My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [125]
The host had kind eyes and soft gray hair, and she was wearing a tunic and some cute summer pants. Her outfit made me reassess the whole situation. I mean, the enemy can’t possibly wear capris, right?
Stacey nods, drawing her feet in underneath her. I close my eyes for a second, trying to recall every detail. “We go out to this huge back room, surrounded by windows and there’s water on three sides of us. Wish it had been lighter because I was dying to see the view. Anyway, we’re seated with a bunch of well-heeled people, including this old guy who’s next to me. We start talking and I tell him we’re from Chicago. And he’s all, ‘Oh, I have a niece who lives by you.’ And I say, ‘Really? Where does she live?’ I’m thinking maybe Lincoln Park or Andersonville or something. Then he goes, ‘She’s in Columbus, Ohio.’”
“Isn’t that something like six hours away from here?” Stacey asks.
“It is. But I figure I’m talking to an old New Yorker who assumes that everything between there and LA is flyover country, and it’s not worth having a geography fight. His arrogance is a little astounding, but it’s more funny than anything. And then—then! While we’re talking, he takes his finger, sticks it in his right nostril, and starts panning for gold, which kills me. I mean, how rich do you have to be not to care if you pick your nose in front of people?”
Stacey gives me a knowing nod. “That’s called ‘fuck you’ money. If you don’t like me picking my nose, then fuck you.”
The old man pretty much puts the nail in the coffin on my theory that culture (and cash) equals class. And I realize the only way to accomplish my goal of being classier is to actively monitor my own behavior. I don’t need outside learning. Yeah, having a solid background in theater and music and literature is nice, but if I want everyone to feel comfortable around me, I simply need to be conscious of being gracious, easy as that.
“Totally. So then the host sits down at our table, and I get tense. I figured I’d be safe if she weren’t around, but she’s directly across from me. The old couple next to me starts talking about visiting Cuba and how great it is and how Castro’s been instrumental in providing health care for people, but before they can sing any more of his praises, I immediately asked about the Cuban food they ate.”
Seriously, we were about to head down the health-care nationalization path, and I was pretty sure that Mrs. Media Matters and I would have different opinions. But that wasn’t an appropriate situation in which to share those opinions, particularly unsolicited. Fortunately, I’ve learned enough in my Jenaissance not only to completely change the subject, but to do it with enough familiarity and panache that no one even notices.
“Did politics come up?” Stacey wants to know.
“Yes, they did in the context of the talk the general gave after we ate. What’s ironic is Fletch and I were the ones who sat there like good little soldiers, but some of the rich old guys at the dinner kind of lit into the general about military strategy.”
I hated hearing some of the questions a few guests asked, not just because of their incendiary tone, but because they didn’t seem to treat the general with the respect he deserved. Yet their actions gave me such insight to all the times I’ve behaved similarly in the past.
“But overall,” I declare, “we kicked ass. And we even had wine!”
A giggle inadvertently escapes from Stacey before she covers her mouth with her hand. “Wow, sorry; it’s just wine usually works like truth serum on you. Or magic talking juice.”
“I know! But I held it together. Frankly, I’m as surprised as anyone. Seriously, though, the biggest surprise of the night was the lady I was so worried about turned out to be completely, utterly lovely. There were plenty of opportunities for her to express