My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [86]
When we return to our hotel, we recount the whole experience to the concierge in righteously indignant detail before going to bed. By the time we’re back from brunch, the manager of the restaurant has called our room twice to apologize and invite us back for a dinner on the house.
That’s when it hits me—I pulled the “don’t you know who I am” card. I’m suddenly mortified by my privileged, officious behavior.
Somehow over the course of this project, I’ve managed to twist what I’ve learned over my cultural Jenaissance into flat-out, unearned elitism. I mean, just because I’ve now had Kobe and foie gras doesn’t exactly make me an expert, yet there I was, acting as though I was. My Shame Rattle sounds again and again. In the past two days, I’ve behaved with the exact amount of arrogance and egotism that cost me my job so many years ago, which means I’m missing the point of everything I’ve been working toward since winter.
This isn’t how I want to be. I don’t want to turn what I’ve learned into a weapon. I want to be a better me, not a bigger ass.
There’s a scene in My Fair Lady where Eliza goes back to hang out with all the other flower girls, and they don’t even recognize her. She still wants to be friends with them, but she’s changed so much, she makes everyone uncomfortable and has to leave. She finds herself trapped between two worlds, unable to feel real belonging to either. While I based some of my Jenaissance on the play, that wasn’t the part I’d hoped to emulate.
If I want to make a good impression at Authors Night, my renaissance needs to be genuine, and I have to stop worrying about the class part of the equation. I mean, I’m not going to outclass a bunch of millionaires—particularly with eight dollars in my purse—and trying to would be an exercise in futility. I need to find a way to be a kinder, gentler, more articulate me. I want to be the kind of me who doesn’t have to recount a reality show moment to best capture my feeling on a particular subject. And I don’t want other authors to roll their eyes after it’s over, saying, “What was up with that Lancaster chick? Obnoxious!”
So over the next month, I need to figure out how to better myself without losing what defines me.
I can start by not benefiting from my own bad behavior.
I decline the opportunity for a free dinner and later, when it’s time to eat, we end up at In-N-Out Burger.
It’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
When we get home from Las Vegas, I set my bags down by the back door and check the voice mail. There’s a message from the vet, who in a very matter-of-fact voice tells me that Maisy’s cysts—you know, the ones they’d been saying for years are nothing and they only aspirated at my insistence—are cancerous, and I should probably make an appointment to schedule surgery.
I feel like I’ve just been kicked in the heart.
While I take to my bed in hysterics, Stacey helps Fletch find a new vet, one who won’t blithely write off a spate of cancerous tumors as “Eh, just doggie zits” for three years.
Honestly, it’s a good thing it’s Sunday and my vet’s office is closed, because I’m not sure I can trust myself right now not to do something stupid. I mean, I always joke about stuff like bludgeoning the contractor and punching bad drivers in the neck, but I actually feel like I could commit physical violence right now against a doctor either too lazy or disconnected to take proper care of my baby.
The worst part is the kennel’s closed, too, and we can’t even pick her up until tomorrow morning. Fletch tried to contact them about getting the dogs early but kept getting the answering machine.
On our last night in Vegas, Fletch and I sat by the hotel pool and split a bottle of wine while we watched the fireworks. We were both pretty melancholy about Maggie, and somehow over the course