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 Read Online Free PDF
Author: Jen Lancaster
though it’s bruised. Having lived in a particularly tornado-y part of Indiana, I recognize these conditions, so I pump the gas a little harder, inching my speed up to a full fifty-eight miles per hour in a fifty-five zone. 30
I notice I have to put both hands on the wheel to control the car as winds begin to whip. I close the windows and sunroof when powerful currents begin to blow around roadside trash and kick up loose bits of soil.
As I tool along, I wonder if that bitch Mother Nature’s going to ruin my first official pool day of the year. Seriously, it’s like forces are conspiring against my getting a tan this year. Whenever I’ve had time to catch some rays, it’s rained. Sometimes I’ll use self-tanner, but the end result is always disastrous because self-tanning only seems like a good idea after I’ve cocktailed Xanax and Ambien.
(Sidebar: Even though my doctor says I can take them at the same time doesn’t mean I should . And FYI for you amateur med mixologists, please note that one glass of wine plus one Ambien almost always equals shameful online shopping sprees. My Barbie Fashion Fever styling head and I urge you to trust us on this.)
While I contemplate exactly how pasty I am, a strong gust of wind sweeps one of the boxes off the back of the truck and drops it onto the two-lane highway fifty yards ahead of me. I’m far enough back that it doesn’t come crashing through my windshield, but there’s so much traffic in the right lane that I have nowhere to go but forward.
I’m down to about twenty miles an hour when I plow into the box, which I’m hoping is filled with something light, like Styrofoam peanuts or popcorn or maybe paper plates. Perhaps it’s filled with piñatas, and when I hit it, fun-sized packages of Snickers and Sweet Tarts and Twizzlers will rain down on me and voilà! Impromptu fiesta!
No such luck.
I’m pretty sure I just smashed into an anvil or bag of cement or perhaps some depleted plutonium. The impact isn’t enough to deploy the airbags, but it is enough to deploy the fresh thirty-two-ounce Burger King Diet Coke out of my cup holder. The soda explodes and splashes the windshield and sunroof before raining brown liquid and ice chips all over the dashboard, the front seat, my hair, face, and lap.
I pull over on the grassy shoulder and blot my sunglasses with the edge of my T-shirt while shaking chipped ice out of my hair. Then I leap out of the car to inspect the damage. There’s only a small nick in the bumper, but after the unpleasantness with this same bumper and the side of the garage earlier this spring (and, let’s be honest, the lipstick and the side mirror), I happen to know that it’s going to cost at least a grand to replace it, and damn it, this time someone else’s insurance can cover repairs.
Soda streaming down my legs, I stomp down to where the pickup truck driver has stopped his car. He’s an older man with an oiled black pompadour, Civil War-worthy sideburns, blue eyes, and skinny legs supporting a big gut. He sports some enormous white teeth—dentures?—that he arranges into a scary grin when he sees me coming.
Well, hot damn—Elvis isn’t dead; he’s just delivering mattresses in Northern Illinois now.
The King steps out of his truck, saying, “Oh, thank you, thank you ver’ much for stopping! That’s really ver’ kind a you.”
“I stopped because I hit your stupid box!” I snap. I’m taking a deep breath in preparation to yell like I’ve never yelled before when the Memphis Flash holds out a callused hand and says, “I’m Reverend Smith.”
That shuts me down completely. While I wouldn’t say I’m incapable of evil (as evidenced by much of my sorority career), I simply cannot shout at the Lord’s emissary. Or the reincarnation of Elvis the Pelvis.
While he gets back into his car to call the police, 31 I’m stuck muttering to myself about Reverend TossyBox from the Church of the Flying Furniture. I make my way over to
I notice I have to put both hands on the wheel to control the car as winds begin to whip. I close the windows and sunroof when powerful currents begin to blow around roadside trash and kick up loose bits of soil.
As I tool along, I wonder if that bitch Mother Nature’s going to ruin my first official pool day of the year. Seriously, it’s like forces are conspiring against my getting a tan this year. Whenever I’ve had time to catch some rays, it’s rained. Sometimes I’ll use self-tanner, but the end result is always disastrous because self-tanning only seems like a good idea after I’ve cocktailed Xanax and Ambien.
(Sidebar: Even though my doctor says I can take them at the same time doesn’t mean I should . And FYI for you amateur med mixologists, please note that one glass of wine plus one Ambien almost always equals shameful online shopping sprees. My Barbie Fashion Fever styling head and I urge you to trust us on this.)
While I contemplate exactly how pasty I am, a strong gust of wind sweeps one of the boxes off the back of the truck and drops it onto the two-lane highway fifty yards ahead of me. I’m far enough back that it doesn’t come crashing through my windshield, but there’s so much traffic in the right lane that I have nowhere to go but forward.
I’m down to about twenty miles an hour when I plow into the box, which I’m hoping is filled with something light, like Styrofoam peanuts or popcorn or maybe paper plates. Perhaps it’s filled with piñatas, and when I hit it, fun-sized packages of Snickers and Sweet Tarts and Twizzlers will rain down on me and voilà! Impromptu fiesta!
No such luck.
I’m pretty sure I just smashed into an anvil or bag of cement or perhaps some depleted plutonium. The impact isn’t enough to deploy the airbags, but it is enough to deploy the fresh thirty-two-ounce Burger King Diet Coke out of my cup holder. The soda explodes and splashes the windshield and sunroof before raining brown liquid and ice chips all over the dashboard, the front seat, my hair, face, and lap.
I pull over on the grassy shoulder and blot my sunglasses with the edge of my T-shirt while shaking chipped ice out of my hair. Then I leap out of the car to inspect the damage. There’s only a small nick in the bumper, but after the unpleasantness with this same bumper and the side of the garage earlier this spring (and, let’s be honest, the lipstick and the side mirror), I happen to know that it’s going to cost at least a grand to replace it, and damn it, this time someone else’s insurance can cover repairs.
Soda streaming down my legs, I stomp down to where the pickup truck driver has stopped his car. He’s an older man with an oiled black pompadour, Civil War-worthy sideburns, blue eyes, and skinny legs supporting a big gut. He sports some enormous white teeth—dentures?—that he arranges into a scary grin when he sees me coming.
Well, hot damn—Elvis isn’t dead; he’s just delivering mattresses in Northern Illinois now.
The King steps out of his truck, saying, “Oh, thank you, thank you ver’ much for stopping! That’s really ver’ kind a you.”
“I stopped because I hit your stupid box!” I snap. I’m taking a deep breath in preparation to yell like I’ve never yelled before when the Memphis Flash holds out a callused hand and says, “I’m Reverend Smith.”
That shuts me down completely. While I wouldn’t say I’m incapable of evil (as evidenced by much of my sorority career), I simply cannot shout at the Lord’s emissary. Or the reincarnation of Elvis the Pelvis.
While he gets back into his car to call the police, 31 I’m stuck muttering to myself about Reverend TossyBox from the Church of the Flying Furniture. I make my way over to
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