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 (29 page)

Randolph Street Starbucks

Weblog Entry 4/13/03

WHEN I GROW UP

Oddly enough, I’m flattered my website had the power to keep me from getting hired. Any company who doesn’t get what this site is about probably isn’t the place for me. Unfortunately, I still need to do something to pay bills, so the job search continues.

As my current efforts to procure work in my field have been wholly unsuccessful, I feel I may be best off starting a different career.

But doing what? I have no idea.

Kids seem to have the inside track on good adult jobs, so I decided to seek advice from my six year-old nephew Cam. He proved to be an excellent sounding board and told me that he’s considering careers as, “A banker like Uncle Joe, a painter like Jackson Pollock, or the guy who helps you find stuff at the grocery store.” Well, these ideas sound good in theory, but I’m bad with money, lack artistic skill, and recently spent 25 minutes searching for canned olives at the local Jewel, so these careers are out.

I then queried Max, Cam’s four year-old brother, what his future plans might entail. Max would like to paint houses, drive a truck, or “punch you in the stupid head.”
¹⁵⁸
Sarah, their two year-old sister, had the least enlightening suggestions, because all she could tell me was, “I like ’nakes! I like ’nakes! I like ’nakes!” I
really
hate snakes, so a job in the Reptile House is not realistic.

Since these are the only kids I know, I decided to re-examine my various college majors in order to come up with a new career. I graduated with a degree in Political Science…but I’ve already been a waitress and I wasn’t very good at it. Apparently I am “not friendly.”
¹⁵⁹

I’d previously majored in Archeology until my father strongly advised me to switch. He believed I’d quit the minute I got to a desert and decided it was too hot to be digging around outside.
¹⁶⁰
Interior Designer is also out because I only like one style. I suspect clients would quickly tire of pink walls and cabbage rose prints.

My only other major was Journalism and even though I love to write, I transferred out of that school because I wanted to make more than $17K/year once I graduated. Plus, I think newspapers frown on you writing feature articles about yourself, and, unfortunately, I’m my favorite topic.

I’ve determined the ideal job for me is one where I can write clever essays about my life and my employer will give me enough money not only to live a comfortable existence, but also to buy many, many new pairs of shoes.

Please let me know where to send my application.

To: [email protected]

From: Adam

Date: April 15, 2003

Subject: Loser

Jen,

My name is Adam and I am currently working for
[MONOLITHIC AMERICAN AUTO MANUFACTURER]
in Michigan. I chose engineering because I liked it and there are a lot of jobs in this area for engineers. There are women engineers here, too. They are a minority in this field and they get paid more for doing the same job I do, yet they move up the corporate ladder at an alarming pace.

Why the hell would you get a political science degree and live in Chicago? You need to relocate to the Baltimore/D.C. area to put that degree to use. A Master’s Degree in that field is definitely required to make a decent living. You claim to be an intelligent person so go out and get any job, move back in with your parents, go back to school and get a real degree. Or, do like most women do; find a man and have him support you while you go back to school.

Adam

To: Adam

From: [email protected]

Date: April 15, 2003

Subject: RE: Loser

Hi, Adam,

I’ve not had any hate mail for a while and I’d forgotten how invigorating it can be, so thank you for writing! Fortunately, you caught me on a good day, so you won’t be subject to my usual evisceration with the speculation to the root cause of your issues with women. Nope, the words “latent homosexual” will not pass
my
lips.

I’ll even begin by agreeing with you. I don’t think anyone at MAAM should be promoted or paid better strictly based on gender. Or race, age, handicap, or sexual preference for that matter. (So you’re totally safe.) Personally, I believe an employee should be compensated solely on his performance. But I don’t work for MAAM and I can’t say that this isn’t the case. Perhaps it’s your perceptions that are faulty and not the ass-kicking chicks who work around you.

What I find interesting is that according to my website tracking software, you only spent six minutes reading my website. Yet in these six minutes, you feel you’ve figured out a better way for me to live my life. Presumptuous, don’t you think? But if you’d dug in my site just a bit further and had spent more than an average of eight seconds per page
¹⁶¹
you’d have all the answers to your questions and the reasons behind my decisions.

Bottom line, I’m alarmed that a person with no eye for detail or passion for investigation is designing cars. So I not only hold you personally responsible for designing the shitty cup holder in my old Cadillac, but also for engineering a car that lost $35,000 in value in the five years since it was manufactured. Perhaps if
you’d
made a better car,
I’d
have had more than $2500 to live off of when I was forced to sell it. (And in cherry condition no less!)

Seriously, even the Koreans are kicking MAAM’s ass, so here’s a suggestion…get the hell off the Internet and start designing a better cup holder RIGHT NOW.

Supersize me,

Jen

We were ten minutes into our Easter road trip to my parents’ house when something important detached itself from something else important in Fletch’s SUV, stranding us on the Kennedy Expressway. Later, the mechanic described the problem using words like
manifold
,
gasket
, and
cracked block
, but all I heard was
la, la, la, really expensive, la, la, la
. The repairs took a big chunk of the money we received from selling my precious Cadillac. Now instead of having enough rent money to last all summer, we have A HUGE PROBLEM.

Normally I look to Fletch to resolve our crises, but it’s hard for him to address this one when he can’t even get out of bed. No, scratch that. He
can
get up long enough to head to the local package store to pick up a twelve-pack. I should get on him for drinking too much, but right now, a Miller High Life temporary escape is the only thing that makes him happy. Otherwise, he mopes around the house, full of regret.

He’s not the only one who’s miserable right now. Seems like everywhere I look, I’m haunted by bad choices. I feel sick to my stomach each time I open the hall closet and see row after row of designer purchases. Why did I need an $800 bag to make myself feel important? How was my life enriched by a mink-lined raincoat?

I settle in front of the television in an attempt to get my mind off our situation. I’m flipping through the channels when the face of another one of my stupid choices appears. Brian Lamb, founder of C-SPAN, is on and I’m suddenly reminded of our
interview
when I was in college.

Brian was my friend Dee Dee’s uncle and, from what I understood, a damn fine one at that. He doted on Dee, and if she asked him to interview one of her friends as a favor, often he would. Although getting the internship was contingent on the applicant’s talents, he’d always give her friends a chance.

As a poli-sci major, I salivated at the thought of working for C-SPAN. So when Dee told me the date he’d be in town (and planned to have dinner at the restaurant where we worked), I knew I’d have the opportunity to meet him and would happily pimp myself for a job.

We didn’t have a formal sit-down planned. Brian didn’t know we’d be meeting. I was too chickenshit to ask for a proper interview because I thought I’d be more natural in a social setting, so Dee agreed to just spring me on him. When my shift ended and I waited for him to make an appearance, I had a quick cocktail to calm my nerves. I wanted to be confident and relaxed. If I met him in the state I was in, I’d seem like an anxiety-ridden basket case and no one gives internships to mental girls. I had one tiny Johnnie Walker Black Scotch and soda because I was too nervous to eat.

After my drink, I felt less tense, but thought that maybe one more drink would make me even more confident. I mean, really, this was my career we were talking about! I had an obligation to present myself in the best possible light, so yes, please, add another Johnnie Black to my tab. Imagine, then, how much better I felt after drinks three, four, and five! By the time Brian came in, I was
relaxed,
let me tell you.

Dee led me over for the big introduction. This was my chance! My whole postgraduate future loomed before me! If I played my cards right, I could turn a C-SPAN internship into an entry-level job with a lobbying firm, at which I’d excel. I’d quickly go from lackey to power broker, and all the most important folks in Washington would have me on speed dial. “Oh, yes,” they’d say. “J.A. Lancaster’s the person to call to get things done.” I figured I’d go by my initials because they’re gender neutral. And then? When I showed up in a fabulously short skirt and long jacket? I’d blow their minds, and all the rich men in the office would want to take me out to dinner, where I’d floor them with the one-two punch of beauty and brains, and they wouldn’t bat an eye when I ordered both the pistachio crème brûlée AND the chocolate lava cake because I wanted “just a small taste” of both.

I’d be the toast of Washington and news shows would clamor to make me a special correspondent. I’d tool around the Beltway in a convertible and a pillbox hat, having single-handedly resurrected Jackie Kennedy’s Camelot style. I’d live in a deluxe town house in Georgetown, just like Murphy Brown, and I’d have two giant, slob-bery bulldogs who I’d name Winston and Churchill. The
Washington Post
would name me “D.C.’s Most Eligible Bachelorette.” Next thing you know I’d be Mrs. Senator So-and-so and my soirees would be so cool that
Us Weekly
would cover them. Then my husband would get an ambassadorship somewhere really awesome like Fiji, and I could live out my golden years tanning on the beach with lots of white-jacketed butlers bringing me drinks served in pineapples so I wouldn’t dehydrate.

Envisioning my glorious sun-soaked future, and with a great deal of confidence, I looked Brian Lamb square in the eye and said the three little words that would seal my fate with C-SPAN.

“I likessshh Congresssshh!”

Brian shook my hand like a trooper and returned to his meal, surreptitiously dabbing my spittle from his brow with a napkin.

There would be no big house in Fiji for this Congress-liking political scientist.

And I learned that without doubt regret-based hangovers are the worst.

Without stopping to consider my actions, I grab an empty laundry basket and march straight to the closet. I toss a pile of expensive purses and outerwear into it, then immediately go to the computer to pull up my eBay account. Within half an hour, I’ve listed everything but my Prada bag for auction.

I’m keeping it as a living reminder never to be stupid again.

Today I managed to get Fletch out of bed before noon, so we’re watching
The Price Is Right
together. I’ve become obsessed with this show and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because watching
TPIR
reminds me of being a kid home for summer vacation when my only concern was which bathing suit I’d wear to our swim club later that day. Or maybe it’s just nice to see happy people. I swear I tear up every time someone wins a car, especially if the person is elderly or in a military uniform.
¹⁶²

I’m so into the show that conversation is only allowed during the commercials. At the first break, I ask Fletch, “What did Bill say?”

I’ve called our landlord repeatedly for the past six weeks to complain about our air-conditioning. Or lack thereof. Each time I talk to him, he politely brushes me off, explaining that our AC unit is new and top of the line and couldn’t possibly be malfunctioning. It finally occurred to me that Bill might be one of those men who prefer to discuss business with other men, so I had Fletch call him right before the show started.

“He said he’d send the contractor over right away.”

“Ha! I told you he was a misogynist.”

“Misogyny isn’t the problem, Jen. I suspect your explanation may have been faulty.”

“Pfft. I told him fifteen times the blowery thing worked fine but it never made the big whoosh full of cold, cold air so the pipes didn’t get sweaty and the issue was a lack of the chilly-making juice. I said we probably just needed another box of neon like we did when our AC was out in Lincoln Park. I’m not sure how I could have expressed the problem more clearly.”