My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [13]
After I finally put Such a Pretty Fat to bed this last November, my friend Angie asked me what I was going to do with all my free time. Would I travel? Spend some time enjoying all the cultural offerings of my city? Start working for charity? No.
My response? “I’m going to watch so much television!”
And I have. This winter’s been nothing but an endless stream of American Idol, America’s Next Top Model, The Biggest Loser, Super-nanny , Wife Swap, Beauty and the Geek 5, The Apprentice, The Bachelor, My Super Sweet Sixteen, The Real Housewives of Orange County, The Real Housewives of New York, The Ultimate Coyote Ugly Search 3, Bad Girls Club 2, Rock of Love, Make Me a Supermodel, The Gauntlet III, Big Brother 9, Survivor: Micronesia, Step It Up and Dance, The Janice Dickenson Modeling Agency, Crowned: The Mother of All Pageants, Millionaire Matchmaker, Paradise Hotel,24 Randy Jackson Presents: America’s Next Dance Crew, A Shot of Love with Tila Tequila 2, Gene Simmons Family Jewels, I Know My Kid’s a Star, My Fair Brady . . . Maybe Baby?, and, of course, Scott Baio Is 46 . . . and Pregnant.
I don’t watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians, though.
I do have some standards.
Anyway, at this very moment, I’m not paying attention to one of my favorite reality programs and am instead having a panic attack about going on book tour.
I take a big breath, and when I exhale, it comes out sounding ragged. “I’m not worried about the tour, per se.” Right now my problem isn’t some abstruse struggle about poise and self-assurance in unfamiliar or urbane circumstances. My issue is a little more pedestrian. “I don’t have good luggage. I had to sell all my adorable, matchy-matchy Kate Spade pieces years ago to pay rent when we were broke. What I’ve got is a packing dilemma, and no one seems to want to help me figure it out.”
Stacey, always sagacious and sweet, won’t let me struggle alone. “I’ll help you. What you want is a Travelpro bag. I’ve got the platinum series and it was worth every dime.”
“Yeah,” I agree, “but . . .” I scratch at the faint chocolate stain I left on Stacey’s couch cushion last year when I accidentally sat on a Raisinette.
“Too expensive? Average out the price versus times you use it, and I guarantee you’ll make up the cost over the bag’s life span.” She grabs a scratch pad, ready to do the math, but I wave her off.
“Well . . . it’s just that I saw these really cute suitcases in a catalog and they’re flowered and striped and all the colors in them would match my polo shirts. They’re dreamy! My favorite one comes covered in big pink polka dots on a chocolate background, but I also like the one with grosgrain ribbons and a monogram, and I could totally see Elle Woods carrying . . .”
Stacey’s indulgent grin slowly fades into the kind of confused expression Loki gives us when he hears another dog bark on television. “Um, wow,” I observe, “you should see the look on your face. What are you, like, the Henry Ford of luggage or something? You can have any color you want as long as it’s black?”
“No . . . no, not at all,” she finally responds unconvincingly. “I’m curious, though. What catalog was it?”
“Well . . . when I got it, I didn’t notice the company name on the cover. I was just thumbing through it, looking at the furniture and linens and decorating items, and I was all, ‘This stuff is so the real me!’ Turns out it was a Pottery Barn TEEN catalog.” I pause to consider the implications. “Meaning I have the design aesthetic of a twelve-year-old girl.”
Stacey nods and adds, “From the suburbs. Yet I say if that’s what you want, get it. However, if you decide you want to carry the kind of luggage not favored by seventh graders and Girl Scouts, I can send you to where I get mine. Or I can come along and lend a hand. Your choice.”
“Thank you. No one ever wants to help.”
“Does that abate some of your worries?” she asks.
“A little, but then I’m still freaking out about all the mechanics of the tour