Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (29 page)

Carrie Bradshaw Made Me Do It

(Not Manolos—But Close)

E
very Sunday night, I worship at the altar of Sarah Jessica Parker.

Okay, that’s not quite true. Every Sunday night, I change into my jammies, microwave some popcorn, and close the bedroom door to watch
Sex and the City
.

I haven’t had a lot of female relationships since I left college. I’m so used to being surrounded by sorority sisters and room-mates and other waitresses at work that it’s weird that I don’t know more girls. All my friends at work are guys, and sure it’s fun when Fletch and I go to dinner with David and his wife or Tim and his gal du jour, but it’s not the same. I miss hanging out with a big group of girls, so I’ve made Charlotte, Carrie, Miranda, and Samantha my friends for the time being.

I always watch in the bedroom because the show kind of repulses Fletch. He says it’s totally unrealistic, which, fine, he’s got me there. I mean, I’ve certainly never frequented a swanky club . . . or even been to a party that isn’t full of Natural Light keg beer and shag carpeting. I’ve never gotten a chemical peel from an aggressive Swede named Inga or paid more than twenty dollars for brunch.
¹⁷⁴

Fletch came up with a term for the
SATC
ladies—misoGuynistic
¹⁷⁵
—and says SJP has a foot for a face. I disagree. I think Sarah Jessica’s an unconventional beauty. Plus, she’s totally been my patron saint ever since I was a kid because the roles she’s chosen have been such a great guide to life. In
Square Pegs
she proved it was fine to be a socially awkward junior high school student.
¹⁷⁶
She made me feel like everyone had a big-glasses-and-frizzy-hair-and-oh-God-please-like-me phase.
Girls Just Want to Have Fun
taught me how to rebel without breaking
too
many rules. I love what a free spirit she was in
LA Story
. (And I’m still jealous that she dated John-John and married Ferris Bueller.)

Actually, I dig
Sex and the City
not just because of the friendships and despite the bedroom antics. (Frankly, these ladies would benefit from keeping their pants on a little more often.) I admire how they conduct their respective businesses. They all have so much professional confidence. Carrie’s column is doing great, Samantha’s at the top of her field in PR, and Miranda and Charlotte completely rock their jobs. I get the feeling none of these characters ever agonized over how to operate a fax machine, nor did they shart themselves every time they were tasked to transfer a call. Sure they may suck at relationships, but they rule at being strong, smart businesswomen and their passion for their careers is enviable. Plus, they get together every week and actually
eat
at brunch; I like how they send the message that it’s okay to digest.

The only downside of my Sunday night
SATC
habit is that as soon as the show’s over, I’m hit with a huge Sunday night anxiety attack. I dread Monday mornings so much. Each week I pray I’ll come down with something daunting but nonfatal, like mono. I always dash to the mirror when the show’s over to see if there are any spots in my throat or if I have swollen glands, and I never do, damn it.

I remember when I couldn’t wait for Mondays. I guess I’ve lost my passion for what I do. Or maybe I’ve just had it shouted out of me? The problem is that even though I’m a recruiter for the HMO now, I still have to deal with existing providers’ issues. If anything, I’m even more deeply involved because most doctors I’m assigned to recruit are already part of an established practice. Often, they won’t join unless I fix whatever compensation troubles are plaguing their partners.

My company has an entire division that’s supposed to deal with this stuff, yet I feel like I’m always haggling with adjusters trying to get claims processed and paid. While my bonus is based on who I can bring in, sometimes I wonder if everyone else is encouraged to find ways
not
to pay the very doctors I worked so hard to land.
¹⁷⁷

What complicates matters is these doctors gossip more than Carrie & Co. over brunch. They’re contractually forbidden to discuss their reimbursement arrangements with each other, but our repeated warnings carry about as much heft as jaywalking laws. So if I cut a particularly sweet deal with one doctor because we need him, every other guy with a stethoscope in a ten-mile radius demands the exact same thing. Then I’m stuck having an uncomfortable conversation where I have to dance around the fact that the company values
¹⁷⁸
degrees from Harvard above those from Hollywood Upstairs Medical School.

Most of my doctors practice on the tony North Shore of Chicago, so the normal physician level of arrogance is multiplied by ten. Regardless of their superior skills and credentials, sometimes I have trouble explaining that even though they may have once treated Michael Jordan, we’re not going to pay them like they
are
Michael Jordan.

Today I’m supposed to be having a one-on-one meeting with a practice manager, a lovely gal named Pat. Instead, my casual conversation over coffee has turned into yet another ambush where I have to defend my company’s practices to an entire hospital board. Five different gray-suited old men take turns shouting at me in something I can only describe as a verbal gang bang.

I try to pretend I’m Miranda while they bluster and blow. There’s no way Miranda would lose her cool if she were in, say, a courtroom situation. She’d stay steadily calm and wouldn’t allow opposing council to detect any emotion.
¹⁷⁹
Even though I want to go hide in my car, I cross my arms over my chest, lean back in my chair, and attempt to appear nonplussed. I don’t even flinch when someone sprays me with shout spittle.

If anyone deserves an Emmy here, it’s me.

“This has to be a mistake!”

I accidentally say this out loud and then quickly clamp my hand over my mouth. Shit! Did anyone hear me? I’m on a covert mission and I almost blew it.

I pull out my compact and wipe the excess powder from the mirror. Then I use it to peek around one corner and then the other. I don’t see anyone. Because I have army training
¹⁸⁰
I know that threats can come from any angle. I surreptitiously look up. The sky, or rather the dropped acoustical tile ceiling, is clear. I bend over to check below because I can’t be too careful. I see nothing but a broken plastic hanger, a few menacing dust bunnies, and a butterscotch wrapper. There’s no one lurking, waiting to steal my great prize. All clear.

I’m being ultra-careful because I’ve got to keep this unbelievable find to myself . . . at least until I get out of the store.

Having recently upgraded to buying well-fitting clothes from better retailers like Bloomingdale’s, Saks, and Nordstrom, I vowed to never shop at discount places like TJ Maxx again. However, I kicked myself in the ankle with a chunky heel just to keep from erupting in today’s meeting with the hospital board and ended up ripping my trouser sock. Usually I keep a couple of spare pairs in my bag, but I’ve been kicking myself a lot lately and I’ve burned through them all.

Since I was on my way home, I figured I might as well pop into the Maxx and stock up, stashing some in my work bag and the rest in my glove compartment.
¹⁸¹

I headed right to the hosiery department and pawed through the cream-colored knee-highs on the rack. I located a few acceptable, non-factory-second pairs and began to take my purchase to the register when I spied something desperately out of place in my peripheral vision.

I sidled up to the items that caught my eye, afraid that if I gazed at them dead-on, they’d prove to be a mirage. I exercised the same intentional nonchalance needed to approach my cat Bones prior to stuffing him in a carrier to bring him, hissing and clawing and spitting, to the vet.

Finally, as soon as I was within reach, I snaked my hand out and grabbed. I had the items clutched to my chest in less than a second. Eventually, I loosened my grip and held them out for inspection.

Could they be real?

Did I dare believe?

I verified their authenticity by looking inside, and then I flipped them over and went all Forrest Gump for a moment.
Mama says they was my magic shoes. They could take me anywhere.

And that’s when I shouted.

I’m standing here—big mouth agape—wondering how on earth a pair of couture crocodile-skin pumps ends up on the sale rack in the ghetto TJ Maxx between all the defective Nikes and last year’s off-white, size-twelve Steve Maddens. The original price tag is over four hundred dollars, but now they’re marked down to fifty.

I decide I’m buying them long before it occurs to me to try them on. I kick off my snaggy-heeled loafer in preparation to slip on the pump.

The shoes are a rich, mellow golden brown that will coordinate nicely with practically my entire wardrobe. Casual enough to pair with jeans
¹⁸²
and dressy enough to go with my best Jones New York suit, these may well be the world’s most versatile shoes. The toes taper slightly and the three-inch real wooden stacked heel is thick enough to balance on, yet thin enough to elongate the legs. The actual skin is textured and the tiny bumps and markings make each shoe slightly different, but in this case, perfect symmetry would look fake and cheap.

Tentatively, I slip one torn-trouser-socked foot inside. Suddenly, a choir of angels starts singing.

Or maybe it’s just a Michael Bolton song playing on the store’s sound system.

Whatever, the fit is so right that if this were a Brothers Grimm story, I’d currently be saying sayonara to two bitchy stepsisters and a life of cleaning out fireplaces. I slide my left foot in with the same result. Perfection!

This is kismet!

This is fate!

This is divine intervention!

This is a problem.

I only have about sixty bucks to my name and I’m supposed to use it to pay my electric bill.

I’m about to set these little treasures down and walk away when the curly-haired, tutu-wearing, unfortunate-nosed devil on my shoulder asks,
What would Carrie Bradshaw do?

Carrie would live by candlelight for a couple of days if she had to in order to possess these shoes.

Oh, Carrie Bradshaw, Thy will be done.

She Gets a Long Letter, Sends Back a Postcard (Times Are Hard)

(Silver Tiffany Ring)

“I
t’s like I’m stuck in
Groundhog Day
.” Two cosmos and half a caprese salad into dinner, I still can’t shake off my frustration.

Fletch dips a piece of focaccia into a little plate of olive oil and parmesan. “How so?”

Fletch is kind of like my Mr. Big, although he’s always nice to me. Also, he shows up when he says he will.

And he’s not cold or distant.

Nor is he a commitment-phobic douchehound.

Fine, so he’s nothing like Mr. Big except that he’s picking up the check tonight.
¹⁸³
We’re having dinner at Cucina Bella, the twee Italian place around the corner.

Normally I love it here. The atmosphere is wonderful—they’re always playing Sinatra, which makes me feel like I’m sitting in my Auntie Virginia’s kitchen in the middle of the party. The food is hearty and delicious, but it’s presented with a sense of humor—like the wine might be served in a jelly jar and the appetizer on an antique washboard.

I should be delighted Fletch’s calamari comes in an old colander, but I can’t appreciate the kitsch because I’m still too wound up from work. I’m so anxious about my job, I’ve picked up the habit of spinning my big silver ring. I bought this ring for myself on my thirtieth birthday. And truly, it is gorgeous. There’s a thick silver band that goes around the back of the finger and then it comes up on either side, where ribbed gold pieces hold a center silver loop. It’s classy and equestrian-looking, and I get a million compliments on it. (Were there a diamond in the middle, this would be the perfect style of engagement ring,
hint, hint
.)

The heft of the metal on my hand is comforting, but it’s so heavy it tends to shift a tiny bit. Because it’s already predisposed to movement, I tend to spin it around when I get anxious. This nervous tic makes me crazy, yet I can’t seem to stop.

Spin, spin, spin.

“Every time my goddamned phone rings, it’s an office manager named Pat or Kathy or Linda—they’re all named Pat, Kathy, or Linda, by the way—and they’re always calling to yell at me because their doctor isn’t in-network yet. Each time I have to tell them he’s not because he won’t fill out the form to disclose his malpractice history.”

“Why? Do they all have major lawsuits against them?” Fletch asks. “Too many watches left where the gallbladder used to go?”

“No, most of my guys are on the North Shore and they’re all really good. Although I did once see an application from a doctor in the city who kept operating on the right side of his patients instead of the left. I had to laugh when I read his file because I thought he’d greatly benefit by tattooing
Ralphie
and
Louie
on his wrists.”
¹⁸⁴
“Then what’s the problem?”

Spin, spin.

“The problem is they’re determined to make me prematurely gray.” Fletch gives me a pointed look over the rim of his martini glass.
¹⁸⁵
I shrug. “Seventy-five percent of the time whatever suit’s been brought against them has proved to be bogus. Or it’s settled out of court for a pittance because their liability people say it’s the easiest thing.” I stab a piece of buffalo mozzarella and chew violently. My job puts me in a perpetual state of anger. “The issue is these physicians are unwilling to tell our medical director about it one hundred percent of the time.”

“Doesn’t he need the info to decide if the doctor gets in or not?”

I gesture at him with my fork. “See? You get it and you don’t even work in the industry. Here’s what makes me want to pull my hair out—the doctors know we can’t approve their application without disclosure, but I have to fight with them for disclosure. Then they get furious at how long the approval process takes, which is entirely their own fault because they won’t disclose. It’s a vicious cycle of stupid.”

Ever the problem solver, Fletch suggests, “Work for a different HMO, then.”

“If it were only that easy. I’d still be dealing with the same assholes. And the thing is, doctors say they hate
us
the most, but I’m friends with people at a couple of different payers and it’s the same old mouthwash just swished to a different side. I was in Dr. Dickweed’s
¹⁸⁶
office last week and I could hear him shouting at the Humana rep for twenty minutes, telling her they were the worst company out there. And then when it was my turn, he said the same exact thing.”

“You wanted me to violate
his
entryway, right?” Last time we were at the mall doing Christmas shopping, I begged Fletch to pee on the doctor’s office door, which is located in the professional services building across the street. He wouldn’t do it because he has no sense of adventure. Or maybe because it was ten degrees out. Or something.
¹⁸⁷

“That’s the guy.” I motion to the waiter as he passes by and order another cosmo.
¹⁸⁸
I hand my salad plate over to Fletch. “Wanna finish this? I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Thanks.” He neatly slices the salad so he gets an equal ratio of cheese, tomato, and basil in every bite. He chews carefully and deliberately. “Are you still considering quitting?”

“Pfft. Only every second of every minute of every day. What would I do, though? I’ve had a Monster search with a
political
science
keyword for six months and it hasn’t turned up one listing.”

He guffaws. “Bet your philosophy minor keywords aren’t helping either.” I glower and Fletch lays his fork down. “Listen, I don’t know how many times I have to say this. The tech industry is exploding right now. Go do sales for a dot com. Everyone’s hiring. I’ve been slammed with all the business I’m getting from these start-ups because they’ve got a ton of VC. You’ve got the tenacity and you know how to negotiate—you’d make a shitload of money.”

I mull over his suggestion. There may be something to this dot-com business. I’ve been noticing subtle changes in the general population every time I go to my office in the Loop. The cars have gotten a lot nicer lately. I was so proud of myself when I earned the privilege of driving a company car and I got to upgrade from my Tercel to a brand-new Dodge Stratus. The car only had thirteen miles on it when I got it! Now it seems like everyone’s in a Beemer or a Land Rover and suddenly my gleaming gold Stratus feels gaudy and cheap.

I see people wearing a lot more designer sunglasses when they stroll past me, too. They no longer carry briefcases—instead they’ve got weathered computer bags with whatever-dot-com logos on them. And they aren’t stuck in suits anymore—they’re clad in jeans and cargo pants and dirty khakis. An occasional tattoo peeks out of a sleeve or a wrinkled collar. When I started my job three years ago, no professionals ever showed their ink, let alone went to work unshowered or unshaved. I still have to stick a Band-Aid over my tiny sorority ankle tattoo any time I’m wearing pantyhose.

I bet if I were friends with Charlotte, she’d agree with my disapproval of casual business wear.
¹⁸⁹
Regardless, something big is going on out there, but I’m not quite sure what.

The vibe on the streets is almost euphoric, like everyone’s so damn excited about their jobs and their companies. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed what I do for a living. I can’t imagine what it would be like to leave work on a Friday and not spend the entire weekend dreading Monday. Or what it’d be like to have a spittle-free client conversation.

Yet I’m not quite ready to make a change. “I don’t want to stay, but I can’t leave because then I’d be admitting defeat.” I spin my ring so much that Fletch finally places his hand over mine to stop me.

“That’s your problem right there. You won’t concede the game, yet you can’t justify why you’re playing it in the first place.”

“Touché.” I exhale loudly and drain my cosmo. He’s not wrong. “At the moment, the path of least resistance is just giving this job some more time.”

“That’s nothing but a short-term solution.”

“Well, maybe Mexico will be just what I need to improve my attitude.” I’m leaving for a vacation in Cancun with my folks at the end of the month. You know what I just realized? You never hear the
SATC
girls talk about their families. That’s odd.

“Yes,” he quickly agrees, “I’m sure that after a week with your parents, your work problems will seem insignificant.”

I nod and dunk a piece of bread in some homemade marinara sauce before glancing over at him. Why’s he’s smirking?

I get through the next few weeks of work somehow and I’m super-excited as Fletch drives me to the airport. Unfortunately, he’s still kind of new at his job and doesn’t have enough vacation time to come with us. Or at least that’s what he says. There’s an outside shot this was an elaborate ruse not to spend a week listening to my mother grilling him on why we aren’t married yet, in which case I don’t blame him.

“Dad says to meet him at the international terminal.” I navigate while Fletch drives.

Fletch shakes his head. “Your ticket says terminal three.”

“But Dad said this is an international flight so I have to go to the international terminal. I’m supposed to meet them there.”

“Your father is wrong. Your ticket is right,” Fletch argues.

“But he said—”

“Jen, do you want to go to the correct terminal or do you want to listen to the same man who once led a convoy of sixteen hundred marines
to the wrong country
because he refused to ask for directions?”

“Terminal three, please.” We have to take another lap around the periphery of O’Hare to get to the right terminal.

Fletch helps me with my bags, hugs and kisses me good-bye, and then I’m off. I cruise through security and grab a coffee and scone before proceeding to my gate. My parents are already there. My mother lunges to hug me and kisses me on the neck,
which I hate
.

“Please never do that again,” I say, wiping off her kiss. I should be kissed on the neck by my boyfriend, not my mother.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she replies.

“Jennifer, you’re late. We were going to leave for Mexico without you,” my father tells me.

“You said to meet you in the
international terminal
.
This
is not the international terminal.
This
is terminal three. Had I listened to you, I could have missed the flight.”

Refusing to admit he was wrong, he merely shrugs. “This isn’t the international one? Oh, well, you figured it out. Hey”—he gestures toward my coffee—“why don’t you go get me one of those? Two sugars and four Sweet’N Lows.” My father prides himself on never having retrieved his own coffee in his entire professional career. He’s retired now, but old habits die hard.

“Let me see your hand first,” my mother singsongs. She grabs me by the wrist and inspects what would be my wedding ring finger. “This? What is this?” She taps the thick silver band. She raises her voice with rabid excitement. “Is this what I think it is?”

I grit my teeth. “Mom, if you think this is the Tiffany ring I bought myself,
which I already showed you at Thanksgiving
, then yes. Yes it is.”

“Jennifer?”

“Yeah, Dad?” Thank God for my dad. He’ll run interference between me and my mother’s ever-growing wedding obsession.

“I’m ready for my coffee now. Run, run, run, we have a plane to catch.”

As I walk back to Starbucks, I realize why Fletch was smirking.