“And to think, I’m wasting all my time teachingsixth-grade English, when I could just become famous!” I joke.
“I know!”
I shake my head to clear the confusion from at least oneof us. “Wait. This is your real idea? You don’t think this is sortof…ridiculous?”
“Why?” she asks, all doe-eyed innocence. I look at my longtimefriend and debate: Do I burst her fault-filled bubble? Do I squash her dreamright here and now by saying, Look, you are beautiful and ballsy, but that’snot quite enough to catapult you to fame, paparazzi or no? I try a softertactic.
“Maybe…you need to come up with a business plan or honesome skill or talent first. Then you could hire press to help youadvertise and market all your brilliance.”
There. I think that’s a fair compromise. Plus, it’s notquite as pathological.
She’s shaking her head. “But I don’t have amarketable skill or talent. I just want to be known for something.”
“Something other than being a wife and mother,” I say.
“Yes! See? You get it.” She nods, satisfied. “Because youwant the same thing.”
Underneath all the bullshit, and minus the paparazzi, thegirl has got a point.
“These fries are amazing. They have, like, thisgarlic-y coating. You should try some.”
“Okay, Seriously? How do you not put on weight?” I ask.
She stops chewing and looks at me like I’m as dense as herburger. “Lauren, we’ve been over this. Warsaw, World War II.”
“Seems too good to be true, is all. It makes me kind ofhate you.”
“Oh please.” She gulps down some soda. “Hate Hitler.”
We debate a few more non-work work options with a highfame quotient for Jodi, and settle for the moment on television personality,wardrobe consultant, or publicist. Then we switch to discussing Saturday night,and she tells me what kind of outfit she’s looking for. “It has to be somewhatconservative,” she acknowledges. “Since the dance party is at my temple.”
“I can’t imagine you wearing anything conservative,” Isay.
“Well, the rabbi pulled me aside at Friday night serviceslast week and told me that my outfit can be strapless, backless, or short,but not all three,” she explains. “I saw something great online that almostmeets the criteria.”
I describe the dress I’m planning on wearing, a blacksheath with silk trim at the neck, and side pockets below the slightly droppedwaist.
She nods. “Yeah, that sounds like you.” I know it’s notmeant to be an insult, but for some reason it stings.
After lunch, we prowl the different departments for awhile, but Jodi can’t seem to find what she’s looking for. Instead, she ends upbuying some new skinny jeans and a few sexy tops.
She digs around her bag as the saleswoman rings her up andannounces the total. “That will be six hundred fifty-two dollars andseventy-five cents. Would you like to use your Neiman’s charge?”
Jodi looks around slyly as she proffers a wad of bills ina crumpled envelope as her form of payment.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Cash back,” she says, counting twenties. As if I knowwhat that means.
Jodi produces more and more random wads of bills from thedepths of her purse. Some twenties are crumpled little balls, while others arefolded together into neat stacks bound by rubber bands. One or two bunches ofcash come organized in Ziploc baggies.
“What the hell, Jo?” I ask, by way of clarification.
The sales clerk seems less surprised, merely shrugging asshe takes the bills. Then, with expert precision, she turns them so they areall facing the same way, tugs on the pile so that it’s nice and crisp again,licks her thumb, and begins counting.
“Come into your trust fund?” I add.
“No!” Jodi says, rolling her eyes at me. “It’s like I justtold you: cash back.”
“You mean, you earn dollars back from Visa, or get pointson your AmEx that mysteriously turn themselves into random twenties at thebottom of your pocketbook?”
She laughs at me and shakes her head. “I can’t believeI never told you about my cash-back program.”
I shift my weight to one hip and lean against the counter.“I don’t think I would have forgotten this. Sounds even more intriguing thanyour I’m-tired-of-my-Manolos exchange program.”
“It’s the funniest story, actually,” she begins. Then sheturns to the saleswoman and says, “I bet you know all about it.”
“Indeed I do,” the woman responds, a little smile playingon her lips. “I see a lot of customers just like you.”
“See?” Jodi says triumphantly. “I thought I had inventedit, but then I started noticing other women doing the same thing.”
We wait for the saleswoman to get the right size shoppingbag from the back. I am no clearer about this than I was a few minutes ago. Theonly thing I know for sure is that if Jodi thinks she invented it, it can’t begood.
“I had this idea last year to throw a surprise party forLee, for his fortieth birthday,” she begins. “I didn’t want him to know aboutit, but that was a problem because I didn’t actually have any money topay for the party. So, I thought: Jodi, how are you going to get money withoutLee noticing?”
This part of the story has me more than slightly worried,but since she is smiling, I smile right back at her.
She digs through her bag for some lip gloss and startsapplying, leaving me hanging.
“Anyway.” She moves over to look at her reflectionin a nearby mirror. “I was standing in the checkout line at Target when thesolution came to me: cash back! You know how the bill at places like Target isalways huge? Like two hundred dollars?” She doesn’t wait
