Bright Lights, Big Ass: 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? (31 page)

“I forgot about that.”

“Well, what if this thing falls down during the night? It might stab me in the eye!”

He yawns and stretches. The bad thing about being a drama queen is when something potentially big finally does happen, no one takes you seriously. “It won’t fall.”

“But what if it does? I’ll be blinded! I can’t be blind. How would I put on eye makeup? And how would I get around? Last week I saw a blind guy get off the bus and his pointy-stick-dealie didn’t alert him to the solid sheet of Plexiglas one foot up because you know those bus shelters are open at the bottom and
splat!
He totally bit it! And I laughed! I mean, not until I helped him maneuver around it. But the second he was out of earshot I practically wet my pants. Christ, one second he’s tooling along all blind but happy and the next,
wham!
His face got all smushed up against the plastic and then he bounced off. A week later and it’s still funny!” I stand and begin to pace, and the dogs, frightened by the tone of my voice, slink off to cower in the guest bathroom.

I catch my breath and continue. “Shit, I’m not good at navigating public transportation fully sighted—there’s
no way
I could do it as a blind person. And if some random commuter laughed at my disability like I did Mr. Smashy O’Plexiglas, I’d swing my pointy white stick at the sound of their voice like they were a piñata! Then I’d get arrested and I
cannot be blind and in jail!
And even if the rod only stabbed me in one eye, I couldn’t wear an eye patch because not only would it totally ruin my birthday but it would also mess up my hair.”

I stand on top of the mattress, hands on my hips, glowering down at Fletch. He turns another page. “You present a compelling argument.”

“So you’ll fix it?”

“Yes.”

I smirk. “Good.”

“Tomorrow.” He flips off the light on his nightstand.

“Arrggh! Why are you so willing to dick around with my vision? How is this a chance you’re okay with taking? I mean, if I go blind because you’re too lazy to go downstairs and get the stuff to fix this—which would take all of five minutes, by the way—how will you live with yourself? I think this pointy bastard’s coming down tonight and you know how often I’m right. What if I’m right
right now
and I get blinded because you couldn’t lift a finger to take the slightest effort to prevent it? So, what would you do then, huh? What? Tell me, fat boy,
What would you do?
” I begin to nudge him with my foot.

Fletch sits back up and turns his light on again and I can see him processing the various scenarios. He scratches his head and finally he says, “That is a dilemma, but I guess…I guess…I guess I’d owe you a Coke.”

“Fine!”
I shout, taking my pillow and putting it down at the other end of the bed. I figure I can probably live with being stabbed in the toe, and don’t think for a minute I wouldn’t make him carry me around. “You know what? I’d better get the best birthday present
ever
after this.”

He rubs my calf. “No worries. You’ll get what you deserve.”

I receive a carpet shampooer for my birthday.

But the joke’s on him, because it’s exactly what I wanted.

Not content to celebrate the big day in one state, I go to my parents’ house in Indiana for the weekend. As a gesture to Fletch, I don’t force him to come with me this time. He loves my family, but sometimes they’re a bit of a handful. I mean, I didn’t get this way on my own, you know? Plus my parents are moving closer to my brother’s family soon, so I want to get another visit or two in at the old homestead before the house sells.

Fresh from reading
The Da Vinci Code
, my parents and I spend a great deal of time chatting about Sir Isaac Newton. Big Daddy marvels how the bulk of Newton’s accomplishments took place over an eighteen-month span. Can you imagine? Shoot, I’ve gone eighteen months without returning a library book. We wonder if minds that great exist today, and if so, would they have been able to break away from their BlackBerrys and IMs and TiVos long enough to come up with the concept of gravity and the advancement of heliocentrism. Speaking from purely personal experience with said devices, I’d say no. I mean, TiVo? I can record
Lost
and
Veronica Mars
at the same time.
We are on the other side of the looking-glass here, people
.

We also talk about this “family planning” clinic I always pass when I take Fletch to work. A lot of times when I drive by, I see a bunch of Catholic clergy lined up next to the door. We discuss the efficacy of this strategy, wondering if in fact their presence stops women from seeking birth control, and thus spurs more unwanted pregnancies. We don’t come up with any answers (which really wasn’t our goal anyway); rather, my point here is it’s kind of nice to have been spawned from people who can use “efficacy” in a sentence.

Our conversation wraps up with an examination of modern literature versus the classics. My mother has recently become addicted to Jane Austen and talks about how dark the Brontë sisters are in comparison. My father prattles on about the genius of Arthur Conan Doyle, and even though our tastes in reading material vary greatly, we all agree Thomas Hardy (brilliant though he may be) bores us silly with his three-page descriptions of brocaded upholstery.

Please keep the above in mind as I detail what happens next.

“Jen, come here, I need your help,” my mother calls down the stairs, where I’m having coffee with my dad.

“What’s up, Mom?” I join my mother in the guest room, which she calls the Heritage Room because (a) it’s filled with family photos, and (b) she can be incredibly queer like that. Fortunately, I did finally convince her to pack away Sandy, the previous inhabitant of this room. Sandy was the doll my mom made me in fourth grade. She was life-sized and wore my Brownie uniform and was one of the best Christmas presents I ever got. Unfortunately, Fletch found her flat-out creepy and never slept well in the room because he was afraid Sandy was going to come to life and strangle him with her long, cotton-stuffed panty-hose arms.

“I’d like you to help me move this piece of furniture downstairs. The neighborhood is having a garage sale and I want to sell it.” She points to the one thing in their house I desperately want. (Many a time I’ve been tempted to put a “Jen” sticker on it, like in that episode of
Frasier
when he thinks he’s dying and Niles claims all his stuff.)
7
Anyway, this gorgeous Shaker-style buffet would be perfect in my house, and it’s decided that I’m going to take it because my parents can be that kind of cool.

While readying the piece for the big trip down the stairs, we determine the cabinet doors need to be taped shut. “Mom? These are going to fly open when we put it on an angle. Can you please find some tape so we can keep them closed?”

My mother returns promptly. “Um, are you trying to be funny? Because I’m pretty sure Scotch tape isn’t going to work on two heavy maple doors.” However, when she returns with duct tape, we realize it really makes no difference because
someone
has just polished the entire thing and it is slick with lemon oil.

Oh, yes, I think you know where this is going.

A different yet equally clueless member of the family helps me maneuver this piece to the staircase. (At this point I’m going anonymous about who’s who due to my desire to get those damn bulldogs.) In a nod to said member’s love of all things Sir Isaac Newton, this person thinks we’d be better flipping it over and allowing gravity to propel it down the stairs, instead of the more controlled method of carrying it down step, pause, step, pause. I’m to stand in front and navigate and he’s going to follow, supporting his half of the weight in back as we do a controlled freefall.

About halfway down the stairs, someone loses his grip and suddenly my body is the only thing standing between the wall and two hundred pounds of freshly oiled maple, careening toward the landing at approximately the speed of light.

All I can think is,
Dear God, please don’t let me be hurt to the extent that I must be rushed to the same local hospital where they accidentally treated me for
hepatitis
when I was fifteen years old.
8

Fortunately, the buffet strikes me in the back with such force that I’m thrown down the remaining seven stairs. As I float through the air in slow motion, I think,
The realtor is going to be here in ten minutes and maybe the house will have a better chance of selling if there’s not a Shaker-style buffet sticking halfway out of the wall, thus preventing my parents from moving closer to their beloved grandchildren
. And because I am a good daughter
9
I’m able to reposition and hurl myself back in front of it to protect the wall at the end of the stairway and to keep the piece from smashing into a lot of greasy wood chips.

I find myself up against the sea grass wallpaper, two hundred pounds of fine—albeit slightly oily—Shaker furniture pinning me in place, when Captain Obvious finds it germane to mention in his lifelong Boston accent, “Hey, Jennifah? I think I may have lost my grip,” while Mrs. Captain Obvious muses, “I wonder if I shouldn’t have polished it first?”

No. Shit.

Yet people still wonder why after being around my family, I always threaten to spend my
next
holiday in Hawaii.

Thanksgiving comes—and goes—and Fletch and I have vowed to never speak of it again. Suffice it to say Hawaii looks pretty damn good right about now.

Fletch, the dogs, and I drive home for Christmas and the trip is entirely without incident. Regardless of how much we watch the Weather Channel, we seem to have an uncanny ability to hit a big storm and the three-hour trip takes more like nine. But this time? Smooth sailing across dry, empty roads. We even manage to find a radio station we can agree on—although it’s probably because we now have XM rather than any sort of Christmas miracle—so we don’t spend the trip toggling between a Rammstein
10
CD and the soundtrack to
Cabaret
in the kind of musical compromise that satisfies no one.

Instead of the usual cartwheels and backflips the dogs normally enjoy while we’re driving on a snowy, truck-filled expressway, they settle right down and nap from the second we leave the 60647 until the moment we arrive. (They do stir when we give them each a cheeseburger—they aren’t machines, for God’s sake.)

We spend the trip recounting yesterday’s adventure. Since Fletch is off until after New Year’s we decide we’re going to do something fun every day. Although most of our time is taken up with holiday parties, yesterday we went to a place in the suburbs with artificial snow, little ski slopes, and an inner-tube run. Hungover as we were, we decided skiing would take too much effort, so we opted for sledding.