My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [42]
Granted, some of what happened onstage puzzled me. I don’t quite get why the other sons shouted so much in the first scene (even though it was funny) or why the house was suspended by ropes,85 but I figure there are excellent, artistic reasons for these decisions, even if I’m not privy to them.
The party’s in a huge room filled with giant round tables, which means people are going to sit with us and likely expect to have conversations of the nonbanal variety. This makes the back of my neck start to sweat.
Oy, what am I going to say to sophisticated theater people?
Am I going to accidentally grill them on tonight’s Bachelor evictions? Or talk about all the bad weaves on this season’s Rock of Love Bus?86 Or am I going to bitch about how rude a handful of people were? And that doesn’t even begin to take into account where my mouth may go when I meet the actors. Will I bring up Tommy Boy? Or, worse, Pauly Shore? I feel like I’ve already painted myself into a corner, and we just got here.
While we’re getting refreshments, I tell Stacey, “I don’t trust myself not to sound like an asshole. I mean, I didn’t even realize I couldn’t eat popcorn during the show. What am I going to say to people?”
Stacey takes her drink and tips the bartender before turning to face me. “First of all, you’re being too hard on yourself. So what if you don’t know that much about live theater? Who cares? No one starts out an expert. So many people dismiss activities like this out of pocket, without ever having tried, but you’re here trying. People will appreciate you wanting to learn, I promise. Talk about why you’re here and explain your project. You may even meet someone who can help in your education.”
And she’s right, of course.
I have great conversations with all kinds of theater people—a costume designer, a director, scene builders, and a couple of choreographers. Each one encourages me to continue my pursuits. The consensus is they respect what I’m attempting, and one of the choreographers thinks I’d enjoy some of his productions.
What’s ironic is the costume designer is leaving the party shortly because she’s addicted to Rock of Love and hasn’t yet watched this week’s episode.
As our table clears, I tell Stacey, “I feel like my takeaway from tonight is that it’s okay to love shitty television, provided you make an effort to appreciate other kinds of entertainment.”
“Ultimately, it’s all about striking a balance,” she agrees. “Now you want to go upstairs and meet the cast?”
On our way out of the downstairs festivities, we stop and chat a dozen times to say hello to all of Stacey’s former cronies. No one could be nicer, but I’m not quite fully engaged because I’m on the lookout for the rude people. I don’t bump into any of them, which is probably for the best.
By the time we get up there, I’m feeling much surer of myself. Stacey introduces me to Brian Dennehy, and we have a brief but lovely conversation about the show and his performance. He’s so gracious that I don’t even start with the nervous talking. And when we shake hands, I have the wherewithal not to compliment him on his commitment to moisturizing, despite the fact that his hands are as smooth as a little girl’s. Progress, I say!
The thing is, I suspect my burgeoning confidence stems not from a growing sense of self or a shadow of familiarity with the world of professional theater but rather from a number of free glasses of sauvignon blanc.
When I meet Carla, I’m so moved by her having given the performance of a lifetime on one of the most prestigious stages in the world that it doesn’t even occur to me to bring up Pauly Shore or Spy Kids.
And yet I cannot add this interaction to the win column.
“Hi, I’m Jen. It’s so nice to meet you.” I’m rewarded with a friendly greeting and a sincere handshake. I’m also possibly blinded by my first real-life, thousand-watt, million-dollar, movie-star smile, and it triggers that weird little part of