Read Online Here I Go Again: A Novel by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jen Lancaster
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thing?—I hear the familiar sounds of my parents fighting. They’re extra-shouty today. Something about a car? I sigh. Just another day in paradise.
I hear the consecutive slamming of front and side doors, meaning my dad’s off to a twelve-plus-hour day practicing patent law and my mom’s off to . . . well, probably Oakbrook Center. Every shopkeeper at the mall knows her by name. Seriously, it’s like she’s a conquering hero when she walks through Neiman Marcus with minions running up to her displaying jewelry, handbags, and calfskin boots. I used to be so impressed by that, but now I’m not sure it’s so great.
I sort through the covers and look under the bed for the phone. Nope, not there. I can’t seem to find my Louis bag (not a Birkin, but not bad, thanks to Mamma) and I suspect it’s in there. So now I have to go for the nuclear option—calling myself from a landline to find my purse and my phone.
My perfect pink Princess phone still lives on my desk, so I pick up the receiver and dial my cell. I don’t hear my ringtone (Warrant’s “Cherry Pie,” of course) and my voice mail doesn’t kick in, either. I probably forgot the whole shootin’ match on the train yesterday and by now some little jackass like Charlotte has sent nine million texts about how Justin Bieber makes her feel tingly in her underpants.
Fucking Bieber.
Can someone explain to me why music icons have changed so dramatically in the past twenty-five years? When I was Charlotte’s age, Jon Bon Jovi made me swoon, largely because he looked like a man . The way he moved . . . the way he sang . . . Maybe he had long hair, but there was no mistaking the testosterone that simply oozed out of him. He was a true rock star. Girls threw their underwear at him when he was onstage. What do they throw at the Biebs? Their retainers? Their Girl Scout merit badges? That little boy is probably still smooth as a Ken doll down there. I mean, there were no LesbiansWhoLookLikeBonJovi Tumblr accounts back then.
Okay, there might be now, but definitely not then.
Speaking of music, where’s my iPod? Maybe I’m still a little hungover, because I seem to have misplaced everything. I toss the room and still can’t find it. I do run across Duke’s old class ring that I lost a million years ago, though, and it gives me great pleasure to throw it in the garbage. The ring lands with a satisfying thunk.
Fortunately, my room is a living time capsule, so I quickly locate a metal mix tape and snap it in my Hello Kitty cassette player. Jani Lane comes blasting out of the old speakers sounding as fine as he did twenty years ago. (RIP, you magnificent bastard.) I feel a world better today than I did at this time yesterday, so I dance around while I make the bed.
I’m your sweet cherry piii-iii-iie, yeah!
As I boogie I have to keep yanking up my pants, and I still can’t find a damn thing in here. I bet my mother had her housekeeper clean my room while I was asleep—she’s famous for orchestrating that kind of thing, like that time she sent her gardener to rip out all the daisies I planted on my condo balcony because she thought they were “the kinda flowahs poor people grow.”
I figure I’m probably not going to wake up fully until I wash the stink of yak pelt off me, so I quit searching. I peel off my clothes and step into the shower, letting the warm water rinse all of Saturday’s shortcomings right off of me.
Oh, how funny is this? Mamma must have found a bottle of Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific on the Internet to cheer me up. (I recently introduced her to eBay, and Daddy? Not happy .)
God, I’ve missed this shampoo. I squeeze a big glob into my hand and work it into a rich lather. One whiff and I feel like I’m back in the day, rollin’ down the hall with the Belles at my side and crowds parting like the Red Sea, exactly like they depict in so many cheesy teen movies. It’s curious how one little smell can trigger such a rush of
I hear the consecutive slamming of front and side doors, meaning my dad’s off to a twelve-plus-hour day practicing patent law and my mom’s off to . . . well, probably Oakbrook Center. Every shopkeeper at the mall knows her by name. Seriously, it’s like she’s a conquering hero when she walks through Neiman Marcus with minions running up to her displaying jewelry, handbags, and calfskin boots. I used to be so impressed by that, but now I’m not sure it’s so great.
I sort through the covers and look under the bed for the phone. Nope, not there. I can’t seem to find my Louis bag (not a Birkin, but not bad, thanks to Mamma) and I suspect it’s in there. So now I have to go for the nuclear option—calling myself from a landline to find my purse and my phone.
My perfect pink Princess phone still lives on my desk, so I pick up the receiver and dial my cell. I don’t hear my ringtone (Warrant’s “Cherry Pie,” of course) and my voice mail doesn’t kick in, either. I probably forgot the whole shootin’ match on the train yesterday and by now some little jackass like Charlotte has sent nine million texts about how Justin Bieber makes her feel tingly in her underpants.
Fucking Bieber.
Can someone explain to me why music icons have changed so dramatically in the past twenty-five years? When I was Charlotte’s age, Jon Bon Jovi made me swoon, largely because he looked like a man . The way he moved . . . the way he sang . . . Maybe he had long hair, but there was no mistaking the testosterone that simply oozed out of him. He was a true rock star. Girls threw their underwear at him when he was onstage. What do they throw at the Biebs? Their retainers? Their Girl Scout merit badges? That little boy is probably still smooth as a Ken doll down there. I mean, there were no LesbiansWhoLookLikeBonJovi Tumblr accounts back then.
Okay, there might be now, but definitely not then.
Speaking of music, where’s my iPod? Maybe I’m still a little hungover, because I seem to have misplaced everything. I toss the room and still can’t find it. I do run across Duke’s old class ring that I lost a million years ago, though, and it gives me great pleasure to throw it in the garbage. The ring lands with a satisfying thunk.
Fortunately, my room is a living time capsule, so I quickly locate a metal mix tape and snap it in my Hello Kitty cassette player. Jani Lane comes blasting out of the old speakers sounding as fine as he did twenty years ago. (RIP, you magnificent bastard.) I feel a world better today than I did at this time yesterday, so I dance around while I make the bed.
I’m your sweet cherry piii-iii-iie, yeah!
As I boogie I have to keep yanking up my pants, and I still can’t find a damn thing in here. I bet my mother had her housekeeper clean my room while I was asleep—she’s famous for orchestrating that kind of thing, like that time she sent her gardener to rip out all the daisies I planted on my condo balcony because she thought they were “the kinda flowahs poor people grow.”
I figure I’m probably not going to wake up fully until I wash the stink of yak pelt off me, so I quit searching. I peel off my clothes and step into the shower, letting the warm water rinse all of Saturday’s shortcomings right off of me.
Oh, how funny is this? Mamma must have found a bottle of Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific on the Internet to cheer me up. (I recently introduced her to eBay, and Daddy? Not happy .)
God, I’ve missed this shampoo. I squeeze a big glob into my hand and work it into a rich lather. One whiff and I feel like I’m back in the day, rollin’ down the hall with the Belles at my side and crowds parting like the Red Sea, exactly like they depict in so many cheesy teen movies. It’s curious how one little smell can trigger such a rush of
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