Bright Lights, Big Ass Part 11

(Okay, that wasn't completely my fault. He wasn't on the phone when I left and it does have a mute b.u.t.ton. The man has lived with me for ten-plus years. He should know better by now.) 6:05 p.m.

Fletch: (on our way to Home Depot for more plants) Ha!

Me: What's so funny?

Fletch: The guy next to us has a Morrissey b.u.mper sticker and he's driving an Escort. He may as well put on a b.u.mper sticker that reads "Kick me."

Me: I don't get it.

Fletch: Jen, the sticker says Morrissey. You know, Morrissey? It's funny.

Me: I don't get it.

Fletch: Morrissey? An Escort? A little tiny guy driving it wearing big Drew Carey gla.s.ses? He's practically begging for someone to beat him up.

Me: I don't get it.

Fletch: (sighs) Never mind.

6:07 p.m.

Fletch: Promise me you're going to make this quick and that you'll only spend what you've got on your Home Depot gift certificate.

Me: I promise.

Cashier: (fifty-two minutes later) Your total is $70.46.

Me: (to Fletch) Can I have $45.46, please?

7:37 p.m.

Fletch: Jen, I just remembered, can you please pick up my prescription at- Me: There is no talking during America's Next Top Model!

11:39 p.m.

Me: Of course I'll get up with you tomorrow. I know your mornings go much more smoothly when we rise at the same time.

Tuesday 7:01 a.m.

Fletch: Jen, it's time to get up.

Me: p.i.s.s off. Zzzz...

4:58 p.m.

Fletch: If you're watering plants on the second-floor deck, please don't toss the hose off when you're done. Leave it and I'll take care of it later. You've already broken three nozzles this year doing that and it's only May fifth.

5:26 p.m.

Me: (only remembering after tossing hose off second-floor deck and watching it clatter and shatter on the bricks) Uh-oh.

(Okay, this one wasn't as bad as it sounds, either. Nozzle three was a high-pressure model and it left my plants cowering in their pots because it must have felt like being sprayed down by the Gestapo.) 7:36 p.m.

Fletch: (motioning toward our cinnamon apples and dilled red potatoes on the prep line, waiting to be bagged with our chicken at Boston Market) I feel like a little kid because I see those containers and want to say to everyone, "That's our food." (He puts a childlike expression on his face and points earnestly.) Me: Bah ha ha!

(Who doesn't enjoy the tinkling of their wife's laugher at an amusing little scenario? If I'd simply giggled at Fletch's joke, it wouldn't have been annoying. But because I snorted and guffawed like a 'tard the entire ride home, it was.) 10:49 p.m.

Fletch: I'm really exhausted. I'm hitting the hay. Are you coming?

Me: No, I'm going to read a few blogs and take a bath first. You'll be asleep by the time I'm done.

Fletch: Okay, but don't forget, I've already set the house alarm.

Me: Alrighty, perimeter is armed. I won't forget. Good night.

11:14 p.m.

Me: (running into the bedroom to turn off the blaring alarm, which has woken up Fletch, the neighbors, and their dogs on either side of our apartment because I wanted to spy on the people loitering by the complex's front gate) Sorry about that!

11:58 p.m.

Me: (wildly waving the Glamour magazine with Mischa Barton on the cover at the clanging smoke alarm that has gone off because of the steam from my bath) Sorry about that!

Wednesday 12:07 a.m.

Me: I'm going downstairs to send a few e-mails now, but of course I'll get up with you tomorrow. I know your mornings go much more smoothly when we rise at the same time.

I think we all know how this is going to end.

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: [email protected] Subject: pots and kettles Why the h.e.l.l don't we have our own sitcom?

Setting: Our living room, ten minutes ago, drinking coffee, watching a Lysol commercial about how germy cutting boards and sinks are.

Me: (seeing fruit served on a toilet seat) Eeew!

(Fletch rolls his eyes) Me: (seeing a sink full of stinky, wet garbage) Eeewww!!

(Fletch rolls his eyes again) Me: (commercial ends) Whoa, that totally squicked me out.

Fletch: (going for the eye-rolling trifecta) Oh, please. The commercial told you nothing you didn't already know. Leather up, nancy girl.

Me: Advice to toughen up might be more credible if you weren't taking a sick day because you hurt yourself with dental floss.

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: Subject: pots and kettles, part 2 Apparently Fletch has to have gum surgery.

(But it's still a little funny.)

Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin' (and Bruisin') Ever see those blissfully happy couples at the supermarket? They dress all matchy-matchy in brightly colored North Face jackets and have that weird twin-speak shared dialogue? You know the ones-she says, "Hey, did you?" and he replies, "Yeah, Thursday," and then she goes, "But what about?" and he's all, "Covered," and then when they walk past a display of Cheez Whiz they exclaim in perfect unison, "Monterey!" before dying over their private joke?1 And because of their whole mind-meld, they're, like, so into their romance they can't seem to keep their paws off each other? And you'd be happy they were both able to find the lid to their pot, as it were, but they've started making out directly in front of the ice cream, and all you want to do is grab a pint a Phish Food and go home to watch Project Runway, but you can't because their d.a.m.n love is blocking the cooler?

Well, Fletch and I are that couple. As long as you subst.i.tute "hitting" for "making out" and "fists" for "paws." (We'd prefer DOA over PDA, thank you very much.) One of the reasons we mesh so well is we're both insanely compet.i.tive. Back in the dot-com era, we used to spur each other on professionally. He made $24,000 at his first job, so I had to find one that paid $24,500. Then when he became a manager, I had to try for director. When he was promoted to director, I strove to make it to VP level, which was great, until we both got laid off and had to find a different way to compete.

Were either of us athletic, I'm sure one would start speed-walking and the other jogging. Then I'd enter a 5K, so he'd have to top me with a 10K and our athletic arms race would eventually escalate to the point that we'd swim, bike, and run to our deaths in Kona's Ironman compet.i.tion. Fortunately, we consider ourselves stand-and-fight people, rather than runaway people, and our current physical exertion generally manifests itself in twelve-ounce curls.2 As an outlet for our misplaced professional aggression, Fletch and I make bets and play games. One night at dinner he wagers $5 I won't eat the chunk of rock salt from our clams casino serving platter. Not to be deterred by a bit of sodium chloride the size of a bottle cap, I take that bet. Sure, I spend the next three days trying to slake my unquenchable thirst with gallons and gallons of water, but still...I win, I win, I win!! We carry on with culinary challenges until our blissfully married mealtime resembles an episode of Fear Factor, and we call a truce. Incidentally, this compet.i.tive drive is why we try to avoid fighting with each other-too much potential for mutually a.s.sured destruction.3 Eventually we channel our compet.i.tiveness into Slug Bug, a game we play whenever we get in the car. If you aren't familiar, you're allowed to punch your friend in the arm when you see a Volkswagen Beetle as long as you shout "Slug bug!" first. Fletch normally wins these rounds because as the driver his attention is more focused on the traffic around us. He almost always drives, what with my tendency to drift onto the sidewalk when behind the wheel. We've found we're much happier if I'm not in control of the little bit of metal standing between our living long, healthy lives and being smashed to b.l.o.o.d.y bits.4 However, when the new-school VW Bugs come out, my arm is perpetually sore from being hit so much since everyone in Chicago owns one now. Stupid safe, economical city car.

Luckily, the only thing Fletch likes less than losing is listening to me whine, so the game morphs into Slug Pug. Same rules, only the object in question is my favorite kind of dog. In this version, I'm the far superior player. The best day of my life is when we're sitting in an outdoor coffee shop as hundreds of black-and-tan pugs dressed in tiny bee suits and tutus parade past, and I pound Fletch so many times the waitress threatens to separate us.

Being the better sport, Fletch allows the game to continue until it proves too dangerous. We're on our way to the grocery store, having a perfectly lovely conversation about Jennifer Garner, when it happens.

"Hey, guess what?" I ask.

"What?" he replies.

"I did it!"

He glances over at me from the driver's seat. "You did what?"

"I can't just tell you, you have to guess!"

He clicks on his turn signal and we drive up Racine on the way to Webster so we can cut up to the Jewel on Ashland. "Is this one of those situations where I'm never going to guess correctly because what you've accomplished is so esoteric?"

Curses, foiled again! "Okay, probably, so I'll just tell you. I finally finished watching the first three seasons of Alias on DVD-that's sixty-six episodes."

"The show wasn't just Jennifer Garner wearing a variety of wigs? It was actually well done?"

"Yes. Except for all the implausible situations they resolved by using satellites. Or having Sydney kick people while wearing stompy shoes."

"Then how come every time I've walked in while you're watching it's nothing but satellites and roundhouse kicks?" He brakes rather suddenly so a woman with an SUV stroller can cross the street in front of us, against the light. G.o.d, I hate Lincoln Park. It's the epicenter of Yuppie living in the city, with nothing but outdoor dining and dog bakeries as far as the eye can see. The junk-bond traders began migrating up here from the Gold Coast in the eighties, snapping up cheap real estate and filling their new pads with art deco Nagle prints and Duran Duran alb.u.ms. Due to its proximity to the lake and public transportation, it's been on the rise ever since then and homes that sold for $75,000 at the time are now worth $2,000,000. Which is criminal.

"Sure, sometimes the plot holes make my brain hurt, so I always drink wine while watching. Whenever Sydney gets released from a Chinese prison because Marshall makes a couple of keystrokes thousands of miles away, I take a sip of Zinfandel and it suddenly makes perfect sense."

We turn onto Webster, right in the heart of Lincoln Park. "Let's see, that's sixty-six episodes times three servings per hour equals one hundred ninety-eight gla.s.ses of wine. Congratulations. You're an inspiration to us all."

Before I can come up with a snappy retort, I spy a Lincoln Park Trixie5 walking her pug on a harness in front of a trendy bistro, so I instead shriek, "Slug pug! Slug pug! Pug, pug, pug! I win, I win! Aiiieee!!!" and wildly flail my fists in his line of vision,6 which causes Fletch to jerk the wheel and almost plow into the entire crowd of al fresco diners. The Yuppies drop their cloth napkins and shoot us smoldering glances.

"Never do that again!" he shouts. "I practically drove into all those people! G.o.d!"

"Oh. I'm sorry. But still, I did win. Yay, me!"

He shakes his head and purses his lips. "That's it. This is the third time you've almost caused an accident in Lincoln Park alone. We need a new game, because you know what goes well with foie gras and Sauternes?"

"Um, not dying?"

"Exactly. Start thinking."

Once we get to the store, we grab a cart, pull out our Oreocentric shopping list, and begin to debate the new game while strolling down the aisles.

"Whatever we choose, I think the name should rhyme," I tell him. "Maybe we could play Slug Chug? I'd get to hit you every time you take a drink."

"No way." Oh, boy, would I win that one.

I snicker. "But it would be fun for me."

"No."

"Okay, how about Slug Lug?"

"What the h.e.l.l is Slug Lug?" he asks, loading a big bag of Arm & Hammer Fresh Step into our cart.