Pretty in Plaid: A Life, A Witch, and a Wardrobe

by Jen Lancaster

  A girl could get used to this.

  The spa provides free bottles of juice, water, and fruit to patrons, so later, when I’m poolside, I’m allowed to go back and help myself. The spa has a bunch of showers and each one is filled with a set of different scent-themed products. As I’m not fully recovered from the horror of last night, the notion of a powerful rain cleanse sounds pretty damn good. I avail myself of the showers rather frequently. By the time I return to my room, I’ve tried all eight deliciously different stalls.

  I buy a bottle of Cinzano Asti from the gift shop and spend the evening in, curled up on one of my many couches, watching the Seinfeld finale.173 I may not be living a movie, but I’m too relaxed to worry about it.

  My dad calls the next morning and breaks my reverie when he shares the tragic news. Sometime during the night, my idol Frank Sinatra passed away. If I were at home when I heard this, I’d be devastated because his songs have been a part of my life ever since I could remember. His was the one kind of music upon which everyone—Fletch, my parents, my friends, my elderly relatives, my coworkers, even strangers in a bar—could agree. Just last week Fletch and I were out with David and his wife and Tim and we all sang along when “My Kind of Town” played on the jukebox.

  I’m sitting on my lush linens in my sweet suite in the town that ol’ Francis Albert built and I’m actually happy in a bitter-sweet way. I feel like I’m in the one place on earth where I can properly pay tribute.

  The second Sinatra’s death is announced, people begin to pour into the city and the entire atmosphere becomes electric as everyone gears up to watch the lights go out. They’ve only darkened the Strip a couple of times before and what we’re about to witness is history.

  I make my way down the Strip, but before I go outside to join the masses, I stop at a quiet bar in a remote part of Caesars Palace to have a Jack Daniel’s. Normally, I hate the stuff, but it was Frank’s favorite. My cocktail goes down surprisingly smoothly. I tip my Cubs hat in silent salute. After all, Chicago was his kind of town.

  When I finish, I find a spot on Flamingo Boulevard with thousands of others. The noise is almost unbearable with all the laughing and shouting. But the minute the lights go out, everyone goes quiet. Even traffic stops. We all stand silently, watching as one by one the casinos fade into the night. In the distance, I can hear fans start an a cappella version of “That’s Life,” and that’s when tears start streaming down my cheeks.

  I’m not crying because I’m sad. I mean, what right do I have to mourn? I’m not Nancy Sinatra or Mia Farrow. I only ever knew Frank Sinatra through his music and films. I’m not family, I’m not a friend, and I can still have him in my life any time I turn on the TV or put in a CD. But this here? Right now? Surrounded by a handful of the millions of lives he touched? I’m filled with such hope and happiness and love for everyone and these emotions manifest themselves in tears. Then this enormous crowd of strangers begins to spontaneously hug one another.

  I feel like I’m part of a religious experience.

  I feel like I’m a piece of something that’s so much greater than myself.

  I feel like . . . I feel like I’m in a movie.

  Yeah, in a couple of days I’ll get on a plane and I’ll freak out all the way home. Then I’ll go back to my shitty apartment and my difficult job and I’ll be broke again because I spent all my money coming here. And when I run across my fellow man, particularly in my doctors’ offices, I’ll want to punch, not hug, them.

  But right now, for this one tiny moment, I want to toss my Cubs hat in the air all Mary Tyler Moore style. And I want to shout.

  With joy.

  Carrie Bradshaw Made Me Do It

  (Not Manolos—But Close)

  Every Sunday night, I worship at the altar of Sarah Jessica Parker.

  Okay, that’s not quite true. Every Sunday night, I change into my jammies, microwave some popcorn, and close the bedroom door to watch Sex and the City.

  I haven’t had a lot of female relationships since I left college. I’m so used to being surrounded by sorority sisters and room-mates and other waitresses at work that it’s weird that I don’t know more girls. All my friends at work are guys, and sure it’s fun when Fletch and I go to dinner with David and his wife or Tim and his gal du jour, but it’s not the same. I miss hanging out with a big group of girls, so I’ve made Charlotte, Carrie, Miranda, and Samantha my friends for the time being.

  I always watch in the bedroom because the show kind of repulses Fletch. He says it’s totally unrealistic, which, fine, he’s got me there. I mean, I’ve certainly never frequented a swanky club . . . or even been to a party that isn’t full of Natural Light keg beer and shag carpeting. I’ve never gotten a chemical peel from an aggressive Swede named Inga or paid more than twenty dollars for brunch.174

  Fletch came up with a term for the SATC ladies—misoGuynistic175—and says SJP has a foot for a face. I disagree. I think Sarah Jessica’s an unconventional beauty. Plus, she’s totally been my patron saint ever since I was a kid because the roles she’s chosen have been such a great guide to life. In Square Pegs she proved it was fine to be a socially awkward junior high school student.176 She made me feel like everyone had a big-glasses-and-frizzy-hair-and-oh-God-please-like-me phase. Girls Just Want to Have Fun taught me how to rebel without breaking too many rules. I love what a free spirit she was in LA Story. (And I’m still jealous that she dated John-John and married Ferris Bueller.)

  Actually, I dig Sex and the City not just because of the friendships and despite the bedroom antics. (Frankly, these ladies would benefit from keeping their pants on a little more often.) I admire how they conduct their respective businesses. They all have so much professional confidence. Carrie’s column is doing great, Samantha’s at the top of her field in PR, and Miranda and Charlotte completely rock their jobs. I get the feeling none of these characters ever agonized over how to operate a fax machine, nor did they shart themselves every time they were tasked to transfer a call. Sure they may suck at relationships, but they rule at being strong, smart businesswomen and their passion for their careers is enviable. Plus, they get together every week and actually eat at brunch; I like how they send the message that it’s okay to digest.

  The only downside of my Sunday night SATC habit is that as soon as the show’s over, I’m hit with a huge Sunday night anxiety attack. I dread Monday mornings so much. Each week I pray I’ll come down with something daunting but nonfatal, like mono. I always dash to the mirror when the show’s over to see if there are any spots in my throat or if I have swollen glands, and I never do, damn it.

  I remember when I couldn’t wait for Mondays. I guess I’ve lost my passion for what I do. Or maybe I’ve just had it shouted out of me? The problem is that even though I’m a recruiter for the HMO now, I still have to deal with existing providers’ issues. If anything, I’m even more deeply involved because most doctors I’m assigned to recruit are already part of an established practice. Often, they won’t join unless I fix whatever compensation troubles are plaguing their partners.

  My company has an entire division that’s supposed to deal with this stuff, yet I feel like I’m always haggling with adjusters trying to get claims processed and paid. While my bonus is based on who I can bring in, sometimes I wonder if everyone else is encouraged to find ways not to pay the very doctors I worked so hard to land.177

  What complicates matters is these doctors gossip more than Carrie & Co. over brunch. They’re contractually forbidden to discuss their reimbursement arrangements with each other, but our repeated warnings carry about as much heft as jaywalking laws. So if I cut a particularly sweet deal with one doctor because we need him, every other guy with a stethoscope in a ten-mile radius demands the exact same thing. Then I’m stuck having an uncomfortable conversation where I have to dance around the fact that the company values178 degrees from Harvard above those from Hollywood Upstairs Medical School.

  Most of my doctors practice on the tony North Shore
of Chicago, so the normal physician level of arrogance is multiplied by ten. Regardless of their superior skills and credentials, sometimes I have trouble explaining that even though they may have once treated Michael Jordan, we’re not going to pay them like they are Michael Jordan.

  Today I’m supposed to be having a one-on-one meeting with a practice manager, a lovely gal named Pat. Instead, my casual conversation over coffee has turned into yet another ambush where I have to defend my company’s practices to an entire hospital board. Five different gray-suited old men take turns shouting at me in something I can only describe as a verbal gang bang.

  I try to pretend I’m Miranda while they bluster and blow. There’s no way Miranda would lose her cool if she were in, say, a courtroom situation. She’d stay steadily calm and wouldn’t allow opposing council to detect any emotion.179 Even though I want to go hide in my car, I cross my arms over my chest, lean back in my chair, and attempt to appear nonplussed. I don’t even flinch when someone sprays me with shout spittle.

  If anyone deserves an Emmy here, it’s me.

  “This has to be a mistake!”

  I accidentally say this out loud and then quickly clamp my hand over my mouth. Shit! Did anyone hear me? I’m on a covert mission and I almost blew it.

  I pull out my compact and wipe the excess powder from the mirror. Then I use it to peek around one corner and then the other. I don’t see anyone. Because I have army training180 I know that threats can come from any angle. I surreptitiously look up. The sky, or rather the dropped acoustical tile ceiling, is clear. I bend over to check below because I can’t be too careful. I see nothing but a broken plastic hanger, a few menacing dust bunnies, and a butterscotch wrapper. There’s no one lurking, waiting to steal my great prize. All clear.

  I’m being ultra-careful because I’ve got to keep this unbelievable find to myself . . . at least until I get out of the store.

  Having recently upgraded to buying well-fitting clothes from better retailers like Bloomingdale’s, Saks, and Nordstrom, I vowed to never shop at discount places like TJ Maxx again. However, I kicked myself in the ankle with a chunky heel just to keep from erupting in today’s meeting with the hospital board and ended up ripping my trouser sock. Usually I keep a couple of spare pairs in my bag, but I’ve been kicking myself a lot lately and I’ve burned through them all.

  Since I was on my way home, I figured I might as well pop into the Maxx and stock up, stashing some in my work bag and the rest in my glove compartment.181

  I headed right to the hosiery department and pawed through the cream-colored knee-highs on the rack. I located a few acceptable, non-factory-second pairs and began to take my purchase to the register when I spied something desperately out of place in my peripheral vision.

  I sidled up to the items that caught my eye, afraid that if I gazed at them dead-on, they’d prove to be a mirage. I exercised the same intentional nonchalance needed to approach my cat Bones prior to stuffing him in a carrier to bring him, hissing and clawing and spitting, to the vet.

  Finally, as soon as I was within reach, I snaked my hand out and grabbed. I had the items clutched to my chest in less than a second. Eventually, I loosened my grip and held them out for inspection.

  Could they be real?

  Did I dare believe?

  I verified their authenticity by looking inside, and then I flipped them over and went all Forrest Gump for a moment. Mama says they was my magic shoes. They could take me anywhere.

  And that’s when I shouted.

  I’m standing here—big mouth agape—wondering how on earth a pair of couture crocodile-skin pumps ends up on the sale rack in the ghetto TJ Maxx between all the defective Nikes and last year’s off-white, size-twelve Steve Maddens. The original price tag is over four hundred dollars, but now they’re marked down to fifty.

  I decide I’m buying them long before it occurs to me to try them on. I kick off my snaggy-heeled loafer in preparation to slip on the pump.

  The shoes are a rich, mellow golden brown that will coordinate nicely with practically my entire wardrobe. Casual enough to pair with jeans182 and dressy enough to go with my best Jones New York suit, these may well be the world’s most versatile shoes. The toes taper slightly and the three-inch real wooden stacked heel is thick enough to balance on, yet thin enough to elongate the legs. The actual skin is textured and the tiny bumps and markings make each shoe slightly different, but in this case, perfect symmetry would look fake and cheap.

  Tentatively, I slip one torn-trouser-socked foot inside. Suddenly, a choir of angels starts singing.

  Or maybe it’s just a Michael Bolton song playing on the store’s sound system.

  Whatever, the fit is so right that if this were a Brothers Grimm story, I’d currently be saying sayonara to two bitchy stepsisters and a life of cleaning out fireplaces. I slide my left foot in with the same result. Perfection!

  This is kismet!

  This is fate!

  This is divine intervention!

  This is a problem.

  I only have about sixty bucks to my name and I’m supposed to use it to pay my electric bill.

  I’m about to set these little treasures down and walk away when the curly-haired, tutu-wearing, unfortunate-nosed devil on my shoulder asks, What would Carrie Bradshaw do?

  Carrie would live by candlelight for a couple of days if she had to in order to possess these shoes.

  Oh, Carrie Bradshaw, Thy will be done.

  She Gets a Long Letter, Sends Back a Postcard (Times Are Hard)

  (Silver Tiffany Ring)

  “It’s like I’m stuck in Groundhog Day.” Two cosmos and half a caprese salad into dinner, I still can’t shake off my frustration.

  Fletch dips a piece of focaccia into a little plate of olive oil and parmesan. “How so?”

  Fletch is kind of like my Mr. Big, although he’s always nice to me. Also, he shows up when he says he will.

  And he’s not cold or distant.

  Nor is he a commitment-phobic douchehound.

  Fine, so he’s nothing like Mr. Big except that he’s picking up the check tonight.183 We’re having dinner at Cucina Bella, the twee Italian place around the corner.

  Normally I love it here. The atmosphere is wonderful—they’re always playing Sinatra, which makes me feel like I’m sitting in my Auntie Virginia’s kitchen in the middle of the party. The food is hearty and delicious, but it’s presented with a sense of humor—like the wine might be served in a jelly jar and the appetizer on an antique washboard.

  I should be delighted Fletch’s calamari comes in an old colander, but I can’t appreciate the kitsch because I’m still too wound up from work. I’m so anxious about my job, I’ve picked up the habit of spinning my big silver ring. I bought this ring for myself on my thirtieth birthday. And truly, it is gorgeous. There’s a thick silver band that goes around the back of the finger and then it comes up on either side, where ribbed gold pieces hold a center silver loop. It’s classy and equestrian-looking, and I get a million compliments on it. (Were there a diamond in the middle, this would be the perfect style of engagement ring, hint, hint.)

  The heft of the metal on my hand is comforting, but it’s so heavy it tends to shift a tiny bit. Because it’s already predisposed to movement, I tend to spin it around when I get anxious. This nervous tic makes me crazy, yet I can’t seem to stop.

  Spin, spin, spin.

  “Every time my goddamned phone rings, it’s an office manager named Pat or Kathy or Linda—they’re all named Pat, Kathy, or Linda, by the way—and they’re always calling to yell at me because their doctor isn’t in-network yet. Each time I have to tell them he’s not because he won’t fill out the form to disclose his malpractice history.”

  “Why? Do they all have major lawsuits against them?” Fletch asks. “Too many watches left where the gallbladder used to go?”

  “No, most of my guys are on the North Shore and they’re all really good. Although I did once see an application from a do
ctor in the city who kept operating on the right side of his patients instead of the left. I had to laugh when I read his file because I thought he’d greatly benefit by tattooing Ralphie and Louie on his wrists.”184 “Then what’s the problem?”

  Spin, spin.

  “The problem is they’re determined to make me prematurely gray.” Fletch gives me a pointed look over the rim of his martini glass.185 I shrug. “Seventy-five percent of the time whatever suit’s been brought against them has proved to be bogus. Or it’s settled out of court for a pittance because their liability people say it’s the easiest thing.” I stab a piece of buffalo mozzarella and chew violently. My job puts me in a perpetual state of anger. “The issue is these physicians are unwilling to tell our medical director about it one hundred percent of the time.”

  “Doesn’t he need the info to decide if the doctor gets in or not?”

  I gesture at him with my fork. “See? You get it and you don’t even work in the industry. Here’s what makes me want to pull my hair out—the doctors know we can’t approve their application without disclosure, but I have to fight with them for disclosure. Then they get furious at how long the approval process takes, which is entirely their own fault because they won’t disclose. It’s a vicious cycle of stupid.”

  Ever the problem solver, Fletch suggests, “Work for a different HMO, then.”

  “If it were only that easy. I’d still be dealing with the same assholes. And the thing is, doctors say they hate us the most, but I’m friends with people at a couple of different payers and it’s the same old mouthwash just swished to a different side. I was in Dr. Dickweed’s 186 office last week and I could hear him shouting at the Humana rep for twenty minutes, telling her they were the worst company out there. And then when it was my turn, he said the same exact thing.”

  “You wanted me to violate his entryway, right?” Last time we were at the mall doing Christmas shopping, I begged Fletch to pee on the doctor’s office door, which is located in the professional services building across the street. He wouldn’t do it because he has no sense of adventure. Or maybe because it was ten degrees out. Or something.187