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

by Jen Lancaster

  Which, ha! I knew this book was fucking torture.

  In short?

  It’s not me. It’s you(dora).223

  And then . . . I opened a dictionary.

  I wasn’t aware at first that tortuous means “full of twists and bends— circuitous” and not “causing one to feel tortured.” Yet I stand by my opinion.

  After throwing my paperback across the room for the umpteenth time, I decided to rest my brain with a little television. That the television just so happened to be tuned into the premier episode of The Real World: Cancún was kismet.224

  Which is really just an extremely TORTUOUS way of saying that back in my real world, I agree with Stacey about the belly dancers. “Yeah, I don’t want to eat a big plate of lamb with half-naked ladies showing off the kind of six-pack abs I’ll never achieve by eating big plates of lamb. And yes, will you please recruit the troops?”

  Stacey’s in charge of rounding up our friends, so it’s my job to make the reservation. When I call, the hostess asks me if I want a regular table or if I want to sit on cushions on the floor. Naturally, I choose the floor.

  We arrive around seven thirty to find that other than Gina, Stacey, Tracey, and me, the place is completely empty. At seven thirty. On a Thursday. We find this vaguely troubling.

  I tell the hostess we have a reservation, and she looks all pensive for a moment, like she’s not sure if she can squeeze us in. Perhaps they’re expecting a tour bus of diners at any moment? Eventually she brings us to a spot in the front window. Our table stands about a foot off the ground and is made of some kind of hammered metal. There are a few layers of Persian rugs underneath, and it’s surrounded by a dozen pillows in various shades of crimson.225 We all stand there for a minute, quietly negotiating exactly who has the best knees and strongest back and is most able to climb up, over, around, and under to get into her place in the far corner. Tracey’s back surgery was more recent than Gina’s knee replacement, but somehow Tracey loses and gets stuck in the corner. Personally, I feel like I’m having hot flashes226 and insist on the end, since there’s better ventilation here.

  Wanting to stay as authentic as possible, I order a glass of Turkish white wine, which tastes similar to a Sutter Home 2007 sauvignon blanc. Like, remarkably similar. Suspiciously similar. I’m not sure if this is a ruse or if shitty wine is an international phenomenon.

  As Stacey’s the only member of our party who’s been to Turkey, we ask her to order for the table. Which isn’t to say that I find this menu intimidating. I can totally navigate it myself. There’s lamb, lamb, more lamb, and some chicken. Certainly I understand why there’s no pork, and secretly I’m disappointed there’s no turkey. I realize turkeys probably aren’t indigenous to Turkey, and yet a part of me wishes I could say I had Turkish turkey.

  Come on. It’s funny.227

  Regardless, I’m now a huge number-one-fan-with-a-big-foam-finger of Mediterranean food, and I’m learning that places like Turkey and Palestine and Israel have a ton of overlap in their cuisines, if not in ideology. They all pretty much feature the same kinds of dishes with slightly different labels, which makes me wonder if the whole Middle East schism isn’t some ancient, elaborate “tastes great” versus “less filling” scenario gone terribly awry.

  We get a big sampler platter of hummus, stuffed grape leaves, olives and feta, and tabouleh, which is a finely chopped salad of mint, parsley, onion, tomato, and cracked wheat. I’m normally fussy about tabouleh because sometimes the wheat has the consistency of tiny rocks, and I feel like I’m eating sand.

  We also get a plate of manti, a Turkish ravioli, filled with meat, tossed in tomato sauce, and drizzled with yogurt. Stacey said in Istanbul the manti were teeny—smaller than a dime—but these are the size of a quarter. Everyone at the table pronounces them a tad Chef Boyardee. Despite all my recent culinary education, that’s still not necessarily a bad thing in my book.

  The service is surprisingly slow considering we’re the only ones here. Our dinner takes forever to arrive, and when it does, it’s only adequate. The idea of the components appeals—the kebab format, the way the vegetables are grilled, the spice blends—but I’m unimpressed with the execution. It’s still palatable, though, so I imagine if I were tasting well-made Turkish food in a restaurant that wasn’t completely deserted, I’d go crazy for it.

  The accommodations, however, are less than . . . accommodating.

  “Is anyone else’s ass sweating?” I ask.

  “Those etiquette lessons are really paying off, eh, Jen?” Stacey teases me.

  “Seriously, is anyone else getting boiling hot sitting on all these damn rugs?” I wonder.

  “They’re a little warm,” Tracey agrees.

  Gina chimes in, “I thought I was having a hot flash, too.”

  “I’m more concerned about how musty they are,” Stacey counters. “Remember, Febreeze can be your friend.”

  “My knees are killing me,” Gina admits. “I’m going to get up for a while.” She extricates herself from our table and stands next to us in the archway.

  “And I’ve lost all feeling in my back,” Tracey adds.

  Shaking herself to stop the pins and needles in her limbs, Gina observes, “This is probably why most restaurants opt for full-sized tables and chairs, rather than ottomans.”

  “Did you eat on the floor in Turkey?” I ask Stacey.

  Stacey frowns a bit. “Not so much. We stayed at the Four Seasons. Mostly they just had regular tables.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry, guys, I picked a lousy place. And we’re probably all too old to be sitting around cross-legged on the floor anyway,” I apologize.

  Tracey says, “Hey, it’s nice to get together anyway. We’ll just go somewhere different next time. Maybe we can do . . . what else is on your list?”

  “Tons of stuff,” I reply. “I have so much more world to eat. What are you thinking?”

  Everyone starts talking at once. Tracey suggests, “How about Costa Rican?”

  “Done it,” I reply. “Dinner was great and the lizano salsa was surprisingly delicious. Totally didn’t mind the spice. The thing is, when I called to order delivery, I realized I didn’t have cash, so I asked if I could use my credit card. And they’re all ‘Oh, no, we don’t take plastic. But you can write a check as long as you have your driver’s license and social security number on it.’ And I’m like, ‘You’re kidding. I haven’t seen a restaurant that’s accepted checks since college.’ ”

  “They’d take a check?” Gina is shocked. “I haven’t written a check for dinner since the eighties.”

  I bang my hand down on our metal table and the water in my glass sloshes over the side. “That’s what I’m saying! Weird, right? Then I got all suspicious and thought, ‘Those bastards are going to take my social and try to sell my identity down in Costa Rica.’ So I went to the closet and fished through all my coat pockets and found enough cash to cover delivery and tip.”

  Stacey sighs. As the person who spends more time with me than anyone but my husband, she’s well acquainted with my penchant for conspiracy theories. In Jennsylvania, every helicopter is black. “Jen, Costa Rica has a population that’s ninty-six percent literate, their unemployment rate is half of ours, and they have some of the most gorgeous terrain in the world. I doubt anyone at the burrito joint wants to steal your identity.”

  Smugly, I reply, “I guess we’ll never have to find out.”

  “Have you tried Indian?” Tracy asks.

  “We had Indian together,” Gina says. “Hey, lemme take a good look at you.” She peers down at me. “Have your eyebrows grown back in yet?”

  “They’re getting there.”

  Stacey says, “What about Japanese?”

  “Stacey, I’ve had Japanese with you.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “We’re all going to have to start taking that Geritol with memory boosters soon, aren’t we?” I moan.

  Stacey then proposes Lebanese, but given how underwhelmed
everyone is with tonight’s offerings, no one jumps on this suggestion, although she and I reconfirm our date to hit her favorite Lebanese place for lunch soon.

  “What about Vietnamese?” Gina asks.

  The rest of the group finds this to be a capital idea. And I agree, too, mostly because whatever the ladies at my nail shop have for lunch smells amazing.

  “Then it’s settled,” Tracey confirms.

  “So . . . ,” I say, “that brings us to the most important question of the night. Who’s watching The Real World?”

  Tracey is shocked. “That’s still ON? I thought it ended years ago.”

  And Stacey says, “I haven’t watched it since they were in San Francisco.”

  I slump in my seat. “You people hurt my heart. This season kicks ass. Don’t get me wrong; I’m only watching because Eudora Welty sucks.”

  This comment requires some tortuous backstory on my part.

  I continue. “It’s like the people they’ve chosen are caricatures of caricatures. They’ve moved so far away from the original concept of the show, it’s an entirely different entity. Remember how once on The Simpsons Marge said, ‘FOX turned into a hard-core porn network so gradually, I didn’t even notice!’ Same thing. I mean, I bet these little bastards have never even heard of Eric Nies or The Grind. No one ever has a meaningful conversation or a decent fight for that matter. Remember when Pedro was in a rage because he couldn’t live with Puck anymore, saying he compromised his health and sanity? That was riveting! The biggest drama these idiots ever contend with is whether or not someone’s ‘fake.’ I mean, really? Fake? This is the end-all, be-all of insults now? Give me a fucking break. And there’s this one guy on it who’s supposed to be all punk rock, but when he got kicked off the show for being too big of a dumb ass to set an alarm clock, he was crying like a little bitch—”

  Gina interrupts, “You mean Joey?”

  My eyes light up. “You’re watching? YAY!!”

  “Yeah, but you know what’s sad?” Gina says slowly, shaking her dark curls. “We were the target demographic when the damn series premiered, and now we’re old enough to be these kids’ parents.”

  No.

  NO. That can’t be right.

  “Wait, what? No. These guys are, what, early twenties? I guess, yeah, Derek celebrated his twenty-first birthday a couple of weeks ago. Major drama. Boy troubles. Anyway, if he’s twenty-one, that means I’d have been . . .” I furiously do the math. Fingers and toes may or may not be involved. “Oh, God. They don’t know what The Grind is because they were three when it premiered. Which means I’d have been twenty-one when some of these kids were born. Which means I actually could be their parent.”

  I stare at the table in stunned silence.

  I guess I was wrong.

  Apparently there IS something in this world that sucks more than Eudora Welty.

  We’re having Lebanese today, and there’s almost no difference between it and other kinds of Mediterranean cuisine, save for the liberal use of sumac, which is kind of a bumpy red, sour spice that Stacey had to assure me was not poison but it totally sounds poisonous but I guess they wouldn’t be in business long if they made a habit of poisoning customers but other than the sumac everything was like every other Mediterranean place, which by the way totally encompasses the Middle East but no one actually says it’s the Middle East, kind of like how the rugs are called Persian and not Iranian because that’s not a selling point and anyway the hummus was like any other hummus and the falafel was like any other falafel and of course there was lamb because there’s always lamb and the Middle East must have as many sheep as they do grains of sand as in there are so many that they cause traffic jams but instead of horns all you hear is “Baa! Baa!” because they’re frigging everywhere kind of like Bank of America ATMs and it’s probably a lot like in the movie You Don’t Mess with the Zohan where Adam Sandler is always using hummus for everything like brushing his teeth and styling his hair only in real life everyone would be washing their glasses with lamb and waxing their cars with lamb and when something great happens, they’re all “That’s LAMB-tastic!” and I had Lebanese coffee, which is like Cuban coffee on crack, which is like regular coffee on crack, meaning it’s like coffee to the second power and I had a whole pot of it because they put cardamom in it which made me exclaim, “This must be what it was like to drink coffee with the three wise men!” and then I interrupted myself and said, “No, wait, this is what Jesus tastes like!” and did I mention I drank a whole pot, which probably translates into about twenty regular cups of Joe and I told Stacey I’d turned into Cornholio and she didn’t understand what I meant and I was all “How can there be a pop culture reference that I get and you don’t since we’re kind of the same person except for the politics, pets, and pearls?” and she said that when the show was on she was working full-time and going to grad school and married and also working part-time to make ends meet, so there wasn’t a lot of room in her schedule to watch cartoons and now I kind of think I can fly.

  Comin’ down, man.

  from the desk of ms. jennifer ann lancaster

  Dear Karen,

  I forgot to give you the number of where we’re going to be in New York, so it’s taped next to the phone in the kitchen.

  Thanks again for being so flexible about us adding three kittens to the cat-sitting reservation. I think you’ll find that they’re loving and sweet and should be no problem whatsoever. Your check with the new total is attached. Please enjoy this bottle of wine on the counter, too.

  Thanks,

  Jen Lancaster

  P.S. Out of curiosity, are your shots up-to-date?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I Love New York 2

  “We’re here for our panel van, please.”

  Fletch and I have just flown into LaGuardia. The Hamptons are two hours away, and we’ll be on our way as soon as we pick up our rental car. I thought a convertible at the beach would be really fun, so that’s what I reserved. However, Fletch has an unbroken string of bad luck when it comes to rental cars and has never once gotten what he ordered. He’s sure that there’s no way we’ll get a convertible, and instead we’ll be stuck with the only vehicle left on the lot—a big white contractor panel van.

  “Stop it,” I hiss at him before turning my attention to the clerk. “Last name is Lancaster—we have a reservation.” I hand over my credit card and driver’s license while the clerk puts my information into the computer.

  “Here we go, Miss Lancaster. I have a LeBaron convertible waiting for you.”

  “Ha!” I bark at Fletch. “I told you so!”

  We complete the transaction and place our bags in the car, and we’re ready to go. All we have to do is hook up the GPS.

  Twenty minutes and one profoundly explicit string of profanity later, we’re on the road. Fletch has chosen to drive because I’m too slow and too cautious, and I prefer to have both hands free in order to flip birds when needed. Yet I don’t need to make obscene gestures at anyone, not even once. I’m deeply impressed by how much more polite New York drivers are than Chicago drivers. That’s not a bet I’d have taken. At home, braking is for cowards and turn signals for the weak. George Wallace says anything going less than sixty miles per hour in Chicago is considered a house. But when other drivers here see a car trying to merge, they get out of the way, rather than considering the move a thrown gauntlet.

  I don’t know what to expect in the Hamptons. None of my friends has ever been there, since it’s not a Midwestern thing. Depending on traffic, today’s drive could take three hours. If you start the clock when we left our house this morning, by the time we get to our hotel, we’ll have been traveling for more than nine hours. I guess Chicagoans would rather spend nine hours going somewhere else.228

  The other weird thing about the Hamptons is there aren’t any hotels, per se—you won’t see a Hyatt or a Holiday Inn, and if you run into a Hilton, most likely she’ll be walking Tinkerbell on the beach. New Yorkers have t
ried to explain the concept of the Hamptons to me—essentially, it’s a tourist area that goes to considerable lengths to discourage tourism. People either own or rent houses up there, and the expectation is that nonresidents should stay with friends. A few inns exist but are priced so stratospherically that no riffraff could possibly infiltrate.

  Yet we’re going anyway.

  After we get to the inn and unpack, I insist we go to the ocean. We’ve got parking passes to five different beaches, and since the beach pass costs us a (refundable) seven-hundred-dollar deposit, I’m not about to let it go to waste.

  Before we hit the waterfront, we drive around downtown East Hampton for a while to get our bearings. What looks like any typical sleepy little beach town proves deceptive upon closer examination. In place of all the cheesy T-shirt shacks and penny-candy places and ice-cream shops are satellite stores of Catherine Malandrino, Coach, Tiffany & Co., Michael Kors, and Gucci. To be fair, you can still buy candy here at Dylan’s Candy Bar229 but you’d better have more than a handful of pennies.

  I have no plans to shop because I don’t need any Theory or Alice + Olivia jeans.230 Regardless, this is the quaintest Main Street I’ve ever seen. The sidewalks are so clean they’re practically polished and almost every store is fronted by huge, blooming flowers. The Ralph Lauren store’s halfway hidden by gigantic white bead-board troughs brimming with violet-blue hydrangeas, each blossom as big as my head.

  I feel like I’m on another planet as no one on the street is shouting or swearing loud enough for children to hear. Mostly I just see deeply tanned families, languidly strolling the boulevard under a canopy of mature trees. And they’re all wearing madras plaid.