My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [52]
“Why are you insisting we go today? I mean right now you’re . . . wow. I think the kids call it ‘tore up.’ You really want to be outside like this?”
“Of course!” I’m completely emphatic.
“But why? ” he beseeches. “You don’t get the mail before you put on your makeup. You look like you’ve gone three rounds with Mike Tyson, so what’s up?” Maisy’s been particularly concerned about me this week and I have to keep dodging her tongue. I guess she’s noticed that I’m all banged up and would like to heal me.
“Simple,” I declare. “It’s all part of my car-buying strategy. When the salesman sees my face, I’ll say, ‘Oh, please, sir, give me a good deal or my husband will beat me again!’ ”
“Excellent call,” Fletch dubiously agrees. “That can’t not work.”
“Exactly.”
While he heads off to take a shower, I try to decide what kind of sandwich I’m going to eat in my new car first.
I think maybe turkey.
You know what?
I should never be allowed to talk, ever. I should get surgical tape to slap over my mouth every time I leave the house. The second I opened my bruised cake hole at the dealership, I’m pretty sure I added ten percent to the price.105
According to my husband, Donald Trump, it’s poor negotiating strategy to squeal, “I love it so much that I’ll do anything in my power to possess it!” when out for a test drive.
But come on—there’s a refrigerated compartment in the console. I could keep cold sandwiches in there all the time.
How do I not get excited about that?
“You have fun at the museum?”
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed while Fletch changes out of his work clothes. “Sort of. I had trouble with the car.”
“What happened?”
What happened is I picked a vehicle because it had a refrigerated compartment, which I haven’t even used because what sane person drives around with a bunch of sandwiches in her glove compartment? Also, the new car’s way bigger than the old one, and I keep getting it stuck in places because I continue to underestimate its size. Today I got wedged in the wrong way in the parking garage and had to make a sixteen-point turn to get out. Then, once I finally made it onto the street, a bus stalled in front of me, and I got trapped in the middle of the crosswalk at the commuter train station. At rush hour. For five full lights. I can’t even begin to count how many people shouted at me. The crowds’ consensus was “moron,” although “asshole” made a strong showing as well.
“The usual,” I sigh. He nods; he’s ridden with me.
“As for the Art Institute . . . I was surprised at what I did and didn’t enjoy.” As part of my project, I’ve been hitting all the local museums. I’ve been to most of them before—the Field Museum, Museum of Science and Industry, Adler Planetarium, Museum of Contemporary Art, et cetera. However, I’ve never set foot past the gift shop in the Art Institute of Chicago until today. “I thought I’d be completely gaga for the Impressionist stuff, but I’ll be damned if Cher Horowitz wasn’t right. Up close, they’re a big old mess.”
Granted, there’s something a little amazing about being able to put my face thisclose to the actual pieces of canvas that van Gogh and Monet and Gauguin touched. But in the end, the pictures weren’t what caught my attention. Instead, I marveled at seeing the texture of the paints and the imprints left from the brushes they used. That’s a moment frozen in time forever. Had the decrepit old security guy not gotten all shout-y with me, I could have stared at the up-close detail all day. Given time, would I have spotted stray fibers or specks of dust or maybe even one of the artist’s hairs affixed for eternity?
I read each of the little placards under the paintings, so I’ve pieced together a vague understanding of why the Impressionist movement set the art world on its