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 (6 page)

Josh and Lawrence prattled on about Crimson, Cream, the Boat House, Steve’s mix-ins, the Coop, and Beat Yale! as I stared out the window. At some point, they realized that I was still in the room and Lawrence finally decided to include me in their nonversation.

He began, “Tell me, Jenny…”

Whoa, hold it right there. Does it say Jenny on my business card? Did I introduce myself as Jenny? Do I
look
like a Jenny? No. Strike One, pal.

“…did you also attend Harvard?” he finished.

If I had, wouldn’t I have mentioned it at some point in the last half hour?? Stee-rike Two.

With a sneer, Josh interrupted. “No, she went to some Big Ten school.”

I tried to smile through my aggravation. I may not have gone to Harvard, but I was proud of my education, especially since I paid for a lot of it myself. “That’s right. I graduated from—” I began.

But the damage was done. Lawrence and Josh were already exchanging barely perceptible smirks at the idea of a
state school.
Armed with that little nugget of information, Lawrence deemed that I wasn’t good enough to be included in their conversation and I became invisible again.
Strike Three. Thanks for playing.
I returned my attention to my notebook.
Jen is not a condescending jackass like Josh. Josh sniffs his own farts. Josh has dirty fantasies about Alan Greenspan.

Eventually, Lawrence gave us a tour of their operations. When we passed by the team of Web developers Lawrence oversaw, I noticed that all of them were busy trolling sex Web sites. And none of this arty, I’m-only-modeling-to-pay-my-tuition stuff, either. I’m talking hard-core with money shots and everything.
³¹

Curious,
I thought.
Shouldn’t those developers look guilty having been caught ogling beavercentral.com?

When we returned to the conference room I still smarted from being silenced and having my college slighted. Who could blame me? I decided it was time to have some fun.

As we arranged ourselves in the posh softness of the leather chairs, I asked, “Hey,
Larry
, what’s the deal with the nudie sites?”

Call me
Jenny,
indeed.

Josh gave me that
look
, but I ignored it.

“How observant of you. Our developers are attempting to add more subscribers to our online venture. They have been studying how pornographic sites use interstitial windows to capture registrants’ information. They have been working day and night on that technology,” Lawrence replied while nodding his head, agreeing with himself. What an ass.

“Let me see if I understand this, Larry,” I proceeded. “Your team spends all day looking at pornography.”

“That is correct.” More nods.

“You sanction this?”

“Absolutely.” Bobble, bobble, bobble.

“Because they tell you it’s for business?” I continue.

“Affirmative.” Josh started to shake his head, too. They both appeared to have contracted Parkinson’s disease.

“And you BELIEVE them? HA!” My laughter bounced off the urban canyons of lower Manhattan while Lawrence and Josh blanched, realizing that the emperor was as pants-free as all the girlies on those Web sites. Our meeting ended shortly after that, as did my formal training sessions with Josh.

Diss my alma mater, indeed.

I’m thankful for my time at Midwest IR. Working with all those boys taught me to compete like a man.
³²
I gained the confidence to look my present employers in the eye during salary negotiations and ask for a sum so outrageous that they should have laughed me out of the interview.

Should have.

But didn’t. I refer you again to the careless temp.

Suckers.

My work ethic being what it is, I’m always the first person here in the morning and the last one out at night. Since we returned from Florida, I’ve been especially buried. I’ve done three appointments today and can’t count how many calls I’ve taken. Which is why it’s four o’clock and I have yet to eat lunch.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mini mirror hanging on my cubicle wall. Yikes. My lipstick is a distant memory and my mascara is everywhere. And, ugh…the chlorine in the resort’s pool completely bleached out my highlights and my roots are overgrown. I look like one of the easy girls at my high school who’d sit on the hoods of their boyfriends’ Monte Carlos wearing roach clip earrings and eyeliner heated with a lighter for maximum smudge-ability. All I’m missing is a Billy Squier tape, a Virginia Slims cigarette, and the desire to cruise Dairy Queen’s parking lot.

I glance over at Courtney’s desk. Earlier she was weeping, but now she’s whispering into the receiver and giggling flirtatiously. She’s still wearing her engagement ring, yet I get the sense she’s not speaking with Brad. Courtney has tried to catch my eye numerous times, but I’ve been on conference calls. I contemplate slipping some lithium into her frappuccino because I don’t have the time to ride her emotional roller coaster; I have sales to close, proposals to draft, and hair to fix.

I look in the mirror again. Sales and Courtney’s mental health can wait; my hair takes precedence.

I pick up the phone.

“Good afternoon and thank you for calling the Molto Bene Salon on North Michigan Avenue. How can I help you?” a pleasant voice asks.

“Hi, this is Jen Lancaster. I need to make an appointment with Rory for highlights. If you have something sooner rather than later, I’d really appreciate it,” I say.

“Let’s see…” As I wait, I hear a keyboard clicking efficiently in the background. “You’re in luck! Rory just had a cancellation and can take you at three thirty tomorrow if that works for you,” the voice asks. Ding, ding, ding, score! You can never get an appointment on Saturday this late in the week.

“That would be so great. Thanks very much,” I gush.

“All right, that’s three thirty p.m. tomorrow for full highlights with Rory. Thanks, and we’ll see you then, Jenny.”

I’m going to let that one go.

I arrive at the salon early so that I can commit a little commerce in the shops located next to it. Spring has finally sprung and I’ve got a hankering for some mules. I kill about an hour in an upscale shoe store ogling the newest kicks from BCBG and Via Spiga. I can’t decide if I want the strappy black alligator sandals or the glossy brown kitten heels, so I buy both. I tell myself that I will return one pair, but even the crazy homeless guy I saw earlier today wearing a burlap sack and a garbage can lid knows that’s a lie.

Laden with packages and a white chocolate mocha, I make my way down the escalator at three twenty-five. I may be late on occasion for other events in my life, but
never
a hair appointment. Having good hair is too important to my mental state, and if it costs me the GNP of Guam, so be it. That’s why I work hard.

I was born with the kind of tresses that would frizz on a bet. I had fourteen years of bad hair days until I discovered vent brushes and styling mousse my freshman year of high school. Thank God, I figured it out before class pictures were taken.

In college, I had a great big eighties mane. When I graduated, I decided I needed professional hair, and that meant short. I cut almost sixteen inches off when I started at the insurance company and it’s the only time I’ve ever seen Fletch close to tears. Biggest mistake ever. It took FOREVER to grow it shoulder-length and the next fall when my Brazilian ex-stylist accidentally cut layers in it because he was high on Sudafed, I tried to have him deported.

Prior to this job, I wore my curls bobbed and dyed them black. I made a point to wear nerdy, Italian cat’s-eye glasses so I’d blend in when meeting with dot-com chicks.

Now that I have to deal with media people, I’m practically blond and do a full blowout every morning. I like it, but it takes an awful lot of maintenance to look good. I get it cut and colored every month, and every two weeks I do a deep conditioner. And since I’m already at the salon on those days, I indulge in spa services. Although I get a lot of specialty services like wraps, scrubs, and mustache removal
³³
my favorite is the simple manicure/pedicure. They work on your hands and feet at the same time while you sit in a vibrating chair. I call it the sorority girl’s version of a threesome.

I walk up to the check-in area. Half a dozen anorexic twenty year olds, clad entirely in black, chat and pose behind the chrome-and-frosted-glass desk. I look at them expectantly and smile. I’m a regular here and a legendary tipper, so I expect them to snap to attention. They gaze back at me with their dead-doll eyes and my presence doesn’t register. My mistake: I forgot that a lot of wannabe models work the desk on the weekend. I’ll need to use small words.

“Hello, how are you? I’m here for a three thirty with Rory. The name is Lancaster.” I grin again. A couple of them blink lazily back at me and continue their scintillating conversation about the do-ability of Justin Timberlake. Such pretty faces, such empty heads.

“I’m getting my color done,” I say.

No response.

“With Rory,” I clarify. I can almost hear the wind rush through their ears.

“At three thirty.” Maybe if I break the information down into bits, it will be easier for them to digest.

Nothing.

“My name is Lancaster.” I wait. That should do the trick.

It doesn’t.

“Hello!” I exclaim while banging on the glass counter with one of my rings.

“Oh, what? OK,” finally replies a tall girl with orange bangs and almond-shaped eyes. She’s stunning but vapid. She starts to tap at the desktop computer. “Are you checking in?”

“No, I’m here to discuss quantum physics with you. Tell me, what are your thoughts on the Heisenberg uncertainty principle?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m checking in.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lancaster.”

“And who are you here to see?” More tapping.

“Rory.”

“For what?”

“Full highlights and a base bump.”

“At what time?”

“THREE THIRTY.” I start to speak in capital letters. Did I not just cover all of this?

“For what again?”

“COLOR. I’M GETTING MY COLOR DONE WITH RORY AT THREE THIRTY.”

“What’s the name?”

“LANCASTER. THREE THIRTY. RORY. COLOR.” I point at my head for emphasis and fight the urge to swing a shoe box at her. She pecks away at the computer.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lancaster, but I don’t see nothing in the computer for you. Do you wanna reschedule?”

“Are you kidding? I just booked this yesterday. Check again! I’m sure it’s there.” I begin to panic. I cannot spend one more day looking at these platinum streaks and dark chestnut roots.

“Ooooh. I see the problem. Your appointment was
yesterday
at three thirty. You’re mistaken. You gotta reschedule.”

OK, deep breath,
I tell myself.
Let’s not go to jail for punching an aspiring model. They won’t let you wear cute shoes in jail and you’re
already
someone’s girlfriend. Maintain, maintain, maintain
.

“No,
you’re
mistaken,” I say as calmly as I can, resisting the urge to get all Sean Penn on her. “You see, I didn’t call to schedule until after three thirty yesterday. My appointment, FOR COLOR, WITH RORY, was for today at three thirty.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“Positive.”

She does some more tapping. She swivels the monitor toward me and points to the time with a French-manicured nail tip. “See? We got you down for three thirty yesterday. So you musta got the day wrong. Care to reschedule?”

Good air in, bad air out. Good air in, bad air out. I force my hands to stop making fists and I mentally talk myself down from the bell tower. She can’t help it if she grew up eating lead paint chips, right? I force my pulse to slow as I gulp down air. OK. I’m OK. Crisis averted.

I clear my throat and speak in tones so clipped I could cut my own hair. Very slowly, I say, “It. Would. Have. Been. Impossible. For. Me. To. Have. A. Three thirty. Yesterday. Unless I had a time machine. But, unfortunately, I am not a character in an H. G. Wells novel. So, my appointment is at three thirty TODAY.”

She cocks her head and begins to peck away again. I wait while she pulls up another screen on the computer. “Nope, sorry. I don’t see no appointment for a Wells either.”

AARRRGGGHHH! I’m so tired of dealing with idiots with jobs. People are rude and stupid everywhere I go. At the grocery store, it’s like pulling teeth to get the cashier to say thank you. It would take an act of God or Congress to keep her from packing my toilet bowl cleaner and bread in the same bag.

Or how about all the buffoons who drive buses in this city? The few times I’ve ridden the 56 route, the driver acts like he’s doing me a favor if he comes to a complete stop when it’s time to exit. Yeah, sorry, Manuel, but it’s kind of hard for me to tuck and roll in a Calvin Klein cigarette skirt. No wonder I always take cabs!

How are
any
of these people still employed? And you want to talk about witless wonders? What about the brain trusts I encounter every day on sales calls? I don’t know how these people get to work every day without bumping their heads, let alone make the kinds of decisions that keep their respective companies in business.

You know what? We need a recession in this country, because that would finally weed out all the subnormal, underdeveloped, stupefied, puerile people in this workforce.

Before I unleash my secret weapon
³⁴
and hurl myself across the desk to throttle Miss Orange Hair for her crimes against me and the English language, Rory appears.

“Rory! Thank God! I’m about to commit a felony.”

“Please don’t do that—you’d hate jail. They don’t provide conditioner.”

“The MENSA members you have working here say I don’t have an appointment.” The handful of clerks bright enough to realize I’m insulting them glower in my direction.