Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (22 page)

Part Three

The Nineties

We Need a Montage

(A Variety of Stained Aprons)

Hey, Joanna,

Thanks for the letter of recommendation, but I’m not going to affiliate with our sorority now that I’m back
on campus.
¹²⁵
I’m sorry if you’re bummed, but you
don’t even live here anymore! Plus, I’m sort of ready to move on.

Regardless, I’m delighted to be out of my parents’ house and in my own apartment FINALLY. My dad said I’m foolish to waste the money living on campus when I
could continue to live at home for free, but trust me, it’s worth it. I don’t care if I have to work full-time and can only take one class per semester; I am never living at home again.

Dad said if I wanted to return to campus, I wasn’t taking one of his automobiles. So, now I’m the (not terribly) proud owner of a Toyota Tercel. Dad agreed to cosign, but he said items like radios and air-conditioning were “luxuries,” so he only let me get the most basic model ever made. I don’t even have a side-view mirror on the right-hand side of the car.

When the salesman took me through the car, he showed me how to work the windshield wipers and how to roll down the windows. Then he gave it a once-over and said, “Yeah. That’s pretty much all it does. Oh, and drive safe. This thing’ll shatter like a jelly glass if you get hit.” Wow, way to earn your Salesman of the Month plaque, dude.

In other news, I switched my major to political science! Dad laughed at me and told me I’d never get a job, but I’m determined to prove him wrong.

See you at Homecoming!

Jen

Dear First Floor Back Unit,

It has come to my attention that you have installed a dart board. I know this because you’ve placed it on the wall right next to the head of my bed.

I’m asking you nicely to relocate the dart board to an outside wall because it’s very hard to sleep when every three seconds I hear THUNK, THUNK, THUNK ’til the wee hours of the morning.

Also, I have a number of early classes. From your late-night darts and pot-smoking schedule, I gather you do not. Should you not want me to crank George Michael every morning in an effort to wake you up before I go-go, I suggest you knock it the fuck off.

Your neighbor,

Jen

P.S. You completely suck at darts.

P.P.S. I won’t narc on you. But I may kick you until
you’re dead if I ever hear darts again.

CAMPUS DEVELOPMENT REALTY

February 5, 1995

Miss Lancaster,

Please remit rent for the first floor front unit on Salisbury Street immediately.This is the third time we’ve had to remind you to pay in a timely fashion in as many months. Should you continue to not be able to meet your obligations, we will have to take further action.

Also, when the maintenance crew had to enter your dwelling last month, they noticed there were not only cats, but also an additional person living in your apartment. Neither of these is permitted by your lease and we expect you to remedy these situations immediately.

Cordially,

Ellen Foster, Manager

Dear Campus Development Realty, Inc.,

Enclosed please find my check for March rent for the first floor front unit on Salisbury Street.

I realize it’s a couple of days late but I imagine you’re going to let this slide without a late fee or a lecture, considering I had to involve a television news crew last month just to get you people to provide the
heat that’s
supposed
to be included in my rent.

The reporter left me her card and told me to call if I had ANY other issues. I’m confident that I won’t. (Did I mention I’m pretty sure she’s angling for a local Emmy for investigative reporting?)

By the way, I trust that neither my frequently visiting boyfriend nor the cats who aren’t listed on
my lease won’t be, you know, an
issue
.

Best,

Jen Lancaster

Hey, Fletch!

Didn’t want to wake you before I leave for class! I forgot to tell you last night that I brought you some jambalaya and it’s in the fridge. Enjoy!

By the way, a whole bunch of football players came in and sat in my section. They kept telling me how cute my legs looked in my shorts and I kind of felt like Anita Hill. Finally, I told the guys if they could clutch a ball like they clutched my butt, maybe we’d win a damn bowl game for once. They didn’t laugh. (All the other waitresses did, though.)

When I complained to the owner, he was all, “If they pat you on the ass, take it as a compliment.” So I totally overcharged them for beers and I made
almost $200!

Dinner’s on me tonight!

XO,

Jen

Mom,

Thank you for sending me
Brides
magazine . . . and
Modern Brides
. . . and
Elegant Brides
. . . and
Martha Stewart Weddings.
And thank you for dog-earing all
the pages you find relevant.

As soon as I meet someone who’s actually getting married, I’ll be sure to pass them along to her.

Love,

Jen

P.S.
Brideshead Revisited
is not a book about wed
ding veils, just so you know.

You Sank My Battleship

(Navy Suit, Part One)

“Y
ou look very stylish,” my mother assures me as I gaze warily at myself in the three-way mirror.

I glower, saying nothing.

She continues, growing more and more excited as she picks and pulls at me, tugging on cuffs and straightening seams. “Very professional but also quite chic. I think this is it! I think this is the one!”

I knit my brows and purse my lips. I am
not
buying what she’s selling.

Perhaps I’d be quicker to believe my mother’s sartorial assessment if she weren’t currently clad in a peasant blouse circa 1981 and Birkenstocks paired with reinforced-toe pantyhose. Mind you, this is the woman who refuses to donate the clothes I wore in high school and college to Goodwill, insisting they’re still good.

Do you know how disconcerting it is to see an almost sixty-year-old woman running around the grocery store wearing a piece of Sigma Phi Epsilon
A Roll in the Hay
barn dance swag?

Or a neon green T-shirt that reads
“I Stand on My Head for Surf Fetish”
?
¹²⁶

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, but her fashion tips come from
Prevention
magazine. And this is the woman who wore ponchos for
years
after they went out of style. To this day, I remember when she decided her bulky hand-knit model was too hot, so she tried to pull it off while driving on the expressway. Of course it got stuck on her head and I spent thirty seconds seething over how I wasn’t going to live long enough to see
Escape from Witch Mountain
.

Ponchos were her coat of choice when she’d strap me on the back of her bike and pedal us to her guitar lesson, the case of her Yamaha banging me in the head while I spat out the scratchy poncho fringe that pelted me in the mouth. One time a breeze blew the front over her head and we wiped out while flying down a huge hill on our street.

Point? Anna Wintour, she’s not.
¹²⁷

At the moment I’m modeling a double-breasted navy blue suit with silver-dollar-sized brass buttons embossed with anchors. The suit is too long in the sleeves and the skirt ends at that special place about midcalf that ensures maximum stumpiness. An ancient, powder-puff-haired salesclerk has paired said suit with a short-sleeve white blouse trimmed in gold piping. I look less like I’m getting ready for my first real job interview and more like I’m about to welcome a foreign dignitary onto the bridge of my aircraft carrier. All aboard the SS
Frumpy
!

“Lovely!” the salesclerk coos in agreement. When she exhales in this close little room, I can smell the menthol of her lozenge.

I spin around again, noting how the jacket completely conceals my hourglass figure. I’m cut off at the hips and I look far wider than I actually am. The skirt is too tight around my midriff and the waistband bisects my stomach into two separate rolls. The skirt has some pleats at the top and it flattens my butt completely.

No, that’s not true.

I do still have a butt—but thanks to poor tailoring, it’s simply been moved to the front, giving me an ass-belly. What I’m wearing right now is the mom-jeans equivalent of a skirt. The blouse is just that—blousy—and tents, rather than drapes, over my torso.

Yeah,
lovely
.

I continue to scowl, saying nothing.

“Wait!” The clerk snaps her brittle fingers. “I have the perfect touch!” She dashes out of the fitting area and returns moments later with a long scrap of fabric. Given her advanced years, I’m surprised at how quickly she moves. Before I can even blink, she’s grabbed me and tied a giant plaid bow around my neck like a big, horrible birthday present.

I see the now-complete outfit, bathed in the sickly green glow of the overhead fluorescent lights.

Oh, the humanity.

“Do you love it?” my mother asks.

I’m speechless. Seriously? If this is how I have to dress to get a real job, maybe I’d rather waitress when I move to Chicago. That way if I have to put on an ugly outfit for work, people will understand I’m not doing it voluntarily. This suit makes me nostalgic for what I wore to my first job at Hardee’s—a zipped brown and orange polyester tunic, matching pants, and mushroom-shaped cap. Not only did that outfit fit me, but I got to eat as many fresh-baked cookies as I could steal at that job.

“You look so elegant!” the clerk agrees.

“Why don’t we ask Fletch what he thinks?” I finally suggest after a long moment of stunned silence. I exit the fitting room and find Fletch on a rigid ladder-back chair at the side of the store, reading a magazine.

Fletch and I have been together for almost two years now. We had a ton of mutual friends but didn’t meet until we started working together at a new restaurant on campus. I never minded that he made terrible drinks. He felt that if customers were paying for cocktails, they should taste the liquor, not the mixer. Whenever patrons asked for an ice-cream-based drink, he’d tell them the blender was broken. No one served up a big glass of surly like Fletch.
¹²⁸

He got a kick out of how much my customers disliked me, too. In my defense, when I go out to eat, I want to hear if the onion rings are beer battered and not if my server’s cat has an ear infection. My job is to get your food to the table as quickly as possible and my concern is whether or not you need more coffee, so if you want to chat? Go to a therapist.

Fletch surprised me by seamlessly integrating himself into my life. One minute I was single and happy and having a blast with my friends, and the next I was happy and having a blast with my friends, only with a really terrific guy at my side. Plus, he’s nice to my cats. How people treat pets is my litmus test. I could give a shit if you bark at bar patrons, but you’d better make with the belly rubs and chin scratches the second they’re demanded of you. He totally does.

Since we’ve been together, we’ve acquired two more cats.
¹²⁹
My brother’s super-vicious cat Bones came to stay with us while he and his wife attended a wedding. The second Bones had other cats to boss around, he became a perfect (barely biting) gentleman. A few months later Fletch spotted Ranger, an itty-bitty marmalade kitty, in a parking garage after a night class. He came home and got me and we spent an hour coaxing her out of the bushes and into our lives. I figured anyone who’d take the time to love and nurture a creature who’s primarily going to hiss, scratch, and barf for no good reason is kind of my perfect match.

I’m so happy Fletch was able to tag along on this shopping expedition, coming all the way over to Fort Wayne for the day, especially given his work schedule. He graduated in December and got his first real job in February. He’s been living up in the Chicago suburbs since then. The plan is for me to move in with him next month, providing I can get a job after graduation. I’m not so sure I’ll ace my interview with the Great Plains HMO dressed like Admiral Halsey.

I approach Fletch and once I have his attention, I twirl. “What do you think? Should I burn it or bury it?”

Fletch opens his mouth, and gasps fishlike for a couple of seconds. After a telling pause, he finally replies, “Does Captain Steubing know you’re not on the Lido deck right now?”

“It really
is
that bad, isn’t it?” I ask flatly. What sucks is I’ve been shopping all day and this is the closest I’ve come to finding anything that fits. Size-wise, I’m somewhere in between regular and plus and nothing is cut for my shape. I need to either lose or gain twenty pounds.
¹³⁰

As soon as we’re done here, Fletch and I are supposed to caravan to Chicago. I want to be up there tonight so I can do a practice run into the city tomorrow before my interview. The problem is if I don’t find something appropriate to wear, I’m not going anywhere. Tears begin to well in the corner of my eyes.

Fletch jumps up and gently puts his arm around me. “No, no, we can work with this. Blue suits are classic, neutral. That’s why they’re a staple. Hmm . . .” He assesses me again. “Lose the bow. Tell the saleslady to return it to 1982, where it belongs. Maybe you can put some nice jewelry with the outfit to make it look more . . .
you
.” He kisses me on the forehead.

For the first time today, I smile. He really does understand how to make everything better. As I sail back to the fitting room, he calls, “Please tell Isaac I’d like a piña colada.”

Aarrgh.

I return to find my mother and the clerk beaming in anticipation. I sigh. “Fine. Wrap it up, I’ll take it . . . as soon as we swap out this stupid bow for some fake pearls.”

Despite wearing an ill-fitting outfit and getting a little lost
¹³¹
on the way, my interview goes well. I spend close to two hours with the hiring manager asking detailed questions, although I’m still in the dark as to what the job entails. I’m concentrating so hard on sending out
Hire me!
vibes that I don’t absorb everything she’s saying in regard to specific job duties. Something about doctors and credentials and data entry? Who cares—it pays $24,000 and that is a fortune!

I’ve never had a professional interview before; this chatty, friendly, back-and-forth thing wasn’t what I’d expected. For years my professors warned me about how cutthroat the business world is and how interviewers want nothing more than to trip you up by asking you trick questions all rapid-fire to determine if you can handle pressure, and of course they love hosting these interviews in a restaurant specifically to see if you do stuff like salt your food before tasting it, because that means you’re impulsive and no one wants to hire an impulsive person, when honestly that’s kind of bullshit, because what if you’re just someone who really likes salt?

What do you suppose it means if you pepper your food first? Is that impulsive, too? Are all those guys in the fancy restaurants with the table-leg pepper grinders there solely as a way to mess with potential employees out for a meal with prospective employers? Is the whole restaurant industry in on this evil plan? If so, why didn’t anyone tell me? I’d have played along.

Honestly, this interview isn’t any harder than any of the job applications I’ve had before now. Actually, it’s easier because there’s no math
¹³²
and I don’t have to remember what wine pairs best with halibut. My conversation with Jill strikes me as being more along the lines of questions you’d answer sitting on the couch with Katie Couric, not across the table from Donald Trump. (Need I remind you I’ve been ready for my television debut for years?)

I manage to impress Jill enough to score an interview with her staff. Woo hoo! Thankfully it’s over the phone, so I don’t have to put on my stupid sailor suit to talk to them.

I also won’t be distracted by the view, like I was when sitting across from Jill. My potential new office is on the twentieth floor, right off the Chicago River. What would it be like to go to work every day in a giant glass skyscraper? The morning of my interview was all misty and the clouds began right above where I was standing. How surreal would it be to sit at my desk and look straight into a cloud?

How would it feel to witness a lightning storm from three hundred feet up in the air? Or, when it’s clear, to watch the architectural tour boats slowly cruising out toward the lake? I bet the out-of-towners who pay to take those tours wonder who’s in the big buildings. They’ll catch a glimpse of someone in the window and think to themselves,
What’s their story? Where’d they come from?
If I get this job, the people tourists wonder about will be
me
. I bet no one’s ever curious about who their waitress is or how she got there. There’s something about working with food that screams
I make bad choices
.

I want this position. I want this life. I want clouds. I want river. I want my apron neatly folded up, forgotten in a drawer in the kitchen. And I’ll do my best to charm and cajole and say all the right things in my fight to get it.