My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [12]
We make our way through the crowd to say our good-byes, and I can’t help but notice how almost every conversation in the room now revolves around either reality television or John Hughes movies. I even hear Patches and Tweedy grudgingly admit how much they identified with the boys in Weird Science.
As we head into the snow, I begin to wonder how the evening might have gone if I’d been there with my pre-9/11 brain. Maybe I couldn’t have kept up with everything, but I definitely wouldn’t have brought an entire room down to my level.
On the one hand, it’s funny that everyone got dumber by having been around me.
On the other, it’s a bit of a hollow victory.
from the desk of ms. jennifer ann lancaster
Dear Alderman,
Yesterday I said good-bye to my husband and made my way upstairs to get dressed so I could work. But before I got a chance to sit down at the computer, something caught my eye. I noticed chunks of snow and ice flying . . . almost as if they’d been hurled. I heard the rev of an engine, over and over, growing more insistent. And, despite the room’s triple-paned glass, I heard obscenities.
Oh, so many obscenities.
Four-letter words filled the air in capital letters, with exclamation points, like one of the fight scenes from Batman, the Adam West era.
Our alley had claimed another victim.
I threw a fleece on over my flannel nightgown, stepped into my woolly Crocs, grabbed my coat, and headed outside, where Fletch was in a state of what can only be described as “bitch-panic.” Fletch had gotten his car stuck in an eight-inch-deep ice valley, formed in the perfect storm of snowing, hailing, melting, refreezing, and non-storm-drain-cleaning-despite-having-asked-your-office-twenty-times-to-please-please-please-do-something.
Unfortunately, I was the one tasked with rocking the vehicle rather than the more desirable job of steering, what with my propensity to hit the side of the garage even when the pavement is dry and clear. Pajama-clad, I spent the next forty-five minutes throwing my weight against the trunk while the useless back tires sprayed me with a mixture of road salt, ice, and liquefied kitty litter.
Finally, he stopped swearing long enough to remember we had roadside assistance—a service not only included in the purchase price of the car, but also the main argument he’d used to convince me it was fine to get the rear-wheel-drive model—and the nice folks at BMW quickly dispatched Sherpas bearing crullers, hot brandy, and a tow truck. OK, they didn’t bring liquor or donuts, but they did arrive promptly and free of charge.
Later, my husband brought home a big box of pastry to apologize for being all shout-y.
So I guess what I’m saying is, the alley drain that you promised was fixed?
Isn’t.
As I see it, you have two options. You can use your position as Alderman to pressure the city water department to actually do what they said they did, or you can supply me with a nice box of éclairs so I don’t go all Dick Cheney in your office at the next ward meeting.
Your choice.
Best,
Jen Lancaster
CHAPTER THREE
So You Think They Can Dance?
“What’s the problem?”
I’m here getting therapy, or at least my version of it, perched on the couch in Stacey’s living room in front of her flat screen. For the past few years, ever since we met on a book event panel and discovered we may well be the same person,23 we have a standing date on Wednesday nights to watch whatever’s on Bravo. At the moment we’re onto Top Chef 4 but we’ve done multiple seasons of Project Runway. Last year we even tuned in to Shear Genius, a hair-cutting competition. That’s right: a show about haircuts and we’re not hairdressers. Apparently I will watch whatever Bravo tells me to.
I drove over here tonight with the windows open. Winter’s finally over and spring’s arrived. I’m feeling somewhat melancholy about the change of seasons. Winter’s my favorite time of year because it’s the one time when I’m not all wrapped up in deadlines. Early spring is spent getting ready to promote whatever