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Informationen zum Autor Jen Lancaster is the author of Bitter is the New Black . She has lived in Chicago for ten years with her husband and pets, and has yet to get the hang of the subway or returning library books in a timely manner. Visit www.jennsylvania.com Klappentext Jen Lancaster hates to burst your happy little bubble, but life in the big city isn't all it's cracked up to be. Contrary to what you see on TV and in the movies, most urbanites aren't party-hopping in slinky dresses and strappy stilettos. But lucky for us, Lancaster knows how to make the life of the lower crust mercilessly funny and infinitely entertaining. Whether she's reporting rude neighbors to Homeland Security, harboring a crush on her grocery store clerk, or fighting-and losing-the Battle of the Stairmaster- Lancaster explores how silly, strange, and not-so-fabulous real city living can be. And if anyone doesn't like it, they can kiss her big, fat, pink, puffy down parka.In my former, auspicious career I addressed crowds ofthousands without breaking a sweat. I negotiated withdour, gray-suited hospital administrators so hostilethey’d drag me into the desert and leave me for dead given theopportunity, yet I stood my ground in demanding they acceptmy company’s contract, “Or else.” And I’ve guided corporateexecutives through the most dire of crises with a smile on myface the entire time. So you’d think chatting with a kindlymedical professional in the privacy of her office wouldn’t bebut a blip on my radar. And that would be true. If I were wearing pants. Today I’ve got an appointment with the girlie doctor andI’m nothing less than terrified. I’ve put off my annual wellwomanexam for four years because I’m so cowardly aboutthis sort of thing, no doubt stemming from my Quaker-likesense of modesty. Sure, it’s all well and good to litter myconversations with every variety of f-bomb, but when itcomes to showing my unmentionables to a complete stranger?Regardless of her impeccable medical education, extensiveexperience, and board certification? I think not. However, I’m really trying to act more like an adult lately, so I force myself to make the appointment. Of course, I haveto down a whole bottle3 of wine to do so. And then I cancel itthree times before Fletch, disgusted by my lack of courage,threatens to (a) drag me to the appointment on a leash like wehave to when we take Loki to the vet to have his nails clipped,and (b) check me into the Betty Ford Center if I don’t stop inhalingboxed wine every time I look at the phone. I have to honor the appointment this time and the onlyway that’s going to happen is if there’s an elaborate system oftreats and rewards in place. I decide my beforehand treat willbe a trip to the bookstore, so I ask Fletch to drop me off at theMichigan Ave Borders an hour before my appointment. We’ve just gotten in the car when I start to hyperventilate. “Funny, but Loki doesn’t start to panic until after we’veexited our parking lot,” Fletch observes. “You need to breathein a paper bag or something?” “No.” Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. “I’ll (gasp) be (gasp) fine,” Ireply. “I don’t understand your anxiety. Are they going to cutyou at all?” “Oh, sweet Jesus, no!” I shriek.“Then they’re just going to look at stuff?” Gasp. “Right.” “Alone, in an exam room—just you and the doctor, and noone else, right?” We cross the bridge over the north branch ofthe river at Division and begin to drive past the projects. “Yes.” Gasp. He glances at the boarded-up buildings with their brokenwindows and concertina wire and poses a question. “Okay,which would you rather—to be dropped off in the middle ofCabrini Green at midnight with a handful of cash or to seeyour gynecologist for a routine visit?” I don’t even have to consider the choice. “The Green.Definitely the Green.” He turns to face me. “You’re kidding.” “No, really—maybe Florida and J.J. still live there? AndThelma and R...
