Bright Lights, Big Ass

by Jen Lancaster

“You mean to tell me you believe he’d have no problem violating his marriage vows to his wife and possibly his Lord, and yet would respect your request to not climb aboard? Riiiight.” I laugh. “Ow, who kicked me?” Fletch’s eyes are the size of saucers. “What’s your problem?” I return my attention to Paul. “Seriously. You. Me. A black light like they use on 20/20 when they do a hotel exposé. Two dollars.”

  Paul’s lips are set in a thin white line.

  I start to tell him, “I’m right, you know I’m right, and you know I know you know I’m right, yet you refuse to admit it because you’re afraid of losing two—” when I find myself being yanked into a cab by the back of my collar.

  “Thanks for everything, see you Monday!” Fletch calls as we pull away.

  “What, wait, where are we going?” I ask.

  “Master thinks it’s time for Jeannie to get back in her bottle.”

  A week later, we’re on our way to the boat again.

  Yeah, I can’t believe I was asked back, either.

  When Paul called earlier to invite us, I specifically asked Fletch if he was sure I was supposed to come. Fletch said yes, although this is likely only because we were actually taking the boat out and no one would be able to hear me over the roar of the three outboard engines. Also, if I brought up the two-dollar business, I would be summarily tossed overboard without a life jacket.

  When we arrive at the boat, I turn down cocktails, opting instead for a soda. A few of Fletch’s coworkers are there, too, and I’m surprised and pleased at Fletch’s skill and grace when acting as first mate. He and Paul easily detach the boat from the dock and soon we’re headed for the underpass that separates the harbor from the lake.

  It is the perfect night to be out on the water. Paul says we have maybe ten days like this a year when the lake turns to glass. There’s not a single wave except those we create.

  I always thought I was someone who preferred the gentle choreography of sailing to the obvious power of a motor boat. But something strange happens when Paul opens up the engines. As someone with a lifelong fear of motion, I figured I’d be screaming and looking for a seat belt and helmet. But the faster we go, the more exhilarated I am. The wind in my hair is empowering, not terrifying, and the noise coming out of my mouth is laughter.

  We head out a couple of miles and the evening is so clear I can see the city all the way south to Indiana and north to where the suburbs begin. The sunset reflects pink and gold off all the skyscrapers and the horizon is iridescent in the fading light. We roar down the coastline, following the path of Lake Shore Drive, taking in all the sights that make this city so spectacular—the Hancock Center, Buckingham Fountain, Navy Pier, the Sears Tower, the Shedd Aquarium, the Adler Planetarium, and the Field Museum, among others maybe not quite so famous, but still special and unique.

  As we roar past, I fall in love with my city all over again. Yes, it’s crowded and expensive and full of people who annoy me, but at this shining moment, I’ve never seen anything more gorgeous. I realize Chicago’s a great city not because it’s glamorous, but because it’s real. It’s full of places where you can be fat and over thirty and still be allowed inside the velvet ropes. People come from all over the world to live here, and each of them fits right in without missing a step. The beauty of this city is not that it’s exclusive, but that it’s inclusive. And I finally get that when Carl Sandburg calls Chicago the “hog butcher to the world,” it’s meant as a tribute, not a criticism.

  We’re out on the water for hours but it’s such sensory overload that I don’t even realize it’s after ten p.m. when we pull back into the slip. I’ve been a perfectly behaved girl all night and Fletch’s boss has finally let his guard down around me again.

  As we exit and softly say our good-byes, I realize with the quiet and the audience, now’s the perfect opportunity to shake Paul down for my two dollars.

  But I don’t.

  Because I’m not always a big ass.

  * * *

  from the desk of Miss Jennifer A. Lancaster

  Dear Carrie Bradshaw,

  To grasp the enormity of what I’m going to tell you, I’ve got to give you the background. Were you to come into my office right now, you’d see a garbage can overflowing with candy wrappers and Pringles tubes. I haven’t been to the gym in a month and am but a Mars Bar away from Muumuu City, all because I’ve been too involved with writing another book.

  My roots are an inch long, my manicure is completely trashed from digging in my garden, and my arms are raked with fresh claw marks from where one of my cats dug in for traction when the alarm clock scared him.

  My left side is bruised because I slipped and fell at the grocery store since I’m the kind of dumbass who forgets you shouldn’t wear slick flip-flops when it rains, no matter how nicely the plaid ties your pants and shirt together. (My Keebler Mint Crème cookies and pint of heavy cream survived the fall nicely, thank you.)

  For the pièce de résistance, I had a small bump at the top of my cheekbone and I couldn’t leave it alone. A little poke here, a little prod there, lather, rinse, repeat to the point that I’ve not only gouged a hole in my face, but have also given myself a black eye.

  In short, I look like I just stepped off the set of Fat Girl Fight Club.

  So naturally I heard from British Cosmopolitan today, wanting to set up a photo shoot to get a picture of me to go along with the article they commissioned from me last month.

  When?

  The very next day, of course.

  The end result is almost exactly what happened to your character in the “They Shoot Single People, Don’t They?” episode of Sex and the City—looking my very worst in the one place I really wanted to be pretty.

  Touché, Miss Bradshaw.

  You win this round.

  Best,

  Jen Lancaster

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to acknowledge my husband, Fletch, for allowing me to make our private lives public and also for saying the kind of hilarious stuff I immediately claim as my own. I love you so much that I promise to eat whatever you cook next without complaint…or at least with slightly less bitching and moaning.

  Many thanks go out to my lovely agent and friend, Kate Garrick, as she continues to make the impossible anything but. Without you I’d be trapped in a boardroom somewhere, listening to a jackass prattle on about mission statements. In short? You (and the rest of DeFiore) rock.

  More thanks go out to Kara Cesare at NAL, who would totally win the Best Editor pageant for making me feel like I’m the only author in the world, never hesitating to discuss even the most inane of my concerns. Thanks for always getting it; you’re the best!

  For Mary Ann Zissimos of Penguin: YES, YOU WERE TOTALLY RIGHT. See? There it is in big letters, to live on in the Library of Congress for eternity. I can never thank you enough for your hard work. (FYI, you’ve ruined me for every other publicist.)

  For the rest of the folks at Penguin, sincere thanks and much admiration to Kara Welsh for everything, the art department for the second phenomenal cover in a row, the sales team (I so owe each of you drinks), Lindsay Nouis (and Nindsay Louis, of course), and everyone else who worked so hard to make this a reality.

  I must say a special thanks for the support of the booksellers, particularly Barnes & Noble and Borders, for taking a chance on a foulmouthed polar-bear-pajama-wearing nobody. I pledge to devote the rest of my life to forcing your café campers into actually buying books and snacks. (It’s not an ad hoc library, damn it!)

  Much love to my family and pets for endless hours of amusement (and material), and big thanks to MySpacers Benjamin Kissell, Don Purvis, Sean Faulk, and author Nicole Del Sesto for their invaluable feedback, to Patrick Dester for the subtitle that made me snort coffee, and to Linnea Beasley for, well, everything. It’s simply not a party without you.

  For Stacey Ballis, Jolene Siana, Martha Kimes, Caprice Crane, Jennifer Weiner, Lori Jakiela, Allison Winn Scotch,
Jennifer Coburn, Robert Rave, Karyn Bosnak, Melanie Lynn Hauser, the city of Chicago, and all my neighbors—thanks for inspiring me on a daily basis.

  Finally, a million thanks to all the fans out there! I may not be great about returning e-mail, but I promise I pore over every word you’re kind enough to share with me. For each of you who wear pink, green, and pearls to my events and for every photo you send of your Miller High Life–drinking book clubs, you make my heart go squee!

  You guys are the reason I do this.

  1 Of course, not laying employees off without giving them a reason also reduces stress, but that’s another story.

  2 Harry Burnett Reese. Because I? Am all about the Trivial Pursuit answers.

  3 Gentlemen, a bit of advice, if I may? The fine staff at Brooks Brothers will never allow you to leave the store looking like a well-tailored rodeo clown. Just so you know.

  4 And he even bought her a toaster off her Williams-Sonoma registry!

  5 Vanilla latte, full fat, extra foamy, two Equals, and make it snappy.Ooh, and get me a maple scone, too!

  6 Read stupidity.

  7 Seriously, I’m so lazy that many a time I’ve considered whizzing in our kitchen sink rather than climbing the stairs to our bathroom on the second floor.

  8 Do you care to guess? How helpful she was?

  9 Bonus superiority points awarded if you leave without stealing any office supplies.

  10 The farmer says, “Be sure to use a cover sheet!”

  11 Oh, yes. That’s right. My mother was counting.

  1 Yes, I only wore Dior J’adore. But I had to smell everything to make sure it was still my favorite.

  2 White and white only, thank you very much.

  3 Really, with the schlepping? Oy.

  4 Do not give me the “Oh, but most cashmere comes from China now” argument. My point remains the same.

  5 Ever seen Carrie Bradshaw in a Target coat? No? I didn’t think so.

  6 Uphill! In the winter! With no shoes on! For five miles! With hungry dogs chasing us!

  7 Really not a problem for me. At least until I hit my thirties. Ha! Kidding! (Or am I?)

  8 Yes, I know exactly how old that makes me sound.

  9 Probably not true, although technically not confirmed one way or the other. But wander around the joint for four or five hours and it will certainly feel true.

  10 You know what we need more of in this country? Lingonberry products.

  11 A.k.a. Two Buck Chuck.

  12 Master?

  13 Believe me, if I wanted to eavesdrop, I would.

  1 In fairness, I haven’t seen The Butterfly Effect. Maybe it’s not a lousy movie. But based on his performance in Dude, Where’s My Car?, my expectations aren’t terribly high.

  2 Through the magic of science, humidity, and possibly Steven Spielberg.

  3 Meaning I made it up in my own head.

  4 Eating “a mess of ribs” is also an excellent way to procrastinate.

  5 Colors chosen during a heroic bout of creative avoidance.

  6 Fletch works down here instead of in our office on the second floor. Something about the pink walls making him feel all stabby?

  7 Network design, FYI.

  8 “Homer’s Enemy,” episode number 176 of The Simpsons—Best. Episode. Ever.

  9 Meaning your.

  10 In my expert opinion, formed from losing every utility during my extended unemployment.

  11 Yes, watching the American Idol finale is totally considered dire. Come on, Justin versus Kelly? It was history in the making!

  12 Lafayette, Indiana—home of the slow news day. (We were the top story!)

  13 Meaning I burned my hand on it, damn it.

  14 Rim shot!

  15 I do 50 percent of all my reading in the tub.

  16 When Lacoste split with Izod? Most. Tragic. Divorce. Ever.

  17 No offense.

  18 Having just Googled “island where Wonder Woman is from,” I ran across a bunch of photos of Lynda Carter from the series in the seventies. No wonder my dad always watched the show with me.

  19 Do you think the Devil will get a kick out of me and perhaps allow me a small fan in Hell?

  1 For the most part.

  2 I had a bit of a beer-induced 1-800-PSYCHIC FRIEND addiction before we met. I’ve yet to have another $300 phone bill since we’ve been together.

  3 All the bleu cheese dressing was gone, so I thought the mayo would be an adequate substitution. It wasn’t.

  4 And kind of stupid, if I’m being perfectly honest.

  5 Speaking of crazy old ladies…

  6 You know what didn’t help? Me trailing along behind her singsonging, “Yooooou’re in trooooooouble!”

  7 And thank God, because I can’t take any more Lucky Charms.

  8 Yeah, like I didn’t plan that intentionally. Like a spider and her web, I was.

  9 He didn’t find out otherwise until it was far too late.

  10 See? I am all about the locked door, unlike one Miss Carrie Bradshaw, who’d sit in her apartment with her window wide open. So either Giuliani really did turn New York into Disneyland or something wasn’t realistic.

  1 “Fucktard” being my all-time favorite.

  2 Other attempts include paying bills instead of stuffing them in a cabinet and fewer Pepperidge Farm–based dinners.

  3 Read box.

  4 You know who never referenced her childhood influences? That’s right. Miss Carrie I-Have-No-Past Bradshaw. I also don’t remember her ever freaking out over a routine well-woman exam, so I’m calling this one a draw.

  5 I once took a lousy job in the Chicago Board of Options Exchange building because of a similar view.

  6 Coming soon to a theater near you!

  7 I’ve lost a sock in the process—WTF?

  8 Yes, yay, me! I was able to do something once in ten years that every other woman in America does on a routine basis without blinking an eye.

  9 Two things to note for future reference—sashimi is a terrible drunk food, and if you have to throw up in a public place, there’s no finer washroom than the one at the Four Seasons.

  1 And I bet it’s never taken any of them two hours to go four miles either.

  2 There’s no specific term for fear of riding the bus, but there totally should be, considering there are words for fear of the Pope (papaphobia), fear of poetry (metrophobia), and fear of string (linonophobia). I mean, come on, fear of string? WTF?

  3 Also known as the driver.

  4 BTW, Mr. Sports Illustrated won’t find me the least bit amusing when I suggest, “Next time you do that, you better be tipping!” in an attempt to dissipate the awkwardness.

  5 A fantastic tour—$2 admission and all the fresh beer you could drink!

  6 But they would be wrong.

  7 March 30, 2006—Chicago CTA announces the creation of a new elevated train line, to be called “the Pink Line.” You’re welcome.