Bright Lights, Big Ass Part 20

"Nothing. It's just not a good roommate house," she explains. "Most of our clients are friends looking to share a place. We don't get a lot of couples wanting to rent upscale apartments,9 so that's why it's been empty. I think this place just needs the right people."

"And this is just a house-there's no condo or block a.s.sociation we'd have to deal with?" I ask. "No one's going to pa.s.s capricious rules about my dogs not whizzing in the yard?"

"Not a chance."

"Oh, wait," Fletch says. "Yard-is there a yard?" The blinds were drawn in the kitchen and we didn't even look out back.

We walk down the stairs and through the glorious kitchen. But when we open the door, we don't go directly into a yard. First, we have to pa.s.s through a charming little den with a brick wall, vaulted ceilings, and built-in shelves.

And there it is.

Through the wraparound windows we see a yard, a glorious, magnificent, don't ever have to walk the dogs again in inclement weather yard. We spill out the door and onto its beautifully cemented flagstone patio. Empty flower beds are bricked off and the whole thing's surrounded by a new wooden fence that's six feet tall. There's a section at the end already covered in pea gravel, which would make an ideal potty spot. The only access to the street is through the private garage, so I could allow the dogs to stay out there as long as they wanted and never worry about their safety. I look back at the doorway, imagining myself on a cold winter morning, holding coffee, watching through broad panes of gla.s.s as two joyous dogs kick up snow in their wake. They'll think they died and went to doggie heaven.

In unison, Fletch and I blurt, "We'll take it!"

We go back to Tina's office, sign the lease, write a check, and are instantly given our new set of keys to (Definitely Not) Loser House.

Well, that was easy.

For the past few weeks, we've done nothing but box up smaller items and run them over to our new place. Prior to that, between temping, tramping through every open apartment in this city, dealing with condo complex foolishness, and trying to soothe the dogs, who know something's up and lose their minds every time we step out the door, I haven't had a minute of free time in the past month.

Our movers are coming this afternoon and everything I need to do here is done. The next few hours are the only ones I'll have to relax for a couple of weeks, as we'll be busy unpacking and cleaning. I plan on enjoying every minute of them by lounging around in front of Fox News while sipping Costco's spectacularly good Ethiopian-blend coffee.10 I get up and kiss the dog, whose head is resting gently on my pillow. As soon as I vacate my spot, the other climbs onto the bed. Both are exhausted from their two-week-long freak-out and aren't yet ready to get up. They have no idea they're about to go on their last walk before discovering the joy of their new yard.

Fletch is still asleep, too, so I head down the stairs for opening duty. We brought the cats to the new place yesterday and they're thrilled at all the big patches of sunlight that flood the new house. This place has a northern exposure, and in the two years we've been here the cats haven't been able to bask in a single sunbeam, which always made me feel guilty.

I open the curtains and our living room brightens with the indirect light. Naturally, Winky is there standing on the broken remains of my birdhouse. Somehow he managed to catapult himself up the brick wall and chew through its ropes. He's out there feasting on his spoils and I just know he's smirking at me. I have had it with this evil creature and throw open the door, swinging the first thing I can get my hands on-a tube of wrapping paper embossed with the phrase "Peace on Earth" and a bunch of penguins holding hands.11 Swearing, spitting, and swinging, I chase him to the edge of the complex while shouting, "Die, motherf.u.c.ker, die!" and he dashes up a telephone pole. (You know what? Animal rights don't apply to those who break my birdhouses.12) Victorious, I strut back into the house with my paper battle-ax, but not before waving at one of the fat girls who glowers at me while getting into her car. Frown all you want, missy. For I? Am Audi 5000.

I flip on Fox News and walk over to my Cuisinart Automatic Grind & Brew. I pour in filtered water and carefully measure the smoky, nutty beans into the little basket. Never have I earned a cup of coffee more in my life. It's a tad cool today and my extremities are chilly from having been outside chasing squirrels through fresh dew. I long for the feeling of cold fingers wrapped around a warm ceramic mug. I flip the switch, expecting to hear the blades spring to life, but instead I hear a loud pop, followed quickly by the hum of all my household electronics dying in unison.

Wait, what?

No.

Noooo!

Not again! I swear we're not deadbeats anymore! I'm (almost) sure we paid our electric bill! I frantically search through the stack of packed boxes, looking for the one with financial information. I finally locate my register and see the check was written, so I grab the phone, ready to tell ComEd, "b.i.t.c.hes, my bill is paid." But when I pick up my phone, it's not working because it's cordless. I know we've got an a.n.a.log model that would work, but it's buried in one of the bottom boxes and I can't get to it.

At this point I notice all my contemptible neighbors are gathered outside, and for once I'm thrilled to see them because it means it's a neighborhood thing and not a Jen didn't pay the bill thing. I head out for information and learn we're in the middle of a brown-out, meaning there's a slight electrical feed running. Unfortunately, it's not enough to run my coffeemaker, but it is enough to power my wireless router.

I settle in with my laptop and a bowl of vanilla yogurt and granola. I may not be watching TV, but that's okay. I can still enjoy this precious downtime. As I scan the headlines on FoxNews.com, I get a physical longing for coffee. I yearn for a frothy concoction of milk and espresso and maybe a quick sprinkle of cinnamon. I practically ache for the delicate layers of spice and sweet fruit and the subtlest hint of caramel as the caffeinated goodness jump-starts my nervous system. Coffee is so essential to my morning that failure is simply not an option. I give the Cuisinart another whirl, but it sits there mute. Ever resourceful, I grab my keys and decide to treat myself with Starbucks.

I back out of my s.p.a.ce, pull up to the gate, and hit the remote to open it...and nothing happens. d.a.m.n it! Electric gate! I punch the b.u.t.ton again and again, but no luck. I get out of the car to inspect the gate's mechanics, looking for the fail-safe. I scrutinize every inch of it, getting grease all over my hands, but find no key, switch, or b.u.t.ton that allows me to open it manually. Then I walk over to the mouth of the gate and give it a Herculean tug, but I can't budge it an inch.

I pull back into my a.s.signed spot. I look down at my legs and realize G.o.d must have given them to me for a purpose other than simply having an excuse to get pedicures. I decide to hoof it the six blocks to the coffee shop. I march over to the gate and enter my code, fingers flying across the keypad, expectantly waiting for the lock-releasing buzz that opens the steel cage standing between me and my ultimate prize.

But the buzz does not come.

I'm trapped. Trapped! And with no possibility of garnering the sweet elixir of life, my raison d'tre, the source from which all that is holy and righteous flows! I'm on my knees crying, "It's not fair! It's not fair!" when a gentleman in a ComEd vest catches sight of me. From the other side of the fence, in rea.s.suring tones, he gently says, "Ma'am, he didn't feel a thing."

Huh?

"The squirrel," he said, holding up a hideously blackened yet distinctly still reddish-brown-furred carca.s.s, "when he chewed through the wire, his death was instantaneous."

"Yes, the squirrel. I'm, um, devastated. Of course," I say.

"Yeah, anyway," he replies, "your power's back on."

And suddenly there's naught but a vapor trail between the man holding a barbecued Winky and my coffeemaker.

As I sit here with my third cup and reflect on this morning's happenings, I realize in fact that I'm a big a.s.s.

Because I'm really glad that pesky squirrel is dead.

"They're going to go bananas!" I exclaim. Everything I hold most precious is in this car-my husband, my dogs, my Cuisinart. Fletch is driving us to the new house before doubling back to meet the movers. He could have caught a ride with them and had me drive over myself, but he wants to be there when the dogs see their yard for the first time.

"I bet Loki spins in circles and Maisy rocket-dogs back and forth like she used to when we'd take her to the beach," Fletch predicts.

"How great is it going to be for them to go outside every time they want?" Upon hearing "outside," the dogs, who are already bouncing all over the backseat, begin to yip and howl.

We get to the house and park out front. We figure the dogs should go in through the front door the first time, kind of like being carried over a threshold as a newlywed.13 We open the door and find all the cats lying Jonestown-like in giant pools of sunlight. Bones, the spokesman for the cats' union, looks at the dogs and then us, as if to say, "Oh, you brought them here, did you? Fine. But so you know, this means we're going to have to keep wrecking the couch."

We let the dogs off the leash and they tear off, das.h.i.+ng up and down the stairs for a good ten minutes. We stand in the living room, watching streaks of black and tan fur fly by, building the antic.i.p.ation until the moment when they finally see their yard. We call them to the den, and when they settle down enough to come, they sit and wait for us to put on their leashes. "Not today, guys," I tell them. I open the back door and the dogs explode out into the yard. Loki runs around in laps, inspecting every nook and cranny of the property. He woofs and prances in between peeing on every single vertical surface. Then he notices the gravel area and squats to do his business, and I swear he's smiling.

Maisy, on the other hand, takes a few tentative steps on the flagstone before running back up the deck's stairs. "What's wrong with her?" Fletch asks.

"I don't know-maybe she's just nervous?" I try to coax her out into the yard, squeezing her favorite toy-a squeaky pink rhinoceros-which normally pushes her into overdrive. I throw it in the direction of the gravel and she makes no attempt to go get it. "Maisy? Baby dog? What's the matter?" I fetch her rhino and toss it again, getting the same reaction, while Loki practically tap-dances with joy. "Maybe she needs a drink?" I grab their bowl, fill it with water, and place it on the patio. She doesn't go near it. We spend the next half hour trying to get the dog enthused about her new yard, but she just sits on the landing, shoved up against the door, looking at me with big, soft, black-rimmed eyes and pouting her bottom lip. Fletch has to get back to the old house, so he leaves, and I bring Maisy inside with me, as Loki refuses to leave the yard.

When I bring my box of toiletries up to what will be my bathroom, I notice Maisy's already gone to the bathroom in the guest room. Poor thing's probably just nervous, I think. I take her outside again to do her business and she simply stands on the stairs and looks at me again.

When I go into the bedroom to unload a wardrobe box, I catch her midstream, and I drag her outside, where she refuses to finish. Again I chalk it up to nerves. At some point, she has to come around, right? As soon as she calms down, I know she'll love her new yard. After all, having spent most of the summer trying to find the perfect place for us and the dogs, there's no way our efforts will have been made in vain. I mean, really, what kind of dog doesn't love her own backyard?

Apparently, my kind of dog doesn't love her own backyard.

After almost three months, we're finally to the point where she'll dash out, pee on the patio, and return the second she finishes. She patently refuses to loiter outdoors, even if we're in the yard with her. And she'll occasionally consent to make a big potty outside rather than on my pink plaid rug14 in the guest room. I consider this progress.

It snows for the first time today. I'm sitting on the love seat in the den drinking coffee as fat flakes drift slowly down from gray skies. Maisy spends her requisite eight seconds outdoors and comes immediately back inside. She curls herself into a small bean next to me, tail thumping, head resting on my lap as we watch Loki snap at snowflakes.

She wags harder when she sees our neighbor Dan get into his Jeep. He's the only person we've met here so far, and we've talked to him maybe a handful of times since he gave us a bottle of wine over the fence on our first day here. We've waved at a few of the other neighbors on the rare occasion we're out front, but that's about it. Funny how much less you know about people-good, bad, or indifferent-when you don't live in a big, gla.s.s, U-shaped fishbowl. I scratch Maisy's head and she stretches, giving me a big whiff of corn chip. She sighs contentedly.

So she hates her yard.

But she loves her house.

And that's good enough for me.

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: [email protected] Subject: deep thoughts with jen handy Today I realized something while researching a flight for my boss- www.aa.com is the Web site for American Airlines.

www.aa.org is the Web site for Alcoholics Anonymous.

I wonder how many people out there seeking salvation just said "f.u.c.k it" and booked a trip to Vegas instead?

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: Subject: more paid overtime, that's for sure Hola, I woke up this morning and the first thing to pop into my head wasn't my usual, "Coffee?" or "Who needs to go outside?" or "How many more trees can I get chopped down today?"

Instead, I thought, "I bet the Old Testament would have turned out a lot differently if they had OSHA back then."

Ciao, bellas, Jen

No Molestar-The Attack of the Sock-Monkey Pajamas I'm busy in the Fortress of Solitude creating an antidote for kryptonite when the phone rings.

Well, that's not entirely true-I'm busy in the Fortress of Solitude writing the Great American Novel when the phone rings.

Okay, when the phone rings I'm actually in the Fortress of Solitude crafting virtual celebrity paper-doll makeovers at Stardoll.com.

All right, fine. If I'm being completely honest, I'm not in the Fortress of Solitude at all. I'm in my mint green office/ guest room/general garbage-I-can't-yet-throw-away-catchall room. However, I totally would be in the Fortress of Solitude if I could just find an apartment carved into the rock face of an Arctic mountain, but there seems to be a dearth of them here in Chicago.

Still, my home's an ad hoc Fortress of Solitude if you think about it. Casa Jen serves the exact same purpose as Superman's pad-it's where I get away from the noise and chaos of urban life and it's the only real place I can relax and work on special projects. Granted, it's not quite a secret sanctum far from civilization, what with it being around the corner from Burger King, and instead of glacial ice the floors are a nice glossy maple.1 Also, our place has a garage and I'm guessing Superman's fortress doesn't, because who needs a car when you can fly? This is likely for the best because his X-ray vision would screw up his depth perception and he'd always be accidentally ramming his SUV into the garage wall until Lois Lane had a mini-meltdown and finally had to hang a tennis ball on a string from the rafters to stop him. Then they'd have an argument about his garage-ramming being genetic, because Superman's mom always used to hit their attached garage's wall when he was a kid back before his planet exploded. And since the family room's sofa shared a wall with the garage, the impact would knock pictures off the wall and throw Superman's brother Todd a.s.s-over-teakettle from his p.r.o.ne position on the cus.h.i.+ons every time she pulled in, while Superman's smarty-pantsed father would look up from his Wall Street Journal and dryly remark, "I think your mother's home," and- Ahem.

The point is my home is a virtual Fortress of Solitude and that means I don't like to be disturbed by unwanted calls. I ignore the phone and get back to the very important business of clothing Kirsten Dunst in punk-rock garb.2 I glance at the phone's message light, see that it's not flas.h.i.+ng, and return to my task.

Ten minutes later as I'm painting Kirsten's lips Goth black and r.i.m.m.i.n.g her eyes in red liner, the phone rings again. I continue to ignore it. I've never been the kind of girl to hurdle over dogs and ottomans to answer a ringing phone-if it's important, they'll leave a message. Plus, having recently recovered from a nasty bout with poverty, I'm still scarred from too many conversations with bill collectors. So that phone? Can ring away. Minutes later, I glance at the light to confirm its message-free status.

Far as I'm concerned, I'd rather not even own a phone. I prefer the opportunity to expostulate uninterrupted via e-mail. However, I occasionally do need to order a pizza and have since learned one must occasionally allow her friends to get a word in edgewise, so the phone's a necessary evil.

I've moved on to suit-up Scarlett Johansson in homelesschic when the phone rings again. Concerned that Fletch may be having another one of his "I can't remember what I like to eat for lunch" dilemmas, I wander over to check the caller ID log. Skimming through the listings, I notice fifteen of the last twenty incoming calls have been from someplace called "Rodale, Inc." I'm annoyed that Rodale, Inc., hasn't left a message, but heartened to know that my beloved isn't standing in a food court somewhere clutching his empty tummy. I return to the computer.3 I'm at a critical juncture outfitting Katie Holmes in Harajuku garb when the phone rings yet again. Arrgh. How exactly am I supposed to concentrate mixing plaid skirts and striped tights with these constant interruptions? I look at the caller ID and realize there's only one way I can nip this noise in the bud. Resigned, I lift the receiver.

"Yeah, h.e.l.lo?" I snarl.4 "h.e.l.lo, is Mr. Fletcher in?" asks some guy I don't know.

"Nope."

"Oh, well then, is this Mrs. Fletcher?" G.o.d, I hate that. I am not Mrs. Fletcher even though I'm married to Mr. Fletcher. However, I'm anxious to get back to Katie, so I don't read Some Guy the riot act about how many women choose to keep their last names because we aren't chattel, for Christ's sake, and thus do not need to be branded with someone else's moniker like so many heads of cattle. (Although Fletch really isn't like this and totally didn't care what I did with my last name. The truth is that I was way too lazy to deal with the DMV and Social Security. Also, I particularly like how my given last name looks in calligraphy-pretty! Swirly!5) I sigh. "Yes."

Some Guy begins reading from a script. "I'm calling from Men's Health. Your husband is a subscriber and I wanted to know if he's enjoying the magazine."

Because I can't not mess with a telemarketer,6 I reply, "Yes, absolutely. After Jesus and America, it's the most important thing in his life right now."

Temporarily thrown off script, he remarks, "Wow, really?"

"Um, no. But he does read it on the mug (Fletch's own version of the Fortress of Solitude), so he commits a good half hour to it each day. I guess that's something, right?"

I hear the rustle of paper as Some Guy tries to get back on message. "The reason I'm calling you today, Mrs. Fletcher, is to tell your husband about a free gift. Before we go any further, though, I have to ask you if you mind if I record this call."

"Why? Are we going to have an entire conversation about him enjoying the magazine in the bathroom? Because I've already shared with you the extent of my knowledge of his feelings toward said magazine. His washroom habits are not something to which I'm privy. We believe in boundaries around here, so I'm not sure what else we have to discuss. Also, he made a roast from a recipe in your stupid magazine and ended up ruining eleven dollars' worth of pork loin. Are you calling to offer me eleven dollars? Or maybe more pork?"

Some Guy stammers and I can hear him thumbing through pages. While he hems and haws on the other end, I try to imagine what Superman would do if he were me. Seems like he was only a jerk when the situation merited, so I wonder if I shouldn't cut the telemarketer a break. He's just trying to do his job, after all.

"Oh, Jesus, it's fine, all right? Record away. Add streaming video if you like, but I must warn you I'm wearing flannel sock-monkey pajamas. They're super-cute, though. The sock monkeys are driving little maroon convertibles, baking apple pies, and going bowling. Funny, though, they're not wearing bowling shoes. I wonder why that is? Since their feet are made out of socks, you'd think they'd slip all over the polished wood. That's a bowling alley begging for a lawsuit. Then there's one little guy who's in a hammock drinking a pina colada out of a coconut, which seems weird because you'd think he'd be more into banana daiquiris."7 After ten seconds of stunned silence, Some Guy continues, "Mrs. Fletcher, your husband is one of our best customers and-"

I interrupt him with a snort. "Sir, I know for a fact the Men's Health invoice sat unpaid in Fletch's in-box for almost four months, so if he's one of your best customers, I'd hate to know what your worst are like."

Admirably, Some Guy stays on point. "Yes, he is one of our best customers and because of this we'd like to send him a healthy eating book as a free gift."

A long awkward pause follows.

"And?" I finally ask.

"And I wanted to tell him he's receiving it."

More pausing.

"And?"

"Because he's one of our best customers."