My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [55]
“And Tito and Jermaine and Marlon and the other brother whose name I always forget. Is it Gary?”
“No, that’s where they’re from. Randy, maybe?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. But that’s not even the best part. Gina gets to a page that’s kind of a misty gray stage shot of some stadium filled with thousands of concertgoers. And she’s all ‘Oh, yeah, that’s the summer when Dad toured with the Rolling Stones.’”
“What?!” Her shriek practically pierces my eardrum.
“I guess their regular sax player couldn’t do the European leg of the tour, so they asked Mr. Barge. That’s when my head exploded all over her kitchen. I was all, ‘How is it that I never knew this stuff?’ And Gina just shrugged, like it was no big deal.”
“How long have you known each other?”
“About three years.”
“And you knew none of this.”
“Nada.”
Angie contemplates for a couple of seconds before she laughs. “Hey, you ever consider that maybe your takeaway from this project isn’t going to be that you need to learn what to say? Maybe what you need to figure out is how to listen.”
I’m spending the night away from home tomorrow for my big out-of-town dinner, and that entails luggage.
Used to be when I’d travel, I’d lose all ability to make wise packing choices because I’d get so freaked out about flying. I’d find myself standing in my closet in my nightgown at midnight, crying because I had to get up in four hours, and all I’d managed to stuff in my bag was a dated copy of US Weekly and my two rattiest pair of underpants.
But ever since last year’s tour and the twenty consecutive daily flights I had to take, it somehow got less scary. I still don’t love flying, but it no longer paralyzes me.108
I also took Stacey’s advice and contacted her friend the costume designer, and he whipped me up all kinds of adorable madras pants and shorts and skirts. The colors are all complementary, so I can grab any bottom to pair with any of my Lacoste shirts and V-neck sweaters and have a complete outfit. Essentially, my dream of adult Garanimals has come true, so packing was a breeze.
I manage to be so organized that I have my bags filled and ready by the front door at eight p.m., all without scrambling . . . or sweating . . . or crying.
I’m not sure if the fates are conspiring, or if maybe this is simply the result of having finally purchased a grown-up carry-on bag. Regardless, I’m able to relax and enjoy my evening stress-free.
But it’s really not stress-free.
Where’s that feeling of doom stemming from having packed nothing but three bags of Skittles and a girdle? What will it be like to go to the airport on no more than forty-five minutes of REM sleep?
Despite being completely ready, I feel out of sorts. I take a bath, but that doesn’t make a difference. I hug Maisy really hard. It helps a little. I take an Ambien. And that helps a little more. So I have a single glass of wine on top of it. And that helps a lot. Having achieved a state of perfect relaxation, I get into bed.
Okay, that’s a lie.
Instead, I log on to Twitter, where I am @AltgeldShrugged109 and, well . . . I’ll just let the following speak for itself:
AltgeldShrugged—is so organized that I have time to drink a glass of wine, swallow an Ambien, and trot off to the Internet where I’ll dispense advice.
AltgeldShrugged—Not that anyone has asked, but I’m here at the ready, or at least until the pharmaceuticals toss my ass in bed.
AltgeldShrugged—which, letsh be honests, is rapidly approchaing.
AltgeldShrugged—I understand all the words in this tweet, but not their meaning. Am I in Cnn? Which this book? Am I the book cococachoo?
AltgeldShrugged—I bet Ashton Kutcher NEVER chases Ambien with wine and then runs to the computer because he’s all “professional” and shit. (He has people 4 that.)
AltgeldShrugged—Ashton’s curing malaria? With what? Eric Foreman’s dad’s Datsun? Dude and Sweet tattoos?