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? (18 page)

I’m on the Internet researching the dating sites that only show photos from the neck up when Fletch finally huffs into the house. He stands doubled over, hands on his thighs, and attempts to catch his breath. The sweat from his brow drips all over the hardwood.
11

He points toward the street and attempts to speak. “Coyote…coyote…coyote out there…puffy tail…black glowing eyes!!”

“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” I reply.

He takes a couple more deep breaths and straightens up, saying, “I just saw a coyote! On the street! I chased after it but it was too fast for me. I couldn’t catch up to it.”

I decide to humor him because I can’t be sure if
this
brand of crazy comes with or without a side of violence. “Of course you did, sweetie! Chicago is well known for coyotes, especially within walking distance of the Sears Tower. You know, our forefathers had a hell of a time deciding whether to nickname Chicago ‘the Windy City’ or ‘the Coyote City.’ They eventually had to toss a coin.”
Hmm, do they still make ephedrine-based diet pills? And what about those meds they pulled off the market? What were they called, Phen-Fen? Redux? Yeah, they gave people holes in their hearts, but wasn’t the weight loss pretty significant, too?

He exclaims, “I’m not kidding! He went to the bathroom right out in the middle of the street.”

“Really, I’m sure he did. But I wonder what brought him to River West? I thought coyotes preferred Bucktown.”
12
Maybe I should start power walking the dogs? Except it looks so goofy that I’m not sure I could do it with a straight face. Power walkers all hustle around like they’ve got a load in their shorts. I can’t look at them without cracking up. Although, isn’t laughter supposed to tone your abs?

“Wait, don’t you believe me?” he asks.

“Um, honey? The coyote didn’t mention anything about having you burn things, right? Because that would be wrong,” I tell him gently.
Salads don’t count as low-calorie if you drown them in cheese and ranch dressing, do they?

Flabbergasted, Fletch takes a step back. “You think I’m making this up.”

“No, sweetie. I don’t think you’re making this up. I think you’ve lost your fucking mind. Do you understand the difference?”
How about doing Tae Bo? I imagine I’d excel at anything where punching and kicking was involved. And we do have that nice lake here in town. (Some might even call it “great.”) What if I were to propel myself around it in some manner, perhaps on a bike or Rollerblades, rather than just eating fried chicken and salt-and-vinegar chips while I sit baking in a lawn chair next to it?

“Come outside and see where he went to the bathroom—
then
you’ll believe me.”

Grudgingly, I follow him to the door, grabbing the only weapon within reach on my way out—the broom I used a couple of hours ago to sweep the patio, back in the good old days when my husband hadn’t yet gone all rubber room and white strappy jacket on me. We wind down the walkway, out the front gate, and into the street.

“See?” he crows. “There! It’s
right there
.” He points to a pile of what’s obviously dog poop.

I poke at the pile of scat with the tip of my broom. “Yep. No doubt about it. That sure looks like coyote dookie to me.” I nod gravely.

“Holy shit, there he is again!” Fletch bolts down the street, leaving me alone again.

So what do people wear on dates nowadays?
I wonder.
Last time I was on the market it was little jeans and big hair.
13
And do people even say stuff like “nowadays” anymore? Am I going to have to buy thongs?
14
Or be all slutty like the
Sex and the City
women? (Way to set a precedent, you dirty girls.) And learn to dance? The Macarena—that’s still popular with the kids, yes?

I’m trying to figure out where my arms should go when I get to the part about the boy named Nicorino when my new next-door neighbor Holly strolls up with her dog.

“Hey, Jen. What’s up? Why are you standing in the street? And are you—are you doing
the Macarena
?” Holly asks.

“Um, no. No! Heh, heh. Don’t be silly. Why would I be doing the Macarena? Heh.” I giggle nervously. So busted. “I’m standing out here because Fletch has gone crazy Vegas-style.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, we had a good run, but he’s suddenly become unhinged so it’s over. A shame, really. Now I’m going to have to lose a ton of weight if I ever want to talk to anyone about
Fantasy Island
again.”

“Hmm, I guess you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. But might I ask what happened? He seemed sane earlier when he was watering your plants. I’d hate for you to spend all that time on the StairMaster if he’s not really lost his mind.”

“He thinks he’s out here, um, this is
insane
, um,
chasing a coyote
.” I burst into nervous, husband-committing laughter.

I expect Holly to concur with my diagnosis and help me find a nice institution and a sensible but satisfying diet plan that includes chocolate at least a couple days a week. And real butter—not that yellow cardboard-paste stuff. Instead, she replies, “I saw one earlier, too. There’s a couple of them over by where they’re tearing down the factory next to the north branch of the river.”

“No way.” Surely she can’t be telling me the truth. (But if so, I have a whole trash can full of cupcakes to rescue.)

“Seriously, Jen, the coyotes follow the path of the water and they come down here looking for food.”

“But why would they come to Chicago? The shows? The shopping? I’ve got to tell you, I’ve yet to see one at Bloomingdale’s,” I respond knowingly. I imagine if the coyotes did hit Bloomie’s, they’d go for the sheepskin stuff first.

“As we encroach on the wilderness, wild animals are forced into increasingly urban areas. It’s really sad.”

Oh.

So the coyotes leave their habitat because they’re hungry. Having gone to the Cub Foods in the ’hood more than once at twelve thirty a.m. simply to buy their house-brand big, yummy muffins, I totally get it. Yet I suddenly feel sorry these wild creatures have been driven from their woods and meadows in search of nourishment, only to be stalked down Racine Avenue by a porky phone-company executive in a bright orange fleece pullover.

The good news is Fletch isn’t crazy.

I’m still increasing his meds, though, because I
really
hate doing sit-ups and I haven’t the strength to school a new guy on the genius of Don Knotts.

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
pieces of me

Four hours and $256.00 later, I now have Ashlee Simpson’s exact hairstyle.

Fuck.

To:
angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
trout pout

Shalom, ladies!

So, I never quite understood the allure of injecting collagen in one’s lips…

…until I went to Sephora.

While Fletch perused the men’s section for upscale shaving gel, I amused myself at the “lip plumping station.” (I know, it totally sounds dirty.) I brushed a variety of potions with clever names like Pout and Plump and Lipscription on my hand…and nothing happened.

I wasn’t surprised because I didn’t believe for one minute they’d actually
do
anything. If I’ve learned anything about cosmetics, it’s that manufacturers
lie
. Nothing will eliminate your wrinkles or eradicate your pores, yet the industry thrives on these beauty myths. The best you can hope for is decent camouflage. So I knew the lip stuff was a farce.

Bored with the display, I worked my way through the shampoos and on to the perfume wall. While examining an incredibly phallic-looking bottle of Jessica Simpson’s Dessert Treats fragrance, I realized my left hand hurt. Had I bumped into something? Glancing down to see my distended digits, I briefly wondered when I’d shut my hand in a car door.

And then it hit me—that’s where I’d applied the Too Faced Lip Injection.

Oh, my God, this shit actually
works!

I pushed through a pack of tourists from Cleveland while rushing to the register to purchase my prize. Out of the way, you slack-jawed yokels…Baby needs a new beak!

Promising Fletch I’d meet him at Nordstrom in fifteen minutes, I dashed off to the ladies’ room to apply my miracle potion. I smoothed on the glossy substance with care and gazed at my reflection, waiting for magic to happen.

Waiting…

…waiting…

…and waiting…for nothing.

Perhaps the capsicum in Lip Injection only worked on the skin of my hand? Damn it, that meant I’d just wasted $16.50. I waited a bit more and finally trudged defeated to Nordstrom’s entrance.

A couple of minutes later, Fletch appeared. As he approached, I

noticed an odd look on his face. He peered intensely at the area right above my chin. My hand flew to my mouth, where a change had magically taken place at some point between the bathroom mirror and the shoe department.

With a tentative touch, I prodded my newly lush lips…

…and they were glorious! Thick, pouty, and gorgeous! I felt like a movie star! Move over, Lara Flynn Boyle, there’s a new sheriff in town! Step aside, Meg Ryan, for I laugh at your shriveled little pucker!

Grinning madly with my newly magnificent smile, I waited for Fletch to tell me how much prettier I’d become. As he inched nearer to me, I twitched with anticipation, anxious to receive my oh-so-deserved kudos.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally stood before me. And leaning in to the point where we were almost touching, I could feel his soft breath on my face as he whispered those magical words…

“Did somebody just punch you in the mouth?”

Nice.

Jen

P.S. Sephora has a liberal return policy.