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? (9 page)

Getting Bergdorf Blonde: A Sixty-Four-Step Process

• Attempt to log on to library system to see if book is available.
  
• System says library card is invalid when try to reserve a copy.
  
• Call library help desk.
  
• Who are no damn help at all.
  
• Them: “Are you sure you put your library card number in right?”
  
• Me: “I tried sixteen different times. Surely one of those tries should have worked?”
  
• Them: “You need to come in if you want it.”
  
• Me: “Arrggh. Fine.”
  
• Beg husband for a ride to library.
  
• Him: “I’m busy working. Why don’t you just take the El? Or are you still afraid of it? I bet you ten dollars you end up taking a cab.”
  
• Pfft. Am not a princess. Can figure out stupid train system if needed.
  
• Of course,
  hate
  public transportation.
  
• Once quoted as saying, “The thing about mass transportation is that it transports the masses.”
  
• Famous last words?
  
• Take Blue Line from Chicago stop to change trains at
  
• State/Lake.
  
• Stare helplessly at signs because can’t figure out if should transfer to Brown or Purple Line. And why no Pink Line?
  
• Pink is
  lovely
  color.
  7
  
• Directions totally unclear.
  
• Have small fit.
  
• Decide on Purple Line. Purple is less icky color than Brown.
  8
  
• Wait ten minutes, no train.
  
• Realize am on wrong side of platform, so cross bridge to get to other side.
  
• Wait ten more minutes.
  
• Realize Orange Line goes exact same way.
  
• Aha! Am clever! Will take quickie shortcut Orange Line and not wait with all Purple Line chumps.
  
• Board Orange Line.
  
• Ride, ride, ride.
  
• Watch as library
  flies
  past window.
  
• Uh-oh.
  
• Realize got on express train.
  
• Get off at Roosevelt and double back so can catch Purple
  
• Line at Adams/Wabash.
  
• See big, pretty, fluffy dog and try to pet.
  
• Yelled at by security guards.
  
• “Ma’am, don’t touch the dog. He’s
  working
  .”
  
• Wait for ten more minutes for Orange Line headed back to
  
• Loop.
  
• Freeze because wearing lightweight coat—thought library would be hot.
  
• Catch train back to Adams/Wabash.
  
• Get off and wait for
  right
  Orange Line train.
  
• Notice am standing across from Art Institute.
  
• Feel guilty for never having visited institute.
  
• Except once to shop in gift shop.
  
• Beat self up about own vapidity and lack of fine-art knowledge.
  
• Freeze.
  
• Get on what assume is right Orange Line train, as is across tracks.
  
• Ride, ride, ride.
  
• Watch as library
  flies
  past window.
  
• Got on express train
  again
  .
  
• What the fuck?
  
• Cry a little.
  
• Exit train, where am openly mocked by security guards and smug, fluffy, busy dog.
  
• Wait for train again.
  
• Freeze.
  
• Stay on Orange Line and pray for it to wind up at Harold
  
• Washington Library.
  
• Yay! Am here!
  
• Exit train.
  
• Almost die when giant icicle hurtles to earth mere six inches from head.
  
• Enter library. Which smells like feet.
  
• Conduct exhaustive search.
  
• Seek help from surly library employees, who try to give me
  
• Candace Bushnell’s
  4 Blondes.
  9
  
• Finally find book.
  
• Wait in line for fourteen minutes. Vow to hurt Sykes if isn’t
  
• Bridget Jones
  –l evel good.
  
• Pay $21.90 in overdue fines because online renewal system apparently doesn’t work.
  
• Head back to train entrance.
  
• Dodge yet another giant ice projectile.
  
• Decide “screw it” and hail taxi. Spend another $9 to get home. Husband spots self exiting taxi and mocks mercilessly.
  
• Total cost of the library excursion?
  
• $40.90,
  10
  two hours, and a portion of my sanity.
  

So taking the train to my temp job is pretty much out of the question. I’d love to drive but spending $24 on parking downtown is three times more wrong than taking a cab, so the bus it is.

I’m at the stop waiting to go to said temp assignment when the number 56 arrives
exactly when it’s supposed to be here
. Not only does the bus get here on time and without incident, I actually find an open seat. Huzzah! The heavens are shining down upon me! For today
I
shall be the one who thrusts my head into someone else’s crotch accidentally when the driver brakes hard for no reason! It will be
me
who curls my lip in disgust when the embarrassed straphanger makes a joke about tucking dollar bills! I claim this twelve-inch-wide carpeted-plastic throne in the name of Jen!

Delighting in the luxury, I open my canvas tote and root around in it, digging past my lunch, purse, extra panty hose, hand lotion, four shades of pink-brown lipstick, and umbrella until I find my book. I feel the familiar glossy cover and I whip out
Slander
by Ann Coulter.

I know, I know…few authors incite the kind of passion
11
she does, but I enjoy her writing even though her politics can be too hard-core for…well…anyone. (When I gave my friends Angie, Jen, Carol, and Wendy a tour of my apartment, they made one collective gasp when they saw the book on Fletch’s nightstand. To their credit, they had lunch with me anyway.) But with hair that good I figure Ann’s got to be doing
something
right.
12
Anyway, as I am all about the fair and balanced, I plan to pick up Al Franken’s newest soon, because I honestly believe the truth is somewhere in the middle of all the polarizing viewpoints.

I read contentedly for about five minutes until I sense someone’s eyes on me. I glance up to meet the gaze of another passenger. A small, wiry woman sits across from me in some sort of yoga pose that I’m sure has a lyrical name but I only know as “Indian-style.” The cut of her short, dark hair shows off jug ears and pale skin. Her natural-hewn brown sweater is bristly and appears to be in need of a shave. Big, googly sunglasses complete her ensemble, and her visage is
disturbingly
simian. This bothers me because it means even chimpanzees are more capable of riding the bus than I am.

I notice her long, skinny limbs are all tucked inside of themselves and the overall effect is that of a monkey in a straitjacket. I continue to read and snicker to myself. Oh, Ann, you’re just
evil
sometimes. With your mean streak, I don’t see why we aren’t already best friends. We should have a slumber party—we could crank call Hillary Clinton and send a bunch of pizzas to Dianne Feinstein! Then we could TP Ted Kennedy’s house and egg John Kerry’s car before braiding each other’s hair while we watch
America’s Next Top Model
. I smile and nod at Ann’s acerbic commentary.

The Monkey Woman clears her throat.

I continue to read and punctuate the silence of the bus with an occasional guffaw. Me-ow, Miss Thing! I am
so
sitting next to you if I’m ever invited to a big Republican fund-raiser.

The Monkey Woman clears her throat again, louder this time.

This? Right here? Is another reason I loathe the bus. I hate having to speak to perfect strangers in such close confines. I mean, no one on the bus ever wants to discuss interesting stuff, like the best way to get your pit bull to stop peeing on the rug in the hallway, or my hair. Either they’re compelled to sell you something you don’t want or to chat about your one-way ticket to hell because even though you’ve been baptized, you’re still doomed because you weren’t baptized in the Holy Name of the Evangelical Church of the Crazy Bus Zealots.

I look up and give her a quick half smile, which I hope communicates, “I’m grinning because I’d like to look friendly so you don’t grab a knife with the prehensile tail I’m sure is hidden under your shaggy shirt and stab me in the neck. But if neck-stabbing is not your intention, my countenance isn’t so welcoming it leads you to believe I want to buy your fund-raiser M&Ms or gab about your intense personal relationship with your lord Xenu, alien ruler of the Galactic Confederacy.
13
But, um, hey, thanks for thinking about me and how ’bout I just return to my book now?”

No dice. Monkey Woman doesn’t break eye contact. When she removes her sunglasses I note her small, dark, hooded eyes and sloping brow. She gestures toward the tome in my hand, declaring, “She’s a fascist.”

I focus on my book, replying only, “Mmmm.” I don’t think Ann’s a fascist as much as she’s someone who uses a lot of hyperbole to make a point. Yes, she’s at the far end of the Michael Moore–Joe Lieberman–Pat Buchanan political-leaning continuum, but I bet a lot of the incendiary stuff she writes is just to sell books. I’m sure when we have our slumber party she’ll be totally cool. Gosh, I hope she brings Mystery Date with her! We’ll set up our matching Snoopy sleeping bags by the fireplace and talk about fun stuff like potential boyfriends,
14
makeup, reality TV, whether or not our uptight old moms will
ever
let us shave our legs, and the ramifications of a flat tax. Then we’ll stuff ourselves silly with Cheetos and RingDings, freeze each other’s bras, and dance to my Jackson Five records until my daddy comes downstairs to tell us to stop squealing like Democrats and go to bed already.

“Everything she says is a lie.”

I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you.
“Uh-huh,” I grunt, not lifting my gaze to meet hers.

“All she does is spread filthy lies and hate.”

Now I know for a fact this isn’t
entirely
true. It would be physically impossible for her to only spread lies and hate. Occasionally she’s got to hit the salon to get her roots done, and at least once a week she’s interviewed on
Fox News
because someone hurled a pie at her while she was giving a speech.
15
However, I don’t feel like arguing right now so I say, “Mmph.”

Monkey Woman grows agitated and begins to point at me with the kind of slender, tapered fingers that are perfect for picking nits out of those hard-to-reach places. “She
lies
! It’s all
lies
!
Lies and hate!
Why are you reading
stupid lies
?”

This. Is. Getting. Old. Normally I’m all about a rousing political discussion, but only with people who I’m entirely sure won’t fling poo at me. So, I simply shrug disinterestedly.

Wrong move.

Monkey Woman begins to squawk, shriek, and gesture wildly. “When you read stupid lies, you turn into a stupid liar! A dumb, unintelligent liar with
no brain cells
!! You are
stupid
,
stupid
,
stupid
.” With bated breath, she leans forward on her haunches and waits for my reply.

One nice thing about being on a bus with a bunch of city dwellers is her shouting attracts the attention of no one. We’re so jaded that if we ran across a severed arm on the floor of this bus, we’d all simply step over it and debark. I look around and all I see are Yuppies enraptured by the
Red Eye
commuter newspaper or listening to music on tiny headphones. No one’s even batted an eye.

Note to self:
Get iPod, like, immediately.

“You don’t say.” I close the book, carefully marking my place with my bus pass. There’s nothing I can do to convince her otherwise and the only way to win
this
bizarre little game is not to play.

Frustrated that I didn’t pitch my book out the window in a gesture of primate solidarity, she throws her paws up in disgust and turns away from me, and…crisis averted.

I hate to admit the Monkey Woman rattled me, but it’s true. I’m bothered greatly when people question my intelligence. I pride myself on my cognitive skills, yet when I fail at simple tasks like taking public transportation, I often wonder if my pride’s based more on false bravado than actual merit.

Come to think of it, I do
a lot
of dumb stuff, like this morning when I tried to put on my pants without unzipping them first and Fletch had to get me unstuck. And then there’s the second-degree burns on my right hand from last week when I forgot that pan in the oven equals hot. Or like when I fake threw the ball to the dog, only I accidentally let it go and the damn thing flew straight into the window, which then smashed into a zillion tiny shards?
16

I sit on my plastic throne and stew. Maybe I’m not as clever as I like to tell myself? What if she’s right that I’m far dumber for having read Ann Coulter? I inspect my own charred paw and ruminate.

As my stop approaches, I stand and get ready to exit. Just as the brakes bring our mobile sardine can to a halt, I notice something different from my new vantage point. It’s but a tiny detail, yet it gives me a shiny new perspective on my rightful place in the universe. I lean in toward Monkey Woman.

“Pardon me,” I say.

Angry, dark eyes cut in my direction. “What?” she hisses.

Clutching my book to my breast so it looks like Ann’s standing next to me as my “second,” I whisper, “Your sweater’s on inside out.”

Then I gather my things and exit as Monkey Woman throws a banana at me.

Okay, the banana part’s not true, but how awesome would it have been if she had?

Anyway, it probably doesn’t matter; tomorrow I shall be reading Ann Coulter in a cab.

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
happy belated 4th of july

In response to Carol’s query of our respective holiday weekends…

Setting: The driveway of my parents’ house. My sister-in-law and niece are in one car and I am in another.

Me:
Where am I meeting you guys for lunch?

Mom:
Well, I was thinking—why don’t we go to that little Italian place by the mall?

(a beat)

(another beat while I process what my mother has just said)

(because, really, she can’t possibly…)

Me:
Do…do…do you mean
the Olive Garden
?

And…that pretty much sums up the past three days at my parents’ house.

Please tell me your holidays were better than this.

Lie if you must.

Jen