Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (ebook reader ink .TXT) 📗

Instead, I take the brush back to the bathroom while Libby trots along beside me. Then I point to the brush and tell her, “Leave it!”

What I don’t mention is that Mama’s probably going to need this later.

Panang Thai Curry seems innocuous enough because it’s mostly coconut milk and there’s barely any chili powder in it. Plus, it’s indescribably delicious because of the basil and red pepper, with a hint of lime. The addition of fish sauce sounds grotesque, but that’s what gives it such depth of flavor.

The first time I ate it I tried to use a fork and I dripped it all over the place, which is one of the reasons we [Read: Fletch.] instituted the We Eat Upstairs Only on Delivery Night rule. Also, when I finished I was covered in broth. Fletch said I looked liked I’d been through a curry car wash.

I ordered the dish because it sounded like a little adventure for my mouth. Plus I could secretly congratulate myself for moving so far away from the cheeseburger-and-orange-soda comfort zone of my youth. Through college and my early professional years, I didn’t have the budget to improve my palate and enjoyed many, many presweetened-cereal-based meals. But after almost passing out in Target after yet another blood sugar spike, I had to accept that there’s more to life than empty carbs.

Also, I’ve talked enough smack about the employees at the Elston Target and it’s not in my best interest to be unconscious around them.

Almost as soon as I discovered a deep and abiding love for Panang Thai Curry, I discovered that I can’t digest it. Maybe I don’t have a tolerance for so much spice or it may be that I ruined my colon from years and years of running Artificial Red Dye #7 through it. Regardless, I need to cease and desist with the Panang Thai Curry because I’m murdering myself from the inside out.

And yet I can’t stop myself from stuffing it in my mouth, much like Libby can’t help but chew up my cordless mouse every time I accidentally leave my office door open.

It’s a problem.

For both of us.

Panang Thai Curry chooses you last for kickball.

Panang Thai Curry asks you to sit with her at the cool table at lunch specifically so she can mock your Flashdance sweatshirt.

Panang Thai Curry snaps your bra straps.

Panang Thai Curry won’t stop you when you’ve tucked your prairie skirt into your panty hose.

Panang Thai Curry tells the boys on the bus you have your period.

Panang Thai Curry invites you to the Huey Lewis concert but never shows up with the tickets.

Panang Thai Curry “accidentally” mentions you smoke to your mom.

Panang Thai Curry has sex with your ex.

Panang Thai Curry thinks you’re fat.

Panang Thai Curry lets your inside cat out.

Panang Thai Curry “forgets” to pay you back.

Panang Thai Curry cancels out your vote.

Panang Thai Curry uses a metal utensil on your Teflon pans.

Panang Thai Curry tapes over your unwatched Bachelor season finale.

Panang Thai Curry sticks you in an orange bridesmaid dress.

Panang Thai Curry ate the last piece of pie.

Panang Thai Curry steals your status update.

Panang Thai Curry doesn’t put the cap back on.

Panang Thai Curry finishes all the milk and doesn’t leave a note.

Panang Thai Curry swipes your top-secret baby name.

Panang Thai Curry shows your puppy exactly where you keep your gel pens.

Even though you’ll probably never get it through your thick skull (or sensitive colon) PANANG THAI CURRY IS NOT YOUR FRIEND.

But your husband is.

So when he instructs the restaurant owner to never deliver Panang Thai Curry ever again, you are not allowed to divorce him because he’s only trying to save your dumb ass.

Literally.

Now if he could keep the dog from pulling up the carpet in the family room, you’ll all be in excellent shape.

Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:

Being a grown-up means not staying in an abusive relationship… even if it’s just with your colon.

C·H·A·P·T·E·R S·E·V·E·N·T·E·E·N

Bond, Jen Bond

When I thought about adult life when I was a kid, I imagined cool stuff, like gambling in the casinos of Monte Carlo, zipping around winding mountain roads in my Aston Martin convertible, and taking top secret meetings in underground lairs.

Basically I thought all grown-ups were James Bond.

At no point did I realize the pinnacle of my own personal quest for maturity would entail this: sitting across a real dining room table in an actual dining room, debating the merits of whole versus term life insurance.

Talk to me five years ago and I’d have laughed at the thought not only of voluntarily inviting in the insurance agent but sitting in a room with him where—by design—it’s impossible to eat dinner and watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills at the same time.

The agent explains, “They used to call it ‘death insurance’ but that bummed everyone out.” Yeah, I could see that. Yet that’s exactly what this is. As Fletch and I debate payout amounts, we eye one another warily, having come to the mutually horrific realization that we’re both more valuable dead than alive.

I tell the agent, “Of course Fletch should be taken care of if I kick it first, but I’m not sure I want my legacy to include a boat that sleeps twelve.” Fletch’s stipulation for me is that I can pay off the mortgage, but not have enough cash left over for the Jocelyn Wildenstein–level of plastic surgery I’d need to rope in a new mate. [Granted, I’m mostly fine the way I am, but if I lose Fletch, I plan on going full-on cougar, so I’ll need a number of nips/tucks to attract Taylor Lautner.]

There’s nothing like putting a price on your own mortality to make you reflect on your life. Yeah, I’m only in my early forties now, so it’s not like I’m just sitting on a plastic-covered couch by the front door with my purse in my lap, waiting for the clock to run out. However, the window for, say, auditioning for the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders has