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 (29 page)

Three hours later, I pass through the same door and I emerge . . . unscathed.

“You didn’t get kicked out.”

“Not only were we not kicked out, but we were fun and charming, and people seemed to like us. We were possibly the very best behaved guests there.”
²⁴¹

“No way.”

“Way.”

I’m at lunch with Stacey, doing the whole post-Hamptons wrap-up. I’ve already described how great the authors’ cocktail reception was, and Stacey was totally excited to hear that our favorite
Real Housewives
character is just as funny and snarky in person. I’ve moved on to describe the dinner portion of the evening.

“We get to the house and it’s frigging enormous. It just goes on and on, and from where we stand in the entry hall, we can see a bunch of different wings spiraling off of it. I knew I’d be in this giant mansion by the sea, but until I saw it, I didn’t have the full perspective.”
²⁴²

Driving up to that house, with my heart in my throat, I was ready to simply turn around and run. Fletch said we’d do whatever I wanted, but gently encouraged me to stick with it, as I’d already come this far.

“The host’s the one who answers the door, only instead of looking like the enemy or something, she’s this sweet, unassuming older lady who immediately makes us feel welcome. And as for the house, as soon as we get in it, we can see that every room is warm and full of books and family pictures, and it’s homey, and even though it’s massive, it’s super-welcoming.”

The host had kind eyes and soft gray hair, and she was wearing a tunic and some cute summer pants. Her outfit made me reassess the whole situation. I mean, the enemy can’t possibly wear capris, right?

Stacey nods, drawing her feet in underneath her. I close my eyes for a second, trying to recall every detail. “We go out to this huge back room, surrounded by windows and there’s water on three sides of us. Wish it had been lighter because I was dying to see the view. Anyway, we’re seated with a bunch of well-heeled people, including this old guy who’s next to me. We start talking and I tell him we’re from Chicago. And he’s all, ‘Oh, I have a niece who lives by you.’ And I say, ‘Really? Where does she live?’ I’m thinking maybe Lincoln Park or Andersonville or something. Then he goes, ‘She’s in Columbus, Ohio.’”

“Isn’t that something like six hours away from here?” Stacey asks.

“It is. But I figure I’m talking to an old New Yorker who assumes that everything between there and LA is flyover country, and it’s not worth having a geography fight. His arrogance is a little astounding, but it’s more funny than anything. And then—then! While we’re talking, he takes his finger, sticks it in his right nostril, and starts panning for gold, which kills me. I mean, how rich do you have to be not to care if you pick your nose in front of people?”

Stacey gives me a knowing nod. “That’s called ‘fuck you’ money. If you don’t like me picking my nose, then fuck you.”

The old man pretty much puts the nail in the coffin on my theory that culture (and cash) equals class. And I realize the only way to accomplish my goal of being classier is to actively monitor my own behavior. I don’t need outside learning. Yeah, having a solid background in theater and music and literature is nice, but if I want everyone to feel comfortable around me, I simply need to be conscious of being gracious, easy as that.

“Totally. So then the host sits down at our table, and I get tense. I figured I’d be safe if she weren’t around, but she’s directly across from me. The old couple next to me starts talking about visiting Cuba and how great it is and how Castro’s been instrumental in providing health care for people, but before they can sing any more of his praises, I immediately asked about the Cuban food they ate.”

Seriously, we were about to head down the health-care nationalization path, and I was pretty sure that Mrs. Media Matters and I would have different opinions. But that wasn’t an appropriate situation in which to share those opinions, particularly unsolicited. Fortunately, I’ve learned enough in my Jenaissance not only to completely change the subject, but to do it with enough familiarity and panache that no one even notices.

“Did politics come up?” Stacey wants to know.

“Yes, they did in the context of the talk the general gave after we ate. What’s ironic is Fletch and I were the ones who sat there like good little soldiers, but some of the rich old guys at the dinner kind of lit into the general about military strategy.”

I hated hearing some of the questions a few guests asked, not just because of their incendiary tone, but because they didn’t seem to treat the general with the respect he deserved. Yet their actions gave me such insight to all the times I’ve behaved similarly in the past.

“But overall,” I declare, “we kicked ass. And we even had wine!”

A giggle inadvertently escapes from Stacey before she covers her mouth with her hand. “Wow, sorry; it’s just wine usually works like truth serum on you. Or magic talking juice.”

“I know! But I held it together. Frankly, I’m as surprised as anyone. Seriously, though, the biggest surprise of the night was the lady I was so worried about turned out to be completely, utterly lovely. There were plenty of opportunities for her to express dissenting opinions, but she never did. She made sure her guests felt welcome because the dinner wasn’t about politics; it was about charity. The whole night I kept thinking I was a spy behind enemy lines, only to find out for the most part the enemy’s not so different from us.”

“I’m really proud of you.” Stacey beams.

“Hey, you did an awful lot to help me get there. This was a group effort, so thank you.”

“I’m so glad. By the way, how were the beasts?”

“The dogs had the time of their lives at the kennel, of course.” These dogs also enjoy trips to the vet; they’re strange.

“And the tiny devils?”

“Um . . . I suspect we’re going to need a new cat sitter next time. I saw some blood on the carpet in the room where I was keeping them, and there’s not a scratch on any of the Thundercats. But what’s hilarious is the kittens were so freaked out to see a stranger in our house that they’ve totally been sucking up to us ever since we got home.”

“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

L
ast 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.