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 (31 page)

To: [email protected]

From: Ickey

Date: June 13, 2003

Subject: get off ur fat ass

Jen, seriously, do you put as much energy into looking for a gig as you do bitching about the whole world on your website and why they are not as cool as you? There is a good job waiting for you at Starbucks…I can feel it. BTW, stay away from the scones. It’s obvious you’ve already had enough.

Ickey

To: Ickey

From: [email protected]

Date: June 14, 2003

Subject: RE: get off ur fat ass

Ickey, this site is definitely not for you. And by ‘you’ I’m guessing you’re the kind of 25 year-old Advertising/PR flack who was always too hungover to listen when I came to your agency to present you with the tools you needed to better serve your clients and do your job.

Now I may have your industry wrong, but I’m sure you’re employed as it’s obvious to me that you have NO FUCKING CLUE what it’s like to lose your job, your status, your lifestyle, and subsequently, your whole sense of self. You can’t fathom the humiliation of having to beg off visits to your parents’ house because you’re too ashamed to tell them your car was repossessed, nor can you understand what it’s like to live in the dark like a Pioneer for a week until you can pay your electric bill. If you could, you’d have never sent me this email.

You’re probably also in the dark about my job search techniques and don’t know that I spend every morning reading every new job posting on every single search portal. Or that I spend a good hour each day making pitch calls to sales directors alerting them to my availability. Or that I’ve practically alienated all my friends and ex-colleagues by pestering them to see if they’ve heard of something…anything…

As for the coffee shop career you suggested, don’t think for a minute that I haven’t tried to get one. I’ll work hard wherever I’m hired, just like I did when I worked my way through college. That’s right, I paid for much of my college education by waitressing and working retail.
¹⁶⁸
No one sent me off to school with a brand new Jetta and a credit card like I’m sure yours did. I’ve worked damn hard to earn every single thing that I have.

But I digress.

A while ago, I took the VP title off my resume and left off the part where I sold upwards of $10 million worth of goods and services for my employers. I figured if I dumbed-down my resume, maybe I wouldn’t look so overqualified. Although I don’t agree with the idea of censoring my accomplishments, I did it anyway. By so doing, it means that maybe, just maybe, I can secure a job serving coffee to slackers like you who squander their employers’ resources cruising Internet bulletin boards instead of doing the job they’re paid to do.

BTW, Ickey, if I do land that coveted job at Starbucks, I assure you, I WILL spit in your latte.

Best,

Jen

My friend Katerina e-mailed me about a stunt a job-seeking nurse pulled in Sweden. She posted an ad stating she was ill-tempered and mean and probably wasn’t terribly compassionate, but she needed a job working as a home health aid anyway. After her ad ran, her phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

Thusly inspired, I’ve taken out classified ads in both the
Chicago Tribune
and the
Chicago Reader
. The following hits Wednesday: I am cautiously optimistic that something good will come of it. Then again, I am usually wrong.

UNEMPLOYED AND BITTER

Sarcastic ex–sorority girl seeks high-paying job in an idiot-free environment. Must allow employees to wear cute shoes. Interested? Contact [email protected].

I am cautiously optimistic that something good will come of it.

Then again, I am usually wrong.

Who knew so many foot fetishists read the
Tribune
?

“Sweetie, wake up. It’s after one o’clock.” Fletch barely stirs. “Come up, wake up just for a minute. We need to talk about the dogs.”

Fletch mumbles, “I’m listening.”

“I already took them out this morning, and they should be fine for most of the day. Can you please walk them around four p.m.? They should be ready by then.”

Fletch burrows deeper under the covers. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t you remember? I’ve got another interview for the part-time receptionist position at that architecture firm.” Again, thank God for Shayla. She temped at this firm last summer, and they tried to get her back this summer. Instead, she referred them to me. I went for my first interview a couple of days ago, and I found out they received more than six hundred applications for the job. And while I was waiting for my interview, five people walked in looking for applications. One of them was a girl with a Burberry purse—when we made eye contact, we exchanged wry smiles. Welcome to the age of doing what you have to do.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, hon. Don’t forget—dogs go out at four o’clock.”

Although I manage to snow the office manager, the managing partner at the firm believes I’ll be bored by the job and tells me as much in the interview. I swear to him there’s nothing boring about paying my rent, but he doesn’t buy it. Deciding to make the most of my cute interview outfit, I hit up every retail outlet on Michigan Avenue for applications.

It’s almost six forty-five when I get home, and the dogs greet me sheepishly at the door, tails tucked, ears pinned back. Someone pooped in the living room, and they’re both terribly upset about it. When I walk into the kitchen to grab paper towels, I notice another pile.

“Guys, what happened? Didn’t you go outside?” I ask. “Fletch? Where are you? What time did you take the dogs out?”

I walk up the stairs, and I find Fletch in the exact same spot I left him in. I shake him awake. “Fletch? Are you taking a nap?” I notice he’s still in his pajamas. “Honey? Did you even get out of bed today?”

He lies there, staring at the wall. “No.”

“Are you OK? Are you sick?”

“I just don’t see any reason to get out of bed.”

“Are you sad? Depressed? What are you feeling right now?”

“Nothing. I don’t feel anything.” Fletch got like this to a lesser extent when we first started dating. I quickly convinced him that depression was no big thing. I explained that if he had diabetes, he’d take insulin. Since depression’s a disease, if he needed a drug to cure it, there’d be no stigma in taking it. I sent him off to the student health center for meds, and it was smooth sailing emotionally for years.

“Isn’t your medicine working? Do you need a stronger dose?”

“We can’t afford my pills and groceries. I made a choice and I chose to feed us.”

“How long have you been off of them?”

“A couple of months. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.”

Fletch sacrificed his mental health to provide for mine.

I do not deserve this man.

It’s time I start shouldering some of the emotional burdens around here. I don’t know how, but I’m going to find a way to fix everything.

“Hi, I’m calling to find out if your hospital offers mental health services on a sliding scale….”

“Yes, I’m looking for a low-to no-cost depression management program for my husband….”

“So you’re not sure if your clinic is accepting pro bono patients? Can you check, please? It’s really important….”

“I read about your experimental treatment program, and I want to find out if my husband is eligible to enroll…”

“You guys are my last chance—can I get him into this program or not? Uh…OK, well, please don’t think me rude for saying it this way—but FIND A WAY TO MAKE IT HAPPEN.”

OK, he’s in.

Next up, find
anything
that will provide a paycheck. And until then, I’m practicing Microsoft Word tutorials.

To: Staffing Manager

From: [email protected]

Date: June 17, 2003

Subject: Marketing Coordinator Posting on Monster.com

Dear Sir or Madam,

Attached you will find my resume sent in con sideration for the open Marketing Coordinator position. And before you say it, please allow me…

“This person is overqualified for this position.”

Now that we’ve gotten
that
out of the way, let me explain why I’m an ideal candidate for the job. Since I was laid off from an executive position back in 2001, I worked a variety of temp assignments while searching for a ‘real’ job.
¹⁶⁹
I’ve built my office skills and I can answer phones, collate, and plan executive travel with the best of them. Taking these assignments
¹⁷⁰
has instilled a sense of humility I’d previously been lacking and now I’m certainly not above fetching your lunch or dry cleaning. The added bonus for your organization is that in a pinch I can also manage your ad campaigns, write your press releases, and target new clients. But you’re still probably thinking…

“She’s going to split the second she finds something better. She already alluded to getting a ‘real’ job.”

Not true. My priorities have changed since I was laid off. Now my goal is to get my writing published, not to pursue the kind of career I used to have. I’m looking for a position that will allow me to leave my job at the office at the end of the day so that I can go home and write.

“We’ll never be able to afford her.”

Try me. You might be surprised to find out exactly how cheap I am.

Best,

Jennifer A. Lancaster

“Gah, what am I supposed to wear to this thing?” I am rushing frantically around our bedroom, trying to decide what to put on for my interview. By the time the hiring manager received my note, she’d already found a full-time person for the marketing job, but she liked what I wrote so much that she wants to talk to me about a three-week temp assignment. If I got it, I’d bring home about $1500 total, which means we could cover July’s rent!

Fletch sits on the end of the bed, watching me. He was actually up and out of the house with the dogs by nine thirty a.m. His meds have regulated and every day he seems a little more like himself. Last night, stone sober, he actually laughed out loud at the scene on
The Family Guy
where Peter Griffin turns his house into a huge puppet. I’ve never heard a more beautiful sound.

“What’s wrong with what you’ve got on right now?” he asks, completely deadpan. I’m wearing a towel turban, a ratty old bra, and a cutoff pair of sweatpants. I paw through my antiquated wardrobe and settle on a summer dress and lightweight cotton jacket.

I throw on my makeup and dry my hair. “Hey, Fletch, do you have any girly-smelling cologne?”

“Um, no. Why do you ask?”

“I’m completely out of perfume and this jacket reeks of mothballs. I need something to mask the scent.” I throw open all the bathroom drawers and paw through my old accessory cases, hoping to stumble across one of those free miniperfume vials that clerks used to toss in my bag when I’d buy my J’Adore Dior. I’ve got none, and I mentally kick myself for throwing them all away in a fit of undying love for my signature scent. And I don’t have any fashion magazines, so I can’t even rub a scented sample page across myself.

In a flash of inspiration, I pull open the pantry door and begin searching. I remember reading once vanilla extract could double as perfume. Aha! Here it is! I splash it all over myself and for good measure, run a fingerful of Crisco across my lips to compensate for being out of gloss.
¹⁷¹

“Well, how do I look?” I go back upstairs and twirl for Fletch.

“You look nice.” After I hug him, he has a puzzled look on his face. “But why do you smell like cupcakes?”

It’s the first day of my temp assignment. Earlier, I found myself waiting at the bus stop, grinning like a Miss America contestant at the prospect of going to an actual JOB. (With my big, sun-bleached hair, savage tan, oily pink lips, and pastel outfit, I looked more like Barbie’s older, fatter sister, but still, having a purpose made my smile large indeed.)

Of course, when the bus didn’t show up after two seconds, I freaked out and hailed a cab. Five minutes later, I was in front of my temporary office, which meant I had forty-five minutes to kill before I was due to start working. So I crossed the street to Starbucks.

Here I am with my half-caf latte, sitting at the faux-granite counter, taking in the scenery. It’s strange, but if I look straight ahead, I can see the building where I’m about to temp. To the right of it is the insurance company where I worked when I was fresh out of college. And to the left, the building housing Midwest IR.
¹⁷²