My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [105]
To: fletch_at_ work
From: jen_at_home
Subject: my mother is a fish
I wrote that I enjoyed As I Lay Dying on my Facebook wall today and every girl I know who went to Ole Miss posted to say that the whole town of Oxford, Mississippi hated Faulkner. They said he was really just an angry old drunk.
But, seriously? He won the Nobel Prize for Literature! If that doesn’t excuse you from having a few snorts before chasing lippy college students off your lawn, why even be an author?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Real World: Middle Age
“N OOOOO!”
I’m sitting at my computer, Googling the name on the slip of paper in front of me. I glance at the screen and back down at the paper and bury my face in my hands. This can’t be. This simply can’t be.
With a trembling hand, I dial Fletch’s office. He’s been much better about picking up the phone since I stopped calling him to discuss what happened on my TiVo cache of Big Brother.
“Hello?”
“Bad news!” I gasp.
Fletch is instantly concerned. “Is Maisy okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah, she’s fine. She’s on her bed and Chuck Norris keeps ambushing her and batting at her tail.”
“Did the Thundercats break another vase?”
I grit my teeth. “We have no more vases to break.” The upside of saving three feral kittens is the satisfaction of knowing they’re going to have a happy and safe life. The downside of saving three feral kittens is suddenly your house is filled with THREE FERAL KITTENS.
“Then what’s going on?”
“You know how for Authors Night we had to select an authors’ dinner? And I picked the one with the general because I thought it would be at Rudy Giuliani’s house? Well, we got the dinner all right.”
Fletch is excited because he really wants to meet the general and talk all about the kind of boring Army stuff that makes my eyes glaze. “Great!”
“Not great. Not great at all. I just got the host’s name and address, and I did a little Google-stalking. Okay, not only are we NOT going to be at a lovely dinner party filled with like-minded conservatives—we’re going straight into the belly of the beast.”
I can hear him exhale. “Now you’re starting to confuse me. Does this have anything to do with Big Brother?”
“No! The house where this thing’s being held? Okay, not only is the host buddies with George Soros but her foundation helps fund Media Matters for the Left and her son works for the Obama administration! This is an unmitigated disaster.”
“How so?”
“How so? HOW SO? I am going to crash and fucking burn the second anyone brings up politics. I won’t be able to keep my enormous mouth shut! I’m going to end up getting kicked out!”
Fletch is the voice of reason. “Isn’t the whole point of your project to push yourself to grow? Doesn’t it stand to reason that figuring out how to behave at this party will be much more of an accomplishment than if you sat around with a bunch of Republicans?”
I can’t argue with his logic, and yet . . . maybe I don’t want to grow quite this much.
“What are you getting?” I ask.
Stacey scans the menu before replying, “Probably the wiener schnitzel.”
I snigger. “Because it’s fun to say ‘wiener’?”
“No, I’m not twelve. I’ve had it before and I know I like it.”
“By the way, speaking of being twelve? Fletch and I were at our knife-skills class205 last week, and the instructor was talking about all these different types and brands of knives. The one that made us both giggle first was the boner by Friedr Dick. And then later, the instructor showed us this Japanese model of knife sharpener and said the only downside was you couldn’t use it on German knives because the blade’s not as thin. And then—then! She demonstrates and says, ‘See? You can’t put your ten-inch Dick in here because it’s too thick and it’ll get stuck.’ Fletch and I laughed so hard, we had to put our heads down on the table.”
“Did everyone else laugh?”
“No one. They all just chopped their onions and looked uncomfortable, which pretty much puts the nail in my theory that class follows culture.” Not quite cause for Shame Rattle, but close.
Stacey