Free 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 by Jen Lancaster Page A

unconvincingly.
    “Okay, what’s the problem? That house seems pretty nice, judging from the photos you posted.” I’m on the phone with Angie, and I can hear her huffing away in the background. I suspect she’s getting in a quick elliptical workout while we chat, as she doesn’t know how to avoid multitasking. One time we were talking and I could hear sawing. At first I thought a kid was snoring in the background, but it turns out she was on her hands-free phone, preparing for Halloween by building a six-foot-tall witch out of plywood from a pattern she’d seen in Martha Stewart’s magazine.
    We lucked into renting brand-new construction, so the chances of this house sinking are considerably reduced. The rooms are sunny and quiet, and there’s enough yard space for the dogs to run laps. They’re so thrilled that Maisy only pees indoors now to make a point.
    There’s space enough for me to have my own office in a room with big windows. The kitchen’s quite functional, with dark granite and cherry cabinets, both of which are perfect for masking dirt and the paw prints from cats who refuse to stay off the counters. And if we really love it here, we have the option to buy once our lease is up, thus settling the whole where-do-we-want-to-live dilemma. The best part is this house has all the benefits of a suburban homestead, but I still live only five minutes away from Stacey, and yet . . .
    “I’m not playing around with you, Lancaster. Cough it up.” Yeah, she’s definitely exercising. The endorphins make her aggressive.
    I hesitate. “Well, the new house is . . . boring, okay? It’s boring. I mean, technically we moved to what isn’t as good a neighborhood as the one we were in—”
    Angie barks but tries to cover it with a cough. “ That was a good neighborhood?” Apparently the large retaining wall covered with gang graffiti across the street led her to believe otherwise.
    (Sidebar: I always wanted to go out there and, you know, disrespect the local Latin Kings by covering their crowns and tridents with arrows and my old sorority letters, but Fletch thought that was my worst idea yet. He was all, “What if they catch you? What would be your line of defense? Not inviting them to your mixer? Gossiping about their baggy pants and plain white T-shirts at the Phi Delt house?” 71
    It didn’t matter in the end because you—meaning I —can’t buy spray paint in city limits. I grilled the unhelpful associate in the paint department at the home-improvement store about this stupid local ordinance. I tapped my loafered foot, adjusted my pearls, and repopped the collar on my Lacoste while we spoke. “I’m sorry. Do you think I’m going to stuff your spray paint in my Coach purse, drive home in my German car, and then start tagging walls?” The associate just stood there in his smock, looking scared, not saying anything. 72
    I sigh and gaze out at my tidy little backyard. “Yeah, smarty-pants, we lived in Bucktown , which is superdesirable, even though we were in the weird little pocket of it that bordered Logan Square. Now we’re in the Square proper, which isn’t considered nearly as nice. That’s why we were able to rent something bigger and newer for about the same price. The thing is, we’re in the very best part of the Square and . . . and . . . our neighbors suck .”
    “Aren’t you used to that?” I can’t tell if she’s snorting or just breathing hard.
    “No, I mean they suck in an entirely new way. We’ve got construction on one side, so no one even lives there. On the other side, we’ve got a house identical to ours. A lovely young couple lives there. They wave when we see them, and they’re always out raking leaves and stuff.”
    Angie begins to huff louder. The jury’s out as to whether she’s reaching a critical point in her workout or if she’s just getting annoyed. “Weren’t you going to put out a hit on the weird old neighbors who never cut their lawn? Didn’t you squeal