But Jordan, unlike the rest of the Jersey Shore crew, is not up for GTL nor is she DTF. Instead she takes off to my closet and spends the rest of the night RAMCLS (Rubbing Against My Clean Lacoste Shirts.)
Fletch takes her into the vet for an X-ray and bath the next morning and the vet tech swears she has to leave the room and laugh for an entirely different circumstance. Right.
The good news is that our labors worked and Jordan is fine. Due to our diligent efforts at greasing her up, things… passed smoothly and without incident.
Unfortunately, the vet says the kind of bath they’d have to give her would be too traumatic so we have to rely on a combination of pet wipes and time to get her fur back to normal.
What’s a damn shame is that no one’s ever done an infomercial about a cat degreaser, because that’s the one product that Fletch would buy.
Reluctant Adult Life Lesson:
Unless you enjoy wiping Vaseline smears off of every surface your cat touches for the rest of her natural life, pay attention to your surroundings.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·H·I·R·T·E·E·N
Role Models
Once in a while, I question our choice to remain child-free.
It’s not that I don’t love our pets and enjoy the rich, full lives we’ve built for ourselves, but there’s always going to a small part of me that asks, What if? No matter how happy anyone is with their choices, I believe it’s human nature to wonder about the path not taken.
If Fletch and I reproduced, I have to wonder—what would our kid be like? We always assumed that our progeny [Holden if it was a boy, and Browning, Caroline, or Phoebe if it was a girl, all of which you’re welcome to steal.] would have my twisted sense of humor and his twisted world view and would thus end up a supervillain, or at the very least, wouldn’t get into a decent college because of a piss-poor attitude and problem with authority figures.
After we were married, and at the age it would have been appropriate to have kids, we were broke. Flat broke. Bitter Is the New Black broke. Not only did we not have health insurance—we could barely keep a roof over our heads, let alone have the kind of coin to throw around on onesies and Pampers. More importantly, our lives were completely chaotic and we weren’t about to subject another human being to our shitty choices and circumstances.
Plus, neither one of us had the greatest role models in terms of how families should operate. Apparently—and I didn’t know this until well into my thirties—it’s actually not cool for families to routinely gang up on one another, nor is gossiping about whoever isn’t in the room. Functional families are nice to one another and they understand that pitting one child against the other will only instill a sense of sibling rivalry that can never, ever be overcome. [Ahem. AHEM.]
By the time we had our finances back on track, we both felt too old to bring kids into the mix. (What if I spent the past twenty years on birth control only to find out it didn’t matter because I couldn’t have kids anyway? I’d be apoplectic!) And I’d be lying if I said a houseful of sticky plastic ovens and Matchbox cars and (having to share my) Barbie shoes holds any appeal.
Yet when I hang out with my friend Wendy’s daughters, I’m always smitten, likely because they’re almost exactly like me. [Despite Wendy’s best efforts.] The last time the girls were here her youngest took a long, contemplative look around the backyard and then said all matter-of-fact, “Jen, when you die, I want your house.” Wendy was mortified, but in my opinion, you can’t get a better compliment than that.
Would we be the kind of parents who treat our kid like a status symbol, especially given that we now live in the super-class-conscious, ultra-competitive North Shore suburbs depicted in John Hughes movies? Would I be the mother who’d run the family into financial ruin to make sure my girl had more Louis Vuitton bags and Rock & Republic jeans than any of her classmates so she’d have a positive self-image? I suspect I might.
I bet I’d work hard to expose my child to culture early and often so she wouldn’t be the asshat afraid to go out to dinner when her Indian roommate craves tandoori chicken. And if maybe she’d been more places and tried more things than the rest of her peer group? I’d probably be okay with that, too.
Of course, all my questions are answered the day I meet Margo.
But before I get to Margo, allow me to set the scene. In Inferno, Dante depicts an allegorical journey through the nine circles of Hell. Yet if Dante were penning his epic poem today, he’d have included the tenth circle of Hell—the Whole Foods in Deerfield, Illinois.
Nowhere has the motto “abandon all hope, ye who enter here” been more appropriate. Don’t get me wrong—the store itself is spacious, clean, and expansive, stocked with the kind of organic, grass-fed, ethically farmed, positive-self-esteem-having products that cause the otherwise sane to take out second mortgages in order to shop here. [Whole Paycheck? More like Whole 401K.]
The problem is that this particular store is catnip for the clueless. From the parking lot dotted with third-row seating Suburbans covered in pro-environment bumper stickers to the pacifists who will cut you for the last jar of almond butter, it’s like entering an arena where irony ceases to exist.
In this Whole Foods, I routinely have to weave in and out of carts where soccer moms block the aisle while prattling into their Bluetooths about babysitters, back to school, and Burgundy while hippies and hipsters alike debate the merits of hemp milk and silly knit hats.
I hate them all equally, but I’m on a mission and I must endure.
I’ve finally plowed my way through almost all the annoying obstacles between the front door and the deli counter when I’m waylaid by a woman in pajama bottoms yelling at a clerk about a stolen pocketbook. According to the gal whose pants are covered in graphic depictions of Snoopy playing the tambourine, she left her purse in her cart and then “walked away for a little while” and she couldn’t find her purse or her cart when she returned.
Although no one deserves to be a victim of a crime, when she’s out in public at three p.m. wearing Peanuts pj’s, I have to wonder if perhaps she didn’t bring this on herself.
Maybe someone like me walked off with her purse. You know, largely honest and law-abiding, but so overcome with the stupidity of abandoning one’s bag and being dressed for bed in the middle of the day that they felt this idiot deserved a little tough love.
Or maybe the woman just strolled away and came back to the wrong aisle and her handbag is still sitting there in her cart all forlorn and lonely in front of the Puffins cereal display.
Most likely this store employs the kind of staff who embark on Idiot Patrols to keep their customers from Social Darwinism–ing their way out of existence and her handbag is waiting for her at the customer service desk.
Regardless, I want some damn kale salad and it’s my only reason for being here and not the adorable little Sunset Foods market around the corner from my house. Until I learn to perfect their in-house recipe in my own kitchen, I’m stuck in the tenth level with jammie-panted morons.
I finally arrive at the counter and I wait to be served. While I’m standing here, a well-heeled mother and her even better-heeled child of maybe five or six cut in front of me. The kid’s clearly just come from ballet practice, judging from her tight bun and leotard. However, her dance outfit is topped in a pair of D&G jeans, which cost approximately what I pay for my student loans each month. She’s also wearing Hunter Wellington boots. I know they’re pricey because I tried on a pair and ultimately didn’t buy them. [More because of my tubby calves than cost, but that’s not the point.]
The child tugs on her mother’s arm, then whispers something in her ear. Then the mom says to the deli clerk, “Margo wants to know what kind of sushi you have today.”
Suddenly all the resentment I feel towards this kid and her three-hundred-dollar jeans and fancy boots and pushy mom melts away. How badass is it that a little girl has been so adventurous and open-minded that she’s not afraid of a little raw fish? I went three d
ecades before I ever tasted so much as a California roll. And, if Margo has designs on being a prima ballerina, it’s admirable that she’s already making such healthy food choices.
Margo tugs on her mom’s sleeve again.
“Margo wants to know if the rice is extra fresh.”
Um, okay, not only does Margo appreciate tasty sushi, but she also has an eye towards quality. Maybe once Margo retires from the American Ballet Theatre, she’ll become a chef. Her finely honed palate is going to set the culinary world on fire! That’s kind of righteous and I’m totally not judging her or her mom, tempting though it may be. In the old neighborhood, I saw nothing but listless kids careening through life without a goal or a plan, so it’s refreshing to see a child who’s got it going on.
“Margo wants to know if the rice is extra-sticky. The last time it was almost too sticky.”
So Margo thinks she’s Iron Chef.
Which is fine, and far better than her spending her first six years on earth consuming nothing but hot dogs and chicken fingers. Of course, Margo’s refined taste buds are standing between me and my goddamned kale salad, but it’s no problem. Really. No problem.
“Margo needs a taste first.”
Margo needs to learn how to say “please.”
“Margo enjoyed the escolar you carried last week. Margo wants to know if there’s any more in the back.”
Margo goes to Montessori school, doesn’t she?
“Margo wants wasabi but she doesn’t like the wasabi you have on display now. Margo wants to know if there’s other wasabi that’s like wasabi, only less wasabi-like.”
And now I’m done.
At this point I’d like to shake both mother and child, shouting, “What the fuck, lady? MARGO IS SIX! MARGO KNOWS NOTHING! MARGO EATS PASTE!”
But I don’t, largely because the Whole Foods Idiot Patrol is still dealing with the lady in the pajamas. They’re probably not prepared to fight a war on two fronts.
Also? Margo’s the exact reason that Fletch and I shouldn’t—and won’t—have children.
But we will have kale salad.
So there’s that.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Figure out how to do it yourself and you’ll never have to tolerate an unpleasant situation again.
Jen’s Better Than Whole Foods Kale Salad
1 bunch kale, washed and split with stems removed (the stems are bitter)
Juice of one fresh lemon
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 heaping tablespoons pine nuts
2 heaping tablespoons dried cranberries
Salt, freshly ground pepper, and garlic powder to taste
Tear kale into chunks and massage with oil and lemon juice. Allow leaves to marinate for at least ten minutes. Toss with nuts, cranberries, and seasonings. If desired, add crumbled goat cheese, slivers of red pepper, or chunks of tomato. Dressed salad will last overnight in refrigerator and is just as fresh on the second day.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R F·O·U·R·T·E·E·N
Peer Pressure
Come on.
You know you want to.
All your friends are doing it.
Come on.
You’re the last of your crowd to try it.
No, really, it’s cool. You’ll like it. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to. No one would make fun of you. Much.
Do it.
DO IT.
Angie does it. Poppy does it. Wendy does it.
You trust Angie, Poppy, and Wendy, right? They wouldn’t steer you wrong.
Okay, Blackbird doesn’t do it, but she’s so cool in other ways that she more than makes up for it.
Come on.
Give it a try. Just this once. It’ll be our little secret.
I know you’ve hesitated in the past, because it’s like a gateway drug. Do this, and then who knows what path it might lead you down. But you’re strong. You can resist related temptations, right?
Just try it.
One time.
Think of how good it’s going to feel.
Do it.
Do it.
DO IT.
You’re in the privacy of your own home.
No one will know but you.
And if it doesn’t work out, you don’t have to tell anyone. You can take that secret with you to the grave.
Come on. You want to. I know you want to. I can see your hand trembling over your mouse as you vacillate.
Just do it.
Click it.
Click it.
CLICK IT NOW.
Before I can change my mind, I press the button and the next minute passes in a blur as I detail my most personal information.
The train’s in motion now.
The horse is out of the barn and I can’t unring that bell.
This is happening.
This is real.
This is coming.
That’s right… I just bought my first skirted swimsuit.
Hold me.
The skirted swimsuit always seemed like the pinnacle of adulthood to me, and not in a good way. I naturally assumed that buying one was the first step to rubber flower-petal bathing caps, orthotic sneakers, and an AARP membership. But over the past few years, I’ve been noticing more and more of my friends getting hip to the skirt.
When my girlfriends and I spent a long weekend at the beach last year, I was the only one wearing a regular one piece. Everyone else had on cute tank tops with flippy little tennis-skirt-type bottoms. [Except for Blackbird who was in a bikini. As she’s someone who’ll happily visit a nude beach, she has no say in this discussion.] And you know what? They were adorable. In the past, skirted suits have had a Ziegfeld Follies/1920s Miss America Pageant vibe, but now they’re sporty and really not an object of shame. It’s like manufacturers want to bring in a clientele who can’t remember where they were when Kennedy was shot.
As my friends explained, the skirt’s not about hip and thigh concerns. They’ve opted for extra coverage because of the new and, frankly, unrealistic, hair-removal demands. As they see it they can go skirt, or go Brazilian. They’ve chosen the route that doesn’t involve having your lady parts manhandled by bossy Russian waxers.
While we were at the beach, I admired how they could go straight from the water to walk without having to find a sarong or pull dry shorts on over a damp suit.
I was intrigued by the skirt, yet somehow the act of buying one seemed like defeat. For me the idea of the skirt always felt the first step down the slippery slope of socks and Birkenstocks, four thirty p.m. dinners, and sending angry letters to the editor.
When it came time to buy suits for this year, I opt for my usual—a black Miracle Suit tank with underwire and pink color-blocking on the top for swimming, and a lower-cut black tank with side shirring for tanning. They joined the collection of ten suits I already own in the exact same cuts and colors, each its own degree of chlorine-ravaged. I receive them and I wear them and I like them, yet there’s a tiny part of me that wonders, What if…
Maybe it’s because of the suit sale, maybe it’s due to the Ambien, or maybe I, too, am weary of maintaining unrealistic standards of grooming, but when I see the darling blue-and-green-dotted swim dress on LLBean.com, I take the plunge.
When it arrives a few days later, I make a big production of showing it to Fletch, waving that dotted Lycra flag like I’ve just been liberated.
He nods and says, “It’s very nice.”
I guess some people don’t recognize the beginnings of a revolution.
For me, I feel like I’ve entered a new phase as I throw off my clothes and slip into my skirted suit. This suit represents the Next Big Step in my life. The skirt embodies everything about who I’m going to be. Women who wear skirted swimsuits are mature and regal and they do cool stuff like patronize the arts. [Does that sound right? I don’t mean they mock the arts.] They know who they are and what they’re about and they’re not afraid to tell the world exactly what they
think.
You know who wears skirted swimsuits? Serious women. Important women. Women who rule. I bet you anything that both Margaret Thatcher and Queen Elizabeth embrace the swim dress. You think Golda Meir or Indira Gandhi ran around in tankinis? Think again.
I admire myself in the mirror, noting how even though the skirt only skims the very top of my thighs, the dress conceals a variety of ills. I mentally kick myself, wondering why I resisted its siren song for so long.
Yes.
I’ll say it.
The swim dress is genius.
The swim dress is full of win.
I head outside with my book, planning to bask in the sun until I get hot enough to want to dive in; it doesn’t take long.
As I ease into the water, I notice the skirt doing something… odd. There’s a whole underlining that hugs my body like a regular suit, but the dress part has separate material that starts at my bust line. The longer I’m in the water, the more the suit seems to expand. The fabric around me begins to swell and bloom, as though I were clad in a giant tampon that is currently sucking up all the blue pool water.
The entire time I’m in the water, I’m enveloped by wads and wads of superfluous cloth. It’s… disconcerting and I feel waterlogged. While I swim, I have the distinct impression that my bathing suit is trying to drown me.
When I get out, the sodden suit material now reaches my knees and is so heavy that I have to hoist myself up the steps, staggering under its excess weight.
Then as I settle into my chair, I’m swaddled in mounds and mounds of damp bathing suit. Within minutes, I’m shivering despite the eighty-degree temperature because I feel like I’m trapped under a load of drenched sheets.
Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development Page 12