My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [85]
This is it.
She’s made her decision.
She’s ready to go.
I wish I felt more ready to let her go.
When we get home from the vet, Maisy goes directly into empathy mode, and there’s no point for the rest of the day when she isn’t resting her head or paws or whole body on me. Over and over, I kiss the broad, flat part of her head between her ears and nuzzle her powerful neck. She gazes up at me with so much concern in her chocolate brown, black-lined eyes. Her beautiful tan-and-white face is all wrinkled in worry.
Maisy’s one of the biggest reasons I worked so hard to become a writer. I wanted to have a job that would let me be home with her every day. I miss her every second that we’re apart. I couldn’t bear the idea of being away from her fifty to sixty hours a week at some office job.
I don’t know what I’d do without this dog. I look back on every stressful moment in our lives over the past seven years—and there’ve been plenty—and there was never a second that Maisy wasn’t right by my side, grinning her wide pit bull smile, desperate to make me happy.
Other than my sweet baby, the one thing that helps me take my mind off how heartbroken I am is, surprisingly, The Real Housewives of New Jersey. I’ve been so busy pursuing cultural activities that I’ve had neither the time nor desire to watch this season. Plus, I recognized Housewife Dina from her over-the-top nuptials on Platinum Weddings, and it sort of felt like pop culture was eating itself.
But lying in my basement in the dark, pit bull snuggled up to me, cold nose wedged in the crook of my shoulder, I crack my first smile of the day when Teresa flips out, calling Danielle a “prostitute whore” before upending the dinner table.
Sad as I am, I still recognize awesome when I see it.
Fletch and I head to Las Vegas for Fourth of July weekend. With Maggie being sick, we’d planned to cancel the trip, but she was gone before we had to make that decision. Given the option, I’d rather have my cat and be home.
Normally I’d be beside myself, but it’s been a rough week. I don’t feel in much of a holiday mood, particularly since when we land, it’s raining. In Las Vegas. Which is the desert. In the summer. This trip already feels like a bad omen.
The crowds and the sound of slot machines and whole 24-7 nature of the city fail to charm me this time. The lights are too bright and the colors too garish, and if one more person blows smoke in my hair in the casino, I’m going to pull a Teresa and start tipping over tables.
And this is exactly the mood I’m in when we get to the restaurant for our requisite one fancy vacation dinner. My ill humor only worsens when we’re given a shitty table directly between two ten-tops of screaming assholes from St. Louis, all done up in jean shorts and Cardinals jerseys. “I’m sorry, but I thought this place had a dress code,” I fume to Fletch.
We specifically picked this restaurant because it has a view of the fountain, but all we can see is the wait station, full of water pitchers and sugar caddies and the POS order-entry computer.
The service is terrible because our waiter is too busy being run around by the Cardinal fans, and we sit with dirty plates and empty glasses for far longer than is acceptable, particularly at a four-star restaurant.
I begin seething, taking the whole experience personally. And when Fletch goes to the bathroom and sees all the empty tables in the back with the primo fountain view, his mood darkens as well.
Foul and slighted as I’m feeling, I decide it’s time to fight back. Surreptitiously, I pull out a small notebook and pretend I’m jotting down notes, which leads the entire staff to believe I’m reviewing the restaurant. And then I begin to take notes for real when I discover the potatoes are bland, the lobster potpie one big crock of gluten, the Kobe beef tough, and the foie gras double-plus un-good.
When the waiter tries to bring us the last course in our tasting menu, we tell him we’ve had enough and are ready to leave right this minute, check, please.167 As we’re