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 (19 page)

Gina had never gotten a real look at the little guys, and when we finally do see them up close, we notice they’re in rough shape. Sneezy, rheumy, wheezy, itchy, and one of them has what appears to be a giant pink balloon attached to his butt.

This can’t be good.

I bring them to our cat vet first thing in the morning. Turns out the poor little guys wouldn’t have made it for more than another day or two. They have eye infections, upper respiratory infections, dehydration, ear mites, and fleas. Ten percent of their body weight is worms. And one of them has a prolapsed rectum, which essentially means the little guy had such bad diarrhea that he blew out his o-ring.

Fortunately for Fletch, they don’t have rabies, nor do they have any of the fatal cat diseases, so we authorize treatment, thus incurring the first pet surgery to repair Thundercat One’s bunghole.

There’s an issue with Thundercat Two’s eye and we’re referred to a feline ophthalmology clinic.

Nope, I didn’t know such a thing existed, either.

I find out that Thundercat Two needs to have his third eyelid sewn over the eye if there’s any chance he’ll able to keep the eye. I confirm that even with one eye Thundercat Two will have an excellent quality of life, so I sanction the surgery and name him Odin.
¹⁷⁰

Thundercat Three makes a complete recovery. There’s nothing additional wrong with him, except that he’s an asshole. He’s such a jerk that the vet’s office has to spend the whole week weighing him in a trash can. The nurse tells me she holds him up in the window of his incubator so everyone can get a glimpse of his “mean face” whenever the staff needs a lift.

Naturally, we name him Chuck Norris.

As for Maisy, our new doggie vet refers us to “the Mayo Clinic for pets” in the suburbs, where Maisy’s operated on by a board-certified surgeon and her follow-up chemotherapy will be taken care of by a canine oncologist.

Yes,
canine oncologist
.

Apparently they exist, too.

Maisy comes through her surgery like a champ. In the meantime, Chuck, Odin, and Angus
¹⁷¹
finally get to come home.

One might think the kittens would show a little bit of appreciation for the people who wrote enormous checks on their behalf.

One would be wrong.

For the first few weeks, they actively hate us, and every time we go into their room, they cower and hide. At one point, Fletch asks me if someone couldn’t get sweet, socialized, nonferal kittens for twenty-five dollars at PAWS.

“Um, yeah,” I reply, “but only if they don’t like a
challenge
.”

We’re slowly winning them over, one can of kitten food at a time. Now their hissing and cowering is cursory at best.

Maisy’s in fabulous spirits, too, although I have to try to keep her from leaping, cavorting, and frolicking until her stitches come out. She acts like everything was like the season on
Dallas
that turned out to be Bobby’s bad dream.

As for me, yesterday was the first day in a couple of weeks that I didn’t have to spend hauling pets to specialty clinics or having panic attacks.

That was nice.

Which means now I can get back to the business of culturing up, a task made less easy by being stared at by seven and a half sets of eyes.

To: stacey_at_home

From: jen_at_home

Subject: why you bring home tiny devils?

I’m in the process of rearranging the furniture in my office. As it’s my desire to jam every inch of living space full of as much furniture as humanly possible (at least according to Fletch) there are still some unhomed items floating around the middle of the room. Presently I have a rolling office chair pulled up to the front of my desk and Maisy’s climbed into it.

She’s sitting upright on her haunches and facing me.

We appear to be having a meeting.

I keep cracking up while I consider what we might need to meet about, e.g., “Items on Maisy’s Agenda.”

1. Why U No Give Maisy More Cookies?

2. Maisy Prefer Make Poops in Front Yard and Care Not If U Think It Kind of Ghetto.

3. Maisy Never Forget Time U Drop Pork Chop on Floor and Maisy Quicker Than U.

4. U Hurt Maisy Feelings When U Call Her “ArmpitBull.”

Maisy Not the One Too Lazy Give Baths and Maisy Tongue Only Capable of Clean So Much.

5. Maisy Beg to Differ—Guest DO Want Maisy Jump All Over Them.

Speaking of Maisy, she’s doing really well. Her stitches are healing up nicely and she’s in her usual high spirits. She was extra-snuggly the first night she came home, but outside of that, it’s business as usual.

Now what we need to work on is keeping her from sharting herself every time one of the Thundercats hisses. . . .

ALTGELDSHRUGGED TWITTER:

Watched
Singing’ in the Rain
today for the first time. Note to self: BUY TAP SHOES.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Either You’re In or You’re Out

B
ack in the dot-com era, the big thing for newly minted executives was to join superexclusive private clubs. Previously these clubs had been the bastion of old Chicago families and businesses.
¹⁷²
But because everyone was caught up in the glamour of the dot-com lifestyle, these staid old institutions began opening their doors to new members. In fact, they started bending their own rules about income and selection, offering specials to those of us in certain industries.

Fletch and I snapped up a membership at a club housed in the Sears Tower. Instead of making us pay something like five thousand dollars, they let us in for a discounted rate of five hundred dollars. Nothing made us happier than to put on our finest clothes and pop on down to the Tower for some drinks and a quick bite. Didn’t matter that we had to eat at the club because we were both a week away from payday and had no cash for groceries; we could just sign for everything and pay later.

Eventually the dot-com bubble burst, and we didn’t have the means to settle up, so we defaulted on our membership. I suspect we weren’t alone.

My guess is our chichi private club went back to being a quiet place for lawyers and bankers to enjoy a quick lunch before returning to their office to work another ten hours. And I’m willing to bet they don’t miss us and our raucous conversations when we’d prattle on about our go-to-market strategies and sticky content and oh-my-God-how-cool-would-it-be-to-have-an-IPO. I suspect they used to look at us over their reading glasses and think, “Kids, when you stop selling air and start doing real business, y’all be sure and let us know.”

There was one club I particularly wanted to join because they had an enormous outdoor pool surrounded by a giant sundeck. Unfortunately, I didn’t know any members who’d sponsor me—or have good enough credit—to get in. For ten years, it’s been my goal to wield the means and wherewithal to join.

As it turns out, the membership application takes two minutes, it only a costs a couple bucks more than my old gym, and I don’t even have to be friends with anyone to sign up. No one does a credit check or makes me go through any kind of awkward interview process. Pretty much they show me the pool, explain where to park, and that’s it.

I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or overjoyed.

But either way, I’ll finally be tan.

Today’s my first day using the pool. I pretty much fly out of bed and change directly from my pajamas to my swimsuit. Then I whip my hair back into a bandanna and throw on yesterday’s gym shorts and I’m on my way.

When I get to the club, I toss all my stuff in a locker, grab my well-loved old Lands’ End boat-and-tote bag, and rush up to the pool.

I’m delighted to finally have a place to wallow, yet the second I walk out onto the sundeck, I realize I’m doing it wrong. Apparently no one got the memo that this club is no big deal, and everyone’s dressed to impress.

Ladies sport the kind of bikinis that are so intricately beaded they’d fall apart if they touched water. And their hair’s done and their makeup’s perfect and no one’s wearing a ratty old gym shirt as a cover-up. Unconsciously, my hand goes to the small patch on the side of my suit where the chlorine destroyed the elastic last year as I work my way over to the corner of the sundeck.

I settle into the chair and spend a few hours swimming and sunning, yet I never quite seem to enjoy myself.

I feel awkward and out of place here, and I can’t figure out why, particularly since I didn’t even fake my way into this membership.

After a week of torrential rain, Chicago’s finally graced us with a sunny day. Today I feel a little more ready to hit my pretentious pool. Instead of wearing my usual gym shorts over my bathing suit, I’ve got on a snappy new gauzy tunic.
¹⁷³
Instead of my usual bandanna do-rag, I’m protecting my hair with the same kind of awesome woven straw cowboy hat you always see the
Real Housewives
wearing to the beach.

I set aside my old Ray-Bans and am instead sporting flashy sunglasses with sparkles all over the stems. I’ve donned some heeled sandals in lieu of Crocs and I’m carrying a little bag from the Four Seasons and not my tote.
¹⁷⁴
When I hit the sundeck, I note with satisfaction that I’m done up exactly like every other woman at the pool, except I’m not wearing a spangled bikini, which . . . no. Instead I have on a new understated black miracle suit, with the tiniest bit of decorative trim.

I choose a chair with the best angle to the sun and observe how everyone else spreads out their club-owned towels. One goes on the top of the chaise, one covers the bottom, and the third is folded up into a little pillow until it’s used to dry off after a dip in the pool. I follow suit, sit, and like everyone else in a thirty-foot vicinity, I pull out my Kindle to read my Lauren Conrad book.

And yet, once I’m settled into my little corner between the hot tub, tiki bar, and lifeguard stand, I still feel like a poseur.

Granted, I may look like everyone here, but I have the sense that I don’t belong here. I mean, no one’s saying anything to or about me or in any way making me feel uncomfortable. In fact, nobody’s paying me any attention whatsoever.

I try to get to the root of my discomfort because I don’t want to ruin another day at the pool. Why do I feel this way? I don’t have sore-thumb syndrome—I took special pains on wardrobe today.
¹⁷⁵
It’s not a fitness thing because I’m happy with my current level of
strongs
as I’ve incorporated exercise back into my life. And every body shape is represented here, so even though I’m not the thinnest, I’m not the fattest. I’m also not the youngest or oldest or ugliest or prettiest. Seriously, I’m the median in every outward aspect. So whatever’s going on right now is internal.

This has got to be some manifestation of the cognitive dissonance I felt back in our Sears Tower club. I knew deep down we couldn’t afford what we were doing, but I figured if we kept it up long enough, everything would fall into place. You know, fake it till you make it. Only we didn’t make it.

That’s not the case now, though. I mean, I didn’t even sign for anything from the snack bar because we have a full pantry and fridge at home.

Maybe it’s the vitriolic feedback I sometimes receive. Some people get all pissed off when they come to my blog and find out I’m no longer stuck in a terrible apartment and cashing in coins to pay my electric bill. They accuse, “You’ve changed!” Which I have, because change is inevitable. No one’s exactly who they were half a decade ago. Plus, I never pledged to live like a monk. I have no issue with anyone having nice things, myself included. My lesson was never “You can’t own a Prada bag,” it was “Your Prada bag can’t own you.”
¹⁷⁶

Eventually I found a way not only to live my life on my own terms, but also to live within my own means. Sometimes those means include a trip to Vegas or new shoes. I’d be lying if I said this didn’t make me happy. Not being broke
¹⁷⁷
is a hell of a lot better than being broke.
¹⁷⁸

Yet there’s a huge part of me burdened with survivor’s guilt. Not everyone bounced back from the dot-com era. A lot of people who were devastated stayed devastated. Or they managed to get their shit together, only to be redevastated by the current economy. My heart aches for them. I feel so guilty that Fletch and I made it out—although not without struggle—when others didn’t.

I wish I could make things right for them, too.

Yet I know it’s not my responsibility.

But you know what?

I do have a responsibility.

I made a commitment to try to improve myself. So I guess the root of my problem today—and what’s making me feel like a phony—isn’t this situation. The club members aren’t at fault, nor are the flashy sunglasses. The issue isn’t that I drove here in my own car, instead of having to take the bus like I did back in the day.

The problem is that I’m sitting here mindlessly reading a book by a reality television star instead of taking this time to listen to an opera or watch a classic film or take in a new museum exhibit. I was doing well in my cultural pursuits, but the Maisy news threw me so much that I got off track. I didn’t want to go to see the new exhibit at the Field Museum; I just wanted to lie on the couch and hug my dog and watch
So You Think You Can Dance
.

In so doing, I’ve gone back on my promise to
try
to expand my mind, and that’s the problem.

Fortunately, the fix is simple.

I close my Kindle and place it back in my bag. Then I pull out an old paperback copy of a novel from my classics reading list, and I turn to page one.

Hours later, I’m rock-lobster-red from the sun and totally dehydrated, yet I haven’t been able to pull myself away from what I’ve been reading. I found my old copy of
Brave New World
recently, and I haven’t looked at it in twenty years. I kind of want to kick myself for not doing so sooner.

Huxley’s novel is sort of like Virginia Madsen’s character’s description of wine in
Sideways
—it’s living and constantly evolving. For example, if you drank a particular wine now and then resampled the same vintage ten years from now, you’d taste entirely different things, even though the contents are exactly the same. Reading this book at forty-one is a whole different experience from what it was when I read it in college.

I must inadvertently let out a contented sigh because the male model two chaises down turns and smiles at me. Even though I’ve been engrossed in this book all day, I haven’t been completely unaware of my surroundings. I noticed when this dude sat down and took his shirt off because all the women around me let out a collective gasp. He’s been getting in and out of the pool at various points, and I can tell whenever he leaves because all the girls exhale and stop sucking in their tummies. I can see why they’re so into him; this guy with his sculpted abs, cornflower blue eyes, and chin-length, tousled golden mane would make Bradley Cooper look like an ugly stepbrother.

Of course, my type is of the taller, louder, fatter, bigger-headed variety, and Fletch prefers I keep my dating to a minimum, which means I’m one of the few chicks who doesn’t spend the afternoon either blatantly ogling or walking next to him and “accidentally” dropping her towel. I admit it’s been fun to watch, kind of like visiting the monkey cage at the zoo.
¹⁷⁹

I get back to my reading and I hear a male voice say, “Hey, great book.” I glance up and see NotBradleyCooper is addressing me. And then he lifts his book, which is a much newer hardcover edition of
Brave New World
.

I can feel fifteen sets of eyes boring into me. “Cool! Have you read it before?” I ask him.

“Only like a dozen times,” he says and turns up the wattage on his Ultrabrite smile. One of the gals behind me actually moans.