“Tragic,” she snarks.
“The worst part is I’ve already gotten notes from the neighborhood association about banding together against crime. There’s an actual Web site! My new alderman’s even involved. Getting this stuff organized—or, rather, bitching about how this stuff isn’t organized—is MY job. What am I supposed to do now?” I flop down on the living room couch, and Maisy flops beside me, resting her head on my shoulder and looking at me as if to say, “I feel you, my sister. Now let’s have a cookie.”
“You could be thankful.”
“Bite me. What else you got?”
“Jen, it’s simple. Try something new.”
“I hate new.” I do. I hate it. I like old, established, just like it always was.
“You enjoy living indoors?”
“Very much so.”
“Then my advice stands—try something new. Why don’t you work on that thing you were telling me about a couple of months ago? You know, the one where you go to plays and listen to jazz and try to not be such an asshole?”
Okay? This? Is exactly why I like her. Here I had this huge epiphany, and the second I started to pack, I completely forgot about it. “Maybe it is time to revisit that, although . . . it seems kind of hard, and things are really starting to get exciting on this season’s Biggest Loser and Amazing Race and America’s Next Top Model and Lost—”
Angie interrupts me. “Hey, remember when you had to work all those temp jobs and people made you get them coffee?”
I shudder. “Yeah.” Although I finally got into the swing of temping by the end, the first time I walked into an office to be someone’s secretary after having been an executive was among the worst moments of my life. What if I lose my current momentum? What would it be like to have to fetch lattes again? I really never want to know.
“Then that’s your alternative.” I hear a beep, which I assume means she’s finished with her workout. Although with Angie, she could be baking a pie or building a fallout shelter.
I get off the couch to glance out the window again, and Maisy follows. I’m hoping desperately that an episode of Jerry Springer will have broken out on the neighbor’s lawn so that I can report on it. Instead I see their tasteful Fall Harvest decor spilling down their spotless front stoop. There’s nothing but gourds and cornucopias and shit out there. Damn. Then I look in the mirror and see my pajama-clad self—even though it’s lunchtime—with my best friend in the world at my side, and I again appreciate the life I’ve created for myself.
The way I see it, I have no choice.
I’m going to try something new.
Even if it kills me.
Cultural Jenaissance, it is.
FYI? Things Desire Under the Elms Is Not: A trendy new Gold Coast bistro
A trendy new River North bistro
A trendy new Fulton Market bistro
A trendy new bistro of ANY sort
A high-end furniture store
A day spa located on a particularly woodsy part of Elm Street
A florist specializing in decorative bouquets filled with cut branches
(This would be a great name for ANY of these businesses and you’re welcome to help yourself to my ideas—provided I’m given proper credit—if you’re feeling entrepreneurial.)
Apparently Desire Under the Elms is a classic Eugene O’Neill play. Having studied O’Neill in college,74 I probably should have already known this. Then again, I flunked out a semester after I took it, so it’s possible the strictest attention was not paid.75
Stacey’s long-standing association with the Goodman Theatre means she’s comped seats for all kinds of events, and the offer extends to almost every theater in the city, too.
“What’s the deal with this thing specifically?” I ask. I’m at her house for our usual Wednesday night whatever’s-on-Bravo get-together.
Stacey pauses the program we’re watching. “Um, specifically, it’s O’Neill’s version of a Greek tragedy, so it’s got all the classic elements, like anger and betrayal and lust. Eben—the son—suffers because he’s got an abusive father. Ephraim—the father—suffers because he’s so wrapped up in his own hubris that he can’t admit the world’s mocking him for what’s happening under his own nose. The father’s hot new young wife, Abbie, suffers because she’s sleeping with the son and lying about her baby’s parentage. Basically everyone’s miserable, and it’s completely awesome.”
“Is it modern? And does it take place in the South?” I ask. I have a penchant for stories about dysfunctional Southern families, likely stemming from my love of the North and South miniseries when I was in junior high school.
“Nope, it takes place in New England during the gold rush era. None of that matters so much because it’s a timeless story. Could take place in ancient Athens; could take place now in Atlanta. I can guarantee the acting will be superb.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“For starters, it stars Brian Dennehy.”
“Big Tom Callahan? Really? I guess I can’t see him onstage. I mean, come on, he only lasted twenty minutes in that movie.”
“Jen, he’s won Tony awards and studied drama at Yale. Just because you’ve only seen him in Tommy Boy doesn’t mean that’s all he’s done or is capable of doing.”
“Excellent point. I’m surprised, but now I remember how sad poor Chris Farley was when he died in Tommy Boy. I guess his acting must have been convincing because I totally teared up. I could see how Chris Farley’s wanting to honor him prompted him to travel cross-country with David Spade to sell auto parts to save the company. Yeah, I guess he could be okay.”
Drily, Stacey replies, “He’ll be relieved to hear it.”
“Hey, do you think David Spade will be there?” I mean, maybe they became friends during filming, right?
“My guess is no. But Carla Gugino stars as Abbie, and Pablo Schreiber is Eben. The Goodman always casts the most amazing actors.”
“Wait, Carla Gugino? From Son in Law? That’s so badass!”
Stacey looks suddenly exhausted as she winces and holds up her hand. “Before you ask, Pauly Shore probably won’t be there. If for some bizarre reason he is, you’ll get to meet him and all the other actors at the cast party.”
“NO WAY!” I may or may not shout this so loud that I shake the frames hanging on the wall behind us. Shoot, I’d have said yes to theater tickets years ago if I realized it would make me her plus-one at the after party.
I’ve seen Stacey’s scrapbooks from various productions and heard the stories about all the famous people she’s worked with. I’ve always been impressed, but Stacey says it’s no big deal because they’re just folks doing their jobs. She says most actors are regular people who come to work and then go home to enjoy their lives and spouses and friends. They aren’t out getting shitfaced at Hyde or Club Les Deux or throwing cell phones at their assistants or “accidentally” flashing their girly bits to the paparazzi.
I’m deeply disappointed to hear this.
The more Stacey fills me in on the details of this particular production, the more excited I get. I’m superpsyched about what I can learn from seeing a show in such an august theater by such a renowned playwright. This is exactly the sort of thing that’s going to make me better-rounded intellectually, and I’m eager for the personal growth opportunity it will afford.
Okay, that’s total bullshit.
I’m mostly jazzed to meet famous people.
“Are you worried I’m going to embarrass you with my nervous-talking thing?” I ask. Stacey was a firsthand witness to the slurring, sweating, and shouting spurred by my meeting a Top Chef winner recently, and she was just on a cable network.76 The second I come into contact with anyone who’s been on mah tee-vee, I turn into a complete moron. Whatever internal filter I possess77 switches off, and I end up spewing every bit of nonsensical blather that pops into my brain. As their level of fame increases, so does my incoherence. I’m afraid of what might happen when I meet an actual movie sta
r.
“If I were worried, I wouldn’t have invited you,” she assures me. “I want you to come with me, and we’re going to have a fantastic time.”
“Cool.” I ease back into the couch, and we resume our program.
A few minutes later, I realize there’s something still bothering me. “Hey, no one’s going to be naked in this, right?”
Stacey does the verbal equivalent of patting me on the head. “Of course not, peanut. Of course not.”
Before I begin to primp for my big night out, I run down to the basement to TiVo 24 and The Bachelor. Just because I’m trying to smarten up doesn’t mean I’m not me anymore, right?
Since I’m going to the cast party, I take special care with my appearance. I mean, really, is Carla Gugino going to want to be BFF with some chick who can’t be bothered to curl her hair and don three shades of eye shadow? I don’t think so.
(Sidebar: If I ever have a CAT scan, I’m betting it will show a slightly shriveled part of my cerebellum that causes me to say everything I think when in the vicinity of fame. Next to it, there will be a dented piece that houses my absolute belief that every famous person will want to be my friend, given the opportunity.)
Since I plan to go to a lot of shows this winter, I’ve bought a proper theater outfit since my daily cold-weather accoutrement of track pants and pullover fleece jackets won’t cut it. For someone whose book covers feature dresses and purses and footwear, you might think nothing makes me happier than shopping.
Not true.78
The truth is, my laziness manifests itself in my wardrobe, too. I don’t own thirty Lacostes because I love them more than any other shirt ever made79; I own them because they’re cute, they’re colorful, and they fit well. This explains why I have six pairs of the same khaki shorts. I have twelve different sundresses that I wear on tour, and they’re all cut identically. I mix and match each of them with a solid cardigan, of which I own seven. I’m fortunate that the preppy look’s timeless because if I’d become attached to parachute pants and Flashdance sweatshirts, I’d be screwed right about now.
I bought a long blackwatch plaid, pleated wool skirt and a navy V-neck sweater, which I’ve paired with a pointy-collared, crisp white blouse. “Flattering” is the best description of the cut, and the fabrics should keep me warm in even the draftiest of theaters. I feel cute wearing this, despite the whole “world’s oldest Catholic school student” vibe.
Before I slip on my skirt and pull on my sweater, I’m predressed in a stretchy black camisole, a tan girdle, black boots, and black leggings. My hair is up in hot rollers.
I have to laugh as I glance at myself in the mirror: Worst. Superhero. Ever.
When we arrive at the Goodman, I stop by the snack bar first, even though we’ve just come from dinner. I’m pleased that they have the white wine I like and delighted by the big cookies. But if the ushers are to be believed, I’m not supposed to take either of them into the theater.
“I can’t bring snacks?” I ask Stacey.
“No, you have to finish them in the lobby,” she says, gesturing toward the garbage cans.
“Snacks and entertainment go together like chalk and cheese.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re using that expression wrong.”
Huh. I guess that’s why it never made sense. “Okay, fine. Well, at the movies you can eat popcorn. In fact, they encourage it.”
“This isn’t the movies.”
“THAT’S why plays will never win! Ha! Movies-1, plays-0.”
Stacey gives me a good-natured eye roll. “This also isn’t a competition.”
I gulp down my wine and deposit my glass in the trash. Just as we’re about to enter, I spot a girl carrying the most awesome tote bag I’ve ever seen. I nudge Stacey. “Check that out.”
Stacey lapses into LOLcat, uncharacteristic for her, but an unfortunate side effect of being around me too much. “Ooh, want. Do want!”
The spectacular tote in question features a line drawing of Shakespeare and a caption that reads, “Shakespeare got to get paid, son.”80 Word.
We arrange ourselves in our seats in the first balcony. Our view, not only of the stage, but of the whole opening-night crowd, is excellent. Nice seats; they must like Stacey a lot around here.
“Sure are a lot of fur coats in here,” I observe. “If I were with PETA, I’d totally stand in the lobby with buckets of red paint.”
She casts a sidelong glance in my direction. “I imagine the ushers would take issue with that.”
“Pfft, they’re each about a thousand years old, and they’re unpaid. No senior citizen is going to voluntarily take a bucket of paint in the teeth to save your chinchilla. Foolproof is what this idea is.”
Sometimes when Stacey and I are together, I leave her at a loss for words. This is one of those times. After a very long silence, she says, “I can honestly tell you that in all my theatergoing years, I’ve never had that thought.”
“Maybe I’m expanding your horizons, too.”
“My question is why would that even occur to you? Judging by some of your Facebook wall posts, you hate PETA.”
“I do, but I feel like it’s my purpose in life to coach people who are doing their jobs wrong.81 I mean, PETA could be so much more efficient. As it is now, all their paint-tossing activists have got to wait for Fashion Week. Here, they could do it every night from November to April. And twice on Saturdays!”
“Noted.”
I continue to scan the crowd, which I wouldn’t do were I otherwise distracted by, say, popcorn. “There are a lot of kids in here, too. That’s going to be trouble. I bet you’re glad you’re no longer responsible for all the little monsters being forced to see the show.”
Stacey’s eyes light up at the mere mention of her old job. “Not at all,” she says emphatically. “I loved teaching those kids. And I kept them from being monsters.”
Since the theater Nazis won’t let me have a beverage, I drink in the scenery. The set’s so elaborate. On the right side of the stage, there’s an enormous pile of rocks, leading up two full stories and exiting stage left.82 On the left, there’s a perfect rendition of an old farmhouse, but it’s hanging about twelve feet above the stage from ropes, which I find a tad disconcerting. What if it falls and crushes poor Brian Dennehy? Then what?
Scattered above the whole set are more enormous boulders hanging from what look like nooses. Nowhere onstage is anything that looks like an elm tree. I bet this is where my lack of theater education shows the most. I’m probably being way too literal here. Perhaps having an elm tree in a show with “elm” in the title is all weird and awkward and obvious, like when someone wears a band’s shirt to that band’s concert or when my mom says, “Don’t go there, girlfriend.”
The play begins and I’m instantly enthralled. I haven’t been to a show since Fletch and I saw Cabaret in the late nineties with a couple of college friends. Bless his heart, Fletch tried to like it, but big musical productions are never going to be in his wheelhouse. Even though I was mesmerized by the performances and haunted by some of the songs, I never went to anything else. I could have forced Fletch to accompany me, but he was so miserable that I couldn’t bring myself to torture him.
Still, I’m full of regret for letting all that time pass. If I’d taken the initiative, I’m sure I could have talked someone else into coming with me. Or I could have gone alone.
I forgot what a thrill live theater can be. I mean, this is the ultimate reality program. Anything can happen, and there’s no tape delay for the West Coast broadcast or team of editors to fix what went wrong in postproduction. Stacey’s recounted various hilarious snafus that happened during her tenure—props breaking, actors breaking wind, forgotten lines, cues missed, and once a director’s French bulldog wandered into the middle of the scene and refused to be coaxed off the stage.
I used to love seeing plays and even thought I’d be a stage actress myself at one point. My plan was to be a big triple threat on Broadway— desp
ite being utterly tone deaf and uncoordinated—and then to break into television, having established my credibility as a Serious Actress. Despite only being able to play characters who were exactly like me, I really thought I had a shot. I dreamed of greasepaint and standing ovations.
So, I signed up for theater class as a college freshman. But after a brief, mandatory internship in the costume shop, my dream died. Since I couldn’t design or tailor or even sew a straight line, I got stuck spending hours with an industrial iron, smoothing out enormous sheets of muslin, which were the costumes for the casts of Medea and Oedipus. I remember telling the director, “Jocasta accidentally did it with her son. You really think she gives a shit about wrinkles?”
Oh, wait, maybe I was asked not to be a part of the theater department.
Regardless, I’m absolutely sucked into everything happening onstage until I hear a weird sound. What is that? Is something supposed to be going on in the background? The acoustics in here are perfect—I can hear even the softest of Eben’s sighs and the rustle of Abbie’s skirts. So what is that noise? Is it stomping or marching? No, that can’t be it. Why would anyone march? There’s no war in this play. The sound is too close and familiar but I can’t identify it. It’s almost like a . . . grinding?
Or crunching?
I crane around in my seat, spot the source of the noise, and hiss in Stacey’s ear, “That kid is eating Cheetos!”
She leans in close to me. “Distracting, right?”
“It’s making me stabby!”
She shrugs. “That’s why they don’t allow popcorn.”
“Point taken,” I whisper.83
I shouldn’t be surprised by the crunching because there are a few very rude people in here, all of whom are drawing my attention away from the stage. Phones have been ringing, hard candies unwrapping, and two assholes a couple of rows back are having an outside-voice conversation about where they’re going for drinks afterward.
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 Page 7
