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

  I figure if I can get past my discomfort—you know, just dive in—I might find some value in it. Plus, it’s easier than going to a museum.

  I’m lying here, trying to clear my mind. But the thing is, the second the masseuse turns off the light, my thoughts begin to race:

  I wish the masseuse had eucalyptus oil. I hate lavender and my only other choice was lemongrass, which smells nice, but it totally makes me want another one of those lemongrass mojitos we had when Stacey invited me to the opening of that new hotel. I guess now that I think about it, it was kind of disrespectful for me to mock the PR girls for going on and on about the giant tuna they were going to carve into fresh sushi. But the second we walked in, everyone was all, “Did you see the fish? Did you see the fish? You have to see the fish!” like it was the second coming of Christ or something. So, I ask you, how was I not supposed to bend over by its stillintact head and take a MySpace-style self-portrait with it? Hilarious! And maybe I shouldn’t have loudly announced, “Let’s go eat our sandwiches over by those models so we’ll feel extra-good about ourselves!” but come on, it was pretty funny. Stacey thought so and OW, that fucking HURT and HOLY OW, that hurt even more.

  You wouldn’t think this tiny little masseuse would have such strong hands, but she does. Bet she would kick so much ass at a thumb-wrestling match. Okay, she’s touching my shoulders, and OW, I don’t like that AT ALL and now she’s massaging my head and HEY, LADY, YOUR HANDS HAVE OIL ON THEM AND I JUST WASHED MY HAIR. Oh, great, I’m going to be a big, greasy lemon head for the rest of the day because I am not showering again because I just showered an hour ago and I have better things to do than lather, rinse, repeat all the damn day and I kind of still have a book due and JESUS CHRIST, you are going to pop my head clean off!

  I’m paying a buck a minute for this?

  Okay, okay, I’m not being terribly Eat, Pray, or Love right now. I feel more Eat, Aim, Shoot. I need to clear my thoughts and relax and be in the moment but it’s really hard to do when this little person is SNAPPING MY SPINAL CORD. OW!! And how am I supposed to relax when I’m only wearing underpants and a sheet? I know this person is professional and sees people undressed for a living, yet THIS IS STILL REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE FOR ME IN EVERY SENSE.

  You know what helps me relax? A shirt. Some pants. Maybe FULL UNDERWIRE SUPPORT. And what’s the deal with this music? It’s just one long pan flute solo? Is it more than one guy playing? When does he take a break? And why does it have to be all New Age-y? Why can’t they play opera? From what Poppy says, opera is very nice and it tells a story that maybe I could concentrate on while this little tiny person is MURDERING ME ONE HANDFUL OF BACK FAT AT A TIME.

  I wonder if she’d rather work on a person who’s heavier than a really skinny person? I bet massaging them would be like gripping a Baggie full of chicken bones, while I probably feel like a Stretch Armstrong doll. Do they still make those? And what’d they fill them with, anyway? I remember how mad my grade school friend Donna was when I bit a tiny hole in her Stretch doll to see what he was made of, and if I recall, it was some kind of green goo and MOTHER OF CHRIST, I THINK MY ARM’S DISLOCATED NOW. You know what I like? I like when I’m lying on the bed on my stomach reading and my six-pound cat Maggie walks on my back. Sometimes she makes little biscuits and it’s soft and sweet and DOESN’T FEEL LIKE TORTURE. FOR GOD’S SAKE WHY NOT JUST WATERBOARD ME WHILE YOU’RE AT IT?

  Um . . . yeah.

  Apparently I still don’t like massages.

  But I do have something new to talk about. So there’s that.

  Last year, Fletch and I agreed to make the big move out to the suburbs. However, we’ve yet to decide which one is the real us. We hemmed and hawed so much we had to renew our lease to buy more time. But this is it—when this lease is over, we’re leaving the (773) for good.

  Last weekend we were up in Winnetka looking at a stately stucco home within walking distance of the lake. The house was at the top end of our budget, and we’re not quite ready to make an offer, but we took a peek anyway.

  “I don’t know about this place, Fletch,” I said.

  “Why not? It’s practically perfect,” he replied, having already mentally set up his media room in the finished basement. “Too expensive?”

  “Nah, that’s not it. First of all, where are the rats? I don’t see evidence of a single rodent. If Loki doesn’t have a backyard stocked with vermin, how’s he going to keep up his excellent killin’ skills?”67

  “You make a fine point,” he agreed, getting into the spirit. “I’ve noticed there’s no garbage on the sidewalk—what are the rats supposed to eat once we import them?”

  “Listen.” I paused for a second to take in all the quiet. “The windows are open and cars keep driving by, but none of them is blasting salsa music. Where’s my relentless mariachi serenade?”

  “No thumping bass line yet, either. How are we supposed to enjoy other people’s music if they don’t share it with us?” he wondered.

  “Worst of all, what if one of us suddenly develops an interest in illegal drugs? Place like this, you can’t just walk out front and buy crack. Serious inconvenience.”

  Then we drove back to the city, laughing all the way until we got to our depressing neighborhood and still-squalid home. Then everything was a lot less funny.

  I feel like once we figure out where to settle in for good, and after I complete this manuscript, only then can I get down to the business of fixing what’s wrong with me.

  Finally.

  “What was that thump?”

  “Was that a thump? Sounded more like a crash to me.”

  Fletch and I are in the living room, drinking coffee and watching FOX News. We’re heckling every story we see Stadler- and Waldorf-style, which makes this a pretty typical Saturday. We planned to look at houses today, but we’re in the middle of a vicious September rainstorm and neither of us wants to brave the expressway in a monsoon. Plus, I’m already two weeks overdue on mymanuscript and I’ve got to get it done,68 so I’m in for the day.

  “You really want to debate the semantics of the noise we just heard instead of getting up to inspect it? Oh, hello, Mr. Breaking-and-Entering criminal! We’re in here! Come and murder us!” I singsong toward the back of the house. This might be funny if there hadn’t been a spate of B&Es in the neighborhood in the past few weeks.

  “’S fine,” Fletch assures me, eyes still on the screen.

  “Really?” I huff. “You’re not even going to get up? FINE YOURSELF.” I hurl myself out of my seat and stomp into the kitchen.

  “Can I have more coffee while you’re up?”

  “Can’t. Busy being stabbed,” I yell back. But there’s no evidence of breaking and entering. Or entering, anyway. Something definitely broke.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” I mutter to myself. I bend over to inspect the problem. One of our hardwired under-cabinet lights has just fallen out of the wall and into a puddle on the counter. “Swear to God, if that little bastard took a leak on here again, we’re having him for dinner.” Our surly cat Bones has taken to peeing up here lately. I assume this is how he expresses his unhappiness with the litter-box situation. I admit I haven’t provided the level of sanitation he normally requires, but ever since I got hit with a flying rat this winter, I seem to have lost my passion for keeping his toilet perfectly spotless.

  “What’s the problem in there?”

  “Light fell out of the wall.”

  Apparently this is too interesting—or his cup is too empty—not to see firsthand, and Fletch approaches from behind me while I furiously dry and decontaminate the counter. “Here, I’ll fix it.” He tries to place the fixture back up, lining the screws up with the holes in the wall, but it immediately falls out again. He tentatively touches the drywall underneath the cabinet . . . and his finger goes right through it.

  “This is soaked,” he reports.

  “How’d that little shit manage to wet the wall?” I wonder. “Did he back up to it? Does
he need to go to the vet?”

  “If Bones peed hard enough to saturate the wall, he needs a priest, not a doctor. This isn’t urine.”

  “Well, hurrah for us being slightly less squalid than anticipated! But if this isn’t pee, what’s been flooding the counter? Is this from the bathroom?” I ask.

  “Can’t be—we’re fifteen feet away from those pipes, and this is an exterior wall. This is coming from the roof over the back porch.”

  “Do we have a problem?” I fret.

  Fletch gives it a dismissive shrug. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Now let’s get some more coffee.”

  I head back to the living room, glancing at the wall over my shoulder. “Okay . . . if you’re sure.”

  “Trust me.”

  Does the statement “trust me” ever NOT become famous last words?

  Over the next few weeks we find out that not only is our roof leaking, but our foundation has cracked. Water has saturated the electrical panel and the back wall’s become structurally unsound, which is causing the porch—you know, the place where I’m supposed to finish writing my book—to sink.

  As in my house is sinking.

  Myhouseissinking.69

  This is bad.

  I’m in my office giving my manuscript one final read. I finish scanning the last page, click SAVE, and then SEND.

  That’s it.

  I’m finished!70

  I turn my attention to the two men in full hazmat suits who’re about to tear out the drywall ten feet away from me.

  “I bet you find a little bit of mold,” I tell them. “I’ve been really wheezy in here, and my eyes have totally been burning. The thing is? I kind of think it’s some kind of beneficial supermold because I’ve been able to concentrate in here like never before. Seriously, I’m talking crystal clear focus. I’m pretty sure it’s a penicillin-y strain of mold that’s like brain medicine. Which, really? Perfect timing because I’m about to take on a project that’ll require me to use my mind, like, all the time.”

  The two men look at me strangely, and then they each strap on respirators. “You might want to wait in the other room,” the older one says.

  “Okeydokey,” I reply, practically skipping off toward my television. But before I can even get past the opening credits of I Love Money, the younger mold-remediation guy comes in—pale and shaking—to say, “We opened the wall because we were going to start the cleanup in your office and OH, GOD THE MOLD, THERE WAS SO MUCH MOLD. OH, GOD, OH GOD, WE HAVE TO SEAL IT UP AND LEAVE RIGHT NOW.”

  Oh.

  God.

  I guess we’re moving.

  We have no choice.

  Now I need to find a new house.

  And probably pack, too.

  My cultural Jenaissance will have to go on hold indefinitely.

  Well, THAT was one enormous, six-week-long pain in the ass. I never want to see another cardboard box again.

  We have to stop at the old place one more time tonight to drop off the garage door opener. The old homestead looks so different now. They began major construction the day we moved out, and now the entire kitchen has been gutted because of the water leak. All forty-seven of my former pretty white cabinets can be found scattered throughout the wee first floor. My old landlords are such nice people and I feel awful for them.

  As I walk around the kitchen, I can see the wall where the cabinets had barely been hanging on to a rotten stud, surrounded by giant blooms of black mold. I know from looking around, there’s no way we could have stayed here. There’s too much damage.

  And then in a bittersweet moment, I’m vindicated for a year’s worth of argument.

  “Fletch, check it out!” I demand.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “In there, in that space between where the wall and floor meet. Do you see?”

  He peers into the open area and then recoils.

  “So you see it,” I confirm.

  He blanches. “Whoa.”

  What I’m pointing out are droppings. Not mouse droppings like he’d assured me, but rat droppings. Turds. Poop. Doody. Big, fat, filthy, disease-ridden rat scat. Gah. I’m so grossed out that if I had a gun right now, I might just put myself out of my own misery.

  “I guess you were right,” he grudgingly admits. “There really was a ratinourhouse.”

  I nod, but I don’t savor the win.

  To: jen_at_home

  From: stacey_at_home

  Subject: Monday

  You up to hit Desire Under the Elms with me Monday? My date had to cancel at the last minute.

  To: stacey_at_home

  From: jen_at_home

  Subject: RE: Monday

  Totally! What kind of food do they serve?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Property Ladder

  “Are you finally settled in?”

  “Yeah . . .” I trail off.

  “Do you love the new place?”

  “Yeah . . .” I respond unconvincingly.

  “Okay, what’s the problem? That house seems pretty nice, judging from the photos you posted.” I’m on the phone with Angie, and I can hear her huffing away in the background. I suspect she’s getting in a quick elliptical workout while we chat, as she doesn’t know how to avoid multitasking. One time we were talking and I could hear sawing. At first I thought a kid was snoring in the background, but it turns out she was on her hands-free phone, preparing for Halloween by building a six-foot-tall witch out of plywood from a pattern she’d seen in Martha Stewart’s magazine.

  We lucked into renting brand-new construction, so the chances of this house sinking are considerably reduced. The rooms are sunny and quiet, and there’s enough yard space for the dogs to run laps. They’re so thrilled that Maisy only pees indoors now to make a point.

  There’s space enough for me to have my own office in a room with big windows. The kitchen’s quite functional, with dark granite and cherry cabinets, both of which are perfect for masking dirt and the paw prints from cats who refuse to stay off the counters. And if we really love it here, we have the option to buy once our lease is up, thus settling the whole where-do-we-want-to-live dilemma. The best part is this house has all the benefits of a suburban homestead, but I still live only five minutes away from Stacey, and yet . . .

  “I’m not playing around with you, Lancaster. Cough it up.” Yeah, she’s definitely exercising. The endorphins make her aggressive.

  I hesitate. “Well, the new house is . . . boring, okay? It’s boring. I mean, technically we moved to what isn’t as good a neighborhood as the one we were in—”

  Angie barks but tries to cover it with a cough. “That was a good neighborhood?” Apparently the large retaining wall covered with gang graffiti across the street led her to believe otherwise.

  (Sidebar: I always wanted to go out there and, you know, disrespect the local Latin Kings by covering their crowns and tridents with arrows and my old sorority letters, but Fletch thought that was my worst idea yet. He was all, “What if they catch you? What would be your line of defense? Not inviting them to your mixer? Gossiping about their baggy pants and plain white T-shirts at the Phi Delt house?”71

  It didn’t matter in the end because you—meaning I—can’t buy spray paint in city limits. I grilled the unhelpful associate in the paint department at the home-improvement store about this stupid local ordinance. I tapped my loafered foot, adjusted my pearls, and repopped the collar on my Lacoste while we spoke. “I’m sorry. Do you think I’m going to stuff your spray paint in my Coach purse, drive home in my German car, and then start tagging walls?” The associate just stood there in his smock, looking scared, not saying anything.72

  I sigh and gaze out at my tidy little backyard. “Yeah, smarty-pants, we lived in Bucktown, which is superdesirable, even though we were in the weird little pocket of it that bordered Logan Square. Now we’re in the Square proper, which isn’t considered nearly as nice. That’s why we were able to rent something bigger and newer for about the same
price. The thing is, we’re in the very best part of the Square and . . . and . . . our neighbors suck.”

  “Aren’t you used to that?” I can’t tell if she’s snorting or just breathing hard.

  “No, I mean they suck in an entirely new way. We’ve got construction on one side, so no one even lives there. On the other side, we’ve got a house identical to ours. A lovely young couple lives there. They wave when we see them, and they’re always out raking leaves and stuff.”

  Angie begins to huff louder. The jury’s out as to whether she’s reaching a critical point in her workout or if she’s just getting annoyed. “Weren’t you going to put out a hit on the weird old neighbors who never cut their lawn? Didn’t you squeal to the City about them all the time? You stole their tree!73 Now proper landscaping is a problem? I’m sorry. I guess I’m having trouble keeping all your proclivities straight.”

  Unfazed, I continue. “Appropriate yard upkeep isn’t getting to me. The problem here is they don’t annoy me! They don’t do anything wrong!”

  In her most patronizingly soothing voice, she says, “Wow, that’s just awful. Perhaps you can convince the ex-con to move in behind you again.”

  Since I’m on the cordless phone, I’m free to pace between the kitchen and dining room, my socks slipping on the hardwood. Maisy gets off her doggie bed in the corner of the room and joins me, her entire backside wagging in happiness at our being together. “Hear me out—I’ve made a career out of writing about the foibles of my neighborhood, and now I live in the city’s version of suburbia and I’m coming up empty! My next subtitle’s going to have to be ‘Who Are All These Lovely People and Aren’t I Lucky to Have Them Live Next Door to Me? ’ That blows goats! Don’t get me wrong. I love how quiet and civilized it is here, but what the hell am I supposed to write about? I need struggle! I need to be angry! Annoyed! I don’t have any of that right now because it’s all peace and fucking quiet.”