Read Online Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online
Authors: Jen Lancaster
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accent. Some people dig the melodious tones of French or Italian, but me, I’m all about a language that comes out somewhere between spitting and barking. There’s something so refreshingly direct about the Slavic way of speaking; it’s all “it MUST” and “you WILL,” as opposed to our very American “if it’s not too much trouble” and “as long as that’s okay.” When no one’s around, I make Maisy talk in an East German accent.
Maisy need. Maisy need NOW.
I open my office door and find one of the ladies in what can best be described as a state. “Is something wrong? Can I help?” I ask. Whatever the problem is, I can fix it. If someone hurt herself, I can grab our first aid kit, call 911, or do an ER run. If something broke, I can glue it back together. If they simply want to express their disgust at how dirty the floors got while I was away at SxSW and Fletch was in charge of the house, I can invite them to join the club.
Seriously, WTF? Was he hosting a rodeo in here?
The cleaning lady replies to my offer of assistance by saying the one thing without a readily apparent solution.
“The shit is small.”
Beg your pardon?
I repeat to her, “The
shit
is small?” I say it a couple of times while I try to work it all out in my head.
She nods emphatically and points in the direction of the master bedroom at the end of the hallway and enunciates every word. “The shit is
small
.”
As we both rush down the hall, my head races with grim possibilities.
Where did the small shit come from?
Where is the small shit now?
Is the small shit on the duvet? That’s no real biggie because it’s machine washable.
Is the small shit on a linen chair cushion? Um, more problematic because I’m not sure how to launder it. Scrub brush? Dry cleaning?
Oh, God, please tell me there’s no small shit on my prized Persian rug with the delicate swirls of celery and cerulean blue woven through the magenta wool.
[
Fletch ruined our old jute rug after I asked him to clean it. My assumption was that he’d use a Rug Doctor. In all the lousy places we’ve lived and with all the ridiculous neighbors we’ve ever had, nothing has ever been more white trash than when I spotted him standing in the front yard like Cousin “Shitter’s Full” Eddie, squirting the rug with a garden hose.
]
Wait, is this like the time one of our cats barfed in the cleaning lady’s shoe, only a million times more gross?
Did Loki deposit another “I got nervous” bomb?
Or did something go horribly awry in the bathroom due to my cavalier attitude about using an antique banana in Fletch’s smoothie yesterday?
I get to the master bedroom expecting chaos… carnage… destruction, or, at the very least, a diminutive pile of something steaming.
Instead, I find that I’ve laid out the wrong bedding, accidentally setting out a Queen set instead of King and for the better part of five minutes, they’ve been attempting to wrestle them onto the bed.
Oh… I get it.
The
sheet
is small.
I start to laugh; then I apologize profusely, swapping out Queens for Kings. I head back to my office where I spend the next two hours and forty-five minutes watching TV and giggling over the shit being small.
And then it occurs to me… this is probably why our old cleaning ladies stole from us.
Sheet.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Angie’s List exists for a reason. Use it.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R S·I·X
Get Off My Lawn
T here’s one truth that I live by:
Hell hath no fury like a middle-aged woman in a fuzzy pink robe, hopped up on a winning combination of allergy medicine,
Alias
reruns, and anger.
Reside in the city long enough and you learn to steel yourself against shit going down because if you don’t, you’re going to be a victim. The second you let your guard down and are all,
“My apartment’s only two blocks from this bar—taking a cab would be silly,”
is the exact second when a gang of miscreants springs out of a darkened alley, steals
Maisy need. Maisy need NOW.
I open my office door and find one of the ladies in what can best be described as a state. “Is something wrong? Can I help?” I ask. Whatever the problem is, I can fix it. If someone hurt herself, I can grab our first aid kit, call 911, or do an ER run. If something broke, I can glue it back together. If they simply want to express their disgust at how dirty the floors got while I was away at SxSW and Fletch was in charge of the house, I can invite them to join the club.
Seriously, WTF? Was he hosting a rodeo in here?
The cleaning lady replies to my offer of assistance by saying the one thing without a readily apparent solution.
“The shit is small.”
Beg your pardon?
I repeat to her, “The
shit
is small?” I say it a couple of times while I try to work it all out in my head.
She nods emphatically and points in the direction of the master bedroom at the end of the hallway and enunciates every word. “The shit is
small
.”
As we both rush down the hall, my head races with grim possibilities.
Where did the small shit come from?
Where is the small shit now?
Is the small shit on the duvet? That’s no real biggie because it’s machine washable.
Is the small shit on a linen chair cushion? Um, more problematic because I’m not sure how to launder it. Scrub brush? Dry cleaning?
Oh, God, please tell me there’s no small shit on my prized Persian rug with the delicate swirls of celery and cerulean blue woven through the magenta wool.
[
Fletch ruined our old jute rug after I asked him to clean it. My assumption was that he’d use a Rug Doctor. In all the lousy places we’ve lived and with all the ridiculous neighbors we’ve ever had, nothing has ever been more white trash than when I spotted him standing in the front yard like Cousin “Shitter’s Full” Eddie, squirting the rug with a garden hose.
]
Wait, is this like the time one of our cats barfed in the cleaning lady’s shoe, only a million times more gross?
Did Loki deposit another “I got nervous” bomb?
Or did something go horribly awry in the bathroom due to my cavalier attitude about using an antique banana in Fletch’s smoothie yesterday?
I get to the master bedroom expecting chaos… carnage… destruction, or, at the very least, a diminutive pile of something steaming.
Instead, I find that I’ve laid out the wrong bedding, accidentally setting out a Queen set instead of King and for the better part of five minutes, they’ve been attempting to wrestle them onto the bed.
Oh… I get it.
The
sheet
is small.
I start to laugh; then I apologize profusely, swapping out Queens for Kings. I head back to my office where I spend the next two hours and forty-five minutes watching TV and giggling over the shit being small.
And then it occurs to me… this is probably why our old cleaning ladies stole from us.
Sheet.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Angie’s List exists for a reason. Use it.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R S·I·X
Get Off My Lawn
T here’s one truth that I live by:
Hell hath no fury like a middle-aged woman in a fuzzy pink robe, hopped up on a winning combination of allergy medicine,
Alias
reruns, and anger.
Reside in the city long enough and you learn to steel yourself against shit going down because if you don’t, you’re going to be a victim. The second you let your guard down and are all,
“My apartment’s only two blocks from this bar—taking a cab would be silly,”
is the exact second when a gang of miscreants springs out of a darkened alley, steals
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