My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover

by Jen Lancaster

  “Rafting. You’re only sailing when there’s a sail.”

  “I mean, rafting—what are you, Captain Stubing now?—and I really do want to see everyone. And what if I can’t find a matching life vest for Maisy? Maybe it’s a better idea to go to New York? Plus those little helmets would mess up my hair.”

  He mulled over the idea for a moment. “If you don’t get a raft, you won’t have to throw your baby pool away.”

  “We do like sitting in the pool when it’s really hot out,” I admitted. Although I always have to monitor Maisy when we’re wallowing because she won’t get out to pee, either. This dog truly is my soul mate. “Maybe I should just get the plane ticket.”

  “Only if you feel like that’s a better idea,” he called over his shoulder as he walked back to the living room.

  I chose New York, so I’m here in my first-class seat,49 trying to figure out how many free Bloody Marys it will take to assuage the guilt I feel about being a thousand miles away from my unfinished manuscript.

  I blot at a tomato juice spot on my black Lacoste, then lean back and sigh contentedly.

  Looks like three is the magic number.

  The girls pick me up from the airport and we drive straight to the beach. When we landed, the pilot said it was ninety degrees out, so it’s the perfect day for a nice wallow in the Atlantic.

  Most of us live in different parts of the country and rarely get together, so the car’s alive with excited chatter as we make our way up the Long Island Expressway. If being together weren’t enough, today’s extra-exciting because we’re taking our friend Angie to see the ocean for the first time.

  “I just don’t understand how someone can be our age and have never seen the ocean,” I say. I mean, I know it’s possible—the kids on Amish in the City—my second-favorite reality show ever50—had never seen the ocean before, but they’d also never ridden on escalators or tasted coffee or had zippers on their pants. Plus, Angie’s not Amish.

  “I grew up on a Great Lake. Ask anyone in Michigan, and they’ll tell you it’s the same thing,” Angie replies. She doesn’t need to demonstrate on her hand where she spent her childhood because we already know she’s from the Thumb. Plus, she’s shown us a dozen times before. What is it with people from Michigan? They throw up their hands as often as a newly minted fiancée flashes her diamond. Is it because Michigan’s the only state shaped like something familiar? I wonder if Italian folks are always rolling up their pants to show you where they’re from on their boots?51

  My WASP-y pal Poppy, who spent every second of every summer for twenty years on Atlantic beaches before moving to the Midwest, interjects, “It’s so not the same.”

  “Do you feel like you’ve been missing something?” Wendy asks.

  “How can I miss it if I’ve never had it?” Angie replies.

  I can’t wrap my mind around this. “You haven’t even been to the Caribbean? Or, like, Florida? I bet you’ve been and you just don’t remember. You’ve seen it. You must have seen it.”

  Angie frowns at me. “I’ve repressed my memory of the ocean?”

  “Yeah.” I bob my head enthusiastically, agreeing with my own conspiracy theory.

  “No.”

  I persist. “But you just flew into New York yesterday. Did you not notice that big band of blue surrounding LaGuardia?”

  Blackbird glances back from the driver’s seat. “Jen, that’s the Long Island Sound.”

  “No,” I insist. “I’m talking about the other water around the airport.”

  Blackbird raises one elegant eyebrow in the rearview mirror. “The East River? Flushing Bay?”

  I deliberately switch tracks. “Angie, did you or did you not see the Statue of Liberty on your flight in?”

  “I did! How cool was that? I can’t wait to tell the boys!”

  “Aha! Then you saw the ocean that surrounds her!”

  Poppy chimes in, “That would be the New York Bay.”

  Wendy leans around Angie, who’s sitting between us in the backseat. “Jen, I thought you lived here. Shouldn’t you know this?”

  Okay, so maybe I suck at math AND geography.

  But not at life. I’m awesome at life.

  “Pfft, that was thirty years ago. I’m allowed to forget. Anyway, Ange, you never felt like just packing up the family and taking everyone to the beach for a few days?” I ask.

  Blackbird jumps to Angie’s defense. “Do you understand the amount of coordination that would take? That’d be tougher than a military strike. With all those boys, she probably counts herself lucky if they’re all wearing pants when they leave the house.”

  “Yet you admit it’s kind of weird to be an ocean virgin at almost forty,” I counter.

  “Oh, yeah, totally fucked up. But understandably fucked up,” Blackbird clarifies.

  “How do you think you’ll react when you see it?” Wendy asks.

  “Maybe she’ll cry,” I suggest. I remember when Mose from Amish in the City saw the Pacific for the first time. He waded in wearing jeans and got all emotional because the endlessness of the water made him even more appreciative of God’s majesty. I didn’t just cry when I watched that episode; I sobbed.

  Angie shoots me a puzzled glance. “Why would I cry?”

  “Because it’s kind of an emotional thing. You’ll feel way insignificant and you’ll question your place in the universe because you’ll have never seen anything so vast before.”

  Angie’s having none of this. “Give me a break; I’ve never seen anything as vast as the laundry all the men in my house produce. One of the little guys is on two baseball teams this summer. Two teams! That’s two full uniforms a day in addition to whatever else he wears. If that doesn’t make me cry, I assure you, nothing will.”

  “I can’t wait to see how you react when you smell the salt air for the first time. Bird, open the windows before we get there!” Poppy demands.

  When we arrive at the beach, Blackbird throws the car into park, and we each hump a huge load of supplies over the dunes past the beach roses and saw grass to the boardwalk. We’ve got chairs and coolers and blankets and towels. We haul sandwiches and beverages and umbrellas. Beach toys and first-aid supplies balance out our loads. Our fruit is bountiful and fresh and water stock plentiful. Given our massive stash, you might think we’re planning to colonize the beach. It’s like we’re on Survivor: Mommyblogger.

  Seriously, the upside of traveling with a bunch of moms is that they’re prepared for every eventuality. You’ll never find yourself wanting for a Kleenex or a hard candy or hand sanitizer (or a corkscrew) with this group. The downside is today isn’t helping me gear up for Survivor, because the contestants only get to bring one small pack. I remember on the first season52 contestants were allowed to bring one small personal item like tweezers, but eventually they stopped that, knowing someone like me would probably bring my Kindle. The worst of the seasons was China, when they let contestants take only the clothes on their backs. About halfway through, production had to give everyone swimsuits because their underpants appeared to be rotting.

  Wait, why do I want to be on this show again?

  Anyway, none of us is paying attention to where we’re going; we’re all just watching Angie’s face. The boardwalk is interminably long and our loads ridiculously heavy, but we know the effort will have been worth it when Angie sees the water for the first time. I want my Amish in the City moment!

  Poppy and Blackbird lead the assault, so the second they spy a strip of salt water, they begin to walk backward. Moments later, when Angie finally sees the ocean, her expression is . . . fairly neutral. She merely gives the vista a quick once-over and tells us, “That’s exactly what I thought it would look like.”

  Seriously, she must have more laundry than we can imagine if the entire Atlantic fails to bowl her over.

  We choose a prime spot close to the water to set up camp. Most of us want to get a little color before we get wet, so the four of us settle into our chairs while Ang
ie strips off her cover-up and heads down to the shoreline.

  “She’s going! She’s going!” Wendy cries.

  “Shh, quiet! We don’t want to spook her!” Blackbird commands.

  Maybe we didn’t get our big, dramatic reveal when she saw the water for the first time, but surely swimming in the ocean will be significant. The four of us lean forward in our chairs as Angie sizes up the situation with one hand on her hip and one shading her eyes.

  “How’s she going to approach this? I mean, she’s never seen a wave before, and they’re breaking big and hard today,” I say.

  Blackbird adds, “I saw riptide flags posted farther down the beach. Powerful surf out there.”

  Wendy agrees, “This water has to be superintimidating. And freezing. Mostly freezing.”

  We hold our breath as Angie ventures in up to her ankles and clutch one another as the water reaches her knees. Will she be shocked at how cold the Atlantic can be, even in late July? Will she wade in, only to do a Baywatch-worthy run out the second rippling water hits her thighs?

  Angie glances to either side for a moment and then the greatest thing in the world happens—she just shrugs at the majesty of the whole new world before her and dives in headfirst.

  We lose our minds.

  Blackbird begins shouting first. “What? WHAT? Did you . . . Have you ever . . . I mean . . . HOLY SHIT!”

  Wendy’s up on her feet, mouth agape and eyes wild. “Did you see that? Did you see that? Did! You! See! That?”

  I can’t believe she just dove in. I’m stunned. That’s the absolute opposite of what I’d do if this were my first time. I’d test the water about fifteen times. I’d consult the lifeguards. I’d query everyone on the beach before maybe hitting the snack bar, having a cheeseburger, and then waiting the requisite half hour before even thinking about approaching the water again. I’d construct an elaborate list of pros and cons and then I’d run the whole thing past Fletch not only to get his opinion but also to encourage him to come up with the kind of bribe or challenge I almost always require before I’ll try something new.

  But just diving in?

  That’s the last thing on earth I’d have done. “Nobody just dives in the Atlantic the first time they see it! No one!” Then I clarify, “I mean, dogs maybe, but not people!” My heart hasn’t felt this buoyant since Zora and Evan Marriott got to split the unexpected seven-figure check on Joe Millionaire!

  Poppy’s Boston accent comes out when she’s tired or drinking or under duress. She’s much more succinct in her reaction. “Oh, my mathafuckin’ Gaaawd!”

  “She dove! I can’t believe she dove. That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. I . . . I . . . I need to smoke now.” Blackbird scrambles in her bag for cigarettes and a lighter. Speechless, Poppy holds her hand out for one, too.

  Angie emerges from the surf, brushing sand and stray bits of seaweed off herself. She heads back in our direction, and Blackbird and Poppy rise and give her a long, slow clap while Wendy tosses her a striped towel.

  As Angie dries herself, she says simply, “So that’s the ocean. . . . I like it. And, hey, why do I have so much sand in my crotch?”

  Okay, seriously?

  This is so much better than a twelve-foot rigid inflatable raft.

  To: gina_at_home

  From: jen_at_home

  Subject: suddenly my life has meaning again (okay, it had it before, but still)

  I just found this while procrastinating in the TV/Film/Radio Jobs section on Craigslist. Tell me this isn’t the best trashy TV news you’ve heard in a while. (P.S. My thoughts are in italics.)

  VH1 and BRET MICHAELS will hit the road literally . . . to find true love on the . . . “ROCK OF LOVE BUS with BRET MICHAELS”

  VH1 is loading up a tour bus filled with beautiful babes and taking them on tour across the country. The Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels takes contestants out of the mansion and on the road in true rock star style. This season will feature all new ladies vying for Bret’s affection while traveling across America following Bret on a monthlong tour. The contestants will face new challenges to see if they can handle the rock star life on the road! If you are a sexy single lady looking for love who can party like a rock star, then this is the show for you! Ladies must be ages 21 and up. (No STDs? No problem! We can provide them for you!)

  TO BE CONSIDERED, E-MAIL THE FOLLOWING INFO TO YOUR CLOSEST AUDITION CITY:1. Your Name (Bonus points awarded if it ends in an I or ϒ)

  2. Age (Don’t bother if you’re over 25. This bus does not stop in Cougar Town.)

  3. What city you would like to audition in (Meaning “In which city is your strip club located?”)

  4. Best phone #

  5. Little about yourself and why you would be good for Bret (Meaning, “Send shots of yourself naked. Lots and lots of naked.”)

  6. And be sure to ATTACH A FEW RECENT PICS of yourself AND Web page/MySpace url (See above.)

  Aug. 1-10 CHICAGO (IL): ChicagoRock 1@xxxxCasting.net

  Aug. 11-18 CINCINNATI (OH): OhioRock @xxxxCasting.net

  Location: Chicago only

  Compensation: $100/day

  ($100? I guess that’s the going rate for dignity these days. And, no, I can’t wait!)

  CHAPTER SIX

  Extreme Makeover: Dumb-Ass Edition

  By Jove, I think I’ve got it!

  I totally figured out how I’m going to ease my conversational impediment.

  I’m going to go Eliza Doolittle all over my ass!

  Here’s the thing—I’m not concerned with passing myself off as a lady of high society; I just don’t want to give strangers the impression that I’m a dumb ass anymore. Plus, I don’t want to make them feel all uncomfortable when I spout a bunch of thoughtless commentary because ultimately, if I say the wrong thing in the wrong place, I could offend the wrong person or even kill my career. Basically, I need to stop using my mouth as a weapon.

  To do so, I’m going to have to get me some learnin’.

  What I need is a cultural renaissance.

  Scratch that. I need a cultural Jenaissance.

  My handicap isn’t that I’m incapable of learning but that I’m rarely motivated to do it, so I’m going to battle my natural propensity for sloth by forcing myself to get off the couch and acquire a base of cultural knowledge. I need to broaden what I’m familiar with by reading and dining and patronizing the arts64 so when I’m in the middle of an important conversation, I won’t just panic and start blurting nonsense. For example, this past winter, if I’d maybe read a book on petroleum politics, I wouldn’t have immediately launched into a diatribe about how Clooney killed The Facts of Life.65

  The thing is, I’m easily influenced and gorging myself on a steady diet of shitty reality television has clearly had an effect. Reality television’s a terrible influence on me because the participants are put in absurdly unnatural situations, and they have a team of producers behind the scenes encouraging them to, figuratively, go for blood.

  Ipso facto, if I surround myself with positive influences, I’ll be more erudite.

  I already have plenty of cultivated (yet fascinating) people in my life—I mean, I know a master sommelier, so why don’t we ever get together to drink great wine? One of my friends works in a big museum—why haven’t I ever taken her up on her offer of a backstage tour? Apparently I know socialites, so why do I struggle with even the most basic of social graces? Plus, through Stacey I’ve met chefs and lots of theater people—shouldn’t I be able to learn from all of them? I mean, if I actually put forth the effort and don’t shake and rock and go all hot-water-burns-baby every time they try to talk about what I previously found mind-numbing?

  I mean, maybe I’ll learn I’ve actually been very happy avoiding opera my whole life. Maybe I’ll discover that my initial impression of the Vaseline barbell was on the money. Maybe I’ll discover stinky cheese tastes exactly as bad as it smells and my love for Kraft American singles is forever.

  And maybe I won’t
. And that’s okay.

  The real value will be in having had the experiences in the first place.

  I’m willing to wager that being able to draw from a greater depth of knowledge and experience will make me a better writer because I’ll finally be able to describe someone as evil without having to reference Blair Waldorf or Mr. Burns.

  Because, dude, it’s time.

  Perhaps my first official foray outside of my comfort zone should have involved wearing a bra.

  To backtrack, once in a great while, I’ll come across a book that totally alters my perspective. Years ago, when I read Ayn Rand’s magnum opus Atlas Shrugged, it forever changed the way I looked at the relationship between industry and government.66 And a college course featuring Catcher in the Rye brought out the foulmouthed cynic I never knew lived inside me.

  That may or may not have been a good thing.

  What inspired me in Eat, Pray, Love was that Elizabeth Gilbert put herself into situations that were initially uncomfortable, but that ended up helping her meet her goal—finding fulfillment in body, mind, and spirit. She tried all kinds of crazy stuff, some of which she liked, and some she didn’t, but each try brought her a step closer to her goal.

  That’s why I’m here, top off, facedown on this terry-cloth-covered table. I decided the best way to push myself out of my comfort zone was to revisit something I’d previously written off, so I’m getting a massage. I know, I know. . . . Everyone loves a massage! Except me. First of all, massages hurt. A lot. I’m generally so tense that even a little manipulation kills. Second, the least relaxing thing I can think to do is to take my pants off in front of a stranger, no matter how professional he or she may be. Third, I actually thrive on stimulus bordering on chaos, so lying in a dark, quiet room, hearing the sound of nothing but whale music and the occasional rippling of back fat is NOT my recipe for a good time.