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 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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baptized, you’re still doomed because you weren’t baptized in the Holy Name of the Evangelical Church of the Crazy Bus Zealots.
I look up and give her a quick half smile, which I hope communicates, “I’m grinning because I’d like to look friendly so you don’t grab a knife with the prehensile tail I’m sure is hidden under your shaggy shirt and stab me in the neck. But if neck-stabbing is not your intention, my countenance isn’t so welcoming it leads you to believe I want to buy your fund-raiser M&Ms or gab about your intense personal relationship with your lord Xenu, alien ruler of the Galactic Confederacy. 13 But, um, hey, thanks for thinking about me and how ’bout I just return to my book now?”
No dice. Monkey Woman doesn’t break eye contact. When she removes her sunglasses I note her small, dark, hooded eyes and sloping brow. She gestures toward the tome in my hand, declaring, “She’s a fascist.”
I focus on my book, replying only, “Mmmm.” I don’t think Ann’s a fascist as much as she’s someone who uses a lot of hyperbole to make a point. Yes, she’s at the far end of the Michael Moore–Joe Lieberman–Pat Buchanan political-leaning continuum, but I bet a lot of the incendiary stuff she writes is just to sell books. I’m sure when we have our slumber party she’ll be totally cool. Gosh, I hope she brings Mystery Date with her! We’ll set up our matching Snoopy sleeping bags by the fireplace and talk about fun stuff like potential boyfriends, 14 makeup, reality TV, whether or not our uptight old moms will ever let us shave our legs, and the ramifications of a flat tax. Then we’ll stuff ourselves silly with Cheetos and RingDings, freeze each other’s bras, and dance to my Jackson Five records until my daddy comes downstairs to tell us to stop squealing like Democrats and go to bed already.
“Everything she says is a lie.”
I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you. “Uh-huh,” I grunt, not lifting my gaze to meet hers.
“All she does is spread filthy lies and hate.”
Now I know for a fact this isn’t entirely true. It would be physically impossible for her to only spread lies and hate. Occasionally she’s got to hit the salon to get her roots done, and at least once a week she’s interviewed on Fox News because someone hurled a pie at her while she was giving a speech. 15 However, I don’t feel like arguing right now so I say, “Mmph.”
Monkey Woman grows agitated and begins to point at me with the kind of slender, tapered fingers that are perfect for picking nits out of those hard-to-reach places. “She lies ! It’s all lies ! Lies and hate! Why are you reading stupid lies ?”
This. Is. Getting. Old. Normally I’m all about a rousing political discussion, but only with people who I’m entirely sure won’t fling poo at me. So, I simply shrug disinterestedly.
Wrong move.
Monkey Woman begins to squawk, shriek, and gesture wildly. “When you read stupid lies, you turn into a stupid liar! A dumb, unintelligent liar with no brain cells !! You are stupid , stupid , stupid .” With bated breath, she leans forward on her haunches and waits for my reply.
One nice thing about being on a bus with a bunch of city dwellers is her shouting attracts the attention of no one. We’re so jaded that if we ran across a severed arm on the floor of this bus, we’d all simply step over it and debark. I look around and all I see are Yuppies enraptured by the Red Eye commuter newspaper or listening to music on tiny headphones. No one’s even batted an eye.
Note to self: Get iPod, like, immediately.
“You don’t say.” I close the book, carefully marking my place with my bus pass. There’s nothing I can do to convince her otherwise and the only way to win this bizarre little game is not to play.
Frustrated that I didn’t pitch my book out the window in a gesture of primate solidarity, she throws her paws up in disgust and turns away
I look up and give her a quick half smile, which I hope communicates, “I’m grinning because I’d like to look friendly so you don’t grab a knife with the prehensile tail I’m sure is hidden under your shaggy shirt and stab me in the neck. But if neck-stabbing is not your intention, my countenance isn’t so welcoming it leads you to believe I want to buy your fund-raiser M&Ms or gab about your intense personal relationship with your lord Xenu, alien ruler of the Galactic Confederacy. 13 But, um, hey, thanks for thinking about me and how ’bout I just return to my book now?”
No dice. Monkey Woman doesn’t break eye contact. When she removes her sunglasses I note her small, dark, hooded eyes and sloping brow. She gestures toward the tome in my hand, declaring, “She’s a fascist.”
I focus on my book, replying only, “Mmmm.” I don’t think Ann’s a fascist as much as she’s someone who uses a lot of hyperbole to make a point. Yes, she’s at the far end of the Michael Moore–Joe Lieberman–Pat Buchanan political-leaning continuum, but I bet a lot of the incendiary stuff she writes is just to sell books. I’m sure when we have our slumber party she’ll be totally cool. Gosh, I hope she brings Mystery Date with her! We’ll set up our matching Snoopy sleeping bags by the fireplace and talk about fun stuff like potential boyfriends, 14 makeup, reality TV, whether or not our uptight old moms will ever let us shave our legs, and the ramifications of a flat tax. Then we’ll stuff ourselves silly with Cheetos and RingDings, freeze each other’s bras, and dance to my Jackson Five records until my daddy comes downstairs to tell us to stop squealing like Democrats and go to bed already.
“Everything she says is a lie.”
I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you. “Uh-huh,” I grunt, not lifting my gaze to meet hers.
“All she does is spread filthy lies and hate.”
Now I know for a fact this isn’t entirely true. It would be physically impossible for her to only spread lies and hate. Occasionally she’s got to hit the salon to get her roots done, and at least once a week she’s interviewed on Fox News because someone hurled a pie at her while she was giving a speech. 15 However, I don’t feel like arguing right now so I say, “Mmph.”
Monkey Woman grows agitated and begins to point at me with the kind of slender, tapered fingers that are perfect for picking nits out of those hard-to-reach places. “She lies ! It’s all lies ! Lies and hate! Why are you reading stupid lies ?”
This. Is. Getting. Old. Normally I’m all about a rousing political discussion, but only with people who I’m entirely sure won’t fling poo at me. So, I simply shrug disinterestedly.
Wrong move.
Monkey Woman begins to squawk, shriek, and gesture wildly. “When you read stupid lies, you turn into a stupid liar! A dumb, unintelligent liar with no brain cells !! You are stupid , stupid , stupid .” With bated breath, she leans forward on her haunches and waits for my reply.
One nice thing about being on a bus with a bunch of city dwellers is her shouting attracts the attention of no one. We’re so jaded that if we ran across a severed arm on the floor of this bus, we’d all simply step over it and debark. I look around and all I see are Yuppies enraptured by the Red Eye commuter newspaper or listening to music on tiny headphones. No one’s even batted an eye.
Note to self: Get iPod, like, immediately.
“You don’t say.” I close the book, carefully marking my place with my bus pass. There’s nothing I can do to convince her otherwise and the only way to win this bizarre little game is not to play.
Frustrated that I didn’t pitch my book out the window in a gesture of primate solidarity, she throws her paws up in disgust and turns away
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