Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

For the man who defined a generation.

Godspeed, Mr. Hughes.

Dear Reader,

This is not a true story, but was inspired by our adventures in suburban real estate. However, we quickly came to our senses and realized that buying a crumbling home by the lake was an incredibly stupid, potentially hazardous, ridiculously expensive, and almost-certain-to-end-our-marriage idea.

We did not purchase the house in this book.

We moved elsewhere.

This didnt occur.

(Yet.)

XO,

Jen

P.S. I feel its important to note here that I love Stephenie Meyer. This might not make sense now, but it will later, I promise.

I blame HGTV for what happens next.

No. No. Oh, hell, no.

Im standing upstairs in my office when I spot someone in an oversize hoodie and low-slung pants paint ORNESTEGA in puffy silver letters on the flat red bricks of the building across the street.

Which is a church.

I imagine the Lord probably has His own way of dealing with little thugs who deface houses of worship, but I cant just stand here waiting for Him to scramble a swarm of locusts or turn rivers to blood. I imagine Hes got a lot on his plate right now, what with war, poverty, the Sudanese situation, and all those reality-show contestants asking for His divine guidance as they navigate their way through the obstacle course and into the Jell-O pit.

The other thing is, if He does take notice and sends down hail mixed with fire, its going to ruin my lawn. I think sometimes God expects us to act as His emissaries; ergo, I will fix this.

I press the indoor talk button on the intercom system. Mac! Maaaaac! Theres a tagger outside and Before I can even finish my sentence, my husband, Mac,1 has exited his basement office/lair and flown across the street.

When it comes to wrongs that need righting, Mac fancies himself a modern-day Batman. I mean, if Batman were pushing forty, with a hint of spare tire around his waist, seven gray hairs, and a job in middle management for the phone company. The truth is hes more like Dilbert, only with a fully stocked arsenal.

Back in college, after we became friends, but before we started dating, Mac appointed himself my personal bouncer. Mac thought I was too hung up on being polite, so Id always find myself cornered by some asshole I couldnt graciously escape whenever Id go out. After Mac stepped in, woe be to any guy who hit on me or hassled me, because Mac was right there at my back. Eventually my friend Ann Marie pointed out that I could do and had done a lot worse than dating someone so anxious to keep me safe and happy, and weve been together ever since.

Anyway, despite the sixty tons of brick and cement block that comprise our houses exterior walls, and regardless of the soundproofed, supersealed, triple-hung windows, I can still hear every syllable of profanity Mac hurls at the aspiring gangbanger. I quickly search for some footwear, because I dont want to run barefoot into the snow to monitor the situation. My dog Duckie has the bizarre and annoying habit of taking one shoe and hiding it under the covers, so I have to tear through the unmade bed to find my flannel clogs mate. As soon as I can, I dash downstairs and outside just in time to witness nothing.

Macs cheeks are flushed and he cant suppress his smile. Ive never met anyone who enjoys an altercation as much as this man.2 Mia, you should have seen that little bastard try to get away in those pants. He pretty much hobbled himself. Looked like he was running a potato-sack race. By the way, he disappeared into that building. He jerks his finger toward the dilapidated apartments a few doors down. I hate that complex; they cut their grass only twice last summer, both times at six a.m. on Sunday. Apparently hes our neighbor.

Whos stupid enough to tag a building in broad daylight? And then bravely run home across the street? I wonder out loud. Also, if that little shit wants to claim this block in the name of ORNESTEGA, then maybe he should be paying our rent.

Not for long, Mac corrects. Pretty soon he can pay our property taxes. Hey, ORNESTEGA, he shouts in the direction of the six-flat, you owe us twelve thousand bucks!

Mac and I are in the process of buying our house. Rather, weve started the process; were currently waiting for the results of our appraisal so we can write a formal offer.

We moved into this neighborhood a year and a half ago. Originally our plan was to get out of the city of Chicago and into the suburbs. Honestly, Ive been dreaming of the bucolic towns ringing the north side of Chicago ever since I started watching John Hughes movies on VHS with my older sister, Jessica.

I grew up in one of the bleak and depressing Indiana steel towns that ring the wrong side of Lake Michigan. Jess and I would snuggle into our rump-sprung plaid couch located in the drab ranch house my family shared with my grandmother, located down the street from the mill.

Jess and I were enamored not only by the characters in the movies, but also the backdrop. We were astounded that people lived so. . nicely. I guess we assumed everyone had a yard full of rusty patio furniture and broken swing sets, with neighbor kids running around with dirty faces and stained pajamas well into the night.

Wed spend hours fantasizing about what it might be like to live on a quiet, well-manicured street like Samantha Baker in Sixteen Candles, rather than being within earshot of the clamoring from the blast furnace. While everyone else lusted after Camerons dads car in Ferris Buellers Day Off, wed sigh over the darling downtown shopping district filled with Tudor-style pizza joints and charming shops and big, leafy trees. As far as we were concerned, Shermer, Illinois, was Shangri-la.3

Jess and I werent unhappy, and our parents worked hard to make sure we never went without, but aesthetics were never a consideration for them. When we suggested they paint the walls or buy some new couches, theyd tell us we could have a pretty house or we could have a college education, our choice.

I went from my parents run-down ranch to an austere dorm room, to a claustrophobic five-person suite in my sorority house, then to a practically condemned apartment off campus.

After graduation, Mac and I moved to Chicago together. He had a well-paying job and upper-middle-class parents, so he was in a position to rent a swankier place in the Gold Coast or Lincoln Park, with amenities like doormen and fitness rooms and in-unit washing machines. However, I didnt have his kind of cash flow, so my op-tions were more limited. Mac planned to cover my share on a nicer apartment, but I insisted I make it on my own. I didnt want to make a big thing about it, so I suggested he get his de-luxe apartment in the sky4 and Id rent something more modest.Yet he wanted to be with me, so he agreed to go halfsies on a terrible little studio apartment on a noisy street by Wrigley Field.

The first time we saw a rat in our grubby hallway, Mac went right out and adopted a cat. Savannah wasnt much of a mouser, but she did spark our love of pets, and she made us feel not just like boyfriend and girlfriend, but an actual family unit. We lost her to feline leukemia a few years back, but weve since acquired both dogs and an entire litter of kittens whove proved to be complete and utter badasses, hence their tough guy names like Agent Jack Bauer.

Mac claims that Im the tenderhearted one, taking in all these pets, but you should have seen him bottle-feeding the kittens after their mother abandoned them.

Mac and I resided in a series of cheap, cramped urban dwellings long after we both started making money. I was so used to living beneath my means that it never occurred to me to upgrade as my means increased.