My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover if Not Being A Dumb Ass is the New Black; Or, A Culture-Up Manifesto
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Readers have followed Jen Lancaster through job loss, sucky city living, weight loss attempts, and 1980s nostalgia. Now Jen chronicles her efforts to achieve cultural enlightenment, with some hilarious missteps and genuine moments of inspiration along the way. And she does so by any means necessary: reading canonical literature, viewing classic films, attending the opera, researching artisan cheeses, and even enrolling in etiquette classes to improve her social graces.
In Jen's corner is a crack team of experts, including Page Six socialites, gourmet chefs, an opera aficionado, and a master sommelier. She may discover that well-regarded, high-priced stinky cheese tastes exactly as bad as it smells, and that her love for Kraft American Singles is forever. But one thing's for certain: Eliza Doolittle's got nothing on Jen Lancaster-and failure is an option.
hadn’t been a spate of B&Es in the neighborhood in the past few weeks. “’S fine,” Fletch assures me, eyes still on the screen. “Really?” I huff. “You’re not even going to get up? FINE YOURSELF.” I hurl myself out of my seat and stomp into the kitchen. “Can I have more coffee while you’re up?” “Can’t. Busy being stabbed,” I yell back. But there’s no evidence of breaking and entering. Or entering, anyway. Something definitely broke. “What the hell’s going on here?” I mutter to myself. I bend
I’m fairly mellow about the whole thing, as Joanna and I had dinner at a Russian place beforehand, where we discovered the joy of flavored flights of vodka. Traffic was obscene getting downtown, so I was almost half an hour late to meet her. While Fletch did his best to weave in and out of lanes to get me there quicker, Joanna sent me updates on her iPhone, telling me there’s a damn good reason that Russia never became a superpower in regard to wine. “Imagine cherry cough syrup,” she wrote,
we’d eaten ourselves sober again and were so stuffed that we could barely walk the few blocks to the theater. Okay, no offense, Russia, but if this is how you fueled up prior to battle, no wonder you couldn’t beat Afghanistan. Meanwhile, back in the nosebleed balcony, my neighbor is banging her armrest and screaming, “Spin, spin, spin!” while a ballet dancer performs a fouetté en tournant. Yes. Shouting will absolutely help him spin. Joanna’s husband is with their kids, so we’re not under any
arrogance and ignorance and abs, none of which appealed to me. What sucked me in this time? Weather? Weakness? Want? Nope. Welty. Specifically Eudora Welty. I’ve been diligently working my way through the classic novels list that my friend Jen put together for me. Mostly I’ve been reading them on my Kindle because classics are dirt-cheap that way.218 However, not long ago I found myself at the bookstore unexpectedly,219 and there were a few titles I hadn’t yet downloaded. I didn’t have my
run across the most adorable independent bookseller. The shop is all wooden and warm with big display windows, and it looks like the kind of place where I’d get lost for hours. I’m delighted to see how crowded the store is, too. The staff rushes around with a sense of urgency, moving shelves here and there, making room for all the shoppers, and the whole scene feels chaotically comfortable. I finally select a book234 and head to the cashier. “I’m sorry,” a harried young girl behind the counter