“Think you’ll ever be able to say any vaguely sexual words without spelling them?” Stacey asks as she turns back the paisley bedspread.
“Probably not.” What can I say? I’m m-o-d-e-s-t.
To be fair, the crucial parts of the room are clean—sheets, toilet, floors, et cetera. The bathtub is spotless, but I imagine it’s not hard to sanitize something that’s only three feet long. “You could wash an Oompa-Loompa in that tub!” I exclaim.
“Well, not a full-sized Oompa-Loompa,” Stacey disagrees, before pointing out the sponge painting on the bathroom walls, composed of both the yellow color found exclusively on roads dividing traffic and the safety cone orange.
Stacey throws her bag on the spare bed, and the window catches her attention. She points to the oddly shaped pleated valance hanging over the sheers. “It would appear that Paris Hilton has lost her skirt.”
I break out into fresh peals of laughter. I’ll be damned if that thing doesn’t look exactly like a skirt’s been cut in half and then stapled into the wall.156 “Well, I really like the art in here.”
Stacey swivels her head to inspect the naked walls. “But there is no art.”
“Aha! That’s where you’re wrong,” I disagree. “You’re not taking into account the chair rail of dirty footprints over there.” Stacey pales for a moment as she sees the ghosts of the feet of hundreds of travelers past all over the far wall. “Seriously, I can get a bigger room if you want to stay with me.”
Stacey shrugs philosophically. “Listen, if I can live in a mud hut in Kenya for three months, I can handle a less than ideal hotel room.157 This’ll be fine. No misunderstanding, I’m ready to get the fuck out and hit the Four Seasons, but it’s fine. If I stay elsewhere, it’ll just screw up all the pickups and drop-offs for the cocktail competition tomorrow, and I don’t want to come off as ungrateful.”
“All right, but if you change your mind, you tell me.”
Stacey gathers the few things she’ll need before returning tonight to sleep, and we make our way to my hotel. We could probably walk there from here, but why would we walk when there are so many cabs? I mean, sure it’s a little bit lazy but I’m trying to stimulate an economy here, people—if you think about it, I’m kind of a hero. (At least that’s what I’ll tell Fletch.)
When we arrive, a doorman’s at the cab and grabbing my bag out of the trunk before I’m even finished paying the driver. With a courteous bob of the head, he says to me, “Good afternoon, Miss Lancaster. Welcome to the Four Seasons.”
“Holy shit, Stacey! They know my name!”
They know me here?
They know me here!
How cool is it they know me? I mean, I just made my reservation online like everyone else. Maybe for a minute I thought about calling the concierge and pretending to be my nonexistent assistant to see if it would get me preferential treatment, but that felt wrong and undeserved. Plus, if I need to explain to someone who I am, then that pretty much confirms I’m only important in my own head. I never, ever want to turn into “Do-you-know-who-I-am?” girl because . . . ick.
Yet the doorman knows me. How can that be? What if a reader works here and she saw my name on the reservation and was all, “She’s an author!” which I guess would mean I actually am kind of a celebrity and . . .
Wait. That can’t even be a little bit true. And this is the exact type of arrogance and delusion that got me in trouble so many years ago. There’s got to be a better explanation.
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my secrets,” he says with a sly grin.
Then I glance down.
Oh. He read my goddamned luggage tag.
Argh, I really am Jethro Bodine.
The doorman whisks my bag away, and Stacey and I pass through the stunning three-story lobby. We admire all the Asian art and inlaid tiles and massive stone columns, topped with a modern yet elegant skylight before we get to the reception desk. I rarely bust out this adjective, but it’s totally appropriate here. Swanky. This joint’s swanky. (Wonder if they have a ce-ment pond out back?)
A competent professional who appears to have no communicable diseases whatsoever greets us at the two-story reception area. “Welcome, Miss Lancaster.” I made note of the fact that the doorman had a headset, so I spare myself the whole embarrassingly self-involved thought process.
While I check in, we tell the desk clerk about the nightmare of Stacey’s room and soon all three of us are cracking up. “I don’t care if I’m on a higher floor, but I am interested in a room with a dirty footprint chair rail,” I say with a straight face. “Might you have any available?”
“Possibly with a two-thirds to scale bathtub? We have a small, dirty Oompa-Loompa in need of a good scrubbing,” Stacey adds.
“I’m sorry. I don’t; we just ran out of the last of those,” the clerk apologizes, trying to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. “However, I’m able to offer you a complimentary upgrade to the next class of room, and it’s a corner so your views will be much better. It’s quite spacious. But if you prefer, I can have housekeeping rearrange the furniture to make sure you bump into it.”
“That shan’t be necessary,” I reply in a fake-haughty voice.
I complete the check-in service and thank the clerk again. When she says it was her pleasure, I believe her. I bet none of the dignitaries or the real famous people who check in here every day try to make the desk clerk smile. And I ended up with a better room not by pulling the (faux) important card, but just by being myself.
And speaking of the room . . . wow. This is larger than the apartment I lived in after college, and a thousand times nicer. A bellman shows us all the amenities as I stand there openmouthed. Not only is the room equipped with stuff like a five-function printer and a PlayStation, but there’s a section with a private bar, already stocked with ice.158 There’s a luxurious sitting area buffeted by fourteen-foot-high windows, and on the opposite side, there’s a huge walk-in dressing room leading to a massive marble bathroom.
While the bellman sets my suitcase on a rack in the closet, I rush to the tub. My Internet friend Melissa—who I’m meeting for the first time tomorrow—told me the rumor is the tub fills completely in sixty seconds. I intend to test this myth, desperately hoping it’s true. Although I wonder how busy and important their usual guests must be if they only have sixty seconds to draw a bath.
As I take it all in, I suddenly feel like every single cast member of The Real World on the day they move into their glorious, albeit temporary, homes. Unlike them, I won’t be hosting any threesomes in this tub.
After my bag’s in place, the bellman shows me how to work the myriad window treatments. There are thick sheers and elaborate draperies on one wall of windows and a sturdy roman shade on the other. Because they’re so long and heavy, everything’s been automated, and I can control them with the electronic panel next to the bed. I can see this being an endless source of amusement for the next few days.
As I tip the bellman, he mentions my tub’s about to overflow. Time elapsed? Fifty-five seconds!
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Four Seasons, there’s nothing you can’t do.
“How do you like your hotel?”
I’m sitting at a bistro on the Upper East Side having lunch with Melissa C. Morris, who, aside from being possibly the preppiest girl in the world159 and a devoted dog owner and a clever writer, is a real-deal New York Social Diary socialite. We started e-mailing each other a few years ago because I’m a huge fan of her Web site. She lives this amazing life full of benefit dinners and international travel and cultural activities and just dolce vita in general. She chronicles it all on her Web site, but instead of it being all exclusive and show-offy, she manages to make you feel like you’re walking around in her Wellingtons for a while.
Melissa has the best manners I’ve ever witnessed. Graciousness emanates from every word she writes. Ever see those old Emily Post books wh
ere she says the hostess is responsible for making everyone feel welcome? And if someone at the table drinks from the finger bowl by mistake, the hostess must follow suit? Melissa would absolutely quaff her bowl.
When I mentioned getting together, I unabashedly told her I wanted to spend some time soaking up her social graces. And so impeccable are her manners that she didn’t even laugh at me.
I’d planned on working with an etiquette coach at home, and I contacted a ton of places but not one of them ever called or e-mailed me back, which, if you ask me, is pretty fucking rude. Charm school FAIL. I figured I couldn’t learn anything from places so lacking in basic social niceties, and decided to do things on my own, ergo Melissa.
Today’s plan is to first have lunch and then check out the sculpture garden at the Met, where she’s a member. I quietly make note that while eating our salads, we pretty much handle our utensils and stir iced tea and work our napkins the same way.
I suspect my baseline table manners are fine, and no one will automatically assume I’m a member of the Clampett family, should they see how I eat soup. It’s the more advanced parts of etiquette I don’t quite get. Like, I’ve had people over for dinner before, but I don’t really understand how to make a party flow smoothly. Pretty much I just pump everyone full of cocktails, they get drunk, food ends up being served hours later than anticipated, and on occasion, if Fletch is working the grill, he sets his pants on fire. At my last dinner party, Gina came into the dining room and said, “Hey, did you want your cats on the counter? Because they’re licking the chicken.” Mind you, this is after I demonstrated how the cats beg at the table and how sometimes I chew up bits of my meat and feed it to them and . . . actually, that veers dangerously into Elly Mae territory, doesn’t it?
Obviously Melissa and I aren’t going to cover how to throw a dinner party that doesn’t descend into an episode of Jerry Springer or, in Fletch’s case, ER, but I’m interested to see her social graces in action. I guarantee Melissa’s never once given anyone the impression she was only a breath away from giving them a solid punch in the neck, no matter how annoyed she felt inside.
“The hotel’s awesome! Big thumbs-up if you ever want to recommend it to out-of-towners. And I can confirm the business with the bathtub, too. My room has everything anyone could ever possibly need, except an iron. Instead, they have a twenty-four-hour valet and pressing service. But I’m not paying thirty bucks to iron a pair of shorts that cost twenty, so I’m going to be wrinkled while I’m in New York.”
She stirs her iced tea and assures me, “No one will notice. By the way, how was your evening out?”
“So much fun!” I tell her. “You were right; Buddakan was a blast.” Last night, Stacey and I staked out a community table in the front bar of this funky Asian fusion place in Chelsea. I can barely talk today because I’m so hoarse from all the shouting and laughter. “Good call on where to sit, too. Our friends drifted in and out, but at one point, we were a group of, like, ten chick lit authors. We had this total Algonquin Round Table moment, except we spent most of our time mocking the Real Housewives of Orange County.”
“Talk about your Vicious Circle.” She grins.
Okay, hold the goddamned phone—I just unintentionally referenced something both historical and somewhat literary, which means . . .
My Jenaissance is working!
Today’s pretty much been the best day ever. After Melissa and I finished lunch, we headed over to the Met, where at no point did I squeal about seeing the very steps where Blair Waldorf held court every day at lunch.160
What took me by pleasant surprise was that Melissa was fun. Before today, it never occurred to me that impeccable social graces and joie de vivre weren’t mutually exclusive. I knew I’d enjoy her company, but didn’t expect to laugh so much while I was in it. She’s like some kind of F. Scott Fitzgerald heroine who’d behave perfectly at the society ball, but wouldn’t be above spiking the punch bowl if the mood suited her.
After our museum excursion, I had to go back downtown to support Stacey at her cocktail contest. The three finalists were having a mix-off and the winner would leave five thousand dollars richer.
Stacey totally left five thousand dollars richer.
And I will never mock her recipe-writing prowess again.
After we got done with contest stuff, we went back to my room before heading out to the sponsors’ dinner. Having been inspired by Melissa’s fine manners, I ordered us a cheese plate and offered Stacey a beverage.
I leaned into the fridge under the private bar and began to pull out bottles for her approval. “Okay, looks like we’ve got tons of sodas, including Orangina. Um . . . there’s also water and white wine and a whole bunch of little airplane boozes and, oh! There’s this!” I held out a large plastic Voss water bottle, halfway filled with a creamy taupe liquid.
“That’s not water,” Stacey observed.
“Okay, you know how sometimes hotels leave that menu that you hang on the door if you want something? Well, I ordered breakfast last night and under the hot beverages section, you could pick all kinds of stuff—coffee, black tea, herbal tea, et cetera. I picked the giant latte. Then after that section, there was a part where you could select what you wanted with your beverage, you know, like honey or lemon or two percent milk. There was an option for half-and-half, so I asked for some, thinking I’d add it to my latte to lighten it. I mean, coffee can’t be too creamy or sweet for me.”
“Basically, you want it to taste like melted coffee ice cream.”
“Exactly! So breakfast came this morning and I immediately poured my latte, only when it came out, it was super thick, and I’m all ‘What’s with this?’ Then I sweetened it and took a sip, and holy cats! They’d misunderstood my instructions and made the entire latte out of cream!”
Stacey was appalled. “Blech! Did you send it back?”
“Hell, no, I didn’t send it back; it was the most delicious thing I ever tasted! I drank as much as I could, and then I took what was left in the pitcher and poured it into this water bottle so I could pour it over ice later! Plus, it was fifteen dollars and I was not about to let that go to waste.” I waved the bottle at her. “You want some?”
Stacey tried hard to hide her smirk. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Your loss,” I replied, making a mental note to order the same thing for breakfast tomorrow.
After cheese and ice-cream lattes, we had an amazing Italian dinner 161 and ended the evening with cucumber martinis in the bar at the Four Seasons, possibly the greatest place on earth to people-watch, as everyone looks quasifamous. I wanted to go up to each table and ask, “Are you someone I know?” but mustered enough self-control not to.
We noticed one particularly handsome man at the bar, drinking coffee and reading a book. There was a pair of flashily dressed, completely cosmetically enhanced, ridiculously blond gold-digger-type girls making rounds in four-inch heels. They’d been sitting with a table of foreign businessmen, laughing uproariously at everything they said. “Those Japanese guys must be really funny,” I said, to which Stacey replied, “Oh, honey, no.”
Then Stacey and I were the ones to laugh uproariously when the Japanese businessmen left without them. We watched as the girls regrouped and then homed in on the man at the bar, circling him in a cloud of perfume and expectations. They flirted and cajoled and tossed their magnificent manes of hair. They carried on, subtly shoving their silicone in his face until he finally scowled and pointed at his wedding ring, scattering the skanks like scalded apes.
We may or may not have cheered . . . hip-hip-hooray for the handsome man who loves his wife!
Stacey went back to her place a while ago, and I’m up in my room, reading in bed. I tried to watch television, but after thumbing through something like six hundred channels, I turned if off. I don’t do well when I’m presented with too many choices.
I begin to monkey with the curtains. If both sets of drapes are closed, the room’s too dark, and if they’re
both open it’s too exposed. I settle on shutting the sheers but I’m still not comfortable.
It’s odd how much more at ease I am in my own skin on this trip than I was at the Colony Club last year. The same kind of crowd frequents both places, but now I don’t feel like I’m from a different universe. I’m not—and will likely never be—one of them, whoever the faceless, hatbox-purchasing patrons are, but the little voice that kept telling me I didn’t belong here last year seems to be silent. As I survey where I’ve landed, I can’t help but be pleased.
And yet, happy as I am with my progress, my million-dollar problem remains. This room’s too big to be cozy. Although this is the perfect spot to share cheese with my bestie, I need an ambient glow to fall asleep. Last night this wasn’t an issue because my desire for an ambient glow had taken a backseat to nine tickled pinks—a blend of pineapple juice, coconut rum, and sparkling wine. But tonight I took it easy, sipping one cocktail for hours, and because of my pot o’ latte, sleeping might be a challenge.
I try flipping on the television again, but even turned all the way down, it’s distracting. I click it off and flip on the little banker’s light on the desk, but I can see its pinprick of white in my peripheral vision, and it annoys me.
Then I spot the answer. In the corner, between the windows, is a large framed lithograph. Above it is a picture light. If I turn that on, it should provide the ideal amount of ambience. I scan the wall for a cord and a switch, but the light is hardwired into the wall.
I turn my attention to the bronze hood over the two tiny halogen bulbs. There’s no switch, so maybe this is just one of those things you touch to light. I tap it in random spots but nothing. So I begin poking at the bulbs, and suddenly I’m swimming in a pool of mood lighting. Awesome! The bulb on the right fizzles out, but it’s fine. Lefty provides all the glow I need.
I cross the room and climb back into bed. As soon as I reposition myself with my book, I realize that Lefty’s letting off a blinding beam of light. I shift around to the right side of the bed. No luck. The glare is slight, albeit bothersome. I shift again.
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 14
