My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [128]
Endless love, devotion, and unbreakable promises to pick up dry cleaning go to Fletch. Technically this book was more fun for him than the ones in which we were broke or I was dieting, but still. I can be difficult during “writing season” and he remains steadfast. I love you so much I won’t even tell everyone how you accidentally backed my new car into a burrito stand because you were ignoring the parking sensors. (Oh, wait.) And P.S., everyone realizes you’re not gay.
Finally, an enormous round of thanks goes to everyone on my television who ever ate a bug, flipped a table, married a stranger, made out with a roommate, spit on a competitor, took a bubble bath with Flavor Flav, or had a bitch get beer in your weave. I might not be tuning in quite so frequently anymore, but I’ll still be watching.
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Or a Lohan family publicist.
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Right?
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As evidenced by today’s sit-down with Candace.
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The nice thing about having such a small living room is that the television looks HUGE!
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Wait. You don’t go around quoting Stripes twenty-six years after its release?
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Apparently our house has a tendency to sink without proper support.
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Yes, we tipped them big. But they still hate us.
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Or gal.
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What is he, on the rats’ payroll or something?
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FYI, the sixth killer was in the closet, curled up on my cashmere sweaters.
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I refuse to acknowledge the possibility of it being a female.
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Read: will.
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It was awesome!
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And fourth Diet Coke.
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I don’t actually know the difference, but I’m guessing a soiree includes cheese made by someone other than the Kraft Corporation.
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Also, “explodes in your mouth” is not really a selling point.
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Speaking of glass tables, ever notice that all the tables in the Ryan household were glass? Weird.
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RIP, sir. And thank you for making the kind of films that defined my entire generation.
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Yeah, there’s accidental spittle.
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Hi, I’m forty years old. (Ask me about my Barbie collection, too.)
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After getting Raspberry Cliché’s number. D’oh!
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WINNAH!!
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Together we are Stennifer.
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Which is far inferior to its previous iteration.
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Technically, I gained a lot of weight while unemployed after the dot-com crash and not because I had children. (Besides, with the amount of burgers, steaks, and barbecue I used to eat, I’d have birthed a calf, not a kid.)
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I’ve yet to make any great strides intellectually, which will become evident when I meet Candace Bushnell for the first time a few weeks from now.
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Ahem, Madonna, I’m talking to you.
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RIP, Johnny Castle. Also, can everyone good please stop dying while I write this book? Thanks.
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Whopper with cheese, holla!
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Scofflaw!
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Or maybe Colonel Tom.
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Good Enough to Eat, available September 2010. Buy it!
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Team Jacob!
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She pays me back in the morning by making me watch Olbermann.
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A McDonald’s caramel sundae—I love those! And they’re only a buck!
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Probably.
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Her generation’s version of “ridiculous.”
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I stifle the urge to shout that smoking is now considered a hate crime in the city of Chicago.
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Possibly giving hints on preparing a perfect paella?
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Watermelon!!
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Who says I can’t write fiction?
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Some might say bitter.
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Unless they involve addition, subtraction, or God help me, fractions.
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You can add Jon and Kate’s spectacular crash and burn to this list at the time of writing. Won’t someone please think of the children?
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And yes, they grew up into fine adults, but it was rocky there for a while.
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Which, coincidentally, tend to occur in the same place.
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I try to be extrasensitive now after a reader got mad at me for making fun of a kid who had to wear a helmet in the apartment beneath me in one of my first books. Shit, I didn’t know that meant autism! I didn’t even know what autism was back then. I just thought helmets were funny. I mean, come on. Picture a helmet on anything else, like a cat or a