My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [43]
Now that I have her attention, do I tell her I’m a fan? Do I bring up that whole “artistic professional” thing and say that I’m an author? Do I mention my project?
No.
The only words I can find are about the wig she wore onstage.
“Hey!” I exclaim. “That wasn’t your real hair. It really looked like your real hair. Your hair is dark. I almost missed saying hi to you because you look different with your real hair.”
Hey, self, now might be a good time to shut up about her hair if you plan on being BFFs.
“That is your real hair, right? It’s way darker than I thought. I went dark now, too. Not as dark as you, though. Yours is superdark. Like, black. Inky black. Superblack. Tar black. But good, you know? I like it. Black is the new black, ha ha!”
If I shut up now, she might still want to have lunch every once in a while, even if we’re not besties. And yet something inside me presses me on.
“The dark is nice, but the wig was also nice. Didn’t your hair used to be the color of your wig? Yes! It totally did. You’ve had, like, ten different hair colors in stuff I’ve seen you in. You want me to name each of them?”
With that, I’ve officially exited the Potential Friend Zone and I’m careening quickly toward Stalker City. And that’s when the pseudointelligence kicks in.
“You know, you could kind of look at the play from your wig’s perspective. I mean, your do told a story. First it was all tight and rolled, and then it got sort of loose, and then it got all messy and then—”
Please, someone get me away from her before she calls the authorities. Seriously, I am fixed to this spot. I can’t move and I can’t shut up. Someone please throw PETA paint on me so I shut up! Help!
Fortunately, Stacey notices Carla’s making fraidy-cat-get-this-weirdo-away-from-me eyes, which neatly coincide with my what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-and-why-can’t-I-stop expression, so she interrupts to tell me it’s time to go. For good measure, Stacey yanks me away by my coat pocket, which is fortuitous because my paw, completely of its own volition, was starting to snake up in the direction of Carla’s hair.
So I end the night with a little bit more culture and a little bit more perspective and a little bit more knowledge.87
Best of all is that out of a whole theater full of people at this posh event, only one of them might believe I’m a dummy.
I’d definitely say that’s progress.
To: stacey_at_home
From: jen_at_home
Subject: S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y Night!
I’ve dined out on my theatergoing frequent-flier status all week.
“Oh, sorry, I’m busy that night with a premiere.”
“You wanted me to drop it off when? Nope, can’t. Theater tickets. You know how it is.”
“Listen, I’d love to, but I’ve got another opening night and cast party. I hope you understand.”
Okay, pretty much I’ve just said this stuff to Fletch, but still, it sounded cool. (The polite thing would have been for him to at least pretend to be impressed.)
See you at 6:00?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Biggest Winner
I’m all decked out in my theatergoing outfit and I’m on my way to tonight’s artistic endeavor. Stacey and I are in her car, headed to a play in the northern suburbs. I feel like quite the sophisticate, even though our glamorous après-theater plans include heading to the Four Moon Tavern for grilled cheese sandwiches.
“This is twice in one week I’ve stolen you away from your husband for an evening. Is he going to miss you?” Stacey asks. She steers her car expertly through the steadily falling snow. I’m helping her by occasionally punching the imaginary brakes on my side of the car and second-guessing her navigation.
Given tonight’s inclement weather, I’d have preferred to stay home, wrapped in blankets, quaffing hot chocolate, and parked in front of Survivor . Instead, we’re plowing through a wealthy suburb. With the abundance of snowcapped trees and adorable storefronts and antique streetlamps, this would resemble a Currier and Ives scene if it weren’t for all the Star-bucks.
“Are you kidding? He’s got the big TV all to himself for the whole