Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: #Authors; American, #General, #21st Century, #Personal Memoirs, #Popular Culture, #Humor, #Jeanne, #Jack, #Literary, #Biography & Autobiography, #Social Science, #Biography, #United States, #Women
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 (31 page)
One of the other donuts I got was covered in Froot Loops. It was good, but it was no maple-bacon bar.
I remember laughing at
ANTM’
s Norelle in Cycle Three when she said how she expected the food in Asia to be like what you’d find at Panda Express. It’s not so funny now.
FYI, this is also why I’m not having children.
And now I’m never going to be America’s Next Top Model.
Now I don’t have to face the shame of her Google-Mapping my coordinates.
But FAIL. Massive fail.
I think.
Suddenly I have a lot more compassion for all those terrible shots of Britney’s weave. It’d be impossible to take care of all that hair and two kids, y’all.
Because it bears repeating, Nevada needs a coastline!
And possibly a little dirty.
Seriously, does she not need to write a memoir about this?
Read: drunk on California Coolers.
You ladies who tailgated at my Atlanta event? You come in a very close second.
When Stacey invited me to join her crime family, I named myself the Lacoste Accoster.
Want to know more? Buy
Bitter Is the New Black
, available at fine booksellers everywhere.
You’d be surprised how fast a crackhead with a shopping cart can move when properly motivated.
Which shaves off the ten-year benefit I get from the frigging extensions. I can’t win.
And orange soda to a nice, citrus-y sauvignon blanc.
Even her scars are sexy.
Read: safe.
Is there anything Wikipedia can’t tell us? I mean, if you’re somewhat flexible on accuracy?
Yay!
In somewhat related news, the house took almost three years to sell.
Suck on that, PETA.
Driving While Ingesting.
I’m the biggest sucker in the world for palm trees.
I haven’t seen a Viking helmet yet!
First I need to get a ball gown.
Then I need to get funky little binoculars.
Sure they let you bring drinks into the opera, right?
Or made the actual drink.
Perhaps if
Match.com
had been around when I was single, I’d have already known this.
And yes, this makes me a tiny bit nostalgic for the old house.
Yeah, you read that right. Stapled.
Memoir! Memoir! Memoir!
LOVE!
She told me where to find the argyle socks for the cover of
Pretty in Plaid
!
At least not out loud.
During which I made a note to schedule an angioplasty.
They like puns. Which are funny, when they don’t reference the size of my backyard.
Somehow every stray cat on the South Side finds its way to Gina’s yard. Maybe because she’s yet to not rehome them?
And yes, I was paying for school myself at the time and living at home. Don’t get me started.
Amish puppy mill? Yes, please!
And WAY longer then the life expectancy of most of the Lancaster dogs.
And yes, I overtipped. I’m a pathological overtipper. It’s one of my few saving graces.
AKA Upstairs Cat.
Emotional blackmail—I plays it.
Come on, it’s the perfect name for a one-eyed cat. And if we ever get a three-legged dog, we’re naming him Tripod.
Thundercat One was named Angus once his swelling went down enough to determine his sex.
Read: old money.
It’s from Target, but it’s totally adorable.
A lot of women have their actual handbags up by the pool. I find this very odd.
Screw up one sorority rush and it stays with you for the rest of your life.
And why would you carry it to the pool? This still has me scratching my head. The lockers here seem quite secure.
And bitter.
And bitter.
Really, they should advertise the floor show in the membership brochure.
Next up? Orwell, lots and lots of Orwell.
P.S. I kind of miss Winona Ryder. Come back!
Seriously, cover your mouth. Were you raised in a barn?
James Dean is
so
the original Robert Pattinson.
Jackass.
And the pigeon.
Yes, courtesy of a late-night Ambien shopping spree.
And replaced in 1997.
Martha Stewart’s book on cupcakes, I’ll be back for you!
See, Stacey? I totally pay attention to you.
I wonder if that’s its selling point?
Make a panini out of this cheese, adding a slice of Granny Smith apple and some Dijon mustard. You’ll totally thank me.
To think I did all that surreptitious cheese-wiping for nothing.
One Ambien-induced night I tiptoed down to the kitchen and melted cheese, toasted bread, and coated the whole thing in sanding sugar. I dubbed it “swavery” because it was both sweet and savory. And it was delicious! (I think.)
Which also makes me giggle.
The “sweat” is actually expressed oil.
Deeply yellowed because it’s aged five years.
Or most of my family.
Oh, come on. Every marriage can use a little mystery, right?
I vaguely recall swallowing the wax from time to time. This is probably why I can’t do long division.
I can’t bring myself to drink anything with a n-i-p-p-l-e on it. This is why I almost drown every time I get a bottle of Evian Sport water. I tend to aim it at my mouth and then squeeze too hard, and it hits my throat like a garden hose.
DO NOT BASH THE OLIVE GARDEN.
Bite me, Wikipedia. And don’t tell him I was wrong.
Or maybe a Rice Krispie.
Damn! Should have gotten the twenty-course dinner!
Cooking, not stabbing.
Thanks to delicious German wine and parents on the other side of the earth.
Probably mostly French fries.
Except for the bread. The bread was spectacular there, as it is here.
That’s what she said! Argh! I did it again!
Heh.
See: Flavored vodka, flights of.
Once on January 21, 1986, she said three mean things before lunch, and it was so out of character, we all marked the event on our calendars.
Seriously, my team is not without compassion. And we’re not all out hunting moose or bombing abortion clinics, either.
Coincidentally, both entailed a distinct lack of effort on my part.
I had talent. Algae scrubbing is a skill, yo.
If you want something to complain about, children, then try doing data entry for nine hours a day.
Possibly to understand the plight of herpes and poor choices?
These authors are dead. They don’t need my dollar.
Fletch made me take my car in for detailing at the shop across from my usual B&N as I accidentally spilled a whole container of kebabs in there. He said my car smelled like Afghanistan.
Feel free to insert a “Jen continues to be a philistine” footnote here; it’s justified.
This last bit sounds better if you say it in a Scarlett O’Hara accent.
And yes, I know she won a Pulitzer. But I’ve been in
People
magazine.
Twice.
Suck on that, Eudora Welty.
Get it? You(dora)? Like Eudora? Get it? Yeah, well, fine. SHE wasn’t funny, either.
Or possibly the result of having watched a
Cribs
rerun earlier in the day.
This is where a certain fancy book-prize winner would take four pages to describe all the shades and would never, ever get to the
Real World
conversation.
I’m hoping it’s just the extensions.
To me, at least.
Italy, maybe?
Owned by Ralph Lauren’s daughter.
Even if they did come in plus sizes.
Yet I appreciate living in a country where the ability to disagree with your government is an inalienable right. So there’s that.
Mostly to smoke, but it’s still nice.
And that one episode of
The Simpsons
.
Mostly because there’s a cupcake on the cover.
My friend Heather used to work with Howard Dean, and she says he has an amazing sense of humor. But I wasn’t going to stick around and find out.
I have a splash-proof cover, which makes it fine for the beach and pool, but not for the bathtub.
I have love for the Mill House Inn.
By Bret Easton Ellis.
Also Bret Easton Ellis.
Because he did.
Except when Fletch snuck off to smoke.
Again, despite having checked it on both Google Earth and Google Street View.
Had Baldwin been wearing a belt, that is.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER TWO - (Not My) High School Reunion
CHAPTER THREE - So You Think They Can Dance?
CHAPTER FOUR - Do You Have Love for New York?
CHAPTER SIX - Extreme Makeover: Dumb-Ass Edition
CHAPTER SEVEN - Property Ladder
CHAPTER EIGHT - The Biggest Winner
CHAPTER NINE - The Flavor of FAIL
CHAPTER TWELVE - Wickedly Imperfect
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Nightmares, of the Nonkitchen Variety
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Either You’re In or You’re Out
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Have Fork, Will Travel
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Real World: Middle Age