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 (6 page)

But not at life. I’m
awesome
at life.

“
Pfft
, that was thirty years ago. I’m allowed to forget. Anyway, Ange, you never felt like just packing up the family and taking everyone to the beach for a few days?” I ask.

Blackbird jumps to Angie’s defense. “Do you understand the amount of coordination that would take? That’d be tougher than a military strike. With all those boys, she probably counts herself lucky if they’re all wearing pants when they leave the house.”

“Yet you admit it’s kind of weird to be an ocean virgin at almost forty,” I counter.

“Oh, yeah, totally fucked up. But
understandably
fucked up,” Blackbird clarifies.

“How do you think you’ll react when you see it?” Wendy asks.

“Maybe she’ll cry,” I suggest. I remember when Mose from
Amish in the City
saw the Pacific for the first time. He waded in wearing jeans and got all emotional because the endlessness of the water made him even more appreciative of God’s majesty. I didn’t just cry when I watched that episode; I
sobbed.

Angie shoots me a puzzled glance. “Why would I cry?”

“Because it’s kind of an emotional thing. You’ll feel way insignificant and you’ll question your place in the universe because you’ll have never seen anything so vast before.”

Angie’s having none of this. “Give me a break; I’ve never seen anything as vast as the laundry all the men in my house produce. One of the little guys is on two baseball teams this summer. Two teams! That’s two full uniforms a day in addition to whatever else he wears. If that doesn’t make me cry, I assure you, nothing will.”

“I can’t wait to see how you react when you smell the salt air for the first time. Bird, open the windows before we get there!” Poppy demands.

When we arrive at the beach, Blackbird throws the car into park, and we each hump a huge load of supplies over the dunes past the beach roses and saw grass to the boardwalk. We’ve got chairs and coolers and blankets and towels. We haul sandwiches and beverages and umbrellas. Beach toys and first-aid supplies balance out our loads. Our fruit is bountiful and fresh and water stock plentiful. Given our massive stash, you might think we’re planning to colonize the beach. It’s like we’re on
Survivor: Mommyblogger
.

Seriously, the upside of traveling with a bunch of moms is that they’re prepared for every eventuality. You’ll never find yourself wanting for a Kleenex or a hard candy or hand sanitizer (or a corkscrew) with this group. The downside is today isn’t helping me gear up for
Survivor
, because the contestants only get to bring one small pack. I remember on the first season
⁵²
contestants were allowed to bring one small personal item like tweezers, but eventually they stopped that, knowing someone like me would probably bring my Kindle. The worst of the seasons was China, when they let contestants take only the clothes on their backs. About halfway through, production had to give everyone swimsuits because their underpants appeared to be rotting.

Wait, why do I want to be on this show again?

Anyway, none of us is paying attention to where we’re going; we’re all just watching Angie’s face. The boardwalk is interminably long and our loads ridiculously heavy, but we know the effort will have been worth it when Angie sees the water for the first time. I want my
Amish in the City
moment!

Poppy and Blackbird lead the assault, so the second they spy a strip of salt water, they begin to walk backward. Moments later, when Angie finally sees the ocean, her expression is . . . fairly neutral. She merely gives the vista a quick once-over and tells us, “That’s exactly what I thought it would look like.”

Seriously, she must have more laundry than we can imagine if the entire Atlantic fails to bowl her over.

We choose a prime spot close to the water to set up camp. Most of us want to get a little color before we get wet, so the four of us settle into our chairs while Angie strips off her cover-up and heads down to the shoreline.

“She’s going! She’s going!” Wendy cries.

“
Shh
, quiet! We don’t want to spook her!” Blackbird commands.

Maybe we didn’t get our big, dramatic reveal when she saw the water for the first time, but surely
swimming
in the ocean will be significant. The four of us lean forward in our chairs as Angie sizes up the situation with one hand on her hip and one shading her eyes.

“How’s she going to approach this? I mean, she’s never seen a wave before, and they’re breaking big and hard today,” I say.

Blackbird adds, “I saw riptide flags posted farther down the beach. Powerful surf out there.”

Wendy agrees, “This water has to be superintimidating. And freezing. Mostly freezing.”

We hold our breath as Angie ventures in up to her ankles and clutch one another as the water reaches her knees. Will she be shocked at how cold the Atlantic can be, even in late July? Will she wade in, only to do a
Baywatch
-worthy run out the second rippling water hits her thighs?

Angie glances to either side for a moment and then the greatest thing in the world happens—she just shrugs at the majesty of the whole new world before her and dives in headfirst.

We lose our minds.

Blackbird begins shouting first. “What? WHAT? Did you . . . Have you ever . . . I mean . . . HOLY SHIT!”

Wendy’s up on her feet, mouth agape and eyes wild. “Did you see that? Did you see
that
? Did! You! See! That?”

I can’t believe she just dove in. I’m stunned. That’s the absolute opposite of what I’d do if this were my first time. I’d test the water about fifteen times. I’d consult the lifeguards. I’d query everyone on the beach before maybe hitting the snack bar, having a cheeseburger, and then waiting the requisite half hour before even thinking about approaching the water again. I’d construct an elaborate list of pros and cons and then I’d run the whole thing past Fletch not only to get his opinion but also to encourage him to come up with the kind of bribe or challenge I almost always require before I’ll try something new.

But just diving in?

That’s the last thing on earth I’d have done. “Nobody just dives in the Atlantic the first time they see it! No one!” Then I clarify, “I mean, dogs maybe, but not people!” My heart hasn’t felt this buoyant since Zora and Evan Marriott got to split the unexpected seven-figure check on
Joe Millionaire
!

Poppy’s Boston accent comes out when she’s tired or drinking or under duress. She’s much more succinct in her reaction. “Oh, my mathafuckin’ Gaaawd!”

“She dove! I can’t believe she dove. That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. I . . . I . . . I need to smoke now.” Blackbird scrambles in her bag for cigarettes and a lighter. Speechless, Poppy holds her hand out for one, too.

Angie emerges from the surf, brushing sand and stray bits of seaweed off herself. She heads back in our direction, and Blackbird and Poppy rise and give her a long, slow clap while Wendy tosses her a striped towel.

As Angie dries herself, she says simply, “So
that’s
the ocean. . . . I like it. And, hey, why do I have so much sand in my crotch?”

Okay, seriously?

This is so much better than a twelve-foot rigid inflatable raft.

To: gina_at_home

From: jen_at_home

Subject: suddenly my life has meaning again (okay, it had it before, but still)

I just found this while procrastinating in the TV/Film/Radio Jobs section on Craigslist. Tell me this isn’t the best trashy TV news you’ve heard in a while. (P.S. My thoughts are in italics.)

VH1 and BRET MICHAELS will hit the road literally . . . to find true love on the . . . “ROCK OF LOVE BUS with BRET MICHAELS”

VH1 is loading up a tour bus filled with beautiful babes and taking them on tour across the country.
The Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels
takes contestants out of the mansion and on the road in true rock star style. This season will feature all new ladies vying for Bret’s affection while traveling across America following Bret on a monthlong tour. The contestants will face new challenges to see if they can handle the rock star life on the road! If you are a sexy single lady looking for love who can party like a rock star, then this is the show for you! Ladies must be ages 21 and up
.
(No STDs? No problem! We can provide them for you!)

TO BE CONSIDERED, E-MAIL THE FOLLOWING INFO TO YOUR CLOSEST AUDITION CITY:

1. Your Name
(Bonus points awarded if it ends in an I or ϒ)

2. Age
(Don’t bother if you’re over 25. This bus does not stop in Cougar Town.)

3. What city you would like to audition in
(Meaning “In which city is your strip club located?”)

4. Best phone #

5. Little about yourself and why you would be good for Bret
(Meaning, “Send shots of yourself naked. Lots and lots of naked.”)

6. And be sure to ATTACH A FEW RECENT PICS of yourself AND Web page/MySpace url
(See above.)

Aug. 1-10 CHICAGO (IL): ChicagoRock [email protected]

Aug. 11-18 CINCINNATI (OH): OhioRock @xxxxCasting.net

Location: Chicago only

Compensation: $100/day

($100? I guess that’s the going rate for dignity these days. And, no, I can’t wait!)

CHAPTER SIX

Extreme Makeover: Dumb-Ass Edition

B
y Jove, I think I’ve got it!

I totally figured out how I’m going to ease my conversational impediment.

I’m going to go Eliza Doolittle all over my ass!

Here’s the thing—I’m not concerned with passing myself off as a lady of high society; I just don’t want to give strangers the impression that I’m a dumb ass anymore. Plus, I don’t want to make them feel all uncomfortable when I spout a bunch of thoughtless commentary because ultimately, if I say the wrong thing in the wrong place, I could offend the wrong person or even kill my career. Basically, I need to stop using my mouth as a weapon.

To do so, I’m going to have to get me some learnin’.

What I need is a cultural renaissance.

Scratch that. I need a cultural
Jen
aissance.

My handicap isn’t that I’m incapable of learning but that I’m rarely motivated to do it, so I’m going to battle my natural propensity for sloth by forcing myself to get off the couch and acquire a base of cultural knowledge. I need to broaden what I’m familiar with by reading and dining and patronizing the arts
⁶⁴
so when I’m in the middle of an important conversation, I won’t just panic and start blurting nonsense. For example, this past winter, if I’d maybe read a book on petroleum politics, I wouldn’t have immediately launched into a diatribe about how Clooney killed
The Facts of Life
.
⁶⁵

The thing is, I’m easily influenced and gorging myself on a steady diet of shitty reality television has clearly had an effect. Reality television’s a terrible influence on me because the participants are put in absurdly unnatural situations, and they have a team of producers behind the scenes encouraging them to, figuratively, go for blood.

Ipso facto, if I surround myself with positive influences, I’ll be more erudite.

I already have plenty of cultivated (yet fascinating) people in my life—I mean, I know a master sommelier, so why don’t we ever get together to drink great wine? One of my friends works in a big museum—why haven’t I ever taken her up on her offer of a backstage tour? Apparently I know socialites, so why do I struggle with even the most basic of social graces? Plus, through Stacey I’ve met chefs and lots of theater people—shouldn’t I be able to learn from all of them? I mean, if I actually put forth the effort and don’t shake and rock and go all hot-water-burns-baby every time they try to talk about what I previously found mind-numbing?

I mean, maybe I’ll learn I’ve actually been very happy avoiding opera my whole life. Maybe I’ll discover that my initial impression of the Vaseline barbell was on the money. Maybe I’ll discover stinky cheese tastes exactly as bad as it smells and my love for Kraft American singles is forever.

And maybe I won’t. And that’s okay.

The real value will be in having had the experiences in the first place.

I’m willing to wager that being able to draw from a greater depth of knowledge and experience will make me a better writer because I’ll finally be able to describe someone as evil without having to reference Blair Waldorf or Mr. Burns
.

Because,
dude
, it’s time.

Perhaps my first official foray outside of my comfort zone should have involved wearing a bra.

To backtrack, once in a great while, I’ll come across a book that totally alters my perspective. Years ago, when I read Ayn Rand’s magnum opus
Atlas Shrugged
, it forever changed the way I looked at the relationship between industry and government.
⁶⁶
And a college course featuring
Catcher in the Rye
brought out the foulmouthed cynic I never knew lived inside me.

That may or may not have been a good thing.

What inspired me in
Eat, Pray, Love
was that Elizabeth Gilbert put herself into situations that were initially uncomfortable, but that ended up helping her meet her goal—finding fulfillment in body, mind, and spirit. She tried all kinds of crazy stuff, some of which she liked, and some she didn’t, but each try brought her a step closer to her goal.

That’s why I’m here, top off, facedown on this terry-cloth-covered table. I decided the best way to push myself out of my comfort zone was to revisit something I’d previously written off, so I’m getting a massage. I know, I know. . . . Everyone loves a massage! Except me. First of all, massages hurt. A lot. I’m generally so tense that even a little manipulation
kills.
Second, the least relaxing thing I can think to do is to take my pants off in front of a stranger, no matter how professional he or she may be. Third, I actually thrive on stimulus bordering on chaos, so lying in a dark, quiet room, hearing the sound of nothing but whale music and the occasional rippling of back fat is NOT my recipe for a good time.

I figure if I can get past my discomfort—you know, just dive in—I might find some value in it. Plus, it’s easier than going to a museum.

I’m lying here, trying to clear my mind. But the thing is, the second the masseuse turns off the light, my thoughts begin to race:

I wish the masseuse had eucalyptus oil. I hate lavender and my only other choice was lemongrass, which smells nice, but it totally makes me want another one of those lemongrass mojitos we had when Stacey invited me to the opening of that new hotel. I guess now that I think about it, it was kind of disrespectful for me to mock the PR girls for going on and on about the giant tuna they were going to carve into fresh sushi. But the second we walked in, everyone was all, “Did you see the fish? Did you see the fish? You have to see the fish!” like it was the second coming of Christ or something. So, I ask you, how was I not supposed to bend over by its stillintact head and take a MySpace-style self-portrait with it? Hilarious! And maybe I shouldn’t have loudly announced, “Let’s go eat our sandwiches over by those models so we’ll feel extra-good about ourselves!” but come on, it was pretty funny. Stacey thought so and OW, that fucking HURT and HOLY OW, that hurt even more.

You wouldn’t think this tiny little masseuse would have such strong hands, but she does. Bet she would kick so much ass at a thumb-wrestling match. Okay, she’s touching my shoulders, and OW, I don’t like that AT ALL and now she’s massaging my head and HEY, LADY, YOUR HANDS HAVE OIL ON THEM AND I JUST WASHED MY HAIR. Oh, great, I’m going to be a big, greasy lemon head for the rest of the day because I am not showering again because I just showered an hour ago and I have better things to do than lather, rinse, repeat all the damn day and I kind of still have a book due and JESUS CHRIST, you are going to pop my head clean off!

I’m paying a buck a minute for this?

Okay, okay, I’m not being terribly Eat, Pray, or Love right now. I feel more Eat, Aim, Shoot. I need to clear my thoughts and relax and be in the moment but it’s really hard to do when this little person is SNAPPING MY SPINAL CORD. OW!! And how am I supposed to relax when I’m only wearing underpants and a sheet? I know this person is professional and sees people undressed for a living, yet THIS IS STILL REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE FOR ME IN EVERY SENSE.

You know what helps me relax? A shirt. Some pants. Maybe FULL UNDERWIRE SUPPORT. And what’s the deal with this music? It’s just one long pan flute solo? Is it more than one guy playing? When does he take a break? And why does it have to be all New Age-y? Why can’t they play opera? From what Poppy says, opera is very nice and it tells a story that maybe I could concentrate on while this little tiny person is MURDERING ME ONE HANDFUL OF BACK FAT AT A TIME.

I wonder if she’d rather work on a person who’s heavier than a really skinny person? I bet massaging them would be like gripping a Baggie full of chicken bones, while I probably feel like a Stretch Armstrong doll. Do they still make those? And what’d they fill them with, anyway? I remember how mad my grade school friend Donna was when I bit a tiny hole in her Stretch doll to see what he was made of, and if I recall, it was some kind of green goo and MOTHER OF CHRIST, I THINK MY ARM’S DISLOCATED NOW. You know what I like? I like when I’m lying on the bed on my stomach reading and my six-pound cat Maggie walks on my back. Sometimes she makes little biscuits and it’s soft and sweet and DOESN’T FEEL LIKE TORTURE. FOR GOD’S SAKE WHY NOT JUST WATERBOARD ME WHILE YOU’RE AT IT?

Um . . . yeah.

Apparently I still don’t like massages.

But I do have something new to talk about. So there’s that.

Last year, Fletch and I agreed to make the big move out to the suburbs. However, we’ve yet to decide which one is the real us. We hemmed and hawed so much we had to renew our lease to buy more time. But this is it—when this lease is over, we’re leaving the (773) for good.

Last weekend we were up in Winnetka looking at a stately stucco home within walking distance of the lake. The house was at the top end of our budget, and we’re not quite ready to make an offer, but we took a peek anyway.

“I don’t know about this place, Fletch,” I said.

“Why not? It’s practically perfect,” he replied, having already mentally set up his media room in the finished basement. “Too expensive?”

“Nah, that’s not it. First of all, where are the rats? I don’t see evidence of a single rodent. If Loki doesn’t have a backyard stocked with vermin, how’s he going to keep up his excellent killin’ skills?”
⁶⁷

“You make a fine point,” he agreed, getting into the spirit. “I’ve noticed there’s no garbage on the sidewalk—what are the rats supposed to eat once we import them?”

“Listen.” I paused for a second to take in all the quiet. “The windows are open and cars keep driving by, but none of them is blasting salsa music. Where’s my relentless mariachi serenade?”

“No thumping bass line yet, either. How are we supposed to enjoy other people’s music if they don’t share it with us?” he wondered.

“Worst of all, what if one of us suddenly develops an interest in illegal drugs? Place like this, you can’t just walk out front and buy crack. Serious inconvenience.”

Then we drove back to the city, laughing all the way until we got to our depressing neighborhood and still-squalid home. Then everything was a lot less funny.

I feel like once we figure out where to settle in for good, and after I complete this manuscript, only then can I get down to the business of fixing what’s wrong with me.

Finally.

“What was that thump?”

“Was that a thump? Sounded more like a crash to me.”

Fletch and I are in the living room, drinking coffee and watching FOX News. We’re heckling every story we see Stadler- and Waldorf-style, which makes this a pretty typical Saturday. We planned to look at houses today, but we’re in the middle of a vicious September rainstorm and neither of us wants to brave the expressway in a monsoon. Plus, I’m already two weeks overdue on mymanuscript and I’ve got to get it done,
⁶⁸
so I’m in for the day.