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 (8 page)

“Are you worried I’m going to embarrass you with my nervous-talking thing?” I ask. Stacey was a firsthand witness to the slurring, sweating, and shouting spurred by my meeting a
Top Chef
winner recently, and she was just on a cable network.
⁷⁶
The second I come into contact with anyone who’s been on mah tee-vee, I turn into a complete moron. Whatever internal filter I possess
⁷⁷
switches off, and I end up spewing every bit of nonsensical blather that pops into my brain. As their level of fame increases, so does my incoherence. I’m afraid of what might happen when I meet an
actual
movie star.

“If I were worried, I wouldn’t have invited you,” she assures me. “I
want
you to come with me, and we’re going to have a fantastic time.”

“Cool.” I ease back into the couch, and we resume our program.

A few minutes later, I realize there’s something still bothering me. “Hey, no one’s going to be naked in this, right?”

Stacey does the verbal equivalent of patting me on the head. “Of course not, peanut. Of course not.”

Before I begin to primp for my big night out, I run down to the basement to TiVo
24
and
The Bachelor
. Just because I’m trying to smarten up doesn’t mean I’m not
me
anymore, right?

Since I’m going to the cast party, I take special care with my appearance. I mean, really, is Carla Gugino going to want to be BFF with some chick who can’t be bothered to curl her hair and don three shades of eye shadow? I don’t
think
so.

(Sidebar: If I ever have a CAT scan, I’m betting it will show a slightly shriveled part of my cerebellum that causes me to say everything I think when in the vicinity of fame. Next to it, there will be a dented piece that houses my absolute belief that every famous person will want to be my friend, given the opportunity.)

Since I plan to go to a lot of shows this winter, I’ve bought a proper theater outfit since my daily cold-weather accoutrement of track pants and pullover fleece jackets won’t cut it. For someone whose book covers feature dresses and purses and footwear, you might think nothing makes me happier than shopping.

Not true.
⁷⁸

The truth is, my laziness manifests itself in my wardrobe, too. I don’t own thirty Lacostes because I love them more than any other shirt ever made
⁷⁹
; I own them because they’re cute, they’re colorful, and they fit well. This explains why I have six pairs of the same khaki shorts. I have twelve different sundresses that I wear on tour, and they’re all cut identically. I mix and match each of them with a solid cardigan, of which I own seven. I’m fortunate that the preppy look’s timeless because if I’d become attached to parachute pants and
Flashdance
sweatshirts, I’d be screwed right about now.

I bought a long blackwatch plaid, pleated wool skirt and a navy V-neck sweater, which I’ve paired with a pointy-collared, crisp white blouse. “Flattering” is the best description of the cut, and the fabrics should keep me warm in even the draftiest of theaters. I feel cute wearing this, despite the whole “world’s oldest Catholic school student” vibe.

Before I slip on my skirt and pull on my sweater, I’m predressed in a stretchy black camisole, a tan girdle, black boots, and black leggings. My hair is up in hot rollers.

I have to laugh as I glance at myself in the mirror:
Worst. Superhero. Ever
.

When we arrive at the Goodman, I stop by the snack bar first, even though we’ve just come from dinner. I’m pleased that they have the white wine I like and delighted by the big cookies. But if the ushers are to be believed, I’m not supposed to take either of them into the theater.

“I can’t bring snacks?” I ask Stacey.

“No, you have to finish them in the lobby,” she says, gesturing toward the garbage cans.

“Snacks and entertainment go together like chalk and cheese.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re using that expression wrong.”

Huh. I guess that’s why it never made sense. “Okay, fine. Well, at the movies you can eat popcorn. In fact,
they
encourage it.”

“This isn’t the movies.”

“THAT’S why plays will never win! Ha! Movies-1, plays-0.”

Stacey gives me a good-natured eye roll. “This also isn’t a competition.”

I gulp down my wine and deposit my glass in the trash. Just as we’re about to enter, I spot a girl carrying the most awesome tote bag I’ve ever seen. I nudge Stacey. “Check that out.”

Stacey lapses into LOLcat, uncharacteristic for her, but an unfortunate side effect of being around me too much. “Ooh, want. Do want!”

The spectacular tote in question features a line drawing of Shakespeare and a caption that reads, “Shakespeare got to get paid, son.”
⁸⁰
Word.

We arrange ourselves in our seats in the first balcony. Our view, not only of the stage, but of the whole opening-night crowd, is excellent. Nice seats; they must like Stacey a lot around here.

“Sure are a lot of fur coats in here,” I observe. “If I were with PETA, I’d totally stand in the lobby with buckets of red paint.”

She casts a sidelong glance in my direction. “I imagine the ushers would take issue with that.”

“
Pfft
, they’re each about a thousand years old, and they’re unpaid. No senior citizen is going to voluntarily take a bucket of paint in the teeth to save your chinchilla. Foolproof is what this idea is.”

Sometimes when Stacey and I are together, I leave her at a loss for words. This is one of those times. After a very long silence, she says, “I can honestly tell you that in all my theatergoing years, I’ve never had that thought.”

“Maybe I’m expanding your horizons, too.”

“My question is
why would
that even occur to you? Judging by some of your Facebook wall posts, you hate PETA.”

“I do, but I feel like it’s my purpose in life to coach people who are doing their jobs wrong.
⁸¹
I mean, PETA could be so much more efficient. As it is now, all their paint-tossing activists have got to wait for Fashion Week. Here, they could do it every night from November to April. And twice on Saturdays!”

“Noted.”

I continue to scan the crowd, which I wouldn’t do were I otherwise distracted by, say, popcorn. “There are a lot of kids in here, too. That’s going to be trouble. I bet you’re glad you’re no longer responsible for all the little monsters being forced to see the show.”

Stacey’s eyes light up at the mere mention of her old job.
“Not at all,”
she says emphatically. “I loved teaching those kids. And I
kept
them from being monsters.”

Since the theater Nazis won’t let me have a beverage, I drink in the scenery. The set’s so elaborate. On the right side of the stage, there’s an enormous pile of rocks, leading up two full stories and exiting stage left.
⁸²
On the left, there’s a perfect rendition of an old farmhouse, but it’s hanging about twelve feet above the stage from ropes, which I find a tad disconcerting. What if it falls and crushes poor Brian Dennehy? Then what?

Scattered above the whole set are more enormous boulders hanging from what look like nooses. Nowhere onstage is anything that looks like an elm tree. I bet this is where my lack of theater education shows the most. I’m probably being way too literal here. Perhaps having an elm tree in a show with “elm” in the title is all weird and awkward and obvious, like when someone wears a band’s shirt to that band’s concert or when my mom says, “Don’t go there, girlfriend.”

The play begins and I’m instantly enthralled. I haven’t been to a show since Fletch and I saw
Cabaret
in the late nineties with a couple of college friends. Bless his heart, Fletch tried to like it, but big musical productions are never going to be in his wheelhouse. Even though I was mesmerized by the performances and haunted by some of the songs, I never went to anything else. I could have forced Fletch to accompany me, but he was so miserable that I couldn’t bring myself to torture him.

Still, I’m full of regret for letting all that time pass. If I’d taken the initiative, I’m sure I could have talked someone else into coming with me. Or I could have gone alone.

I forgot what a thrill live theater can be. I mean,
this
is the ultimate reality program. Anything can happen, and there’s no tape delay for the West Coast broadcast or team of editors to fix what went wrong in postproduction. Stacey’s recounted various hilarious snafus that happened during her tenure—props breaking, actors breaking wind, forgotten lines, cues missed, and once a director’s French bulldog wandered into the middle of the scene and refused to be coaxed off the stage.

I used to love seeing plays and even thought I’d be a stage actress myself at one point. My plan was to be a big triple threat on Broadway— despite being utterly tone deaf and uncoordinated—and then to break into television, having established my credibility as a Serious Actress. Despite only being able to play characters who were exactly like me, I really thought I had a shot. I dreamed of greasepaint and standing ovations.

So, I signed up for theater class as a college freshman. But after a brief, mandatory internship in the costume shop, my dream died. Since I couldn’t design or tailor or even sew a straight line, I got stuck spending hours with an industrial iron, smoothing out enormous sheets of muslin, which were the costumes for the casts of
Medea
and
Oedipus
. I remember telling the director,
“Jocasta accidentally did it with her son. You really think she gives a shit about wrinkles?”

Oh, wait, maybe I was
asked
not to be a part of the theater department.

Regardless, I’m absolutely sucked into everything happening onstage until I hear a weird sound. What is that? Is something supposed to be going on in the background? The acoustics in here are perfect—I can hear even the softest of Eben’s sighs and the rustle of Abbie’s skirts. So what is that noise? Is it stomping or marching? No, that can’t be it. Why would anyone march? There’s no war in this play. The sound is too close and familiar but I can’t identify it. It’s almost like a . . . grinding?

Or crunching?

I crane around in my seat, spot the source of the noise, and hiss in Stacey’s ear,
“That kid is eating Cheetos!”

She leans in close to me. “Distracting, right?”

“It’s making me stabby!”

She shrugs. “That’s why they don’t allow popcorn.”

“Point taken,” I whisper.
⁸³

I shouldn’t be surprised by the crunching because there are a few very rude people in here, all of whom are drawing my attention away from the stage. Phones have been ringing, hard candies unwrapping, and two assholes a couple of rows back are having an outside-voice conversation about where they’re going for drinks afterward.

How can this be? I’m essentially a theater virgin and even I know this stuff is verboten. And this is opening night. You can’t just be some guy off the street and get tickets to opening night; they aren’t for sale. Opening night is by invitation only. You have to have a friend in the production or be a member of the media or be an actor yourself. Ergo, every single person in here
should know better
. They’re all theater veterans. None of these people should even dream of talking or chewing or texting because their family, friend, colleague, or client is part of the production. We should all be watching this play with our undivided attention. Yet here we are. This lack of common courtesy is astounding and disrespectful and marginalizes everything these poor actors are trying to accomplish.
⁸⁴

Hey! I think I just had an epiphany about the importance of social graces!

And yet before I can ponder it further, one of the actors
strips naked onstage
. I cast a sidelong glance at Stacey, who’s all squinty and shaking silently. I guarantee she won’t look at me for fear of laughing out loud.