"No Deposit, No Return? Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo? The Apple Dumpling Gang?"

"Never saw it, never saw it, never saw it."

"What the h.e.l.l? Did you not touch down on this planet until the eighties or something? How did you have a childhood without having seen these film cla.s.sics?"

"My family never went to the movies. Oh, wait, that's not true. My psychotic sister took me to see The Bad News Bears once. Instead of helping me practice pitching, catching, or hitting, she thought this movie would improve my Pee Wee baseball skills. And before you ask-no, it didn't."

I gawp at him in the blue glow cast by the parking lot's sodium lights and I shake my head. "Worst. Childhood. Ever." Although I could debate the brilliance of Don Knotts all night, I decide to let this topic slide. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that the Incredible Mr. Limpet provided and then questions the manner in which he provided it.4 Instead, I start lifting bags in the hatch to see which weigh the least, gravitating toward those containing paper towels. "Anyway, sweetie, I've got these here, so maybe you can haul in the kitty litter?"

"Yeah, I've got it," he replies, gingerly hoisting a giant bag of sweetly scented clay onto his shoulder. "Do you need me to-oh my G.o.d!!"

Fletch immediately drops his bag of cat litter, runs to the front of the complex, punches the electronic gate's code, and hurls the door open, at which point I see the orange of his polar fleece jacket dissolve into the darkness as he dashes down the street.

How very odd, I think. Fletch doesn't normally shriek like a scalded ape and run away in the middle of conversations about Don Knotts. Indeed, that is strange. I wonder why he did that? Yes, he's mentioned improving our commitment to physical fitness, but this very moment seems like an odd time to take up jogging.

I finish grabbing the light bags out of the back of the car and head down the sidewalk to our unit. Everyone's got their drapes closed so I can't do any spying, which is a darn shame.5 I unlock the door and am greeted far too enthusiastically by our dogs. Loki begins to howl and Maisy launches herself from the floor to up around my shoulders so she can lick my face. Yes, I understand they miss us when we leave, but we've only been gone forty-five minutes; there's no reason to throw us the canine version of a ticker-tape parade.

I pet them both, toss them a couple of big chewies, disperse cat treats, and begin to unpack. Our front hall closet spans almost the entire length of our first floor. Since we don't have twenty-five feet worth of coats to hang, Fletch got some lumber and turned half of the s.p.a.ce into a walk-in pantry, allowing us to buy and store bulk items. His handiwork is nothing short of California Closets worthy. I'm perpetually amazed at the kind of home-improvement stuff he can do, considering I come from a long line of people who consider b.u.t.ter knives and shoes to be tools. I admire the shelves once more and begin to stow tins of pet food and cleaning products in between all the boxes of cookies and bags of snack food.

Minutes later, Fletch has still not returned. How very, very peculiar, I think. Perhaps he's having an acid flashback from when he was a roadie for Jefferson Airplane at Woodstock?6 Or maybe the genetic insanity in his family has finally caught up with him? I knew he'd eventually go bat-s.h.i.t crazy, but I'd hoped for at least one more lucid decade.7 I wait another minute before going out to retrieve the cat litter and dog food cans myself. As I load up, I notice my husband8 running up and down the street, flailing his arms and gesturing wildly but silently, trying to get me to join him. I shake my head and sigh. Oh, honey. You're really not physically fit enough for this kind of crazy.

Once upon a time Fletch would have been fit enough to run up and down the street all night. When we met in college ten-plus years ago, he was a perfect V shape. His broad shoulders tapered down to an almost Scarlett O'Haralike twenty-nine-inch waist and his healthy eating habits and overall dietary discipline were beyond reproach; he certainly wasn't going to gorge himself at the Twelve Oaks barbecue. He was lean and lithe and used to brag about how his Army Reserve uniform looked as though it had been custom-tailored just for him.

And that was great.

Until I saw that he had a waterbed in his apartment.

Afraid that the first time I stayed there'd be a mortifying seesaw effect and I'd displace more water than he would because I was heavier, I started him on a clandestine weight-gaining program. I introduced him to a world of b.u.t.ter-drenched crab legs and prime rib with thick horseradish sauce and white chocolate raspberry mousse cake. I schooled him in the world of all things fried and con queso and taught him donuts aren't just for breakfast anymore. Shortly thereafter he began to fill out, and in the span of two years he went from a whippet-waisted 145 pounds to a much more huggable 215.9 (Unfortunately, I was so devoted to this program that I gained right along with him.) I catch another flash of orange dashing past me. Yep. He's certifiable. But now that Fletch has lost his mind, who am I going to banter with about cla.s.sic TV moments? Although we've been together ten years, we haven't even gotten to eighties programming yet. Magnum, PI, Miami Vice, Perfect Strangers, Joanie Loves Chachi-so many conversations left unsaid. I'm devastated we'll never have the chance to discuss Blair, Tootie, or Sheriff Lobo. With which Duke boy did he most identify? What was his favorite catchphrase from The A-Team? I guess I'll never know.

I return to the house, set down the cat litter, and contemplate what my life is going to be like now that I'm single. Chances are good I'm not going to find another "I love you just the way you are" kind of guy. I survey myself in the mirror by the front door. After a quick and brutally honest a.s.sessment, I determine I'm not nice enough to attract a man based on my personality. Sure I'm still relatively cute now with my decent tan and good haircut, but I'm going to have to lose weight if I ever want to find someone who'll carry the heavy bags again. I mean, look at all the famous b.i.t.c.hes in history-Leona Helmsley, Joan Crawford, Joan Rivers, Alexis Carrington, Cruella DeVille-not a porker in the bunch and they all managed to land a man, despite their acid wits.10 I gaze longingly at the brand-new box of Hostess CupCakes on the counter. Tears well in my eyes as I place their chocolate-coated, cream-filled goodness in the garbage can. Au revoir, my sweet. The Hershey's Symphony bar meets a similar fate. I'll miss you and your bonus toffee-flavored chips. A quick scan of the fridge reveals a whole wedge of Brie en croute, heavy cream, and leftover kung pao chicken, all which must go. Good-bye, old friends. My life will be less rich without you in it. But I simply can't carry the groceries by myself.

I'm on the Internet researching the dating sites that only show photos from the neck up when Fletch finally huffs into the house. He stands doubled over, hands on his thighs, and attempts to catch his breath. The sweat from his brow drips all over the hardwood.11 He points toward the street and attempts to speak. "Coyote...coyote...coyote out there...puffy tail...black glowing eyes!!"

"I have no idea what you're trying to tell me," I reply.

He takes a couple more deep breaths and straightens up, saying, "I just saw a coyote! On the street! I chased after it but it was too fast for me. I couldn't catch up to it."

I decide to humor him because I can't be sure if this brand of crazy comes with or without a side of violence. "Of course you did, sweetie! Chicago is well known for coyotes, especially within walking distance of the Sears Tower. You know, our forefathers had a h.e.l.l of a time deciding whether to nickname Chicago 'the Windy City' or 'the Coyote City.' They eventually had to toss a coin." Hmm, do they still make ephedrine-based diet pills? And what about those meds they pulled off the market? What were they called, Phen-Fen? Redux? Yeah, they gave people holes in their hearts, but wasn't the weight loss pretty significant, too?

He exclaims, "I'm not kidding! He went to the bathroom right out in the middle of the street."

"Really, I'm sure he did. But I wonder what brought him to River West? I thought coyotes preferred Bucktown."12 Maybe I should start power walking the dogs? Except it looks so goofy that I'm not sure I could do it with a straight face. Power walkers all hustle around like they've got a load in their shorts. I can't look at them without cracking up. Although, isn't laughter supposed to tone your abs?

"Wait, don't you believe me?" he asks.

"Um, honey? The coyote didn't mention anything about having you burn things, right? Because that would be wrong," I tell him gently. Salads don't count as low-calorie if you drown them in cheese and ranch dressing, do they?

Flabbergasted, Fletch takes a step back. "You think I'm making this up."

"No, sweetie. I don't think you're making this up. I think you've lost your f.u.c.king mind. Do you understand the difference?" How about doing Tae Bo? I imagine I'd excel at anything where punching and kicking was involved. And we do have that nice lake here in town. (Some might even call it "great.") What if I were to propel myself around it in some manner, perhaps on a bike or Rollerblades, rather than just eating fried chicken and salt-and-vinegar chips while I sit baking in a lawn chair next to it?

"Come outside and see where he went to the bathroom-then you'll believe me."

Grudgingly, I follow him to the door, grabbing the only weapon within reach on my way out-the broom I used a couple of hours ago to sweep the patio, back in the good old days when my husband hadn't yet gone all rubber room and white strappy jacket on me. We wind down the walkway, out the front gate, and into the street.

"See?" he crows. "There! It's right there." He points to a pile of what's obviously dog p.o.o.p.

I poke at the pile of scat with the tip of my broom. "Yep. No doubt about it. That sure looks like coyote dookie to me." I nod gravely.

"Holy s.h.i.t, there he is again!" Fletch bolts down the street, leaving me alone again.

So what do people wear on dates nowadays? I wonder. Last time I was on the market it was little jeans and big hair.13 And do people even say stuff like "nowadays" anymore? Am I going to have to buy thongs?14 Or be all s.l.u.tty like the s.e.x and the City women? (Way to set a precedent, you dirty girls.) And learn to dance? The Macarena-that's still popular with the kids, yes?

I'm trying to figure out where my arms should go when I get to the part about the boy named Nicorino when my new next-door neighbor Holly strolls up with her dog.

"Hey, Jen. What's up? Why are you standing in the street? And are you-are you doing the Macarena?" Holly asks.

"Um, no. No! Heh, heh. Don't be silly. Why would I be doing the Macarena? Heh." I giggle nervously. So busted. "I'm standing out here because Fletch has gone crazy Vegas-style."

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, we had a good run, but he's suddenly become unhinged so it's over. A shame, really. Now I'm going to have to lose a ton of weight if I ever want to talk to anyone about Fantasy Island again."

"Hmm, I guess you've got to do what you've got to do. But might I ask what happened? He seemed sane earlier when he was watering your plants. I'd hate for you to spend all that time on the StairMaster if he's not really lost his mind."

"He thinks he's out here, um, this is insane, um, chasing a coyote." I burst into nervous, husband-committing laughter.

I expect Holly to concur with my diagnosis and help me find a nice inst.i.tution and a sensible but satisfying diet plan that includes chocolate at least a couple days a week. And real b.u.t.ter-not that yellow cardboard-paste stuff. Instead, she replies, "I saw one earlier, too. There's a couple of them over by where they're tearing down the factory next to the north branch of the river."

"No way." Surely she can't be telling me the truth. (But if so, I have a whole trash can full of cupcakes to rescue.) "Seriously, Jen, the coyotes follow the path of the water and they come down here looking for food."

"But why would they come to Chicago? The shows? The shopping? I've got to tell you, I've yet to see one at Bloomingdale's," I respond knowingly. I imagine if the coyotes did hit Bloomie's, they'd go for the sheepskin stuff first.

"As we encroach on the wilderness, wild animals are forced into increasingly urban areas. It's really sad."

Oh.

So the coyotes leave their habitat because they're hungry. Having gone to the Cub Foods in the 'hood more than once at twelve thirty a.m. simply to buy their house-brand big, yummy m.u.f.fins, I totally get it. Yet I suddenly feel sorry these wild creatures have been driven from their woods and meadows in search of nourishment, only to be stalked down Racine Avenue by a porky phone-company executive in a bright orange fleece pullover.

The good news is Fletch isn't crazy.

I'm still increasing his meds, though, because I really hate doing sit-ups and I haven't the strength to school a new guy on the genius of Don Knotts.

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: [email protected] Subject: pieces of me Four hours and $256.00 later, I now have Ashlee Simpson's exact hairstyle.

f.u.c.k.

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: Subject: trout pout Shalom, ladies!

So, I never quite understood the allure of injecting collagen in one's lips...

...until I went to Sephora.

While Fletch perused the men's section for upscale shaving gel, I amused myself at the "lip plumping station." (I know, it totally sounds dirty.) I brushed a variety of potions with clever names like Pout and Plump and Lipscription on my hand...and nothing happened.

I wasn't surprised because I didn't believe for one minute they'd actually do anything. If I've learned anything about cosmetics, it's that manufacturers lie. Nothing will eliminate your wrinkles or eradicate your pores, yet the industry thrives on these beauty myths. The best you can hope for is decent camouflage. So I knew the lip stuff was a farce.

Bored with the display, I worked my way through the shampoos and on to the perfume wall. While examining an incredibly phallic-looking bottle of Jessica Simpson's Dessert Treats fragrance, I realized my left hand hurt. Had I b.u.mped into something? Glancing down to see my distended digits, I briefly wondered when I'd shut my hand in a car door.

And then it hit me-that's where I'd applied the Too Faced Lip Injection.

Oh, my G.o.d, this s.h.i.t actually works!

I pushed through a pack of tourists from Cleveland while rushing to the register to purchase my prize. Out of the way, you slack-jawed yokels...Baby needs a new beak!

Promising Fletch I'd meet him at Nordstrom in fifteen minutes, I dashed off to the ladies' room to apply my miracle potion. I smoothed on the glossy substance with care and gazed at my reflection, waiting for magic to happen.

Waiting...

...waiting...

...and waiting...for nothing.

Perhaps the capsic.u.m in Lip Injection only worked on the skin of my hand? d.a.m.n it, that meant I'd just wasted $16.50. I waited a bit more and finally trudged defeated to Nordstrom's entrance.

A couple of minutes later, Fletch appeared. As he approached, I noticed an odd look on his face. He peered intensely at the area right above my chin. My hand flew to my mouth, where a change had magically taken place at some point between the bathroom mirror and the shoe department.

With a tentative touch, I prodded my newly lush lips...

...and they were glorious! Thick, pouty, and gorgeous! I felt like a movie star! Move over, Lara Flynn Boyle, there's a new sheriff in town! Step aside, Meg Ryan, for I laugh at your shriveled little pucker!

Grinning madly with my newly magnificent smile, I waited for Fletch to tell me how much prettier I'd become. As he inched nearer to me, I twitched with antic.i.p.ation, anxious to receive my oh-so-deserved kudos.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally stood before me. And leaning in to the point where we were almost touching, I could feel his soft breath on my face as he whispered those magical words...

"Did somebody just punch you in the mouth?"

Nice.

Jen P.S. Sephora has a liberal return policy.

My So-Called (Superficial) Life Fifteen years ago, I had an epiphany that deeply disturbed me. Really? It rocked me to my very core. However, because I was twenty-one years old, I had just enough self-awareness to understand that possibly every idea I had wasn't "epiphany" grade. I mean, did I really believe it was the Hand of the Divine that inspired me to combine cranberry juice and Southern Comfort? Or that the same Being who created our universe also led me to look on the sale rack where I discovered those low-waisted, boy-cut Forenza jeans that gave me tiny hips, a flat stomach, and the kind of exquisitely rounded b.u.t.t that inspired a thousand rap songs?1 As I wasn't fully confident in my own callow thought process, I decided to query the most responsible, respected, impartial source I could find-my own spiritual leader, if you will.

Heidi, my sorority's president, seemed to best fit this bill.

Heidi was helping me carry sorority rush materials from my car because I was on crutches at the time. (In an effort to show the entire Sigma Phi Epsilon house exactly how good my Forenza-clad booty looked walking away, I made my grand exit, thus forgetting to actually watch where I was going, and fell down a bunch of stairs, twisting my ankle-not really the impression with which I wanted to leave them.2) As we made our way to the Pi Phi common room, Heidi hauling our super-secret sorority rush tools-poster board and spools of burgundy and blue ribbon-I approached her with my dilemma.

"Heidi, do you think-oh, this is so silly, and I just know you're going to disagree-but, do think that I might be..." I paused to allow the gravity of my question to sink in, "...vapid? I know I talk a lot about my Forenza jeans and Beverly Hills, 90210 and how I want a job creating names for nail polish colors, but that doesn't make me shallow, right?"

It took Heidi a moment to stop choking on a Diet c.o.ke before she could answer. "Um, well, Jen, let's just say talking to you doesn't exactly require hip waders."

Ouch.

What made this opinion particularly painful was that Heidi once insisted our chapter vote on which shade of red she should dye her hair.

Anyway, ever since I had the epiphany of being shallow, I've fought against my natural propensity for the puerile and superficial. I changed my major from interior design to political science. I subscribed to the New Yorker. I actually talked to the grad students I met in campus bars instead of just laughing at their earnestness and flannel shirts.3 I dipped into cla.s.sics by Dostoyevsky, Steinbeck, and Hemingway for personal edification and not just cla.s.s a.s.signments. (And I actually read my cla.s.s a.s.signments and not just the CliffsNotes.) I actively sought out Ibsen's plays and Verdi's operas. In short, I tried to smarten up my life, and since then I have been more or less successful. So it was at the height of my de-stupid-ification that I met Fletch, and his first impression was that I was kind of deep because we had a profoundly philosophical talk the night of our first date. (In truth, I was so hungover I simply nodded at most of his complex notions because I was trying not to barf.) Fifteen years later, there are days when I wake up, watch the Sunday morning political shows, read three newspapers, and discuss Kierkegaard with Fletch over steamy demita.s.ses of espresso at a smart European coffeehouse.

But today is not one of those days.

With a mouth crammed full of Froot Loops, I try to engage Fletch in casual conversation about the new issue of Star magazine I'm reading while he's engrossed in a doc.u.mentary about the history of unconventional warfare.

"I'm concerned about Nick and Jessica," I begin.