Bitter Is The New Black Part 31

Todd and Jean have an unusual home. It's built into a hill, and the architecture is such that there are five different levels of living areas. So the fifteen minutes it should have taken me to clean up took more like two hours, what with the constant trips up and down two flights of stairs.

After the first movie ends and all the kids' demands had been met, my old babysitting training kicks in. I can't allow anything to be messy. I decide to be helpful and clean the boys' bathroom. Although they are housebroken, Cam and Max need a bit of work on their aim. I liken it to a bunch of monkeys trying to operate a firehose.

The bathroom takes longer than expected, and since it's three levels away from where the children are, I can't hear the orgy of destruction. Cam, the brains of the operation, found a large bag of candy hidden in the kitchen. Being a generous soul, he shared his findings with his siblings, and they all stuffed themselves as fast as their little hands could hurl the empty wrappers. After accidentally stepping on a kernel, Max decided to have a popcorn-smas.h.i.+ng party with Sarah on the new carpet, and what better way to inspect one's Yu-Gi-Oh cards than to stick them all to the walls with chewed pieces of gum?

When I walk in the room, it looks like a pipe bomb exploded in a 7-Eleven. I consider placing a call to the National Guard to help me with the devastation, but I figure they might squeal on me and my true inept.i.tude will be revealed. I cannot let that happen.

The kids help204 me clean up the room, thus making themselves very dirty and sticky in the process. I decide to bathe them because I don't want Todd to come home to find his progeny looking like they live in a coal mine.

The kids, however, have other ideas.

They flatly refuse to bathe or shower despite how much I to beg, cajole, and as a last resort, attempt to bribe with a handful of singles from my wallet. And although someday they'll place me in a cheap nursing home because of it, I break out the big guns.

"Hey, Sarah and Max? Wasps like to sting dirty children. And, look, there's one now!"

Tell me those little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds didn't fly into the tub.

Because I don't want to see myself on the news, I only wash them above their belly b.u.t.tons. Whatever is dirty below the equator is their business, not mine. In some respects, was.h.i.+ng their hair is easier than I thought. The lather-rinse-repeat stuff isn't so taxing, but getting them to decide which shampoo they'd like certainly is.205 Artfully arranging the floating toys so Max can "have his privacy" is no d.a.m.n picnic either.

With a debate over what style of underwear and pajamas they will wear to bed that would put Paris and Nicky Hilton to shame, I finally wrestle a super-sugar-charged Paris and Nicky into some cotton sleepers while Cam showers. This is also a lot less easy than you'd think. Cam likes a variety of water temperatures and refuses to touch the taps himself. I careen up and down the stairs again for the next half hour.

Finally, everyone is in bed. I read them a story and it's lights out. Aww, how sweet is that? They look like little pink angels, all clean and s.h.i.+ny, nestled together.

As soon as the last one closes his eyes, I tiptoe down the stairs to call Fletch. "Hey, it's me."

"How's it going?"

"Pretty well. I'm surprised at how comfortable the kids are around me finally."

"That's because they see you a lot now. Back when you were working, you saw them, what, like once every six months? They finally know you since you're able to spend time with them."

"Yeah, I guess I didn't think about that." I'm suddenly overwhelmed with guilt over missing crucial bits of Cam's and Max's early years. "Anyway, I'd expected more of a struggle getting these guys into bed. But you know what? It was kind of easy. My brother must be exaggerating how difficult this parenting stuff is. Sure, it took some doing, but I managed nicely."

"Glad to hear it."

"Parts of the evening were trying, but it's such a great payoff to see the kids all happy and snug in their beds. Maybe...maybe you and I should reconsider our decision to be child-free, especially now that we're not completely broke. After all, I got everything done! Seriously, I must be some kind of superwoman because I was able to keep the house orderly and the kids clean and it's only...only...Fletch, I'm not wearing my watch. What time is it?"

"Not sure. Let me put on my gla.s.ses." Fletch sets down the phone and I hear fumbling in the background. "Jen, do you realize it's one thirty-three in the morning?"

"Oh. Perhaps I'm not quite the domestic G.o.ddess I'd imagined."

"Maybe not. Would you mind if I went back to sleep now?"

"Um, no, I guess not. 'Night, Fletch. Love you."

"Love you back. Have a safe trip home."

I find myself driving out of town this morning with a wrecked manicure and dirty hair, sure of two things. One, I'm not taking the job. And two, I'm getting every organ even vaguely related to reproduction cauterized immediately.

"What do you think this is? We've been all paid up for a while now. Do you think it's a complaint about the dogs?" I hold a certified letter from our landlord in my hand. Although it was delivered an hour ago, we were too preoccupied to open it. When the postman rang our doorbell to get us to sign for it, Maisy and Loki went crazy. To retaliate, the dirty hippies cranked the soundtrack to The Great Escape up to ten and drove off. We first tried to call our landlord to complain but his voice mail said he'd be out of the country for the next month.206 So we called the police. In the excitement of spying on the neighbors being lectured by a burly Chicago cop, I'd forgotten about the letter.

"Open it."

I tear the envelope and experience a brief spasm of terror when I see it's from our landlord's attorney. But as I read the pages, I let out a whoop of joy.

"What does it say??" Fletch dashes behind me to read over my shoulders. He scans the page. "You're happy that our landlord is converting our apartment to a condo?"

"Honey, look at this line. Bill wants to switch us over to a month-to-month lease."

Fletch looks confused. "That means if he sells this place, he has the option of giving us thirty days' notice to vacate the premises. Why is that good?"

"Don't you get it? If he has a thirty-day option to end our lease, so do we. That's how it works.207 We won't have to honor our eighteen-month lease and won't have to live above these f.u.c.ks"-I hop up and down a couple of times for good measure, rattling the entire building-"for the next year."

"That's an unbelievable coincidence. I got an e-mail from my friend Mike yesterday. He has a nice town house in River West he's looking to lease and wanted to see if I knew anyone who'd be interested. It's got a small yard, it's only a couple hundred a month more than this place, and it's in a great neighborhood. I felt jealous of whoever was going to live there when I saw the attached photos because it's really nice. I had no idea yesterday that it could be us."

"Call him! Let's go see it!"

"Before we go running off half-c.o.c.ked, let's think about this for a minute. Moving will be expensive, and we aren't even close to being out of debt yet. Are you sure it's a good idea?"

From the floorboards, I hear "Twenty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught his band to play...."

"Positive."

Weblog Entry 10/31/03 MY BIG, FAT PRETEND WEDDING.

The bad news is that The Lovely Melissa's wedding began exactly 48 hours ago and I have yet to recover from it. The good news is that I don't have to worry about being hung over at work tomorrow.

In the cab on the way to the church, I decided to pretend that this was MY wedding, since so many of the same guests would be at Melissa's. This way I could spend lots of time with people I barely got to speak with on my own Big Day, what with the everlasting dinner of multiple courses and the 400,000 pictures that our photographer, Ansel Adams, insisted upon taking.

I got teary-eyed watching Melissa walk down the aisle, ironic because I didn't shed a tear during my ceremony. At one point during the benediction, the minister spoke about heavenly grace pouring down on the couple and right at that moment, the skies opened up in a brief but powerful shower. G.o.d is all about good timing.

We got to the reception and immediately headed for the bar. Not surprisingly, it's where we found all our friends. And this is when things begin to get a bit hazy...they were pouring top shelf Martinis, I'd had a long, dry summer, and hey, it was MY day. It was really wonderful to reconnect with so many of my favorite people. I'd not been in close touch with most friends, having had such a rough year. Their years weren't much better than ours, so it was particularly satisfying to be together now that things have begun to turn around for all of us.

By the time dinner was served, I was well into my fifth Martini, and I also had gla.s.ses of champagne and white wine in front of me. I noticed Fletch was on his third drink and I got all officious, leaning over and instructing him that he needed to "schloooow doooown." I believe he rolled his eyes in response. Then there were some speeches and toasts and for a minute I couldn't figure out why they were all gesturing at the pretty girl in the white dress and not me, as it was MY day. Curious.

After dinner, we headed back to the bar where I promptly dropped a Martini (including the gla.s.s) on a ring bearer. I felt badly about it, although the first thing I did was laugh, thus not winning any favor from the child's mother. But really, when you cut through the bar to take your kid to the bathroom, you take your chances. At this point, Fletch revoked my Martini privileges and switched me to beer.

Things became very blurry, but I know it was a good time because I engaged in each of The Stupid Things I Do Only When Totally And Completely Sauced...I danced, smoked, and played with matches. The smoking was really more of me dropping lit cigarettes, and the dancing was downright dangerous. Fletch and I were the fattest people there and our "dancing" was a mosh, as it involved us hurling each other around the parquet and ramming our flailing limbs into walls, relatives, DJ tables, etc.208 Then, sadly, MY wedding came to an end. The rest of our pals knew when they'd had enough, so they all went home. So, we quickly made new best friends and headed to a pub in Lincoln Park that I'd normally avoid with a vengeance. Instead, I took the opportunity to dance209 and to scarf popcorn off the counter anteater-style.

Somehow we made it into a taxi and got home. Fletch fell asleep in the cab, and upon exiting, I completely fell onto the street. I would have just pa.s.sed out once we got home, but, unfortunately, I had a couple of ch.o.r.es to take care of first. The dogs needed to go to the bathroom, so I headed out in the rain with them. At some point I must have decided to re-dry my wet hair, because I found a decent sized clump of it I'd singed off, although I have no recollection of this and have yet to find the bald spot.

I was supposed to meet Carol and her family at the aquarium the next morning, and somehow had the presence of mind to leave them a voicemail apologizing in advance for not being able to make it. I was pleased at myself for being so responsible and considerate. After I left the message, I blissfully headed off to bed, wearing a face full of makeup, all my grown up jewelry, and a relatively restrictive girdle.

Suffice it to say, yesterday was rough, what with my apartment spinning and all.

But today I felt better. That is, until Carol played me the voice mail I left for her at 1:03 AM. Somehow I thought I had been able to hold it together on the phone. Following is a transcript of the message I left: 30 seconds of heavy breathing, giggling, and intermittent hiccups (At first Carol thought it was a 911 call.) "Oh, heeheehee, I waa.s.sshh wayyyting for a beep. But noooooo beeeeeeep. Why don't you hash a beep on your, your, ummmmmm...celery phone? Noooooo beeeeeeeep, hic, heeheeeheee.

Um, hiiiiii, itsch JEENNNNNNNN!! It's thirteen o'clock in the peeeeeee eeeemmmmmmm. Heeeeeeeellllllllllloooooooo! I went to my wedding tonight and it wash sooooo niiiiiiiiiice. Hic."

More giggling and the sound of a phone being dropped and retrieved "Nannyway, I am calling to telllll you noooooooooo fis.h.i.+es tomorry...no fis.h.i.+es for meeee! I hic, heeeee, can't smake it to the quariyummm. Maybeeee you can call me so I can say HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII later hic in the day hee hee hee. Call me at, um, 312, ummmmmmm, 312, uummmmm, hee hee hee I can't member my phone, Hic. Do you know my number? Can you call me and tell me what it isssch? I LIKESH TURKEY SAMMICHES!"

10 seconds of chewing, giggling, and what may be gobbling sounds "Okay, GGGGGGGGooooooodniiiiiiiiiggggggggggggg hhhhhhhhhhhttttt! No fis.h.!.+ Um, how do I turn this tthing off? Shhhhh, calllls' over. Beeee quiiiiiietttt, hee hee hee."

15 more seconds of giggles, hiccups, shus.h.i.+ng, and a great deal of banging Perhaps this is why most people only have one wedding?

In the 1997 thriller The Saint, Elizabeth Shue plays the character Emma Russell. Emma is an Oxford-based scientist who's created the recipe for cold fusion. Naturally, dark forces want to take this formula for themselves, and the easiest way to do this is to kill her.

In one scene Emma is wet and running for her life through the snowy streets of Moscow, being chased in a b.a.l.l.s-out pursuit by the Russkies who want her dead. In the distance she spots the American emba.s.sy and dashes toward it, knowing her life is on the line, and yet hoping that the hypothermia and exertion from the escape don't trigger her heart condition first. They show her hurtling toward her goal with the hot breath of the a.s.sa.s.sins virtually on her neck.

Just when you see that she's slowed to the point of the chasers being able to reach the hem of her coat, she gets to the gate, holds up her pa.s.sport, and with her last breath screams, "I'm an American!" A couple of stern-looking soldiers allow her entry, slamming the door in the face of the evildoers. Emma is able to collapse in the arms of a st.u.r.dy Marine, knowing that FINALLY she is safe.

Point?

That's the exact same feeling of bittersweet relief that I experience when I enter the Molto Bene salon for the first time in six months and see the smiling countenance of the best colorist in the city, waiting to make me pretty again.

"Jen! I thought you'd left me!" Rory picks at a half-black, half-gold strand. "But, um, I guess you've been too busy to come in."

I smile. Busy. I guess that's one way to describe the past two years. "Something like that."

"The front desk idiots give you any trouble?"

"Trouble? No, not at all." You know what? Manning a reception desk and answering the phone concurrently isn't quite as easy as it looks. Granted, I couldn't concentrate because I was afraid a 747 was about to crash into the lobby, while the brain trusts here were aflutter about Justin Timberlake's solo alb.u.m, but still, the concept's the same.

"What are we doing today? Full highlights and a lift?" I glance at the other patrons in the salon, and I see row after row of girls with ash blond highlights and the modified Jennifer Aniston Friends cut. They're wearing sweater sets and expensive shoes and flashy engagement rings. Half of them are attached to their cell phones and all are surrounded by shopping bags. They look like Generic Chicago Businesswomen and any one of them could subst.i.tute for another. For months I've dreamed of joining their ranks again, but suddenly, I'm hesitant.

"Let's do something different. I feel like going dark again."

"Ooh, bold! But do you want me to highlight a few pieces around your face for emphasis?"

"Um...OK. But just a couple," I acquiesce. Hey, Rome wasn't built in a day.

"What other services are you having this afternoon? We have a new hot-stone reflexology ma.s.sage that's to die for. I got it done after work a couple of days ago, and I thought I'd melt right into the table." Rory mixes a group of concoctions in black plastic bowls at the stand behind me.

"Just the color."

"Really? I thought you always got the rose petal manicure."

"Nah, my nails are in good shape today. See? I did 'em myself." I splay my hands out, displaying the fresh coat of Tropical Punch Pink. By manicuring them at home, I'm ahead of the game almost forty dollars.210 "Wow, I'm impressed." She drapes a plastic poncho around me and fastens the snaps at the back of my neck. In the mirror I can see her shaking her head while inspecting the damage. "Where's all your stuff?"

"I've got my purse on my lap under the cape. Why do you ask?"

Rory starts to expertly section off my hair with the end of a rat-tail comb. "No, silly, your shopping bags. I practically didn't recognize you in the lobby without being loaded down with a ma.s.s of glossy, cord-handled carriers. I even picked all the magazines off the chair next to you so you'd have some place to put them." She paints the hair from my crown with peroxide and wraps each section with a small piece of foil.

"Oh. I'm not really shopping anymore."

Rory pauses midstroke to gawp at me. "Are you kidding? Jen, Queen of Michigan Avenue? How come?"

"I'm trying to save some money."

"Yeah? Well, I admire your willpower." She brushes a coppery-colored toner on the strands in between each foil packet. I'm quiet while she parts and paints. "Look down for me, please. I need to get the back of your head. Anyway, I bet everyone at Nordstrom's shoe department misses you."

"Totally. Their kids are probably going to have to go to college in state now that I'm on a spending hiatus." We laugh.

"Are you saving up for vacation? Or maybe something exciting?"

I think about this question for a minute.

"Actually, I am."

"Yeah, like what?"

Our future.

EPILOGUE.

Weblog Entry, 12/14/03 WANNA BE LIKE SADDAM.

So they captured Saddam Hussein today. Frankly, I can't blame him for hiding. I'm sure if I were a dictator, I wouldn't want to give up all the palaces and my likeness on every wall if some foreign country demanded it. Really, I suspect that living like Saddam would involve some sweet perks.

When Saddam was in power, he had all that lovely state-mandated control. I know that if I were a dictator, I'd also be a big fan of having unlimited power, especially as my own personal quest for domination came at a very young age. When I was three and tried to steal my brother's new Christmas toys, he told my mother, "First she was a seed, and now she's trouble." Another telling incident occurred in third grade, when I declared, "I can make Stacey Coopersmith do anything I want." (Fortunately for Stacey, her family moved to Arizona in fourth grade. Although I did not believe I was the impetus for this move, I could never be sure.) My policy of usurping control and violating borders followed me to college. Although my freshman roommate Joanna fought valiantly to hold on to her half of the dorm room, I eventually emerged victorious on my pursuit of additional sweater s.p.a.ce. Upon move-out, I possessed approximately 75% of all available square footage.

So, if I were to become dictator of America, now known as Jennsylvania, I believe my first conquest would be Canada. Seems like a nice place, so I'd like to bring it under The Umbrella That Is Jen. My army would invade clad entirely in pink, green, and khaki items from Ralph Lauren and Lacoste. (And who says you can't march in Ba.s.s Weejuns? They are quite comfortable.) I wouldn't hurt the Canadians-soon to be called Jenizens-as I would not embrace Saddam's policies of violence. Rather, I'd wear them down until they were ready to surrender-much like Joanna-by constant verbal badgering.211 Although I like America a whole lot now, some things would have to change in order to morph into Jennsylvania. The White House would be painted pink, Kate Spade would re-make the flag in florals and plaids, and the national bird would become duck with orange sauce.

As the dictator, although formally addressed as Her Honor, The Governor, I would grab control of the media. Although I would still allow professional sports to exist, they could only be broadcast at times when I was asleep and could not be discussed in my presence. (Professional figure skating would be the exception to this rule, as it would become our national pastime.) Prime time would be filled with now-nightly episodes of Trading s.p.a.ces, and Fox's program 24 would be changed to 24/365. I would allow cloning so that another Kiefer Sutherland could film while the real Kiefer accompanied me to state affairs. The only exception to my policy of non-violence would be that anyone involved in the making or playing of the Feelin' Groovy Gap commercials would be put to death without trial.

I feel that I would be a benevolent and beloved leader, as Jenizens would receive many perks. First, my government would subsidize pedicures and highlights, paid for by a 50% surcharge on health club members.h.i.+ps. Every corner would have a Borders or Barnes & n.o.ble, where my people could get free coffee, paperbacks, and pistachio ice cream. Of course, obesity would be lauded and not shamed, because over-consumption would help spur our economy. Fas.h.i.+on magazines would boast articles such as "The Fat a.s.s Is The New Black!" and "More Is More!" I would also introduce a Flat Abs tax. And if I didn't mention it, everyone would be ent.i.tled to three complimentary angioplasties.

Jennsylvania would be a paradise, full of tulips and dessert carts and beautiful handbags, all set to a perpetual and pervasive soundtrack of New Wave music. In short, it would be Utopia.

It just occurred to me that when a new regime is installed in Iraq, it will need a leader.

So, I'd like to humbly nominate...

...myself.