Part 12 (1/2)
”Still, keeping them is completely insane.”
”Completely.”
I turn around to look at the dogs in the backseat. They are spooned together in a tangle of paws and tails, sleeping peacefully. I feel something inside me break loose and suddenly my heart feels all hurty at the notion of them not being in my life. We get to the exit we're supposed to take to get off the expressway, and I turn to Fletch.
”Gimme your phone, please.”
”What for?” He smiles. He knows, but he's going to make me say it anyway.
I take a deep breath. ”I need to call Katie and tell her we're keeping the dogs.”
The good news? The s.e.xingtons are gone! The bad news? We have the kind of stylish and cool neighbors I've been dying to meet. Why is that bad news? Because, in an ironic twist, they now hate me.
Last week I noticed a p.r.o.nounced lack of Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Baby lately coming through the wall, and I figured the s.e.xingtons were on vacation. Instead, an interesting new couple had moved in next door and have managed to exist without causing me any mental or aesthetic distress. Already having scored points for being clean, quiet, and pleasant, they are carefully tending the beginnings of a lovely rooftop urban oasis. Better yet, they bought their patio furniture at the same place as us, so our decks are simpatico! We could be in a Crate & Barrel ad together.
Intrigued by their obvious good taste, yesterday, I began chatting with them over our shared deck railing. I discovered that we have many common interests, such as a pa.s.sion for animal rescue and a love of Coen brothers' movies. Rarely do I meet people so articulate and erudite, so I put aside my usual neighbor-hating stance, and on a mad impulse, I invited them over to watch The Big Lebowski with us. Keeping in theme with the movie, we decided to serve White Russians.
I zipped around the place, making sure everything was perfect for their arrival. The floors were waxed, the couches sucked free of pet hair, the toilet was so clean I could use it to serve punch, and the whole place was delectably fragrant, thanks to my special melange of tulip, clean cotton, and lilac Yankee Candles. Fletch set up the bar and somehow sc.r.a.ped together four matching rocks gla.s.ses. They sparkled and twinkled in the candlelight, ready to be filled with our evening's libations.
We took great pains at getting ourselves ready for the night, too. Fletch's khakis had a knifelike crease down the front, and he sported a jaunty Joseph Abboud s.h.i.+rt. I chose a pair of linen Capri overalls and paired them with a nautical-striped, summer-weight Ralph Lauren turtleneck and Joan & David loafers. The look said, ”When not in the courtroom, I enjoy a day of yachting.” Perfection! I even managed to arrange my hair in a straightened pageboy, with just the right amount of body. (My trademark pearls completed the look, of course.) The dogs, renamed Maisy and Loki because Bull and Bear didn't flow properly, sensed the night was important and fell fast asleep in their crates. I didn't trust the cats not to lick their genitals openly, so I gave them extra rations of catnip; it seemed to do the trick.
Lisette and Jake rang our doorbell bearing those mouthwatering little sh.e.l.l-shaped Belgian chocolates and an impressive bottle of wine. I told you they had cla.s.s! Jake shook Fletch's hand and kissed my cheek, and Lisette complimented me on our decor. I knew that this was to be the kind of mature, urbane evening we'd hoped to spend ever since we moved to Bucktown.
Fletch chilled the wine and expertly mixed the c.o.c.ktails. We chatted for a bit, and our conversation was that same snappy repartee generally found in Woody Allen movies or the New Yorker. I, in particular, was witty and debonair, and I could already envision the fas.h.i.+onable soirees we would throw ensemble with our new best friends.76 We settled in to watch the movie, and Fletch served the first round of White Russians. I adore White Russians because they dare to combine my favorite ingredients: sugar, fat, caffeine, and alcohol. I do so love empty carbohydrates. Anyway, I slugged my first drink down a trifle quickly, but I couldn't help it. It was creamily delicious, and I was a touch nervous. Caring whether someone likes me is definitely new territory.
Fletch obliged to make me another, and I chugged it down as well. Ah, the velvety-smooth coffee mellowness...And, my goodness! The second one disappeared before Jeff Bridges' rug was stolen! But I figured they were White Russians-how strong could they be? I mean, it's just a dash of Kahlua and mostly cream and ice-so, yes, please, sweetie, I would have another. Mmm, that's the stuff....
After I downed my fourth, I began to experience profound thoughts. Naturally, I had to immediately and loudly share these trenchant ideas with the group. For example, Fletch and I don't want children, so I suddenly decided it would be good to announce that I was going to have Fletch ”fixed” and he should ”get me a steak knife. I can do it right now!”
I noticed that the room had grown quite warm, so after declaring I was ”sweatin' like a wh.o.r.e on dollar day” I proceeded to the bedroom and stripped off my turtleneck, although I left on my Capri overalls and bra. I looked at myself in the mirror and decided I was almost a dead-ringer for one of the cute girls in Bananarama's ”Cruel Summer” video. But there was something missing....
I remembered the long clip-on ponytail, which I had been so pleased to find the month before, as it had been an ideal match for my highlights and hair texture. I could simply clip this to my existing 'do, and the long tresses would cover up any part of my bra peeking through my overalls. But instead of making my own small ponytail and then tucking it inside the fake one, I fastened it to the top of my head so that it flowed over my existing hair, creating some sort of long, perverse mullet or a hairy dorsal fin.
”Oh, yes,” I said to my reflection, ”this is the Look to Impress.” And the Queen of Entertaining went out to address her minions.
I made my grand reentrance to what I thought was applause, but in the harsh light of day now realize was laughter. I basked in my company's adoration and slammed another White Russian. At this point, the room, which had grown warmer despite my abbreviated outfit, became a virtual oven, and worse yet, it was spinning. I politely excused myself and headed to the bathroom, where I filled up my squeaky-clean commode approximately fourteen times.
I woke up s.h.i.+vering on cold tile floors the next morning at five a.m., completely disheveled in my stained and tatty overalls. For a moment, I thought my vision had magically been restored to 20/20, but then realized I'd pa.s.sed out in my contact lenses. I extricated the fake ponytail from my nest of hair, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and crawled off to bed.
I wake again later in the day. I don't know what time it is, but I do know that Fletch is poking me with a wooden spoon.
”Why are you using a kitchen utensil to wake me up?” I ask.
”Because you're too ripe for me to touch with my bare skin,” he replies.
”I feel like death,” I say. ”My hair hurts. My cuticles are dizzy. My pores are nauseous. I sprained my spleen. Every inch of me is in distress right now.”
He snickers. ”That's nothing compared to the smell.”
”How come you didn't put me in bed after I pa.s.sed out?”
”I tried, but you wouldn't budge. When you woke up, you wouldn't stop jabbering about your minions, so I left you there.”
”Fletch, I can't figure out why I had such a bad reaction to those stupid White Russians. Yeah, they went down a little fast, but don't you remember how I could knock them back in college? I could drink fraternity guys under the table, and I was the only twenty-one-year-old girl at Harry's Bar who properly appreciated Johnnie Walker Black Scotch. So why on earth did a little Kahlua and cream give me such a kick in the a.s.s?”
”Because they were White Russians, Jen. They're Kahlua, milk, and a double shot of vodka.”
”So how much liquor is that?” I am too hungover to do math.
”About nineteen ounces.”
”Sweet Jesus.”
”Yeah.”
”Do you think Lisette and Jake noticed?”
”Um, Jen, I don't know how to tell you this, but they probably aren't going to come over again. Ever.”
”s.h.i.+t.”
”I do have some good news for you, though.”
Hopefully, I suggest, ”Scientists have discovered a cure for a coffee-liqueur hangover?”
”Better. I found out what's been happening to your newspapers.”
I sit up so fast I get vertigo. ”Who was it? Was it President Jugs? Or the Trashmores? Tell me!!”
Trying to keep a straight face, he says, ”Well, I ran into the maintenance guy this morning when I was out with the dogs.” Unsuccessful, he shakes and sputters with suppressed laughter. ”And he told me that in an effort to keep the atrium clean, he tosses out any leftover newspapers at nine a.m.”
I want to die. Or kill.
Who Says Romance Is Dead?
To: SweetMelissa From: Date: August 27, 2002 Subject: Goin' to the Chapel Melissa, For your amus.e.m.e.nt, here's a list of people I have yelled at in the past 24 hours.
1) Fletch 2) The idiot at Walsh Park who thought it was a good idea to bring her toddler in the gated dog run and then got mad when dogs (OK, Maisy) jumped on the child. IT'S A OGGIE PARK-WHAT THE f.u.c.k DO YOU EXPECT THE DOGS TO DO? PLAY GIN RUMMY?
3) Fletch 4) The Mandalay Bay reservations people. They tried to make me believe the Honeymoon Suites would only be available on a one-off basis, and we'd have to swap rooms every day, and was that all right? (BTW, if you repeat, ”Not acceptable; find a way to make it happen” enough times, you will get what you want.) 5) Fletch 6) Our landlord. I do not care if a central air-conditioning unit is really expensive to replace. We pay thousands of dollars a month in rent precisely so we DON'T have to worry about replacement costs. Again, our apartment is 89 degrees so FIND A WAY TO MAKE IT HAPPEN.