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
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
Ads: Link
isn’t
Bridget Jones –l evel good.
Pay $21.90 in overdue fines because online renewal system apparently doesn’t work.
Head back to train entrance.
Dodge yet another giant ice projectile.
Decide “screw it” and hail taxi. Spend another $9 to get home. Husband spots self exiting taxi and mocks mercilessly.
Total cost of the library excursion?
$40.90, 10 two hours, and a portion of my sanity.
So taking the train to my temp job is pretty much out of the question. I’d love to drive but spending $24 on parking downtown is three times more wrong than taking a cab, so the bus it is.
I’m at the stop waiting to go to said temp assignment when the number 56 arrives exactly when it’s supposed to be here . Not only does the bus get here on time and without incident, I actually find an open seat. Huzzah! The heavens are shining down upon me! For today I shall be the one who thrusts my head into someone else’s crotch accidentally when the driver brakes hard for no reason! It will be me who curls my lip in disgust when the embarrassed straphanger makes a joke about tucking dollar bills! I claim this twelve-inch-wide carpeted-plastic throne in the name of Jen!
Delighting in the luxury, I open my canvas tote and root around in it, digging past my lunch, purse, extra panty hose, hand lotion, four shades of pink-brown lipstick, and umbrella until I find my book. I feel the familiar glossy cover and I whip out Slander by Ann Coulter.
I know, I know…few authors incite the kind of passion 11 she does, but I enjoy her writing even though her politics can be too hard-core for…well…anyone. (When I gave my friends Angie, Jen, Carol, and Wendy a tour of my apartment, they made one collective gasp when they saw the book on Fletch’s nightstand. To their credit, they had lunch with me anyway.) But with hair that good I figure Ann’s got to be doing something right. 12 Anyway, as I am all about the fair and balanced, I plan to pick up Al Franken’s newest soon, because I honestly believe the truth is somewhere in the middle of all the polarizing viewpoints.
I read contentedly for about five minutes until I sense someone’s eyes on me. I glance up to meet the gaze of another passenger. A small, wiry woman sits across from me in some sort of yoga pose that I’m sure has a lyrical name but I only know as “Indian-style.” The cut of her short, dark hair shows off jug ears and pale skin. Her natural-hewn brown sweater is bristly and appears to be in need of a shave. Big, googly sunglasses complete her ensemble, and her visage is disturbingly simian. This bothers me because it means even chimpanzees are more capable of riding the bus than I am.
I notice her long, skinny limbs are all tucked inside of themselves and the overall effect is that of a monkey in a straitjacket. I continue to read and snicker to myself. Oh, Ann, you’re just evil sometimes. With your mean streak, I don’t see why we aren’t already best friends. We should have a slumber party—we could crank call Hillary Clinton and send a bunch of pizzas to Dianne Feinstein! Then we could TP Ted Kennedy’s house and egg John Kerry’s car before braiding each other’s hair while we watch America’s Next Top Model . I smile and nod at Ann’s acerbic commentary.
The Monkey Woman clears her throat.
I continue to read and punctuate the silence of the bus with an occasional guffaw. Me-ow, Miss Thing! I am so sitting next to you if I’m ever invited to a big Republican fund-raiser.
The Monkey Woman clears her throat again, louder this time.
This? Right here? Is another reason I loathe the bus. I hate having to speak to perfect strangers in such close confines. I mean, no one on the bus ever wants to discuss interesting stuff, like the best way to get your pit bull to stop peeing on the rug in the hallway, or my hair. Either they’re compelled to sell you something you don’t want or to chat about your one-way ticket to hell because even though you’ve been
Bridget Jones –l evel good.
Pay $21.90 in overdue fines because online renewal system apparently doesn’t work.
Head back to train entrance.
Dodge yet another giant ice projectile.
Decide “screw it” and hail taxi. Spend another $9 to get home. Husband spots self exiting taxi and mocks mercilessly.
Total cost of the library excursion?
$40.90, 10 two hours, and a portion of my sanity.
So taking the train to my temp job is pretty much out of the question. I’d love to drive but spending $24 on parking downtown is three times more wrong than taking a cab, so the bus it is.
I’m at the stop waiting to go to said temp assignment when the number 56 arrives exactly when it’s supposed to be here . Not only does the bus get here on time and without incident, I actually find an open seat. Huzzah! The heavens are shining down upon me! For today I shall be the one who thrusts my head into someone else’s crotch accidentally when the driver brakes hard for no reason! It will be me who curls my lip in disgust when the embarrassed straphanger makes a joke about tucking dollar bills! I claim this twelve-inch-wide carpeted-plastic throne in the name of Jen!
Delighting in the luxury, I open my canvas tote and root around in it, digging past my lunch, purse, extra panty hose, hand lotion, four shades of pink-brown lipstick, and umbrella until I find my book. I feel the familiar glossy cover and I whip out Slander by Ann Coulter.
I know, I know…few authors incite the kind of passion 11 she does, but I enjoy her writing even though her politics can be too hard-core for…well…anyone. (When I gave my friends Angie, Jen, Carol, and Wendy a tour of my apartment, they made one collective gasp when they saw the book on Fletch’s nightstand. To their credit, they had lunch with me anyway.) But with hair that good I figure Ann’s got to be doing something right. 12 Anyway, as I am all about the fair and balanced, I plan to pick up Al Franken’s newest soon, because I honestly believe the truth is somewhere in the middle of all the polarizing viewpoints.
I read contentedly for about five minutes until I sense someone’s eyes on me. I glance up to meet the gaze of another passenger. A small, wiry woman sits across from me in some sort of yoga pose that I’m sure has a lyrical name but I only know as “Indian-style.” The cut of her short, dark hair shows off jug ears and pale skin. Her natural-hewn brown sweater is bristly and appears to be in need of a shave. Big, googly sunglasses complete her ensemble, and her visage is disturbingly simian. This bothers me because it means even chimpanzees are more capable of riding the bus than I am.
I notice her long, skinny limbs are all tucked inside of themselves and the overall effect is that of a monkey in a straitjacket. I continue to read and snicker to myself. Oh, Ann, you’re just evil sometimes. With your mean streak, I don’t see why we aren’t already best friends. We should have a slumber party—we could crank call Hillary Clinton and send a bunch of pizzas to Dianne Feinstein! Then we could TP Ted Kennedy’s house and egg John Kerry’s car before braiding each other’s hair while we watch America’s Next Top Model . I smile and nod at Ann’s acerbic commentary.
The Monkey Woman clears her throat.
I continue to read and punctuate the silence of the bus with an occasional guffaw. Me-ow, Miss Thing! I am so sitting next to you if I’m ever invited to a big Republican fund-raiser.
The Monkey Woman clears her throat again, louder this time.
This? Right here? Is another reason I loathe the bus. I hate having to speak to perfect strangers in such close confines. I mean, no one on the bus ever wants to discuss interesting stuff, like the best way to get your pit bull to stop peeing on the rug in the hallway, or my hair. Either they’re compelled to sell you something you don’t want or to chat about your one-way ticket to hell because even though you’ve been
Similar Books
