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

by Jen Lancaster

  And then I poke at the bulb again because I am not nearly as smart as I’d assumed I’d become.

  BURNING!

  Well, now I have two problems. Not only have I seared off my fingertip, but now the fixture smells vaguely hot. Or of hot dogs. Which may just be the aroma of my flesh roasting on the bulb. I don’t really want to call down to the front desk and give them the impression I’m a dumb ass, and yet I also don’t want tomorrow’s headline in the Post to read “Big-Ass Author Burns Down Luxury Midtown Hotel.”162

  Think, self, think.

  Okay, I’ve got this. All I need to do is pull out the halogen bulb. Yes. Genius!

  But wait, self, wait.

  I’ve already burned my finger twice. What I need is a tiny oven mitt to place between my tender flesh and this searing-hot bulb. So I grab what’s closest, wrap it around my hand, and go for it.

  The second my wrapped finger hits the heat, the fabric, my flesh, and the bulb fuse into one entity.

  And this is how I set the curtain on fire.

  Apparently these are not hot-lightbulb-and-dumb-ass-retardant curtains. Instead, they’re the flame-briefly-melt-and-leave-two-silver-dollar-sized-holes-in-them kind.

  I do manage to turn off the light, though.

  So there’s that.

  We’re having breakfast in my room as I tell Stacey my tale of woe.

  “I’m sure it’s not nearly as bad as you think,” Stacey cajoles. “This must happen all the time.”

  I purse my lips and glower at Stacey, saying nothing.

  She backpedals. “Fine. Maybe it doesn’t happen all the time, but perhaps they won’t notice?”

  “Oh, yeah? You don’t find this a little obvious?” I pull out the sheer and demonstrate the holes’ girth by thrusting my thumbs through both of them.

  Stacey sizes them up, turning her head first to the left and then to the right, before declaring, “Yeah . . . you’re screwed.”

  Stacey carefully selects a piece of honeydew from the fruit plate while I say, “My only hope is they won’t cost so much. I mean, the sheers in my house were only about five bucks each.”

  “Are yours fourteen feet high? And twenty feet long? And custom-made?” she prompts.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, spearing a giant piece of pineapple. “You’ve been to my house a hundred times and you’ve seen my windows and . . . Oh. I get it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I mull over her question before replying, “I plan on being a complete coward. I’m going to leave them as they are, and I’m not going to have a mortifying conversation when I check out, and when they send me the bill, I’m going to pay it.”

  Stacey moves the piece of melon around on her plate. “They’ll probably just put it on your credit card.”

  “Even better.”

  “This could only happen to you.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Are you still glad you came?”

  “Absolutely!” I exclaim. “But I’ve learned something on this trip.”

  “What’s that?”

  I sigh. “I may not be wearing a rope belt, but somehow I’m still channeling Jethro Bodine.”

  To: melissacmorris_at_home

  From: jen_at_home

  Subject: Daisy Buchanan

  Hey, Melissa,

  I’ve been meaning to drop you a note to tell you how much I enjoyed spending the afternoon with you. Later that day I found myself trying to describe what you were like to my friend Stacey. I wanted to get across that you had perfect manners but there was something just a little bit, I don’t know, precocious or naughty beneath the surface, in the most delightful, let’s-go-swim-in-the-fountain-in-our-formal-wear kind of way. So I said, “She’s just like an F. Scott Fitzgerald heroine!”

  However, as part of my culturing-up process, I just reread The Great Gatsby and, oh my God, all the women in it are JACKASSES.

  So you’re not like an F. Scott Fitzgerald heroine. You’re better.

  Anyway, hope France was lovely!

  Jen

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nightmares, of the Nonkitchen Variety

  “How’s the little patient?”

  Air rushes out of me like I’m a deflating balloon. “Not great.”

  Fletch and I are at brunch with Gina, who’s asking about Maggie, our elderly calico cat.

  Gina knits her brow. “I’m so sorry; what’s going on?”

  “We’ve been hitting the cat hospital weekly and we’re trying desperately to get some weight back on her. Since the only thing she’ll eat is ten-dollar-a-pound shrimp from the Whole Foods raw bar and she likes it fresh, I’m constantly driving there to pick up supplies. I kind of know what a soccer mom must feel like now, as it seems like all I do is load everyone up in the backseat and drive them around. Did I mention I have to keep taking the dogs in to their vet because somehow the staff can’t take a proper sample from Maisy and her weird cyst. I guess it’s hard to wield a needle when a pit bull’s trying to French-kiss you.”

  Gina squeezes some lemon into her green tea. “Maisy can’t help being such a love bug. What’s Maggie’s prognosis?”

  I sigh again. “She’s almost seventeen, and she’s lost more than a third of her body weight. She has pancreatitis and there’s a real possibility of intestinal lymphoma. Breaks my heart to say it, but she’s not long for this world. But every day I get up and determine how she’s feeling. So far, she’s still spry and content and greets me at the top of the stairs, where she demands her breakfast.”

  With a somber expression, Fletch adds, “She’s a happy little cat. Her spirits are high, so she doesn’t seem like she’s suffering in any way. But the minute we feel like she’s no longer enjoying her life, that’s it.”

  “Ack . . . these decisions,” Gina says, laying down her fork. “This is the worst part of being an adult.”

  “Tell me about it,” I reply glumly.

  “Listen, this may be a bad time to bring this up, but yet another slutty alley cat has brought her family of kittens to live in my backyard. I’ve been in touch with every shelter and apparently it’s ‘kitten season,’ so I can’t get any of them to take them. I’ve been feeding them every day—they’re so cute, by the way—and I keep pestering rescue organizations. So far no luck,” Gina tells us.163

  “Any possibility you’ll keep them?” I ask.

  “Oh, please, you’ve said it yourself—as long as I’m single, I’m one feline away from becoming the crazy cat lady. There’s no way I can add another to the mix; I don’t have enough spare bedrooms.” Gina has an upstairs cat and a downstairs cat. Upstairs Cat loves Downstairs Cat but Downstairs Cat pees on everything whenever she comes into contact with Upstairs Cat. After four years and a number of consults with behavior specialists, Gina’s pretty sure they’re never going to find détente, so the cats live separate lives in the same house.

  I toy with the uneaten part of my pancake. “You know, Fletch, all of our cats are between fourteen and sixteen years old. They aren’t going to be around forever. Maybe we should—”

  Fletch sets his coffee down harder than necessary, and it sloshes out the side and into the saucer. “Absolutely not, no way in this world, don’t even entertain it as a possibility,” he asserts.

  “But—” Gina and I both blurt at the same time.

  “I’m sorry, this is nonnegotiable. We have two dogs and four cats. We can’t have any more.”

  “Why not?” I persist. “Our house is plenty big.”

  “Square footage is not the issue; the issue is not being reported to the authorities for pet hoarding.”

  I grumble, “Hardly hoarding. They live like kings; they’re allowed to sit on or scratch up whatever furniture they like and have all the treats they could want and sleep in bed with us and . . . That’s probably your issue, isn’t it?”

  In my defense, I come from a long line of fanatical animal people. When I was in college, my parents got this
overbred Great Pyrenees named George. He was, for lack of a better description, bloodthirsty. He had an overdeveloped urge to guard, and the object of his obsession was my father’s blue leather chair in the family room. He wouldn’t let anyone but me and my dad get within five feet of that thing, and God help you if you tried.

  We all loved George, but really couldn’t have him attempting to assassinate every guest in our home, particularly since he weighed in around a hundred and thirty pounds. Desperate to accommodate him, my parents spent twenty-five thousand dollars on an addition to the house, where George could hang out when anyone visited.164 But apparently a room of his own didn’t fix Georgie’s problems, so my dad’s secretary found a doggie psychologist.

  Every Saturday morning as I’d get ready to head to one of my two jobs, I’d hear my parents and the dog shrink downstairs training with George. We had to call the dog guy “Uncle Kent” so George would believe he was family, a member of our pack. The Saturday-morning pattern was always the same. George would bark and lunge, his electronic shock collar would go off, he’d yelp, and then the smell of singed fur would waft up to my bedroom.

  Sadly, all their effort was for naught, as George tried to murder my mother one night when she sat in my father’s chair, and then George—who, frankly, was always sweet with me—was no more.

  In retrospect, there’s a chance Uncle Kent was taking my parents for a ride, because who ever heard of a dog psychologist, particularly in northeastern Indiana at that time?

  George was followed by Ted, an overbred hundred-thirty-pound Newfoundland. Apparently my family did not learn the lesson of buying a purebred from the least expensive breeder the first time.165 Perhaps they figured we’d have more luck with a behemoth creature if they picked one that was, say, black and not white this time.

  It might stand to reason that since the former guard dog made guard ing his sole priority in life, the water-rescue dog would have a great deal of enthusiasm for water rescue, yet everyone seemed rather surprised when Ted would do things like dive through windows to “save us” when we were out enjoying the pool.

  Poor old Teddy didn’t even make it a year.

  I returned to my college campus around this time and adopted a magnificent Malamute/Akita mix named Nixon. I made the mistake of bringing him home one weekend, whereupon he and my father fell instantly, madly, deeply in love. I can’t say my dad stole my dog so much as I simply ceased to exist when my father walked into the room.

  Essentially, Nixon resigned from being my dog.

  Nixon lived for more than another decade, far longer than most of his size and breed166 largely because my dad’s world revolved around him. He spent his life driving around with my father, perched in the front seat of his tiny Toyota, his enormous head pressed against the car’s ceiling, on their way to get him his daily sausage biscuit.

  Anyway, the fact that I’m far less insane than my family in all matters regarding pets is moot because if Fletch says we can’t rescue a kitten, then I need to defer to his wishes.

  The funny thing is, I’m with Fletch because of these very cats. When we met fourteen years ago, my cats were the arbiter of who was and wasn’t worthy of my attention. I’d never date anyone who my pets didn’t like; I mean, they’re instinctive like that. My rationale was if someone wasn’t nice to my pets, eventually, they wouldn’t be nice to me, either.

  When Maggie met Fletch, she immediately climbed on the couch and curled up on his shoulder in a fluffy little ball of calico fur, and I knew he was a keeper.

  When I wake up this morning, two days after our brunch with Gina, Maggie isn’t waiting for me at the top of the stairs for the first time ever.

  When I find her lying on the counter, she’s encircled by all the other cats, who normally never gather together.

  She refuses her shrimp.

  And then she looks up at me with her big, round, wise eyes that so enchanted me almost seventeen years ago, and her message is clear.

  This is it.

  She’s made her decision.

  She’s ready to go.

  I wish I felt more ready to let her go.

  When we get home from the vet, Maisy goes directly into empathy mode, and there’s no point for the rest of the day when she isn’t resting her head or paws or whole body on me. Over and over, I kiss the broad, flat part of her head between her ears and nuzzle her powerful neck. She gazes up at me with so much concern in her chocolate brown, black-lined eyes. Her beautiful tan-and-white face is all wrinkled in worry.

  Maisy’s one of the biggest reasons I worked so hard to become a writer. I wanted to have a job that would let me be home with her every day. I miss her every second that we’re apart. I couldn’t bear the idea of being away from her fifty to sixty hours a week at some office job.

  I don’t know what I’d do without this dog. I look back on every stressful moment in our lives over the past seven years—and there’ve been plenty—and there was never a second that Maisy wasn’t right by my side, grinning her wide pit bull smile, desperate to make me happy.

  Other than my sweet baby, the one thing that helps me take my mind off how heartbroken I am is, surprisingly, The Real Housewives of New Jersey. I’ve been so busy pursuing cultural activities that I’ve had neither the time nor desire to watch this season. Plus, I recognized Housewife Dina from her over-the-top nuptials on Platinum Weddings, and it sort of felt like pop culture was eating itself.

  But lying in my basement in the dark, pit bull snuggled up to me, cold nose wedged in the crook of my shoulder, I crack my first smile of the day when Teresa flips out, calling Danielle a “prostitute whore” before upending the dinner table.

  Sad as I am, I still recognize awesome when I see it.

  Fletch and I head to Las Vegas for Fourth of July weekend. With Maggie being sick, we’d planned to cancel the trip, but she was gone before we had to make that decision. Given the option, I’d rather have my cat and be home.

  Normally I’d be beside myself, but it’s been a rough week. I don’t feel in much of a holiday mood, particularly since when we land, it’s raining. In Las Vegas. Which is the desert. In the summer. This trip already feels like a bad omen.

  The crowds and the sound of slot machines and whole 24-7 nature of the city fail to charm me this time. The lights are too bright and the colors too garish, and if one more person blows smoke in my hair in the casino, I’m going to pull a Teresa and start tipping over tables.

  And this is exactly the mood I’m in when we get to the restaurant for our requisite one fancy vacation dinner. My ill humor only worsens when we’re given a shitty table directly between two ten-tops of screaming assholes from St. Louis, all done up in jean shorts and Cardinals jerseys. “I’m sorry, but I thought this place had a dress code,” I fume to Fletch.

  We specifically picked this restaurant because it has a view of the fountain, but all we can see is the wait station, full of water pitchers and sugar caddies and the POS order-entry computer.

  The service is terrible because our waiter is too busy being run around by the Cardinal fans, and we sit with dirty plates and empty glasses for far longer than is acceptable, particularly at a four-star restaurant.

  I begin seething, taking the whole experience personally. And when Fletch goes to the bathroom and sees all the empty tables in the back with the primo fountain view, his mood darkens as well.

  Foul and slighted as I’m feeling, I decide it’s time to fight back. Surreptitiously, I pull out a small notebook and pretend I’m jotting down notes, which leads the entire staff to believe I’m reviewing the restaurant. And then I begin to take notes for real when I discover the potatoes are bland, the lobster potpie one big crock of gluten, the Kobe beef tough, and the foie gras double-plus un-good.

  When the waiter tries to bring us the last course in our tasting menu, we tell him we’ve had enough and are ready to leave right this minute, check, please.167 As we’re leaving, the maître d’ says something along the lines of “I hope we
’ll see you back again,” to which I reply, “Not in this lifetime.” We stomp over to see a Cirque du Soleil show, and I spend the entire performance grousing about the terrible meal and poor service.

  When we return to our hotel, we recount the whole experience to the concierge in righteously indignant detail before going to bed. By the time we’re back from brunch, the manager of the restaurant has called our room twice to apologize and invite us back for a dinner on the house.

  That’s when it hits me—I pulled the “don’t you know who I am” card. I’m suddenly mortified by my privileged, officious behavior.

  Somehow over the course of this project, I’ve managed to twist what I’ve learned over my cultural Jenaissance into flat-out, unearned elitism. I mean, just because I’ve now had Kobe and foie gras doesn’t exactly make me an expert, yet there I was, acting as though I was. My Shame Rattle sounds again and again. In the past two days, I’ve behaved with the exact amount of arrogance and egotism that cost me my job so many years ago, which means I’m missing the point of everything I’ve been working toward since winter.

  This isn’t how I want to be. I don’t want to turn what I’ve learned into a weapon. I want to be a better me, not a bigger ass.

  There’s a scene in My Fair Lady where Eliza goes back to hang out with all the other flower girls, and they don’t even recognize her. She still wants to be friends with them, but she’s changed so much, she makes everyone uncomfortable and has to leave. She finds herself trapped between two worlds, unable to feel real belonging to either. While I based some of my Jenaissance on the play, that wasn’t the part I’d hoped to emulate.

  If I want to make a good impression at Authors Night, my renaissance needs to be genuine, and I have to stop worrying about the class part of the equation. I mean, I’m not going to outclass a bunch of millionaires—particularly with eight dollars in my purse—and trying to would be an exercise in futility. I need to find a way to be a kinder, gentler, more articulate me. I want to be the kind of me who doesn’t have to recount a reality show moment to best capture my feeling on a particular subject. And I don’t want other authors to roll their eyes after it’s over, saying, “What was up with that Lancaster chick? Obnoxious!”