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 (16 page)

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 world
¹⁵⁹
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 where 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.