Read Online 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? by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Humor, Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Biography, Essay/s, Authors; American, Women, City and Town Life, Form, 21st Century, Chicago (Ill.), Jeanne, Lancaster; Jen, Authors; American - 21st century, Chicago (Ill.) - Social life and customs
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eat your pillows! But in a creaky old three-flat with a shared stairwell? Not so much.
I need Fletch around to remind me it’s not appropriate to eat Lucky Charms three times a day simply because I despise cooking. He’s the one who gently leads me away from the phone after a night of drinking. 2 And without him to tell me no, I’m sure I’d be the bat-shit-crazy old lady with thirty pit bulls. Basically, Fletch keeps me off the evening news.
It’s already well past dinnertime and the only thing I’ve had to eat today is a couple of slices of Buffalo chicken pizza served with a side of mayo. 3 I don’t know what to make that doesn’t involve the stove or a box of cereal, so I’m sitting here hungry. 4 I wish I could remember what I used to do before Fletch came into my life and decided we’d have pork chops.
I lived alone for three years before him—surely I must have eaten, if only because I don’t remember Sally Struthers or a TV crew filming my dirty, fly-ridden face and distended belly. I know I didn’t cook back then because I had a gas stove and it terrified me. My parents had an electric range so my only experience with a gas stove prior to moving in was the fifty-year-old one at my Noni’s 5 house. Long story short, I was in the kitchen when in our youthful attempt to bake a cake, it blew my cousin Stephanie’s eyebrows off and she had to run upstairs, shove the dog out of the way, and stick her flaming head in the toilet. 6 And I’ve worked too long to attain the perfect eyebrow arch, so I disconnected the gas and used my college oven to store my shoes.
And yes, I know I live in the middle of a city and there are hundreds of places ready, willing, and able to deliver a global variety of meals, but without Fletch here to confer with on what sounds good, I’m mired in pizza-and-mayonnaise fiascos. Maybe I’ll call him to see what I should do.
I pick up the phone and dial. Damn. Voice mail. I guess I’ll try his e-mail.
----
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Reporting from the Front Lines of History, Day One
It dawned on me that I might be witnessing firsthand a significant event, the eternal struggle between the Proletariat and Bourgeoisie. The exploitation of The Worker by The Man, the death of The American Dream done in by corporate greed and ruthless management. And given such a rare glimpse into actual politics and economics in action, I feel I have a duty to document it and shall be keeping a journal of my time here. Just as I have a sworn duty to provide the good people of Westerville, OH, with a reliable telecommunications infrastructure.
I’m signing off now so I can begin the diary. Before I do, I’ll remind you that you worked in a restaurant when you lived alone. You ate there every day and that’s why you didn’t starve. I was kidding when I offered to leave you the number to Adult Protective Services. Now I’m not so sure.
----
----
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: RE: RE: Reporting from the Front Lines of History, Day One
Okay, Jen, jelly beans are not an acceptable dinner. I can’t believe I just had to write that sentence. And, no, the Garbage Fairy is not “on strike,” too. I’m sorry to hear that in less than twenty-four hours the trash is stacked to the ceiling by the front door, but did it ever occur to you that maybe I do more around the house than that for which I get credit? I get the feeling you’re a can of shaving cream shy of running around slapping yourself in the face à la Macaulay Culkin.
----
----
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Day Two
We had two picketers today at 6:00 a.m., parked in lawn chairs on the sidewalk. Reports from the early shift are that more arrived later in the morning, bringing with them a small tent and barbecue grill. They were gone when I arrived at 6:30, but who could blame them after a day of scarfing down weenies?
Oh, and yes, to answer your question, 9:30 a.m. is far too early for a
I need Fletch around to remind me it’s not appropriate to eat Lucky Charms three times a day simply because I despise cooking. He’s the one who gently leads me away from the phone after a night of drinking. 2 And without him to tell me no, I’m sure I’d be the bat-shit-crazy old lady with thirty pit bulls. Basically, Fletch keeps me off the evening news.
It’s already well past dinnertime and the only thing I’ve had to eat today is a couple of slices of Buffalo chicken pizza served with a side of mayo. 3 I don’t know what to make that doesn’t involve the stove or a box of cereal, so I’m sitting here hungry. 4 I wish I could remember what I used to do before Fletch came into my life and decided we’d have pork chops.
I lived alone for three years before him—surely I must have eaten, if only because I don’t remember Sally Struthers or a TV crew filming my dirty, fly-ridden face and distended belly. I know I didn’t cook back then because I had a gas stove and it terrified me. My parents had an electric range so my only experience with a gas stove prior to moving in was the fifty-year-old one at my Noni’s 5 house. Long story short, I was in the kitchen when in our youthful attempt to bake a cake, it blew my cousin Stephanie’s eyebrows off and she had to run upstairs, shove the dog out of the way, and stick her flaming head in the toilet. 6 And I’ve worked too long to attain the perfect eyebrow arch, so I disconnected the gas and used my college oven to store my shoes.
And yes, I know I live in the middle of a city and there are hundreds of places ready, willing, and able to deliver a global variety of meals, but without Fletch here to confer with on what sounds good, I’m mired in pizza-and-mayonnaise fiascos. Maybe I’ll call him to see what I should do.
I pick up the phone and dial. Damn. Voice mail. I guess I’ll try his e-mail.
----
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Reporting from the Front Lines of History, Day One
It dawned on me that I might be witnessing firsthand a significant event, the eternal struggle between the Proletariat and Bourgeoisie. The exploitation of The Worker by The Man, the death of The American Dream done in by corporate greed and ruthless management. And given such a rare glimpse into actual politics and economics in action, I feel I have a duty to document it and shall be keeping a journal of my time here. Just as I have a sworn duty to provide the good people of Westerville, OH, with a reliable telecommunications infrastructure.
I’m signing off now so I can begin the diary. Before I do, I’ll remind you that you worked in a restaurant when you lived alone. You ate there every day and that’s why you didn’t starve. I was kidding when I offered to leave you the number to Adult Protective Services. Now I’m not so sure.
----
----
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: RE: RE: Reporting from the Front Lines of History, Day One
Okay, Jen, jelly beans are not an acceptable dinner. I can’t believe I just had to write that sentence. And, no, the Garbage Fairy is not “on strike,” too. I’m sorry to hear that in less than twenty-four hours the trash is stacked to the ceiling by the front door, but did it ever occur to you that maybe I do more around the house than that for which I get credit? I get the feeling you’re a can of shaving cream shy of running around slapping yourself in the face à la Macaulay Culkin.
----
----
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Day Two
We had two picketers today at 6:00 a.m., parked in lawn chairs on the sidewalk. Reports from the early shift are that more arrived later in the morning, bringing with them a small tent and barbecue grill. They were gone when I arrived at 6:30, but who could blame them after a day of scarfing down weenies?
Oh, and yes, to answer your question, 9:30 a.m. is far too early for a
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