Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? (13 page)
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: #Form, #General, #Chicago (Ill.), #21st Century, #Lancaster; Jen, #Humorous fiction, #Personal Memoirs, #Humorous, #Authors; American - 21st century, #Fiction, #Essays, #Jeanne, #City and town life, #Authors; American, #Chicago (Ill.) - Social life and customs, #Biography & Autobiography, #Biography, #Humor, #Women
Yet for the act of making a simple stack of copies, something any child could do, I receive the kind of accolade I used to dream about. At this moment, I realize I never had a professional job I didn’t loathe on some level. NYSE parties not withstanding, I despised almost every aspect of all the real jobs I ever had—the backstabbing, the premeeting meetings, the protracted “mission statement” discussions. I detested the bullshit conference calls, the ridiculous panty hose–mandatory meetings even in hundred-degree August humidity, redundant results reporting. Although I was unaware of it at the time, getting up every morning and facing chaotic day after chaotic day managing people and products I hated was an exercise in futility. In short, I despised every bit of Corporate America and now it makes sense why I was so mean to people and why I tried to bolster my happiness with multiple $150 Ralph Lauren skirt purchases.
I realize now as a temp I get to work when I want, where I want. And if Jimmy Neutron and his childbearing hips annoy me, we can part ways without incident. I can stroll out of whatever office I’m in that day at 4:30 on the dot and take my dogs for a leisurely walk without bringing a cell phone and pager, just in case San Francisco clients need to contact me. I can chat about goofy reality TV over the watercooler without stressing over my loss of productivity. I can make friends who, despite thinking I’m an idiot just because I’ve mistaken Sigmund Freud for Colonel Sanders, won’t take that information and use it against me in order to jockey for position. I can make mistakes without the unspoken threat of being replaced by someone a bit younger and hungrier than me. And the best part? I get to pursue my dream of being an author
and
still afford to pay rent in the city that inspires me.
And if that means an occasional trip to the copy machine? That’s just fine with me.
I hand my boss his copy and hobble back to my desk, smiling the whole way.
Hey, what do you know?
I actually do get my Hollywood happy ending.
To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
instances where i have annoyed my sainted husband in the past few days
Monday
12:25 a.m.
Me:
Of course I’ll get up with you tomorrow. I know your mornings go much more smoothly when we rise at the same time.
6:45 a.m.
Fletch:
Jen, it’s time to get up.
Me:
Piss off. Zzzz…
8:57 a.m.
Me:
(opening the front door, dogs in tow, announcing in my outside voice)
No poopies this morning!
Fletch:
(gesturing toward the phone with one hand and making “shh” motions with the other)
Absolutely, I’ll get that spreadsheet to you by this afternoon.
(Okay, that wasn’t completely my fault. He wasn’t on the phone when I left and it
does
have a mute button. The man has lived with me for ten-plus years. He should know better by now.)
6:05 p.m.
Fletch:
(on our way to Home Depot for more plants)
Ha!
Me:
What’s so funny?
Fletch:
The guy next to us has a Morrissey bumper sticker and he’s driving an Escort. He may as well put on a bumper sticker that reads “Kick me.”
Me:
I don’t get it.
Fletch:
Jen, the sticker says
Morrissey.
You know, Morrissey? It’s funny.
Me:
I don’t get it.
Fletch:
Morrissey? An Escort? A little tiny guy driving it wearing big Drew Carey glasses? He’s practically begging for someone to beat him up.
Me:
I don’t get it.
Fletch:
(sighs)
Never mind.
6:07 p.m.
Fletch:
Promise me you’re going to make this quick and that you’ll only spend what you’ve got on your Home Depot gift certificate.
Me:
I promise.
Cashier:
(fifty-two minutes later)
Your total is $70.46.
Me:
(to Fletch)
Can I have $45.46, please?
7:37 p.m.
Fletch:
Jen, I just remembered, can you please pick up my prescription at—
Me:
There is no talking during
America’s Next Top Model!
11:39 p.m.
Me:
Of course I’ll get up with you tomorrow. I know your mornings go much more smoothly when we rise at the same time.
Tuesday
7:01 a.m.
Fletch:
Jen, it’s time to get up.
Me:
Piss off. Zzzz…
4:58 p.m.
Fletch:
If you’re watering plants on the second-floor deck, please don’t toss the hose off when you’re done. Leave it and I’ll take care of it later. You’ve already broken three nozzles this year doing that and it’s only May fifth.
5:26 p.m.
Me:
(only remembering
after
tossing hose off second-floor deck and watching it clatter and shatter on the bricks)
Uh-oh.
(Okay, this one wasn’t as bad as it sounds, either. Nozzle three was a high-pressure model and it left my plants cowering in their pots because it must have felt like being sprayed down by the Gestapo.)
7:36 p.m.
Fletch:
(motioning toward our cinnamon apples and dilled red potatoes on the prep line, waiting to be bagged with our chicken at Boston Market)
I feel like a little kid because I see those containers and want to say to everyone, “That’s our food.”
(He puts a childlike expression on his face and points earnestly.)
Me:
Bah ha ha!
(Who doesn’t enjoy the tinkling of their wife’s laugher at an amusing little scenario? If I’d simply giggled at Fletch’s joke, it wouldn’t have been annoying. But because I snorted and guffawed like a ’tard
the entire ride home
, it was.)
10:49 p.m.
Fletch:
I’m really exhausted. I’m hitting the hay. Are you coming?
Me:
No, I’m going to read a few blogs and take a bath first. You’ll be asleep by the time I’m done.
Fletch:
Okay, but don’t forget, I’ve already set the house alarm.
Me:
Alrighty, perimeter is armed. I won’t forget. Good night.
11:14 p.m.
Me:
(running into the bedroom to turn off the blaring alarm, which has woken up Fletch, the neighbors, and their dogs on either side of our apartment because I wanted to spy on the people loitering by the complex’s front gate)
Sorry about that!
11:58 p.m.
Me:
(wildly waving the
Glamour
magazine with Mischa Barton on the cover at the clanging smoke alarm that has gone off because of the steam from my bath)
Sorry about that!
Wednesday
12:07 a.m.
Me:
I’m going downstairs to send a few e-mails now, but of course I’ll get up with you tomorrow. I know your mornings go much more smoothly when we rise at the same time.
I think we all know how this is going to end.
To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
pots and kettles
Why the hell don’t we have our own sitcom?
Setting: Our living room, ten minutes ago, drinking coffee, watching a Lysol commercial about how germy cutting boards and sinks are.
Me:
(seeing fruit served on a toilet seat)
Eeew!
(Fletch rolls his eyes)
Me:
(seeing a sink full of stinky, wet garbage)
Eeewww!!
(Fletch rolls his eyes again)
Me:
(commercial ends)
Whoa, that
totally
squicked me out.
Fletch:
(going for the eye-rolling trifecta)
Oh,
please.
The commercial told you nothing you didn’t already know. Leather up, nancy girl.
Me:
Advice to toughen up might be more credible if you weren’t taking a sick day because
you hurt yourself with dental
floss
.
