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 (22 page)

Gina might not be so keen on, say, physically wrapping a body
in a rug with me, either. I mean, she would, but she’s busy running her empire during business hours. At any point in time, Gina’s doing work for six clients, armed with no less than three cell phones, two laptops, a personal Wi-Fi hot spot, and a power strip. However, she’d be unbelievably helpful in negotiating with the owner of the place where we’d dump the body, in supporting my decision to have offed the body in the first place, and in finding an even better rug afterward, because she knew how well it tied the room together.

As for Tracey, she’s the kind of person who’d check if I also required assistance with the stabbing/shooting/poisoning to create the body needing moving in the first place.

My friends are the best.

I hook up with these three gals every week for lunch in the city, even though I live thirty miles away now. I’ve never left a date with the 2-Live Lunch Crew without a throat sore from laughing. My favorite lunches ever were back when Tracey dipped her toe into the online dating pool. For two blissful months until she got too creeped out, Tracey reigned over lunch with the funniest stories.

“Check this one out,” she said one day last spring. She pulled up a photograph of an elderly suitor on her iPhone. “Got this through
Chemistry.com
. Says he’s thirty-seven.”

Gina barked with laughter before passing the phone. “I’m sure he
was
thirty-seven… thirty-seven years ago when this was taken.”

Stacey inspected it next. “No, he’s not thirty-seven. He’s clearly dyslexic. What he meant to say was that he’s seventy-three.”

I studied the photo when it was my turn. “Did any of you notice that he looks exactly like Ronald Reagan?” And then none of us could eat our breakfast burritos because we couldn’t stop
pinging Tracey with one-liners about winning one for the Gipper. It was beautiful. [
More of Tracey’s (barely fictionalized) dating adventures can be found in
Off the Menu
, by Stacey Ballis, in stores July 2012!
]

I didn’t meet any of these gals until I was in my late thirties, so anyone who says it’s impossible to make friends after college is dead wrong. The fact that they aren’t old friends has no bearing on the quality of those friendships. Maybe the four of us don’t have twenty years of shared history, but we will fifteen years from now.

Although I’m generally loath to hold up
Sex and the City
as a good example, the show was a testament to women’s relationships with each other. If Carrie didn’t have Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha, would she even have been Carrie at all?

I feel like I’m a better me—quicker, funnier, more trusting—having these women in my life. I don’t care how happily married you are or how deeply enmeshed you are with your children and family and career—every woman needs a couple of chicks who’ll break out the sangria just because you need to vent. If you’re hesitant to put yourself out there by being open to meeting new girlfriends, please take the risk because it’s worth it.

Anyway, because Tracey is who she is, I knew she’d participate in my latest scheme. When I got to lunch last week—and after everyone politely entertained my usual five-minute rant on why every driver on the road (except for me) is stupid—I said, “I have two words for you that are going to change your life:
Banana Derby
.”

“Do I want to know?” Gina asked.

“I do
not
want to know,” Stacey stated.

All Tracey said was, “I’m in.”

How awesome is she?

For some quick background, I make it a habit to scan the local online newspaper because it’s always filled with gems like
“Lake Bluff Family Gains Approval to Raise Backyard Fence”
[
Quite a story, but I’ll probably wait for the movie.
]
and “County Questions Mental Health of Man Who Exposed Himself at Walker Brothers Pancake House”
[
Listen, that shit may fly at Denny’s but NOT at Walker Brothers.
] and
“Lake Forest Shakes off Federal Credit Downgrade Worries.”
[
Bless their denial-loving hearts.
] Recently they posted the article
“Two Dead after Tollway Driver Goes Wrong Way”
underneath a picture of a little girl riding an alligator, which garnered a number of complaints. (Actually, I was glad to see that I wasn’t the only asshole who felt bad about inadvertently laughing at the juxtaposition.)

Anyway, I read about how the Lake County Fair was starting soon and that surprised me. I didn’t realize I lived in the kind of rural area where county fairs existed. There are farms up here? I mean, within five square miles of my house, there’s a Saks Fifth Ave store, two Williams-Sonomas, ten Starbucks, and a Maserati dealership. But farms? Who knew? [
I guess it stands to reason that the guys at the Farmers’ Market on the square come from somewhere, though.
]

The county fair was an institution when I lived in Indiana. All year long my classmates in 4-H would prep their livestock to show. I remember being astounded at prices their animals fetched at auction; I’m talking thousands of dollars for a prize steer or sow. For months before the fair, kids toiled away on their art and sewing projects and I vaguely recall someone talking about mixing seeds to create a new corn hybrid.

Honestly? I didn’t get it.

Before we moved to Indiana, I lived in urban areas. I grew up going to museums and theme parks, so I thought I was far too cool to slum around some stupid barn full of hand-stitched apron displays and of pies you couldn’t eat. Plus carnies manning death traps masquerading as Ferris wheels and Tilt-A-Whirls?

Thank you, no.

Okay, fine, I still went because what else is there to do in Huntington, Indiana?

But grudgingly. Oh, so grudgingly.

What I’m noticing is the more time passes, the more I appreciate anything nostalgic even if I hated said bit of memorabilia at the time. Like a few weeks ago when I was cruising around in Fletch’s car, windows down and sunroof open, collar popped, and Def Leppard came on satellite radio. I immediately cranked it up. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, my first thought was…
If it were still 1983, I would be the coolest person ever
. Then my second thought was…
Since when do I like “Pour Some Sugar on Me”?

The befuddled excitement over Def Leppard was exactly how I felt at the thought of attending the fair, so I pulled up their Web site for more information. Back in the day, I equated the hours random high school boyfriends spent dragging me around the stinking, dusty fairgrounds with visiting the dentist. [
FYI, guys? This is why I didn’t put out.
] Painful, but necessary. But now? I saw the potential for camp and kitsch all over it, so I was intrigued.

And when I read about the Banana Derby? Sold!

“What’s a Banana Derby?” Gina prompted.

“Picture this, if you will,” I said. “Imagine a couple of capuchin monkeys, all dressed up in colorful jockey silks. Now imagine dogs wearing saddles. Put the monkeys on the dogs and have them race each other around a small track. Bingo! Banana Derby! Monkeys! In costume! Racing dogs! Believe it! Now which of you naysayers other than Tracey is in for the ride of your lives?”

“I have to work that day,” Gina said.

“I’m out of town,” Stacey added.

“You don’t even know when it is yet!” I protested while they had the courtesy to at least appear sheepish.

“Jen, if these two don’t want to have a good time, then we don’t need them,” Tracey said. She and I made plans to meet up while our fun-hating friends talked amongst themselves.

It’s a week later and Tracey, Fletch, and I have just arrived at the fair. We pay our entrance fee and the second we walk in the gates, we’re overwhelmed by the smell of fair food.

Oh, fair food.

I forgot about fair food.

Everywhere we look, there are lurid neon booths selling the kinds of magical concoctions that can be crafted only by a carnie’s skilled hands. I’m instantly torn between every single vendor’s siren song and I can’t figure out what I want to stuff in my mouth first. [
This must be how every red-blooded American frat guy feels when set loose in Amsterdam’s Red Light District for the first time.
]

I practically salivate as we pass the vendor boasting roasted pork chops on a stick.

Food on a stick!

Yes! Genius!

Everyone knows that anything can be made better by placing
it on a stick. I mean, pork chops: lovely on their own, but served on a skewer? Whoa!

An apple? Meh, okay, I guess.

An apple covered with a nonnutritive sugar varnish and presented on a tiny wooden stake? Heck, yeah!

Corn on the cob? Very nice, thank you.

Corn on the cob, dunked in a vat of butter and slapped on a stick? OH, SWEET BABY RAY, YES!

While we scurry to the Banana Derby (post time is at one p.m. sharp) I make mental note of my dining choices. I go all Mr. Microphone commercial on the vendors—
“Hey, good-lookin’, we’ll be back to pick you up later!”
[
In retrospect, does that portion of the commercial seem a bit date-rape-y to anyone else?
]

We’re running a little late because the fair’s physical address is different from what was posted online, because, yes, I imagine anyone who pulls up the Web site does so because they plan to send the Lake County Fair a letter and not, you know, visit, so it makes sense to bold the mailing address in lieu of the address needed for GPS navigation. Argh. We found this out when we first arrived at a small roadside fruit stand and Fletch commented, “I thought the fair would be bigger.”

Anyway, I’m distracted by all the choices while we dash to the track. In my peripheral vision, I spy lemon shake-ups and elephant ears and cheese curds! Pizza and burgers and barbecue! Cotton candy! Snow cones!! Popcorn and soft-serve and funnel cakes! This spawns a rather heated discussion about the difference between funnel cakes and elephant ears. Turns out I’m Team Elephant Ear, while Fletch is firmly Team Funnel Cake. We vow to buy both and
make Tracey our tiebreaker and I may or may not pledge to eat my way across the fairgrounds à la the rat in
Charlotte’s Web
.

We arrive at the Derby and the stands are already full with spectators, so we find a wide-open spot next to the track. Almost immediately a family of vaguely thuggish rednecks muscle their way in front of us, despite there being a ton of standing room all around us. The group seems somewhat indifferent to the concept of personal space (or personal hygiene) and they sport matching tattoos of a wrongfully imprisoned family member on their forearms. [
Because neck tattoos are for baby names. Duh.
] We determine the matriarch of the group is the gal with the homemade dollar sign inked behind her ear.

The clan’s clad in matching West Coast Chopper gear and I count sixteen different earrings on the lot of them, none of which is located in the actual lobe. However, they’re all shorter than your average Homo sapien so we can see over them just fine.

Also, I’d be hesitant to start shit with them because, frankly, they look like biters.

I silently mock them for a good five minutes until I start to feel bad about it. Given the fact that out of anywhere in the world I could be right now, I’ve chosen to be in the exact same spot as these folks speaks more to my own lack of judgment than anything else. Plus, none of them have a pink ribbon tied around their ponytails. I probably qualify for an ass-kicking for that alone.

While I try to peaceably coexist, the first act begins. We watch a trained dog doing almost every imaginable trick while standing on his hind legs. The pup gets a ton of “attaboys” and a million Snausages and I’m pleased to see he’s being positively reinforced. [
Before we came, I did a check to make sure the show didn’t have any history of animal cruelty.
]

After the opener, two big dogs come bounding out, astride by teeny monkeys in racing breeches gripping the dogs’ bridles, which is quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. As they parade around the track, the monkeys look like they’re having the time of their lives. I turn to Fletch and say, “They’re available for private parties. If you don’t hire me some Banana Derby for my next book party, you’re dead to me.”

Then the race begins and the dogs tear around the track twice while Tracey and I shout ourselves hoarse cheering them on. The monkeys’ tiny faces are wreathed in joy, with wide eyes and big openmouthed smiles. To look at them, you’d think they were born to ride dogs. In my research I learned they were trained as helper monkeys but flunked out of the program. How one makes the logical jump from helper monkey to dog rodeo is anyone’s guess, but they seem genuinely happy to be doing what they’re doing. Serendipity, I guess. If life hands you tiny saddles, make dog-horses.

After the race, fans can have their picture with the monkey for ten dollars and I’m shocked that no one stampedes the booth. Other than the Manson family in front of us, we’re the only takers.

“This is going to be the greatest ten dollars I ever spent,” I declare. Tracey opts out, so it’s just the two of us. While we wait our turn, we watch the Manson family have their portrait taken. As they pose with the monkey, I can’t help but notice the similarities.

Fletch grimaces and leans into us. “You said this is going on our Christmas card? Well,
that
picture is going over their mantel.”

When it’s our turn, one of the Russian girls helping the handler tells us to
“make nice pose wis monkey”
and we attempt to place him on our lap. But the monkey doesn’t want to make nice pose wis us; he wants to go home with us. He keeps climbing up Fletch’s
arm, hugging his neck, and gazing into Fletch’s eyes as if to say, “You have dogs and I have a saddle—we can make this work.”

We’re sad to leave the monkeys, but there’s so much more fair to be seen and tasted. But as we walk away, I notice raised red bumps on all the places the monkey touched me and give myself a vigorous scratching.

Fletch coolly appraises me. “And
that’s
where Ebola comes from.”