Part 12 (2/2)

7) My mother. I am NOT driving out to your hotel by O'Hare the day before we leave for the wedding simply so you can see/criticize my dress because I am busy GETTING READY TO LEAVE FOR MY WEDDING.

8) Fletch 9) The vet. Did I not pay you HANDFULS OF $100 BILLS to get all the dogs' medical needs addressed, only to find you forgot to give Maisy the Kennel Cough shot and Chicago Club Canine initially wouldn't board her without it?

Anyway, see you soon, provided I don't wind up in jail first.

Jen

”Maisy, we're f.u.c.ked.”

Always the optimist, Maisy responds to the sound of my voice with a full-on body wag, shaking her spotted backside so hard that she falls over. Undaunted, she rights herself and nibbles my toes with a vengeance. Ugh. I don't know how she can stand to look at them, let alone lick them. My disastrous attempt at a home pedicure left me with two oozing ingrown nails and, until they heal, a slight limp. Now on top of being unemployed, I'm a gimp, too. Fabulous.

”Maisy, I'm serious. We are in deep financial s.h.i.+t here. How are we going to fix this?”

Maisy's idea is to lick my deeply gashed knees. Ahh, the joys of shaving. When I tried waxing them myself-following my esthetician Petra's motions exactly, mind you-the pain was unbearable. I wanted to slap myself for hurting me, and I yanked up more flesh than hair. The wax she uses at Molto Bene must be different from the el cheapo brand I bought at the drugstore. Raising dogs is way more expensive than we'd antic.i.p.ated, and we've already blown a couple of grand just on vet bills and hundreds more on supplies. So I've been forced to give up all nonessential spa services. I'm down to professional cut and color only. When I see everyone else at Bene walking around in robes and pedicure flip-flops between treatments, I feel an actual ache in my chest.77 We've been in a financial pinch ever since the Justice Department launched an investigation into Fletch's employer's accounting practices. His five-figure monthly commissions have shriveled down to nothing over the past couple of months. Apparently, n.o.body wants to do business with the organization they see testifying on C-SPAN every day. Go figure. He says if our financial situation doesn't change before my unemployment checks run out, we might not be able to keep our apartment. When he told me that, I ran to the bedroom and pulled the covers over my head. The thought of living anywhere else chills me to the bone. The very idea of moving to some tawdry little two-flat out in the unfas.h.i.+onable suburbs makes me want to drink bleach.

I HAVE to stay here. I simply have to. To be honest, too much of my ident.i.ty comes from possessing this s.p.a.ce. As my job used to define me, living here's all I have left. This apartment makes it OK that I can't buy Prada's newest anymore. I can be content going on lousy interviews and begging for positions that pay half of what I used to earn as long as I know at the end of the day my glorious penthouse awaits. The minute I climb into my Jacuzzi tub, all the day's unpleasantness is rinsed down the drain. When I step onto my deck and survey the city, I feel like anything is possible. This apartment keeps me centered; it keeps me sane. Without this place, I'm just another n.o.body from Indiana with a worthless state college degree.

Before I was laid off, we talked about buying our apartment. Now it's possible we won't even be able to live out our lease. It boggles my mind but, like Scarlett O'Hara says, I'll think about that tomorrow when I can stand it.

Instead, I'll wallow in depression because today is Cinco de Mayo, and I'm stuck here in Illinois. It's the first time in years that I haven't spent this weekend recharging my batteries in Las Vegas, gaming, relaxing, and jump-starting my summer tan. How can I carry off the citrus green color I love so much if I'm not deeply bronzed? Self-tanner just makes me look like an Oompa Loompa. Sure, I've caught a few rays this spring while outside with the dogs, but it's not the same. I look in the mirror and think, Hi, Casper, it's nice to see you. Had I the opportunity to lounge poolside in Vegas, I'd be positively homeless tan by now. Sadly, Fletch curtailed my travel plans, reminding me of the Marco Island/Com Ed debacle.

Everything would be resolved if I could just land a decent job. However, I'm finding it almost impossible to get an outside sales position that doesn't require owning a car. The coolio travel management company was all set to make me an offer until I told them I didn't have wheels. At my Corp. Com. and Midwest IR Co., my meetings entailed plane tickets, and the few that didn't were a cab ride away. Before that, I had a company car, so I haven't needed my own vehicle in almost five years.

Obviously buying a new car is out of the question, given our recent financial straits. I'd previously planned to purchase my parents' Cadillac. When the Caddy was brand-new, my dad loved it so much that he'd contemplated having it buried next to him in the family plot. ”After all,” he'd say, ”your mother is nice, but Bavarian engineering like this only comes around once in a lifetime.” However, he finally agreed to sell it to me after Mom started driving it. She quickly turned his pristine baby into a Bavarian garbage barge, its backseat br.i.m.m.i.n.g with leaking bags of potting soil, gas station cappuccino cups, dog fur, shoes, umbrellas, and therapy journals.78 I loved the Caddy from the minute I settled into the creamy French vanilla leather interior and cooed over the golden glow of its vanity mirrors. When I took it on the open road, I found myself-Little Miss Safety First-flying along at ninety miles per hour, windows ajar while Courtney Love wailed on about skies made of amethyst. When I saw my reflection in a s.h.i.+ny-sided pa.s.sing truck, I realized that I looked as thin, rich, and cute as I felt. The Caddy isn't a car; it's a magic carpet!

I imagined how cool I'd be, casually toying with my key ring when approaching the checkout counter at the grocery store. The other plebes would see the Cadillac logo and know they were in the Presence of Greatness. Naturally they'd insist I go to the head of the line, where I belonged. Just thinking about its emerald green paint job, heated adjustable seats, and twelve-disk changer makes me weak in the scabby knees. I mourn for the car that I can no longer buy.

”Maisy, this sucks. I have no Cadillac, no esthetician services, no Vegas trip, no tan, and no d.a.m.n job. My life is a country music song.” I exhale loudly. Maisy snaps at the stream of air I expel. ”If something doesn't change soon, we're going to have to move in to a cardboard box.”

The prospect of fresh air and outdoor living sends Maisy into peals of delight, and she wriggles, writhes, and nips at my callused heels. Why the h.e.l.l is this dog so happy all the time? And hopeful? She's grinning one of those big-a.s.sed pit bull smiles, complete with a curl at the end of her tongue. Temporarily licked out, she's panting contentedly. Does she not understand that our situation is bleak? We need money and a car, and no one's just going to give those things to us.

Or...or...would they?

I'm struck by an epiphany that takes me a minute to wrap my mind around, what with it being so brilliant and all.

OH, MY G.o.d, I AM A GENIUS!.

I know how to fix everything!

I will GET MARRIED!!

People always receive lots of cash and prizes at weddings, right? Foldable wedding presents would definitely get us out of debt, and maybe we'd even get enough money to buy a car. No, better yet, if we only did a small wedding, my parents might give us the Caddy in lieu of a big s.h.i.+ndig. A huge ballroom full of well-wishers would be fun, but it's not necessary, especially since I'm no longer obligated to invite business a.s.sociates. Intimate could still be cool, right? And if abandoning the idea of lobster tails at the Drake means I'd have the tools to get a proper job, then selfish trumps sh.e.l.lfis.h.!.+

Wait, I'm having another brainstorm! Call the Guinness Book folks because I may just be the smartest person alive! We could have the wedding in LAS VEGAS! Since marriage would mean the culmination of her lifelong dream, I'm sure Mom would spring for all the spa services I'd need to prep for the wedding. And, ooh...a honeymoon in Vegas sounds just dandy!

But when? My beleaguered pores can't wait much longer for a facial, so I think we should do it soon.79 More guests-and their gifts-would show up if we did it on a three-day weekend. Memorial Day is too soon, so scratch that. Hmm, if we got married over Labor Day weekend, I'd have the whole summer to pull a wedding together. People have awesome weddings there on the spur of the moment, and with four months' lead time, it could be magnificent! And not cheesy! This is the best idea EVER!

A terrible thought derails my happy train. What about my cherished and deserved princess-cut Tiffany bauble? I look forlornly at my self-manicured, naked left finger. There's no way Fletch could buy my beloved multicarat ring before the end of the summer with our present rent burden. We're barely sc.r.a.ping by now. Could I live without it? I fantasize about jewelry the way other girls do about Brad Pitt. Forget chiseled abs and a square jaw. It takes platinum and baguettes to make me swoon. I wouldn't be ringless, though. I do have the small diamond from Nanny's engagement ring that I'd planned to make into a pendant. Could I be satisfied with an engagement ring that didn't require a full-time bodyguard? I wonder.

I ponder while gazing at the city displayed before me from the best vantage point in town. The sun is setting, and the reflection on the buildings is a hundred shades of gold, pink, and blue. As I enjoy the spectacular view for the thousandth time, I decide that if a smaller ring meant keeping the dot-com palace, then...yes. Yes, I could.

I guess that covers all the bases, which means...Holy cats, I'm getting married!

I begin to hoot and hop around on the deck while Maisy, unaccustomed to such a vigorous outpouring of emotion, dances and yips along beside me as I shout80 out across the rooftops.

”Hey, Bucktown, I'm getting married! And keeping my house! And getting a Cadillac! Then I can get a job so I'll get paychecks! Big, fat, happy paychecks! So I'll be rich again and I can go to Neiman Marcus and buy those shoes with the cherries hand painted on the wooden heels that made me cry when my credit card was declined! Yay!!”

I gather steam while Maisy leaps and turns semicircles in the air. ”Pedicures! I'll be able to afford pedicures again! No more limping for me! And there will be a big party and I'll look amazing and I'll wear a gorgeous dress and I'll see all my favorite people in my favorite place and maybe play a few slots! I might even win a jackpot! And people will give me presents! Lots and lots of wonderful presents! I wonder if I can register for cosmetics. Ooh, or possibly the cherry shoes? Regardless, it doesn't matter, because I'M GETTING MARRIED!!! Hooray!”

I sit down to catch my breath. I wonder who I should tell first. Obviously I want to talk to my parents and their checkbook, but Shayla will be dying to know, too. What about Carol? I was the first person she talked to about her engagement. Is there some sort of quid pro quo protocol I'm supposed to follow?

Should I tell my brother? No, he'll just squeal to my parents and wreck the surprise because he's a jerk like that. Or how about Melissa? Will she be mad if she doesn't hear the news first? She's my best girlfriend around here, but Andy is really my best friend, but he lives in Indiana and we hardly ever see him. Michael and Amy are our closest married friends, but we're also tight with Brett, and especially with Chris, even though he's not dating Shayla anymore and- Oh, wait. I should probably tell Fletch first.

Maisy and I hobble down the spiral stairs from the roof deck. She landed wrong while we were jumping for joy upstairs and now has a sore paw. Hopefully she'll be OK in a few minutes. If not, I'll run her over to the emergency vet. For once I'm not concerned about price, because, given the size of their initial medical bills, Maisy and Loki now have doggie insurance. How ironic is it that my puppies have health coverage and I don't?

”Where are you?” He's supposed to be in the kitchen making salsa for our Cinco de Mayo gathering, but he's not there. Now that I'm getting married, I have calls to make, bridal magazines to buy, menus to plan, etc. I'd like to start right this minute, but I really ought to confirm he's my betrothed before I book a chapel.

From the bathroom, I hear, ”I'm on the mug. What do you need?”

”Come out here!”

”I'm kind of busy.”

”Well, how much longer will you be?”

”I don't know. I think the enchiladas last night were bad. Give me a couple of minutes.”

The enchiladas and not the twelve Coronas he had with dinner are to blame? Right. But now is not the time to criticize; now is the time to quietly wait.

And wait.

After five interminable minutes, I am unable to contain myself, and I bang on the door. ”Hurry up!” Patience is not one of my virtues.

”Why don't you just use the other bathroom?”

”I don't need to go.”

<script>