Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

“See how good it feels to be prepared?” he crows.

“What?”

He repeats his statement, louder this time. “I said, ‘see how good it feels to be prepared?’”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t hear you over the roar of the neighbors’ generators.”

Our porch sounds like we’re surrounded by dozens of riding lawn mowers going full tilt or ten million angry African bees. The ground is vibrating from the omnipresent hum. Although most of our views into their homes are obscured because of the trees, I can still make out lighted windows and, in one case, the ambient glow of a television. “Look!” I shout, pointing east. “They’re watching Burn Notice!”

Fletch waves me off, patting his thigh apparatus. “Please, they’ve got the TV on. Big deal. This is a tiny, tiny inconvenience. A blip, really. How are they going to protect themselves from looters? How are they going to disperse a riot? When the grid goes down, who’s going to be laughing then?”

I take a moment to consider his comment. “So… what you’re telling me is that we’re prepared for looting, riots, and zombie wars and if we need to, we can take the neighbors by storm?”

“Bingo.”

“And yet, despite our superior firepower, in the short term, I can’t blow-dry my hair or run a load of laundry, and in the morning, I’m going to have to throw out our mayonnaise.”

He shrugs. “I stand by our choices. Long term, baby. Long term.”

I grit my teeth. “Then I’d better eat the rest of the ice cream.”

“I’m sure the freezer will be fine for now. Your average fridge stays cold—”

“I SAID I’D BETTER EAT IT.”

We sit in as much silence as the neighboring generators will allow. Our house is normally a hermetically sealed seventy-two degrees, so Libby and the cats are reveling in the excitement of roaming the screened porch in the sultry evening air.

The older dogs, on the other hand, are tense. You see, we were back on our feet financially when we rescued the cats a couple of years ago. Their lives are nothing but belly rubs and store-bought treats. Neither they nor Libby know of the days when we’d lose electric or heat due to nonpayment. They’re completely unaware of the daily low-lying tension that used to envelop our lives like a fog that never quite lifted. They have no idea why we sometimes still inadvertently flinch when the phone rings. But the older dogs? They remember. Maisy rests her head on my lap, searching my face with her liquid brown eyes, as if to say, “Are you idiots poor again?”

When we go to bed, I’m completely restless. I’ll doze off for a minute and then wake up, expecting the power to be back. We’re trying to retain what little cool air is left from the air-conditioning, so we keep the windows shut. The house is deadly silent, so much so that I decide to use up precious iPad battery life to run the ambient noise app I’d downloaded for book tour travel.

“Flanders! My socks feel dirty. Give me some water to wash them,” Fletch says, quoting The Simpsons episode where Homer uses up all the canteen’s contents for grooming purposes while lost at sea.

“I don’t care to be mocked,” I reply darkly.

“What’s the problem? You in a mood because the lights are out? Big deal. It’s not the end of the world,” he says, attempting to comfort me.

“Oh, no,” I agree. “We’re ready for the end of the world. Just not for the end of the night.”

Fletch smiles and shakes his head. “This is because you can’t watch your stories, isn’t it?”

My stories.

My secret shame.

Or rather, my Secret Life shame.

When Stacey and I went to Dallas, we’d lost our voices by the time we arrived at the airport on our return. To save our throats, we opted to watch our various handheld electronics instead of chatting.

Despite wearing earbuds, I couldn’t help but notice Stacey’s reaction to her iTouch in the chaise across from me. From exasperated gasps to the snorts of derision, something was clearly bothering her.

“What on earth are you watching?” I probed.

“Only the stupidest show on the face of the earth. It’s called The Secret Life of the American Teenager and it’s about a moronic fifteen-year-old who gets knocked up and then spends all day moping around her house, hugging her knees in a sweater with exceptionally long sleeves,” she replied.

“Isn’t Molly Ringwald in that? [Do I even need to mention how I feel about Molly Ringwald at this point?] And wasn’t it supposed to be critically acclaimed?” I asked.

Stacey sighed and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling in the Admiral’s Club. “Yes, and I thought so, too, but clearly not. Seriously? The writing on this show makes 7th Heaven look like The Wire. It’s corny, it’s cheesy, it’s ridiculous, the acting is atrocious, the dialogue is completely wooden and”—she paused to meet my gaze—“you’d probably love it.”

As I had plenty of shows already programmed on my iPad (of course) I didn’t get a chance to tune in for a while. But the minute I started, I couldn’t stop. The show is exactly as corny and cheesy and ridiculous as Stacey claims. Secret Life is part telenovela and part after-school special and that’s what makes it so good. I mean, have you ever seen a show where the Christian girl claims that her dad [Played by John Schneider, aka Bo Duke!!] was killed in a private plane accident because she lost her virginity? Or that the character played by the kid with Down’s Syndrome is a raging asshole? Or that the writers are clearly being paid every time the actors say “had sex” and never once use a different euphemism for said act? [I’ve since learned that there are drinking games based on this show.]

In the past month, I’ve viewed almost five and a half seasons and watching