I Regret Nothing: A Memoir

by Jen Lancaster

  Fletch nods, saying nothing as he scrapes residue off the top of the dresser with hands ensconced in thick rubber gloves, so I continue. “If I had old sexy pictures, I could pin those to the fridge and see them every time I want a piece of cake. Magazine models represent an unrealistic standard of beauty, but what’s more representative than seeing the shape I actually had? Plus I could add a note saying, ‘Why did you believe you were fat back then?’ Youth is wasted on the clueless.” I start feeling around my posterior, trying to gauge position. “Seriously, how much higher would you estimate my ass was then as opposed to now? Venice is sinking two millimeters a year—I bet I’m way ahead of that. A lady on my Facebook page said she remembered when watermelons used to be oblong and her butt was round and now it’s the opposite. When did watermelons become round? And why?”

  He shrugs, staying silent while he removes smooth swaths of bubbled finish.

  I glance down at my legs, two thick trunks swathed in yoga pants. “Did I have a standing thigh gap when we met? Apparently that’s a thing now. The healthy-living bloggers are always taking selfies of their standing thigh gaps. Your legs aren’t supposed to touch. I wish I had underpants pictures from back then to know for sure if mine did. Stupid digital cameras—you were invented far too late! Hey . . . do you really have nothing to add here?”

  He replies, “I find when you lose your mind, it’s best not to get in your way. What’s my rule?”

  Grudgingly, I parrot his oft-repeated adage. “‘Don’t engage The Crazy.’ Fair enough.”

  But I can’t help mulling over how this whole horrible operating room photo shoot might go down, so I press on. “Wait, the doctor’s going to use a fiber-optic camera and not, like, a Canon DSLR, right?”

  He scrapes the last strip of goo from the dresser top and begins to tidy his workspace, wiping up the jellied bits of old finish and stripper. “Relax, I guarantee no one will foist one of those big paparazzi lenses on you.”

  “Well, good. Otherwise, everything sounds routine, so I’m not too worried.”

  (Sidebar: Do I come across plucky and courageous with my cavalier attitude? Because I’m not brave so much as I am compartmentalizing. I guarantee I’ll be a basket case before the procedure, envisioning every single worst-case scenario, but for today, as I stand here with many comforting layers of fabric between me and infamy, I’m fine.)

  “When does this all happen?” he asks.

  “The procedure’s not scheduled until mid-March. Apparently this is more preventative than anything else, which is why I can wait until after my upcoming trips.”

  “That mean they didn’t find a boccie ball up there?”

  My disappointment is profound. “Football, and no, unfortunately not.”

  On the bright side, at least I’m going to Seattle tomorrow for a conference. I’m beyond excited to get away from this winter that’s destined to kill us all. Sure, I live in the Chicago region, so a Chicago winter comes as no surprise, yet I’ve never seen anything like this year. I’ve experienced plenty of early winters, bitter cold, and intense snowfall. But this is the first I’ve ever seen it all happen at the same time. We have at least two feet of snow in the backyard and it’s frozen solid. A few weeks ago, we hit forty-five degrees below zero. Even though I’m on deadline for my next novel, I spend the whole frigid day tossing cups of boiling water into the air so I can watch it instantly freeze.

  Worth it.

  I feel for the poor dogs. As much as they love running around outside, they can bear it for only about thirty seconds. They do their business poised on two paws at a time. (No, they won’t wear booties, and yes, we’ve tried.) I bought the girls nerdy matching sweaters and every time I see them, I threaten to steal their lunch money.

  When I realize I’m sweating under all my layers, I ask, “Why is it so warm down here? Must be close to eighty degrees, which is odd because it’s more like sixty upstairs.”

  “I have no idea,” he replies. “I’d planned to spend the day in my office, but it’s too cold. I could see my breath. Heat’s supposed to rise, but apparently not in this house. We’re skirting the laws of thermonuclear dynamics down here. I’m not complaining, but I am curious about the physics.”

  While he places his brushes in a turpentine bath, I check the weather on my phone. “Holy crap, it’s fifty-five degrees and sunny in Seattle right now!”

  “That’s basically summer.”

  “Should I pack shorts?”

  “Might be overkill.”

  “Okay, but I’m definitely not wearing my puffy coat to Seattle because I look like a silverback gorilla in it. Or does it give me more of a Michelin Man vibe? I’d also say the Stay Puft Marshmallow dude but the down’s sewn in in baffle-channels, so I feel I trend more Michelin. Agree?”

  He levels my gaze. “What’s my rule?”

  “All right, all right.” But it’s totally Michelin. “Hey, it’s not too late if you want to come. I’m only scheduled for a couple of events and I have a lot of downtime. You’d have a free place to stay and we could do touristy stuff. I hear there’s a Nirvana exhibit at one of the museums.”

  “I would, but I don’t know what to do with the dogs,” he replies. To this point, neither Hammy nor Libby has ever been boarded at a facility. Despite being wonderful little girls, we’re uncertain any of the kennels in the snotty North Shore would be thrilled to host a couple of pit bulls. “Plus, I’m not at the best stopping point.”

  He’s referring to the half dozen damaged pieces of furniture we’ve scavenged in the past few months currently being rebonded with clamps and industrial wood glue. We’ve found so much on the cheap because most people don’t have the tools or inclination to fix their furniture properly. C’mon, folks—hot-glue guns are for crafts, not mending table legs. We unearthed one cute little piecrust table that had been stuck back together with chewing gum. Dentyne, I think.

  We’ve assembled quite the production line down here—Fletch makes each piece functional again and then I paint ’em pretty. We’ve completed a number of pieces so far. In terms of hobbies, rehabbing furniture is way less expensive than if I were to, say, shoot competitively or ride horses or build radio-controlled airplanes. And yet the basement looks like a terribly elegant garage sale, so I should probably find some use for it all.

  “Okay. But at least consider Florida.” Next month I’m touring for my new novel and I’m hitting four Floridian cities in a row. Since I’ll be traveling by car, we’d have to pay for only a single round-trip ticket. Fletch has never accompanied me on tour before, largely because he was always home with Maisy. But now that she’s not a consideration, he could finally join me.

  “Maybe,” he replies. Sometimes Fletch experiences the same type of home-based inertia that I have. I’d simply book the trip for him, but I believe if he really wants to get away, he’ll figure out a way to do it himself.

  “Not being a nudge, I just don’t want you to regret it if you don’t come. I’m going to go pack now.” As an afterthought, I add, “And I’m bringing my bathing suit.”

  Because at this point?

  Fifty-five degrees = SPRING BREAK!

  • • •

  Though the weather outside is frightful, it has nothing on the shit-storm currently raging on my Facebook page.

  Before I wrote professionally, I assumed authors had the sweetest gigs ever. I pictured long, leisurely days where the writers were free to ponder the perfect word choice, sitting in front of a roaring fire with a pen and paper perched on their knees, cups of tea at their side, and faithful companions curled at their feet. They’d have sophisticated lunches with their publishers and they’d be the toast of the town at their book launch parties. Life would be words and accolades and adoring fans.

  And in this fantasy world, no reader would ever leave them a Facebook comment saying, “You deserve to die in a fire.”

 
; Yet here we are.

  To backtrack, almost no part of my fantasy is actually reality. For a professional author, the words are the gift—writing is the fun we have between all the other balls we juggle.

  Make no mistake, we’re incredibly grateful for the chance to be published in such a competitive arena. The fact that I can afford to live indoors because of what I’d otherwise do for free is the greatest blessing imaginable. However, for any working author, most of our time’s spent outside of the creative process. This is neither good nor bad—it’s just part of the job. What authors have to accomplish aside from writing is no different from, say, a professional musician or a police officer—their passion is performing for an audience or chasing down bad guys, but most of their time will be spent on that which supports the passion, like riding on the tour bus or writing arrest reports.

  In addition to the creative, we also have to network, strategize, build our readership, and court media contacts. We’re tasked with finding ways to differentiate ourselves/our words from all the other talented writers out there doing the exact same thing.

  (Sidebar: Sometimes these duties can be a lot of fun, like traveling to Seattle for a conference to hang out with booksellers.)

  (Additional sidebar: People were actually outside in the pool! In January! I’m convinced everyone in Seattle lies about their weather so I don’t move there and crap up the place with my pit bulls and gas-guzzling SUV.)

  More important than almost any other task, we have to promote ourselves and this can be tricky. Writers must walk a fine line between building awareness and being the pain in the ass who gets unfollowed after a barrage of pushy buy-my-books tweets.

  It’s imperative I let readers know Twisted Sisters is about to come out, but I’m loath to be in-your-face about it. I generally err on the side of caution because no one likes being sold to, especially me. But publishing is a business and other people’s careers are impacted by my sales, so I can’t pretend I don’t have a product to promote.

  I decide to marry necessity and entertainment by posting some kind of “twisted” picture every day. I start with the shot of my nerdy be-sweatered dogs sitting next to my book.

  I proceed for a couple of days with various other photos and the feedback’s positive.

  Okay, I think, this seems to be working. I make a mental note to continue in the same vein.

  Meanwhile, during this raging winter, Julia sends lots of group updates about how much better the weather in Atlanta is because she’s always lobbying for Team Butter to move down there. (I love Atlanta, but I’m not sure my liver could handle living in close proximity to the fun that is Julia and Finch.) So, I wake up and brew some coffee, checking my e-mail before I hit my news feeds. I notice there’s a note from Julia, probably telling us the tulips are blooming or they’re on a picnic or something.

  This morning’s so cold that the windows in the kitchen actually have frost on the inside and it’s snowing like The Day After Tomorrow out there. (Also a top ten favorite movie for the cheese factor. Would be top five if Will Smith/alien life-forms were involved.)

  Surprisingly, Julia’s e-mail is somewhat sheepish. “I guess weather karma finally caught up with me. Yesterday it took me three hours to go five miles because we got half an inch of snow and no one down here knows how to drive.”

  Fletch comes into the kitchen, swaddled in layers of flannel pajamas and a turtleneck, topped with a bathrobe so thick it could double as a coat. I relay her message and then I glance at one of the headlines on my news feed.

  I say, “Whoa, check this out—says here that Atlanta got three inches of snow and everyone abandoned their cars.”

  Fletch looks from his polar garb to the frosty sliding glass door, shaking his head as he surveys the deluge of fresh flakes filling the canal we had to hack out between two frozen feet of snow in order for the dogs to do their business. We’ve been shoveling, salting, sanding, and deicing now for four months, as it snows three inches here approximately every five minutes. At this point, we don’t know how to not navigate the Arctic clime.

  “Huh,” he says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “With our fat coats and our snow tires and our superior shoveling skills, we’d be weather gods down there.”

  The imagery makes me laugh, so I’m inspired to write a quick “twisted” Facebook post about Julia’s note and weather karma and include a shot of Fletch driving while wearing his Canadian-down-filled, coyote-fur-trimmed Nanook of the North coat.

  By the way, why does he look cute in down, while I resemble wildlife/movie monsters?

  At the end of the post, I make sure to say that I hope the storm wasn’t too scary and that no one’s been inconvenienced in my favorite town and I wish everyone smooth sailing across calm seas.

  Somehow this post ranks up there with disasters such as running the Exxon Valdez aground, introducing New Coke, and casting Lindsay Lohan to play Liz Taylor in that Lifetime movie.

  The outrage comes fast and furious.

  As I hadn’t read the newspaper and didn’t know that some people had indeed had a very scary experience, and because I wasn’t actually poking fun at anyone, I could not understand the vitriol. Like, why would I laugh at those who live in a place where they don’t usually have inclement weather? I thought it was clear that I was actually envious of them.

  Obviously, it was not.

  On top of the general outrage at my blatant insensitivity, my comments section turns into a massive North versus South battleground as potshots fly back and forth across the Mason-Dixon line.

  Apparently NO ONE is over the War Between the States.

  Did not see that coming.

  I apologize, I retract, I rescind, but apparently that’s not enough and somehow over the course of the day, it becomes MY fault that the city of Atlanta doesn’t have the infrastructure to deal with snow removal, and MY fault that their mayor didn’t declare a state of emergency until far too late, and MY fault that families had to sleep on the floors of the Home Depot because traffic was at a standstill.

  Have I actually turned into a capricious god who controls the weather and no one told me?

  E-mails pour in telling me I’m vile and that they’ll never read my books again. They wish my Yankee ass was dead. They wish Fletch’s Yankee ass was dead. They don’t say anything about the dogs’ Yankee asses, but I suspect they’re on the bubble.

  How did this happen?

  I guarantee that tonight people like Jon Stewart and Jimmy Kimmel will make plenty of jokes about the storm, far less good-spirited. Will folks raise their pitchforks to them as well?

  After I put out a heartfelt apology, explaining everything within its context, and say I’m sorry again and again, I begin to hear from other readers who are deeply disappointed that I have given in to a vocal minority and thought I had more strength in my own convictions.

  Every move I make is the wrong one.

  I take to the basement and try to shake it all off while I sand and wax.

  Over the course of three days, my posts go viral, reaching more than half a million people, none of whom like me.

  I am the worst self-promoter ever.

  How did something so innocuous and good-spirited turn so ugly so fast? It was almost as though people were sitting by their computers waiting to find a fight they could join.

  Fortunately, the uproar’s short-lived, because even though the Internet is forever, there’s always something newer and more scandalous around the corner.

  After this I resolve to limit my time online, especially in regard to social networking. If I’m truly to live a life without regrets, then I have to stop pursuing something that brings no tangible joy.

  This should be easy because I’ve fallen out of love with Facebook. First, I want to be the kind of friend who hears about others’ milestones in person. I hate learning about major life events buried
in a timeline between photos of fresh pedicures and pictures of lunch. When someone close to me has a baby or goes through emergency surgery or suffers a loss, they deserve more than a “like.” A click should never take the place of real interaction.

  Plus, I almost never visit anyone else’s page because I’m uncomfortable with all the fighting and the general mood of disrespect. There’s an excellent reason someone came up with the expression to never talk about politics or religion in polite company because it quickly ceases to be polite.

  I mean, I don’t want to have to find a new plumber when I see that my current guy “likes” the a-holes who are always protesting at soldiers’ funerals. I’ve spent four years in search of a decent colorist in the suburbs; I don’t want to have to start the process all over again when my present stylist reposts an anti-Semitic rant. And please don’t give me a front-row seat to a family about to disintegrate as a couple of ex-high-school sweethearts rediscover each other online, flirtations growing more and more blatant over status updates.

  While none of the above are true stories (to my knowledge), the fact that this does happen all day, every day, is what makes me want to run away in the first place.

  And what of the Fear of Missing Out? And the exclusionary and incendiary nature of strategically timed unfollows, or of not accepting friend requests? Personally, I stopped following those who follow me on Twitter because the interface changed and now I don’t know how to add the new people. And I feel bad that my not following back might possibly upset someone, even though it has nothing to do with them and everything to do with my not knowing how to find that screen.

  As for privacy? I’ll never fathom how so many hesitate so little to share even the most esoteric details of their lives online because almost every Web site out there makes it so damn easy.

  “Do you want to tweet about your So-and-So Pizza Company order to your followers?”

  NO. NO, I DO NOT.