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 (7 page)

“You really want to debate the semantics of the noise we just heard instead of getting up to inspect it?
Oh, hello, Mr. Breaking-and-Entering criminal! We’re in here! Come and murder us!
” I singsong toward the back of the house. This might be funny if there hadn’t been a spate of B&Es in the neighborhood in the past few weeks.

“’S fine,” Fletch assures me, eyes still on the screen.

“Really?” I huff. “You’re not even going to get up? FINE YOURSELF.” I hurl myself out of my seat and stomp into the kitchen.

“Can I have more coffee while you’re up?”

“Can’t. Busy being stabbed,” I yell back. But there’s no evidence of breaking and entering. Or entering, anyway. Something definitely broke.

“What the hell’s going on here?” I mutter to myself. I bend over to inspect the problem. One of our hardwired under-cabinet lights has just fallen out of the wall and into a puddle on the counter. “Swear to God, if that little bastard took a leak on here again, we’re having him for dinner.” Our surly cat Bones has taken to peeing up here lately. I assume this is how he expresses his unhappiness with the litter-box situation. I admit I haven’t provided the level of sanitation he normally requires, but ever since I got hit with a flying rat this winter, I seem to have lost my passion for keeping his toilet perfectly spotless.

“What’s the problem in there?”

“Light fell out of the wall.”

Apparently this is too interesting—or his cup is too empty—not to see firsthand, and Fletch approaches from behind me while I furiously dry and decontaminate the counter. “Here, I’ll fix it.” He tries to place the fixture back up, lining the screws up with the holes in the wall, but it immediately falls out again. He tentatively touches the drywall underneath the cabinet . . . and his finger goes right through it.

“This is soaked,” he reports.

“How’d that little shit manage to wet the wall?” I wonder. “Did he back up to it? Does he need to go to the vet?”

“If Bones peed hard enough to saturate the wall, he needs a priest, not a doctor. This isn’t urine.”

“Well, hurrah for us being slightly less squalid than anticipated! But if this isn’t pee, what’s been flooding the counter? Is this from the bathroom?” I ask.

“Can’t be—we’re fifteen feet away from those pipes, and this is an exterior wall. This is coming from the roof over the back porch.”

“Do we have a problem?” I fret.

Fletch gives it a dismissive shrug. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Now let’s get some more coffee.”

I head back to the living room, glancing at the wall over my shoulder. “Okay . . . if you’re sure.”

“Trust me.”

Does the statement “trust me” ever NOT become famous last words?

Over the next few weeks we find out that not only is our roof leaking, but our foundation has cracked. Water has saturated the electrical panel and the back wall’s become structurally unsound, which is causing the porch—you know, the place where I’m supposed to finish writing my book—to sink.

As in my house is sinking.

Myhouseissinking.
⁶⁹

This is bad.

I’m in my office giving my manuscript one final read. I finish scanning the last page, click SAVE, and then SEND.

That’s it.

I’m finished!
⁷⁰

I turn my attention to the two men in full hazmat suits who’re about to tear out the drywall ten feet away from me.

“I bet you find a little bit of mold,” I tell them. “I’ve been really wheezy in here, and my eyes have totally been burning. The thing is? I kind of think it’s some kind of beneficial supermold because I’ve been able to concentrate in here like never before. Seriously, I’m talking crystal clear focus. I’m pretty sure it’s a penicillin-y strain of mold that’s like brain medicine. Which, really? Perfect timing because I’m about to take on a project that’ll require me to use my mind, like, all the time.”

The two men look at me strangely, and then they each strap on respirators. “You might want to wait in the other room,” the older one says.

“Okeydokey,” I reply, practically skipping off toward my television. But before I can even get past the opening credits of
I Love Money
, the younger mold-remediation guy comes in—pale and shaking—to say, “We opened the wall because we were going to start the cleanup in your office and OH, GOD THE MOLD, THERE WAS SO MUCH MOLD. OH, GOD, OH GOD, WE HAVE TO SEAL IT UP AND LEAVE RIGHT NOW.”

Oh.

God.

I guess we’re moving.

We have no choice.

Now I need to find a new house.

And probably pack, too.

My cultural Jenaissance will have to go on hold indefinitely.

Well, THAT was one enormous, six-week-long pain in the ass. I never want to see another cardboard box again.

We have to stop at the old place one more time tonight to drop off the garage door opener. The old homestead looks so different now. They began major construction the day we moved out, and now the entire kitchen has been gutted because of the water leak. All forty-seven of my former pretty white cabinets can be found scattered throughout the wee first floor. My old landlords are such nice people and I feel awful for them.

As I walk around the kitchen, I can see the wall where the cabinets had barely been hanging on to a rotten stud, surrounded by giant blooms of black mold. I know from looking around, there’s no way we could have stayed here. There’s too much damage.

And then in a bittersweet moment, I’m vindicated for a year’s worth of argument.

“Fletch, check it out!” I demand.

“What am I looking at?”

“In there, in that space between where the wall and floor meet. Do you see?”

He peers into the open area and then recoils.

“So you see it,” I confirm.

He blanches. “Whoa.”

What I’m pointing out are droppings. Not mouse droppings like he’d assured me, but rat droppings. Turds. Poop. Doody. Big, fat, filthy, disease-ridden rat scat. Gah. I’m so grossed out that if I had a gun right now, I might just put myself out of my own misery.

“I guess you were right,” he grudgingly admits. “There really was a ratinourhouse.”

I nod, but I don’t savor the win.

To: jen_at_home

From: stacey_at_home

Subject: Monday

You up to hit
Desire Under the Elms
with me Monday? My date had to cancel at the last minute.

To: stacey_at_home

From: jen_at_home

Subject: RE: Monday

Totally! What kind of food do they serve?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Property Ladder

“A
re you finally settled in?”

“Yeah . . .” I trail off.

“Do you love the new place?”

“Yeah . . .” I respond unconvincingly.

“Okay, what’s the problem? That house seems pretty nice, judging from the photos you posted.” I’m on the phone with Angie, and I can hear her huffing away in the background. I suspect she’s getting in a quick elliptical workout while we chat, as she doesn’t know how to avoid multitasking. One time we were talking and I could hear sawing. At first I thought a kid was snoring in the background, but it turns out she was on her hands-free phone, preparing for Halloween by building a six-foot-tall witch out of plywood from a pattern she’d seen in Martha Stewart’s magazine.

We lucked into renting brand-new construction, so the chances of this house sinking are considerably reduced. The rooms are sunny and quiet, and there’s enough yard space for the dogs to run laps. They’re so thrilled that Maisy only pees indoors now to make a point.

There’s space enough for me to have my own office in a room with big windows. The kitchen’s quite functional, with dark granite and cherry cabinets, both of which are perfect for masking dirt and the paw prints from cats who refuse to stay off the counters. And if we really love it here, we have the option to buy once our lease is up, thus settling the whole where-do-we-want-to-live dilemma. The best part is this house has all the benefits of a suburban homestead, but I still live only five minutes away from Stacey, and yet . . .

“I’m not playing around with you, Lancaster. Cough it up.” Yeah, she’s definitely exercising. The endorphins make her aggressive.

I hesitate. “Well, the new house is . . . boring, okay? It’s boring. I mean, technically we moved to what isn’t as good a neighborhood as the one we were in—”

Angie barks but tries to cover it with a cough. “
That
was a good neighborhood?” Apparently the large retaining wall covered with gang graffiti across the street led her to believe otherwise.

(Sidebar: I always wanted to go out there and, you know,
disrespect
the local Latin Kings by covering their crowns and tridents with arrows and my old sorority letters, but Fletch thought that was my worst idea yet. He was all,
“What if they catch you? What would be your line of defense? Not inviting them to your mixer? Gossiping about their baggy pants and plain white T-shirts at the Phi Delt house?”
⁷¹

It didn’t matter in the end because you—meaning
I
—can’t buy spray paint in city limits. I grilled the unhelpful associate in the paint department at the home-improvement store about this stupid local ordinance. I tapped my loafered foot, adjusted my pearls, and repopped the collar on my Lacoste while we spoke. “I’m sorry. Do you think I’m going to stuff your spray paint in my Coach purse, drive home in my German car, and then start tagging walls?” The associate just stood there in his smock, looking scared, not saying anything.
⁷²

I sigh and gaze out at my tidy little backyard. “Yeah, smarty-pants, we lived in
Bucktown
, which is superdesirable, even though we were in the weird little pocket of it that bordered Logan Square. Now we’re in the Square proper, which isn’t considered nearly as nice. That’s why we were able to rent something bigger and newer for about the same price. The thing is, we’re in the very best part of the Square and . . . and . . . our neighbors
suck
.”

“Aren’t you used to that?” I can’t tell if she’s snorting or just breathing hard.

“No, I mean they suck in an entirely new way. We’ve got construction on one side, so no one even lives there. On the other side, we’ve got a house identical to ours. A lovely young couple lives there. They wave when we see them, and they’re always out raking leaves and stuff.”

Angie begins to huff louder. The jury’s out as to whether she’s reaching a critical point in her workout or if she’s just getting annoyed. “Weren’t you going to put out a hit on the weird old neighbors who never cut their lawn? Didn’t you squeal to the City about them all the time? You stole their tree!
⁷³
Now proper landscaping is a problem? I’m sorry. I guess I’m having trouble keeping all your proclivities straight.”

Unfazed, I continue. “Appropriate yard upkeep isn’t getting to me. The problem here is they don’t annoy me! They don’t do anything wrong!”

In her most patronizingly soothing voice, she says, “Wow, that’s just
awful
. Perhaps you can convince the ex-con to move in behind you again.”

Since I’m on the cordless phone, I’m free to pace between the kitchen and dining room, my socks slipping on the hardwood. Maisy gets off her doggie bed in the corner of the room and joins me, her entire backside wagging in happiness at our being together. “Hear me out—I’ve made a career out of writing about the foibles of my neighborhood, and now I live in the city’s version of suburbia and I’m coming up empty! My next subtitle’s going to have to be ‘
Who Are All These Lovely People and Aren’t I Lucky to Have Them Live Next Door to Me?
’ That blows goats! Don’t get me wrong. I love how quiet and civilized it is here, but what the hell am I supposed to write about? I need struggle! I need to be angry! Annoyed! I don’t have any of that right now because it’s all peace and fucking quiet.”

“Tragic,” she snarks.

“The worst part is I’ve already gotten notes from the neighborhood association about banding together against crime. There’s an actual Web site! My new alderman’s even involved. Getting this stuff organized—or, rather, bitching about how this stuff isn’t organized—is MY job. What am I supposed to do now?” I flop down on the living room couch, and Maisy flops beside me, resting her head on my shoulder and looking at me as if to say,
“I feel you, my sister. Now let’s have a cookie.”

“You could be thankful.”

“Bite me. What else you got?”

“Jen, it’s simple. Try something new.”

“I hate new.” I do. I hate it. I like old, established, just like it always was.

“You enjoy living indoors?”

“Very much so.”

“Then my advice stands—try something new. Why don’t you work on that thing you were telling me about a couple of months ago? You know, the one where you go to plays and listen to jazz and try to not be such an asshole?”

Okay? This? Is exactly why I like her. Here I had this huge epiphany, and the second I started to pack, I completely forgot about it. “Maybe it is time to revisit that, although . . . it seems kind of hard, and things are really starting to get exciting on this season’s
Biggest Loser
and
Amazing Race
and
America’s Next Top Model
and
Lost
—”

Angie interrupts me. “Hey, remember when you had to work all those temp jobs and people made you get them coffee?”

I shudder. “Yeah.” Although I finally got into the swing of temping by the end, the first time I walked into an office to be someone’s secretary after having been an executive was among the worst moments of my life. What if I lose my current momentum? What would it be like to have to fetch lattes again? I really never want to know.

“Then that’s your alternative.” I hear a beep, which I assume means she’s finished with her workout. Although with Angie, she could be baking a pie or building a fallout shelter.

I get off the couch to glance out the window again, and Maisy follows. I’m hoping desperately that an episode of
Jerry Springer
will have broken out on the neighbor’s lawn so that I can report on it. Instead I see their tasteful Fall Harvest decor spilling down their spotless front stoop. There’s nothing but gourds and cornucopias and shit out there. Damn. Then I look in the mirror and see my pajama-clad self—even though it’s lunchtime—with my best friend in the world at my side, and I again appreciate the life I’ve created for myself.

The way I see it, I have no choice.

I’m going to try something new.

Even if it kills me.

Cultural Jenaissance, it is.

FYI? Things
Desire Under the Elms
Is Not:

A trendy new Gold Coast bistro

A trendy new River North bistro

A trendy new Fulton Market bistro

A trendy new bistro of ANY sort

A high-end furniture store

A day spa located on a particularly woodsy part of Elm Street

A florist specializing in decorative bouquets filled with cut branches

(This would be a great name for ANY of these businesses and you’re welcome to help yourself to my ideas—provided I’m given proper credit—if you’re feeling entrepreneurial.)

Apparently
Desire Under the Elms
is a classic Eugene O’Neill play. Having studied O’Neill in college,
⁷⁴
I probably should have already known this. Then again, I flunked out a semester after I took it, so it’s possible the strictest attention was not paid.
⁷⁵

Stacey’s long-standing association with the Goodman Theatre means she’s comped seats for all kinds of events, and the offer extends to almost every theater in the city, too.

“What’s the deal with this thing specifically?” I ask. I’m at her house for our usual Wednesday night whatever’s-on-Bravo get-together.

Stacey pauses the program we’re watching. “Um,
specifically
, it’s O’Neill’s version of a Greek tragedy, so it’s got all the classic elements, like anger and betrayal and lust. Eben—the son—suffers because he’s got an abusive father. Ephraim—the father—suffers because he’s so wrapped up in his own hubris that he can’t admit the world’s mocking him for what’s happening under his own nose. The father’s hot new young wife, Abbie, suffers because she’s sleeping with the son and lying about her baby’s parentage. Basically everyone’s miserable, and it’s completely awesome.”

“Is it modern? And does it take place in the South?” I ask. I have a penchant for stories about dysfunctional Southern families, likely stemming from my love of the
North and South
miniseries when I was in junior high school.

“Nope, it takes place in New England during the gold rush era. None of that matters so much because it’s a timeless story. Could take place in ancient Athens; could take place now in Atlanta. I can guarantee the acting will be superb.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“For starters, it stars Brian Dennehy.”

“Big Tom Callahan?
Really?
I guess I can’t see him onstage. I mean, come on, he only lasted twenty minutes in that movie.”

“Jen, he’s won Tony awards and studied drama at Yale. Just because you’ve only seen him in
Tommy Boy
doesn’t mean that’s all he’s done or is capable of doing.”

“Excellent point. I’m surprised, but now I remember how sad poor Chris Farley was when he died in
Tommy Boy
. I guess his acting must have been convincing because I totally teared up. I could see how Chris Farley’s wanting to honor him prompted him to travel cross-country with David Spade to sell auto parts to save the company. Yeah, I guess he could be okay.”

Drily, Stacey replies, “He’ll be relieved to hear it.”

“Hey, do you think David Spade will be there?” I mean, maybe they became friends during filming, right?

“My guess is no. But Carla Gugino stars as Abbie, and Pablo Schreiber is Eben. The Goodman always casts the most amazing actors.”

“Wait, Carla Gugino? From
Son in Law
? That’s so badass!”

Stacey looks suddenly exhausted as she winces and holds up her hand. “Before you ask, Pauly Shore probably won’t be there. If for some bizarre reason he is, you’ll get to meet him and all the other actors at the cast party.”

“NO WAY!” I may or may not shout this so loud that I shake the frames hanging on the wall behind us. Shoot, I’d have said yes to theater tickets years ago if I realized it would make me her plus-one at the after party.

I’ve seen Stacey’s scrapbooks from various productions and heard the stories about all the famous people she’s worked with. I’ve always been impressed, but Stacey says it’s no big deal because they’re just folks doing their jobs. She says most actors are regular people who come to work and then go home to enjoy their lives and spouses and friends. They aren’t out getting shitfaced at Hyde or Club Les Deux or throwing cell phones at their assistants or “accidentally” flashing their girly bits to the paparazzi.

I’m deeply disappointed to hear this.

The more Stacey fills me in on the details of this particular production, the more excited I get. I’m superpsyched about what I can learn from seeing a show in such an august theater by such a renowned playwright. This is exactly the sort of thing that’s going to make me better-rounded intellectually, and I’m eager for the personal growth opportunity it will afford.

Okay, that’s total bullshit.

I’m mostly jazzed to meet famous people.