Bright Lights, Big Ass Part 1

Jen Lancaster.

Bright Lights, Big a.s.s.

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?.

For Angie, Carol, Jennifer, and Wendy, who were there from the very first word and who promise to host an intervention.

(complete with umbrella drinks).

should the need arise.

Author's Note.

These stories are true, and the characters are real, as are the events. However, I've changed names and descriptions to protect the innocent and to keep my stupid neighbors from egging my house.

Where skin-deep is the mode, your traditional domestic values are not going to take root and flourish.

-JAY MCINERNEY, BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY.

You're moving to Chicago? Ha!.

You'll come crawling home the first time you bounce a rent check.

-TODD LANCASTER, MAY 6, 1996.

Bright Lights, Big a.s.s.

from the desk of Miss Jennifer A. Lancaster.

Dear Carrie Bradshaw.

You are a f.u.c.king liar.

And for that matter, so are Jay McInerney, Bret Easton Ellis, and everyone else who's ever claimed city life to be nothing but a magical, mythical, all-around transcendent experience chock-full of beautiful, morally ambiguous people lounging around at fabulous parties, clad in stilettos, and offering up free piles of blow.

Because, seriously?

No one's ever offered me anything more provocative than a cough drop or a hug in my ten years here in Chicago. Which is fine. I mean, I really don't want cocaine or a threesome. Frankly, I'm too busy trying to sc.r.a.pe up rent money to engage in that kind of stuff, anyway. (But it might be nice to be asked, for crying out loud.) My point is you and the rest of your ilk on s.e.x and the City painted an inaccurate portrait of city life. Most of us don't spend our days getting buffed and polished at the city's finest spas and then ripped at the most au courant watering holes. And we don't hunker down in trendy bistros over $40 breakfasts while discussing spanking an investment banker with Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte, either.

Real urbanites are way more likely to have a collection of shopping bags from Target than Prada. The majority are never going to know what it's like to get a chemical peel by a meaty-armed Swede named Inga.

And they're okay with that.

And you know what?

I am, too.

The thing is, although metropolitan living can be fabulous at times, more often than not it's just me watching reality TV with my husband, Fletch, seeing rats so often I've named my favorites "Bitey" and "Senor Skinnytail," and accidentally reporting the guy next door to Homeland Security.

In no way, shape, or form does your fictional existence mirror my real urban life and I thought you should know.

And if you don't like it, you can kiss my big, fat, pink, puffy down parka.

Best, Jen.

Dear Alderman, I'm writing you regarding the condition of my block on Racine Ave. In the past four months, the amount of garbage littering the street has increased dramatically.

I'm particularly concerned about the sidewalk area bordering the empty lot on the west side of the road. Last year the area was neatly maintained with gravel covering most of it. Recently it has become a dumping ground for take-out food containers, empty beer bottles, condom wrappers, and this morning, the piece de resistance, a single woman's slipper and an old pair of men's pants.

I have no idea what's happening on my block while I sleep, but if it involves someone losing their pants, it can't be good and I would like you to make it stop.

Thanks in advance, Jen Lancaster.

Dear Yellow Pages Customer Care, I'm writing to inform you of the Leaning Tower of Phone Books you saw fit to station outside the gate of my condo complex last week.

There are sixteen townhomes in this development. Most of the residents here are single professionals (read fat girls), although a few of us are married or, um, partnered. But in total, approximately twenty-two people live here.

So, can you please explain the math that led you to believe that sixteen units/twenty-two people require forty-eight sets of White Pages and forty-eight sets of Yellow Pages? Although I understand the rationale of dropping off a few extra books, leaving sixty-four extra is not only patently ridiculous but also incredibly wasteful.

Should you care to salvage any of the phone books that have not yet been peed on by my dog, I suggest you do so quickly before something unfortunate happens to them, which may or may not involve a book of matches and a bonfire. (And possibly a pair of pants, although I do not hold you responsible for their presence.) Looking forward to a speedy resolution, Jen Lancaster

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: [email protected] Subject: party over, oops, out of time Howdy, I wasn't yet close to most of you guys during my fabulous old life, so you'll have to take my word for it when I say back in the dot-com era Fletch and I were true social b.u.t.terflies-not a weekend went by that we didn't see friends. Our calendars were filled with dates for dinners, drinks, parties, mixers, gatherings, brunches, etc. We were Paris Hilton (minus the s.k.a.n.k).

Of course, now we're old, fat, and far less liquid, so those days are long gone...which brings me to my present dilemma.

A nice couple is coming over tonight. It's the first time we've had anyone here since we got our lives back and I don't really remember how to entertain anymore. Sure, I can still handle the physical aspects of having guests-thorough cleaning, fresh flowers on the mantel, cookie-scented candles, proper lighting, delicious snacks, etc.

But the interaction aspect?

Not so much.

I'm afraid since I've used proper conversation skills so infrequently in the past couple of years, I've become socially r.e.t.a.r.ded. I fear when our guests get here I'll blurt something Peter Griffinlike from The Family Guy, e.g., "Bob Crane of Hogan's Heroes had his skull bashed in by his friend who liked to videotape him having rough s.e.x."

Then Fletch will play a Helmet alb.u.m while demonstrating our awesome new vacuum, a cat will jump on the buffet and lick the cheese, Maisy will c.r.a.p on the floor, and we'll call it a night.

But I'm probably just being paranoid, right?

Jen

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: Subject: party over, oops, out of time, part 2 10:03 p.m.-Fletch whips out the Dyson.

10:03 p.m.-Guests remember a previous engagement and leave.

And you all thought I was kidding.

Sucks and the City.

I'm clad in my favorite power suit, crafted from the wool of cosseted Australian sheep (of course) and lovingly pieced together by the finest tailors ever to lay thread to silk. My portfolio gleams in an equally polished and manicured hand and my Chanel sungla.s.ses hold back a perfectly arranged coif. Poised on the edge of my seat in the senior vice president of Operations' office, I'm crushing my interview, or at least I am until he asks the one thing I'm not sure how to answer: "If you're a former vice president, why exactly do y'all want a job gittin' my coffee?"

An excellent question.

For which I have no response.

I take a deep breath and surrept.i.tiously glance at my surroundings in order to buy a minute. The senior vice president's office is mostly chrome and gla.s.s and skyline, yet it's not cold or impersonal. Likely it's because Mr. James, the man behind the t.i.tle, radiates such warmth. First, his accent is incredibly disarming. How do you not love anyone who says "y'all" without a trace of irony? Perhaps it's an inaccurate prejudice, but it seems like almost everyone with a Southern accent is nice. With their slow, long consonants, I bet they have a really hard time yelling at anyone effectively. By the time they'd get out the appropriate epithet about goin' straight to Hades for cutting them off in traffic, the offending driver would already be halfway down the off-ramp.

This office really speaks to Mr. James's personality. A couple of deeply green rubber trees soften the light from the window and lush, variegated ivies trail down from the top of his credenza. I read an article once about the effects of plants in the workplace-supposedly they not only clean the air but also reduce employee stress.1 All the surfaces in his office are littered items that speak volumes about his personality. There's a two-foot-long paperclip chain draped over the corner of his computer monitor, likely constructed during a boring conference call. There's something oddly appealing about someone who's not too professional to fidget on occasion. Under a pile of paperwork I see the end of a familiar pink wrapper, telling me he was probably eating Almond Roca before our interview. (I sort of love anyone who thinks there's nothing wrong with candy for breakfast.) Handsome sterling-framed photographs line the other end of his L-shaped desk. Posed on a sailboat is a pretty young blonde girl and an identical older blonde woman, both with big, flashy white teeth, the sun setting in the background. Another photo shows a white German shepherd and a yellow Lab, covered with leaves and mud, smiling those big openmouthed doggie grins, ankle-deep in a creek. A dozen more pictures of happy people are scattered in the corner, with State of Texas and rainbow flags forming an ad hoc backdrop for them all.

Okay, honestly? I didn't know you could be both gay and Texan. I mean, come on, Bush Country? It's a president! It's a euphemism! It's heteros.e.xuality on a stick! The joy of realizing my two favorite characteristics could be combined must be a lot like what the guy who invented Reese's Peanut b.u.t.ter Cups felt.2 With his sweet drawl and easy laugh, I desperately want to land this a.s.signment. It's only supposed to last a couple of months, which is perfect because this will neatly bridge the gap between selling my first book and receiving a check for it. (The book sold based on a proposal, outline, and a few sample chapters, so I actually have to finish writing it by June 1. But I also have to generate enough income in the interim to keep my lights on, so here I am.) I envision him and me gossiping like sorority girls after the oddly clad chief executive officer stops by his office. Seriously, I've seen this man on CNBC and, d.a.m.n. I don't care what Marc Jacobs says, there's no good way to pair windowpane plaid, vests, and stripes together3 without appearing to have stepped straight off the set of Newsies. "He's the CEO?" I'd ask. "Pfft, not in those pants he's not," Mr. James would reply. Then we'd explode into a fit of giggles before tottering off for a lunch that included a lot of wine.

Not only do I want this man for my boss, I yearn for him to be my boy-friend. Which, for those of us happily married, should never be confused with "boyfriend." The former includes having slushy fruit drinks while singing show tunes at Sidetracks and a penchant for J-Lo movies, the latter a vow-violating touching of one another's goodies. But the thing is, I'm afraid if I can't answer this question properly, it's never going to happen.

Even without the boss, this is a choice a.s.signment on its own merits. My recruiter told me the a.s.sistant is essentially there to answer the CEO's call if Mr. James is on another line. Otherwise, he's almost entirely self-sufficient. He does need someone to get his coffee, but only because he's got arthritis in his ankles. The last girl who worked here managed to arrange her whole wedding from the desk, with the boss's blessing.4 I practically salivated when she described all the uninterrupted time I'd have to write.

I shift uncomfortably in my chair while beaming the glazed, terrified smile of a Miss America contestant who's completely forgotten her platform after having dropped her flaming baton. Was it AIDS? Animals? Animals with AIDS? And do you think the judge will hold his second-degree burns against me? s.h.i.t!

At this point I should mention that the portfolio's pleather, that my fake Chanel sungla.s.ses are strategically placed to cover up my overblown roots, and that the outfit's an ill-fitting reminder of the brief period in the dot-com days when I was rich. What used to be an Italian power suit is now a lethal weapon-one wrong inhale and hand-tooled ivory b.u.t.tons will blast off my chest like buckshot. As my chances of working with this darling man will greatly diminish should a wayward endangered toggle accidentally blind him, I breathe in rapid, shallow gasps and mull over an appropriate answer.

Naturally, I can't fault him for asking. I mean, why would a former a.s.sociate vice president be interviewing for a temporary a.s.sistant's position? Especially since back in the day I was a Prada-toting, insult-hurling, penthouse-dwelling smarta.s.s with my own pack of a.s.sistants ready to procure my hot beverages on demand.5 I made important decisions, closed huge deals, and single-handedly kept the Nordstrom shoe department in business. However, after a particularly virulent (and not undeserved) bout of unemployment my world was forever altered. Due to my own arrogance6 I didn't realize until far too late it was a bad idea to tell potential employers, "I don't get out of bed for less than $10,000 a month." Particularly since (a) we were in a recession at the time, and (b) with a bachelor's degree in political science, my only real skill was ordering people to bring me those lattes.

Eventually, the economy turned around and I was given a choice: go back to the business world or pursue a writing career. I went with the option that included working in polar-bear-print pajamas.

Mr. James senses my discomfort and smiles at me in encouragement. He leans forward and raises his eyebrows, the same way he would if we were having lunch and he simply couldn't wait to hear what juicy detail I might dish next. His sensitivity and geniality prove too much and I feel the word-vomit bubbling up in the back of my throat. Much as I try to stop the sound from spurting out of my mouth, I am wholly unsuccessful.

"Mr. James," I bleat, "I've got to be honest-"

"Aw, Jen, please call me Skip," he interjects.