Table of Contents
OTHER TITLES BY NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR JEN LANCASTER
Bitter Is the New Black
Bright Lights, Big Ass
Such a Pretty Fat
Pretty in Plaid
For Mary-Ellis Bunim and Jonathan Murray, who started it all.
For Stacey, who makes everything more fun.
AUTHORS NOTE
Some characters have been combined for storytelling purposes. In addition, other names and identifying characteristics have been changed for privacy reasons with timelines compressed.
Progress isnt made by early risers. Its made by lazy men
trying to find an easier way to do something.
ROBERT HEINLEIN, Time Enough for Love
It is only the wisest and the stupidest that cannot change.
CONFUCIUS
And as usual, what happens next
is all Carrie Bradshaws fault.
JEN LANCASTER, My Fair Lazy BOOK PROPOSAL
PROLOGUE
Sipping wine out of a paper cup, Im perched on a tall stool across from my literary idol, Candace Bushnell, whos interviewing me for her Sirius radio show.
This is the single greatest day of my life.
Ive managed to keep myself together enough to avoid (a) bursting into creepy fan-girl tears, (b) asking if I can please, please braid her pretty, pretty hair, or (c) shrieking, OMFG, youre the real Carrie Bradshaw! but it hasnt been without heroic effort. Im mostly holding my own in the interview until Candace tells me shes totally into Bow da Lair.
Beaux de lair?
Botta-layer?
Baudelaire?
I have no idea what shes talking about. Baudelairewhat is that, a kind of sushi? Some superstretchy Pilates move? This seasons must-have stiletto? I am without a single clue. Yet I quickly confirm that Im absolutely into Baudelaire, too, and then change topics with the grace and dexterity of a veteran White House press secretary.
As I try to keep myself from breaking into terror sweat, it occurs to me that I dont know who Baudelaire is because Ive become a little bit dumb.
What prompts this epiphany isnt my dearth of knowledge of All Things Baudelaire. Plenty of smart people are unfamiliar with Baudelaire.
What gives me pause is the ease with which I cover up my ignorance. Im confident I used to be smart, but when I got laid off from an executive position post-9/11, I was no longer tasked to use my critical thinking skills. On top of that, while I searched in vain for a new job, reality television went from being an occasional guilty pleasure to a full-time source of solace. I mean, sure, I was unemployed and broke and Id totally lost what defined me, but at least I wasnt one of those idiots attempting to get Married by America. And I never had to ask my friend Nicole Richie if Walmart was the place that sold walls. Reality television gave me an amazing feeling of moral and intellectual superiority without actually requiring any effort past moving the dogs to find the remote.
Although my life eventually improved, I never weaned myself off of reality television once I started writing. And at this point Im so used to not having much interest outside of whats happening with The Real Housewives of Orange County and in the Rock of Love mansion that Ive become an expert in faking most other knowledge. Lying about what I dont know has become my lazy but elegant solution to not acquiring the basic facts in the first place. Because I no longer report to a boss, I never have to take on hard or boring tasks, thus traveling outside of my comfort zone is a rarity, and most likely involuntary.
Frankly, my steady diet of sloth and avoidance has served me well, and I will see no reason to change things... until the unthinkable happens next week, and I inadvertently end up on the New York Times best seller list.
Ten times.
Dude.
What gets me is the sneaking suspicion that Id be a better writer if my first thought at this unexpected windfall wasnt Dude. So I grudgingly admit that broadening my horizons is something I should work on, but Ive got to get through this book tour first.
Anyway, our interview eventually draws to a close, and I leave the studio with no idea if Baudelaire is some kind of yogic breathing technique or French-Vietnamese cuisine.
But I do know if I want to be more like Candace Bushnell, perhaps I should make an effort to find out.
To: angie_at_home
From: jen_at_home
Subject: todays Jen-point quiz
Its late in the evening and youre just about to head upstairs, take a bath, and read a bit before bed when you hear a noise in the front yard. Upon drawing the curtains, you come face-to-face with a hipster whos using your lawn/the corner of your house as a urinal.
What do you do next?
a. You smile and shake your head. Ah, the capriciousness of youth!
b. You frown and shake your head. You dont like it, but you understand this kind of thing happens sometimes when you live in an urban environment.
c. You call the police, knowing full well if they even bother to respond to your call, the hipster pisser will be halfway through his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon at the neighborhood watering hole before they arrive.
d. You throw open the front door and scream profanities at the hipster, causing the stream of urine to soak his skinny jeans. And as he egresses at a brisk pace, you shout, Doesnt matter if you run, motherfucker, because I know where youre going!
e. You spend the rest of the evening standing by your open front door, shaking your garden shovel at everyone whos unfortunate enough to park on your street.
f. Answers D and E.
Scoring:
Award yourself zero points for Answers A-C, five points for Answers D-E, and ten points for Answer F.
Give yourself one bonus point if your shovel is rusty.
CHAPTER ONE
The Rat World/Road Rules Challenge
(Three months earlier)
You are not watching that crap.
No, no, Im not. My eyes flick back to the screen.
I hear Fletch take a slow, deliberate breath before he says, From where Im standing, it would appear that you are.
Refusing to meet his eye, I counter, Maybe you have a bad vantage point?
Fletch is standing in the small hallway between our kitchen and living room, arms akimbo. From what I can see from the corner of my eye, it almost seems like hes glowering at me. Youre not watching that crap.
Breezily, I respond, Nope, not me.
He repeats, You are not watching that crap.
I peek up at him again. Oh, yes, theres distinct glowering. I try to hide my smile behind my hand.
Does emphasizing a different word every time you say it somehow reinforce your message? Or finally make me understand? I ask mildly.
To the layman, Fletch might seem angry, but I assure you hes not. My friend Gina says nothing makes Fletch happier than expressing righteous indignation about something trivial. Minor aggravations keep his blood flowing. And since almost nothing makes him more righteously indignant than fine, fine MTV reality programming, I figure Ill let this play out.