Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office : A Memoir (13 page)

“What are
you
doing here?” I ask before I can stop the words from leaping from my mouth. Backpedaling madly, I clarify, “I mean, how long have you worked here?”

“I started a few weeks ago,” Will replies with a smug grin. “When I heard you were coming in today, I asked, um, if I could, you know, sit in on your interview.”
⁶⁶

Ross allows Will to attempt to rake me over the coals for the better part of an hour. From the incendiary tone of his interview questions, it’s obvious be blames me for getting fired, which is totally unfair. Did I try to buy drugs from my employees? Did I completely disregard corporate goals in order to be liked? Did I leave my résumé in a copy machine? No. He was let go due to his own lack of merit.

As we wrap up the interrogation, Ross asks Will to excuse us, and I assume that now’s the time to discuss an offer.

Wrong again.

“Jen, although I’m impressed with your credentials, I’m still not one hundred percent sure how actionable your cross-platform skills are.” Um, buzzword psychobabble much? What the hell does that mean? I look at him quizzically. He explains, “Before I make a decision, I need an understanding of how you’d approach this job. I want to bring you in one more time. Prepare a business plan containing tangible thirty-, sixty-, and ninety-day goals, as well as ten original marketing concepts. I also want a potential client list. To divide the PR agencies between you and the rest of the sales team, I have to know who has contacts where. On your way out, stop by Mary Ann’s desk to set up a time for later this week.” He thanks me and returns to his office.

OK, this is
ridiculous.
I can’t believe the hoops I’m jumping through for this job. The nerve of making me do HOMEWORK for an interview! I never wanted to tell someone to pound sand more in my life. Unfortunately, there are NO jobs out there, and I can’t let this opportunity slip through my fingers. I’m incredibly aggravated to have been put in this position, but I desperately need the money. I already cashed in my 401(k)
⁶⁷
and my savings account has been empty for months. Because of the missing unemployment check, I’m totally broke. I’m supposed to meet up with my family in Marco Island next week, and I had to use the money earmarked for our electric bill to pay for my ticket. I wasn’t going to go, but my parents know I’m not busy, and if I told them I didn’t have the money to join them, they’d completely wig out.

Looks like I have a business plan to prepare.

I spend three long days putting together the plan, stopping only for coffee and pep talks with Fletch. I create the mother of all documents—it’s a forty-eight-page masterpiece. In it, I start with an industry overview, and then I segue into an analysis of the marketplace and competitive landscape. My marketing plan is the meat of the proposal, with almost thirty pages devoted to sales strategy, promotion, and pitch. I wrap up the document with a framework for growth, as I detail a scalable plan encompassing management needs, legal structure, and human resources. Granted, I could have simply presented Ross with the business plan I created at my old job and gave to all the sales managers, but somehow I suspect Will may have already done so.

There’s no WAY I’m not getting a job with this proposal under my belt! Seriously, I poured my whole self into the document, and it shows.

Will and Ross and a couple of other salespeople sit in rapt attention as I discuss the finer points of countering our competition. When I launch into the marketing portion of my proposal, I notice they all whip out notebooks and begin taking notes.

Like a lot of notes.

Like the kind of notes you’d take at the review session the day before the midterm when you’d skipped most of the classes.

I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. This isn’t right. They should be listening and interacting, not furiously transcribing every word coming out of my mouth. I made a number of copies of my plan, but suddenly I’m hesitant to give them out. I wish I hadn’t already distributed my client contact list.

The only reason these people would be more interested in my work than me is if they know they aren’t going to hire me. But surely they wouldn’t have put me through all these paces without honestly intending to bring me on. No one is that sleazy and unethical, right?

I finish my presentation and am summarily dismissed. No one congratulates me on my brilliant plan, except to complain about not getting a copy. No one takes me aside to discuss salary expectations. No one does anything except attempt to hustle me out of there. When I press him about next steps, all Ross says is “I’ll call you to let you know our decision.”

You know what? I just took it up the ass, and I didn’t even get dinner first.

What I’ve Learned:

1. 1. The next time an interviewer requests a business plan, simply walk out and save yourself three days’ effort, or present them with the document and a bill for consulting services. Because either way? They aren’t going to hire you.
   
2. 2. Com Ed does not consider travel to Florida a “medical necessity” and will have no problem cutting off your lights and leaving your boyfriend in the dark for two days while you vacation on Marco Island.
   
3. 3. Never,
   ever
   carry a Prada bag to the unemployment office.
   

The Lobby for a Hobby

VOLUNTEERS needed to walk dogs at a no-kill animal shelter located in the Gold Coast. No experience required. Please call 312-555-2439 for more information.

With my hot new tan and super-Marco-Island-sun-streaked highlights, I’m the prettiest unemployed girl on the block. Unfortunately my good looks have gotten me nowhere. I’ve applied for over eight hundred positions and am still barely getting responses, though I’m not taking it personally because almost everyone I know is out of work.
⁶⁸
But, still, I’m distressed that my résumé isn’t standing out like a shining diamond among all the jagged, ugly rocks. So I need to do something to differentiate myself. But what? Whatever I come up with, I had better do it soon because I desperately need health insurance again.

Last time I needed my allergy medicine, I made Fletch go to the doctor and pretend to itch and sneeze. Worked like a charm. He couldn’t fake asthma, though, so I have to pay full price for those meds, and they’re so expensive! I’m out of my inhaler because I used the money to buy a twin set. I may be wheezing, but I’m wheezing in fuzzy, ballerina pink cashmere, baby.

I’ve obsessed about health care ever since I accidentally canceled my discounted medical plan through COBRA. I’d read that Fletch’s employer covered domestic partners, so I figured since we lived together, he could add me to his benefits. I thought I was being so clever. Unfortunately, this was one of those almost unimaginable instances where I was completely, utterly wrong.

I marched out into the living room wearing my favorite flannel jammies with the polar bears on them and a snappy new pair of glossy black, square-toed, pilgrim-heeled boots. I danced around a bit but Fletch didn’t notice. He was deeply absorbed in one of his myriad business magazines.

“A-hem.” I cleared my throat. He didn’t even glance in my direction.
Hello! Surely I’m more interesting than your stupid magazine! Pay attention to me, please.
I cleared my throat again and stomped back and forth.

Without looking up, he asked, “Do you need something?”

“Guess what,” I said, leaning back on the arm of the couch, waggling my feet in the air.

“What?” he asked, totally engrossed in what he was reading.

“Guess what I got.”

He finally peered up from his magazine and looked me up and down. “I hope it’s not new boots. Tell me it’s not new boots. I thought we agreed you’d stop wasting your unemployment checks.”

“We did agree. So guess how I bought them,” I said in a singsong voice.

He slowly blinked at me and ran his hands through his hair in one of his getting-stressed-but-trying-not-to-show-it gestures. “Do I want to know?”

“I used my own money.”

“You don’t
have
any money.”

“Yes, I do! I canceled my COBRA and they refunded my payment. I got the check from them today, I cashed it at the currency exchange, and that’s how I bought these! Aren’t they divine? Don’t you
lurve
them?” I did a quick Riverdance so he could see the beauty of my boots in motion.

“Whoa, wait a minute. You
canceled
your insurance?”

“Yes, I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“I’m suddenly very afraid to ask why.”

“Oh, you’re being silly. Didn’t you run across the article in your little magazine where they talk about all the progressive employers who insure domestic partners? Well,
your
company is one of them, and
I’m
your domestic partner. We’ve lived together for years. So please remember to sign me up under your plan tomorrow, sweetie.”

“Jen,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, “they mean same-sex relationships.”

“No, they don’t. They can’t. That would be discrimination.”

“Yes, they do, they can, and it wouldn’t.”

“What about if we’re the opposite sex? That counts, too, right?”

“Nope, it’s just a benefit for gay couples. I know because I asked about this months ago, thinking it would save you a few bucks.”

“So we get
nothing
for living together, despite the fact that you’re currently the breadwinner?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Even though I do all of the laundry?”

“Ha! Even though you do
some
of the laundry.”

“But that’s not fair. You didn’t choose to be straight! It’s not your fault you were born that way. I shouldn’t be punished for your heterosexuality. Maybe you should get a lawyer.” I began to panic because the COBRA people were clear that once I canceled my coverage, I couldn’t reinstate.

He smirked. “Yep, society’s always keeping the straight man down.”

“Don’t be a smarty-pants. I’m serious. What if you told them I was a guy? Couldn’t you go to the benefits office and, you know, swish around a bit? Tell the HR girl that her shoes are fab-u-licious? I’m sure she’d believe you were gay, especially since I taught you to wax your monobrow. You were very convincing when you lied to get my Claritin.”

“A: HR is in Denver,” he said, closing the magazine. “And B: it wasn’t a lie: I
do
have allergies and
should
be taking Claritin.”

“Even better! Seriously, there’s no way they’d know I’m not a man. Ooh, you could give them my initials for the membership card, and they’ll be none the wiser. J. Lancaster could totally be a dude. Correction, a gay dude.”

“No.”

“They wouldn’t be allowed to pry into your private life. They’d never know. I’m telling you, this plan is foolproof.”

“Your plan is anything
but
foolproof. What happens when they get a bill from your ob-gyn? How would I explain that, even though you’re a guy, what with us being gay and all, you needed to see a women’s doctor?”

Thinking on my feet,
⁶⁹
I quickly came up with plan B. “OK, this could still work. You tell them I’m a post-op transsexual. I’ll wear that really dark MAC lipstick that makes me look like a drag queen, and they will absolutely believe me.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

With great solemnity, I told him, “Castration is no joke.”

“The answer is still no.”

“No, you won’t pretend to be gay, or no, you won’t claim that I’m a tranny?”

“No to
all
of the above.”

I sensed the need to change tactics if I ever wanted to see a doctor again. “OK, Mr. I-Don’t-Want-to-Help, what about this? What if I had an asthma attack and DIED because I don’t have an inhaler? What would you do then, huh?”

He looked thoughtful while he paused to consider the ramifications of a world without the beauty and magic of my life force. Personally, he’d forever bear the deep wounds of tragic remembrance. On a larger scope, darkness would encompass the earth. Flowers, devastated over the loss of me, their personal sun, would wither on the vine. Trapped in perpetual darkness, owls would shriek all day long and songbirds would cease their singing. Distraught and too racked with grief to carry on, Fletch would lead a shadowy existence, wearing black every day. He’d begin the half-life of a solitary Beat poet, chain smoking in dank and depressing coffee shops on open-mike nights, while he waited for his chance to read maudlin tributes to the eternal sunshine of my soul that—

“I’d bury you with your new boots.”

What? He! Oh! No! Arrgh!

I was clearly tasked to come up with the snappiest of all rejoinders for his not properly paying tribute to the possibility of my heartrending demise. But what to say? How could I express the gravity of my displeasure? How could he take the extinguishing of the light that is his darling Jennifer and turn it into a
joke
? I consulted my internal thesaurus and came up with the perfect riposte that would slash him to the bone, leaving his soul in ribbons in order to show him the folly of uttering such casually caustic words.

“Asshat!”

Fletch took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to go read in the den now.”

“Homophobe!”

“I will talk to you when you decide to act like an adult again.”

“You suck donkey balls!” I shrieked as he retreated into his office, hands holding his temples like he always does when he feels a migraine coming on.

“You should really see a doctor about that!” I hollered as he gently closed the door behind him.

Anyway, I’ve yet to come up with a better way to get my asthma medicine, so I need to find a job with good prescription coverage. I put on my thinking boots
⁷⁰
and brainstorm. I know that I’m a great salesperson, but how can I demonstrate this to hiring managers at good companies? Prior to 9/11, I could walk into office buildings and foot canvass, but with all the new security measures, that’s out.

I was good at soliciting business over the phone before, so I should call the VPs of sales directly and market myself. And now I’d be selling a product I really love, so I think this could work. But which companies shall I call? Ooh, I know! I’ll start reading the
Wall Street Journal
again. They always report on who’s growing, merging, and acquiring, and that way, when I call, I’ll have something to talk about. Really, with problem-solving ability like mine, who
wouldn’t
hire me?

Ohmigod, this is going
so well
! I knew I was on the right track with the phone call business. Granted, no one’s had an open position yet, but everyone I’ve spoken to has been very positive, and a lot of them asked me to send a résumé! Joe Thompson, national sales director at the company I’ve dubbed the Mother Ship,
⁷¹
wants me to touch base with him every month. Said he “liked my moxie”
⁷²
and would speak to me in person as soon as he had an opening. Yay, me! And yay,
Wall Street Journal
! Which reminds me, I need to go downstairs and get today’s issue.

I head down the four sets of crazy orange catwalks that lead to the bottom of my building’s atrium. I spotted my paper down there earlier today when I kissed Fletch good-bye at the door, but now it’s gone. Where is it? The atrium is through two sets of locked doors, so it’s not like some deadbeat walking by could pinch my paper. One of my neighbors must have grabbed it by accident. Oh, well. I guess I’ll just pick one up from the newsstand across the street. No biggie.

One missing paper? Not a problem. Two missing papers? A bit of an oversight. But FIVE missing papers? That the folks at the
Journal
’s customer service office swear they’ve delivered?? Fletch says I should check with our building’s maintenance department, because it’s probably just the cleaning people tidying up. Uh-huh. A likely explanation. But I know with every fiber of my being that one of the motherfuckers in this building is STEALING MY NEWSPAPER. I am about to get all Sean Penn on these people. How dare they swipe a paper from a penniless unemployed girl? Everyone who lives here is rich. Our parking lot looks like a BMW dealership. We’ve got a couple of doctors in residence, and a gaggle of attorneys. And there’s that girl in 2C who’s an exec officer at the only dot-com to ever turn a profit, with the Mercedes and the boob job, so I know that SHE can afford to buy her own damn paper. I just can’t believe the nerve of these people. Taking someone’s newspaper! How low is that??

“This needs to stop NOW,” I growl at the customer service rep given the unfortunate task of trying to soothe me.

“Ma’am, again, I am so very sorry for your trouble. We’ve credited your account, and you won’t have to pay for any of your missing papers,” says the shaken representative. She’s been dealing with me all week. I suspect she drew a short stick somewhere along the line.

“I do not understand why the paperboy can’t just leave the paper in front of my door. I will tip him generously, so please help me comprehend the nature of the freaking problem.”

“Ma’am, as I’ve explained, our delivery people have large routes they must cover, and they can’t climb four flights of stairs just to give you your paper.”

“They can’t just throw it up there? The kid in
Better Off Dead
threw hard enough to break John Cusack’s garage windows every day, and he was just a little boy. Are you saying that you employ a bunch of girly-armed lazy people who can’t toss a paper to save their lives? Huh, is that what you’re saying?”

“Ma’am. I-I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“OK, then answer me this. What would happen if I were to catch my neighbor in the act of pilfering my newspaper? Is that considered burglary? Could I have them arrested?”

She’s quiet for a minute, and after a deep breath, she says, “Technically, I think so, but, ma’am, don’t you have to live around them? Wouldn’t that be kind of awkward after the fact?”

I take a quick mental inventory of the neighbors I know. Would I regret it if I were to alienate any of them? Let’s see, the folks in 1A annoy me because they always put up little signs on their door to welcome guests. Sure, it sounds like a nice gesture, except they recycle paper to make said signs, so there’s typing on the flip side of the sheet that shows through their glass door. Why can’t they use a blank piece of paper? If they were the thieves, I wouldn’t miss them OR their stupid signs.

The King of All Bad Taste just moved into 2D. He offends me because he converted his gorgeous urban loft into a faux country club full of brass trumpets and hunter green fabric and plastic ferns. Ugh! He covered the exposed brick with fake walnut paneling, drywalled the timber ceiling, and enclosed the ductwork. Why not paint a pair of leopard-skin Speedos on the David while you’re at it, you barbarous philistine? So if he’s the culprit?
Pas de problème!

Mr. and Mrs. We-Like-to-Leave-Our-Trashbags-on-Our-Deck in 3F would be no great loss, as I’m convinced we’re going to get raccoons because of their slovenly habits. And Brown-Thumb McKills-Them-All in 4A with the planters full of last summer’s dead hibiscus bugs me, too. And don’t EVEN get me started out the Too-Much-Sexingtons next door. Their busy bedsprings have forced me to sleep with earplugs. How can ANYONE do it that much? Don’t they ever just feel like watching Conan? I am mortified every time I run into them at the mailboxes. Frankly, I’d love it if they were arrested. Maybe I could get one night’s sleep without hearing Barry White through our communal bedroom wall. And the added bonus for them is they have a penchant for handcuffs.