lineup and dreamed of the day they’d feature the same person as he or she progressed from A Makeover Story to A Dating Story to A Wedding Story to A Baby Story, and God willing, to Trading Spaces.

  I was addicted to the trashiest reality shows—no Amazing Race for me because I might accidentally learn something about geography. Since my life was so chaotic and out of control, it comforted me to see a bunch of people dumber than me willingly subject their relationships to the allure of guilt-free cheating on Temptation Island. I delighted in observing contestants slowly go stir-crazy locked in their multi-pooled mansion
at Paradise Hotel, especially as the show’s tag line was “Hook Up or Go Home.” Disgusted, Fletch would leave me on my own to watch most of this crap, holing up in his office with Sun Tzu.

  Bob Barker became my ad hoc salvation when things were their darkest when Fletch and I were both out of work. No matter how sad I was or how desperate our situation, I knew for an hour I could tune in to The Price Is Right and see people so happy about winning the prizes that hadn’t changed an iota since my childhood. A new Betamax player, woo-hoo! My best days were the ones when the grandma or the person in the military uniform won their showcases.

  I finally recognized the extent of my television obsession when I learned the reality show featuring Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie had beaten a live interview with President Bush in the ratings. So, essentially, more Americans chose to watch the antics of a whore and ex-junkie than the leader of the free world.

  And why was this problematic?

  Because I was one of them.

  Granted, I wasn’t aware Bush was competing against The Simple Life. But had I known, I still wouldn’t have made the appropriate choice.11 There I was—a college graduate with a degree in political science (with an emphasis on the study of terrorism and genocide, mind you)—and I chose to watch a couple of idiots with hair extensions run a kissing booth over a wartime interview with the president.