My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [6]
I shudder at the thought of what might have happened if that stupid rat had better aim. “Hey,” I say to Fletch, gently moving him out of the way of the television, “I almost had a rat in my mouth an hour ago. If that doesn’t give me license to watch a little bit of crap TV, then truly, the terrorists have won.”
To: stacey_at_home
From: jen_at_home
Subject: Can’t come over
Hey, we can’t get together tonight because I accidentally made myself sick when I drank an iced latte that had been sitting out for five hours after I forgot to bring it with me to the suburbs. I took a sip and thought, “Hmm, this is warm. Maybe I’ll just add ice. Genius!”
Guess what.
Not genius.
Because milk spoils.
Wish I’d figured that out before I had to spend the evening crying on the toilet.
Later,
Jen
To: barbie_at_work
From: jen_at_home
Subject: Canceling personal training session
Listen, I’ve got to bail on our session today. I had a banana for breakfast like you suggested—26 grams of good carbs!—but it was apparently really old and now my small intestine feels all stabby.
I may have banana poisoning.
See you on Thursday?
Thanks,
Jen
To: stacey_at_home
From: jen_at_home
Subject: oops, I did it again
Guess what I did this weekend. Yes, that’s right: I poisoned myself 1.5 times!
The half was the half an omelet I ate before Fletch found out the cream cheese I used expired six weeks ago. (I guess it’s a good thing I told him that it had started to taste “tingly.”)
The whole was when I wanted a BLT but didn’t feel like going out to buy fresh produce, so I just cut off the moldy bit of the one tomato we had. I guess the “bad” kind of went all the way through.
Later!
Jen
P.S. I have grave doubts about the antique bacon, too.
To: jen_at_home
From: fletch_at_work
Subject: Re: my tummy hurts
If you e-mail me at the office every time you poison yourself, I’m never going to get any work done.
CHAPTER TWO
(Not My) High School Reunion
Beyond the gracious picture windows, snow falls gently, glistening in the halogen glow of the streetlights. We’ve reached the point in winter when city snowdrifts turn grimy and sharp, held together primarily by a strata of dirt and salt and crumbled asphalt. But tonight, perhaps in honor of the author’s special event, big, airy flakes drift down, forming a thick buttercream blanket that softens the edges of Halsted Street one story below.
This is the perfect place from which to witness the gathering storm. The windows reach from floor to ceiling, but the room is warmed by incandescent lighting and plush rugs. Rough wooden beams span the ceiling and the walls are exposed brick, providing an elegant contrast to the minimalist animal-print chairs and sleek, low tables. Artfully scattered candles twinkle around the room.
Inside the party the guests are equally radiant, as many are glitterati in their own right. The private event is full of important people, most of whom seem to have stepped out of the pages of Chicago Social Magazine to gather in celebration of the author’s newest tome.
Some of the men have come straight from the office and wear finely tailored suits in muted shades of black and gray. Other guys, perhaps the more artistically minded in the crowd, sport high-concept shirts and jeans by designers like Dolce and Gabbana, topped with beautifully battered leather coats.
As for the women, their looks vary—they run the gamut from couture cocktail wear to bohemian chic. The author herself oozes glamour in a crimson wrap dress that appears to be both couture and vintage. And despite the