Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (2 page)

Prologue

W
hen I was a kid, my mother’s mantra was
You are what you eat
.

Considering that I broke the long silence from birth until my thirteenth month of life by uttering the word “cookie,” it was safe to say even then that it would not become mine. I knew
I
wasn’t a bruised banana pulled from her handbag while waiting on line at the post office, nor was I an unsweetened bowl of Cheerios topped with wheat germ from the foul-smelling hippie health food store. Sure, I’d have happily been a Hershey bar
¹
or a bowl of mouth-shredding Crunch Berries, but a poorly boned bowl of homemade chicken soup or a salt-free lentil casserole? No.

Right about the time I was able to cut my own meat and make my own sartorial choices, my Auntie Fanny gave me some of my cousin Stephanie’s old clothes. I was instantly enamored; there were colors and styles I’d never seen before.
²

Instead of the ducky-and-moo-cow tops my mother bought or made by hand, I took first grade by storm in Steph’s old purple suede fringe vests and rainbow-striped corduroy bell-bottoms and peace symbol T-shirts. I mean, why would I dress like a baby when I could look like an extra from
Sonny and Cher Show
reruns?

I may not have been able to tie my shoes or spell my last name, but I knew one thing for sure—I was not what I
ate.

I was what I
wore
.

You never can tell when nostalgia might strike. For many people, it’s triggered by a long-forgotten scent, say, the nose on a glass of wine that evokes the aroma of ripe grapes hanging from the arbor in their great-grandmother’s backyard. For others, memories come flooding in when a fancy small-plates restaurant conjures up an ironic bread pudding that happens to taste just like the one Mrs. Maguire brought to that block party the day Nixon resigned. For some, it’s a snippet of a song: Three bars from Toto’s “Africa” broadcast from a passing car and they’re no longer swinging a Halliburton briefcase down Michigan Avenue to get to a branding meeting. Instead, they’re huddled in their high school commons at lunch, cramming for a fifth-period chemistry test.

And me? Well, more often than not a piece of clothing will spark my memory.

I clearly remember what I had on when I learned the
Challenger
exploded,
³
and I know what I was wearing when President Reagan was shot.
⁴
I saw my husband, Fletch, for the first time when I was waitressing in a pink polo and low-waisted men’s green chinos, and a year later when we had our first kiss, I was in a red Ralph Lauren turtleneck, loose sand-colored 501s, and had a red and blue grosgrain band around my watch. I can even tell you the exact gauge of the sweater set I wore the day I made the mistake of carrying a Prada bag to the unemployment office . . . no matter how much I’d like to forget.

The sizes on the tags of my clothing may have changed over the years, but the memories are a constant.

In
Pretty in Plaid
, I recall the outfits (and events) that ultimately made me the kind of condescending, egomaniacal, self-centered smart-ass who would bark orders at waitresses and make assistants cry. My road to hell wasn’t paved with good intentions—it was cobbled with gold lavalieres and Gucci purses.

As I examine my life through this book, I can’t help but wonder if my mother was right. Maybe I really
was
what I ate. And maybe if she’d let me eat a little more sugar, I’d have come out sweeter.

My parents (and a prom queen or two) might disagree with my recollections and may have entirely different opinions on where and why things got off track.

So maybe it wasn’t the sugar. Maybe I’m just naturally an ass.

But, really, who knows? All I can say for sure is that my story begins with kneesocks and a lobster bib. . . .

Part One

The Seventies

Sock Lobster

(Navy Knee-Highs)

“I
don’t need to see a menu; just bring me the lobster, please.” I smile beatifically as I return the large plastic multipaged menu to the waitress. I gesture over to the tank by the front door. “Get me the one with the green rubber bands around his claws. He seems like a bully and I don’t care for bullies.”

Before writing anything on her little spiral pad, the be-smocked waitress gives her golden beehive a quick scratch with the cap of her pen as she seeks my mother’s approval. “Is she sure?”

I exhale with angry frustration. “Of course I’m sure; I just told you. And please double-check that I get the Green Meanie. His time has come.”

My mom reaches for my clenched hand and in her most soothing tone says, “Jennifer, be reasonable. You don’t
really
want lobster, do you? It costs more than ten dollars a pound. How about a juicy steak or a nice cheeseburger with French fries? You can have ice cream afterward.”

“Thanks but no. The lobster will be fine.” I always get a cheeseburger and fries when we go out to dinner. Steak is acceptable, but only if it’s practically burnt and bone-dry. The idea of meat juice touching any other food items, particularly absorbent ones like bread or mashed potatoes, makes me want to hurl.

Besides, today is special and I demand the kind of meal that’s commensurate with the occasion. And if what I want is ten dollars a pound, then maybe
someone
should have taken that into consideration when extending the invitation in the first place.

“How about spaghetti or some veal parmesan?” my father suggests. He rubs the bridge of his nose where his aviator frames hit. His new glasses normally make him look like Oscar Goldman from
The Six Million Dollar Man
, but at the moment he appears more tired and aggravated than anything else. I suspect the idea for today’s two-hour road trip was not his. “Or how about the hot dog?”

My brother, Todd, makes a face at me from behind his napkin. “You can’t have the lobster because you’re a
baby
.”

I point an accusatory finger at him. “When you stop being afraid of mayonnaise and tomatoes, you let me know,
Toad
.” I shift out of striking distance—my brother is famous for his stealthy punches—and my bare legs squeak against the vinyl. My mother wanted me to wear a ridiculous pair of maroon tights today but I balked because my sweater is red and I refuse to clash, particularly on such an auspicious occasion. I compromised by wearing a thick pair of ribbed navy kneesocks, which look far better with my plaid pleated shirt, anyway. Granted, my thighs are freezing, but one must occasionally make sacrifices for fashion.

After I wave off my brother’s opinion, I turn my attention to my parents. “You guys didn’t drive me all the way to Connecticut for a
hot dog
. No. I want a lobster. You promised me a lobster. It’s my birthday and you said I could have a birthday lobster. I mean, when am I going to turn eight again?”

Seriously? Eight is a big deal. Eight’s halfway through primary education. Eight means being old enough to stay up and watch
Good Times.
Eight is the new ten. For God’s sake, eight means I’m going to be
driving
in a few years.
⁵

Best of all, being eight means this is the last year I have to be in the oh-so-lame Brownies with all those little girls. I ask you, what am I supposed to talk about with a six-year-old?
Sesame Street
?
⁶
I mean, Oscar grosses me out because he’s probably sloshing around in the garbage juice that forms in the bottom of the can like when my brother doesn’t take it out when he’s told, Bert and Ernie are way too confrontational, plus Bert needs to address his unibrow, Big Bird’s just plain annoying, and Snuffleupagus is beyond depressing. Can someone please give that beast a hug or a cookie or something?? Personally, I’d rather watch
The Jeffersons
or
Gilligan’s Island
or
Bewitched
, except for when Sam’s evil cousin Serena is on. All that white skin and black hair creep me out. Girlfriend needs a tan, like, now.

Did I mention I loathe being a Brownie? Number one, I look terrible in that particular shade of brown. Number two, there’s an ugly tunic and white gloves involved. Listen, I’m eight—do you know how much dirty stuff I accidentally touch on a daily basis? I’d be way better off in dishwashing gloves. White cotton only serves to highlight my mother’s inability to properly add bleach; when she uses too little, they look dingy, and when she uses too much, my hands itch and smell like a pool all day. As for number three, which is wearing a beanie? No.

Plus, no one ever wants to get together and play with Barbies after our meetings. My troop members all prefer those bizarre, big-headed, tiny-bodied, pajama-wearing, pant-wetting baby dolls. One of the girls in the troop named Jodi has this horrible doll that will actually crap its pants after she feeds it this weird green paste. I’m sorry, this is a selling point? I ask you—why would I want to change anyone’s diapers when I can change their shoes and hairstyle instead?

The Brownie troop leaders leave much to be desired, too. They’re always,
“Oh, let’s do crafts!”
Um,
hi,
I’m eight—exactly how many hand-sewn wallets does a girl need, particularly since my Brownie-logo coin purse already hangs from my belt? Besides, it’s not like I have any folding money to put in a wallet. And while we’re on the topic of crafts, who thought it was a good idea to make Christmas decorations out of the brown paper roll from inside toilet tissue? What am I supposed to say? “
Hey, Jesus! Here’s an ornament from me
and
the Charmin Corporation. Enjoy your birthday!”
We haven’t actually covered the definition of “sacrilegious” in Sunday school yet, but I’m pretty sure worshipping our savior with ass wipe would qualify.

In our last meeting I had to assemble this hideous pin out of hairy metallic pipe cleaners and then the leaders expected me to just give it to some girl and be all,
“Here’s a piece of junk I made in Brownies. Wanna wear it and be my friend? Or maybe I could interest you in a hand-sewn wallet?”
I bet the cool girls in my class, like Nancy (with her entire basement full of board games) or Andrea (who has her own tube of tinted lip gloss and pierced ears), would laugh in my face if I tried to give them a pin.

Now the Junior Girl Scouts on the other hand . . . I’m into that. I love, love, love Girl Scout uniforms because they are
the best
shade of green—kind of grassy, kind of mossy, kind of like the color in a really minty Shamrock Shake. I’ve discussed mix-and-match uniform options at length with the two normal Brownies in my pack. Stacey said she’d be happy with anything, while my friend Donna plans on going for the whole mod pantsuit look with a white turtleneck and short jumper worn over flared slacks.

Personally, I’ve recently become more of a purist after spending my formative years dressed like I was headed to Woodstock. I now prefer a little more tailoring and would like the printed white blouse with the longer dress and some simple textured white tights paired with my wedge school shoes. (Some girls wear the green tights; I am not one of those girls.) Naturally, I’m a big fan of the sash and, of course, the beret. How great will a beret look over my Laura Ingalls Wilder braids? I can’t wait!
⁷

Once I’m a Junior Girl Scout, I’ll get to go camping and on skating outings and to jamborees and stuff. I have no clue what a jamboree is, but I’m banking on it including cotton candy and elephant ears.

While I contemplate how fantastic my life as a Girl Scout’s going to be, the beehived waitress sets the huge, steaming plate of lobster in front of me.

Um . . . guys?

Someone accidentally left the face on this thing.

Two blank black eyes glare accusingly at me from the end of their googly stalks. And there are all kinds of, I don’t know, flippers or gills or testicles or something sticking off its sides.

Here’s the thing—I know lobsters start off this way because I’ve seen them plenty of times before. Last summer at my mom’s family’s rental house in Maine, I even got to play with them before they were cooked. We raced them and mine was the fastest, of course. But I must have gone to bed before everyone ate because I’d have remembered a gigantic lobster holocaust.

I thought restaurants only served the big meaty tail and maybe the claws with a side of melted butter. At no point did anyone mention I’d receive a soppy dish of steamy sea bug. The polite thing would have been to note this on the menu.

I stare at my dinner.

My dinner stares back.

We appear to be at an impasse.

The waitress returns with a giant plastic bib and secures it around my neck, taking pains to protect my red sweater and most of my plaid lap. Is it just me, or does she seem a little smug right now?

I look at my lobster. My lobster looks at me. I really don’t like where this is going.

“Jennifer, eat your dinner before it gets cold,” my father admonishes. Yeah, he’s definitely still salty about driving to Connecticut. Honestly, I don’t know why we came all that way to eat at some cheesy diner, either. Our house in New Jersey is, like, five miles from the bridge into New York City. Surely someone there sells lobsters?

Resigned, but not about to be beaten, I pick it up by the front claw and attempt to take a bite. I figure maybe the shell gets soft during cooking and it turns all tasty like those crabs in Baltimore? I bite down and suddenly fear I may have busted a baby tooth.

“No, stupid, that’s not how you eat it! Dummy! You tried to eat the shell! Ha!” my brother crows. Laugh it up, Toad. When your Farrah Fawcett poster
⁸
gets mysteriously ripped next week, we’ll see what’s so funny then.

“You have to tear it open. Do it like this.” Mom takes her hands and demonstrates what looks like the ultimate Indian burn technique. “Once you’ve twisted it open, then you tear it apart.”

I do as I’m told but I’m surprised by how hard this thing is to twist. Big Mean Green still has some fight left in him. It takes me a couple of tries, but I finally get this bastard turned. Then I pull it apart and . . .
aahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

“What is that?!”
I scream, pointing at all the tiny horrible pink balls that have come bouncing out of my lobster’s body.

“Oh, that’s the egg sac. You must have a female. You should eat those, they’re delicious!” my mother exclaims. Um, yeah. I would rather kiss a public toilet than bring this stuff within a foot of my mouth.

You’d think after eight years of fighting on all issues dietary and wardrobe-related, she might have some idea about what I do and do not find acceptable. Perfect example? Earlier today I got my present. All I’ve asked for practically since I turned seven was a Bella Dancerella Barbie. She’s got flowing curly blond hair but it’s slicked back in a loose ponytail and topped with a crown, so that right there makes her cooler than all the Barbies with stick-straight hair. She’s not all rubbery like the other Barbies, either—instead her limbs are firm plastic and her waist is jointed so you can make her do ballet. She can spin and do splits and she comes with toe shoes and a tutu.
A tutu,
I tell you!

So this morning we’re eating pancakes
⁹
and my mom hands me an oblong box and I get all excited because there’s only one thing that comes in a box this shape, right? I rip off the paper and come face-to-tear-drop-shaped-head with some messed-up Hallmark-Precious-Moments-Holly-Hobby-nightgown-wearing bullshit doll with a soft shapeless cotton body and a neck that couldn’t possibly support her own pumpkin head.

Yeah. I wanted the Dancerella Barbie and instead I got a doll with gigantism and male-pattern baldness.

My mom was all excited so I couldn’t even ask, “Why would you give me this?” I had to pretend that I liked it, but I feel guilty every time I look at it because I hate it. I should be grateful, but bad gifts offend me because they say one of two things: either
Even though I’ve never seen you play with a baby doll and you’ve made your distaste for them quite clear, I’m going to give you one anyway in an attempt to force you to conform to my idea of how my daughter should be
, or
I bought what was on sale
.

Now not only am I stuck with Baby Big Head, but Barbie and I are going to have to call in favors from the stuffed animal brigade in order to send her out on a double date just to ease my guilt . . . and yet this problem pales in comparison to the idea of my birthday dinner containing nothing but reproductive organs.

I twist my lobster again and more horrible parts fall out. I shudder. “The green stuff? What’s the oozy green stuff?”

My brother chimes in. “Tomalley, dummy. That’s the lobster’s liver! You’ve got lobster liver on your plate! That makes you a lobster liver lover. Ha!”