Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office : A Memoir (16 page)

“Where are you?” He’s supposed to be in the kitchen making salsa for our Cinco de Mayo gathering, but he’s not there. Now that I’m getting married, I have calls to make, bridal magazines to buy, menus to plan, etc. I’d like to start right this minute, but I really ought to confirm he’s my betrothed before I book a chapel.

From the bathroom, I hear, “I’m on the mug. What do you need?”

“Come out here!”

“I’m kind of busy.”

“Well, how much longer will you be?”

“I don’t know. I think the enchiladas last night were bad. Give me a couple of minutes.”

The enchiladas and not the twelve Coronas he had with dinner are to blame? Right. But now is not the time to criticize; now is the time to quietly wait.

And wait.

After five interminable minutes, I am unable to contain myself, and I bang on the door. “Hurry up!” Patience is not one of my virtues.

“Why don’t you just use the other bathroom?”

“I don’t need to go.”

“Then stop bothering me. I’ll be done soon.”

“Why is it taking you so long? What are you doing in there?”

“Euclidian geometry. GO AWAY.”

I’m antsy but figure that marriage proposals are better when not yelled through bathroom doors, so I loiter in the hallway for what feels like an eternity. Actually, it’s only another two minutes. He soon emerges in a cloud of crisp cotton air freshener, holding this week’s
Crain’s Chicago Business
magazine. I practically leap on him.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks in exasperation.

“I need to talk to you. Come over here and sit with me,” I say, gesturing from the couch.

He blanches because no good conversation starts with those words. Never in recorded history has the dread
I need to talk to you
phrase been followed by something a man
wants
to hear like “I think we should have a threesome with my hot friend” or “I’m buying you a 1969 Camaro, and is black OK?” Fletch is understandably nervous.

I can practically see the cogs moving in his head as he scans his mental Rolodex for recent transgressions. Sometimes I worry I’m too hard on him. On the other hand, he says I’m worth the aggravation and he
did
consent to follow the Jen Commandments, so it’s not like he wasn’t warned.

The Jen Commandments

One:
I loathe cooking. Therefore anytime I am forced into meal preparation, expect it to be done as loudly, profanely, and grudgingly as possible. (Angry: It’s what’s for dinner.)

Two:
I hate holding anything heavier than my purse. If I have something in my hands, I will attempt to trick you into carrying it for me.

Three:
I am not a great listener, although I might appear to be. Sure, I may be nodding and saying, “Mmm hmm,” but usually I’m just trying to think of a way to steer the conversation back to being about me.

Four:
It is
always
all about me.

Five:
I complain. A lot. Be particularly cautious if I am hungry, hot, or tired. May God have mercy on your soul if I am all three.

Six:
I am fashionably late for social obligations. The only exception is when I brunch with Melissa. You must chauffeur me to the restaurant and I will shriek at you the entire time for dawdling, also known as obeying traffic signals. If it means getting me there on time, you
will
be expected to drive on the sidewalk.

Seven:
Speaking of friends, many of them are cuter or thinner than me. You are not allowed to notice this.

Eight:
There will be occasions when you breathe too loudly for my liking. Ditto on chewing.

Nine:
All men’s socks look the same to me. If you care about wearing a matching set, please double-check them yourself before crossing your legs at a business meeting.

Ten:
I enjoy rearranging furniture. You need to enjoy moving bookcases.

“Stop looking nervous. I promise this is good,” I say. Warily, he sits down while I lay out my proposal. In the same calm, convincing voice that I used to sell $10 million worth of goods and services back in the day, I highlight the pros and dispel the cons of the plan.
⁸¹
The more I talk, the more he nods and verbalizes his agreement. Turns out that he’s amenable to everything from Cadillac to Calphalon.

Although he concurs with each point, I sense reluctance.

“Fletch, make sure this is something you absolutely, positively, one hundred percent want. Don’t say yes because I’m a good salesperson. Say yes because you think it’s the right thing for us to do,” I plead.

“I do want to do this. You’ve nicely laid out all the business reasons that this is a good idea.” His voice is full of reticence.

“Honey, I know when you’re holding something back. Say whatever’s on your mind. If you’re not ready for this, you have to be honest.”

“No, no, that’s not it. Overall, I think a Vegas wedding is a great idea.”

“Fletch, I can hear the hesitation in your voice. What is it? Are you disappointed we aren’t going to get married here in the city? Or is it the timing? I thought with my not working and so few prospects, this summer is the perfect opportunity to do it. But if you aren’t sure, then we’ll forget about it for now.” Fletch doesn’t say anything. “Or is it because of how I look? Dear God, tell me it’s not because I’ve put on a few pounds.” A few pounds? Try almost twenty. I can’t fit into half of my wardrobe anymore.

“Jen, you look fine. The thing is, I’m excited and I wish we’d have gotten married years ago.”

“So you don’t think I’m too fat to be a bride?”

“Now you
are
being ridiculous.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“In terms of romance, this stinks on ice. It feels like a business deal, not a proposal. Like I should shake your hand instead of kissing you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about how I’d propose for a long time. In all the scenarios I’d imagined, none of then included being ambushed in the bathroom after a bout with bad Mexican food.”

“Oh. Did I steal your thunder?”

“No. Not really. Well, yes. Seems like I should have been the one to propose.”

Dammit, I forgot that he might have a stake in this whole marriage thing. It didn’t occur to me that he may have had expectations, too. I’ve got to return his thunder because I hate seeing him disappointed. I suggest, “Why don’t you officially propose once you get a setting for Nanny’s diamond?”

He brightens immediately. “That’s a good idea! I’ll do that. But I won’t tell you when, because I want it to be a surprise. How about I take the day off tomorrow to go to Jewelers’ Row and look at settings?”

“Sounds like a plan.” We smile at each other. As he leans in for a kiss, Maisy jumps up between us and gives him a once-over with her tongue. She’s small but determined, so the easiest thing is to simply let her finish. Fortunately, she tires quickly, and he returns his attention to me, drying his face with the tail of his shirt.

“We’re really going to do this, huh?”

“As long as my parents are cool with the finances, and we can get a nice space booked some time over Labor Day weekend, then, yeah, I think so.”

We seal the deal with a dog-free peck. Just as I’m about to get up from the couch, he stops me.

“Can I ask you something?”

He wants to ask me something? OHMIGOD! He’s going to propose
right now
! I bet he was planning to do this all along! It all makes sense…. We
are
having people over tonight, and we never have guests on a Sunday…. I think our barbecue is really supposed to be a surprise engagement party. Woo-hoo! He’s going to ask me to marry him!

Yes, I know we’ve technically just agreed to marry, but I wasn’t expecting my big, romantic proposal today. No wonder he got squirrelly for a minute there. HE was going to propose, and I beat him to the punch! What an unbelievable coincidence that we
both
decided to do it today! Are we in unison or what? We are SO meant to be together.

With my heart in my throat and hands shaking, I look adoringly into his eyes and say, “Fletcher, you can ask me anything.”

He stops to catch his breath. Aww, he’s trying to work up his confidence for what is the biggest moment in his life. We both pause. OK, here we go!!

“What’s wrong with Maisy’s foot?”

Courtney, Brett, Kim, and Biola are here for our Cinco de Mayo gathering, and the wedding announcement has put everyone in a particularly festive mood. We’re all drinking margaritas and woofing down guacamole while Fletch tends to the rib eyes sizzling away on the grill.

“Fletch, when did you know Jen was
the one
?” asks Biola.

Fletch closes the lid to the grill and sits down with us. Cracking open a Miller High Life, he says, “I knew years ago.” He takes a sip and reflects for a minute. “Specifically, it was our first Valentine’s Day, and we’d been together about three months. We went to the nicest restaurant in our college town and had the best dinner of my life. Jen picked out everything—the wine, the appetizers, our entrées, etc. I was so impressed by her confidence and the way she handled herself I began to think she was out of my league.”

I laugh. “Didn’t last long, did it?”

“We finished dinner and went to her apartment. When we got there, her cats were acting strange. They normally sleep twenty-three hours a day, so to find them awake and alert was really unusual. They were fixated on this black spot on the wall. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a small bat.”

“How did you get a bat in your apartment?” Brett asks me, but his eyes never leave Courtney’s direction. Hmm, I may have to try my hand at matchmaking. I bet they’d make a nice couple, especially since Court’s finally rid of the Chadifornicator.

“I lived in an incredibly scary building but it was almost the only place on campus that would allow pets. The creaky old fireplace flue had come open and the bat let itself in.” I’m not kidding—that place was a dump. Once I even persuaded a local news crew to do a broadcast from my apartment because it was so cold. My landlord practically had a heart attack when he saw his building on TV, but you know what? When you don’t respond to twenty-five consecutive calls about a heat problem, I take matters into my own hands.

“Yeah, and Jen lost it,” Fletch says. “LOST IT. She began running around, screaming about cats getting rabies. I helped her examine them, we determined they were untouched, and we put them in their carriers. But Jen was still pushing the panic button because of a
Far Side
cartoon. A disheveled bat with a briefcase walks into his house and tells his bat wife, ‘I musta been tangled up in that bimbo’s hair all day.’ She had really long hair at the time and was sure the bat was going to nose-dive into it. She kept yelling about bimbos, and then she put a wicker basket on her head and closed off the opening at the bottom by wrapping a sheet around her neck. Suddenly, I understood the sophisticated girl in the restaurant was just an act, and the real Jen was standing in front of me, wearing a garbage can on her head. And I knew at that moment if I married her, life would never be boring.”

“How did you get the bat out of your place?” Kim inquires.

“I called my fraternity brother Tim. He brought over my lacrosse sticks and umpire mask. Between the two of us, we caught the bat and let him free outside,” Fletch finishes.

Disappointed, Courtney says, “That’s possibly the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Think so? Then wait till you hear how Jen proposed.”

I told my parents about getting married, careful not to mention anyone else knew before they did.
⁸²
Surprisingly, my mother was totally rational and didn’t cry or carry on like I expected. I figured she’d be all clingy and emotional. Perhaps the idea of writing all those checks was a sobering thought. My parents decided if Dad agreed to give us the car, he’d be off the hook for financing the wedding. (Of course, if he had his way, the wedding would be in the backyard, hot dogs on this side of the pool, hamburgers on that side, and try not to step in Nixon’s towers o’ dog poop.)

In only two weeks, I’ve managed to plan and book almost everything. Armed with my mother’s MasterCard and a promise to “not go completely crazy,” I started researching Las Vegas wedding venues. I thought it would be a riot to be married by Elvis but Fletch flatly refused, so I looked into hotel wedding chapels. I picked Mandalay Bay because it’s classy and private. The Venetian had a lovely wedding spot on the Ponte al di Piazza bridge, but I didn’t want a bunch of strangers gawping at me while I exchanged vows. You want to watch a show? Buy a ticket.

As Mandalay Bay’s chapel is located in a building outside of the hotel, I figured there’d be less danger of people wandering in during the ceremony, looking for the buffet. And thus, I’ll neatly eliminate the danger of my head whirling around like Linda Blair in the
Exorcist
, yelling, “Excuse me, but I am making a solemn promise in front of God and everyone, so could you kindly get the fuck out?” at an innocent stranger.
⁸³

We decided we wanted a nontraditional event. You see, a while back, my friends Michael and Amy had the most spectacular wedding. First, the decor was amazing. Everything took place in the Chicago Cultural Center. It used to be the Chicago Public Library, and the main room had a vaulted ceiling much like a church. Every surface was mosaicked, but instead of religious iconography, all the designs were literature-based. The rooms had sweeping three-story windows and breathtaking views up and down Michigan Avenue, and without one piece of ornamentation, it was among the most beautiful places I’d ever seen. Add thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers, crystal, and linen in a roomful of folks in black tie, and the whole scene was something out of a Martha Stewart book. Then include a forty-foot dessert table with at least a hundred different treats,
⁸⁴
gracious hosts, a top-shelf open bar, and you have my fantasy wedding. During the bride’s speech, Amy told a touching story of being in her late thirties and having given up on love. But one wrong number later, she and Michael found each other and the rest was history. And at that moment, Navy Pier’s fireworks began exploding in the giant window right behind them with nary a dry eye in the house.