Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (30 page)

We arrive at our hotel in Cancun and my mother and I sit in the lobby while my father checks us in. As we wait, I’m growing skeptical of our accommodations. We’re staying at the very beginning of Cancun’s main drag. According to the cabdriver, this is the least nice section of the beach and all the good stuff is a couple of miles away. As I take in the scene, I notice the paint is peeling and the couches in here are threadbare. And the bar? Yeah, Studio 54 called and they want their chrome and mirrors back.

Aarrggh, again.

You know what? I have to stop all this unconstructive thinking—it’s not getting me anything except a smooth spot on my finger from all the spinning. I need to channel my inner
SATC
girl. Samantha’s a testament to the power of positive thinking. Carrie doesn’t dwell on the negative. Charlotte’s so upbeat she practically has bluebirds flying out of her ass. So . . . screw it. I’m here in Mexico, a whole country away from my hateful job. No one’s going to call me a parasite because of the industry I work in. Nobody’s going to tell me
I’m
the incompetent one when
they
refuse/forget to hand in paperwork. Best of all, I can’t receive a phone call from an angry physician demanding I swing by their office on a weekend because my cell phone is two thousand miles away. Suck on that, Dr. I-Don’t-Care-If-It’s-Saturday Dickweed.

I’m going to sit here and have a good attitude. I’m sure the shoddy lobby is no reflection of the accommodations and that the rooms will be great. After all, I wrote my dad a huge check to pay for my third of this trip back in October. For that price, my room can’t
not
be luxurious, right?

I spent my whole bonus from last quarter on this trip, but it’s worth it because I’m finally independent enough to pay my own way . . . although I’d have had plenty of money left over if the company hadn’t just revised our bonus structure. However, I’m not thinking about that because I’m trying to have a good attitude. I’m thinking about bluebirds. Happy, chirpy bluebirds. Bluebirds who know how to fucking compensate you for your fifteen-hour days.

The one positive thing I should focus on right now is that we aren’t going to be parents and child on this trip; we’re going to be three grown adults sharing a pleasant vacation in separate rooms. We’re going to each pay for our own meals and activities and I’m delighted at the prospect. Our old family vacations where we kids had zero say in any matter
¹⁹⁰
are now a thing of the past. Going forward, we are equals!

My dad strolls back from registration carrying keys and one margarita. For himself. “We’re all set. Jennifer?” He points to his carry-on. “My bag.”

I throw it over my shoulder, schlepping it along with my own stuff. I guess the equality will begin after I get to my own room, then.

We arrive at a room on the seventeenth floor and open the door. This room is . . . big. It’s not nice, or pretty, or for that matter all that clean, but it’s big.
¹⁹¹
There’s a kitchen, a table with a couple of spindly chairs, a sitting area with a ratty old couch, and a bedroom with a small attached bath. The literature in the lobby said the hotel was undergoing renovations and the suites weren’t yet done. But that doesn’t matter—all the single rooms are complete so mine should be better. Bluebirds! Bluebirds!

“We’re here!” My mother claps her hands as she enters the room. “This is great; I love it!”

“Okay, I would like to go to the beach,” I say. “Please give me my keys so I can go to my room and put on my suit. See you down on the sand in ten minutes?”

Suddenly, no one else in my party can meet my eye. “Um, hello? Keys?” Still nothing. “You guys, I need my keys to get into my room.” I look at each of my parents’ guilty expressions and I get the overwhelming feeling that there are no keys.

Dad says, “Your mother has something to tell you,” and then he runs off to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

“Mom?”

“Isn’t this beautiful? Look at that view!”

“Mom?”

“There’s a whole kitchen! We can cook if we want to!”
¹⁹²

“Mom.”

She will not even glance in my direction. Instead, she focuses on inspecting every leaf on the plastic, dust-covered palm tree by the rickety sliding glass door.

My dad peeks his head out and in one giant breath blurts, “Your mother thought you’d be afraid to stay in a room by yourself so we got the only hotel with an available suite and you’re sleeping out here on the couch and that’s why we’re staying in a lousy hotel instead of a nicer one down the beach and I told her you wouldn’t want this but she didn’t listen.” Then he closes the door again and I can hear him shut and lock the bathroom door, too.

I am dumbfounded. Surely this can’t be true, because I’m thirty years old and I have my own apartment in the middle of the third largest city in the country. And why do I suddenly feel like we just drove two hours for a lobster?

After a few frantic calls to the front desk (and to neighboring properties), where I try to compensate for only speaking English by talking louder, I find there’s no room at any other inn. I am stuck.

My mother’s response to the whole situation? “This will be fun!”

Sure, if sleeping in the living room with no privacy and a hide-a-bed bar digging into your back and finding your parents’ partial dentures soaking in every cup in the entire suite and learning the meaning of one Spanish word—el Niño—is what you consider fun, then yes, it’s a goddamn blast.

On the bright side, I’ve stopped obsessing about work.

And I’ve figured out why Carrie never talks about her parents.

“I wouldn’t hire you.”

“Thanks, Dad. What a tremendous vote of confidence that is.”

My parents and I are having lunch in a thatched hut by the water in Xcaret, a Cancun nature conservatory. When we arrived this morning, we saw ten thousand signs begging guests not to wear any kind of mass-produced sunscreen. The conservators are emphatic about this because patrons can swim in all the hidden ponds and lagoons on the property and there are ingredients in commercial sunscreen that could mess up the delicate ecosystem here. Naturally my mother refuses to part with the pesos necessary to purchase the environmentally sound stuff sold in the gift shop and she’s slathering herself liberally with something sure to kill every tree frog within a two-mile radius. (And correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure a thatched roof has an SPF of at least 100.)

“You should listen to your father, he’s usually right,” she agrees.

Of course he is, Slathery McFrogkiller.
¹⁹³

“Dad, can’t you agree that it’s possible the business world may have changed since you were in your prime?” I ask. He retired a few years ago, yet still takes a tremendous amount of pride in having never once sent an e-mail. This reminds me of when I was a kid and it looked like the metric system was going to catch on—Dad pledged he’d paint over every thermometer because he refused to accept the concept of Celsius.

Lasciviously, my mother waggles her eyebrows and suggests, “He’s still in his prime.” I do not acknowledge this statement, yet I find myself unconsciously scrubbing at my hands with my napkin.

“I’m just saying that quitting a job without having one lined up is not necessarily the kiss of death in this economy,” I argue. “The dot-com market is exploding and it sounds like tons of places are hiring.”

My father simply sips his cerveza before replying, “Pfft. Not relevant. The business world is a constant.”

I consider this for a moment. “Wait a minute . . . you’ve told me stories about having so many martinis in the middle of the day that Mom had to pick you up from the restaurant and drive you home.”

“Jennifer, that only happened a few times,” my mom chides.

“If that happened even once in the professional world right now, you wouldn’t be sent home to sleep it off; you’d be sent to rehab. At the very least, you’d get a huge HR write-up.”

“Our HR guy used to come with us. If I recall, Bob didn’t drink martinis,” my dad muses. “He preferred red wine.”

I may as well be having this conversation with the dead tree frogs right now for all the headway I’m making.

Resigned, I defer to my father’s flawed logic. “Okay, Dad, you win. I won’t quit.”

“Good girl.”

And then I wrench my ring so hard I practically break my knuckle.

The End of the Beginning

(Crocodile-Skin Pumps)

J
im, David, and I are lunching at the food court in the Citibank building. They’re both chowing down on some kind of tuna-based sushi, while I have my usual chicken teriyaki bowl.

Can I be honest here? I kind of don’t understand sushi. Like, what’s the draw of raw fish? Especially raw fish wrapped in seaweed? And, really?
Seaweed?
Who came up with the idea to eat this? Was someone all,
“Hey, you know that disgusting green algae? I’m talking about the crap that gets stuck to our oars when we row the boat and ruins our nets and makes our hair all slimy when we dive in? And that washes up on the sand and reeks like an ocean full of dead fish? Yeah, we should totally have that with dinner.”

In my opinion, sushi is less a meal and more a game of truth or dare gone horribly wrong. Yes, I appreciate the aesthetics of a big plate of sushi, but I also dig how pretty my couture crocodile shoes are and you don’t see me dipping them in soy sauce. (Shoot, I practically encase them in Lucite.)

I shudder as Tim and David shovel the glistening pink bits into their mouths. I try not to gag imagining the raw texture on my tongue.

“I can’t believe they picked you,” Tim says. “Why would they pick you? You hate everything about this company.”

I’ve been selected to represent my department as part of a company-wide quality-improvement task force. Because of this, I’m one of the people set to meet with the president of the company later today. My work friends are astounded I was asked because they think I complain all the time.

“No,” I correct him, “I don’t
hate
the company; I hate its lack of innovation. I hate that the applications to join the network are thirty pieces of repetitive paperwork when a Web-based tool would be ten billion times more efficient. I hate that we merged almost three years ago to capitalize on another company’s technology and yet we never integrated their systems. I hate that there’s no centralized database that stores all the relevant information.”

“So . . . what you’re saying is you hate everything about the way they do business, not to be confused with your actually hating
them
,” Tim says. Sometimes these boys are too blunt, even if they are right. I bet
SATC
Charlotte would occasionally if not sugarcoat reality, then at least wrap it up in a pretty plaid bow.

I frown and gesture toward his plate. “Finish your sushi.”

“Are you nervous?” David asks.

“No . . . I’m more excited than anything. I usually feel like I’m pissing in the wind every time I broach a problem with management. So I’m psyched that someone with the power to actually make changes wants to hear what I have to say.”

The day we went to Xcaret, I stood on the balcony after my parents went to bed and spun my ring and promised myself
this
is the year I’m going to make it happen. I started my career being bold and outspoken but lately I’ve done nothing but go along with the status quo. Going along to get along has been safe but it’s made me miserable. I’ve allowed these physicians to bully me. And I don’t like bullies.

I’ve let management steamroll me, like when I stayed mute when I found out my bonus was being slashed. That’s not me. I think that’s why I continue to identify with the
Sex and the City
girls. They aren’t corporate drones. They aren’t living their lives like a Dilbert cartoon. They’re who I was and who I can probably be again.

Today I have the opportunity to set things right.

Today I’ll make sure I’ve been heard and I can’t wait.

I’m dressed for the part, too. I look like I’ve just walked out of a Jones New York catalog. I splurged on a fitted cranberry suit coat with a slight peplum at the bottom and a long, matching pencil skirt. The crisp white blouse with pointy collars makes me look extra professional. I pulled my crocs
¹⁹⁴
out of their protective casing and they complete the whole outfit.

David glances at his watch. “T minus fifteen minutes. You guys ready to roll?”

We pick up our trays and gather up dirty napkins, dumping the trash in the big cans on the periphery of the food court. We cut through the train station to avoid as much of the slushy streets as possible. My shoes are completely waterproofed but I like to steer clear of what hazards I can. When I first got them and it was warm enough to go without trouser socks, I’d take them off and carry them rather than allow them to touch the sidewalk. The guys always laughed at me, but I bet Carrie Bradshaw would totally understand.

Back in the office, I fix my lipstick and run a quick brush through my hair. Then I grab my notebook and my Mont Blanc
¹⁹⁵
pen and head toward the conference room. David and Tim are both sitting at David’s desk. “Knock ’em dead, tiger!” David calls.

“Come tell us what happened when you’re done,” Tim adds.

I already know what’s going to happen; I’m going to rock this meeting.

An hour later, I’m back at David’s desk. I stand there until he looks up from his spreadsheet and notices me.

“Hey, how’d it go?” he asks.

“Okay,
now
I hate the company,” I tell him.

“Why? What happened?”

I flop into his visitor’s seat and I wave for Tim to come join us. As Tim ambles our way, David tells him, “
Now
she hates the company.”

“Shocker.” They both laugh.

I shoot daggers at both of them. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

Sheepishly, Tim says, “Sorry, go on.”

“We’re in there and after we chat for a bit, the president goes around the table and begins to ask everyone what they need to do their jobs better. The first three morons are all,
‘Oh, we’re so happy, don’t change a thing!’
Then he gets to me and I present a clear, concise list of ideas on how technology could really change our business. I mean, I have an actual vision for how much better everything could be. I can see his eyes light up like,
Hey, this girl might be on to something
.”

“Good for you!” Tim claps me on the back.

“Hold your praise. Then the jackass sitting next to me tells the president that she’s having trouble getting another employee to return her calls and can he please make them talk to her? Then the original three morons jump in and tell him about how they need stupid shit like sturdier file folders because the ones they use rip too easily.” I take a deep breath and continue but I’m almost too disgusted. “And here’s the kicker—instead of him saying
, Listen up you ass-tards, I’m the president of this company and I could totally have you killed and
—”

“Why would he threaten to kill them?” David’s brows knit in confusion.

Tim replies, “She’s been reading too much Grisham.”

“
Anyway
, instead of telling the group that we should really focus on the macro, he whips out a pen and begins taking requests for office supplies and phone messages. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks—none of the higher-ups actually want change. They just want to create the
appearance
of change so we shut the hell up already.”

David nods sadly. “Jen, I could have told you that.”

Tim loosens his tie and leans way back in the other visitor’s chair. “What’s your contingency plan? You want to stay here and make the best of it, or do you want to try something else?”

“That’s a really good question.”

And I’m going to find the answer.

I’m sitting in my Stratus a couple of days later giving myself a pep talk.
Listen, as soon as you’re done here you can cross the parking lot and go to the mall. And you can buy makeup at the Prescriptives counter and ogle the David Yurman jewelry and pretend like you can afford a Prada bag. I’m giving you permission to play hooky from your job for an hour. All you have to do is get through this.

This is when I wish I carried a bottle of Jameson in my car.
¹⁹⁶
A shot of liquid courage would sure soothe my nerves. My hands are trembling and the butterflies in my stomach keep crashing into my heart. I’d totally vomit right now, except I’m afraid I might hit my crocs.

I’ve been summoned to Dr. Dickweed’s office to discuss
¹⁹⁷
more unpaid claims. His partner has finally been admitted to our network, so now dealing with this abusive man is in no way, shape, or form any part of my job . . . yet my boss said I had to come anyway. Apparently Dr. Dickweed is “a crucial member of our provider network” and he specifically asked for my assistance.

I’m stunned this guy is able to maintain a thriving practice. He yells at his patients the same way he yells at me. Seriously, he bellows with everything he’s got. He even opens his mouth so wide I can see his uvula vibrate. (It’s gross.) And his office staff—oh, God, do I pity those poor people. Whereas I only have to deal with his bullshit every couple of weeks, they endure the full brunt of his rage forty hours a week. His staffers scuttle along right next to the walls and never make eye contact.

I check the time on my dashboard clock. It’s 11:53 a.m. If I wait a few more minutes, it will be twelve p.m., our scheduled appointment time. Yet if I stroll in at twelve p.m., I will be “late” according to Dr. Dickweed, and then he’ll tack on another fifteen minutes of bluster explaining how valuable his time is.
¹⁹⁸
I unfold myself from the driver’s seat, grab my bag, and with great resignation traverse the sidewalk to his office.

Kathy behind the desk pulls a compassionate face when she tells me. She says the doctor is ready to see me
right now
and sends me directly back to his private office. As I retreat down the hallway, I hear her whisper more to herself than to anyone else, “Good luck.”

I stand at his open door for a moment before I knock. The doctor has his back to me. The fluorescent lighting highlights the liver spots on his bald patch. He’s hunkered over his computer and he appears bony and delicate. Middle age has stooped his shoulders, slimming his limbs and thickening his waist. From this angle, he almost looks frail. Weak. Scrawny. Possibly in need of a hot bowl of soup and a bear hug. I’m almost feeling sympathetic when he spins around in his chair and spots me.

“Well, you took your goddamned time getting here, didn’t you?”

It is 11:55 a.m.

I plaster on a smile. “Good morning, Doctor, I understand you have some claims you’d like me to address?”

He stalks over to a filing cabinet, pulls out a stack, and literally flings the whole pile at me. The space in front of my face goes white for a second before all the pieces of paper drift to various locations on the floor.

I’m very quiet for a moment while I figure out my next move. If I punch him—
oh, God, do I want to punch him really hard with my big silver ring
—I’ll end up in jail. If I scream back at him, I’ll get fired. I bet Samantha would seduce him and then totally destroy him, but I’d rather eat roofing tar.