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
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“Awesome. So, what’s next?”
“You’ll laugh when you hear this, but honestly, as soon as I get the book done? I’m going to work out so much!”
“Good for you!”
“Yeah, it’s time. Plus, I’m going to continue with the Jenaissance. I don’t feel like I’m done learning or growing yet. I mean, I want to see my first opera, live and in person. I don’t have to; I want to. I’ve got a ton of cultural stuff already on tap with Joanna. And Fletch and I are going to keep taking cooking classes and going to wine seminars and trying new foods. Turns out we love having some shared hobbies. I mean, we’ve always been on the same page about society and politics and religion and everything, but in terms of interests, we never had that much in common, so we always ended up doing the lowest-common-denominator activity, which was watching television. Now we’ve got lots of stuff to do to get us out of the house.”
When Fletch and I were on our way home from the Hamptons, we talked a lot about what we’ve both learned from this process. Oddly enough, the biggest lesson has come from Maisy getting sick. When she was diagnosed, we realized our time with her isn’t unlimited like we’d blindly assumed. So it’s up to us to make sure each of her days is happy. Maybe we can’t change the course of her destiny, but we can make every minute with her count.
That’s when it hit us—our own time on this earth is limited and we’re getting older. If we can’t come up with some kind of alchemy to stop the aging process, then we’re obligated to make the most of what we have, and the best way to do that is expand the depth of our experiences. Do we want to spend the next thirty years on the couch, waiting to see who wins America’s Next Top Model Cycle Forty-Five, or do we want to fill our lives with a million new experiences, even if sometimes they’re unpredictable or scary or take effort?
Essentially, we realized we need to keep diving in.
And if we do, our lives won’t be richer for being long; our lives will be richer for having lived.
In the course of this project, I read the original text of George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion. In the play’s introduction, Nicholas Grene writes that Pygmalion deals with two beliefs in conflict with each other: The first has to do with human beings having the capacity to re-create themselves, overcoming one’s social or regional origin. The other contradicts this, as Shaw also maintained that no one could be so transformed that they weren’t still essentially the person they were before their metamorphosis.
Or, to put it in reality-television terms, you can’t edit in that which didn’t happen.
Stacey laughs as I finish my Hampton tales and proclaims, “I guess your people like to say ‘Mission accomplished’ in cases like this. You danced at the Empire Ball, and now everyone’s whispering and wondering if you aren’t actually royalty. Well played, Miss Doolittle. Well played.”
I should be basking in all my accomplishments over the past nine months, yet there’s one thing I haven’t told Stacey.
I clear my throat and begin. “Um, yeah . . . about that. My record isn’t completely spotless. There was one small, barely worth mentioning incident in the Hamptons. You see, Alec Baldwin was about to leave the event and I wanted to get a picture with him.”
Stacey stops me. “Ooh, is he dreamy in person?”
“Pfft, he was so dreamy that Fletch may have even considered switching teams.243 Fletch and I kind of chased after him to see if we could get a shot taken together. But Alec was in a rush and had to go but he wanted to make sure he wasn’t snubbing someone important by running off to his dinner. He looks at me—not rude or anything, just direct—and goes, ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’”
I run my hands through my newly extension-free hair and continue. “And somehow every single thing I’ve worked on for all these months totally flew out the window, and I looked him dead in the eye and said, ‘New York Times bestselling author, motherfucker.’”
Shame Rattle, Shame Rattle, Shame Rattle.
I sigh and continue. “I’m pretty sure he was so stunned, he held out his arm so we could pose for the picture together.”
Stacey grins and pats me on the shoulder. “So there’s that,” she says.
I nod. “So there’s that.”
EPILOGUE
Last Friday, Joanna and I attended a Stars of Lyric Opera performance in Millennium Park. Joanna stopped to buy us German food for our picnic dinner because she wanted me to give her culture’s cuisine another shot. And you know what? Sauerbraten is way better than expected, and live opera is everything I ever dreamed it might be. Just thinking of the performance still gives me goose bumps.
As for Fletch, he and I are loving our whole new, enhanced life together, and tonight we’re dining at Alinea.
Later we’ll eat scallops served on a pillow full of lavender air and a tiny, perfect chunk of Wagyu beef presented with an ironic A1 powder, but first we have to get past the osetra, also known as fish eggs.
Instead of serving his Black Sea caviar on a bed of ice with traditional toast points spread with butter, Chef Achatz has emulsified the buttery toast into chilled, fluffed foam and covered it with a sprinkling of the tiny black pearls.
Caviar has traditionally scared the bejesus out of me, and the few times I’ve been offered it, I immediately rehomed the horrible little bastards to the edge of my plate or the inside of my napkin. I remember once shaking my hand in revulsion as a black sturgeon egg clung to my index finger.
But today? Here? In this post-Jenaissance life?
I simply dive in.
Turns out I kind of love caviar.
Never saw that coming.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and always, my biggest thanks go out to my readers. Because of you I have a job where I don’t have to serve coffee anymore and that makes me incredibly happy. You guys rock and I’ll do my best to return the favor.
A million thanks to everyone at NAL—Kara Welsh, Claire Zion, Craig Burke, Melissa Broder, Sharon Gamboa, and the rest of the ass-kicking teams in editorial, sales, art, publicity, marketing, travel, and production. I sincerely thank you for everything you do; I know how hard you all work. (And, Kara C., I miss you!)
For Kate Garrick and the rest of the crew at DeFiore, thank you for keeping this ship afloat in the stormy sea of my own neurosis. (I’m not easy but it’s adorable that you all pretend I am.)
I need to thank my writer friends for all their support, particularly Danny Evans, Caprice Crane, Allison Winn Scotch, Karyn Bosnak, Tatiana Boncompagni, and Stephanie Klein. Thanks for being there! And many thanks to Melissa C. Morris—the world’s a more gracious place for having you in it.
I feel very lucky to have had this project bring me closer to some of my best friends in the world. Mad love and pink drinks to Joanna, Gina, Tracey, Angie, Carol, Wendy, Jen, Poppy, and Blackbird. Everything’s a party when you guys are around!
Big, huge thanks go to Stacey Ballis, who is not only a frigging encyclopedia of high culture, but also, like, the funnest person I know. (Yeah, I quoted Romy and Michelle. What of it?) I could not have done this with out you. Team Stennifer rules!
Many thanks to the folks at the East Hampton Library for letting me into the fancy party, thus giving me the best ending I could possibly imagine. If you have me back, I’ll bring Baldwin a belt.
Endless love, devotion, and unbreakable promises to pick up dry cleaning go to Fletch. Technically this book was more fun for him than the ones in which we were broke or I was dieting, but still. I can be difficult during “writing season” and he remains steadfast. I love you so much I won’t even tell everyone how you accidentally backed my new car into a burrito stand because you were ignoring the parking sensors. (Oh, wait.) And P.S., everyone realizes you’re not gay.
Finally, an enormous round of thanks goes to everyone on my television who ever ate a bug, flipped a table, married a stranger, made out with a roommate, spit on a competitor, took a bubble bath with Flavor Flav, or had a bitch get beer in your weave. I might not
be tuning in quite so frequently anymore, but I’ll still be watching.
1 Or a Lohan family publicist.
2 Right?
3 As evidenced by today’s sit-down with Candace.
4 The nice thing about having such a small living room is that the television looks HUGE!
5 Wait. You don’t go around quoting Stripes twenty-six years after its release?
6 Apparently our house has a tendency to sink without proper support.
7 Yes, we tipped them big. But they still hate us.
8 Or gal.
9 What is he, on the rats’ payroll or something?
10 FYI, the sixth killer was in the closet, curled up on my cashmere sweaters.
11 I refuse to acknowledge the possibility of it being a female.
12 Read: will.
13 It was awesome!
14 And fourth Diet Coke.
15 I don’t actually know the difference, but I’m guessing a soiree includes cheese made by someone other than the Kraft Corporation.
16 Also, “explodes in your mouth” is not really a selling point.
17 Speaking of glass tables, ever notice that all the tables in the Ryan household were glass? Weird.
18 RIP, sir. And thank you for making the kind of films that defined my entire generation.
19 Yeah, there’s accidental spittle.
20 Hi, I’m forty years old. (Ask me about my Barbie collection, too.)
21 After getting Raspberry Cliché’s number. D’oh!
22 WINNAH!!
23 Together we are Stennifer.
24 Which is far inferior to its previous iteration.
25 Technically, I gained a lot of weight while unemployed after the dot-com crash and not because I had children. (Besides, with the amount of burgers, steaks, and barbecue I used to eat, I’d have birthed a calf, not a kid.)
26 I’ve yet to make any great strides intellectually, which will become evident when I meet Candace Bushnell for the first time a few weeks from now.
27 Ahem, Madonna, I’m talking to you.
28 RIP, Johnny Castle. Also, can everyone good please stop dying while I write this book? Thanks.
29 Whopper with cheese, holla!
30 Scofflaw!
31 Or maybe Colonel Tom.
32 Good Enough to Eat, available September 2010. Buy it!
33 Team Jacob!
34 She pays me back in the morning by making me watch Olbermann.
35 A McDonald’s caramel sundae—I love those! And they’re only a buck!
36 Probably.
37 Her generation’s version of “ridiculous.”
38 I stifle the urge to shout that smoking is now considered a hate crime in the city of Chicago.
39 Possibly giving hints on preparing a perfect paella?
40 Watermelon!!
41 Who says I can’t write fiction?
42 Some might say bitter.
43 Unless they involve addition, subtraction, or God help me, fractions.
44 You can add Jon and Kate’s spectacular crash and burn to this list at the time of writing. Won’t someone please think of the children?
45 And yes, they grew up into fine adults, but it was rocky there for a while.
46 Which, coincidentally, tend to occur in the same place.
47 I try to be extrasensitive now after a reader got mad at me for making fun of a kid who had to wear a helmet in the apartment beneath me in one of my first books. Shit, I didn’t know that meant autism! I didn’t even know what autism was back then. I just thought helmets were funny. I mean, come on. Picture a helmet on anything else, like a cat or a pumpkin. It’s hilarious! But still, I’m totally sorry.
48 And if I wore one, you’d be allowed to laugh. See? It’s only fair.
49 Scored an upgrade, woo!
50 First is the original Paradise Hotel.
51 If they do, I bet the Europeans roll their eyes, too.
52 Which I didn’t watch at the time but eventually caught up on with the DVD series, coincidentally after I finished my last book.
53 And I mean EVERY.
54 Hermès.
55 Yes, frozen blueberry mojitos were involved. Is that a problem?
56 The second rule of WASP Fight Club is the martinis must be as dry as Cheever’s wit. Why? What did you think it was?
57 We’re probably the only people in here who aren’t from, like, Kansas or something.
58 In my mind, everything kind of leads to Survivor.
59 Shame Rattle, Shame Rattle, Shame Rattle.
60 Never been there.
61 Never tried it.
62 Never seen them.
63 Or funny.
64 I mean attending, not talking down to them, even if they are trying to pass off Vaseline barbells as art.
65 But admit it, he did.
66 Some of you may argue it turned me into a conservative, compassionless douchebag. Some of you might not be wrong, but that topic is not currently up for debate.
67 Although I’ve yet to understand why that damn dog happily kills outdoor rats, but couldn’t lift a paw in opposition to indoor rats.
68 The first person who asks, “Why didn’t you start writing it in January when it sold?” gets a solid kick in the teeth.
69 Kind of puts that whole ratinmyhouse thing into perspective, doesn’t it?
70 WHEW!
71 Again, wouldn’t be an issue if he’d just let me have a gun.
72 Fine, that’s exactly what I was about to do, so perhaps it’s for the best.
73 Okay, that was fan-freaking-tastic. Here’s the thing—you can get your rotten old tree trimmed so its falling limbs don’t crush my garage, or I will convince the City that it’s a nuisance and needs to be removed. Your choice.
74 Correction, having BRAGGED about studying O’Neill in college.
75 Also, you might want to check with the O’Neill estate before you swipe that name, too.
76 Because she was on Top Chef, I grudgingly tried her fois gras dish. And you know what? Two thumbs up—it’s like meat butter!
77 Paltry as it may be.
78 At least, anymore.
79 Although I’d be hard-pressed to find something I prefer.
80 Ten bucks says the Bard allowed popcorn in his shows.
81 Or perhaps it’s just my hobby.
82 My familiarity with fancy theater-speak comes from years of watching Bugs Bunny cartoons.
83 Movies-1, plays-1.
84 Perhaps they’d learn their lesson if I were to throw PETA paint on them.
85 Or how come we never saw a damn elm tree.
86 Team Beverly rules!
87 And a lot of a buzz.
88 Even though that sounds kind of awesome right now.
89 They serve wine!
90 I am not writing out their whole name, as the “Co” does not stand for “company.”
91 Fletchaissance? No, that’s pushing it.
92 He says I can resent him for not starting soon enough or simply be happy that he’s extended his life. My choice.
93 Definitely.
94 This is where I’d like to be all snarky and describe how Miss Tyra should never be seen that big/in such high definition, but she’s flawless up close. Argh.
95 Stacey was right. He’s hilarious. (Oh, settle down. I kid. I kid.)
96 Share, why don’t you?
97 I mean, if I don’t first.
98 I know he’s a character played by Ed Westwick, but I don’t love Ed Westwick—I love the character. The opposite applies to Pattinson as I find Edward Cullen creepy. Do you see the difference?
99 Hey! Two points for Jen!
100 Although, seriously, if I recited this litany of excuses to Jillian on the Biggest Loser right now, I’m pretty sure she’d ram her foot up my ass. I guess it’s best that I never made it onto the show.
101 It’s a real word. Just ask The Simpsons.
102 The non-Ty Pennington version.
103 And chicken
.
104 I call her an armpit bull for a reason.
105 Undercoating? Yes, please!
106 This is why I answer every call breathless and panting and sounding like a reverse obscene caller.
107 People, enough with the dying while I’m writing this damn thing already.
108 Now I’m much more likely to be annoyed—a far more natural state for me.
109 Altgeld is my old street, and I love Ayn Rand. Get it?