My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover If Not Being A Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or, a Culture-Up Manifesto

by Jen Lancaster

  Stacey and I go out for pancakes in the morning. When I note that my breakfast probably would be better topped with a bacon-maple butter compound, she smirks in response.

  I totally love when they do Latin dances on So You Think You Can Dance, and I’m all excited to see what I imagine are a bunch of flamenco dancers with all the flounce-y shirts and castanets and eyeliner. Stacey used to work here and still knows everyone, and since we have time before the curtain rises, she takes me around to meet important people.

  All of the Important People gush about how wonderful Marta Carrasco is, which piques my interest. And, frankly, my curiosity, because each of them mentions we might not want to sit in the first few rows. As soon as the production designer we’re talking to steps out of earshot to eat a quick dinner35 before the show, I ask Stacey, “Why do they keep saying stuff about splash zones? Is this going to turn into a Gallagher show complete with sledgehammers and watermelons?”

  Part of Stacey’s old job was to teach local gang members to appreciate the Bard, so her patience level is infinite, and this isn’t the dumbest question she’s ever been asked.36 “No, I’m sure it has more to do with sight lines. My guess is we don’t want to be too close so we can take in all the action on the stage.” I’m glad for the warning because I’ll surely be uncomfortable if I can see the dancers’ underpants.

  We find some seats toward the back, and as my eyes adjust to the light, I take in the detail on the elaborate set. The backdrop is kind of fascinating—on the far wall, there are dozens of antique white garments hung from ropes at various angles, including a straitjacket. Staircases lead to a platform midstage with lots of little doors built into it.

  Four old, crooked bookcases are spotlit at the front of the stage, and they’re filled with a variety of items, like inflated latex hands and sparkly shoes and Kewpie doll heads. They take on a sinister quality grouped together like that. Honestly? The set kind of reminds me of my grandmother’s attic. She lived in a creepy old house, and because she lived through the Depression, she tended to keep everything she got her hands on, and I mean everything. As soon as I took my first psych class in college, I diagnosed her with a hoarding disorder, but my mother said I was being ridiculous. Yes, because it’s perfectly normal to keep three broken fridges in the kitchen for thirty years. My bad.

  The accumulated junk in my grandparents’ house wasn’t what made the attic so eerie, though—it was the perfectly preserved, neatly wallpapered bedroom up there in the middle of all the chaos of forgotten possessions. I once asked my noni if she ever kept hostages up there, but she told me I was being fresh.37

  Anyway, I feel like these are odd surroundings in which to showcase flamenco dancing, but what do I know? The lights in the theater go down, the audience politely applauds, and then the show starts. The bookcases slowly part and a pretty woman slides onto the stage on a rolly chair with a rolly desk, and we watch her smoke an entire cigarette.38 She doesn’t dance; she just smokes.

  Then other people in vintage outfits crawl onto the stage, except for one lady who’s toting an IV pole. When IV Lady squeezes her bag of saline, it laughs.

  No one dances.

  The sound track is some French song that gets louder and faster and includes the sound of puppies yelping. I lean into Stacey and whisper, “Boy, if Loki were here, he’d be having a fit!”

  As the music gets louder, the smoking lady begins to twirl in her rolly chair and her rolly desk. Someone gets slapped, but no one dances.

  A man enters stage right in a tutu, which is promising for dancing, and a scrunched-up baby mask, which is not. Someone slaps him, and then there’s a whole bunch of shouting in Spanish. Everyone in the audience laughs, except for those of us who thought it would be très amusante to take French in high school.

  A woman then comes out with her head in a grandfather clock and sways back and forth.

  The swaying is the closest we’ve come so far to dancing.

  I’m beginning to suspect I’m not going to see any flamenco tonight.

  More puppies yelp while two shirtless guys fly onstage with some woman in a ball gown. She gets thrown back and forth between them. Then a different girl in a Mad Men-looking dress enters stage left. She begins to shout in Spanish, and I lean into Stacey, saying, “Seriously, if I wanted to hear people yell in Spanish, I could have just stayed in my living room and opened the windows.”

  After she finishes shouting, the whole audience laughs except for me. Apparently she said something hilarious, but I have no idea what. Stacey’s Spanish is a bit less rudimentary than mine, and she says she thinks the woman was reading a recipe.

  Yes. Because that makes perfect sense.

  A different woman comes out in a ball gown and a gas mask and drops rubber babies out of her dress as she slowly walks by. The tutu baby man then picks up the babies and slaps them.

  There’s still no dancing.

  A giant Velcro mattress is wheeled out and placed in a vertical position in the center of the stage. A lady in Velcro pajamas throws herself at it for a while. Every time she hits it, her hair fans out, and it looks like she’s been electrocuted. This is my favorite part so far.

  Tutu Baby Man revisits the stage and shouts more39 while a couple of guys in pajama bottoms at the front of the stage yank another woman’s shirt down and begin to slap all her naked bits.

  Have I mentioned the no-dancing part yet?

  And why was I not warned there would be nudity?

  In my peripheral vision, I see Stacey stifling her laugher because she knows I’m so prudish that I actually spell out words that are even vaguely sexual. She catches my eye and mouths, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea!”

  Then Marta, the lead dancer, comes out wearing a circus-tent-sized shirtdress. She strips from the waist up and begins to make out with a statue for a while.

  Like, a long while.

  Then the whole stage is covered with an enormous sheet of dry-cleaning film, and Marta and her naked self writhe against it for a very long, naked while. She almost dances but is likely too busy being naked and trying not to suffocate when she breathes in the film.

  I guess this is why they put all those warnings on the plastic.

  Then the entire ensemble assembles onstage with giant plates of watermelon,40 and they spit chunks of it into the air and at the audience. They pour water all over themselves and swim around on the wet, watermelon-y floor.

  And then it is over.

  With no goddamned dancing whatsoever.

  The audience goes batshit crazy with applause and gives the “dancers” an extra-long standing ovation while I try to make sense of what the hell I just saw.

  As soon as everyone finally finishes applauding, I turn to Stacey and say, “You realize this is exactly why my side keeps cutting funding to the arts. And by the way, I totally called the watermelon.”

  Later we find out that Marta Carrasco and company were retiring certain pieces and that what we saw was essentially a medley of her previous work. Stacey tells me, “By cutting them up and mixing them around, the continuity was lost, as was most of the dancing. In the original context, you’d have seen that the smoking and desk spinning in the beginning was her interpretation of losing a job and having nothing but time on her hands.”

  I nod. “Now that I’d understand. When I got laid off, I remember I’d sit in my desk chair and spin and spin when I was trying to think.”

  “Exactly. And I give you props for not leaving the moment the first n-i-p-p-l-e made its Goodman Theatre debut,” she adds.

  “You know what’s funny? Even though I had no frigging clue what any of the performance meant, I like having had the privilege of getting a glimpse into an artist’s mind. I mean, what I saw was disturbing and dark—”

  “And watermelon-y.”

  “And watermelon-y,” I agree, “but the experience wasn’t without value, you know? Like, my world is a tiny bit bigger for having seen that.”

  Stacey seems pleased. “
That’s what I always used to try to get my students to see. The value in a performance like that isn’t understanding every nuance the artist implies. It’s the interpretation and feelings you get from it.”

  “Well, mostly I ended up thinking I wasn’t in on the joke. But there’s a part of me that feels like I learned something from the performance, even if it’s how to fight my way out of a giant dry-cleaning bag.”

  Seriously, something about this performance yanked off the big white dustcover that’s been protecting the critical thinking part of my brain. There were no producers here to explain every little nuance of the action via a single-camera confessional, and it was up to me to interpret what I saw. I had to engage.

  Intellectually, I sort of feel like I did the first time I ran on the treadmill. Most of my body was screaming no . . . but a tiny part of me shouted yes.

  from the desk of the logan square - bucktown neighborhood association41

  Dear Neighbor,

  Remember this weekend when you idled right outside my bedroom window? And you played shitty house music as loud as your fifteen-year-old Buick’s radio would allow? With your bass turned up so high my fillings rattled? For, like, twenty minutes? At 3:00 a.m.? And when I went outside to glower at you, all you did was move two spaces up? Remember that?

  No?

  Too bad.

  Because that’d go a long way in explaining why I was organizing my purse right beneath your open bedroom window late last night, playing Natasha Bedingfield as loud as my Harman Kardon speakers would allow.

  By the way, I don’t have a day job.

  But from the looks of your pajamas, you do.

  Check and mate, bitch.

  Best,

  Jen Cognito, Association President

  P.S. Next time, I’m breaking out my Wham CD. Consider this a warning.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Do You Have Love for New York?

  I’ve reached a new height in procrastination.

  Thirty-four thousand feet, to be exact.

  With a book deadline looming, I decide the most effective use of my time is to join my friends in New York for a girls’ weekend instead of sitting down at my computer and finally putting a dent in my book.

  My friends planned this trip last year but I knew I’d be on deadline, so I begged off months ago. All that changed last week when I got an e-mail from an associate producer working for the Travel Channel. She was in charge of finding residents to appear on a Chicago edition of Samantha Brown’s Great Weekends show and would I be interested?

  Would I be interested?

  In seeing my enormous head on national cable television?

  On what’s technically a reality show?

  Which in turn might be seen by the producers of Survivor, who will immediately appreciate how snarky I am and fall all over themselves to cast me because even though I trend a little acerbic,42 I’m way more likable than that mean girl Courtney from the China season. Sure, she came up with the greatest zinger in reality show history, describing the bemulleted lunch lady as someone who “sucked at life,” but still . . . I’m pretty sure I’d be better. Plus, I have some strongs left inside me from all the working out I did for Such a Pretty Fat, so I would kick ass in the challenges, especially those I had to throw my weight into.

  Also? I rock the house at Scrabulous and can totally solve puzzles.43 And the plotting and the scheming and the cultivation of minions that goes along with Survivor game play? I mean, I was the rush chairman of my sorority—believe me, I can bully people into doing unpleasant shit. You think those kids wanted to cut literally thousands of stars out of aluminum foil?

  The only problem could be that with my big, fat mouth, I may eventually get on other survivors’ nerves, especially when I keep crying about how bad my hair looks—unless we were in the desert, in which case I would be fabulous—so there’s a possibility I wouldn’t make it to the tribal merge, but who cares?

  Yeah, I wrote back to the associate producer, I think I might be interested.

  (Sidebar? Much as I’d like to be on television, I’d never want a reality show where cameras followed me in my everyday life because I like being married to Fletch. Seriously, look at the Hogans, Carmen and Dave, Nick and Jessica, the tattoo-necked guy and Miss USA, Britney and Kevin, Danny Bonaduce and his stupid wife, and the Osbournes. Everyone divorced!44 Okay, fine, Ozzy and Sharon made it, but their kids went to rehab!45 Try to give me my own TV show and I say no, no, no.)

  The AP told me everything sounded good after a preliminary chat, but she said a New York-based executive producer needed to meet me before any decisions could be made. Then the EP and I went through all the machinations of getting together, but unfortunately his scouting trip to Chicago was too hectic, and at the last minute, we couldn’t coordinate.

  My desire to see my enormous head on national cable television transcends most rational thought, so after our missed connection, I told him, “Hey, I’m going to be in New York next weekend with my girlfriends—why don’t we meet up while I’m there?” Seriously, I’m as crafty as Yau-man when he made that fake hidden-immunity idol on Survivor: Fiji or when Eval Dick spent the week terrorizing the Big Brother house and STILL got Eric to vote to keep him.

  The producer agreed, which meant that I found myself scrambling for a ticket with a week’s notice and suddenly felt a tad less brilliant. As I clicked around Orbitz, I winced at the last-minute prices and was almost ready to give up when Fletch suggested I check our banking rewards points. I logged on and found we had enough saved up for a nonstop round-trip ticket. Victory!

  “Aw, wait,” I said, remembering. “I can’t use these points.”

  “Why not?” Fletch asked, reading over my shoulder. “I don’t see any restrictions or blackout dates.” Since apparently Fletch standing next to me constitutes a party, Maisy hopped off her couch and wedged her way under my desk. She perched her head on my knee and gazed up soulfully at me. I began to stroke her silky ears.

  “Yeah, but if I waste these for a flight, then I won’t have enough to get the reward I really wanted. Check this out.” I pulled up the page and showed Fletch an image of a group of fit, attractive people in matching pink life vests careening through a deep canyon on a churning river. “See how much fun that blond family’s having on those rapids?”

  He scanned the page. “You want to redeem award points for a trip to the Grand Canyon? Wow. Never thought I’d see you opt for an active vacation.” Whenever we’ve gone to Vegas, I’ve parked myself at the pool from ten a.m. until six p.m., taking every meal in my lawn chair and only getting up to swim and use the bathroom.46

  “Oh, please, I don’t want the trip; I want the boat!”

  Fletch squinted at the screen and then back at me. “What the hell are you going to do with a twelve-foot raft?”

  “Pfft, white-water rafting, dude!”

  Fletch drew in a really big breath and slowly released it through pursed lips, causing a little plume of dust to fly up off my desk and onto Maisy’s sweet head. I brushed it away, prompting her to give my knees a thorough licking. “You have any idea how to operate a white-water raft?”

  “I’m sure it comes with an instruction booklet. And how hard could it be? You sit, it goes. Kind of like a riding lawn mower. Easy-peasy.”

  “You have any idea how to operate a riding lawn mower?”

  “No, but that’s beside the point. Forrest Gump could drive a riding mower. Think about it—he was s-l-o-w.”47

  “Your logic is irrefutable.” He rocked back on his heels, placing a hand on my shoulder. I detected a hint of smug about the eyes but chose to ignore it.

  I pointed at a line of text on the screen. “Says here this is a twelve-foot rigid inflatable. I’m not sure what the means, but it sounds awesome!”

  “Awesome,” he agreed. “And you plan to white-water raft . . . where? The wild rapids of the Chicago River? Gonna perfect your sweep stroke while you cruise past the steel recycling plant on Elston? Or
navigate the strainer at Navy Pier?”

  “There’s got to be somewhere in Illinois to go, right? Oh, but we’d have to get a couple of those silly little helmets first.48 We might have enough points for those, too.” I tabbed through the other pages of rewards.

  “Sure, sure, that all sounds like a fine plan. But, um . . . where will you store your twelve-foot rigid inflatable?”

  “In the rafters up in the garage. Naturally, I’d have to deflate it first. Also, I’d have to get rid of the baby pool currently up there, but I’d be willing to make that sacrifice.” Maisy lay down on my feet in a show of solidarity. “See?” I asked, pointing to the dog. “She supports my decision fully. Remind me to get her a doggie life jacket so she can come with us.”

  “I’m certainly glad you’ve secured the dog’s vote. But tell me, you plan to reinflate the raft . . . how?”

  “Bicycle pump, duh.”

  “Of course, bicycle pump. You could blow up your raft while you watch television.”

  I nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  “Our living room’s only eleven feet long.”

  “I’ll angle it.”

  “We used a twelve-foot rigid inflatable in the Army. Took seven men on either side to paddle it. Wasn’t easy paddling, either; each stroke of the oar was like lifting a shovel full of wet sand. So, if fourteen fit men had trouble moving the raft from point A to point B, how do you plan on making it go?”

  “I have plenty of strongs, and the rapids will do most of the work for me. Plus, Maisy can sit in back and provide ballast.” At the sound of her name, her tail began to thump.

  “Well,” Fletch said, clapping his hands together, “I can see that you’ve thought long and hard about this. Tell you what. I insist you give up your opportunity to see yourself on television and have a great weekend with your friends in New York to get this raft. Here, let’s get it right now.” He scooted me out of the way and went for the keyboard.