After a drink at the bar, we call it a night. We’ve got our bathroom kung fu timed perfectly and after a little Real Housewives, we’re ready for bed.
In the dark, I can tell by her breathing the exact moment Joanna falls asleep, having heard it so many times before. I can’t think of a single instance when we lived together that she wasn’t out first. I’ve never been a great sleeper, particularly when I’m not in my own bed, and until I discovered the tiny white miracle called Ambien, it would take me hours from the time I hit the sheets until I dropped off.
I had cocktails earlier in the evening, so I don’t take my Ambien because that’s a recipe for accidentally ordering an entire new suite of bedroom furniture. [Trust me on this one.]
Joanna went down around twelve thirty a.m., but it’s one thirty now and I still feel wide awake. I suspect any fatigue may have been counteracted by the coffee I had during dessert. I toss and shift, but I can’t seem to get comfortable. At two thirty, I have to employ desperate measures—pillow flipping—in the vain hope that the cool side will help me nod off. It doesn’t.
Around three, I feel myself drifting off to sleep FINALLY, only to be awakened five minutes later by Joanna’s snoring.
This is new.
If she snored as a freshman, we’d have never been together long enough to form a twenty-five-year-long friendship.
I have no problem falling asleep to music and when I was a kid staying at my grandparents’ house, my grandfather would blast talk radio all night long. To this day, I adore talk radio because of him and it always makes me feel comforted. Put golf or baseball on the television and I’m out in seconds flat. And whenever I’m on the road, I like to sleep to old sitcoms on Nick at Nite.
But the snoring?
I have a problem with snoring.
Joanna snores lightly, but insistently. Really, it’s more of a loud breathing deal and there’s no vibrato or anything, but I can definitely hear her.
Maisy started snoring in the past few years, too. Between her and Fletch [Who also came to snoring far too late into the relationship to break it off.] I find myself sneaking into the guest room more often than not.
I put in my earbuds to see if that blocks her out.
Zzzz.
Nope.
I decide to take a bath, hoping that will put me out.
Zzzz.
Nope.
I push her a couple of times, but feel bad doing so. She probably doesn’t normally snore except we talked so much we’re both kind of hoarse, plus she’s had a night full of cocktails, marrow, and cake. That’d make anyone snore.
So I’m not mad about the snoring. But sleep is impossible.
And then she begins to thrash.
That’s new, too.
At four a.m., I can’t take it anymore. Because I don’t want to wreck her beauty rest, I decide to just go home. As quietly as I can, I collect my things and in the dark I write her a note.
I find out later that my night penmanship is wanting and pretty much the only part of the note she could decipher said YOU SNORE in big, shouty letters. I’ve come to find in every relationship, one person is inevitably more of a jerk than the other. In the case of Joanna and me, I’m clearly the bigger jerk, but I’m fortunate that we established this long ago, so really, nothing inconsiderate I do now comes as a surprise. [Luff you, sweet JoJo.]
I stop by the front desk to make sure that the whole room is taken care of because I’m not sticking Joanna with the bill, especially as I’m bailing in the middle of the night. Also, I need the valet to bring my car.
Funny thing about hotels that I’ve found out over five years of early-flight-based departures: no matter how fine the establishment, ninety-nine percent of women sneaking out in the wee hours of the morning are prostitutes.
So as I stand there making arrangements in my sweater set, holding my big pink and green toile overnight bag, makeup off, hair in a ponytail, the desk clerks have no choice but to imagine that I am the oldest, fattest call girl they’ve ever seen.
Then when I tell them the make and model of car that I’m collecting, they stand there with their mouths agape, faces set in expressions that range from horror to admiration, wondering exactly what kind of freaky shit I might perform.
As I head downstairs to meet the valet, I swear I hear one of the girls calling, “Teach me!”
This? Right here? Is why people hesitate to embrace new hobbies.
My latest pastime develops so organically that I don’t even realize it’s anything but a chore at first.
Our house has an unholy amount of built-in bookshelves. Mind you, we own many, many books, at least according to the disgruntled men who had to move them all. Considering I’ve been reading for almost forty years [And have a demonstrated dislike for throwing things away.] I can fill ten bookcases. This works out nicely seeing how I own ten bookcases. I was faced with the dilemma of stocking a bunch of naked built-ins because if I placed my collection on the shelves, I’d be left with a bunch of empty bookcases and that would make my house look like it were having a going-out-of-business sale.
Whenever I peruse catalogs, I’m most intrigued by the items that aren’t for sale. Like when Pottery Barn displays a lovely bedroom set, covered in a crisp linen duvet and piled up with pillows—inevitably I want the battered silver pitcher that’s filled with hydrangeas in the corner of the shot. That’s why mass-produced furniture always looks better in print than it does in my living room; even if I were to buy everything on the page, [See: Ambien Binge, Shopping on an] I’m still missing the crucial elements that give the catalog rooms soul.
I keep an eye peeled for estate sales because I heard they can be an amazing resource for cheap vintage finds but I hadn’t seen any until one day when Joanna and I spot a sign after being out for lunch.
“Look! Estate sale! Are you game?” I ask from the passenger seat of her station wagon.
“Sure! Get your phone out so we can practice navigating! We’ll both Google the address and we’ll see who gets it first!” Joanna and I are convinced that we’d kick ass as the College Roommates team on the Amazing Race, for no reason other than sheer delusion, particularly since I hate to run, solve puzzles, or for that matter, travel.
Also? Not a team player.
Even though I’ve yet to see a single challenge in which I’d not fail spectacularly, the dream remains alive.
We both dig out our iPhones. Her navigation application isn’t working because she can’t get a cell signal and I don’t have any apps [Don’t get me started on the app thing.] and Google maps is way too small for me to decipher without reading glasses.
After five minutes of swearing and cursing the name of AT&T, Joanna notices that the estate sale sign not only listed an address, but also is in the shape of a giant arrow, pointing in the direction of the sale.
You know those assholes who are always cut the first challenge, five minutes after the race starts? Yeah. Says Phil Keoghan, “I’m sorry, College Roommates, you have been eliminated from the race.”
Anyway, the sale items are all way too modern for my tastes, so Joanna suggests I hit some consignment stores to find vintage pieces. We find a local charity shop, I discover a massive footed Waterford trifle bowl for fifteen dollars and thus, a hobby is born.
At first, I’m all about snapping up pieces to fill my empty built-in china cabinets. Although I’ve been blessed with eight thousand (unmatched) wineglasses, I’ve never owned plates that weren’t basic white diner dishware. We needed money for rent when we were married, not flatware, so we never registered for anything made of crystal or covered in silver plate or designed for the single purpose of holding hot gravy. Plus, we figured we’d be bored of whatever we picked out a few years later.
Fortunately, everyone eventually tires of their fancy, unused, dust-gathering gravy boats and when they do, they take them to the consignment store. I spend weeks scoping out and scooping up beautiful porcelain dinner sets and heavy crystal bowls, paying p
ennies on the dollar of their original cost.
My hobby morphs into an obsession purely by accident. I find a beautiful silver serving bowl and it isn’t until I use it the first time that I notice the engraving. Turns out I didn’t nab a fancy five-dollar potato chip holder at all—I purchased a stupid trophy. I still use it to hold party snacks, but I turn the writing side around and butt it up to the wall so no one sees what it really is.
After resenting my purchase for a while, it occurs to me that having someone else’s 1967 Division IV Hiring Award is kind of kitschy. Once filled with potpourri and placed on an empty shelf, it actually seems intentional and that’s when I realize this is the exact kind of classy shit Pottery Barn uses to make their catalog pages so crave-worthy.
I begin a quest, expanding my search to antiques stores where I unearth a Bakelite beagle trophy from a 1959 dog show in the thirteen-inch bitch division. I’m not sure if the manufacturer was trying to be funny or if the event organizer screwed up, but it is clear from the beagle’s generous undercarriage that this is no bitch and a shelf theme is born.
(Do I need to clarify the theme is “trophy” and not “transgender”?)
Six months after beginning the process, I finally collect enough pieces to fill in the empty shelves downstairs, supplementing my trophies with loads of vintage books. Of course, whenever I check out with an armload of novels, the cashier is perpetually delighted. She’s always all, “Ooh! You must be a huge reader!” and I never have the heart to tell her that I hand select each novel solely based on their red spines.
I know, I know.
I’m ashamed.
But they match the drapes!
I’ve slowly been adding pieces to the shelf in the TV room upstairs, too. Even though we’re not terribly athletic, [Like, at all.] I thought vintage sporting equipment would be a fun theme. I envision displays of tattered velvet equestrian helmets and fencing masks and those old-timey leather football helmets, kind of like a fraternity house basement circa 1940, or a T.G.I. Friday’s minus the shitty food.
Thus far, I’ve sourced a couple of vintage baseballs and some scruffy croquet balls, but that’s it. The process of unearthing these treasures has been exhausting and frustrating, particularly when I see something great but it’s cost prohibitive. [$450 for an old-timey football helmet? No.] My shelves sit white and open, leering at me.
As always, Stacey shows me the way.
“What about eBay?” she asks.
I grimace. I have such bad memories of eBay. “What about it? I hate eBay. eBay’s where I had to sell all my designer stuff back in the bad old days. Far as I’m concerned, eBay sucks. It’s nothing but a bunch of crooks in China trying to sell knock-off purses, ruining it for the rest of us by driving down the prices for those looking to unload authentic bags to keep their lights on.”
Stacey opens her laptop. “What would you like me to find?”
Really?
Do we have to go through this?
“They’re not going to have what I want.”
“Uh-huh. I’m going to search for… ‘vintage bowling trophy’ and… hey. You certainly wouldn’t be interested in this.” Stacey attempts—and fails—at keeping the smug out of her voice.
I try not to appear interested because I hate admitting Stacey’s right, even though that’s the case at least ninety-nine percent of the time and the entire basis of our friendship. “What wouldn’t I like?”
“A giant silver-handled loving cup from 1917, awarded to the men of Delta Tau Delta to commemorate their second-place finish in the Inter-fraternity Bowling League.” She turns the screen to face me.
Oh. [Were I to express myself in such a manner—which I won’t—this is where I’d say that I got ladywood.]
Welcome to eBay.
eBay is a fine place to unload your Prada bag when you’re in a desperate situation and it’s exactly what the doctor ordered when searching for a specific item, say an authentic 1965 edition of the game Mystery Date. eBay is a very, very bad place to go if you’re a hypercompetitive asshole with a penchant for spite bidding.
Try to guess which category I fall under.
It all starts innocently enough—like it does—when I spot the perfect old-timey football helmet at an attractive price. I meet the minimum bid and set a reasonable ceiling and then spend a few days watching the nonexistent auction action. But as I sleep, a bidding war breaks out between me and some douche bag named a********7, who wins my stupid helmet for a dollar more than my bid ceiling.
Unacceptable.
At the exact same time, I lose out on a vintage blue ribbon from a horse show as well as a set of leather riding calf protectors that seem like something Ronald Reagan would have worn in a film.
Revolution.
I begin to note auction endings in my calendar and instead of passively going along with the process, I become an active participant. The second the “You’ve been outbid!” e-mail arrives in my in-box, I’m on it, jacking up my bid ceiling in increments of ten dollars to flush out the lookie-loos.
Yet I still lose auctions.
I imagine elaborate sting operations wherein all the owners of vintage leather catcher’s masks band together to create an evil cabal whose sole purpose is to keep me from winning their items. Dicks.
When I spy the potential cornerstone of my collection—a small sterling trophy from the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, recognizing Hunky, the 1907 winner of Class Dories competition, shit gets real.
The time has come for spite bidding.
I set my bid ceiling ridiculously high and systematically knock out all the competition. I have no idea who the other bidders are in real life—perhaps a relative of Hunky or a historian tasked with bringing home all the Seawanhaka trophies, but I care not. That trophy is going to sit on my empty shelf, holding a hydrangea blossom when seasonally appropriate, and that’s all there is to it. As the time on the auction runs out, it’s five… four… three… two… one…
#WINNING!!!
Once I discover a system in which I get the items I want and piss off a faceless portion of the Internet, I’m unstoppable. I win auctions left and right. Vintage hockey skates? Got ’em. Small tin sign indicating where the polo club served cocktails? All over it. Antique Indian juggling clubs? Yeah, baby. Old-timey football helmets? Enough to protect the tender melons of the entire starting line, thank you very much.
Fletch doesn’t even balk at what I spend because ultimately a first-place ribbon from the Iowa State Fair for Shorthorn Cattle costs substantially less than shoes, jewelry, purses, or anything purchased on an Ambien high. Plus, I’m working out a lot of aggression by crushing other people’s auction dreams. And, if someone out there has to sell her pair of 1952 Wilson Football cleats (with original box!) in order to cover her light bill, I’m happy to pay it forward.
Ironically, what puts him over the edge about my hobby is the packing peanuts. Thus I’d like to present How to Make Fletch Apoplectic in Ten Easy Steps:
1. Spend two weeks spite-bidding on a bunch of random, delicate, heavily packaged items.
2. Accidentally win every single item due to the aforementioned spite bidding.
3. Attempt to open the boxes of shipped items with a tablespoon. [Hey, it was the most handy pointy thing.]
4. Be so excited about the random, delicate items deeply ensconced in packing peanuts that you simply abandon the empty husks of boxes all over the kitchen.
5. Completely forget about the packing peanuts while you arrange your snappy vintage Brownie cameras and croquet balls and cricket bats.
6. Have Fletch fill one entire industrial-sized garbage can with packing peanuts.
7. Suddenly become bored with antiquing on the first sunny day of spring and decide gardening is your new hobby, and thus it’s imperative to start planting now, now, now!
8. Accidentally knock over previously mentioned garbage can while backing out of the garage in your haste to get to Lowe’s to buy geraniums.
> 9. Return home to find white substance spread over 1.2 acres, prompting you to ask, “Did it hail or something?”
10. Bray like a jackass upon discovering those thousands of little blobs are free-range Styrofoam and then wish Fletch a Happy Earth Day.
Fletch has now begged me to reconsider both gardening and antiquing as hobbies, instead opting for something less competitive/messy/expensive.
He suggests sewing.
Sewing?
Huh. That’s a thought. I have lots of friends who sew and I love seeing the stuff they create. My friend Wendy is an ace and her basement’s so well stocked it’s like visiting a tailor.
This… might be useful. With some practice, I could whip up some casual, more modern curtains for the bedroom to replace those drapes that look like casket-liner. Plus, I could use the time that I was sewing to listen to opera and that feels really sophisticated and mature.
Yes.
This idea is growing on me.
This could work.
Thing is, fabric can be really expensive, so I’d probably want to start with tiny projects, like napkins or place mats or dresses.
Very small dresses.
Like… doll-sized dresses. Really, wouldn’t Miss Joan enjoy something comfortable to change into after a long day at Sterling Cooper? Her little purple suit is so stiff and fitted. And those girdles are murder! I bet she’d love a nice, soft housedress. Ooh, better yet—some yoga pants! Just imagine how popular she’d be if she were bendier!
As for Betty Draper—I imagine she’s as bitchy as she is because she’s stuffed into a girdle all day, every day. All that restricted circulation must angry up her blood. If she had some elastic-waist pants and maybe a loose tunic, she wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Don and then they’d get back together and poor Sally Draper could stop acting out her daddy abandonment issues with all the little boys in her new neighborhood.
Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development Page 8